Fearless Genre Warriors

by Steve Lockley

  She recalled the moment they had stepped out of the doorway, straight into the illuminated chaos of the Carnival. The sky that night was inky black, starless, the only light for miles coming from the Carnival itself. The unfamiliar beckoned - tall lamps that shone brighter than anything she had ever seen, flashing signs in a rainbow of colours, moving contraptions powered by cogs and wheels and not magic. They wandered amongst folks dressed in the strangest fashions, cocking their heads in wonder at the sight of ladies in skin tight pants and swarthy turbaned gentlemen. They saw stalls peddling wares of candy apple, sniffed longingly at the warm smell of buttered corn, cringed as they passed vendors selling exotic selections of barbecued snakes and pan-fried ants. They were entranced with a pool of iridescent blue, and stood entirely in awe as a mermaid surfaced from its azure depths to wave a greeting.

  It was a little overwhelming. She noted the despair on Charles’ face, and sought to comfort him with a squeeze of his hand.

  ‘Is this the new world?’ She asked, trailing after The Ringmaster as he gave them the grand tour of the premises.

  ‘It is but a small part of the world at large,’ he turned to face them, smiling. ‘I constructed this as a haven for folks like you who have wished to leave their old lives.’

  ‘So there’s more? To the world?’ She asked.

  ‘Certainly. Feel free to wander the grounds, but you can depart anytime. The real world begins once you step outside the Carnival.’

  She looked hopefully at Charles. ‘Perhaps -’

  ‘We have nothing, no coin, no shelter. How will we live?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Why, stay here then. Observe the world, make yourself useful wherever you can. You can leave anytime, but in the meantime, you are welcome, as are all folks who come through the doorway. Know however, that while time is halted within the grounds, it will continue once you leave. You will age. And you will die.’

  They decided to stay a while.

  The Ringmaster had shown them their trailer, a boxy contraption that contained the insides of a very small house. Charles hated it at first. Used to the space of his castle, the realities of living his life in a tiny room frustrated him greatly. She planted roses to cheer him up, and in a bid to make him feel useful, encouraged him to help with the Forgotten Knights’ jousting showcase. He proved so good at it, the Knights recruited him as a permanent member. Charles’ good looks packed the show full of awestruck ladies waving handkerchiefs. It was good for business.

  Rosalie smiled at the thought of her husband. They were used to living here now, amongst strange folks like themselves, all hoping to start a new life elsewhere. Night after night, she observed the visitors thronging the fairgrounds. They came from everywhere, most from nearby towns, some from cities further away, a few from lands so far they had traversed sky and sea to get here. She liked mingling with these strangers, learning the way they dressed, the way they lived. In the mornings, she would wander past the gates of the resting Carnival, crossing the field to visit the nearby town. She sat in cafés, browsed in libraries, strolled in gardens. Time felt more solid once she stepped out of the fair, her decisions more impactful, her pleasures more concrete. Charles accompanied her occasionally, but he seemed content to spend most of his time within the Carnival. Eventually, she had felt familiar enough with the real world to find work there, serving up coffee at a café in the day, returning to her home in the Carnival only in the evening. It was an ideal arrangement, one that sated her curiosity about the outside world while still being able to accommodate Charles’ anxiety about living elsewhere.

  Charles had been unhappy about her working outside, but she had insisted. It felt good to do something, to not have to depend on a father or a husband for the means to support oneself. Working gave her access to coin, and the means to spend them on the ones she loved. Once again, Rosalie fingered the tiny box in her coat pocket. She had first seen the silver rose three months ago, its delicate petals glistening shyly in the window of the curiosity shop. It had taken her months to save up for it, but she knew Charles would love it. He was a man who cherished fragile beauty, and it would make a perfect gift for the anniversary of their crossover.

  She glanced at her watch. Two minutes to midnight, to the day of their anniversary. She hurried along.

  The tent she sought appeared before her, its flashing sign ‘Nightly Jousts by the Order of the Forgotten Knights’ looking lonesome in the fair. One of the last spots of brightness in the darkening night. One by one, the lights flickered out as she stepped out into the empty arena. The last performance had ended half an hour ago.

  ‘Charles?’ she called, right hand slipping into her pocket once again to finger the tiny box.

  No answer. She wondered if Arthur, the leader of the Forgotten Knights had been mistaken when he told her that Charles was staying back to rehearse a new act.

  ‘Charles! Are you there?’

  The arena dimmed unceremoniously in reply, light fled, leaving behind an empty shell of cloth and wooden fittings. Moonlight filtered though the flapping doorway, a zigzag of silver beckoning her outside.

  She went home. When he returned, she was already asleep.

  The music changed. It shifted from the lively canter of the previous act to a darker, more sinister tune. She led Charles to the centre of the stage, into the circle of light that flared to accommodate their figures. She cracked her whip once, the harsh snap punctuating the music like a cymbal clash.

  He circled her at a distance, animal paws treading softly. Never entering the area designated by the whip’s length. Never daring to encroach on her personal space.

  Another crack of the whip.

  He stopped.

  She approached him, closing the distance between them, each step marked by the clip of her boots. When she stood only inches away from him, she paused. Their eyes locked once more, his eyes upon her, his gaze regal and beastly. Sometimes, she had no idea if it was man or beast behind those golden eyes. Slowly, she wound her long braid in her right hand, then gestured with her left.

  ‘Open.’ She commanded.

  He opened his mouth with a roar. A loud, deep sound tailored to impress and frighten. Someone screamed. His mouth remained open, stretched to its fullest, revealing a row of sharp teeth surrounding a soft pink tongue.

  She bowed once, with the same theatricality of The Ringmaster.

  Then she put her head inside his mouth.

  She had awakened with him beside her that final morning, his golden hair falling into her eyes as he kissed her groggily.

  ‘I was looking for you last night,’ she murmured.

  ‘Sorry, Lance wanted to use some new technique in the joust... we went searching for props at his trailer. Arthur said you wanted to show me something?’ His voice had tapered off at the end, and he was now snoring softly. The morning rays filtered in through the trailer’s small windows, lighting his face perfectly. He looked like a sleeping angel.

  ‘Never mind, I’ll show you tonight.’

  She kissed his cheek, checked that her present was still in her coat, and left for work. It would be easy to trade hours with another colleague, she thought. She resolved to get home earlier that day, before his act started. It was a special day, after all.

  It was dark inside his mouth. Her exposed neck fit neatly between his jaws, she could feel the sharpness of his teeth inches away. Her braid tickled his tongue, she felt it loll slightly beneath her, damping the tips of her hair. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out memories of how she had found him that afternoon. With the girl in their trailer, bodies pressed together in a crush of mouths and limbs, clothed in nothing but the stench of betrayal. She recalled that his same mouth had kissed her own that very morning. That mouth had told her of his love time and time again. Her hands, still in her pockets, were clenched so tight that she had crumpled the box she had so eagerly wanted to show him.

&nbs
p; Lies.

  That was what the real world had wrought. It was the price of their freedom that The Ringmaster had forgotten to mention. In a world where he was not limited to her beauty alone, in a world where he had left the guise of beast behind, he had strayed.

  She had shut the door quietly, her heart cold. The image of their writhing bodies, still enmeshed, haunted her. She felt a cold fury settle within, and knew then, that she wanted to make him pay.

  As if on cue, The Ringmaster had appeared before her.

  ‘I feel a wish coming forth,’ he cautioned, wagging a finger. ‘Know that this one, if granted, comes at a price.’

  ‘I know. I don’t care.’

  The next moment, screams emerged as the girl fled the trailer, stark naked, a lion at her heels. The lion raised its head, looked at her with baleful golden eyes.

  Her heart clenched, then hardened. She felt hollow, as if something small and precious had died inside.

  ‘What is your price?’ She asked The Ringmaster.

  ‘Why, I think the Carnival needs a new animal show, don’t you? With a catchy title like... ‘Beauty and the Beast’. Yes, why not? It has a nice ring to it.’

  That night, they premiered a new lion taming show at the Carnival.

  Pure rage fuelled her at the start. The rush of anger was what got her on stage, the need to present her disappointment what made her taunt him with her whip. It began as a contest of wills, hers against his animal instincts. The show at the beginning was a display of human domination, a lover’s brawl made public. She threw furniture, set the lash upon him, taunted him with a variety of quietly murmured accusations only he could hear. He responded with snarls and roars, anger flattening his ears, ire and bewilderment in his eyes. He resorted to circling her like prey around the stage, but never managed to get within an inch of her without her permission -- The Ringmaster had wrought a spell that kept her safe from his retaliation.

  This went on for a long time, until one day, she found all her fury spent, leaving her with nothing but a forlorn numbness. The show continued, but it lost its heated aspect, graduating into a show of cold civility. She varied their acts, deviating from outright challenges into acts of willpower, a display of imposing her will upon his animal instincts. He too, seemed to mellow over time, perhaps learning that all attacks against her person would be in vain. She made him run circles, made him jump rings, and finally, in a display of his absolute docility, bade him to allow her head inside his open mouth.

  ‘When will the price be repaid? When will I be free?’ She had once asked The Ringmaster.

  ‘When something dead comes alive,’ He replied.

  She had stopped thinking about the end a long time ago. Feeling nothing, it was the monotony of the daily shows that marked time for her. She did not realize until today, that she actually looked forward to seeing him on stage.

  Slowly, she brought her head, still attached to her neck, out of his mouth. The audience let out a breath they did not know they were holding. She turned to face them, smiling slightly, inclined her head in acknowledgment.

  The applause poured forth, marking the end of their final act that night. Usually, she would crack her whip, a signal for Charles to slink off before marching off the stage herself.

  This time, on a whim, she turned back to the beast beside her, rubbing his chin for a moment before placing a kiss on his cold damp nose.

  His eyes widened. The audience went wild.

  Her heart jerked to life all of a sudden, turning from stone back to a thumping, pumping organ. And she was surprised to find in there, the sentiment, if not of love, then at least, of forgiveness.

  That night, she walked to the gates of the Carnival, gazing across the barren grounds to the tip of the town in the distance, civilization’s illuminated edges sparkling in the dark sky. She fingered the silver rose at her throat, the one she had never given him, touching once again the delicate edges where the silver had turned green.

  Soon. Her new heart murmured. Soon.

  Kokuri’s Palace

  Yukimi Ogawa

  From: Asian Monsters

  The way it unravels under my palms, the way it lets me slide my fingers between those folds. The way it tastes. Oh, the way it tastes.

  I let my sigh tremble the air in this old, old ruin of a temple. Which is my home. My palace. I close my eyes and imagine the tremble carries, shakes my pretty garlands.

  I smile to myself and sit up with an effort; I’m so full, of course, after such a huge feast. I look down at what remains this time. It was a young creature, so newly dead, its softness still there in every possible part of it. It tasted so good.

  Then I look down at what I’m wearing right now. It is an aged thing, just like most of the things I get to consume. It was quite new when I dug it out. But carcasses—or their hides—don’t stay the way live ones do if I don’t tend to them the right way, and now I feel this bit or that slowly falling apart. Time to change.

  Slowly, I slide under the younger thing’s skin.

  I am so afraid.

  Yet I push on as grasses thicken around my ankles, the foliage intensifies over me, the chilly air freezes my windpipe. Even the birds don’t chirp any more, this deep in this cursed forest.

  And suddenly, there it is. Collapsed and glorious at the same time. Horrifying yet irresistible.

  My feet shake, and I feel nauseated as though the earth itself is shaking. To keep my last meal down, I look up; the ruin of the temple isn’t that tall, but I can see the effort to create the illusion of it being taller than it really is, by the way things are draped over its roof and the trees nearby. For a moment I cannot believe that this decoration is all made with human skin, hair and nail. But this is a nest of a horrible monster, after all; all is beyond our belief.

  The moment I’m fully changed, I hear it.

  At first it’s all faint snap-snap of the forest floor. Something light walking. But I know it is not some small animal. I know a human when I hear it, of course; humans have a strange rhythm, unsteady on only two legs.

  Soon, ‘thump-thump’ of the heart. I wince at the loudness of it. Also unsteady, but so forcible. Strange things.

  Well. I’ll deal with the creature if I have to.

  I hum to myself and start shredding the older thing’s skin that I just dismantled. Everything is rigid and vulnerable about this one, and I don’t like it much, though I’ll find some use for it, too, in time. I always do.

  Do I hear humming? Is that... the monster?

  Impossible. Monsters don’t sing. Do they even think? Then I realise I don’t even know what it looks like. It must have huge, or sharp, teeth at least, to be able to tear human flesh and crack human bones. Maybe it has clawed fingers or razor scales. Surely it does.

  I am afraid. Oh, I am so afraid.

  I step into the clearing. A twig snaps, but my head is throbbing so hard and I don’t know what is louder, what isn’t. The temple does not have proper walls, most of them fallen apart or rotten away, but the shreds and nets offer a decent cover. How varied their colours are; I assumed that my people had more or less the same colours, and yet...

  I see a movement behind those grotesque curtains and freeze. What I just saw... was it human shaped? It could be, now that I think about it, it being called the crone. But there is something very disturbing about it, that I cannot quite—or refuse to—acknowledge, behind all these hangings.

  Impossible.

  And yet I walk on towards the humming. A wind blows through the ruins. It parts the curtains in front of me, and the humming figure glances my way. I want to scream. I want to sob and go cling on her, hold her tight. I want to turn on my heels and never look back. I want to sing with her.

  Instead of everything, my feet are planted there.

  It stares rudely at me, which is, me being a monster, quite understandable. Mildly irrita
ted, I sigh and go back to twining the old thing’s white hair. I wince as my fingers fail to apply the right pressure on the hair. The hair splits, a few precious strands falling onto my lap without a sound.

  These fingers. Thin and looking suitable for minute tasks at a glance, though in fact just too soft to properly hold things. I always forget to check the fingers of the dead before consuming the flesh. Not that I always get to choose, but still.

  I look up a little and realise that the little human thing is still staring at me.

  They wouldn’t let me see her before they buried her. They even thought it was I that’d violated her grave. Which is not true, of course. She was already gone when I tried, stolen by a monster.

  Then I ran, in a total frenzy, to confront the monster. But this is not what I expected. Though I don’t know what I imagined. Of course it doesn’t sound like her—the insides of the figure must be the monster’s, I suspect— but the way it moves, the way it looks my way.

  No no no, this is not my lover. This is a monster. My hand burrows deeper into my pocket, and I grip my knife so tight that my fingers hurt around the handle. But then she looks up. No, it looks up. Glances at my hand in my pocket, badly shaking.

  ‘What do you have in there?’ it asks.