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

by Michael Harris Cohen

  About the Author

  Christopher Godsoe lives in Central Maine with his teenage son. Common themes in his stories include the perception of reality, the definition of self, the proliferation of a free and ungoverned internet, as well as corporate and governmental corruption. The majority of his characters appear in separate works, showing them from various perspectives and giving a more complete account of their lives. Regular updates on the entirety of his work can be found at the links below.

  @cgwrite

  cgodsoe

  www.christophergodsoe.com/

  The Well-Rounded Head

  by Sally Basmajian

  Short Summary: A woman is smitten with her husband's big, entirely round head. One day she notices that his temples appear to be slightly indented, so that his head is no longer a perfect sphere. This revolts her, and she moves into their guest room in order to avoid him. When he breaks in, she kills him, in a most bizarre way.

  My trophy husband, that's what he was. So handsome, with skin the color of glossy, brown acorns, and dreamy eyes of deepest russet.

  But that's not why I married him, and it wasn't for his money, either. No, to me, it was all about the shape of his head. His big, fat, oversized noggin. Easily double the size of a normal man's, I would brag to my friends. And what a turn-on it was.

  It was round, like a child's filled-to-popping party balloon, without a single imperfection. And so smooth – not a single hair grew there, and it wasn't because he shaved it, because he didn't. He was just blessed with a bean that looked remarkably like a brown snooker ball, except way, way bigger.

  To me, he was irresistible. In bed, whenever we finished making love, I would take his head between my hands and stroke his bulbous temples until we both hummed with pleasure. So velvety, so orb-like–so hot.

  In the early days of our marriage, my husband was sexually insatiable. We were playful in bed: he the randy stable boy to my aristocrat's daughter; the lusty doctor to my white-capped nurse. In his arms I spoke in tongues, felt the universe expand, and saw the earth's beginning and end. He made love with the zealous commitment of the converted, my satisfaction his divinity.

  Until his appearance changed in a most alarming way.

  Maybe I misjudged and I know I definitely overreacted. My friends swore they never noticed anything different about him at all. But, to me, my husband's transformation was unmistakable and so unwelcome that when I first detected it I felt my stomach clench in horror that quickly turned to disgust.

  His head was no longer a flawless ball-shape.

  No, there were ever so slight indentations on either side of his forehead. It wasn't just a trick of the light; I was sure of it. When he approached me, smiling, with those twin depressions marring his globular head I flinched and moved out of reach, staring in anguish at what I considered to be a gross disfigurement. Maybe he was still more circular than ovoid, but those little dents made him look to me almost like a normal man, and that I could never accept. I wasn't about to downgrade to Mr. Potato Head when I had married the perfect Nerf.

  He babbled: what was wrong, why was I shunning him, had I found someone else, oh, please, please tell me, promise not to leave me. On and on. My husband still wanted to be with me; yet in my eyes he was ugly, ruined. His dome was dented; his cranium crenellated. I couldn't bear to look at him, let alone touch him, or–worse yet—let him touch me.

  That night, when the lights were off, my husband reached for me in bed. I slapped him, hard, and told him his advances were unwelcome. He said nothing, but a few minutes later I heard him sobbing into his pillow. I think I broke his heart, but it wasn't my fault. I hadn't married him for his personality; it had all been about his impressive, Charlie Brown head.

  The next day, I moved my things into the guest room, down the hall. I chose to sleep alone with good memories rather than bunk with my new and revolting reality. Whenever possible, I avoided my spouse, eating breakfast after he left for work and retiring to my separate room before he returned. I knew this was cruel, but he was too hideous with his misshapen skull. I couldn't bear to look at it.

  A week passed.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  My husband rapped on my bedroom door.

  I hunkered down under the sheets and ignored him.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I stayed as still as possible, breathing shallowly. Go away, go away, I screamed inside in my mind, trying to psychically dissuade him from attempting to come in.

  No such luck. After a while, he started to rattle the doorknob. He wasn't going to go away. And that freaked me out. What if he came in, with his caved-in head bobbling away at me? I didn't think I could stand it.

  In my bedside table I looked for a weapon – anything I could use to protect myself if he entered my room against my wishes. All I could find was a riding crop and a starched nurse's cap, relics of our sexy, carefree days. Oh, God. What was I going to do?

  And then, the door burst open and he was in the room and moving toward me. An agitated pulse throbbed in his disfigured temple. His arms reached out to me in supplication, but I bolted out of the bed, reached into my bedside table drawer, and brandished the riding crop. I would have appeared much fiercer, if I hadn't somehow managed to snatch the nurse's cap, too. There it perched, on top of the crop, with the combo looking like an insane medical puppet. Now, instead of looking indomitable, I just looked ridiculous.

  But sheer panic can sometimes be the mother of ingenuity. I realized that the cap was attached by its rubber band to the riding crop. I could try to shoot it at my horrifying husband, like tiny David shot monstrous Goliath, and really, that worked out pretty well for good ol' Dave.

  So, I aimed, pulled back on the cap, and let it fly.

  Bullseye. The crisply starched point caught my husband square in one of his welling, russet eyes. One minute he was standing and begging me to tell him what was wrong; the next minute, he was gone. Dead. Kaput. Never to bother me with his hideousness again, thank God.

  You may think I'm a monster, but I'm not. I'm just someone who likes a man with a round head. Go ahead: call me shallow; call me murderer – your words don't hurt. But stay far away from me unless you have a dome like a bloated harvest moon. Otherwise, I'm just not interested.

  About the Author

  Sally Basmajian is an ex-broadcast executive, who has spent much of her professional life selling, marketing, acquiring, and scheduling other people's artistic visions. Over the past year she has started dabbling in writing and has found some success, winning the 2014 Rising Spirits Award, publishing in CommuterLit, and placing in a recent ScreaminMamas creative non-fiction contest. Once upon a time, she was a piano major in university, eventually attaining a Master of Arts degree in Musicology from the University of Toronto. She has just finished her first novel, a fantasy for young adults.

  Reserved

  by SM Johnson

  Summary: It's been five years since the accident that killed Pete Spencer's younger lover and left him grieving, bitter, and broken. He's tired of his lonely world, but the kind of young men he's attracted to dismiss him the moment their eyes land on his cane. Pete's learned to hide behind the safety of his reserve, but he's never met anyone like Rory.

  The second Pete Spencer set foot in the club, he knew it was a mistake. The lights, the noise, the people–feathers and glitter and skin, the crush of bodies, the strobes of lights–it was all immediately overwhelming. And he was early.

  A push from behind forced him inside another step, and he tightened his gloved hand around the crest of his cane. He had to work to maintain his balance for a few seconds as his senses adjusted to the environment. He wasn't in pain, not yet, but he scanned the club in a hopeless quest for an empty table. The burlesque show was advertised to start at ten, which was ridiculous–who starts a party at ten at night? Pete was usually in bed by then, drifting away on pain killers and broken dreams.

  He glanced at his watch. Eight thirty, which he'd planned, th
inking that would be plenty early to score a seat, but apparently not. The only open table he could see in the whole place had a folded card on top announcing its reserved status. He might as well go home. There was no way he could stand even until the show started, much less for the duration. Not only would he not enjoy it, he might fall down and create a humiliating little show of his very own.

  His mood hung somewhere between disappointed and resigned. There was always some glitch that ruined every outing.

  A flurry of cold air rushed in from behind him, then a boy, pushing past him into the club. At least he thought it was a boy. Pete took a second look. Yes, a feminine, delicate young man, almost buried beneath a purple calf-length winter coat, a backpack, a duffel bag, a large multi-colored purse, and a metal lunch box featuring large-eyed cartoon characters. The boy's cheeks were red from the cold, his hair hidden beneath a ridiculous pink knit hat with a white pom-pom on top.

  The boy shook his whole body, as if shaking off snow, though it wasn't snowing, then looked around the club, frowning. Someone called out, "Rory–you're late, slacker!" and the boy's frown grew more pronounced.

  "Like there's any sense in being two full hours early," he muttered, but only loud enough for Pete to hear.

  Pete, who was trying not to stare, but failing.

  The boy caught sight of Pete and looked him over from face to groin to cane to boots. Pete waited for the curl of lip, the expected dismissal of gimp, and old guy, but it didn't come. Something unusual happened instead.

  The boy looked him over again with a strange sort of interest. He moved a step closer, jostling against Pete with the arm that held the duffel bag and the lunch box. "So," he said, "I have a proposition for you."

  His eyes were blue.

  Rimmed with eyeliner and glitter.

  Pete Spencer was immediately wary. Beautiful glitter boys rarely had good propositions for bitter old gimps. "I highly doubt that." Pete answered and considered slipping out the door. His instinct to leave had been the right one after all.

  "Nothing indecent, I swear. Hear me out."

  Pete cocked his head. Waited.

  The glitter boy licked his lips.

  Nervous? This beautiful creature was nervous about speaking to him? How could that be?

  "I have that table over there reserved," the boy jerked his head. "Only, I'm the master of ceremonies for the show tonight, and if no one saves the table for me, people will sit there and I'll have nowhere to perch between the acts. Joey was supposed to sit there, but he dumped me last night, so now I'm kind of screwed. So would you mind? I mean, no offense, but you'd probably rather sit at a table for the show anyway, right? I mean, you have a cane. You can't want to stand the whole time. "

  Pete was stuck on the fact that someone dumped this beautiful young thing and it kept him from answering right away. For too long, apparently, for glitter boy shifted from foot to foot, sighed, turned his lips into a pout and made his eyes big and beseeching. "Please? It would help me out a lot."

  Pete nearly smiled. "You don't have to plead. I'd be grateful for a seat. I was thinking about leaving because this bum leg won't let me stand for long."

  Great big shining smile. "Perfect! Let's go!"

  And with that, the boy shifted the duffel bag to his shoulder, the lunch box to this other hand, and grabbed Pete's free hand, pulling him through the crush of bodies toward the table. When they arrived, Pete slid to the far side to tuck himself into the corner near the wall. The boy wagged a finger at him and shook his head, then spoke loud enough to be heard above the juke box music. "Sit here at the end, where you can see best. This is going to be a great show."

  A voice boomed over the music. "Rory–get your ass downstairs and get ready."

  The boy rolled his eyes. "That's my cue. No worries, though, I'll be back in a flash, and you'll hardly recognize me!" He disappeared in a twirl of coat, backpack, duffel bag, purse, pom-pommed hat, and lunch box.

  Pete watched him go, the throb of his leg still mild enough that he might almost enjoy the evening. A waiter quite a lot more robust than Rory came by and winked at Pete. "Can I get you something? A drink, a shot, nine inches, uncut, at your place later?"

  He felt his face turn red. Was that really on the menu?

  The waiter must have noticed Pete's discomfort, because he said, "Dude, sorry, kidding." Warm brown eyes. Friendly lopsided grin. "Can I get you something from the bar?"

  Pete ordered a soda. He felt old and broken and out of place. He didn't belong here. But he hadn't belonged in the rehabilitation center, either, and he was bored at home alone in his cave all the time. It was such an effort to go out, to push himself to new places. He didn't know what he liked anymore, who he liked, who would like him. But books and movies and online flirtation could only take him so far. He wanted...well. It didn't matter what he wanted. It was something he couldn't have, not anymore, not with this broken body and all its missing pieces.

  The person who flounced onto the stage, tapped the microphone and hollered, "Is this thing on?" and then, "Hey! Can the music, would ya?" was, indeed, unrecognizable as the same boy who tripped in cold from the outdoors an hour before.

  He'd grown four inches in height, and added at least a foot of lush auburn hair. Thick, rich, theatrical eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, luscious lips, and eyebrows from here to there. He was clearly a male in drag, making no attempt to pass as a woman. Pete couldn't tear his eyes away, and he'd hardly managed to take in the evening dress, the stunningly high heels, feather boa, and an elegant Victorian-style fan.

  The music stopped, and the club went quiet.

  "Well. Hello there, boys and girls," Rory purred into the microphone. "I am your delicious diva, your lickable lollipop, and your entertaining emcee for the evening. Please give a loud and boisterous bellow for the performers downstairs getting ready for ya'll–really loud, now–and stomp your feet–I want them to hear you clear down in the basement."

  A wild cacophony ensued, stomping and whistling, clapping and yelling, until Rory calmed them and chattered about upcoming events, and that the proceeds from tonight's event were to benefit homeless GLBT youth, and to go ahead and toss dollars to the stage. "Or even tens and twenties–hell, write a check if you want, sweetie." He blew kisses and fanned himself. Finally he pressed his lips against the microphone in an obscene kiss, panted in a parody of heavy breathing, lowered his voice, and said, "Let's do it."

  The lights lowered and soft, tinkling piano music began.

  Rory bounced off the stage and landed very nearly in Pete's lap. "Hey there, big boy, what do you think of my transformation?"

  Pete examined him, up close and personal.

  Too much make-up. Too much glitz. A little was okay for a feminine boy. A lot was okay for a queen. Pete didn't know what to say because he didn't want to hurt Rory's feelings, and it felt like Rory was asking a bigger question. So he shrugged, tried for a reassuring smile, and realized smiling didn't come naturally anymore.

  Rory leaned close. "You don't like me?" That question came in a small voice, one Pete could barely hear above the music.

  Pete forgot he'd even come to watch a burlesque show. "I don't even know you, what's not to like? I'm grateful for the stool. Your get-up," he gestured vaguely from Rory's hair to Rory's heels, "is perfect."

  That was enough, wasn't it? Surely Rory knew he was beautiful. He didn't need Pete to tell him that, did he? Or was he fishing for compliments?

  Rory nodded. "Thank you for sitting at my table and pretending to be my new boyfriend. It's helping me get through this."

  Pete felt the shock jolt through him.

  He'd agreed to nothing of the sort, and was about to point that out, when Rory leaned right against him, nearly knocking him off the stool, and said, "You have no idea what a son of a bitch it is to get false eyelashes to stick when you can't stop crying. It sucks so bad."

  Rory pressed his cheek ever so gently to Pete's chest, and Pete caught the scent of some perfume so ero
tic he vowed to never wash his shirt again. He patted Rory's shoulder and lowered his lips closer to the glitter boy's ear to mutter, "I can't even imagine."

  "You can take your gloves off, you know," Rory said and patted Pete's hand. "It's plenty warm in here."

  Pete pulled his hand away, afraid for a second Rory would insist. "Maybe later. I'm attached to them."

  They were expensive gloves, of a very breathable fabric, not worn for warmth.

  The music seemed to be winding down, and Rory leapt upright. "Duty calls," he sang, and blew Pete a kiss as he ran toward the stage and bounded up the steps on those crazy high heels.

  Pete watched him go, and for some reason thought of hummingbirds, quick and busy, and hesitant to land anywhere for more than a moment.

  Rory, the apple-cheeked glitter boy just in from the cold, looking at him, seeing him, and Pete reminded himself that it meant nothing, men like Pete didn't get to have glitter boys like Rory–the world didn't work like that, no matter what Rory wanted to pretend for tonight to save face in front of his friends. The minute Pete started to believe otherwise was the first step toward the fall. And if he fell that hard again, he might never get up.

  He should leave the club right this minute, because having these thoughts at all was a sign of trouble. He was only safe if he expected nothing, wanted nothing, longed for nothing, yearned for nothing. He was only safe if he could be satisfied by the touch of his own hand.