UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1)

by Michael Harris Cohen

  She nodded back toward the stage. "It's my Cajun Cordy."

  He could see her eyes sparkling dark green or hazel, some yellow in there. Her hair that looked so stringy onstage hung in shiny strands like plastic. Her nose wasn't as small as he had thought, and she made him think of a marionette, the way she moved, smiled. The wide mouth looked plump, especially her lower lip.

  She might have been five or ten years older than him, no slip of a thing, as his father used to say.

  She had breasts and hips, enough size to make her real. He was probably more slender than her. When the bartender came, he tapped the empty glass. "This time with a shot of Jameson's." A vein in his forehead throbbed.

  "A little of the Irish?" she asked. "You must be staying for the last set after all."

  He looked into her blinking eyes, her funny mask-like face. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said. The ends of her mouth hoisted enough he could see the little space between her front teeth. She got up and sauntered to the stage. Shiny, like vinyl.

  When she took up her accordion, a little blonde girl ran to the low stage, standing on tiptoes to speak to her. "Go ahead," she whispered, and played softly as the girl sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in a pure, shaky voice.

  He sipped the shot, felt a burn reach through him once again.

  Everyone clapped when the little girl finished and ran to her table. Mitch thought she might have been Melody's daughter, four or five years old.

  The weird wail of another original song wound through his head as he watched Melody's wide hand play across the short, vertical keyboard of her accordion. Her voice kept up a soft vowel chant that made him dizzy. He applauded with the others when the song finished, grinning in her direction, though he couldn't be sure she saw him with her eyes lost in shadow. He touched the shot glass and nodded at the bartender, who brought the bottle with him.

  The woman in the fedora spoke into her mike—he couldn't hear words, just a sound like the wind, indistinct, secret as a whisper. He had this sensation after hours at swim practice, moving underwater in a trance while pictures not words blossomed in his mind. The Mermaids weaved before him like sea fronds. He imagined Melody swam beside him, her little girl running beside, breathless with things to say, her worn teddy dangling from one hand by a leg.

  He downed the shot, chased it with beer. Would it matter she was older or had a child? It would be blissful, sometimes she would sing. He took a long drink of beer to feel cold down his throat. Something had happened to him since stepping in the bar. This morning, at a coffee shop, poring over want ads—that had been the dream, fading into an acceptable future.

  When he woke from a daydream, he was pissing at a urinal.

  He glanced down—not exactly flaccid, pretty decent actually. He had seen enough in the locker room to know. He shook, zipped, and then studied himself in the mirror while he washed his hands. He looked fit, kept up with weights, swimming, younger than she would be used to. He wouldn't be her first, that was obvious, but he could be her best. His green eyes floated free in a flushed face. In his entire time on the earth he hadn't gotten used to his own eye color, almost aqua, luminous. Freckles across his nose, a dozen with a brown tint that picked up the color of his close-cropped hair. His ears were too small. He never liked how much nostril he showed—he slanted his head for pictures. And he had little teeth and too much gum for his liking.

  When someone came in the bathroom, he started washing all over again, to cover how much time he spent looking at himself. A shock jolted him as he watched the reflection of the newcomer move behind him in the mirror.

  She had not noticed him, but he recognized her immediately. Melody stepped up to the urinal, her head ducked to watch herself. If that wasn't enough, she hung a wrist over the narrow wall that abutted the side of the urinal, affording him a full view of her hand, much larger than he thought, the knuckles swollen, the fingernails sharpened to points.

  He fled to the bar before she noticed him, ordered another shot and beer, turning himself so he would not have to watch her return. The music had ended. They were packing instruments when he got the nerve to look again.

  Melody had her back to him. He wasn't certain he wanted to see her face or hand again, ever. Still, once he paid up and headed to the stairs, he glanced back, checking her out, but some damn fool had spilled a drink at the top of the stairs and no one cleaned it up, which was why he slid on his heels and dropped off the first step.

  He didn't just drop off the first step–he kept going with a balance that came from his athletic past. When that petered out, he pitched headlong into the wall at the landing, banging his head, slamming the heels of his hands against an object so immovable pain shot up his arms. He didn't want to do anything but let them hang as he leaned on the wall to let the pain subside.

  He hit the wall so hard he didn't feel the full impact on his nose right away–it went numb. Blood dripped on his shirt. When he saw it on his hands he took off down the stairs and through the store.

  Customers watched, a few called out, reaching for him as he flew through checkout. He stopped at the glass doors.

  It had been cold when he went in, now snow spun in the dark. When he glanced back into the store, a skinny counter clerk with large, dark eyes stared at him, and further back, the Mermaids came toward him, bundled in their coats, carrying their instruments. Throwing caution to the wind, he pushed open doors and swam out in the swirling sky. He gasped and thrashed until he found the long, dark current that carried him against a smooth, slick body he could not see.

  It circles back beneath him, all its sea-green length, the beaklike mouth and orange eyes turning up to him. He strokes with effort, toward a glow ahead. A giant squid slides past. Shadows circle the distant light like sharks. Slippery creatures with fleshy breasts and dragging genitalia move along the ocean floor. He hears the sounds that swarm him now, not words, not squeals or whistles, but voices in a language never heard by men. They weave him in the frothing of their wake.

  About the Author

  Robert Pope has published more than sixty stories in periodicals including Missouri Review, Kenyon Review, and Alaska Quarterly Review. He has published a novel, Jack's Universe, and a collection of stories, Private Acts. He teaches at The University of Akron. He and Art Director Chris Bentley recently put out the third issue of a so-far mostly regional magazine called Insomnia & Obsession.

  Phantom Pain

  by Philip Harris

  Summary: Phantom Pain follows amputee, Mariana Jacobs, as she visits a man who claims to have information she needs. But that information comes at a cost.

  They say the pain fades, but it doesn't, not even a little. I know that now.

  Rain clattered off the tin awning above the narrow door, almost drowning out the sounds of the busy street behind me. But I could hear the tuk-tuk driver chattering away, wishing me a pre-programmed farewell that seemed too happy, too optimistic for this mud-draped city. The tuk-tuk beeped its tinny little horn twice, then hummed away down the street, searching for the next wanderer in need of a ride.

  I reached towards the buzzer, stopping when I saw I'd instinctively moved my right arm. The sight of the stump and the criss-crossed scars triggered a fresh wave of pain. My hand, the one that's no longer there, itched and burned. The sensation made me want to grind the stub of my wrist against the metal grille above the buzzer. Maybe I could shred it, tear away whatever nerves were still firing. Instead, I pulled back my sleeve and stuck my arm out from under the awning, letting the rain soak the skin. The raindrops were cold, almost sleet really. The burning began to fade. Whether it was because the rain eased the pain or because I expected it to I didn't know. Or care.

  I pressed the buzzer with my left thumb.

  A voice from the grille, as tinny as the tuk-tuk's horn, asked me what I wanted.

  "It's Mariana Jacobs. I was told you had-"

  The door clicked and whirred.

  "Come in, come in, " said a voice, the
words barely audible above the rain.

  Barely any light illuminated the shop, and it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. Like most back street surgeries, it was small, and the air smelled of formaldehyde and burning flesh. Dozens of shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars and tanks. I tried not to look at them as I walked through the gloom towards the counter at the back of the room. Still, I caught a glimpse of pale flesh, gray organs, bloody liquids. One of the jars contained a hand, and the itching and burning returned. Gritting my teeth so hard they hurt, I forced the sensations back down into my subconscious, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of my boots on the concrete floor.

  An old man stood behind a steel counter at the end of the room, watching me as I made my way towards him. His skin hung limply around his face, and dark creases underlined his eyes. A few wisps of hair clung stubbornly to his otherwise bald head. But his hands looked strong, nimble, up to the task. He was grafted, of course, all the best dealers were. But then so were the bad ones. It's supposed to show faith in their merchandise and reassure customers they're in good hands.

  The man had replaced his ears and his nose, the smooth, pale grafts stark against the leathery skin surrounding them. The work was reasonable–the lines puckered but clean with no sign of infection, now or in the past. But noses and ears are low-end grafts. The worst that can happen is the client ends up looking a little bit uglier, and that can be solved by another graft if they can afford it. It's not until you start playing with nerves and arteries that irreparable damage becomes a concern.

  "Miss Jacobs."

  "Dr Taylor?"

  The old man nodded. "Welcome to my humble store."

  I placed my hands–my hand and my wrist–on the counter. "You said you'd be able to help me." I have no interest in idle chatter these days.

  Taylor looked down at the counter and sniffed. Then he raised his head and sucked a breath through gritted, yellow teeth. "Price has gone up, I'm afraid. Just a little."

  I'd expected this, the quote was too low and grafters know you need them more than they need you. No one visits a grafter by choice–they're a last resort for the sick. And the desperate.

  Still, I considered leaving, just for a moment. But we both knew I wouldn't.

  "What do you want?"

  The old man rubbed at his chin, ragged fingernails scraping across graying stubble. He looked me up and down for a moment, then settled on my eyes. When I was younger, they were my best feature. Now they're just tarnished sapphires nestled in sagging, weather-worn flesh.

  Taylor smiled.

  I lay back on the operating theatre's cold metal table. The smell of formaldehyde was even stronger here but it was mixed with a bitter, medicinal tang that was almost comforting. Taylor shuffled around the room, retrieving scalpels, a syringe and a pair of tongs from drawers and placing them in a kidney shaped stainless steel dish. I tried to ignore the patches of red that speckled its surface.

  Taylor flicked a switch and five ceiling lights sputtered to life, the glare bright enough to force me to close my eyes. They hummed and sputtered and something to my right popped quietly. Taylor made a wet hacking sound then spat into something metallic. Water ran for a few seconds, and I heard him rubbing his hands together.

  A shadow appeared over me, blocking out the harsh lights. I opened my eyes to find Taylor peering down at me. His face was scrunched up but the expression didn't quite affect his grafted nose. Up close, the rough pores of his cheeks contrasted sharply with the smooth skin of his second hand nose. His breath was rank, a mix of rotting meat and blood that made me want to gag. Doubt gnawed at me. I had to force myself not to push him away and run from the room.

  Taylor raised the syringe, examining the clear fluid within, then pressed his fingers against my cheek. I closed my eyes again as he slipped the needle beneath my skin.

  I let the door snap shut behind me and ran my fingertips across the leather patch covering my left eye socket. It was soft, almost pleasant to touch, but the flesh beneath was tender. Soon, the anesthetic would wear off, and the pain would begin. I could already feel a dull, throbbing ache forming deep in the socket. I thought of my missing hand and wondered what phantoms this new absence would bring.

  It was almost dark, and the street was getting busier as the city's inhabitants came out to spend their hard earned cash. A tuk-tuk slid to a halt opposite me. This one was covered in neon lights that flickered and hissed as the rain hit them. I got in without bothering to check the safety record pasted to the side of the cab and spoke the name of the hostel into the mic dangling from the ceiling. The mechanical figure in the front of the cab chirped enthusiastically. The tuk-tuk darted into traffic, wheels spinning in the thick mud.

  I reached into my pocket and retrieved the plastic bag Taylor had given me as payment for my eye. My heart sped up as I reached inside and pulled out the photograph.

  I stared at it for several long minutes.

  The girl in the picture was ten or eleven, the right age. The hair was right, long and blond, and a scattering of freckles decorated her cheeks. She had a slight smile on her face, but I couldn't mistake the fear in her eyes. And it was her eyes that were wrong. They were green, not blue.

  The photo was a year or two old with a tear in one corner. It had faded slightly. I tried to convince myself that really her eyes were blue, that the age of the photograph made them look green. But I knew the truth.

  I would recognise my daughter and this wasn't her.

  An address had been scrawled across the back of the photograph. I knew the area–a run-down collection of brothels, drug dens and black market dealers. I slipped the photograph back in my pocket as a familiar ache settled within my heart.

  Even if the girl is still there, I can't help her. I have my own phantoms to chase.

  About the Author

  Philip Harris was born in England but now lives on the west coast of Canada where he spends his days developing video games and his nights writing speculative fiction - anything from horror to science fiction to fantasy.

  His first published story, Letter From a Victim, appeared in the award-winning magazine, Peeping Tom, in 1995. Since then he has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies including Garbled Transmissions, So Long, and Thanks for All The Brains and James Ward Kirk's Best of Horror 2013.

  More of his work, including the dystopian science fiction novella, The Girl in the City, and his pulp science fiction novel, Glitch Mitchell and the Unseen Planet, are available from Amazon and other book retailers.

  He has also worked as security for Darth Vader.

  Unbreakable Heart

  by Rebecca Poole

  Summary: A cyborg must escape her creators in order to survive.

  The harsh wind blew tiny pieces of silica into her eyes, scratching her optical implant. She glared morosely at her right leg as she crept slowly across the loose desert sand, desperately attempting to pick up speed and make her way to a haven. In her haste to escape her captors, the heavy automatic doors had slammed shut unexpectedly, crushing her ankle. She regretted that her timing of the alarms had caused her injuries. Her calculations had been off by only a few short seconds, but that was enough to cause the damage. As she walked, she could hear the crunching of her weight pressing down on the destroyed joint. Unfortunately, she had to use the leg as it was, and she reflected that at least she couldn't feel anything. Pale pinkish gray liquid seeped from her artificial veins, leaving a trail that would make it simple to track her. Nothing could be done about that at this point in her journey. She'd been able to reroute the fluid coursing through her body away from the damaged ankle so that all wasn't completely lost, but a small trickle escaped as she made her bid for freedom. If she could find cover, she could repair or remove the broken foot at the ankle.

  The sand flying around her head and invading the right eye didn't cause her pain, but it scratched the delicate membrane coating the inner machinery of her optical implant. She still blinked as a force o
f habit, which allowed the invading grains even more opportunity to damage the membrane's surface, and caused hell on the readings sent to her brain from the implant. Thankfully, her left eye was untouched and entirely organic. While the sand bothered it, her tear ducts still functioned. The liquid discharge left tracks in the dust on her skin and kept her eye clear.

  She marveled at the colors of the outside world. She LOATHED the color white. Everything in her room (or prison cell, as she thought of it) was white, including the grout between the tiles. The only time her gaze was graced with another color was when she caught the reflection of her eyes in a shiny surface or when they drew her blood for their countless tests.

  She'd lost track of the many surgeries and tests she'd undergone. Ennui had set in during her loneliness and isolation. At first, she'd been apathetic to her situation, believing that "this too shall pass," but she finally realized they weren't going to stop. Ever. She'd already lost most of her memory, including her name. She answered to Subject 86-75-309 and most of the time, was reluctant to use her idle vocal chords unless necessary.

  Her flight for freedom was certainly a shock to the scientists as well as herself, she supposed. They'd installed experimental implants into the back of her head to enhance her thought process. It was also supposed to give them full control of her physical and mental faculties. Unfortunately for them, the operating scientist had forgotten an essential part: flipping the switch.

  Her self-preservation instincts were activated when she realized that she'd completely lose her self-awareness, which made her still remotely human. One very strong opinion she still held was that she did NOT want to give up herself. She didn't know who she was, for the most part, but she did know she was pretty damn tired of them playing around in her brain and body. She remembered sleep and dreams, even if she'd not had any for a very long time.