Burly Tales

by Steve Berman

  At this extraordinary exchange, the brothers, speechless, shared a glance.

  Snow mouthed, ‘I told you so.’

  “You’re lying!” whined the goblin. “How do I know you won’t just kill me anyway?”

  “You don’t know. But,” The bear raised a paw bigger than the goblin’s head, “you have a much better chance against me as a man than me as a beast.”

  The goblin screeched in rage. He made a strange little gesture of his hands, and there was a great eruption of blue smoke.

  Red and Snow covered their faces and staggered back. When they dared open their eyes again, the smoke had cleared. There was no trace of the goblin, who had escaped under cover of the spell. Instead, there, surrounded by a fallen pelt of fur, stood a man.

  “Hey,” said Red, stunned.

  “Hi,” said the man, in the bear’s voice. He sounded strangely shy. “I’m sorry. I’m not a prince.”

  “I can see that,” said Red, in a tone that sounded as far from disappointed as could be.

  The man was short and stocky, with shoulders as broad as an oak tree’s trunk, and a big, curving belly. He was dressed in the greens and tans of a forester, and his brown arms were sculpted by hard work. His hair was thick and black and curled past his shoulders, and his beard was even thicker and blacker. In his belt, there gleamed a silver axe.

  “What’s your name?” Red asked. “You never would tell us.”

  “I was bewitched to never say my name, or anything that could reveal me as a cursed man,” the forester said. “Several years ago, the king hired me to guard a cache of treasure he had hidden in the forest. One evening, I caught that goblin trying to steal from it. He was so angry when I cornered him and demanded that he return what he’d stolen. He said he would ‘turn me into the beast that I am’.” The forester let out a little laugh.

  “I don’t think he was banking on that beast being a bear. Even so—I was so confused by being a bear at first, that he was able to steal the treasure anyway. When I recovered my wits and got used to my new shape, I swore I would get the treasure bathe ck and try to break the curse he placed on me. And then, I met you.”

  He smiled at Red, a wide, brilliant smile with a gap between his front teeth.

  “My name is Arthur. But you can call me Art.”

  Red smiled back, even wider.

  THE SUN HAD SET BY the time the three of them finally made their way back to the little cottage in the clearing. Snow set down the sack of pearls he’d been hefting, and ran to the front door to call Mama Anna.

  “I’m sorry you had to leave all that wood you’d cut behind, to help me carry these,” Art said as he and Red added to the pile the four sacks—brim-full of jewels—that they been carrying between them. He looked at him, almost shyly, and patted the axe at his belt. “Maybe I can come back and help you cut some more?”

  Red gazed at the man who was a bear. “I’d like that.”

  There in the starlight, Art was the most beautiful man he had ever seen, with his dark curls and his black eyes and his barrel chest. “I feel like I know you already.”

  Art smiled, and Red could have sworn a few more stars lit up above them. “Of course you do. We talked all winter. It was still me, even though I looked so different.”

  He took a hesitant step forward. “I’ve never known anyone as well as I know you.”

  “Right now, I don’t feel much like talking,” Red said, quietly.

  His heart galloped as he stepped forward, too, both of them leaning in until their lips met in the middle. Red gave a different kind of sigh, as their arms slipped around one another almost of their own accord.

  Art’s lips were plump, soft amidst the brush of his beard. His mouth was warm and wet. It made Red feel dizzy, a shivery sort of throb blooming at every pulse point: in his temples and his throat, in his belly and between his legs.

  When they drew apart, he blinked, staring in adoration. “I thought that might be weird. You know, with you having been a bear when I met you and everything. But it just feels like I’ve fallen in love with my best friend.”

  Art’s eyes looked kind of shimmery. Damp. He said, “You’ve just made me the happiest bear in the world, Whit Ruskin.”

  WHEN SUMMER CAME, TURNING THE blue of the sky up to full volume, Snow left the cosy cottage in the clearing to move in with Marie in her flat in the city, with earnest promises that they would both visit often.

  “Well,” said Mama Anna with a smile, to Art, who had been staying with them while he recovered fully from the curse. “Seeing as there’s one less in the house, it would be silly if you didn’t stay for good.”

  Art, who’d become very fond of Mama Anna too, moved into the cottage with her and Red.

  The king, very grateful to have his treasure returned, had listened with concern to Art’s terrible tale. Then he back-paid all of Art’s wages he’d accrued whilst being a bear, with added compensation for being attacked on the job and a bonus for retrieving the jewels. It was more than enough, over the next year, for the two of them to build themselves a second cosy cottage in the clearing, facing Mama Anna’s. Between the households, their two gardens met as one (for they did not need nor desire a fence) with the twin rose bushes at centre.

  “We should plant some roses, too,” Red said, one evening, looking into Art’s dark eyes.

  Art nodded, and kissed his forehead.

  Art and Red planted two more rose bushes across from the white and red. The yellow roses flowered as vivid as sunshine and the reds as dark as velvet and almost black. Summer brightened and blazed. The garden rejoiced, the roses growing into an archway, the right size for two people to walk through hand in hand. Yellow, white, red, and black intertwined, all blooming, no matter the season.

  The Three Little Prigs

  M. Yuan-Innes

  OF COURSE I KNOW THE Wolff guy.

  He’s the reason I’ve got my bullwhip 24/7.

  What, I never told you about him?

  He’s a massive guy—I mean enormous, in every sense of the word—with enough hair to keep both of us warm in winter. But totally broke, could hardly afford the boat trip over, y’know what I mean?

  So, who should he run into but my youngest brother, Hamlet?

  Yeah, you’ve never met Ham. He’s this skinny vegetarian artist with straw-blond hair. Ham refuses to come to the city. He claims that real art is being made underground anywhere but NYC or LA. Really, that means Ham’s stuck in flyover country, writing letters for Amnesty International and crying over starving children in between classes at a no-name college.

  The only fun Ham gets is swimming laps. He swims like a seal, and he’s almost as hairless, except for the mop on top of his head. He says that doing laps inspires his art. He climbs out of the water and works on his “pieces.”

  Here’s a pic of his latest one, made out of square hay bales. He calls it “Tiny House.”

  I don’t get it, either.

  Anyway, my seal of a brother runs into Wolff at the Y. Now, I bet that Ham barely comes up to Wolff’s armpit and is about as thick around as one of Wolf’s thighs. If Wolff attacked him, Ham’s biggest defense would be making a sculpture out of Wolf’s chest hair.

  You’d think my little bro would squeal and sprint the other way. Instead, he feels sorry for this “displaced person” and adopts him. Food, rent—the whole shebang. Moves this Wolff right into his house.

  Well, I ripped Hamlet a new one when I heard about it. He’s a poor college student, and he’s letting some huge, scruffy Wolff mooch off of him? Dad taught us better than that.

  I tell my other brother, Smokey, to get Wolff the hell away from our little bro. Smokey lives in the sticks outside Detroit, it’s closer for him, so he goes.

  Smokey’s just like you remember. Same haircut and jeans since 2012, got married to David right after earning a B.A. Bought some horrible log cabin fixer-upper and keeps asking me to “come out to the cottage.” Still working in insurance and tweeting jokes abou
t policy coverage. Smokey’s idea of a good time is swapping Instant Pot recipes.

  Yeah, I guess you could call him stick-in-the-mud, but he’s reliable. Like a Volvo. So, I send Smokey down to evict the Wolff.

  And he does, but only because Wolff ends up crashing with Smokey.

  I know. I never thought Smoke’d do anything but David at six a.m. on Sundays, but Smokey ends up blowing up his house with Wolff while his husband’s off on a business trip—probably getting his own business done—but the point is, the Wolff’s now huffing and puffing with my middle brother.

  Smokey calls in sick for work, he forgets to walk the poodle, he stops donating money to the Log Cabin Republicans, which is how I knew my bro’s truly fallen off the deep end.

  I had to drop the enemy a line.

  Wolff,

  You’ve been porking my brothers. Well, I’m the one built like a brick house. I run a hedge fund. I live in East Midtown. You want taste, the real deal, come to NYC.

  I text a selfie, dressed in my open bathrobe, standing in front of my apartment’s view, though you can only see part of my face. Just a tease.

  One week later, the Tuesday after Labor Day, I’m on my phone, closing a deal after-hours as I duck into my building on Vanderbilt Avenue.

  I nod at the doorman, who’s dwarfed by a giant, black-haired man at the front desk.

  The giant doesn’t speak. His presence is enough, a human mountain. He’s trimmed his black beard to a neat point. He’s stout, filling up a dress shirt and tight jeans. He’s rolled up the sleeves so that I can see there’s plenty of hair running along his biceps. I can imagine those wiry hairs scrubbing my bare skin.

  Instead, I turn away so I can continue my phone negotiation.

  The doorman hands a piece of ID back to the giant and says, his voice trembling slightly, “Who are you here to visit, sir?”

  “Kevin.” The giant’s voice rumbles through the faux industrial brick lobby, raising goose bumps under my Dolce and Gabbana suit.

  I shake myself and speak into my phone, saying, “That’s unacceptable,” as I march toward the elevator. There is no need to feel hypnotized simply because some lupercal guy has uttered my name.

  I can still hear the doorman doing his best to interrogate the giant. “We have more than one guest named Kevin, sir. Do you have an apartment number, or would you like to call him and let him know that you’ve arrived?”

  “He’s expecting me.” Wolff’s voice echoes through the lobby, growing louder as he follows me toward the stainless steel elevator, where the operator has already pressed the button for me.

  “You can’t go in there,” says the doorman.

  I can hear the heels of Wolff’s boots striking the terrazzo floor behind me.

  “I said, don’t go in there!” The doorman raises his voice and chases him across the lobby.

  Wolff has my number. He probably looked me up before he came and recognized my face, if he hadn’t figured out the family resemblance. He could call me instead of storming my building.

  This is a power play. It always is.

  The elevator dings. The steel doors glide open, and the operator gestures me inside, but his eyes travel upward, behind me, to stare at the giant.

  I swivel around, phone still in hand.

  The big, bad Wolff advances upon me. His eyes pin me like a predator’s. I remember Rasputin’s legendary, hypnotic eyes, and I know why my brothers fell before him.

  I can hear Wolff’s slow, even breaths. He grins at me, a lazy, toothy grin that communicates his intentions. He has no need to rush. This is a game for him.

  “Come in, sir!” The elevator operator wants to shut the elevator doors behind me, but I’m blocking them. I can’t move.

  Meanwhile, Wolff grins down at me. “Let me in.”

  He’s so close that I could stroke the bristles of his beard and let him nip my finger. I can feel his hot, damp breath on my face; I imagine those arms clamping around me.

  This is the kind of man who would eat you up for breakfast, and leave you saying thank you. I have to close my eyes.

  I hear the doorman say, “I’m telling you one more time, sir, leave the premises immediately, or I’m calling the police!”

  It sounds like the elevator operator’s already dialing on his phone.

  My eyes snap open, and I hold my left palm out to both of them. “It’s okay, Nick. Jerry. I got this.”

  Meanwhile, I cut off my phone call. That deal can wait.

  Wolff grins at me with his colossal white teeth. His immense hands remind me of baseball mitts. The broadness of his chest makes me think of a grizzly bear standing up on its hind legs to roar at me.

  But his eyes. The eyes shining—those eyes tell the whole story.

  “Get a hotel,” I tell Wolff. My voice sounds steady, if a little high-pitched. “Text me when you’re ready.”

  Forty minutes later, I meet the Wolff in an ice-white penthouse. Before he says hello, I kick the steel door closed and pop open my briefcase.

  Five seconds later, my whip cracks through the air.

  He backs up, wary. He’s bigger than me. He knows he could wrestle the whip away from me.

  If he could get close enough.

  I ignore the strong, male scent of him. I grip the leather handle, grounding myself, watching him feint to my left.

  This time, the whip smacks his hand. His breath hisses between his teeth.

  I catch my breath. That’s the kind of noise he’d make in bed. I can’t lie, I want to know what it’s like to have this man work me over. He knows it and I know it.

  If it weren’t for my brothers, I’d lay my whip down and let him have at it.

  But I think of Ham’s straw art, that I don’t even understand. I think of how Smokey’s face used to shine when he served Instant Pot lemon chicken with Basil at Thanksgiving.

  I proceed to whip the Wolff. I work him over until his screams of pleasure echo off the soundproofed walls. I keep working until I’m afraid the whip will slip out of my sweaty palms, but I don’t dare take off my suit jacket. I’ve got to stay 100 percent dominant, 100 percent of the time.

  And when I throw down the leather dog collar I brought, I don’t even need to demand he put it on. He volunteers, and he’s eager to see what other surprises I have in my briefcase.

  All guys like him are alike. They think they are this big daddy. They talk the talk. Hey baby, I’m so hot, I’m gonna blow your house down.

  But I can tell. I’ve got him hooked now. He couldn’t get it up the regular way if the Rockettes went down on him.

  I gotta admit, he’s got me hooked too. That’s why you haven’t seen me lately. There’s something about him. Even when he’s not around, I can almost taste him.

  That’s why I keep him on a such a short leash. If you go down to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, that’s him with the sign, “Will blow you for food.”

  The police keep busting him, but I love how he keeps coming back to me. With his tongue hanging out, begging for more.

  A Giant Problem

  Charles Payseur

  BEN INHALED DEEPLY, DRAWING THE smells of his castle over his palate, allowing him to—

  He gagged.

  “Fee-fi-fo-fuck!” he bellowed. “I smell the blood of …”

  His gaze darted about the room. The knickknacks on the mantle were moved or knocked over; one tiny wooden penguin lay, splintered on the stone floor far below. There was a telltale indent on the softest pillow on the couch. There were small bites taken out of the bread sitting out on the great counter and—he nearly gagged again—nibbles taken out of the butter.

  “A human! Ugh!”

  How the hell did they even get in? His castle, built in the clouds far above the human realms, was supposed to be impossible for humans to reach. That fact, above all others, had sold him when the estate agent had shown it to him. The castle inside the active volcano had been tempting as well, for the same reason, but Ben didn’t much care to live in
side a sauna all day, every day.

  But there was no mistaking the signs or the smell. Humans. Great. Ben went to the wash basin to wash his hands and stopped just shy of putting his hands in the cool water. What if …

  Images of a human using the basin as a bath assaulted his mind. Filth and disease sloughing off a tiny, naked body making mockery of the beautiful and burly appeal of a giant. He slouched, hands hovering, unable to dispel the fear and disgust building in him.

  He threw out the wash water, the bread, the butter, and anything else the human might have contaminated that he couldn’t have cleaned. He brought more well water to give the castle a thorough washing when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Low to the ground. Fast. He dropped the bucket he was carrying and ran outside, slamming the door behind him. Not only had a fucking human been in his house, it was still there.

  And nope. Nope nope nope nope.

  He walked to the edge of his cloud, held a hand to either side of his mouth, and called for an exterminator.

  HE WAS STILL WAITING OUTSIDE when a rainbow streaked through the clear blue sky, connecting his home to the wider world. Magical creatures got around in various ways. If you had wings, you just flew. For the rest, though, either you had some sort of Pegasus you got around on or you counted on the network of rainbow bridges that could be called to connect any two places. It was how Ben went off to the larger settlements when he needed supplies, and now it was also how the exterminator opted to arrive.

  Ben’s breath hitched.

  Some people slanderously claimed that all giants look alike, though few ever saw two in one place. Giants were, as a rule, solitary creatures, their castle or other homes in remote mountains or deep in the earth. Yes, they tended toward the very large and hirsute. Most sported beards. But Ben was hardly the biggest of giants. Yes, the earth trembled under his boots, but his beard was short-cropped, his hair similarly neat, and he tried his best to walk softly when he could. Not like the giant walking toward him over the glossy rainbowed surface of the bridge!