stories

Reaper

“Step back now please,” said the police officer. He shuffled forward with his palms raised, pushing the curious crowd back across the white painted line of the parking space. “There’s really nothing to see here.”

“But sir,” said one of the onlookers. “I know that girl.”

“Which one,” the cop asked quietly.

“The one on top.”

“How can you tell? She’s face-down?”

“I recognize her tattoo. I inked her myself.”

“Step under the tape please,” offered the cop, lifting the yellow plastic crime scene ribbon. “MacPherson!” called the cop over his shoulder. “Talk to this man.”

“I know her,” the bystander repeated to MacPherson across the bodies of two naked women – a blonde on top and a brunette on her back underneath.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Reaper,” said the man. “First name Grim.”

MacPherson widened his stance. “And what’s your real name?”

“That is my real name,” said Reaper.

MacPherson shook his head. “Okay fine. So how do you know her?”

“I tattooed the knife in her back.”

MacPherson looked down at the body. The hilt of a knife was, indeed, tattooed on the woman’s lower left shoulder, the point appearing to have been plunged into her body.

The coroner stepped up to give his orders.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s lift her.”

Four investigators, two at the blonde’s shoulders and two at her hips, attempted to lift her.

“She’s stuck,” said one of the investigators.

The coroner crouched and lifted the woman’s left shoulder a few inches. “What the…” whispered the coroner.

MacPherson turned back to see Reaper grinning. “It’s a damned good tattoo even if I do say so myself.”

Visitor

My mind is haunted with thoughts of you. If only you could see or hear me. If you could just speak…what would you tell me? What would you want to know of me? Would you be happy that I live…here? Would you want to spend time with me, if you knew me?

You’ve seen me in the crowd. I know you have. You waved, once, from afar. But you wouldn’t know me to see me now. I’ve changed a little. I’ve become… I’ve become more calm. Less likely to rip up my life and chase a dream.

Just a dream, some might say. To know you would be like remembering a long, distant past full of promises that turned to dust and ashes.

So I’ll ask you, just this once. Do you wish to see me? Please answer yes or no in the little square inside the box on the page marked ‘My Apparition’.

The Confession

“There’s something I have to get off my chest.”

“What now?” She’d heard all his bullshit before – at least she assumed it was bullshit. Nothing he said when he was feeling guilty ever made sense.

“I think you should sit down.”

“Are you at least going to take your coat off?” He was still wet, dripping on the floor.

“I have to go back out.”

“Okay then, hurry up. I don’t have time for this today.”

“I’ve been seeing another woman.”

“Oh, that old thing again?” She didn’t believe him this time any more than she had the last three times he had confessed this same sin against their marriage.

“I’m leaving with her now. She’s out in the car.”

She tapped her foot. “Can you pick up milk while you’re out?”

A single tear fell from his cheek. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“Actually, I was at the store just yesterday and I forgot.”

He stared at her, agape. “Do you even care?”

“Of course I do! I can’t have coffee without milk!”

He turned and stepped back out into the pouring rain, checking for his wallet.

Beauty’s Calling

hair

Prince Blorigan heard of Beauty through one of his own servants. A cousin of a friend who knew a girl who had been to visit Beauty told the tale of a teenaged boy locked in a tower catered to by only women. It was a sin against humanity if ever Blorigan had heard of one. And so, curious, he plotted to see for himself.

Blorigan, with the aid of trusted woman in his household, went about dressing himself up as a young girl to gain entrance to Grim’s castle. Once inside it was simple. Gush over never having seen Beauty up close (as though anyone had seen him from afar) and tell of a cousin who had had the pleasure of Beauty’s company and it was only a matter of moments before Blorigan was in the presence of the beautiful young man.

The Prince had with him a fan which he held up to his face as he tittered with the six other girls who had been invited to sit with Beauty that afternoon. He hadn’t expected to find himself quite so enamoured of the young man. He was, indeed, very beautiful. Blorigan was quite nervous. For it was told that after court with Beauty was held, he would go around the room and kiss each of the girls on the lips, deciding which, if any, would have a place in his chambers to help him dress in the morning and undress at night. None of the girls lasted long, unless they happened to be in Beauty’s employ when one of the older women left, unable to give away a son of Beauty’s father, Grim.

As Beauty moved around the room, bending before each of the girls to give them each a chaste kiss on the lips and then straighten and smile, Blorigan began to tremble. Should he be outed by Beauty (who would surely be surprised to feel the roughness of his closely shaven skin) the consequences of his deception would be dire. He began to wonder what had gotten into him, thinking he could get away with it, let alone being well received by Beauty. So it was with nervous bravery that Blorigan lowered his fan and accepted Beauty’s kiss. Beauty, startled, pulled away just enough to stare at Blorigan’s lips before kissing him again. He didn’t smile. Without glancing away from Blorigan he ordered the rest out of the room.

“But Beauty!” exclaimed the lady who always accompanied the girls. “This is highly unusual.”

“Leave us!” Beauty commanded.

Blorigan heard the shuffling of feet and the soft thunk of the wooden door closing against its frame. Without a word Beauty reached under the Prince’s skirt and felt there a hardness.

“You’re like me,” Beauty whispered.

Prince Blorigan nodded, speechless.

“You must stay, and teach me,” Beauty breathed against the Prince’s lips. “Are you,” Beauty swallowed, “are you the only other one?”

“No, the world is filled with men as well as with women…”

Beauty cut off his words with another deeper kiss.

“Stay with me,” Beauty repeated with a groan.

“I can’t,” Blorigan said. “I have a kingdom to help my father rule. I am a Prince and must marry soon.”

“You will marry a woman?” Beauty asked, unbelieving as he pressed himself against the Prince.

“We will teach each other perhaps, before I go.”

“And you will return?” Beauty demanded, dropping to his knees for a better look.

“As often as I can,” Blorigan sighed, his head tipping back and his eyes closing.

Beauty’s Beginning

Beauty

Beauty

Beauty was born without a mother. That is to say his mother died in childbirth, leaving him in the peculiar care of his father and his father’s servants. Since Beauty’s father was a soldier, he was often absent from the family estate. Beauty, therefore, spent all of his waking and sleeping moments with the women who cleaned, cooked, and cared for the castle in which he lived.

So uninterested was Beauty’s father in him that he even went as far as to allow the housemaid-turned-nursemaid (she gave birth to a daughter at the same time Beauty was born and was able to nurse him at her breast) to name the poor boy. Having used what she thought was the best name available on her own daughter (some said she was the spawn of the gentleman for whom the woman worked), and she couldn’t very well call the boy Adrianna two (or too, the woman knew not the distinction) she simply called him what he was.

From the time Beauty was a babe he learned the ways of women. They taught him to clean and to cook and to care for them when they were tired at the end of the day. Time and time again his father would return home from battle only to find his son rubbing the feet of a char woman. The more it happened the less his father expected of him.

And so Beauty went without the benefit of a role model. His father was the only man Beauty knew of, for his father surrounded himself only with women unless he was off to war. From his father Beauty learned only that if he was ignored, there would surely be a woman to take care of him.

Beauty my Beauty

Beauty tore down all the sheets that hung around the room. It was Beauty’s darling Step-mother who requested they be hung in the first place. Beauty didn’t think anything of it at the time, the sheets needed to dry. But five years later, when they had begun to fade in the sun, Beauty knew it was time for them to be taken down. Flowery sheets weren’t Beauty’s idea of beauty. He liked plain white ones.

“Oh Beauty!” It was Step-mother calling. She waltzed into his room as though she belonged there.

“Step-mother, I told you before that I don’t like you coming into my room without knocking first,” Beauty whined.

“Oh nonsense!” Step-mother cried. “Now where are the sheets I asked you to hang up?”

“That was so long ago, I took them down,” Beauty confessed.

“Alright then, get on your knees. Where is the whip?”

“Step-mother,” Beauty sighed. “I’m four and twenty years old. Aren’t we a little past this?”

“Well who else am I going to beat now that your father is gone?” Step-mother exclaimed.

“Alright then,” Beauty conceded. “But just this once.”

Beauty took the barbed whip from the wardrobe and handed it to Step-mother. He fell to his knees before her, his long brown hair hiding his face as he removed his shirt. Step-mother hissed when she saw the scars on his back.

“Who did this to you?” Step-mother questioned.

“You did, Step-mother. Last week. And the week before. And every week for the last five years,” Beauty counted.

“Liar!” Step-mother screeched and the whip came down upon Beauty’s back.

Beauty felt the sting of the whip cutting into his flesh, removing the few scabs from the last time. Within three lashes the blood was flowing freely.

“Oh!” Step-mother gasped. She stepped back and Beauty looked up at her, a grin on his face.

“What happened?” Step-mother asked.

“Nothing at all Step-mother,” Beauty chided.

“Then hang up the sheets!” Step-mother demanded, dropping the whip and leaving the room.

“Right away Step-mother,” Beauty submitted.

As soon as the door to Beauty’s bedroom closed he lay upon his white sheets and graced them with roses and adonis.

Beauty

The Moral of the Jester’s Clothes

The Jester’s clothes fit snugly to his body. He felt this accutely as he tried not to look at the Emperor, for if he looked too long he would surely be beheaded.

He felt the pull of his collar against his throat and the tightness of his pants against his crotch. He longed to tug at the fabric. He thought that if he could just drop the balls he was juggling he could bend down to pick them up… but that again would be a risk to his neck, or perhaps his own balls.

Backwards he walked at the head of the parade. The crowd lining the streets cheered, free to gawk.

The Jester wished he could shed his clothes, but to do so would draw the attention of the Emperor to his own state.

Then the unthinkable happened.

“But he’s not wearing anything!” yelled a snotty brat from somewhere in the crowd.

The Jester dropped his balls, one of them bouncing in the direction of the Emperor. Afraid that the mighty leader would trip over it the Jester stooped to retrieve it. As he stood up the bells on his hat came into contact with the Emperor’s belly, making him giggle. The Jester laughed, thinking that he had pleased the Emperor, but the armed guards disagreed.

The Jester was executed on the spot.

The moral of the story:

Never come to a party overdressed.

Doll

partial machine Photograph by Rebecca Fudala.

Heaving and hurling and churning out the dolls. They come along on conveyor belts shivering as they bump across the rollers, naked and staring like tiny women’s corpses. All around is grease and filth, the air you breathe is black with soot but the dolls are pristine, flesh coloured with a dull gleam that insults your eyes.

“Maxwell!” yells your diminutive boss from across the plant. “Your wife is here to see you!”

You haven’t seen Yolanda in three days. She up and left while you were at work, no note, no idea of why she’d gone except the argument you’d had the night before. If you had to guess, she left to figure things out.

You step away from the conveyor belt, nodding to Denise, the jolly Aunt Jamima who’ll take up the slack of your going. You scratch your head as you hurry towards the office. There’s a crowd of men standing around, peering in the window from the plant.

Squeezing past them, the grind and wheeze of the machines now behind you, you enter the grimy office. Uncovered file boxes filled with smudged papers line the walls.

You knew she’d be naked before you stepped through the door. Her white flesh shines in the dull light of the florescents. The boss is passed out bleeding on the floor as Yolanda munches on his dick.

“Yolanda!” you scream at her. “What are you doing?”

“Wah?” she asks you, looking up from her bloody meal. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“That’s not shrimp, Yolanda and this isn’t Australia!”

Even after three days the woman is as confused as ever.

A Dark and Stormy Night

shadows

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind whipped at the oaks – the leaves slashing through the air like shiny daggers as they fell all around. There was no use staying in the car; we would be there all night. My father pointed out that there was a light on upstairs in the house across the street from where the car broke down. Odd, the lights in the rest of the neighbourhood were out. It must have been a candle.

My father told me to stay in the car and lock the doors. I watched him run across the street, slouched to protect himself from the rain and the leaves. It wasn’t until some time had passed and the light in the window went out that I could stand it no longer. I had to get out of the car to see if I could find him.

Immediately upon turning toward the wrought iron gates that opened to the entrance of the gigantic old house I was slapped in the face by a maple leaf. I swiped it off my face noting that it was strange when there were no maples that I could see. The rain was cold. It soaked me to the skin before I could make it to the front door. I was poised to grasp the gargoyle knocker when the door swung open, revealing a large empty foyer.

“Dad?” I called to the interior of the house.

“Right here,” my father said as though it was a Sunday morning and he was sitting in his favourite chair at the kitchen table drinking tea.

I stepped in to the stale dark air of the grand old house and spied my dad sitting on a bench beside a doorway that led to more darkness.

“The lady has gone to find a phone,” he explained, patting the bench beside him.

I pushed the door closed and went to sit. Through the curtains on the door I could see the lightning though the thunder was muffled. My father began to whistle the song that had been playing in the car when it died. I sang the lyrics along with him in my head.

I’ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, you’ve got a brand new key…

Then the cat came in. It was a sleek black and brown tabby. It sat in front of us and my father spoke to it.

“Yes, okay,” he said. Just that.

The cat stood and went back into the room beside the bench.

“She said she’s still looking for the phone,” my father informed me.

“Who did?” I asked.

“The lady,” he said, looking at me as if I’d gone mad. “She’s very tall, isn’t she?” he confided then in a stage whisper.

It was a moment before I could come up with something to say. I decided on the obvious.

“That was a cat,” I said.

My dad laughed. “Oh that, yes. She explained to me that we were giants here. That’s why when I talked to her I looked down instead of up. But she’s still very tall for someone of her kind.”

I was terrified.

“I think we’d better go,” I said, grabbing his hand and standing.

“Okay,” he agreed.

When we opened the door, outside the sun was shining.

****

Question him as I did, my father could never recall that night. We had gone to the house next door to use their phone. Oddly, when we came back out after sharing a cup of tea with the woman who lived there, there was an empty lot where the old house should have been. A sleek black and gray tabby meowed from the vacant lot, under a maple tree.