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

by Michael Harris Cohen

  I stand there watching the cupcakes. The man behind the counter picks a few of the perfect treats, wraps them and hands it over with a smile. When I don't take it, he says, "Go ahead. It's free for the pilgrims."

  I grab it and dart out.

  The first one is crunched, gone, swallowed. And the next. On the third I finally taste the honey pouring out of the cake into my tongue and gasp at the sweetness. I shut my eyes and let the sugar-high shoot through my veins. A shriek of delight pulls my eye to the amusement rides.

  I pass children waiting their turns on the joyrides. So well behaved they are. Almost as if they are too scared to be happy. That if they are happy, then sadness can only be round the corner.

  The food fills some of the yawning darkness inside me. It's calmed me enough for me to follow a slowly moving line of people. An inscription on the outside wall of the temple reads–

  'The Ganesh Orphanage & Interfaith Home, 2016.'

  And below that in, smaller script, 'Built on the site of the original Ganesh temple that was destroyed by the tsunami of 2014.'

  Ganesh–the elephant headed god. The queue circles around a small idol of him in the outer sanctum. Many bow their heads in prayer; some stretch out in front to seek his blessings before they continue.

  It must be amazing to believe in something bigger than you. A power you can't see, only feel sometimes as it leads you along. And then we are in the inner perimeter of the temple. A hush falls over the already silent crowd.

  I can make out a figure on the dais in front of us. It's a boy seated on a large armchair.

  The man at the head of the queue kneels and touches his forehead to the ground. Then, getting to his feet, he walks up the steps towards the figure, and bends down so he is at eye-level with a boy who opens his arms and hugs him and whispers something in his ears. Then, the man is ushered to his feet by the boy's helpers.

  Without pause, the next woman in the queue first bows to the boy, steps onto the stage, is hugged, whispered to, and ushered on.

  And the next person is hugged.

  And the next.

  And the one after that.

  And another.

  That's a lot of hugs coming from one young boy, hell, coming from anyone really. Just watching him makes me tired and dizzy.

  As I get closer, I see he doesn't look tired, though. In fact, he's smiling slightly. And his pale skin glows like ivory. He has long hair, almost blue-black in color, that flows down his back. His eyes are lined with kohl, so they stand out against his pale skin.

  I tap the young girl in front of me and ask, "Guess that's the Hug Boy–uh, I mean the Hugging Saint?"

  She nods and a smile lights up her face. "Yes," she says, "that's him."

  "Why does he do that? Hug people?" I ask.

  She looks at me in surprise, as if I should know, as if everyone in this city is in on the secret but me.

  "Well?" I prod her.

  "He takes care of us," she says.

  "So, this is an orphanage?"

  "We are orphans," she smiles, "and this is our home. Are you going to let him hug you? You should; it's really wonderful."

  "So, he's a professional hugger?" I chuckle a little, but there is no answering grin on her face.

  Her forehead furrows, "I suppose you could call him that. It's simple really; many of us don't have any family. No parents or aunts or any other grown ups to take care of us. The orphanage provides food, clothing and shelter. But he," she looks towards the figure on the dais with adoring eyes, "he makes us feel safe, even if just for a little while. Just providing the basic necessities in life is not enough. It's also very important to be hugged, you know?"

  "So, food, clothing, and hugs? That's his magic formula?" I try to sneer but actually I agree with her.

  It all makes sense, in some hidden, forgotten part of me. That wild restless part of me. The one that wants to be set free and be close to earth and nature and the spirits. The part that can't be cowed. The beast in me that I have never managed to tame. That animal half of me that's simple and basic and sees everything in black and white. The wolf in me is content, and accepts what I am hearing.

  Of course, it's nice to be hugged, isn't it?

  And then, it's my turn, and he's opening his arms.

  I drop to my knees on the cushion in front of him and lean into his embrace. A musky scent of rose mixed with cinnamon rises up to push at the space between my eyes. It's as if he has reached inside and touched that inner essence inside of me. The one that has no shape, no form, no color. For a few seconds, my eyes close shut and everything stops. Then he releases me, and I look at him stupidly.

  "But aren't you going to whisper something to me?" I ask.

  He smiles then and leans closer, "Do as you will, I will not stop you," he says.

  And then his helpers are taking me away and I don't want to go.

  I want to stay and be hugged once more. I want to be held and to feel like I belong somewhere. I want to stay, and the words just burst out "That's not fair. You can't send me on my way like this. You can't. You can't."

  But his helpers get me off stage and take me halfway back to the exit leading to the open perimeter and then they leave me, and return to the dais. Back to the Hugging Saint and the next person to be hugged.

  I stand there, unsure of what happened.

  How dare he just send me on like that, and with nothing to help me? Nothing to actually tell me what to do next? And then I realize I had come here looking for guidance, for help. I need him to tell me what to do with my life. Here I am alone, stranded, many, many miles from home. And I have lost the only thing that linked me to my roots: the sword. And all he can tell me is to do as I will? Well then. That's exactly what I'm going to do now.

  I shut my eyes, take a deep breath and let myself fall into me. Breathe out and fall deeper.

  Breath in. Go deep.

  Breathe out and go deeper.

  Deep, deep, keep going further.

  Into that well of darkness inside, in that hidden part of me, tucked away since before I was born.

  Breathe in and let go.

  Breathe out.

  Let go.

  Go.

  And let that arrow of gold shoot out, streak through the darkness, and follow it, up, up, up, through my eyes and out. I crouch down, push back on my hind legs and leap forward. Forward. Forearms thrusting out. Strong, muscled arms, hair bristling, standing on end. And leap, over the heads of the crowds, above the people screaming, yelling, scattering around me. Terror lights up their eyes. I know that fear. The kind I saw when I had first transformed at thirteen and discovered the wolf inside me. I had been unable to control it then, had to give into the animal. Had to let it take over. My wolf had killed my ma.

  All she said before she died was, "You are so like your father."

  The human part of me had heard and remembered that, of course. Remembered it vividly. You could have said something about that earlier Ma.

  All those years I wanted to know about my father and you'd refused to even talk about him, and tell me that the animal inside me was a wolf. And I had to find out the hard way, and look how well that went. Now, I'll never forgive myself, not my human self. Never. Ever.

  My wolf had been happy, though. Quite pleased and sated with the kill, too, she had been. She had quenched her thirst with my mother's blood. But now, that doesn't matter.

  My wolf wants more. More of the thrill of the chase and the pleasure of another kill. And now, there's nothing to stop it. To stop me.

  I jump onto the dais and remain there, quivering and restless.

  I can smell the boy's helpers; a familiar scared-helpless-adrenaline-charged stink leaps off them, bathing me in anticipation, sparking off little lights of delight in my brain. My stomach rumbles. I have been hungry for so long and I can't wait any more. Blood thumping in my ears, breath heaving through my lungs, heart pounding in my chest, I jump and bring them both down.

  Burying my jaws in
to the throat of one, I tear out the flesh and drink his blood. His scream echoes in my ears, sharpening that edge of expectation even more. My teeth grind through his veins and drink of his blood while my front paws carve out a healthy chunk from the side of the other guy. His entrails hang out; sausage-shaped small intestines that I yank out and heave aside. But it's not enough. I want him. Him. HE who set me off. He who is responsible for my finally giving in to my baser side. For revealing the beast inside. I spring, muscles heaving and rippling under my skin, and then I am on the boy.

  That soft, cushy armchair of his topples and I am straddling him, standing over him and holding him down. My breath rushes out, hot and furious, caressing his cheeks; crimson colored spittle hanging from my jaws streaks his shirt.

  The rose-cinnamon aroma of his skin mixed with the salt of the sea air rises up and flows around me, over me, seeping into me.

  My front paws dig into his chest and I look into his eyes. His dark, blue-black eyes. And in them I see myself for what I am. An animal. A lost, confused, senseless-with-grief girl. A confused, half human half wolf, in girl's clothing. A hungry wolf girl so like her father. Hungry for food, for love, for attention. For my place in this world.

  The boy holds my gaze and, raising his arms, he puts them around me. He hugs me. And I begin to cry.

  About the Author

  She had an awesome time launching TV channels for MTV and NBCUniveral (Syfy) around the world, when a near death experience convinced Laxmi Hariharan that she had to get writing. A one-time journalist with The Independent, she has since published fast paced, action thrillers, such as the multi award winning RUBY IYER SERIES. She blogs for the Huffington Post, has written for The Guardian and been featured in many publications including The Times of India. Married to a filmmaker and fellow author, her life often resembles a dramedy of errors film script. She is also the proud owner of a mononym

  Receive a free copy of THE RUBY IYER DIARIES when you sign up to her newsletter: http://bit.ly/NewsletterLH

  @laxmi

  laxmihariharanauthor

  www.laxmihariharan.com/

  Made for This

  by Sessha Batto

  Summary: On the heels of unimaginable loss comes reinvention. Sometimes the gain is worth going through hell.

  The irony of his situation was one of its most pleasing aspects. He was, after all, a creature made for submission. To be tied to a master who desired domination almost made up for the past. Almost.

  The incident itself was two decades behind him.

  He barely recognized himself as the shyly snarky pseudo-intellectual who had so earnestly argued gender politics in an attempt to impress some silly coeds. That he had survived the psychosis his words inspired was, truly, miraculous. Or so he had been told. In truth, most days he considered his current life a cruel joke by an angry god. Personal vengeance, perhaps, for some grand transgression he had already forgotten.

  His transit from cocky grad student to genderless thing had been swift, not subtle. He'd walked through that park a thousand times without encountering anyone. It never occurred to him that such seclusion might come at a price. To this day he still marveled that so much loss came so silently. He never even heard the shot.

  Looking back, he hates how surprised he was to be confronted by a girl he had so easily cast aside. The trauma surgeon refused to try and rebuild the shredded lump of flesh, realizing that salvaging a gnarled stump of cock would be pointless. The bullet had merely nicked his scrotum, but there wasn't much point to balls without a cock, and the repair was simpler with a single graft.

  The surgeon had argued the advantages of gender transition. Hormones would be a part of his life now, no matter what. But it was easy to arrogantly argue the benefits of such a thing when not faced with the reality of it. In the end he knew playing at female would be even less satisfactory than accepting his sexlessness. He still had the heart of a cocksman, even if he lacked the necessary equipment.

  At the trial, she laughed when they handed down her punishment. Ten years against his life sentence seemed like a good bargain.

  Afterward, he tried to go on as if nothing had changed, subsuming his anger in pain pills, liquor, and futile, chaste dalliances with women. In the end, he found himself neither wiser nor calmer. Even the debates on art and culture he had once so fervently engaged in lost their meaning. His facility with words had vanished with his cock. Listening suited his newly passive nature, until even that required more of himself than he had left to give. The thought that everyone knew drove him into seclusion.

  A chance encounter led him to a place he never imagined finding himself. After all, what use is a sex club to the sexless? Five minutes was enough to confirm he longed to be the one wielding the whip. The fact that he was willing to dole out such pain sent him running for the exit.

  "Are you leaving because you hate it, or because you despise yourself for not hating it?" The hand latched onto his arm in a death grip forced him to actually consider the question.

  "I shouldn't even be here. This is no place for someone like me."

  "On the contrary, I think this is exactly where you should be." The retort on the tip of his tongue melted away as he got his first look at man behind the voice. "Why don't we sit down and you can tell me why you don't think you belong here."

  Ten years later that voice could still bring him to his knees.

  "Aren't you a pretty thing." Such notice from the faceless crowd jerked him back to the present, to the role he was expected to play. It was a toss-up as to which was more unsettling, the crop in his hand, or the massive phallus studded with shiny balls of stainless steel protruding from the codpiece he wore. Both were symbols of how far he had fallen, or risen, he was as conflicted about that as everything else in this scene.

  But, as always, that voice had convinced him to push past his conflict with an ease that baffled him. Had he been this easily lead when he was whole? But now was not the time for such philosophical contemplations.

  Up on the platform his master shivered in his bonds, inked trails oozing out of the tight corset wrapping his midsection, leather pants jerked down to his knees to expose the pale, silky flesh of his ass for all to admire.

  Master, the heart of his confliction. The man who had simultaneously saved and condemned him. The sun around which he now orbited, a wayward planet still tugging at its leash. Muscles tensed and twitched in anticipation as he traced idle patterns, afterimages burning a trail that flared into need.

  "Are you ready?" As ritual demanded he broke his silent contemplation, more sure of the answer than his question.

  "Yes." The husky tremor in his master's voice spurred his resolve. The crop snapped against porcelain flesh, leaving a mark, his mark, and the demon of rage slumbering inside him tore free.

  When he finally stopped, every inch of exposed flesh bore the record of his madness, reddened welts mixing with tribal tattoos in a cacophony of frustrated desire.

  Now came the part he dreaded. The beast inside him tamed, for the moment, leaving him without the will to finish this passion play. That his master was willing, prepped and waiting gave him no comfort. The murmur of the watchers spurred him into action, and he buried the ridiculous faux-cock to the hilt.

  His fingernails dug ragged furrows into reddened cheeks as his mind trumpeted the futility of his actions. Pegging was a game for women, not men. His cheeks flamed as he realized all the silent watchers must know of his peculiar lack. In an effort to disprove that knowledge he redoubled his efforts, plowing into the writhing figure with greater abandon.

  As with all good things, his frustrated rage couldn't last. Absent sexual satisfaction or the driving force of anger, their copulation became just another task to complete. He found himself counting the indentations on the soundproofed wall, picturing towering mammatus clouds in their place. When the figure beneath him began to whimper he breathed a silent sigh of relief. The sticky spray of his master's semen meant he could, at last, put a
side this facade.

  The transit from top to bottom was mercifully brief. The cruel cock discarded, he was stripped, spread, bound, and his soul absolved. Freed from the need to think, able to lose himself in sensation.

  This was the instant he now lived for, his desire released from the cage in which he kept it securely locked up.

  As the first cock slipped inside him, his breath caught, by the fifth he was panting, by the tenth, at last, transported. He shuddered through what passed as orgasm and fell into darkness. His last thought that perhaps he could stay cocooned in the soft richness of this moment.

  His eyes snapped open, Master slumbered beside him, ointment-coated welts glistening in the dim light. And so it began again, the futile race to oblivion that trapped him in the present. His joy, his terror, his destiny fulfilled.

  About the Author

  Sword wielding Buddhist author of transgressive homoerotic fiction, Sessha turned to writing full time after a twenty year stint in video production editing, scripting and creating motion graphics. Her novels include Strength of Will and the Shinobi Saga – Geisha, Shadow Wolf and the soon to be released Ripples. Her short stories are included in the anthology Sex Ray Specs. Her Celtic fairy tale Amadan na Briona is part of eightcuts gallery's Once Upon a Time in a Gallery exhibit. Her short story The Poetry Game is included in New Sun Rising: Stories for Japan, an anthology for tsunami relief. Originally from Belfast, she lives in the States with her husband, son, three cats and too many swords.

  Read more about her work

  @SesshaBatto

  SesshaBattoWorld

  sesshabattousai.com

  From the Inside

  by Daniel Arthur Smith

  Summary: Summary:Strange, wondrous things happen when weeks of rain, fever visions, and anxiety, compel a young traveler to journey across Central Europe in pursuit of a uniquely talented artist.