by Amir Naaman
Ona placed her hand over her mouth to stop laughing but the laughter seeped through nonetheless.
Ur was feeling very uncomfortable. ‘We should leave,’ he suggested.
The hermaphrodite grabbed hold of Ur’s right wrist and began to squeeze.
‘No. No. No. I’m nearly there. Wait. Wait. Let me just look at you both.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. There. There. There. It’s all over. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much. That’s the best one I’ve had all day.’ Without letting go of Ur’s wrist, the hermaphrodite shook Ona’s hand and simultaneously wiped its brow with a napkin using one of its tentacles.
‘I’m Kuszib, by the way,’ the hermaphrodite said, forgetting it had already given them its name. ‘The best bartender this side of the Milky Way.’
‘What an unusual name you have,’ said a puzzled Ona.
‘Glad you noticed, hun. I gave it to myself. Like a treat. I didn’t like my old name so I thought, why not have a name makeover? And let it be exotic. When in doubt go exotic, that’s what I always say. To be honest, I’ve never said that but it sounds like the sort of thing I could say.’
‘Does it mean anything, Kus-what?’ asked Ur.
‘Kuszib. It’s Arabiac,’
‘It’s the language of the natives of Centre Point,’ Ona explained.
‘I know!’ Ur said in a slightly raised voice, as the memory of the translated book that had disturbed him came back suddenly, like a repressed trauma.
‘If you must know,’ Kuszib said nonchalantly, ‘kus means….well, no point beating about the bush, it means cunt. And zib, means cock. Put them together and you get—me! Lovely, really. What are your names?’
‘Ur, and this is my wife…’
‘Ona.’
‘Ur and Ona. I am in your debt. I don’t know what it is about you but you just got my tentacles all tingly. Let me pour you a drink. It’s on me. Kuszib always rewards those who reward her.’
‘Her?’ Ur said with an unintended tone of incredulity.
‘Only on the weekend. It’s easier to get laid that way,’ Kuszib said with a grin. ‘What sex are you, sweet thing?’ Kuszib asked this whilst eyeing Ur up and down.
‘Male, of course,’ snapped Ur.
‘Really? I don’t believe you. Show me’.
Ona giggled. Ur began to sweat. ‘I’m doing no such thing.’
‘Suit yourself!’ Kuszib said, snapping her fingers and wriggled that large elliptical head of hers. ‘Now don’t tell me you two have been sampling that swill-piss they’re serving upstairs?’ Kuszib reached for a bottle of wine from under the counter and placed it before the couple.
‘Some of it was good,’ Ur protested.
‘Whatever,’ Kuszib rolled her eyes and looked to Ona. ‘You’re really married to this putz?’
Ona looked bewildered.
‘A male who knows nothing of good wine shall never in all his years pleasure a female, even I, a larker in the land between, know that’.
‘What?’ said Ur.
‘Glad you didn’t ask me to ‘come again’.’ Kuszib said and winked at Ona, who resumed giggling afresh.
‘Your wife knows what’s what.’ Kuszib’s tongue snapped out of her mouth with tremendous speed. It wedged into the cork of the wine bottle and with a single, sharp, elegant pull uncorked the expensive bottle. The room filled with a bewildering aroma.
‘Ommmmmmmmm. Inhale. Inhale my lovelies. Inhale!’ With eyes closed, Kuszib’s nostrils began flaring and vibrating in a struggle to capture every released molecule of odour.
‘Now drink!’ Kuszib ordered, as she poured the couple a full measure.
Ur and Ona did as instructed. Their taste buds danced to the music of the wine, their cheeks filled with blood, their heads with joy and their limbs floated on an ocean of invisible feathers. This was the best wine they had ever tasted.
‘What is it made of?’ asked Ur, then instantly added, ‘I better stop, it’s making me…Ona we shouldn’t…we have…long…long…way home…’
Kuszib placed the back of her hand against her forehead, and with a theatrical tilt of the head, said, ‘I do not wish to greet the world with sober eyes—’ then looking directly at Ur, she continued ‘—for sobriety is the virtue of the rankest pedant.’
‘Who…who said that?’ Ur asked.
‘I did, motherfucker. Now drink up. That goes for you too, sweet giggle-fits.’
With a quiet giggle Ona finished her drink. Ur also downed the rest of his wine. Kuszib filled both of their cups. Ur opened his mouth to speak. ‘Hush!’ the great hermaphrodite commanded.
The couple stood frozen, not daring to break the silence.
‘I sense trouble in this union,’ Kuszib said, with her eyes flicking between Ur and Ona.
‘We really must leave,’ Ur said in a tone so unassertive, it sounded like a plea. But then he glanced at Ona and she was mesmerised. It is as if Kuszib spoke to the core of her being.
Kuszib’s hands reached out to the couple and turned them so they faced each other. Using her tentacles she poured more wine into the cups and placed them against their lips.
‘Drink.’
The couple did as instructed.
‘Now close your eyes.’
With eyes closed, they downed the wine Kuszib was offering them. ‘Time for a rare slice from the very same source as this wild nectar,’ Kuszib said, as she slipped two sausage wafers into the mouths of Ur and Ona.
The meat tasted like…like…like…How very odd, thought Ur. How very peculiar, it tasted like…falling in love all over again.
This is what they experienced: Fog. Thick fog. Neither had ever seen fog before. It did not exist in sector 3. Ur thought they were looking at a white screen but one that was slowly beginning to fragment and reveal…what?
Sand, hot white smooth sand.
And they were running on air, just millimetres above this ocean of sand. Their bare feet occasionally brushing against the grain of the incredible desert.
Ur looked at Ona and saw a beautiful, naked young human woman. And he knew Ona looked at her husband and saw a handsome, naked young human man. Although they had turned into humans…in this vision…in this dream…they were still Ona and Ur.
‘But who do these bodies belong to? What are their names?’ Ur wondered, as they ran towards a destination he felt must be somewhere in the distance, even though he could not guess its nature.
They headed east towards the land of the yellow flavoured humans, their century old towers deserted and crumbling; then crossed the ocean, feet lightly gliding over the foam of the waves, to the land of the chubby, predominantly white flavoured humans, now kept captive on huge prairie farms where they were mercilessly exercised to shed excess fat so their meat would make for tastier sausages.
They crossed another ocean, dipping south to reach the landmass where the few remaining black flavoured humans dwelt. They were on the verge of extinction because their flesh tasted so good; they were nearly all consumed before the sustainable farming laws were put in place.
Instead of running back to Centre Point, not far from the land of the svelte blacks, Ur and Ona took a detour. They headed north to the continent where the best wine, made according to the old ways was manufactured. Now they were running across dewy grass and wild flowers, their feet firmly treading on the ground.
Ur stretched his arm and hand towards Ona and she did the same. Their fingers touched then parted then touched again as they continued running. Their breathing was growing heavy but tiredness did not set in their limbs. They were that rare creature, that creature on the verge of extinction: a wild human. Being a wild human in sector 2047 meant that you were constantly on the run.
They reached a farmhouse. It was abandoned. Beyond it several horses stood munching on grass in a field stretching into the distance. The place reminded them of the image on the wine label the old merchant had served them in the white hall.
The couple pushed at the door
and entered. They stood inside huffing to catch their breath. Ona let out one of her characteristic giggles. Ur grabbed her and they kissed. Shortly after, Ona stretched out against the dust covered wooden floor of the farmhouse. Ur opened Ona’s legs. He was taken back by the beauty of her sex, its complexity of intriguing folds and moist flesh. And when he approached for a closer inspection, its smell bewitched him. It had a similar aroma to the wine Kuszib was serving them.
He realised that his sex organ, his human tentacle, was now erect with excitement. He expected this reaction but was surprised to find his lips and tongue were also prickling with anticipation. He kissed Ona’s feet, her calves, her thighs, turned her over and kissed the soft flesh of her buttocks, then turned her again to kiss her lower, outer lips. She began to moan and the sound of her moans excited him further. His kisses turned more frantic involving tongue, lips, even teeth, used sparingly, not to hurt but simply to suggest the possibility of danger.
‘So this is how humans mated,’ Ur whispered erotically in Ona’s ears. He was surprised at the sophistication of their pre-love. And for the first time he had chosen not to pronounce the word ‘humans’ with the usual disdainful emphasis reserved for all words human related. This was the most respect he ever managed to afford their species.
For him, Ona’s body became like the terrain of some strange sector, full of variety and intriguing little details: the texture of navel, the softness of belly, the round smoothness of breasts capped with a solid, dark concentration of flesh, particularly pleasing to his tongue.
Ona reached down for his tentacle and positioned herself until he was now lying between her thighs. A photograph in her infobite manual had shown two humans mating in this very same position. But it was one thing to read about the invaded, it was quiet another to become them, Ur suddenly realised. When Ur entered, he saw her cheeks flush with blood.
Kuszib fed them with more slices of sausage.
They became lost in sexual love. Ora both of them could sense that the end was nearing, that their brains were making their way towards an explosive event, something approaching a sensual supernova.
Seconds before orga, Ona sensed they were being watched. Before she had a chance to look over Ur’s shoulder, her heart was penetrated by a harpoon.
Hunters from sector 19, the sector of hunters, had been watching them through a window and waiting for them to approach but not achieve orga. Just before reaching that zenith, a harpoon was fired and it pierced Ur’s back, his chest, Ona’s heart and went through her back into the wooden boards of the floor.
The hunters burst quickly into the farmhouse with knives brandished. Two of them held the heads of the couple by the hair whilst another two proceeded to slit their throats and collect the precious wine that flowed into special vessels. This was the wine of wild humans caught in the act of love, making it the ultimate aphrodisiac.
After the blood was drained, the only task left was to chop up the bodies, collect the meat and process it for sausage making.
Ur opened his eyes first. He could see a multitude of slimy tentacles had emerged from his nipples and were sliding over, writhing with and penetrating Ona’s outstretched tentacles that ended in thorny receptacle cups. When Ona opened her eyes Ur could see true desire in them for the first time in months.
They continued to make love for several hours, as Kuszib fed them with wine and meat gathered from the corpses of wild lovers.
When they awoke the next day, not able to recollect when and how sleep had befallen them, Ur found they were back in the vast white hall. All the stalls had been removed. They were two entwined bodies in an empty desert. They emerged from the glass building, hand in hand. Ur felt relived to have survived the strangest night in sector 2047.
Occasionally, Ona would think about the two lovers whose bodies they had inhabited in the vision and whose names they did not know, and tell this to Ur. She told Ur she felt sorry for them but concluded that, in the end, what mattered was their happiness, and if that had to be revived by the wine of dead human lovers then so be it.
Love is the hardest thing to sustain. Even humans, in their day, must have known that.
Hassan Abdulrazzak is of Iraqi origin, born in Prague and living in London. Hassan’s first play Baghdad Wedding, was staged at Soho Theatre in 2007 to great acclaim. It went on to have productions in Australia and India and was also broadcast on BBC radio. Hassan’s play The Prophet was performed at The Gate Theatre in 2012 and was based on extensive interviews in Cairo with revolutionaries and soldiers, journalists, and cab drivers. Love, Bombs and Apples, a series of comic monologues about the Middle East, was shown at the Arcola Theatre as part of the 2015 Shubbak Festival and will receive a full run at Arcola in 2016 as part of a UK wide tour. Hassan received the George Devine, Meyer-Whitworth, and Pearson theatre awards as well as the Arab British Centre Award for Culture. He is currently working on a number of theatre, TV and film projects. Website: http://abdulrazzak.weebly.com.
The War?
T.L. Huchu
Zig-zagging across Julius Nyerere, wrapped up head to toe in tinfoil. People pointing—stuff ’em. Small holes for my eyes and pinpricks for my nose. They try to say the War? is over. We won. Bullshit. Never trust anything the government tells you. If we’d won, how come they’re still remain hidden in their bunkers? Wouldn’t be out if didn’t need supplies. Too dangerous.
Nip into Kaitano’s. Employees and customers all dressed in silver suits like the one am wearing. We’re the resistance, all that will be left when mankind is finally wiped away while it slumbers. Rustling with every movement we make. Solid-arity.
“Fiftieth anniversary today,” says Gore. Know him by the sound of his voice. Listen to his weekly podcasts religiously.
“Of the War?, but the papers say it’s the tenth anniversary of the armistice,” says a voice in one of the suits. It’s high pitched, so it could be a woman or a…Never mind.
It started five years before I was born. Built entire career around it. First as an intelligence officer in the ZDF and then as a War? correspondent for Chimurenga Magazine, until sacked last year. Said I was irrelevant, a dinosaur, Cold War? neo-War?rior. Hadn’t published any of my work in years. But they’ll see. The whole world will see just what they sleepwalked into.
Go to anti-vap aisle, choose organic Haubvire. Expensive, $25 a tube, but worth it. Finally saved up for new vap-proof hazmat suit designed by Guru Singh, only survivor of the Delhi attack. Kids’ sizes available too. Also buying his new book Surviving the Spacepocalypse. Duck and weave through the aisles. Breathless. Survivor’s walk recommended in Guru’s first bestseller Don’t Panic. Get to counter. Keep head bopping to produce defence vibrations.
“You got any roof-jamming shield tiles?”
“Out back. How many do you need?” Gore replies.
“Two 1.5 x 2.”
Also need new batteries and solar charger. Already stocked canned food and water (plus purifier). Self-defence fire arms (various). Torch and light. Radios – b. communication and broadcast receivers. Gas and wood cookers. Cutting tools, etc. Always have feeling something essential’s missing. Alimony payments limiting ability to create robust defence infrastructure.
“There you go.” Gore returns with roof-jamming shield tiles. Best quality—made in India.
“D’you think Hydrant Coke works? They say it prevents the rays disassembling your subatomic infrastructure.”
“I think it’s worth a try. I take it daily, always keep a small can with me when I hit the road too. It’s supposed to tighten the nuclear bonds. But you need to drink it at least twice a day for max results.”
“How much for a litre?”
“28.99 – 25 if you’ve got your store discount card.”
Mental math. Suit and cream external. Hydrant Coke, internal. Add housing adaptations, quadruple layer of defence. The more fail safes the better.
“I’ll take it.”
Driving back home. Hard to zig-zag on motorway.
Can only perform micro-manoeuvres at best. They’ll see when this whole thing crashes down on them. Peace? Forget it, aliens don’t want peace. Won’t stop at anything less than total annihilation of mankind.
We were never prepared. First bomb? fell on coastal village of Hirkan in Azerbaijan. Death toll: 25. Initial media speculation: Russian weapons test. Denied responsibility. Second attack on Ndola in Zambia covered by my dad. He’s dead now. Official line: natural causes. Query—undetectable alien radiation caused by visits to blast sites. 723 people killed in Ndola. Massive perfect spherical crater in western district. Same M.O. as Hirkan attack. Speculation: new American superweapon. St Petersburg attack: 17,000 casualties. Blamed on Russian attempts to cover up role in the previous attacks. No one had a clue what was going on. Mass panic, media speculation = Russia was finding excuse to launch global, pre-emptive nuclear attacks. Next attack seven months later: Termuco, Chile: 2 casualties. Chile attack at least reveals first sighting of tendrilous spacecraft. Eight more attacks before the end of the year.
World still shockingly unprepared. Will email president again tonight. Blocked me from his Facebook supporters, but must keep trying. Have to get through for humanity’s sake. Children’s sake. Ex-wife got peace order from magistrate. Not allowed within 200 metres of her and kids. Gonna get them killed, stupid cunt.
Listening to Dirk Wozniacki on Survivor Radio. Full and compelling rebuttal of peaceniks armistice crap. Rips apart flimsy premise which goes something like: The first attacks happened over a 5 year period. Then we had a 4 year break. Then 8 years attacks. 1 year break. 3 years attacks. 2 year break…and so on and so forth…the last attacks happened over 4 year period and now it’s been 10 years without an attack. Flimsy premise: The aliens always take a break between attacks, and that break is always shorter than the length of the attack, ergo this shows they won’t return. Dumbest shit EVER.