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Sycorax's Daughters

Page 21

by Kinitra Brooks, PhD


  off.

  There was a slapping sound of bone and wet as four large

  oil-black tentacles flashed from the space behind Lamia’s back. The smell of sulphur and ocean filled my nostrils, and a great negative pressure tightened the air around my skin. Lamia held Normandy as the Sycamore once held the Negro. The tentacles that had erupted from her back circled around Normandy’s throat, pushing her up against the frozen brick so high that her boots clacked against the wall as they attempted to find purchase. Normandy’s eyes were wide with terror and I could see thin rivers of blood running through the coils of the tentacles where the long red thorns had seized and pierced the tender flesh of her neck. The butterfly knife lay splayed on the ground, snapped cleanly in half.

  Lamia turned to me, brown eyes gilded with scarlet, her long canines glistening through the black shadows of the alley. The voice that slipped through her mouth was as old and horrible as the cold that swept through the brown fields. Normandy gurgled, attempting to breath through the blood and bone trashing her esophagus. The tentacles squeezed harder.

  “Come with me and I will love you, Helene—as no other has.”

  I peeked at Normandy, one of her hands had stopped batting at the vise of Lamia’s grip and the other waved feebly at me. Her pale silver eyes dulled with shock as death cobalted her lips. Sniffing a bit at the ice in my nose, I nodded. Done. Lamia knew me—as well as they all did.

  “I’ll come with you,” I said, turning my back on Normandy whose gurgles had shifted in pitch to a horrible keening. A final understanding. Lamia laughed and there was a scream followed by a tearing noise and then a splash of hot wet upon my back as I relinquished my terrible ardor for another.

  Polydactyly

  by Tanesha Nicole Tyler

  I was predestined to be seen as a monster.

  When I came from my mother’s womb,

  the hospital room bore witness to a

  newborn with 12 fingers and 11 toes.

  They call this Polydactyly.

  When I Googled “polydactyly”

  The browser asked

  “Did you mean pterodactyl?”

  By that, I’m sure I was predestined to extinction.

  My screams fossilized and called history,

  as if my history could be recorded so easily.

  I never see people like me in the history books.

  Authors think as long as they mention

  the man with a dream and how this country

  eventually realized that slavery was

  kind of really fucked up,

  It’s enough to satisfy the hunger in our starving bellies.

  Some representation is better than none.

  At least, that’s what I’ve always been told.

  I learned that when something is broken,

  It is to be disposed of instead of trying to fix it.

  In fourth grade I jumped out of a swing,

  landed wrong, dislocated my right pinky toe.

  When I awoke from surgery, the doctor

  explained to me that it was too

  complicated to reconstruct the bones

  so they ultimately decided to take it off.

  Now that I only have 9 toes,

  I guess that still makes me a monster.

  A monster that feels things.

  You see, my nerve endings are all intact,

  essentially it’s like the toe is still there.

  A phantom limb that still feels pain.

  Being this Black feels like a phantom limb.

  Invisible to everyone else but me.

  This isn’t supposed to be a poem

  about what Black feels like.

  Isn’t supposed to be me telling you

  that I am more afraid of my sister

  wanting to go to college in

  Baltimore because of the color of her skin,

  and not because she’s in a wheelchair

  and has no family that far East to look out for her.

  This shouldn’t be me telling

  you that when I watched

  a 7 minute video of a white cop dragging

  a young Black girl across the grass

  by her hair, I couldn’t help but feel her pain.

  As I watched him kneeling for

  2 minutes on her back,

  it was my airway that started to close.

  This fictive kinship is what Black feels like.

  This was never supposed to be a

  poem about what Black feels like though.

  This was just supposed to be me telling you

  about how I had a toe that the doctors

  took off because it was abnormal to them.

  And this story is probably not normal to you.

  Normal is funny you see,

  in the Black community extra digits are normal.

  Functional even.

  To cut them off is to say one can do without.

  Which is to say not necessary.

  Which is to say there are parts of me

  not worth keeping.

  Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective II

  by Valjeanne Jeffers

  The Case of the Powerless Witch

  A Steamfunk Horror Tale

  (novel excerpt)

  Chapter 1

  Shadows danced along the walls. Nanette moaned piteously. She twisted her head away from them, and shut her eyes tightly, praying they would disappear. But she knew they wouldn’t. She’d awakened them. Awakened Him.

  There was no escape.

  He appeared out of thin air, his breath reeking of death, snarling as he pinned her to the bed. The daemon wore the face of Stewart, her husband. The thing she’d summoned had invaded his body, and taken her prisoner …

  Mona shuddered and opened her eyes. Waking up came slowly; she could still feel the woman’s terror. Nanette had brought this horror upon herself. She’d killed her husband’s mistress with sorcery. But Mona pitied her. She’d dreamed of Nanette, actually fused with her while she slept.

  Something would have to be done, and soon. Evil like this would spread if left unchecked.

  Mona, an ebony-colored young woman with thick lips, and short wavy hair, raised up on her elbows, and looked across her bedroom at the tall grandfather clock. It was only five-thirty AM. The tall, slender woman rose, pulled her robe from the armchair beside the bed, and slipped it on.

  She fumbled for one of the long matches on her nightstand, struck it on the small piece of flint she kept there, and lit the oil lamp on her nightstand. Holding the lamp aloft, Mona walked down the hallway to her living room. She put the lamp on her coffee table, sat down on the couch, and pulled the curtain back from the window, searching the pre-dawn sky.

  Mona was in a melancholy mood. She missed Curtis, missed him so bad it hurt. She ached for his touch, his smile. He was pushed over the edge when he saw me kill those things … He’ll be back— the next time he needs help with a case. She had a sudden image of the two of them working side by side, like strangers.

  Mona bit back her tears. It’s too early to start crying. Yeah, she thought sourly. Plenty of time for that later, right? Like in the middle of the night when I start missing him so bad I look for one of his shirts to sleep with.

  A shadow moved past her window. Only it didn’t walk. It glided.

  Mona jumped up, and hurried through her living room, out into the chilly dawn. The air was heavy with fog. A slender, male figure, dressed in a tuxedo jacket and top hat, crossed the street at an unhurried, almost leisurely pace, his boots floating just above the cobblestones.

  The figure stopped. His head turned laboriously in her direction without moving his body. Mona imagined she heard bolts creaking.

  He had no face.

  Just a blank space framed by his hair and the outline of his skull. But she knew the creature could see her.

  A rip opened in the air before her … stretching until the street disappeared. She was standing at a graveyard in the de
ad of midnight … a graveyard with crooked wooden tombstones, and ragged knolls of grass.

  A specter stood at the edge of the cemetery, his head still turned toward her. But he’d transformed …

  . . . into a tall, dark man wearing a tuxedo jacket and top hat with a golden band. A man with a young face, and timeless coal- black eyes. In his right hand he held a smoldering cigar.

  “Papa Twilight . . .” Mona breathed.

  He puffed his cigar, and a cloud of smoke drifted toward her. “Sa Se Yonba Ki Kritik,” he said in a soft bass. It was as if he had whispered in her ear.

  Mona flinched. The loa had spoken her father’s words in Creole: This is a life and death struggle.

  She shivered, goose flesh rising on her arms. The graveyard vanished and she was returned to her own street. For a long moment, she stared at the space where Papa Twilight had stood, before stumbling back inside.

  She fetched the oil lamp from her coffee table, and continued down the hallway to her kitchen to make coffee. Sleep was now out of the question; she was too keyed up.

  Dressed, a cup of coffee in hand, Mona unlocked the adjoining door in her foyer to her office. She set the cup down on her desk, and lit another oil lamp.

  Chapter 2

  Sipping a cup of coffee, Haitian Detective Curtis Dubois stood looking out through the barred window of Constable Station 33 at the cobblestone streets below. He had skin the color of brown sugar, close-cropped hair, and sported a thin mustache over his full lips, and looked younger than his thirty-two years.

  The weather was mild, and Monterrey folks’ dress reflected the warm temperatures. Spring dresses and skirts with corsets.

  Waistcoats and knickers without socks. Those with convertible steam-autos had their tops down.

  It was slow this week, which for a homicide detective was a good thing. He, Mona, and his partner, Harold, had thwarted a plot to slaughter Monterrey’s people of color. Since then, a calm seemed to have fallen over the city. Curtis remembered their last battle in the warehouse—Mona swooping through the air like an ebony bird of prey while he watched slack-jawed, as she sliced through one Wendigo after another with a flaming sword.

  He realized he was witnessing a supernatural force of nature. This woman was so sexy, so fierce, and at the same time so vulnerable. But who could stand up to that? Who could stand up to her? She made me feel like … like less than a man.

  His mind drifted to his parents. If anyone were to ask, he would’ve said without hesitation that they were happily married. But his mother made all the decisions—from what schools he and his two sisters attended, to the house they’d finally bought.

  Watching all this as a teenager, Curtis had vowed, I’ll never be like that. I’ll never let a woman lead me around like a dog on a leash. When I get married, if I get married, I’m gonna call the shots.

  Now, at age thirty-two, he was hopelessly in love with a woman who was stronger than he was—a sorceress. She didn’t try to run his life. But she had her own mind, her own way of doing things. She refused to be controlled.

  And I still want her.

  So much self-reflection, so early in the day was bringing him down. He ran his eyes over the windows. The bars had been added after a prisoner had been murdered inside the station. Curtis shook his head, smiling ruefully. The night of the attack the glass hadn’t been shattered. The killers had floated through the front door like they owned the joint.

  Anything to make the big brass, feel safe. Mwen pa santi m an sekirite. Non. If they decided to come back, all the bars in the city wouldn’t stop them.

  There was a shift in the air pressure. Suddenly, the air seemed thicker, harder to breathe. Frowning, Curtis turned from the window, and saw a man dressed a high-collared suit and top hat. He was floating pass the Constables’ desks, his shoes an inch above the floor. The officers on either side of him had stopped talking, stopped moving. Time was frozen.

  The detective’s cup slipped from his hand, fell to the floor and shattered. Curtis raced after him. As the figure reached the corner, he turned his head to look at Curtis.

  He had no face.

  The Haitian detective stumbled back—almost skidding to the floor. The specter lingered for a moment, and then melted away the wall to his right.

  In a flurry, the precinct returned to life. “Hey, who dropped their cup on the floor? Whoever did it, your mama don’t live here! Clean this shit up!”

  Chapter 3

  Mona sat at her mahogany desk edged in bronze, a thick book with yellowed pages before her. Another fat volume had been pushed to the side of her desk. To her left and right, books were scattered on the floor beside the wooden bookcases. She was trying to find out who or what had been outside her door this morning.

  He wanted me to know he was there. He knew me. That’s why he used daddy’s words.

  The bell above the door tinkled, and a woman stepped inside. At first glance, she looked to be forty or forty-five. But a second glance revealed that she was closer to sixty. Large green eyes peered from a delicately lined face the color of ginger. Thick salt and pepper hair was pulled back from her heart-shaped face in a chignon. A form-fitting gray dress with a lace hem clung to her petite, yet voluptuous frame. A drawstring purse, the color of her eyes, dangled from her wrist.

  “Miss Livelong?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mona said.

  “My name is Ruby Hauflin. I’d like to hire you.”

  Mona gestured to one of the two chintz armchairs facing her desk. “Have a seat, Miss Hauflin. What can I do for you?”

  “My moonstone necklace is missing. I’d like you to find it.” “I don’t usually take cases involving lost items. Where did

  you lose it?”

  “Forgive me. That was poor choice of words. A troll stole it from me.”

  Mona cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  The beautiful matron smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach her green eyes. They were cold and speculating. Mona felt a twinge of unease. “My dear, you are after all a paranormal detective—a sorceress. Am I right?” Mona’s jaw dropped in surprise; she nodded. “Then, I’m sure you’re familiar with trolls.”

  The young detective smiled tightly. “Yeah, but most of my clients aren’t.”

  “I’m just being honest. I know a troll stole my necklace. And I’d like you to get it back.”

  Can’t argue with that. “I charge four hundred dollars. That’s just to get me started. I may charge more. It depends on how much trouble it is to get your necklace back—how dangerous the job is. If I have to travel, you pay the bill.”

  “Those are fair terms.” The older woman pulled her drawstring purse from her wrist, put it her lap, and pulled out a velvet bag of coins. She put it on Mona’s desk. “That’s five hundred. You can count it if you like.”

  Mona didn’t touch the bag. “Ms. Hauflin, can I ask you a question?” The older woman nodded. “Are you a witch?”

  Ruby chuckled, a brittle sound like breaking glass. Again Mona felt a sliver of unease. “My, my you are perceptive. I was a witch. An enemy stripped me of my powers. My necklace is the only thing of value left from those years. It’s very dear to me.” Her eyes filled with tears. She fumbled through her purse, pulled out a lace handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes.

  Unmoved, Mona watched her closely; not entirely sure her tears were real. Her reading of the woman, her telepathic abilities, told her Ruby wasn’t lying. But there were spaces behind the woman’s words she couldn’t reach … Hidden, secret spaces.

  I need this case. I need the money.

  “I’ll take the case. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Mona said. “In this business, you can’t be too careful. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course, dear, and thank you. Could you stop by my house for tea today? There’s a portrait of me wearing the necklace. You can get a good look at it, and perhaps we can sniff out the troll together.”

  Mona pushed a tablet and scroll pen across her desk. �
��Write your address down. I can be there at one o’ clock.”

  “One o’ clock would be fine. I’ll see you then.” Ruby rose and walked out the door, leaving the scent of lavender behind her.

  She’d forgotten about her strange, early morning visitor. Mona remembered him now, and brushed aside her worry. He no longer seemed important.

  Chapter 4

  Ruby lived on the North side of Clearwater in a picturesque, two-story cottage with a chimney and turrets. Trees grew here and there in her yard, and a path of colored stones led to her door. She answered the door wearing a wine-colored robe and silk lounging pants. “Welcome to my home. You’re very prompt. I like that.”

  Mona followed her into a living area furnished with plush armchairs and sofas, and crystal oil lamps. To their right was a foyer dominated by a staircase, and beyond it more expensively furnished rooms.

  A flurry of conversation and laughter drifted through the hallway. “I have boarders,” the older woman explained. “It how I make ends meet. When I was a witch … well, no need to go into that.” She pointed to the wall adjacent to them.

  “That’s the portrait I told you about.”

  An oil painting of a much younger Ruby wearing a cobalt- blue moonstone about her neck, centered the wall across from them.

  Mona walked over and stood before the painting, hands clasped behind her back. “That’s a Cat’s Eye, isn’t is? It’s beautiful.”

  Behind her, Ruby touched her throat as if stroking the stone. “Yes, it is.”

  Mona turned, her brow furrowed. “You said a troll stole it from you? Are you sure?”

  “I was friends with many Others for hundreds of years.” She smiled at Mona’s expression of surprise. “I’m considerably older than I look. Even being an ex-witch has its benefits. I know a troll stole my necklace because the loathsome little creatures are thieves. I just don’t know which one. But I can give you a list of names.”

  A young white woman with pouting lips, wearing a ruffled thigh-length black dress, a white apron, and black fishnet stockings wheeled in a cart with a tea pot, and a tray of finger sandwiches.

  “I did promise you tea,” said Ruby. “Would you like lemon or milk?” The serving girl stirred a cup with lemon and sugar, and handed it to her mistress.

 

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