Crosswalk
By LaTanya McQueen - LaTanya_McQueen@emerson.edu
At the crossing she takes a breath. The bitter air burns her lungs as she breathes slowly in. She looks up at the image of an orange hand. “Wait,” the automated voice says. She wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. It’s unraveling around the edges.
People start to gather creating warmth around her as they huddle. A mother extends her gloved hand to her daughter, their two hands interlocking. There’s a couple across the street, they seem young and foolish, looking up towards the sky with open mouths trying to capture the falling flakes. She watches as the people in front of her rush by, trying to make the light.
If she hurries she’ll find them. After crossing she’ll be two blocks away from her brownstone. She knows what awaits her. Two more blocks and it’ll be confirmed. She hopes now she’ll be the one to throw him out. He will leave her, she’s aware of this, and she knows that upon finding them his face will show relief and not surprise. That evening he’ll pack his bags, only the essentials, the rest he’ll get later, and leave. She’ll spend the rest of the night washing another woman’s scent off the sheets, the comforter and quilted blankets, even the accent pillows. Everything will go.
Strangers step down on the curb tempting fate, and look around. They are eager to cross. “Hold my hand tightly now, don’t let go,” the mother says to her daughter.
“Wait,” the voice keeps calling. “Wait.”
The light changes, and the orange hand is replaced with the white outline of a man. Turning away, she takes one step down and exhales--a warm breath amidst the freezing air.
= = = = =
Bio: LaTanya McQueen--originally from Kentucky, now residing in Boston, Massachusetts. Published before in Rumble, a literary e-zine specializing in microfiction.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Thursday, February 09, 2006
submit: Snow*Vigate
"Snow*Vigate: A literary journal, a snowshoe guide, a prosodic field guide to snow"
Snowvigate, a new online literary journal, is currently seeking flash fiction submissions, poetry, and essays for its first issue. We've stretched the usual definition of flash to give writers a bit more wiggle room. We will consider stories up to 1500 words. Submissions should be sent to snowv@snowvigate.com as plain text pasted into the body of an e-mail.
More information at www.snowvigate.com
Professor Doug Martin, Editor-in-Chief, has started a blog regarding the snowvigate adventure at www.snowvigate.blogspot.com
Snowvigate, a new online literary journal, is currently seeking flash fiction submissions, poetry, and essays for its first issue. We've stretched the usual definition of flash to give writers a bit more wiggle room. We will consider stories up to 1500 words. Submissions should be sent to snowv@snowvigate.com as plain text pasted into the body of an e-mail.
More information at www.snowvigate.com
Professor Doug Martin, Editor-in-Chief, has started a blog regarding the snowvigate adventure at www.snowvigate.blogspot.com
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
story: The Model's Downfall
The Model's Downfall
by John Colvin
Julie is sitting at the table in Gertrude's kitchen, describing a TV movie about a girl who becomes a porn star and a drug addict. Gertrude is still wearing her McDonald's uniform and looking out the window at the house across the street. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. She started smoking when she was in her thirties, trying to lose weight. It didn't work, but she kept smoking. She is watching the house across the street because she wants to see the man who lives there come home. She hopes he will spend some time outside this evening, maybe do a little yard work. She knows better than to wave or try to shout out the window at him. She just wants to see him.
"They showed how it could really happen," Julie says, "It was very true to life. She started out as a model and one thing just led to another, you know. She got hard up for money and posed naked for this one magazine. Then she ended up in dirty movies, and she got on drugs and then she was a prostitute. It was so sad. It made you think. It really made you think about how it could happen to anybody. It was really true to life."
Gertrude's feet ache from standing, but she keeps watching, shifting from one foot to the other. The man who lives across the street filed a restraining order against her after she broke into his house the third time. That last time, he walked in to find her in his kitchen, cooking him dinner. Now she thinks she may go someplace and call him from a payphone. She could act like she was someone else. She could act like she was from the phone company, disguise her voice. Maybe he will like how she sounds, and they will talk and flirt, and then they can arrange a meeting somewhere . . .
Gertrude flicks her cigarette ash into the sink full of dirty dishes. "True to whose life?" she asks.
by John Colvin
Julie is sitting at the table in Gertrude's kitchen, describing a TV movie about a girl who becomes a porn star and a drug addict. Gertrude is still wearing her McDonald's uniform and looking out the window at the house across the street. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. She started smoking when she was in her thirties, trying to lose weight. It didn't work, but she kept smoking. She is watching the house across the street because she wants to see the man who lives there come home. She hopes he will spend some time outside this evening, maybe do a little yard work. She knows better than to wave or try to shout out the window at him. She just wants to see him.
"They showed how it could really happen," Julie says, "It was very true to life. She started out as a model and one thing just led to another, you know. She got hard up for money and posed naked for this one magazine. Then she ended up in dirty movies, and she got on drugs and then she was a prostitute. It was so sad. It made you think. It really made you think about how it could happen to anybody. It was really true to life."
Gertrude's feet ache from standing, but she keeps watching, shifting from one foot to the other. The man who lives across the street filed a restraining order against her after she broke into his house the third time. That last time, he walked in to find her in his kitchen, cooking him dinner. Now she thinks she may go someplace and call him from a payphone. She could act like she was someone else. She could act like she was from the phone company, disguise her voice. Maybe he will like how she sounds, and they will talk and flirt, and then they can arrange a meeting somewhere . . .
Gertrude flicks her cigarette ash into the sink full of dirty dishes. "True to whose life?" she asks.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
submit: Flash Me Magazine
"FLASH ME MAGAZINE is a quarterly magazine, accepting all genres of fiction, as long as the story is under 1,000 words.
*The deadline for our next issue is March 31, 2006.* Stories received after this quarter's deadline will be held for consideration in the following issue.
Issues are published on Jan 31, April 30, July 31, and Oct 31, with submission deadlines one month prior to publication.
"
Monday, February 06, 2006
story: Dad’s Rules
Dad’s Rules
By Joanna Kelly
Ginger’s room had everything she had asked for at Christmas: a queen-sized bed, mini fridge and a new microwave. She and her dad tested it out with a cold cup of tea. When it dinged, she got the tea out and took a small sip. “It’s good right?” he asked. “Now you guys won’t bug me when you’re having your party.” As part of her first slumber party, her dad would not smoke pot nor have his clients over to the house. It was 8 year old Ginger’s reward for finally living in one school district long enough to make friends. She heard him on the phone with his girlfriend, Brandi: “She wants to bring four girls here. I think people in this neighborhood are cool but little kids get into everything. Like roaches.” He winked at Ginger. “Can you come over that day and help me out with them? Oh, that’s OK. I’ll handle it then.” He hung up and asked “What’s Lee’s number again?” Lee was his other girlfriend, a graduate student who Ginger actually liked. She recited the number to him and he dialed. Lee was much nicer than Brandi and never talked down to her. “Lee will be great at this,” he muttered.
The afternoon of the slumber party, Ginger had checked everything in her room. She watched as they were printed on the long green and white printer paper. “Make sure every girl reads it and knows it,” he nagged. Now she looked it over and felt an urge to break every dumb thing on the list. Lee arrived, with some of her books and homework, and Gin read the list over and over while waiting for the girls to show up:
1: Stay away from Dad’s bedroom. There is NOTHING there.
2: Everything you need is in Ginger’s room.
3: The bathroom across from Dad’s room is the guest bathroom. This means adults Only.
4: Only food should go in the microwave; use microwave safe dishes.
5: Only Ginger is allowed to operate the new microwave. Handle all micro-waved food with care. Avoid standing in front of the microwave.
Lee teased Greg about the list saying, “I thought you’d enjoy hosting this. This list will embarrass them.” Greg didn’t want to hear it, there was too much that could go wrong and the list made him feel better. Ginger and Lee holed up in her room the rest of the night, Lee studying a book, and Ginger arranging and rearranging things in her bedroom. Ginger’s rotation included her videocassettes, books, stuffed animals, and shoes. “Relax, it’s only 10pm,” Lee said after the girl started reshelving her books. “But they should be here now,” Ginger said. “My invitation said it starts at 8 o’clock.” Lee stopped reading and asked her if she was sure she gave them the right info. Ginger gave her a copy of the invitation and watched her read it. Lee didn’t remember hearing any phone calls to cancel since she had been there. In fact the phone rang once but Greg got it while they were in her room. She told Ginger to wait in her room and went to Greg’s home office.
She knocked on the door but came in after hearing his voice. She hoped he wasn’t talking to a client and tying up the line. “Greg, no one’s come or called her.” Greg’s back was turned and he was on the phone. He finished the call and turned around to face her. “Of course not. I called them and cancelled. It’s not a good night for this.” He turned away from her and started to dial but Lee got right in his face and asked for an explanation. Greg stood up to her and lowered his voice, “I’ve got to help out my brother and his friends.” “What does that mean?”
“It means Chris is in jail and I have to help him. I don’t know what he did but I have to go right now,” Greg was trying to keep calm but she didn’t seem to believe him. “I don’t want to be going in and out of the house while they're here. And I definitely don’t want his friends here scaring the kids.” Lee was amazed; he didn’t trust her to be in the house alone with the kids. Lee argued that there were alarms on every outside door and a guard dog in the backyard but he went to his closet and looked for some clean clothes. There was nothing to feel guilty about and Lee could frown all night if she wanted, he had to cancel it. “Just take her to a movie. Pet Sematary or something’s at the Gateway.” Lee said she was OK with calling the girls back but Greg said it would be too much stress for everyone. Lee kept protesting and even blocked the door. Greg shut her down by asking, “You wanna break up over this? Let’s do that after I get back.”
Thirty minutes after telling Ginger the party was cancelled because of a family emergency, they were in line to buy tickets for The Little Mermaid. Ginger’s face was streaked with tears and she had gone silent. Lee tried to convince her seeing a movie at night was much better than a slumber party. She made a big deal about getting a large popcorn, large drink, and candy. Both sat still in their seats while the other people laughed and whispered throughout. After it was done, Ginger tapped her arm. “You’re not coming back to visit us, are you?” Lee took a deep breath and told her no; Ginger was too smart to be lied to. Ginger nodded and told her it was OK since, “I hate Dad too.” Without saying a word they stayed through the next showing; Lee paid a tired looking usher who cleaned their aisle. It was worth it so they could stay together as long as possible.
= = = = =
Bio: Joanna Kelly was born in Houston, Texas and has been published in College Bound Magazine. She’s a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin and writes for the video podcast “Student Filmmakers Showcase TV”.
By Joanna Kelly
Ginger’s room had everything she had asked for at Christmas: a queen-sized bed, mini fridge and a new microwave. She and her dad tested it out with a cold cup of tea. When it dinged, she got the tea out and took a small sip. “It’s good right?” he asked. “Now you guys won’t bug me when you’re having your party.” As part of her first slumber party, her dad would not smoke pot nor have his clients over to the house. It was 8 year old Ginger’s reward for finally living in one school district long enough to make friends. She heard him on the phone with his girlfriend, Brandi: “She wants to bring four girls here. I think people in this neighborhood are cool but little kids get into everything. Like roaches.” He winked at Ginger. “Can you come over that day and help me out with them? Oh, that’s OK. I’ll handle it then.” He hung up and asked “What’s Lee’s number again?” Lee was his other girlfriend, a graduate student who Ginger actually liked. She recited the number to him and he dialed. Lee was much nicer than Brandi and never talked down to her. “Lee will be great at this,” he muttered.
The afternoon of the slumber party, Ginger had checked everything in her room. She watched as they were printed on the long green and white printer paper. “Make sure every girl reads it and knows it,” he nagged. Now she looked it over and felt an urge to break every dumb thing on the list. Lee arrived, with some of her books and homework, and Gin read the list over and over while waiting for the girls to show up:
1: Stay away from Dad’s bedroom. There is NOTHING there.
2: Everything you need is in Ginger’s room.
3: The bathroom across from Dad’s room is the guest bathroom. This means adults Only.
4: Only food should go in the microwave; use microwave safe dishes.
5: Only Ginger is allowed to operate the new microwave. Handle all micro-waved food with care. Avoid standing in front of the microwave.
Lee teased Greg about the list saying, “I thought you’d enjoy hosting this. This list will embarrass them.” Greg didn’t want to hear it, there was too much that could go wrong and the list made him feel better. Ginger and Lee holed up in her room the rest of the night, Lee studying a book, and Ginger arranging and rearranging things in her bedroom. Ginger’s rotation included her videocassettes, books, stuffed animals, and shoes. “Relax, it’s only 10pm,” Lee said after the girl started reshelving her books. “But they should be here now,” Ginger said. “My invitation said it starts at 8 o’clock.” Lee stopped reading and asked her if she was sure she gave them the right info. Ginger gave her a copy of the invitation and watched her read it. Lee didn’t remember hearing any phone calls to cancel since she had been there. In fact the phone rang once but Greg got it while they were in her room. She told Ginger to wait in her room and went to Greg’s home office.
She knocked on the door but came in after hearing his voice. She hoped he wasn’t talking to a client and tying up the line. “Greg, no one’s come or called her.” Greg’s back was turned and he was on the phone. He finished the call and turned around to face her. “Of course not. I called them and cancelled. It’s not a good night for this.” He turned away from her and started to dial but Lee got right in his face and asked for an explanation. Greg stood up to her and lowered his voice, “I’ve got to help out my brother and his friends.” “What does that mean?”
“It means Chris is in jail and I have to help him. I don’t know what he did but I have to go right now,” Greg was trying to keep calm but she didn’t seem to believe him. “I don’t want to be going in and out of the house while they're here. And I definitely don’t want his friends here scaring the kids.” Lee was amazed; he didn’t trust her to be in the house alone with the kids. Lee argued that there were alarms on every outside door and a guard dog in the backyard but he went to his closet and looked for some clean clothes. There was nothing to feel guilty about and Lee could frown all night if she wanted, he had to cancel it. “Just take her to a movie. Pet Sematary or something’s at the Gateway.” Lee said she was OK with calling the girls back but Greg said it would be too much stress for everyone. Lee kept protesting and even blocked the door. Greg shut her down by asking, “You wanna break up over this? Let’s do that after I get back.”
Thirty minutes after telling Ginger the party was cancelled because of a family emergency, they were in line to buy tickets for The Little Mermaid. Ginger’s face was streaked with tears and she had gone silent. Lee tried to convince her seeing a movie at night was much better than a slumber party. She made a big deal about getting a large popcorn, large drink, and candy. Both sat still in their seats while the other people laughed and whispered throughout. After it was done, Ginger tapped her arm. “You’re not coming back to visit us, are you?” Lee took a deep breath and told her no; Ginger was too smart to be lied to. Ginger nodded and told her it was OK since, “I hate Dad too.” Without saying a word they stayed through the next showing; Lee paid a tired looking usher who cleaned their aisle. It was worth it so they could stay together as long as possible.
= = = = =
Bio: Joanna Kelly was born in Houston, Texas and has been published in College Bound Magazine. She’s a graduate of the University of Texas at Austin and writes for the video podcast “Student Filmmakers Showcase TV”.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
submit: Fringe Magazine
"Don't be shy! Send us your fiction, no matter how 'out there.' However, short stories and self-contained novel excerpts should be no greater than 7,000 words—about 22 double-spaced pages. For Fringe purposes, short shorts or flash fiction is work less than 1,000 words, and will be considered a sub-genre of fiction. You may submit 1-3 short shorts at a time, in a single attachment. Your subject line should contain the words 'Short short' before the piece's title.
Email all fiction and short short submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com"
Email all fiction and short short submissions to FringeFiction@gmail.com"
workshop: Flash Fiction Writing Workshop
"The Flash Fiction Writing Workshop (free)is for serious writers of short short pieces (beginner to more advanced, but serious). All members share one goal--to improve in the craft of writing.
The length limit for pieces submitted for critique is around 500 words, more or less, but nothing over 1,000 words.
Participation is mandatory . The minimum requirements to remain in the workshop are to submit one piece of your own each month and do four critiques for others. Those who are not able to meet these minimum requirements will be unsubscribed. We have no upper limit, however, on the number of critiques you can do for others. The more you do the more you learn about writing (by trying hard to understand and express what makes a piece effective or not effective)."
The length limit for pieces submitted for critique is around 500 words, more or less, but nothing over 1,000 words.
Participation is mandatory . The minimum requirements to remain in the workshop are to submit one piece of your own each month and do four critiques for others. Those who are not able to meet these minimum requirements will be unsubscribed. We have no upper limit, however, on the number of critiques you can do for others. The more you do the more you learn about writing (by trying hard to understand and express what makes a piece effective or not effective)."
submit: Cezanne's Carrot Literary Journal
"We accept flash fiction and short stories from 100 to 3,000 words. Novel excerpts are acceptable if they stand on their own and stay within the word limit.
Qualities we look for in fiction:
* Three-dimensional characters that do more than just serve a plot
* Good use of imagery and detail
* Realistic dialogue
* A beginning, middle, and end (doesn't need to be as clearly defined in flash or experimental works, but we do like to see some sense of movement or change)
* Smooth, tight prose that is the result of several, careful edits"
Qualities we look for in fiction:
* Three-dimensional characters that do more than just serve a plot
* Good use of imagery and detail
* Realistic dialogue
* A beginning, middle, and end (doesn't need to be as clearly defined in flash or experimental works, but we do like to see some sense of movement or change)
* Smooth, tight prose that is the result of several, careful edits"
story: Last Natural Born Blonde
Last Natural Born Blonde
by Tamara Wilhite - tamarawilhite@hotmail.com
“I don’t like your latest modeling contract promotion,” Lexus mewled.
“We’re looking for someone who is unique.” Yvonne countered. “That is, by definition, a unique promotion--"
“Can’t you find another undiscovered beauty somewhere?”
“What? A fifth trip to Papua New Guinea to look for a girl who is so backward that she has an outhouse?” Yvonne grimaced. “Or do you want us to sneak into the Muslim territories and find a neglected beauty under a burqa AND smuggle her to the civilized world? Anyone who meets the requirements of this promotion will be unique in the world. And there is far less risk. And no one else has done it before.”
“There are plenty of blondes walking around.”
“And they’re all products of that `enhancement’ available after 2033. You can find blonde Arab girls because their oil prince papas wanted them to be. You can find Asian girls because some doctor paid the parents to make a beauty to sell in Calcutta’s bride market. There are even girls who have European descent who are saying, `I got this blonde hair from my grandma!’ We both know how rare that really ever is. Rumor has it, there aren’t any more.”
Both women glanced at the photo of the blonde black woman posing in the genetic tailoring ads on the nearby wall. “Gentlemen prefer blondes. Make sure your daughter gets the gentleman!” With the rich paying for their kids to be geniuses, tweaking coloring genes to meet an old fashioned standard of beauty was the middle class “upgrade”. “This could be taken as racist. After all, natural blondes were of European descent.”
“With all the hype about how genetically engineering your kids being bad, this `natural blonde’ search dovetails into the `all natural’ movement. And with several generations of mixing, any natural one is as likely to be Asian-Anglo-Hispanic as mostly Anglo.”
“How do you prove someone is a natural, compared to manufactured ones?”
“DNA testing.”
“Isn’t the gene the same?”
“Require DNA samples from the biological parents. If both parents are carriers of the blonde gene, then we can assume the kid is.”
“What if the parents had the procedure? It’s been around for 80 years.”
“Then require that any blonde parent prove they inherited the gene themselves. Find parents who carry the gene for a birth date before the enhancement is available, and you’ve got your last natural blonde.”
“You said it’s rare. What if the last one is past 40?”
“Do the standard touch-up graphics and say we’re not guilty of age discrimination like so many of our competitors. Play off the all-natural angle again.”
“Doesn’t it seem funny that the standards of beauty haven’t changed, even as the population demographics have?” Lexus reluctantly agreed. “OK. Do the model search. Say it’s for the Chi-guna’s latest fashion line. They are begging for something different.”
It took 14 months. There were many entries, though 90% were rejected immediately by DNA profile comparisons of person to parent. It turned out there were plenty of people who actually thought they were blonde whose parents had lied about a pre-conception doctor’s visit. The remaining 10% were weeded out more slowly. Double-checking DNA databases of the deceased added an extra year to the search.
At the 18 month follow-up meeting, Yvonne arrived with a report in hand. Lexus asked. “Did you find the last one?”
“Yeah,” Yvonne replied quietly.
“Why did you have to go through the deceased database?”
“No. Our winner and all of our runners-up’s parents were dead.”
Lexus went stiff. “How old is our winner, then?”
“Our last natural blonde is 69.”
“Didn’t you put in an upper age cutoff on the modeling contract?”
“No. We released the model search with all participants having to meet the natural DNA requirements. We didn’t think to limit it to a maximum age. We though that looking for the last one would inherently mean the youngest one would win.”
“So why isn’t the youngest natural blonde younger?”
“None of the natural ones we found were younger.”
“Look at their kids.”
“Interracial marriage. Or even same race marriage with people with darker hair colors. Engineered blonde grandchildren in many cases, but no younger candidates who met the `natural’ criteria.”
“Are you saying our last natural blonde on the planet is 69?”
“Yeah.”
“If she’s 69, her hair’s white, isn’t it?”
“She dyes it blonde.” Yvonne brushed her own un-dyed blonde hair behind an ear, her light brown skin a harsh contrast to the ultra-pale face in the photo.
“So there are no natural blondes, then. Kill the contest. Say no one won.”
“It’s not really true. We found natural blondes--"
“They carry the genes for it, but they aren’t blonde anymore without hair dye. So there are no more natural blondes. Say no one won and kill the contest.”
“Our winner won per the contract. She gets the Chi-guna modeling contract, per the contract she signed to enter the contest. We never stated you couldn’t have gone naturally gray.”
“You mean we’re going to put an old lady in designer clothes and promote her as the last natural beauty? I can’t do that to Chi-guna. Their clothes are hip and fresh -”
“Can we redesign the clothes to suit an older demographic?” Yvonne grasped.
“The designer won’t redesign their clothes to suit the model. We are supposed to supply the model to suit the clothes.”
“They wanted something new--"
Lexus whipped out her electronic pad. “That model goes up once on the walkway, per contract. Then we say criteria’s met, the woman is paid, and beg the Chi-guna to say that one outfit is their `line’. We put the rest of the outfits under a new label release and put them on a new girl. And you are as much history as your vaunted `last of a kind’ ideas.”
by Tamara Wilhite - tamarawilhite@hotmail.com
“I don’t like your latest modeling contract promotion,” Lexus mewled.
“We’re looking for someone who is unique.” Yvonne countered. “That is, by definition, a unique promotion--"
“Can’t you find another undiscovered beauty somewhere?”
“What? A fifth trip to Papua New Guinea to look for a girl who is so backward that she has an outhouse?” Yvonne grimaced. “Or do you want us to sneak into the Muslim territories and find a neglected beauty under a burqa AND smuggle her to the civilized world? Anyone who meets the requirements of this promotion will be unique in the world. And there is far less risk. And no one else has done it before.”
“There are plenty of blondes walking around.”
“And they’re all products of that `enhancement’ available after 2033. You can find blonde Arab girls because their oil prince papas wanted them to be. You can find Asian girls because some doctor paid the parents to make a beauty to sell in Calcutta’s bride market. There are even girls who have European descent who are saying, `I got this blonde hair from my grandma!’ We both know how rare that really ever is. Rumor has it, there aren’t any more.”
Both women glanced at the photo of the blonde black woman posing in the genetic tailoring ads on the nearby wall. “Gentlemen prefer blondes. Make sure your daughter gets the gentleman!” With the rich paying for their kids to be geniuses, tweaking coloring genes to meet an old fashioned standard of beauty was the middle class “upgrade”. “This could be taken as racist. After all, natural blondes were of European descent.”
“With all the hype about how genetically engineering your kids being bad, this `natural blonde’ search dovetails into the `all natural’ movement. And with several generations of mixing, any natural one is as likely to be Asian-Anglo-Hispanic as mostly Anglo.”
“How do you prove someone is a natural, compared to manufactured ones?”
“DNA testing.”
“Isn’t the gene the same?”
“Require DNA samples from the biological parents. If both parents are carriers of the blonde gene, then we can assume the kid is.”
“What if the parents had the procedure? It’s been around for 80 years.”
“Then require that any blonde parent prove they inherited the gene themselves. Find parents who carry the gene for a birth date before the enhancement is available, and you’ve got your last natural blonde.”
“You said it’s rare. What if the last one is past 40?”
“Do the standard touch-up graphics and say we’re not guilty of age discrimination like so many of our competitors. Play off the all-natural angle again.”
“Doesn’t it seem funny that the standards of beauty haven’t changed, even as the population demographics have?” Lexus reluctantly agreed. “OK. Do the model search. Say it’s for the Chi-guna’s latest fashion line. They are begging for something different.”
It took 14 months. There were many entries, though 90% were rejected immediately by DNA profile comparisons of person to parent. It turned out there were plenty of people who actually thought they were blonde whose parents had lied about a pre-conception doctor’s visit. The remaining 10% were weeded out more slowly. Double-checking DNA databases of the deceased added an extra year to the search.
At the 18 month follow-up meeting, Yvonne arrived with a report in hand. Lexus asked. “Did you find the last one?”
“Yeah,” Yvonne replied quietly.
“Why did you have to go through the deceased database?”
“No. Our winner and all of our runners-up’s parents were dead.”
Lexus went stiff. “How old is our winner, then?”
“Our last natural blonde is 69.”
“Didn’t you put in an upper age cutoff on the modeling contract?”
“No. We released the model search with all participants having to meet the natural DNA requirements. We didn’t think to limit it to a maximum age. We though that looking for the last one would inherently mean the youngest one would win.”
“So why isn’t the youngest natural blonde younger?”
“None of the natural ones we found were younger.”
“Look at their kids.”
“Interracial marriage. Or even same race marriage with people with darker hair colors. Engineered blonde grandchildren in many cases, but no younger candidates who met the `natural’ criteria.”
“Are you saying our last natural blonde on the planet is 69?”
“Yeah.”
“If she’s 69, her hair’s white, isn’t it?”
“She dyes it blonde.” Yvonne brushed her own un-dyed blonde hair behind an ear, her light brown skin a harsh contrast to the ultra-pale face in the photo.
“So there are no natural blondes, then. Kill the contest. Say no one won.”
“It’s not really true. We found natural blondes--"
“They carry the genes for it, but they aren’t blonde anymore without hair dye. So there are no more natural blondes. Say no one won and kill the contest.”
“Our winner won per the contract. She gets the Chi-guna modeling contract, per the contract she signed to enter the contest. We never stated you couldn’t have gone naturally gray.”
“You mean we’re going to put an old lady in designer clothes and promote her as the last natural beauty? I can’t do that to Chi-guna. Their clothes are hip and fresh -”
“Can we redesign the clothes to suit an older demographic?” Yvonne grasped.
“The designer won’t redesign their clothes to suit the model. We are supposed to supply the model to suit the clothes.”
“They wanted something new--"
Lexus whipped out her electronic pad. “That model goes up once on the walkway, per contract. Then we say criteria’s met, the woman is paid, and beg the Chi-guna to say that one outfit is their `line’. We put the rest of the outfits under a new label release and put them on a new girl. And you are as much history as your vaunted `last of a kind’ ideas.”
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