Twisted 50 Volume 1

by Wessell, Stephanie

  I couldn’t think. My mind was sludge. Where was Marie? I waved my hand and mimed writing. If they’d just bring me a pen and some paper. . .

  “Yes, of course, Evelyn. Don’t worry. Your sister can sign all the documents for you. We will begin pre-op immediately.”

  *

  Someone was holding my left hand, rubbing it gently. Then, a firm press. I reacted to the pain without actually feeling it. A cannula.

  “Evelyn, nice and still for me, please. My name’s Lou – your anaesthetist for today. You might remember me.”

  His voice close to my ear.

  “And between you and me, I overheard Doctor Munro say that they won’t stop until the whole shell is thoroughly broken. So, don’t you fret. Soon, it’ll all be over.

  Count backward with me, please. 8. . . 7. . . 6. . .”

  A Change Too Far

  by Adam Millard

  I woke this morning to discover something new. No, not the scales; they were there yesterday. This morning I found a tentacle. Purple, slimy, serpentine, peppered with suckers. I can move it with thought alone, control it with remarkable dexterity. And now, for some strange reason, I can feel the ocean beckoning me, can hear it plaintively reaching out for me; its call is almost enough to overpower my craving for flesh, though not quite. Nothing, it seems, can stifle that ineffable hunger. I'm hoping for a visitor at some point; a salesman, perhaps, or the cantankerous old man from downstairs, come to complain about the animalistic mewling or the water soaking through my carpet and trickling inexorably down his garish flock wallpaper. Now that would be a real treat. I would devour him whole, pluck his powdery, desiccated bones from my unnaturally sharp teeth and enjoy every second of it. I'm ravenous, and this odd new appendage looks in need of sustenance.

  The Sugarloaf and the Red Shoes

  by Marie Gethins

  Perhaps Demi Ledoux was too beautiful for her own good. She definitely was too beautiful for the good of others. Each morning she brushed her black curls, kohl lined emerald eyes, gave the reflection an air-kiss. People dropped their chins when she walked down the street. Crop tops displayed toned abs, a navel ring bell jingled as she swayed her hips. At night she hit the most radical New Orleans dance clubs.

  Demi could bounce, dribble, twerk and body roll better than anyone. She sashayed onto the dance floor, melding with the music. One by one, men and women tried to dance with her. She judged them within four or five beats. Some managed to break out of the circle before she turned them away, others came close enough to touch her, and a lucky few managed to grind against her.

  Sometimes she’d pull one into a dark corner to allow exploration of her body: they nibbled earlobes, roamed over breasts. She ended the encounter if the candidate reached inside her jeans or lifted up her skirt. “Mama told me to save the Sugarloaf for someone special,” she said.

  One night, Demi alternated between rumpshaking against a handsome boy and shimming her chest towards a petite girl. The song ended and she decided on a bottle of water. She pushed her way through the crowd. Before she could pay, a man in a luminescent suit slid a five dollar bill towards the barman.

  “Thanks,” Demi said, taking a sip, scanning him from shoulder to heel.

  “My pleasure. You’re a good dancer.”

  She laughed. “I’m not good. I’m the best.”

  “That’s easy in The Big Easy, honey. You want a real challenge, try this.” He put a glossy dance reality show ad on the bar.

  Demi looked up, searching the crowd, but the man had disappeared.

  When she got home, she filled out an online application form, uploading full body photos and headshots. She didn’t worry about her dance routine or music selection, but knew she needed an exceptional pair of shoes. Shoes the camera couldn’t ignore.

  Demi searched dance shoe stores across New Orleans. They carried the same shelf stock, boring footwear filled their special order catalogues. In the final store, she screamed at the clerk that she needed something unique. The clerk whispered he knew of a place in the French Quarter.

  “It will cost you.”

  “I don’t care about that. Where is it?”

  He scribbled the address onto a scrap of paper. “Be careful,” he said.

  Tucked away in a dim alley off a twisted side street, she spied a large shoe-shaped sign: Les chaussures personnalisées. The display window glowed. Hand-crafted satin heels sat poised on puffy cushions: azure, lemon, cerise, viridian. Forehead against the glass, her breath fogged the view. She rattled the locked door, stomped her foot, groaned to the sky.

  She pounded the door, her throat growing hoarse. Then a beam of sunlight hit the doorframe and she noticed a tiny gold doorbell. Ear to wood, she heard it chime deep inside the building. She pushed it again. After the third time she heard footsteps. Locks clicked and snapped, the knob turned and the door swung inward.

  Demi expected a proprietor as ancient as the area. Instead, a man in his late 30s opened the door.

  “Yes?” A foreign accent she couldn’t place.

  “I’m looking for dance shoes. Something extraordinary.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.” His lips stretched, revealing dark gums and iridescent teeth. He waved her in. “Please, sit.” He indicated a gilded high-back chair.

  The shoe designer measured her foot; his long fingers stroked her instep, massaged her toes. His tongue darted in and out, and his eyes narrowed when he touched her. She squirmed in the seat. Although she hadn’t intended to tell him about the dance competition, the words flowed out. He tested style after style.

  “There is a very special design, the Lady Ella. I think they suit you. Would you like to try them?”

  Demi nodded.

  He took a tiny key hanging around his neck and unlocked a mahogany cabinet. Placing a gold shoe box by her feet, he smoothed tissue to one side, and offered up a red satin shoe. As he fastened the buckles, a tingling crept from her toes to her thighs. Music filled her head. She danced around the room. “I know I’ll win in these shoes.”

  “They may cost more than you are willing to pay.”

  Demi fell into the chair, panting. “I don’t care. I have to have them. How much?” She took them off, running her fingers along edges.

  “They have hoodoo magic.”

  “Hoodoo, voodoo, whatever,” she shrugged. “I want the shoes.”

  “You’ll be victorious, but you must pay the price.” He leaned against the counter. “Let me touch the Sugarloaf.”

  “Seriously, how much do they cost?”

  “No money. I want to touch the Sugarloaf.”

  Demi pictured herself on stage: a disco ball trophy, a confetti monsoon. She slipped the shoes back on. The tingling returned. Her feet tapped out a new routine while she watched.

  “A touch? That’s all you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ok, but just one touch.”

  She took off the shoes and wrapped them in tissue. The designer guided her out of street view. She closed her eyes, his fingers crept up her thigh, manoeuvred around cotton and lace. Faces inches apart, she felt his breath on her cheek. He smelled of peppermint and patchouli.

  He stroked her gently, and she sighed, happy about her Brazilian wax the previous day. A single digit entered. Her lids fluttered and she pushed his arm away. “Enough,” she said. He laughed and raised his finger to take in her perfume.

  The competition passed in a whirl, her frenzied feet followed unfamiliar choreography. Demi progressed onto the Semi-Finals. Posing for promotional photos, she struggled to keep still. When she took the shoes off, light shone through the soles.

  Demi returned to the French Quarter and asked if he could repair the shoes, but he told her it would be impossible. She sobbed. He escorted her inside.

  “What will I do?”

  “Be calm, my praline. I have another pair of Lady Ella’s.”

  She squealed. “Are they my size? Let me try them on.”

  He drew ou
t the key. Another gold shoe box appeared, the shoes a perfect fit. The tingling began again, but more intense. Her feet tapped, slid, hopped around the room. She grabbed the back of the chair, eased herself across an arm. Her feet continued to tap and kick. Hands clamped on the armrests, she told him to take off the shoes.

  “I must have them. What do you want, another touch?”

  He smirked. “No, no. For this pair, I want to taste the Sugarloaf.”

  “Not in a million years.”

  “Fine.” He took the box and opened the cabinet.

  “Wait.” Demi bit her lip. “Just once?”

  He nodded, tongue tracing his lips.

  “One time, that’s it. I mean it.”

  He propped her against the counter, his styled hair disappeared beneath her skirt, and fingers helped her step out of cotton and lace. His fingers explored, traced her edges and opened the Sugarloaf. His tongue snaked in. She quivered; her navel ring jingled. She pushed his head away. He laughed through fabric folds.

  The Semi-Finals yielded more glory. At the end of the show, she continued to dance: spinning, leaping. The host chuckled at her excitement, spoke of the dead-heat between her and Gia from Kansas City, urged viewers to phone-in, text or vote online.

  Demi grabbed one of the crew, begged him to remove the shoes. He tried but her swollen feet pressed tight against the fabric. “Cut them off!” she said. He struggled to hold down her wriggling calves while he snipped each shoe in half.

  “Aw, your pretty little feet all swollen?” Gia lifted a shoe half, swinging it over Demi’s head. “Better hope you find decent shoes before the Finals. See you in two weeks.”

  A few days later Demi returned to the French Quarter. The designer opened the door, leaned against the frame.

  “I watched your performance, truly remarkable,” he said.

  “Did you vote?” Demi folded her arms across her chest.

  “Come now, I think I’ve helped you enough already.”

  “The shoes…ah…the shoes are gone. I need another pair for the Finals.”

  He clicked his tongue.

  “Do you have another pair of Lady Ella’s?”

  “I might.”

  “Stop screwing around. Do you or don’t you?”

  He waved her inside. “I have one more pair of Lady Ella’s, but they are very potent.”

  “I have to be the best. I need the shoes.”

  “Well then.” He opened the cabinet and took out another gold box.

  Demi waited for him to place them on her feet. Instead, the designer put the box on the floor beside her.

  “Don’t open the box until the performance.”

  “But what if they don’t fit?”

  “They were meant for you, but their magic is extremely strong. Are you certain?”

  He offered his hand. Demi sighed. He led her up the stairs. A four-poster draped in swaths of white dominated his bedroom. He pulled back the duvet, patted the mattress. It crinkled, reminded her of candy wrappers. She closed her eyes, imagined applause, and let him take the Sugarloaf.

  Afterwards, she watched him strip the blooded sheet and zip it into a plastic bag. He packed the bag into a shipping carton that contained three gold shoe boxes.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  The designer smiled. “Never mind, beignet. Off you go. Remember – keep them in the box until right before you’re announced.”

  The night of the Finals, Demi asked the crewman to help after her performance. She put on her red shoes just as the host finished his intro. She began to sway. Her tempo increased, she danced faster and faster. The band leader’s baton became a flash of white. The audience ahhhed, cameras struggled to follow her across the floor. Spinning, leaping, hips swinging. Her stomach lurched. She closed her eyes. Legs weak, she collapsed. Her feet continued to tap and kick. As the final note sounded, the crewman carried her away.

  “Wow, the amazing Demi Ledoux! How about that Tarantella sequence at the end?” the host said.

  Off set, the crewman held her turbulent feet. He tried to cut the red shoes in half, but the satin embedded into her flesh. He snipped, a pile of red shreds grew beside him, cradled her bare feet in his lap.

  “Oh sweet thing, we’ve got to get you to a hospital. You’ve broken all the bones in your feet.”

  “Never mind that. What does the scoreboard say?”

  “They may never heal right.”

  “Shut up idiot. What’s my score?”

  He looked up. “No one’s even close. You’ve won! You’ve won!”

  The crewman leaned in for a kiss. Demi locked an arm against his chest. He shook his head, dumped the shreds and left.

  On the shoulders of two shirtless male dancers, Demi cradled the disco ball trophy, squares of light drifted across the audience. On her third lap of honour around the studio, Demi saw Gia fishing out shoes pieces, pushing them into her bag. She grimaced, then kissed the trophy, and lifted it over her head. “It’s MINE.”

  Gia slapped the old wooden door and gave another fifteen minute sustained assault. “OPEN UP.” The designer peered out. She held up red satin shoe pieces held together by glue and tape.

  “You’re effing hard to locate. I put together the sole to figure out this place’s name and it still took like forever to find it.”

  He moistened his lips, eyed her from crown to feet. “Nice white co-ordinates. One could say you look almost vestal.”

  Gia sighed. “I’m not here for style tips. I need dancing shoes, special shoes. Shoes that will help me WIN.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place. I have just the pair for you, they’re called the Lady Demi, but they may cost more than you are willing to pay.”

  Paper Cuts

  by Kim Rickcord

  Clack clack click, clack clack click, fingers on the keys don't miss a trick.

  The computer breathed white light over her face in the dark. Night was the best time to write, locked into silence and the black box of her bedroom. A cigarette hung twitching from her lips. They were Richard’s brand.

  Klara lay back on her bed and took out the razor she kept in her pocket. The blade sliced silver through her skin, first sharp, then scarlet. In blackness she bled gently, where no-one could see, not even she. Only last week, on her seventeenth birthday, had she cut herself for the first time.

  The envelope of her skin opened, her body spelling secrets in red.

  *

  Saturday morning metamorphosis. Become the person you've been hiding away all week. Black your eyes, red your lips: put your own mask on.

  Klara stood smoking in front of the library, shivering in the embrace of an aged black fur coat. An east and west wing flew from a central tower, the mouth of the entrance muttering with shuffling footsteps and book-stamp stomps. Taking a last fag drag, Klara let the lipsticked stub kiss the pavement. She walked to the door and was eaten by it.

  ‘Paper Cuts’ by Alexander Mann was in the West Wing, seventh floor, stack twenty. Floor seven was just a narrow corridor with bookshelves that disappeared into the dark. She found shelf twenty and turned the timer on the side to illuminate it for thirty minutes. Click.

  It was there. Klara took it, remembering that Richard’s fingers had touched these pages. He had told her to come here to read it.

  “How does it feel when you write?” he’d asked.

  “Like…a secret.”

  “Then the books that feel like secrets are the ones you should read.”

  “Tell me a secret then.”

  “Well, having read the first chapters of your novel, I would recommend… something that was always my secret. I think I’m the only person to have ever read or touched it.” He’d smiled a crack and scrawled the title on a scrap.

  Sitting on the floor, she opened the first page. The book gave a sudden ecstatic crackle; an electric kiss to her fingertips. Surprised, but smiling, she began to read.

  It was a story told using the words you keep hidden ben
eath your tongue. The first word was "Cunt," the opening chapter detailing a man slipping his lips over his wife until she came. It was about a couple fucking and murdering their way across Europe in the nineteen-thirties and was as dark and beautiful as blood on snow. The woman wore a flapper bob and strings of rubies around her throat. Her husband had the same name as the author and was also a writer. And, a magician.

  The wife lured a governess home, plied her with opium and tied her up. Using red thread, she embroidered a sentence around her throat, as though it were a necklace. When her husband Alexander came home, he ran his fingers over it and said, "That is the most beautiful sentence ever written."

  As Klara read, she felt the discomfort of the scab on her wrist, disguised with a piece of red satin ribbon. During the French Revolution, there had been a fashion for wearing red ribbons around one's neck, in mimicry of the guillotine's slice. She liked that.

  A third of the way into the story, the light clicked and her vision snapped black. Pressing her own spine against those of the books, she touched herself. Her tongue slicked her lips wet, her throat seized and her voice wrote "Richard" on the silent page of the dark.

  With a pen, she wrote these words on a slip of paper: "I need to feel your breath on my cunt." Putting it inside the book, she closed the cover.

  The front door spat her back out into the waiting arms of her boyfriend, Josh. The teenagers sat kissing and getting stoned by the river until the light faded and they couldn't see the other's face. Then they kissed some more.

  *

  On Monday an idea occurred. With a needle and red thread she embroidered words over her underwear; the kind you keep hidden beneath your tongue. She dreamed of Richard reading them.

  On Wednesday, she saw Richard in the corridor at school, laughing with Miss Parker, who was wearing a dress so tight she resembled a boa constrictor digesting its lunch. Richard – Mr Sirin – was Klara’s English teacher; the kind you call by their first name and smoke with in the parking lot. He was a six-foot-two three-piece suit of casual cigarette burns and gin stains. Perfection.