by Unknown
I assumed you’d do this. So allow me to tell a little story, yes?
Shifting in his chair, Deacon remained silent.
This is the story of Boy X. Boy X grew up in a small town not far from here. He grew up with his mother and father and little brother. Family X was happy for many years - there were vacations, snow days with snowmen, birthday parties, and Santa arrived each Christmas - but something happened when Boy X was a teenager. The father wanted to live with a stranger, another woman. Does any of this sound familiar?The mother and father, after months of pyrrhic fighting, separated. On the day their father was packing suitcases, Boy X watched his little brother, crying, rush down the hall and grab hold of his father. ‘Why do you have to leave us?’ the little boy asked, again and again. The father said that he loved his sons, that he would always love his boys, but he had to make a hard decision that was impossible to explain.
A divorce followed shortly after. Boy X, unable to cope with the deterioration of his family, of what he’d come to know as normality, began drinking as a way to anesthetize himself. Should I stop there?
Deacon wanted to say something ugly. But just then he caught sight of the pen sticking out of the thing’s breast pocket. The pen had started bleeding, the ink pooling along the pocket’s stitching. The black stains bloomed and spread down his shirt like tendrils of dark ivy.
Boy X’s alcohol consumption grew increasingly excessive. Boy X’s little brother tried to warn him - tried, as best one can as a little boy, to help his big brother.
But here’s what everyone really needs to know: one Saturday night in June -shortly after his high school graduation - Boy X acquired a bottle of whiskey, got into his car and tore off into the country. Boy X lost control, ripping through a fence and slamming sideways into a tree. When police and paramedics arrived, they found a barely-lucid teenager behind the wheel, covered in broken glass, and an empty bottle on the floorboard.
Because Boy X was so young - and because he’d spent the entire weekend in the county jail - the judge ruled that the young man would receive five years probation, a suspended license, and that he must stay, as he’d put it, on the straight and narrow. Vowing to keep Boy X on that straight and narrow path, his mother, whom he still lived with, was resolute in keeping her son in school. She enrolled him in a local college and, because his license was suspended, undertook to personally see to it that he go to class.
The ink was still spreading. Deacon was no longer listening, just watching the black liquid spill across the flannel material. The thing’s skin continued to grow paler. It was now nearly translucent - dark purple veins were visible under its diaphanous flesh. Deacon’s gaze panned up to the thing’s livid face. Its nose began to bleed.
Boy X continued to drink, discovering that it wasn’t difficult to conceal from his mother. She was, in her way, doing the best she could. She made a sincere effort to ensure that Boy X successfully completed a semester of school. One morning in early December, Boy X’s mother came into his bedroom to wake him for class. He’d been out drinking the night before; he smelled of smoke and the acrid odor of alcohol. His mother, clearly hurt by her son’s irresponsibility, dragged him out of bed, began tossing clothes at him, demanding that he gather his books and get into the car. Boy X stumbled into the driveway, into his mother’s automobile. She drove towards the city. Boy X, still vaguely intoxicated, said outrageously malicious things to her. She wept, begging to know where she’d gone so wrong. Christmas music was playing faintly on the radio as Boy X continued to raise his voice, excoriating his mother, blaming her.
It was the dump truck’s fault, of course; his mother hadn’t even seen it coming. The truck slammed into the car, on the driver’s side. Both Boy X and his mother were taken to the hospital. And while Boy X would be treated for a concussion and superficial wounds, his mother would never be quite the same. The nerve roots of her spine had been severely damaged - she would suffer, indefinitely, from Cauda Equina syndrome, the doctors said; and if she weren’t completely crippled she might, slowly and painfully, regain limited use of her legs. She’d need assistance and therapy for the rest of her life. The only thing she’d asked for after leaving the hospital - after the surgeries, after the beginnings of her comfortless recovery - was that Boy X get some help. But let’s not forget what’s important: that Boy X got his point across on that bleak December morning on the way to school. Do you like my tidy little story? Am I forgetting anything?
Frozen, choking back tears, he stared at the thing - its upper lip was covered with blood, which continued to trickle from its nose, drip down its chin, and soak into the front of its shirt. Deacon took a deep breath. He watched its smile contort into an insane rictus grin.
“It wasn’t like that,” Deacon whispered through clenched teeth. His eyes looked watery, feverish. “You tell lies.”
“Deacon,” the program coordinator finally said, lifting the clipboard, recrossing her legs and affecting an expression of deep thought. “It takes a lot of courage, and a lot of trust, for people to share their thoughts and feelings inside the circle…”
Oh, what is she jabbering on about? She should have her mouth sewn up … just like the doctors sewed up your mother.
Deacon sprang from his chair and lunged across the circle. Tom, the swim coach, was the first to grab him, followed by several others who pulled him to the floor. Deacon, his vision tear-blurred, strained to catch sight of the thing across the circle. The chair was, of course, empty. Deacon started cursing, screaming for everyone to leave him alone.
3
The thing still had its hand on Deacon’s shoulder when he opened his eyes. The snow was still falling. The car alarm had stopped. He looked down at his glass, the amber whiskey, and the half-drunk bottle sitting on the sill.
“Why did Paul call tonight?” the thing asked.
Deacon thought about taking a drink and paused. His throat constricted slowly. He winced, choking back a surge that threatened to rack his body with waves of tears. Leaning forward, Deacon pressed his forehead against the frosted window. The cold calmed him, sobered his senses a little. The grip on his shoulder, which had, before, been almost tender, now tightened. “Speak, Deacon.”
He stared at the snow - at the random descent of white flecks sailing across streetlights and tree limbs and layering the ground. Like leaves, he thought, like autumn. Deacon thought about the sound of leaves chattering across the pavement at twilight. He remembered one Halloween, when he was eight years old, he’d convinced his father to take him to a haunted house - a cheap, small-town thing. Paul, mimicking his older brother’s excitement, had wanted to be included too. Citing the boys’ age and delicate impressionability, Deacon’s mother had been reluctant. “It’ll be harmless,” his father had said, wrapping an arm around his wife and kissing her on the cheek. “It’ll be a guy thing.”
The Stilwell family had arrived at sunset. Deacon’s mother, still objecting, had waited outside. As the line wound toward the entrance, Deacon had listened to the screaming, the torture chamber noises, and concocted all sorts of horrors that might lie in store. From time to time, he’d glanced down behind him, at Paul’s small, solemn face, obscured by tall shadows.
Several yards from the entrance, Deacon’s father had lain a large hand on his shoulder and leaned over. “Don’t be afraid,” he’d whispered, aware of Deacon’s withdrawal in the face of this farcical pandemonium. “They can’t hurt you. No one’s allowed to touch you in there. It’s all just make-believe - just for fun, okay?” Deacon had nodded. A few seconds before they had stepped through the entrance, his dad had said, “Watch after your brother.”Deacon had peered down, held out his hand, and Paul took hold.
The cloying atmosphere inside - the lurching strobe lights; the sour smell of sweat and latex; disguised people looming over him, breathing heavily under their masks - had been too much. Deacon had kept his head down until it was all over. At last, they had exited through a thick black curtain, stepping into the coo
l evening air. Deacon quickly spotted his mother, who’d been waiting on the leaf-littered sidewalk next to the parking lot. Her expression as she approached had become pained, sympathetic. He had followed his mother’s gaze down to Paul, who continued to grip Deacon’s hand while wiping away tears from his small, swollen face. Deacon had been too disoriented to notice. Shaking his head, Deacon’s father had immediately and repeatedly apologized to his sons and to their mother. “I didn’t know it’d be that bad,” he’d said. “I’m sorry, boys.” Deacon had wanted to put some distance between himself and the awful noise which continued to spill from the building - noise which had seemed to grow louder, more discordant. He’d turned and started toward the parking lot, trying to yank free from his little brother, whose tiny hand only clasped tighter.
The thing loosened its grip on Deacon’s shoulder.
Head pressed against the window, Deacon nodded.
“Speak, Deacon.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The thing coughed again, or laughed, producing a phlegm-ragged sound. “Do you know what to do?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Besides,” the thing said, its hand slipping off Deacon’s shoulder, “you would have been a piss-poor poet anyway.”
Deacon straightened up, grabbed the half-empty bottle and whirled around. He caught an inky glimpse of something writhing, blending with the shadows, as he heaved the bottle across the darkened room. Glass shattered against the living room wall. Deacon reeled forward and fell, smashing through the coffee table. The orange-tinted ceiling swirled above him, and the smell of whiskey - whiskey that was trickling down the wall, bleeding into the carpet - permeated the tiny room. He got to his feet and scrambled for the hallway. His coat, still damp, was lying on the floor near the door. Tugging on his cap and yanking up his collar, Deacon half-fell, half-staggered down the stairwell. Soon he was outside, his frantic breathing visible in foggy bursts which trailed behind him as he weaved along the sidewalk - doubling back over a path he’d trampled only hours earlier, where his footprints had long since been erased by a sylphlike blanket of unceasing snow.
Deacon walked for blocks, to the L station. He walked unevenly, pushing through the turnstiles, stomping up the fenced-in stairs. He made his way to the wood-planked platform, to the edge overlooking the black railway tracks. A silver train, its headlights twinkling through slanting snow, came to a stop in front of Deacon. The doors slid open and he stepped in. Deacon dozed as the train swayed, traveling south, towards downtown.
Deacon exited the train at a subway station, emerging on a street just west of the city. Walking a little more steadily now, Deacon squinted against the snow and leaned into the wind, focused on the small, hazy canopy of light a few hundred yards away.
Shaking snow from his coat, Deacon stepped into a run-down bus station - long, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he approached the ticket counter.
Behind the smoke-smeared sheet of Plexiglas, a black-haired attendant, dressed in a blue shirt and red necktie, swiveled away from his computer and smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, please,” Deacon said, between sniffles. His cheeks were pink. “I want to go home.”
The attendant furrowed his brow and smirked, not unkindly. “Sure. Where’s home?”
Deacon swallowed. It was warm inside the bus station. “New Bethel.”
The attendant nodded once and typed something into the computer. “Closest I can get you is Indianapolis, tomorrow morning.”
Deacon tugged off his knitted hat. “Yes, thank you. I’ll wait.” He shuffled toward a bench and sank onto the seat. A short time later he was lying on his side, sleeping - knees tucked up, hands folded under his head. Christmas music droned through static-lashed speakers.
DANCE OF THE FURROWED GODESS
BY BRUCE GOLDEN
Miranda carefully feathered the pencil across her right brow, fashioning a black arch to match the one on the left. She turned her head from side to side, checking herself in the mirror. It was a decrepit old thing, chipped and stained and spotted, with a crack running helter-skelter beneath a spray of synthetic ostrich feathers. She resented having to use such a cruddy mirror - despised what it represented.
She closed one emerald eye and lightly brushed her eyelid to a violet hue, then shadowed the other eye likewise. She studied her reflection, grabbing a tissue to clean what she thought were water spots on the mirror. The spots wouldn’t rub out. She rested her fingers against the cool glass. In spite of the mirror’s condition, there was no denying the face that looked back at her. The crow’s feet were certainly hers, hard-earned, as were the worry lines that chronicled her life. Father Time had deftly carved his initials there for all to see.
The wall behind the mirror pulsated with a bass beat. She felt the music vibrate through her toes. Did she need more foundation? She shrugged and settled for some blush, catching a whiff of the dead flowers in the vase on her dressing table. For some reason the odor reminded her she had to smile. It should have been the easiest thing to do. She always used to smile, even when she didn’t have any particular reason. Now it was something she put on every night, like body glitter and mascara. Smiling was what drew them in. She had to remember to smile.
Miranda shook her raven hair and pursed her lips. She decided to add some gloss. It wasn’t as if she didn’t love what she did - she always had. There were other things she could have done, things she’d wanted to do, but she didn’t dwell on regrets. She knew she was still good, even if the multitude of admirers had given way to the occasional, inebriated come-on, and the deluge of cash had dwindled to a trickle that never let her make ends meet.
She took one last look into the mirror, glancing this way, then that. Dreadful old thing. She’d see if she could get Nardo to replace it. She stood and adjusted her outfit, pushing her boobs closer together. Keep their eyes riveted where you want them, so they don’t go wandering to your flaws.
The air stank of stale beer and off-world smoke, but the music was loud and the customers well-oiled. They laughed and cursed, shoved each other about and talked business, and occasionally even ogled the dancer. The lights were dim everywhere but on stage, where a flurry of reds and blues illuminated a buxom young blond beauty who, having littered the stage with her scant garments, wiggled in perfect unison with the technopop tune that reverberated throughout the club.
A disconsolate few sat around the stage, cuddled with their drinks, staring up almost wanly at the erotic exhibition just out of reach. Some even tossed money onto the stage. One dangled a credit chip, coaxing the dancer close enough to make a deposit in her cleavage.
The music ended unceremoniously and the dancer swept her clothes and tips into a pile. She sauntered off stage, escorted by trifling whistles and half-hearted applause.
An amplified voice cut through the unruly din and, with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm, proclaimed, “Honey Moon, everyone. Let’s hear it for Honey and her twin moons.” More applause, more whistles, and the voice droned on. “And now, gentlemen and perverts alike, Scotch your rocks and grab your cocks. Planet Raw presents for your carnal pleasure, the mesmerizing Miranda.”
Spotty applause and drunken whistles greeted Miranda as her music surged through the amplifiers and she undulated across the hardwood stage, timing her movements to the melody as if she were the music. She ignored the laughter emanating from one corner, remembering to smile as she swirled to an upbeat and then collapsed into a position of submission as the tune died and was reborn with a primitive tom-tom staccato.
Miranda raised her head and arms slowly, swaying like a wind-tossed flower. Still on her knees, she removed her sheer golden cape and flung it across the stage. It caught a pocket of smoky air and hovered momentarily before collapsing into a withered heap.
The song’s tempo raced ahead and Miranda twirled and writhed, now possessed by the dance. Spinning round and round, she saw her likeness reflected in the shimmering sheet of metal above the bar.
It was only a glimpse, but the roving spotlight lingered on her thighs long enough to illuminate the dimples there. Inwardly, she cringed.
The club was populated with the usual dregs, mostly human, but a few ETs. Many paid no attention to her. They were busy carousing with their friends or haggling with one of the floor girls over the price of a lap dance or boob rub. Accustomed to the indifference, Miranda continued to smile and dance, focusing on one customer up front whom she recognized as a regular. When the moment came, she ripped off her lavender lace top and shook her breasts at him. He tossed a sawbuck in her direction as she twisted and fell into a perfect split.
Shifting to a prone position, face down, she executed a series of movements guaranteed to rouse the dead. Then, still lying on the stage floor, she squirmed out of her G-string like a snake shedding its skin. It was a silky move, one she’d choreographed herself. Fifteen years ago, when she’d first perfected it, it had brought the house down. They’d showered her with greenbacks. Now. . . .
Now she was just another naked pair of tits. An ass to shimmy and shake and distract the marks so the liquor kept flowing. So why did she keep coming back? She wasn’t some dumb cumrag. She could quit and do something else. But what? What else could she do? Learn a new trade, at her age? Go back to school?
“We want Cherry!” a voice called out from the dark.
“Bring on Cherry!” cried another
“Yeah! We want Cherry Red!”
“Get this old hag off the stage.”
Miranda spied the group of rowdies that had decided to focus its petulance on her. She ignored them and continued dancing.
“We want Cherry!” they cried out in unison. “We want Cherry!”