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the original. and even if there is still something left of you, you will replace it soon enough. If there’s still a piece of my father in all that reengineered body of yours, it will soon be gone.” “This is still me, this is still my body, don’t you understand? You don’t have to suffer anymore. We can replace whatever fails. We can improve our bodies, son.” “You cannot improve what God created.” There it was. Religion. Religion would never let him understand. I knew that he was in its grip regardless of how much I wanted to deny it. I could make all the sense in the world, and he would never accept a single fact that contradicted what he believed to be true: Mankind is playing God, and that is a sin. His physician was right, he was too far gone into death. But I was prepared anyway. I had a very good notion of what was needed: Nervous, epithelial, muscle and connective tissue. After several minutes of silence, with none of us daring to offer arguments in what we knew would be a futile attempt to convince the other, I grabbed his left foot and with a very sharp pair of scissors I’d brought with me, I cut, as swiftly as I could, the smallest portion of his body that would hold all the cells I would need: his little toe. His crying is subsiding now. I’m glad he’s not asking or speculating about my seemingly violent action. He wouldn’t understand anyway. He would never understand any of my justifications the way he never understood how he could have prevented all this if he had only taken care of himself. His reasoning was clouded by a righteous faith that annihilated logic. Religion never let him understand that we are all constantly changing anyway, regardless of any medical procedure. My body may have more new parts than original ones: new organs, muscles and bones, cultivated in laboratories and transplanted into me to compensate for what entropy has decayed, but that’s not so different from the natural entropy of every atom

in the universe. His own old body is a mass of different molecules from the ones he was born with! We all are a constant shuffle of atoms, always new, never the same. Therefore, he wouldn’t have shared my fear of having the mnemonic strands of his cells infected with death; that’s why I couldn’t wait for him to die. I wish I could have waited to save him from the painful amputation, I really do, but I’d rather cause him pain now than bring the memory of his death into the newly cultivated cells. He would have never accepted that the cells I had now in my hand would produce a new him; a new son for me; new and yet the same. But this time I will make him understand; I will take care of him and I will convince him of how fortunate we both are of living in this age. “I love you, my son,” I say to his dying, old, bleeding body, and quickly leave for the geneclinic to clone him. A liquid container in my hands and in it; ice, hope and his little toe.

Rommel Luna H. was born about 13.7 billion light years after the big bang, and just before that year’s Halloween’s daybreak. A loving father of four and the husband of one, he works as a Systems Analyst for an Insurance Company in Winnipeg, MB (Canada). He is the author of two novels (one of them in Spanish, Eterna, selfpublished through Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing), one novella, and over thirty short stories. He finds inspiration in music, and normally tries to keep his views on life to himself so as not to depress those around him.

Profile for Conjectural Figments

Conjectural Figments Feb 2012  

ConFigs, the first issue. Transhumanism. Interview: Simon Morden. Poetry: Jhon Z. Baker, Dale Herring. Short Fiction: Richard Thomas, Simon...

Conjectural Figments Feb 2012  

ConFigs, the first issue. Transhumanism. Interview: Simon Morden. Poetry: Jhon Z. Baker, Dale Herring. Short Fiction: Richard Thomas, Simon...

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