Perihelion Science Fiction

Sam Bellotto Jr.

Eric M. Jones
Contributing Editor


Stone 382
by Sean Monaghan

A.I. Oh!
by Tom Doyle

Castle of the Slave
by Aliyah Whiteley

Home From Home
by Mark English

Aliens With Candy
by Michael Andre-Driussi

A Cumdumpster Kid
by Rebecca L. Brown

Harmony, Chaos, and the Reign Thereof
by Kyle White

Potential Killer
by Fredrick Obermeyer

Cinderella's Holo-Wand
by Sarina Dorie

Ears, Eyes, Nose ... and Throat
by Jez Patterson


Cargo Cultism
by Eric M. Jones

Coronal Mass Ejection by John McCormick




Shorter Stories

Comic Strips




A Cumdumpster Kid

By Rebecca L. Brown

SIMON JACKSON WANTS TO BE a mother fucker. Wants to take a turn—a short turn would be plenty—in a cunt which offers more than just a pleasure ride.

The girl—the Spunkie—smiles the smile that’s followed Simon Jackson all the way down from LA to San Francisco. She wears her hair cut short and dyed—a cheap, synthetic blonde that suits her. Underneath, her hair is dark—just like ten thousand other Spunkie bitches made in Sanger, Fresno County. For just a couple of her hard-earned dollars every month, she buys herself a scrap of individuality. For just a couple dollars more, she sells herself to every Natch and Spunkie man who has a taste for bland and blonde and over-pretty.

Simon Jackson does not want her. Does not want the empty space between her thighs they left there just for fun. For decoration. Since the second generation pregnancy disasters and the Natchie birth right riots, every Spunkie that the vat houses have made has come out sterile. Simon sometimes wonders what they added to the mix—whatever it was that made so many of the Natchies into ball- less, wombless wonders, he supposes.

“They say that Jacksons fuck like lions.” Says the Spunkie. When she leans in close, he sees that she has changed the colour of her eyes from brown to yellow. Contacts, maybe. Either that or some weird body rot she must have picked up working on the streets. These Spunkie sluts are crawling with it. Spread their legs for anyone and anything—at least that’s what the stories say. Even Freaks if they can pay the money.

This one wears a bright blue dress which is just too short to keep her panties covered. Underneath her arm he sees a row of bruises, sized and spread like fingertips. They’re three days old at least, the colour fading to a yellow-green which clashes with her outfit and her skin.

“They say that Sanger Spunkies never learn to keep their bitch mouths shut.” He doesn’t bother hiding what he is these days, but being known and recognised like that still leaves him feeling sour. Knowing they can pick him from half a mile away. He heard somewhere that when they make the eighteenth generation, every one will be a little different. Spunkies undercover. In disguise. Too late for Simon Jackson, though. They’ve known him for a Spunkie—a Cumdumpster Kid —since he was scooped out from his vat.

No Spunkies, Freaks or Bit-Vats. Signs in every window. On the corners of the streets in all the better Natchie neighbourhoods. The Natchie bitches spit right in his face for looking at them.

“Go back to your Cum-Slum, Spunklet!” shout the pretty Natchie teens who gather on the corners. Unique despite their uniform of hot pants, hats and torn up tees.

She’s clinging to him, even though he shrugs her off his shoulders. Running long, unpainted fingernails around his neck and down his collar.

Simon Jackson wants to be a mother fucker. More than that, he wants a mother of his own.

The thought of it ...

The thought of being all the way inside a woman. Being pushed out through her stretched and aching cunt. Hearing for the first time. Knowing how he made a mother—Simon Jackson’s mother—scream.

The thought of it is almost more than he can handle. Has his cock stood up to full attention, aching to be touched. To be inside some mother’s cunt ...

“You like that, huh?” Her teeth are pressed right up against his ear. “You want me, baby? Half price for a man like you ...”

He wishes he could find a Natchie whore who’d have him, but they’re rare these days. Almost as rare as Mothers, he supposes. No one wants to pay their rates when they can have a Spunkie bitch for half the price or less.

Any hole ... He’s seen the Natchies slip into the Spunkie slums in search of any pleasure that their pure, god-given minds can dream of. Heard the way they make the Spunkie girlies scream. A couple times, he’s even seen the scars ...

He shrugs. She’ll do. So many of them working on their backs these days, they’ll do it all for under twenty dollars and then be grateful for the chance. He wonders what they grew her for and why they dumped her. Whether she was second gen, or maybe third, made back before they balanced off the mixes. When an extra finger here and there was passed through as a good batch and defective Spunkies got decommed in whole cumdumpster loads. Simon can not see cut- scars around her wrists or on the smooth skin of her thighs. You see them if they’re there—they didn’t waste their time on keeping Spunkies looking neat back then. A Dumb-Cum, maybe—bird-brained or something. Not that Simon cares. The only thing that matters is her cunt and whether he can call her Mummy.

“Sure.” She tells him. Somehow, he can tell he’s not the first to ask. The first to wish there was a way to climb inside her. "Pay me first.”

Her ST certs are out of date and smudged around the corners. No one really bothers testing Spunkies anymore, though. Certs are just for show. She’d have to pay a full week’s takings just to get inside the clinic. Have to go again maybe a week or two weeks later.

“Good enough.” He tells her, even though she isn’t. Even though the only woman worth his time is someone else’s mother. When she spreads her legs, he slips two fingers in her well-used cunt and tries to make himself believe she’s something better.

Simon Jackson—grown and made in Jackson, California. One of seven hundred Simons as of March first, twenty sixty four. Fourth gen soldier Spunkie, grown to fight a war which ended just before they scooped him from the vat. The original Corporal Cumbucket from the Natchie songs:

  He doesn’t have a Ma and Pa
  No Natchie girl would touch him.
  No house, no job, no fancy car,
  He isn’t worth too much, him ...

To the Sanders girl, that didn’t matter. Simon Jackson—just another cock to ride. Another twenty dollars in her pocket.

Another finger—three, then four. A thumb. A fist. The way she stretches round his forearm makes him moan. The way she whimpers, though she doesn’t try to stop him. Doesn’t beg him not to slip in further. They breed them loose in Sanders, Simon Jackson thinks.

  Cumbucket soldiers dumb as logs
  They march because we tell ’em.
  Too late to kill the Tankie dogs
  So now we’ve got to sell ’em ...

Simon Jackson wants to be a mother fucker. Wants to hold one in his arms. To pin her down and fuck her ’til she knows he’s just as good as any Natchie man. As good as any son of a bitch who ever shot his Natchie load inside of her.

The Spunkie shudders underneath him. Simon Jackson pins her underneath him. Wishes that she’d scream a little louder.

Finally, he comes across her face—her bastard Spunkie face. He wipes the blood stains on her sheets. The dark red slime which spattered all the way up to his shoulder.

Then, he calls her Mummy.

Calls her Mummy ’til the bleeding stops, then cries as if he’ll never stop.

Simon Jackson has a mother.

Simon Jackson’s Spunkie life is over.


They found him somewhere near Madera, throwing stones at seventh gens and calling them by every Spunkie nickname he can think of.

“I was born.” He tells them. "Born.” He tells them even though his face is just like twenty thousand other Jacksons. Twenty thousand other soldier Spunkies who were surplus to requirements. When they take him to the vats, he asks them if he’s going home. Asks all the workers if they’d like to meet his mother.

“When she pushed me out, I knew she really loved me.”

“Never should have let ’em out. I told ’em—” Mutters one guard to another. Natchie guards. When Simon Jackson-Sanders tries to shake them by the hand they move away as if to keep from catching crazy from him. Something worse.

"Those Spunkie whores ...” The guard sucks air in. Whistles in between his teeth and narrows down his eyes. “Not even they deserve that.” Someone shrugs an answer. Plenty where they came from. No one’s mother. No one’s sister.

“My Mother came from Fresno County, California.” Says the Spunkie. “Grew up out there with her sisters.” No one listens.

“Imagine if he’d done a Natchie woman that way.”

“Yeah. At least we got this one before he hurt someone. I mean, someone who matters.” They know that this one’s not the first, although the papers never say so. Spunkies snap this way sometimes—most often it’s the ones they made before the seventh generation.”

“They say that soon they’ll look the same as us, you know. I say that’s freaky. Bad enough when we can pick ’em out.” The guards nod—and the Spunkie sits there nodding with them.


Back in Jackson, California, twenty-seven Spunkies sit together in a line. Blonde hair and dark brown eyes. On twenty-six faces, all the features are the same. The twenty-seventh wears a scar, a jagged ridge which rises at the corner of his lips and curls along the sharp line of his cheekbone. No one knows exactly how he got it, though they’d guess he gave it to himself. None of them speak. Some of them probably do not remember how. The others are confused. Afraid—that is, if Dumb- Cum rejects feel something as real as fear.

A twenty-eighth arrives. The newest Junk-Spunk, though no one would ever know to look at him. He sits down on the ashy floor and turns to face the Jackson to his left. He smiles.

“You look familiar—have you ever been to Fresno County?”

“No.” The Jackson Spunkie tells him. “No.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue against his lips.

“Okay. I thought I recognised you. Thought that we might be related.” Simon Jackson-Sanders knows he grew up with a heap of brothers. Cousins; uncles; aunts. Even a couple hundred sons and daughters of his own. “Maybe you would recognise my mother.”

A Bit-Vat, Simon thinks. Completely Brain-Spunked. Something must have shaken loose. He wonders when they’ll take him back and euthanise him.

“No. No no no no no ...” More of a hum than words. A moan, almost. There’s something in the sound that Simon finds almost comforting. Familiar to him. Fingers tap against his leg in rhythm with it. When he looks, he sees the fingers tapping are his own.

This isn’t right. He knows he shouldn’t be here. No—how could anyone think it could be right to make a Natchie man like him sit here? To make a Natchie man sit on the floor with some weird, brain fucked Bit-Vat Spunkie freak. No. No no no no no.

He needs to think of something else. It doesn’t matter what.

Of growing up, except these days he has forgotten far too much.

Of Mama Sanders, then. Always of Mama Sanders when things don’t seem right. Retreat to memories of being born. Of being pressed against the cold, damp bloody thigh of Mama Sanders.

It’s getting harder. Since the day that he was born, he’s never had it easy. These days, Simon struggles to remember how she looked. The way she felt. The way it felt to fuck her. No. Not fuck her. How it felt to be inside. Sometimes, he thinks her hair was blonde and sometimes black. Sometimes, Simon wonders why he never knew her other name.

He shakes his head. It doesn’t really make a difference. Soon, he’s going to get to see her. Soon, he’s going home to see his mother. infinity

Rebecca L. Brown is a British writer of science fiction and horror based in Cardiff, South Wales, where she lives with her partner and assorted menagerie. Her previous story with us, “Calliope Muse,” appeared in the 12-DEC-2012 update.






Rebecca L. Brown is a writer, model, photographer and retired archaeologist living in Cardiff, South Wales. She enjoys weightlifting, metal music and knitting an occasional fish.

Favorite drink: Sweet black coffee.

Favorite movie: Any of the Batman films.

Pet peeve: People who bite their nails—I hate the sound it makes!

Advice to NASA: Keep pushing for crowdfunding.