Do you crave science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories with a dash of the erotic and romantic, featuring transmasculine leads? Welcome to TRANSLITERATION.
The top surgeon whose price is free—with an asterisk. Loving a machine that cannot love you back. A world where suicide has become the accepted norm. Medical science in an age where curatives are only for the rich. The ultimate gift that cannot save a failing marriage. Trying to keep a normal routine during societal collapse. A strange water creature that preys upon pity to transform its victim into its ideal mate. A dystopian state in which sexual reproduction is a crime. An unusual marriage proposal presented to a young lord. A nonbinary Regent who realizes the dragon is the least of their nation's problems.
In this collection of fifteen speculative short stories, Reis Asher seeks to explore past, present, future, and alternate worlds through the lens of transmasculinity. Sometimes bright and optimistic, other times rooted in a deep cynicism about society, TRANSLITERATION examines our hopes, our fears, and our flaws.
The top surgeon whose price is free—with an asterisk. Loving a machine that cannot love you back. A world where suicide has become the accepted norm. Medical science in an age where curatives are only for the rich. The ultimate gift that cannot save a failing marriage. Trying to keep a normal routine during societal collapse. A strange water creature that preys upon pity to transform its victim into its ideal mate. A dystopian state in which sexual reproduction is a crime. An unusual marriage proposal presented to a young lord. A nonbinary Regent who realizes the dragon is the least of their nation's problems.
In this collection of fifteen speculative short stories, Reis Asher seeks to explore past, present, future, and alternate worlds through the lens of transmasculinity. Sometimes bright and optimistic, other times rooted in a deep cynicism about society, TRANSLITERATION examines our hopes, our fears, and our flaws.
Excerpt:
My Girlfriend Is Annoyed
Picture this. A busy restaurant. Classy, but in that still-affordable range, meaning the place has good vibes but the food is shipped in frozen. The sound of cutlery hitting plates and the hum of chatter provides the soundtrack, which is far better than the faux-classical elevator music pouring out of cheap speakers set into the ceiling.
Cecilia, as always, looks stunning, in that too-good-to-be-true sense. Clothes seem like they were made for her, accentuating her curves and never coming up too long or too short. Either she has a tailor on retainer or she's managed to stop growing at the perfect height. The dress she's wearing tonight hugs her frame, and the satin is so smooth I can't stop touching her.
Regardless, the bigger miracle here is that she wants anything to do with me. Short, autistic, chubby, acne-riddled from second puberty—I have nightmares that she'll show up to a date one day with a handsome cis guy on her arm, and between them and the restaurant staff, they'll laugh me out of the establishment for believing a girl like her could be interested in a guy like me.
Don't self-sabotage, my therapist told me. Easier said than done, but I try to keep it in the forefront of my mind. Perhaps something is charming about me, like my love of puns, my wardrobe that belongs in a tent catalog, or my mascot-like ability to draw attention to myself in the most absurd ways possible.
Or maybe she's so beautiful of spirit that she can see past the outside into the heart of me and sees something there that I don't. I do wish she'd tell me, but she always manages a coy little smirk when I ask. As if I should know already.
I'm afraid to press.
Today, though, I sense a reticence about her. Her nerves flow into me and suddenly I realize this is it. The big breakup. It's not me, it's her, she dated me because she felt sorry for me and now she's realizing that she'd rather die than suffer through one more awkward date at the movies where afterward, instead of making out with her, I posit that the male lead and his sidekick are almost certainly fucking and I'll write fanfiction about it later but I want to know what she thinks about my theory--
"Aiden." The sound of my name on her lips grounds me. It always has. I thought it always would. "I'm not breaking up with you."
"I didn't think you—Good." The clammy sweat on my forehead was a dead giveaway. Or she's a mind reader. She's uncanny when it comes to knowing what I'm thinking, but I like it. I'm not good at telling her how I feel. It's easier if she uses her intuition to draw it out of me before I can have a meltdown and leave.
"You might break up with me, though." She looks down at her menu, and for the first time in six months, she looks desperately sad. Something twists in my chest and I ache to console her, but how can I do that without knowing what the problem is? I'm at a loss here.
A waiter chooses that particular moment to drift over and ask if we're ready yet, and I bite back the urge to tell him I've never been less hungry in all my life. It's not his fault he has the world's worst timing.
"Need a minute," I mumble. "Please."
"Understood... Sir." The delay while he mentally stumbles over my gender isn't fun, but I've got bigger problems on my plate right now. The woman I love is soul-crushingly sad, and she doesn't seem to understand that I wouldn't break up with her if she confessed to sleeping with the entirety of my favorite hockey team. I can hear my therapist's voice in my head telling me it's unhealthy to be a doormat, you have to set boundaries or you will get used and abused by others.
I know. I know!
"Please, Cece, whatever it is, you know I'll understand." I reach my clammy hands across the table and grasp hers. It's supposed to be comforting but I'm fully aware it's gross and she'll have to wash her hands again before eating. I never used to sweat this much, but now I'm a twenty-two-year-old doing puberty for the second time and it still sucks.
Her voice is barely a whisper. "You might. You might be the only one."
Is she going to come out as nonbinary? Or a man? Does she think I'd mind? Does she believe my late-night ramblings about wanting to have wild and passionate sex with Tony Stark are purely theoretical? (I mean, they are, but only because Tony Stark doesn't exist and wouldn't look at me if I did, not because I wouldn't date a man). Maybe she thinks I wouldn't love her with a face covered in acne like she wouldn't be the most beautiful person in the world to me even if she wasn't a woman. Does she want different pronouns? Should I be using they in my thoughts?
Cecelia leans forward to whisper in my ear. I'm vaguely aware of the waiter hovering by my right ear like a bee. He wants to wait on this table, and we're holding him up. Fewer customers, fewer tips. I guess it's rude in a way, but my whole world is transforming before my eyes here and I need a minute more--
"I'm an android."
I must be hearing her wrong. I blink. I have auditory processing issues, where my ear-to-English matrix spews out garbage in place of words. I fumble, trying to piece together the conversation by whatever straws of context I can grasp. It can be extremely embarrassing to answer the wrong question, and I don't want to stumble into a long diatribe about how I don't mind she's an android if she was telling me she's annoyed.
The strategy, in these circumstances, is to wait and see if the following conversation provides any clues.
"I know it's a lot to take in," she says. "I should have told you sooner, but I was afraid of being rejected."
Well, I guess that ruled out being annoyed, unless mild irritation had been a deal-breaker for her ex. So that was it, then. She's an android. My incredibly hot girlfriend, whom I've been dating for six months, is an android.
Could she be any more perfect? My excitement surges and I break into a broad smile.
"THAT'S SO COOL!" I stand up and bang my hands down on the table. Everyone in the restaurant turns to face us. I'm more than sweaty now, my blood pressure is probably in the danger zone and my cheeks are likely the color of beets. I'm so excited that this might top the time I met my favorite celebrity and he hugged me. In the absence of clattering cutlery, the only sound is the tinny, calm, classical music, and it's playing the piece that the orchestra finished with when the Titanic went down.
"Happy birthday!" someone yells across the restaurant, and my humiliation is nothing compared to the thirty-something professional woman who is quickly serenaded by the restaurant's in-house birthday committee. I silently thank her for her sacrifice and take my seat.
"For real, though?" I whisper.
"For real." She manages a conspiratorial smile and covers her hand. A panel slides open on the back of it, revealing her inner workings. She closes it quickly and I sit back in my seat, digesting my findings.
Well, I'll be damned. A multimillion-dollar miracle of technology and beauty is dating me. Me. The imposter syndrome is here and it's real.
The sadness is back in her eyes again. "My last relationship was fun at first, but my ex wanted kids in the future. The one before that, he was into androids for a kink. Before him, my ex-girlfriend wanted a partner that wouldn't out her as a lesbian. Folks, you know, they don't always consider us gendered, like we're just objects created to emulate people and not actual people. It couldn't last."
"Ouch. That must have hurt. So why me?" I ask. I'm not afraid of the question anymore, despite the fact I feel less qualified than ever to date Cecelia. What's my special quality? Why did she choose me over all the other fish in a very large sea?
"Statistically speaking," she says, "you were the one most likely to stay. You don't want children. You're a nerd who thinks positively about advances in technology, and you already identify as queer."
It hurts, for a moment. It sounds like she's settling for me, the last one in a very long line of failed romances. I'll do like I'm the consolation prize at the state fair, a goldfish in a bag she doesn't know what to do with when what she wanted was the giant teddy bear.
"That doesn't sound very romantic," I offer. "I don't want to be second best."
"On the contrary, you're logically the best choice for my continued happiness. I'd like very much for someone to stay, Aiden, and I want that person to be you. I won't live as long as you. I won't be able to enjoy the full range of human experiences, though they're adding new features by the day." She managed a smile. "I was really happy when a new patch allowed me to eat shortly after our first date. Spitting everything into a napkin was extremely awkward."
"So you don't hate Chicken King?" I thought I'd screwed up when I caught her slipping full napkins into her pocket. I thought she was too upscale for fried chicken. Turns out she wasn't capable of digesting human food.
"I don't hate Chicken King! I'd like to go again, now that I can swallow it. The taste was pleasing."
I laugh. I feel lighter than air as I realize you're logically the best choice for my continued happiness isn't second best at all, it's robot for I love you.
The frustrated waiter finally leaves the spot where he's hovering and comes to loom over us, holding his pencil and little notebook like he might stab me if I ask for more time. He clears his throat, and I'm too happy to consider inconveniencing him further out of spite.
"I'll take the house special," I say, not even knowing what that is. It could be synth-lobster basted in mushrooms and I wouldn't care, allergies and texture issues not-withstanding. The girl of my dreams is sitting across from me, the stars hanging in her eyes, and I'm sure I'd marry her, given the chance. It isn't legal to marry androids yet, but if we go at it with the same gusto as we championed gay and trans rights, it's only a matter of time.
"I'll have what he's having," she says, and we hand back the menus at the same time as if we've been synchronized to the same clock speed.
My Girlfriend Is Annoyed
Picture this. A busy restaurant. Classy, but in that still-affordable range, meaning the place has good vibes but the food is shipped in frozen. The sound of cutlery hitting plates and the hum of chatter provides the soundtrack, which is far better than the faux-classical elevator music pouring out of cheap speakers set into the ceiling.
Cecilia, as always, looks stunning, in that too-good-to-be-true sense. Clothes seem like they were made for her, accentuating her curves and never coming up too long or too short. Either she has a tailor on retainer or she's managed to stop growing at the perfect height. The dress she's wearing tonight hugs her frame, and the satin is so smooth I can't stop touching her.
Regardless, the bigger miracle here is that she wants anything to do with me. Short, autistic, chubby, acne-riddled from second puberty—I have nightmares that she'll show up to a date one day with a handsome cis guy on her arm, and between them and the restaurant staff, they'll laugh me out of the establishment for believing a girl like her could be interested in a guy like me.
Don't self-sabotage, my therapist told me. Easier said than done, but I try to keep it in the forefront of my mind. Perhaps something is charming about me, like my love of puns, my wardrobe that belongs in a tent catalog, or my mascot-like ability to draw attention to myself in the most absurd ways possible.
Or maybe she's so beautiful of spirit that she can see past the outside into the heart of me and sees something there that I don't. I do wish she'd tell me, but she always manages a coy little smirk when I ask. As if I should know already.
I'm afraid to press.
Today, though, I sense a reticence about her. Her nerves flow into me and suddenly I realize this is it. The big breakup. It's not me, it's her, she dated me because she felt sorry for me and now she's realizing that she'd rather die than suffer through one more awkward date at the movies where afterward, instead of making out with her, I posit that the male lead and his sidekick are almost certainly fucking and I'll write fanfiction about it later but I want to know what she thinks about my theory--
"Aiden." The sound of my name on her lips grounds me. It always has. I thought it always would. "I'm not breaking up with you."
"I didn't think you—Good." The clammy sweat on my forehead was a dead giveaway. Or she's a mind reader. She's uncanny when it comes to knowing what I'm thinking, but I like it. I'm not good at telling her how I feel. It's easier if she uses her intuition to draw it out of me before I can have a meltdown and leave.
"You might break up with me, though." She looks down at her menu, and for the first time in six months, she looks desperately sad. Something twists in my chest and I ache to console her, but how can I do that without knowing what the problem is? I'm at a loss here.
A waiter chooses that particular moment to drift over and ask if we're ready yet, and I bite back the urge to tell him I've never been less hungry in all my life. It's not his fault he has the world's worst timing.
"Need a minute," I mumble. "Please."
"Understood... Sir." The delay while he mentally stumbles over my gender isn't fun, but I've got bigger problems on my plate right now. The woman I love is soul-crushingly sad, and she doesn't seem to understand that I wouldn't break up with her if she confessed to sleeping with the entirety of my favorite hockey team. I can hear my therapist's voice in my head telling me it's unhealthy to be a doormat, you have to set boundaries or you will get used and abused by others.
I know. I know!
"Please, Cece, whatever it is, you know I'll understand." I reach my clammy hands across the table and grasp hers. It's supposed to be comforting but I'm fully aware it's gross and she'll have to wash her hands again before eating. I never used to sweat this much, but now I'm a twenty-two-year-old doing puberty for the second time and it still sucks.
Her voice is barely a whisper. "You might. You might be the only one."
Is she going to come out as nonbinary? Or a man? Does she think I'd mind? Does she believe my late-night ramblings about wanting to have wild and passionate sex with Tony Stark are purely theoretical? (I mean, they are, but only because Tony Stark doesn't exist and wouldn't look at me if I did, not because I wouldn't date a man). Maybe she thinks I wouldn't love her with a face covered in acne like she wouldn't be the most beautiful person in the world to me even if she wasn't a woman. Does she want different pronouns? Should I be using they in my thoughts?
Cecelia leans forward to whisper in my ear. I'm vaguely aware of the waiter hovering by my right ear like a bee. He wants to wait on this table, and we're holding him up. Fewer customers, fewer tips. I guess it's rude in a way, but my whole world is transforming before my eyes here and I need a minute more--
"I'm an android."
I must be hearing her wrong. I blink. I have auditory processing issues, where my ear-to-English matrix spews out garbage in place of words. I fumble, trying to piece together the conversation by whatever straws of context I can grasp. It can be extremely embarrassing to answer the wrong question, and I don't want to stumble into a long diatribe about how I don't mind she's an android if she was telling me she's annoyed.
The strategy, in these circumstances, is to wait and see if the following conversation provides any clues.
"I know it's a lot to take in," she says. "I should have told you sooner, but I was afraid of being rejected."
Well, I guess that ruled out being annoyed, unless mild irritation had been a deal-breaker for her ex. So that was it, then. She's an android. My incredibly hot girlfriend, whom I've been dating for six months, is an android.
Could she be any more perfect? My excitement surges and I break into a broad smile.
"THAT'S SO COOL!" I stand up and bang my hands down on the table. Everyone in the restaurant turns to face us. I'm more than sweaty now, my blood pressure is probably in the danger zone and my cheeks are likely the color of beets. I'm so excited that this might top the time I met my favorite celebrity and he hugged me. In the absence of clattering cutlery, the only sound is the tinny, calm, classical music, and it's playing the piece that the orchestra finished with when the Titanic went down.
"Happy birthday!" someone yells across the restaurant, and my humiliation is nothing compared to the thirty-something professional woman who is quickly serenaded by the restaurant's in-house birthday committee. I silently thank her for her sacrifice and take my seat.
"For real, though?" I whisper.
"For real." She manages a conspiratorial smile and covers her hand. A panel slides open on the back of it, revealing her inner workings. She closes it quickly and I sit back in my seat, digesting my findings.
Well, I'll be damned. A multimillion-dollar miracle of technology and beauty is dating me. Me. The imposter syndrome is here and it's real.
The sadness is back in her eyes again. "My last relationship was fun at first, but my ex wanted kids in the future. The one before that, he was into androids for a kink. Before him, my ex-girlfriend wanted a partner that wouldn't out her as a lesbian. Folks, you know, they don't always consider us gendered, like we're just objects created to emulate people and not actual people. It couldn't last."
"Ouch. That must have hurt. So why me?" I ask. I'm not afraid of the question anymore, despite the fact I feel less qualified than ever to date Cecelia. What's my special quality? Why did she choose me over all the other fish in a very large sea?
"Statistically speaking," she says, "you were the one most likely to stay. You don't want children. You're a nerd who thinks positively about advances in technology, and you already identify as queer."
It hurts, for a moment. It sounds like she's settling for me, the last one in a very long line of failed romances. I'll do like I'm the consolation prize at the state fair, a goldfish in a bag she doesn't know what to do with when what she wanted was the giant teddy bear.
"That doesn't sound very romantic," I offer. "I don't want to be second best."
"On the contrary, you're logically the best choice for my continued happiness. I'd like very much for someone to stay, Aiden, and I want that person to be you. I won't live as long as you. I won't be able to enjoy the full range of human experiences, though they're adding new features by the day." She managed a smile. "I was really happy when a new patch allowed me to eat shortly after our first date. Spitting everything into a napkin was extremely awkward."
"So you don't hate Chicken King?" I thought I'd screwed up when I caught her slipping full napkins into her pocket. I thought she was too upscale for fried chicken. Turns out she wasn't capable of digesting human food.
"I don't hate Chicken King! I'd like to go again, now that I can swallow it. The taste was pleasing."
I laugh. I feel lighter than air as I realize you're logically the best choice for my continued happiness isn't second best at all, it's robot for I love you.
The frustrated waiter finally leaves the spot where he's hovering and comes to loom over us, holding his pencil and little notebook like he might stab me if I ask for more time. He clears his throat, and I'm too happy to consider inconveniencing him further out of spite.
"I'll take the house special," I say, not even knowing what that is. It could be synth-lobster basted in mushrooms and I wouldn't care, allergies and texture issues not-withstanding. The girl of my dreams is sitting across from me, the stars hanging in her eyes, and I'm sure I'd marry her, given the chance. It isn't legal to marry androids yet, but if we go at it with the same gusto as we championed gay and trans rights, it's only a matter of time.
"I'll have what he's having," she says, and we hand back the menus at the same time as if we've been synchronized to the same clock speed.
