Credits:
Passage, Copyright © 2004 by Lawrence Barker. The Wishberry Wish, Copyright © 2004 by Camilla Bruce. Ravens, Copyright © 2004 by Dallas Coleman. Fall, Copyright © 2004 by Alex Draven. Malcolm Hall and the Selkie of Mirror Lake, Copyright © 2004 by JR Earlbecke. The Cupbearer, Copyright © 2004 by Eumenides. Wildling, Copyright © 2004 by Alex Freeman. To Awaken from the Dream, Copyright © 2004 by Ariel Graham. A Tale of Koi and Lotus, Copyright © 2004 by Josie Holiday. The Bloom, Copyright © 1994 by Charlee Jacob; originally appeared in Bizarre Dreams and Guises. Gone Fishing, Copyright © 2002 by Jules Jones; originally appeared in Mythic Fantasies from Amatory Ink. Sybaris, Copyright © 2004 by Jay Lygon. The Brown Kimono, Copyright © 2004 by Therese Melina. A Word from the Unremembered, Copyright © 2004 by Nick O'Meara. Perchance to Dream, Copyright © 2004 by Quatorze. Phases, Copyright © 1993 by Carrie Richerson; originally appeared in Pulphouse: A Fiction Magazine No. 16. Rain, Copyright © 2004 by Lorne Rodman. Sidhe Stoops to Conquer, Copyright © 2004 by Emily Veinglory. The Grove, Copyright © 2004 Edith Walker. Acrobat, Copyright © 2004 by Vic Winter.
Myths
Copyright © 2004 by Torquere Press, edited by Rob Knight
Illustrations Copyright © Jessamy Falcon, Tammy Lee, Atta Vazzy All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502.
ISBN: 0-9749923-8-0
Printed in the United States of America.
Torquere Press electronic edition / October 2004
Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502. http://www.torquerepress.com
Table of Contents
Foreword By Rob Knight 4
A Word from the Unremembered By Nick O'Meara 5
Fall By Alex Draven 7
Illustration by Tammy Lee 26
Malcolm Hall and the Selkie of Mirror Lake By J. R. Earlbecke 27 To Awaken from the Dream By Ariel Graham 37
Passage By Lawrence Barker 43
Gone Fishing By Jules Jones 50
Sidhe Stoops to Conquer By Emily Veinglory 57
The Brown Kimono By Therese Melina 63
Wildling By Alex Freeman 70 Ravens By Dallas Coleman 78
Perchance to Dream By Quatorze 81
Sybaris By Jay Lygon 91
Illustration by Atta Vazzy 100
A Tale of Koi and Lotus By Josie Holiday 101 The Wishberry Wish By Camilla Bruce 104
Phases By Carrie Richerson 117
Acrobat By Vic Winter 120
The Bloom By Charlee Jacob 122
The Cupbearer By Eumenides 131
Illustration by Tammy Lee 134 Rain By Lorne Rodman 135
The Groove By Edith Walker 141 Contributors 152
Foreword
Where did we come from? Why are we who we are? What powers brought us into the light, pale and frail, naked to the gaze of the sun? What gods and monsters have our ancestors, our kings, our princes triumphed over? Which ones have thrown the unworthy low?
Which ones ended in a flare of passion and need? Minotaurs and valkyries. Merfolk and the wizards of fairy tales. All of these stories reflect the things we treasure, the quiet fears we as a group cannot face, each made more rich, more lush by the specific traditions and ecology of the society that spawned them.
Myths is a collection of tales intended to include, to excite, to entertain. They draw from the classics, from the Orient, from the American Southwest. Modern and ancient, they prove that these types of tales echo a longing within us for answers, for reasons.
For connection.
Rob Knight October 2004
A Word from the Unremembered
By Nic O'Meara May I introduce myself... actually, I hardly think that's necessary. You know me, all of you. You've had me. Yes, you've had me, and if you'd be true to yourself, just this one time, you'd remember it, too. I remember it -- you, all of you, pinned in your bed, in your beds, drenched in sweat, mouth open in a soundless moan.
See? Now you remember. You've had me. You may even have had me several times, something one as ugly as myself ought to take pride in. Then again, it doesn't really matter, now does it? It's not you coming back for me really. It's me coming back for you. Bedroom doors won't keep me away, nor will nightlights. Or husbands sleeping scarcely a foot away.
I will return at my leisure, to be had.
I am a nightmare.
No, no - I know what you're thinking now. Stop thinking. I said, stop thinking.
That's better. I said I am a nightmare. Not a bad dream. Not the kind of wild-goose chase that has you sitting up in bed in the morning looking for the body of the pilot who's just crashed in your back garden. I'll leave these to you, these pedestrian little figments of your own imaginations. Make your own bad dreams, you won't need me to do that.
You've never dreamed of me anyway.
You may have convinced yourselves that you have. But you haven't.
Because yes, I was real. Sitting on your chest, thighs clasping your head. You felt me. I feel warm. Dry. Silky and bristly at the same time. That was why you gave me my name - the touch of my skin reminded you of a horse's shiny coat. Or maybe it was my mane. And the eyes, all black and no white, like an animal's. When you look into my eyes, all you see is yourself. And maybe a bit of reflected moonlight, if the night is being kind.
I'm not a pretty sight. But then, I'm not here to seduce you. You're the ones who have me, me, the ugly old animal with the droopy breasts and the big feet, and it's only just that I should reciprocate in kind, no? That I should have you.
And I have had you, all kinds of you. You know, I can't even say which of you are my favorites? There is so much to be had there. So much. I like the gorgeous ones, of course I do. Who doesn't? Sometimes I spare a thought for mortal man when I'm astride some lush African beauty, letting my gaze travel over all that powdery blackness, all that dusted skin in soft curves, all motionless with terror and the sweeter for it. They never move much, the beautiful ones. They let me do all the moving and I do it gladly as I slide myself closer to their lush half-open mouths and paint their lips with my juices. They suckle like babies, mindless, or maybe they try to scream. It all feels the same to me. Sweet.
Sometimes I let them scream. Yes, I am cruel. Deliciously cruel. I scratch their eyelids just as they're beginning to stir and they start awake and all they see is my face an inch from theirs, all eyes and hair, and all they feel is my body stretched out atop theirs, weighing them down so that they cannot move a limb. And my hand over their mouths, naturally. The whimpers aren't usually enough to rouse the man in the same bed. But they are enough to arouse me.
Beautiful defenseless creatures.
I like them young. Not children. Young women, girls almost, with their nipples just budding and the angles and lines of youth just beginning to soften into womanhood. So innocent. So petal-soft everywhere. I can sit for hours at the foot of their beds, gently reaching one hand under their night-gowns and playing with their slick little cunts. Watch the shudders of unconscious joy ripple through them, watch them writhe, helpless and aroused, delicious. Such sweet little slippery things. Some days all I do is look my fill, devouring the pretty little flowers with my eyes and fingers.
And some days I come armed. And then I wait for that first twitch, that first inkling of awareness. That's when I strike, always. It is the touch of me, of my skin, the weight of my warm body against theirs, that makes them freeze. They want to move, but they can't. Delicious captivity, to be wide awake and trapped under a creature that asks they know not what. And inevitably gets it. That is what I have my weapon for.
<
br /> Mind, I don't use it on everybody. No, they've got to have caught my fancy. Invited me in. A lush curve of buttock peeking between crumpled sheets. Or when they turn in their sleep and spread their legs for me, unknowing of what is to come. They're the sweetest ones -- sprawled on their back with their legs spread, so sleep-softly inviting.
They get the sword. Well, no. It's not really a sword, although it's hilted like one. It is the one thing my body lacks, so I wield it in my hand instead of my groin. It's always hard, beautifully weighted and a joy to see disappearing between slick folds of tender skin. I hold it in my hand -- I'm always close enough to watch it going in, watch the reluctant sweet girl opening up to me, giving me her juices, while my other hand is taking care of my own needs. She is wide awake, paralyzed, staring down at me between her thighs, filled, throbbing, overwhelmed with fear and lust. A heady potion to me and I drink my fill in deep powerful thrusting draughts. Lap up the last drops from their sweet source, listen to the breathy moans, barely any voice in them, and I feel her beginning to twitch and writhe. My hold on her is loosening, she will be fully awake soon, her skin coated in the memory of dry oppressive warmth, her sex swollen and needy, her mouth dry as if she'd been moaning all night.
That is when she will shake her head, violently, tremblingly, and reach for the light switch or the ember or the candle, and stare straight ahead for a few heartbeats and then shake her head again. That is when she will convince herself, once more, that it was just a bad dream. They always do. That is why it feels like the first time to them every time I come back. It feels like the first time when I'm there sitting on their chests or on their thighs, taking possession of their sweet sweaty skin. And it feels like it wasn't real when they've convinced themselves they're awake.
They were awake. When they are with me, they are awake. They are having me. And I am having them. It's only fair.
I am your nightmare. And you are my girls.
Fall
By Alex Draven
"Fuck off!"
The second centaur didn't budge. For fuck's sake. It was too hot to move, the air heavy and about set to start pissing down with rain, and he'd left his cigarettes inside. Nigh on twenty minutes since the knock had rung through the warehouse and he still wasn't quite self-destructive enough to turn his back on a strange stallion standing in his own front drive.
"I said, fuck off. I'm not interested."
The little bastard just stood there, arms crossed and one hind leg cocked, the very picture of relaxed patience.
It was winding him up. Another few minutes of silence and nothing had changed except his mood.
"Oh for fuck's sake. Stand there as long as you like. I've got things to do." Pet backed up a couple of paces, shaking his head and whisking his tail, and then snagged the door, pulling it closed behind him.
Fuck.
He let out a kick that left the walls of the warehouse ringing.
Roll on thunder.
Roll on thunder and air conditioning and Cashman's Royals and a bottle or six of beer.
Roll on forgetting and not having ghosts from your fucking past turn up in the front yard and look at you, like you owed it to them to live up to whatever fucked-up expectations they had. The movements between the kitchen benches and the fridge -- lighting up, grabbing a beer, kicking the dented door shut again -- were an easy ritual. Familiar. The beer and the smoke felt good, too. Pet raised an eyebrow and a mock-toast to the ceiling when a crash of thunder rattled the walls again and the heavy drumming of rain started up.
Three out of four. Not bad. ***
It hadn't been this bad in months. The beer wasn't stopping that prickly feeling at the base of his skull that itched from being away from a herd.
A neck full of whisky didn't do anything either. His scars ached, his back pulled, and the skin on his haunches -- just out of reach, thank you fucking gods - kept ticcing. Twenty five minutes in he abandoned the attempt to program despite it all. He hit the magic pizza button twice and went to fetch another brace of beers. He was pissing himself off at this point. Fifteen minutes more of waiting didn't make that any sweeter.
The warehouse buzzer went. His ears flicked and he caught the putputput of a moped before he reached the door.
He nodded to himself. "Fucking predictable, colts," he growled to no one in particular before he opened it.
And there he was. The rain had darkened his haunches almost black and that slick leather jacket was doing nothing to help his white T stay opaque. Skinny little drowned rat.
Give the lad credit -- he didn't say anything, just hefted the pizza boxes.
There was a long moment of silence.
"Fuck it -- come in." This time he did turn his back -- let a good clear view of his ass show the kid what a big scary threat Pet rated him.
He heard the door slide closed, and hoof-falls on rubber following him.
Straight into the kitchen.
Fucking predictable.
"Stick them on the counter. And don't touch the beers, colt." The kid did as he was told and kept his rubbernecking to a discreet minimum to boot. Pet shoved one box back toward him.
"And for fuck's sake eat something and stop shivering." The kid nodded and opened the box. The scent hit Pet -- vegetarian, the works, extra cheese, hold the fucking olives. The kid sniffed suspiciously. Pet ignored him in favor of his own pizza and yet another fine beer.
Three slices in the colt had to go and interrupt him.
"'m Matthias."
"You what?" Pet demanded. "My name -- I'm Matthias."
"Well hoo-fucking-ray for that." Pet's tail was swinging and his ears were back and if the colt couldn't figure out that that meant 'shut the fuck up', well -- who the fuck had raised him anyway?
Another slice and a half. Another beer.
"Thank you," Matthias interrupted -- again. "For the pizza and everything."
Pet stamped the hind leg he had been resting. "You were pissing me off, skulking out there." "I didn't know where else to go."
Just like that. Like he was meant to give a shit. What was he? Centaurs Anonymous? "Kid - does it look like I give a fuck?" The kid wisely decided to shut up and finish his second slice. One thing was still bugging Pet. "How the fuck did you find me anyway?" "How many centaurs are there in Dimmity?
He emptied the bottle and tapped out a cigarette while he considered that. "Fuck that - why Dimmity? Why me?"
The colt kept his eyes looking down and away, but his voice was even. Points for balls, at least. "I told you, I saw you go. Want to be like you more than I want to be like Taymore."
"You'd rather be a wreck than a megalomaniac murdering fuckhead -- good for you, colt, good for you!" More like him. There's a fucking laugh. Yeah, the beer and whisky were certainly doing something. So fucking what if the laughter had enough acid in it to etch glass.
Matthias looked down, side-stepping nervously, angling his hindquarters away.
"Or that not quite what you had in mind? Yeah well, me fucking either. Get over it."
The colt snorted at him. Snorted. Like it was a fucking bad joke. Pet was over there in seconds. He had the kid's arm in a painful lock before Matthias could react. Leaning his full weight up alongside Matthias’ body was probably digging the fucking counter top into the colt's shoulder nicely, too.
"You wanted to say something?" Patented Threatening Politeness Voice Number 3 -- nice.
And his own brain sneering at him -- even better.
The kid twisted his head to look him in the eye. All of six inches between them. Breathing in his fucking face.
"You surely haven't."
Pet's eyes widened and he jerked the kid's wrist a little higher. Fucked up little tyke thought he knew something.
Only once he'd started talking, the kid didn't fucking stop. "Are you ever going to get over it, Patrocles?"
"Pet." For some godsdammned reason that seemed important. "Patrocles is long gone. My name is Pet."
He dropped the kid's
arm, moved away. Took everything he had not to lose it, to keep his voice level. "Now get the fuck out of here."
The colt rubbed his bruised wrist and gave Pet an obvious once over, all bullshit and bravado. "You think Dios would be proud of you now?"
Pet blanked out. When he came back to himself he was panting hard, the kitchen was trashed. That fucking kid was still there, nursing his bleeding arm carefully and sporting some choice hoof-shaped cuts and bruises.
Still fucking looking at him. Pet wiped an arm roughly over his face. Looked around to see if the fridge was still standing. It wasn't. The silence was pissing him off again. Words shoving their way out of him. Sharp like barbed wire.
"No. No he's not fucking proud. He's fucking dead. And I'm not. Although maybe if I'm really fucking good someone will finish what Taymore started, sort things out once and for all."
Still with the silence and the looking and the pity crawling all over him like flies.
"That what you want?" The colt's voice was that same low and steady -- just a question, like he was mildly curious about the answer, for fuck's sake.
Pet snorted and kicked at his own belly, tail whisking again. This time it was him looking away. "You think I wanted this?" he said finally. Fuck all else to say, really.
So he walked away.
Scalding hot water on the outside. Burning whisky on the inside.
Maybe he could wash it out.
*** One look in the bathroom when he woke up convinced Pet that that was something better dealt with after a couple of pints of coffee, so he staggered towards the kitchen instead. What greeted him made him stop and watch for a moment, half leaning against the corridor wall.
After about five minutes, he had to ask. "What are you doing?" Fuck, even his own voice was too loud for his head. Matthias didn't turn around, or stop doing whatever it was he was doing on the work surface in front of him. The wreckage from last night had vanished -- the work surface had a few dents, but it was horizontal again and the fridge was rattling away. It looked as though he'd even got the microwave back up and running.
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