by Amber Dawn
But Marlene wasn’t. The thought brought Kate crashing down from the momentary high. Furrows in her face, smooth sewn skin where her lips used to be, skin grafts from her back for the worst places, black threads in her flesh like Frankenstein’s monster. Gutted and cut off. Kate just had scratches down her cheek and along the back of her head; Marlene was transformed. Marlene thought that the Surgeon was something as ridiculous and fantastical as Bloody Mary Worth, like a supernatural Jack the Ripper killing freaks instead of whores. Kate did not know what to think. The bathroom mirror drew her damning curiosity, but she did not want to see Mary in the mirror if what happened was real. If what happened was possible. Which it wasn’t. But Marlene was in a hospital bed, and she knew about Kate. And she looked like Mary.
She wants women who will want her back.
A crack in the mirror, a line of blood down the glass. Her blood.
I always come when I’m called.
She was at her bathroom door before she knew it. The entire space of time between the living area and the bedroom was lost. Her fingers clenched around the brass door knob, tightening in anticipation of whatever was in the room. She had called Mary, and now Mary was calling her—if any of this was real at all. The door opened of its own accord, twisting Kate’s arm until the underside of her wrist was exposed. Fingerprints and bloodstains.
The candle was still flickering deep in its wax, the wick almost burnt through. Invisible hands cupped her face and drew her into sight of the mirror. The door closed behind her. Breath ghosted over mouth until full lips pressed against hers, and Kate could see Mary’s head in the mirror covering her face—everything seemed like a surreal dream.
“You met my dear Marlene,” Mary murmured. Kate could feel each word on her mouth; her tongue licked them away as Mary moved behind her. “She mentioned you this evening. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to kill her. That was my intention, but it’s far more satisfying to let her live.” Fingers threaded through
Kate’s hair, tracing the tender, healing skin there. “There will be other chances.”
“Like me,” Kate said.
Nails like claws digging into her scalp and tearing the scabs away, slicing at the skin over her sternum and ripping her blouse.
“Yes.”
“No.” Kate tried to move. This time she really tried, her muscles tense in effort. But she could not move from where she stood before the mirror.
“You don’t really want to leave,” Mary whispered in her ear.
She slid a hand under the torn fabric of her blouse and traced a line between Kate’s breasts down to her navel. Her other hand began to deftly undo the buttons. Kate would be her fifth Chicago killing. Kate saw her own face on the news, some horrible, unremarkable photograph that no one would want to remember.
“If you wanted to leave, you would be able to walk away without trouble. You could leave this room, this house. I only come when I’m called.”
“I never called you,” Kate said. Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
“Perhaps you don’t remember. But I remember you. You weren’t ready for me then. None of you were.” Mary pulled Kate’s sleeves down and dropped the blouse to the floor.
“Why are you … what happened to you?” She took in every cut on Mary’s face and hands and every stain on her dress. “Did you do those yourself?”
Her skirt fell around her feet in a breath of fabric. Kate tried to cover herself, but her hands stayed listless at her side.
There was a slight hiss in her ear. “Of course I didn’t do these to myself. But you will.”
Mary unfastened her bra, and Kate was left standing in front of the mirror in just her panties.
“And this was what you were when I found you again, when you gave me your first taste,” Mary said, resting her chin on
Kate’s shoulder. Kate’s hand moved of its own volition, cradling the weight of her stomach. The candlelight forgave some things, but not everything, and Kate was captivated. She saw the cuts all over Mary’s face and her own good smooth skin. Mary caressed the length of her arm until her hand covered Kate’s. She pushed Kate’s hand down until her underwear joined the rest of the clothing on the floor. Mary’s other hand grabbed hers and brought it to touch one flat breast.
“What are you doing?” Kate gasped.
“What you were never able to do,” Mary said. “And what he certainly never did. Could you ever bring yourself to touch it?”
Kate felt her stomach lurch as Mary brought her hand further down, and there it was beneath her palm, moist, yielding, with its slight weight. Kate shut her eyes tight, and it made her sensation of touch more intense.
“See, that’s not so bad,” Mary murmured. “I cannot imagine what you were crying for when I came to you. What any of you cry for. You’re what I look for. You’re what I want.”
Pressure in circles. And Mary let go of her hands.
With the first unbidden, unwanted surfacing of pleasure came the teeth into her breast, hard and sharp and keen. Had she screamed? Her eyes were open again, and her hand moved in circles, as though she were in a trance, lips parted, mouth glistening. Mary lifted her head and wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her stained hand. She swallowed the piece of flesh in her mouth and looked into Kate’s eyes through the reflection.
“Now,” Mary said, “can you do the same for me?”
Kate reached back with her left hand but felt nothing but the wall.
“No,” Mary said, and her laughter was clear, bright, and happy. Blue eyes glowed in the darkness. The invisible hand took hers again and brought it to the glass. “In the mirror.”
Kate leaned against the counter, quivering and warm, pushed against the mirror where she could see Mary’s hand. She felt the skin: dry, substantial. Her head lowered as Mary kissed the back of her neck and brought the cold sharp edge of a blade against Kate’s right thigh. The kitchen knife I brought, she thought distantly. Tension coiled delightfully, and fear made her intertwine her fingers with Mary’s. Mary’s face divided as the mirror cracked but merged again as Kate’s blood shuddered onto her skin and into her mouth.
“Come into me,” Mary whispered. She yanked the embedded blade up, and Kate thrust forward and shattered the mirror, falling through.
Your Stockholm Syndrome
Esther Mazakian
Zero to hero, her curves held too much meaning for you and the damage not yet done. Militarily, force-feedings
strip her of her last meal and you, your Sunday palms cool her feet, and she turns to you, the bitch at last in ankle shackles, in love, let’s face it. Your bandages and your stubble-sweat, so middle-eastern in a way, though you’re from Arkansas.
Perspiring and aspiring the dew on your hands sets her livery saliva rivuletting through her between-breasts. Never had sex and food been so connected.
See her eyes stealing your
one lazy leg like it was open prey; hungry
as you
she says, Get the fuck down.
nascent fashion
Larissa Lai
it is dark and she
it is dark so thirsty and the smell
my own body their bodies all this rot
this shit this vomit this blood
i didn’t know i wanted
wanted the white bed
was that so bad?
white bed all crisp cotton and down
high posts a girl
i could yell at
i’d make her pay make her
anger i didn’t see
the mirror myself ghost
white bed for ghost girl
wanted to help my parents
wanted a girl to yell at
this girl this girl
it is dark and she
so thirsty the smell
hunger long gone
air cries crises gap
in the dark my body their bodies
old scarfaced bag that yells
at me i’ll ma
ke her pay
the factory girl that pinches
the girl that cries that pricks her finger
that strains her eyes
the girl with chemical burns
the girl that suffocated the girl
the girl with the severed hand
the girl i want
not this dark
the white bed in the glossy
advertisement i saw and the white
girl in the white dress so pure
i wanted
not this ghost
a girl to do
what i say
not me
this sorrow in the innocent
part the longing
imperialism’s imperative scathes
we dirt even in revolution
desire awry
we force we blood we maim
she body she collective
in our innocent we search
culture’s purgative rhetoric
as machines repetitive wilt spirit
as bones dig mass racial graves
our soft that works tears burns
dismembered and bleeding
she dark she poor
this litany all tongue-stuck and word-full
innocent digs for itself
absolute abstract
calls to body’s miraculous
pulse and warm this soft
reproduce kisses even the gentle
belly all blossom
pretend a fresh garden
sing the charred cell’s
delectable mutation phantom
pleasure of severed limb
chant the cancer regenerative
our brilliant pustules recall brine
of origin the new salt
futures a city of soft
biological meteors replicate
scale our feather our alien
innocent all damp and downy
automaton dreams sightless lovers
maiden form from midden heap
cog gear apple dry leaf mildew
negative map of masculine longing
as tongues catch empty
eye sockets and severed hands
scamper free of corporate entities
i language my body to being
ontology’s on-switch
tender as rubber nipple
my skin flushes
flesh full as any cyborg
i arm my machine love
swing from limbo to limbo
right up the river
my amazon lethal as yellow mud
breathe my golly
my salem sailor’s
supernumerary tipple and
unheimlich familiar
witchy witchy woman
american as gene genie
i replicate my sweet helix
doubled and coiling
you’ve come a long way baby
demonic mnemonic
memory repeats
shell of abandoned girl
flushed fleshy to recall
the want not want shift
of this kiss that stirs
tumble into the crash
the break that can’t
recollect pieces pulpy as
organisms indeterminate life
unsure of entry and sharp
as shrapnel
harmonic hysteric mystic as
eleusis lucidly remembers
future descent into death
forgetful father’s rail of corpses
open wounds protruding bones
that litter occupied streets
bedrooms of houses turned in by children
shattered girls left in stairwells
our good attempts to patch to hide
under a fine layer of leaves
forget to tell the girl
kisses are the plumb line to horror
the first word is silent soft
this gentle call to loss
we girls who understand
dress as boys our armour
hard thick our tongues that cut
raw inside layered under
repeats insistent litany
desire as tomorrow’s memory
ghosting visits our soft mouths wait for
Sido
Suki Lee
I heard that French women are easy, and I think I just found one.
A skin-tight T-shirt and jeans hug the nymphlike curves of her body. A short pixie cut frames her staggeringly beautiful face.
She’s completely sexed and looks about thirty. Best of all, she’s leaning in the open apartment door, looking me up and down like I’m a piece of meat.
“Bonjour,” the sylph says.
“I don’t speak French,” I shrug apologetically, putting my bags down.
I’m winded from walking seven flights up the long spiral wooden staircase to the landing. From there, I had to go through a door and up a ladder to the apartment. Perched on top of an old eighteenth-century building, it’s a bit of an odd place, somewhat resembling a birdhouse.
“Sido Lebris?” I inquire. I’m expecting someone much older than the nubile woman standing before me.
“Yes, zat’s me of course.” She turns on her heels and leads me with a swaying walk into the apartment.
The open loft has two massive barred windows that overlook the city’s silver rooftops. Upstairs is an attic crawl space that will serve as my bedroom during my week-long stay in Paris.
“I guess you’re wanting your rent.” I pull out the money. I can’t help staring at my new landlady. Her sexy body makes me feel crazily alive.
She takes the cash, and looks directly at me. “You want to fuck me? Is zat what you want?” I’m amazed by her directness. I pass her the euros, and watch her erect nipples under her T-shirt. Looking at me with a flirtatious gaze, I get a jolt when she adds, “I bet you taste good.”
Sido walks up to me so we’re almost touching. I’m electrified. She takes the back of my head and brings my mouth to hers, giving me a rough, raunchy kiss. I’m completely overwhelmed by the inside of her mouth. Its hot, wet velvet sets me off. Then suddenly she bites down on the inside of my lip.
“That hurt,” I protest.
Sido steps back, regarding me with amusement. Her tits are so hot that I feel sick to my stomach. “Here are zee keys.” She drops them in my palm, and leaves.
I’m lying on an uncomfortable bed, which is no more than four feet from the skylight. The window is full of scratches. Feathers have lodged inside the wooden frame. When caught in the wind, they whirl around like small satellite dishes sending signals. My lip is swollen where Sido bit it. My mind keeps reiterating our kiss—the absolute eroticism of her wet mouth and her unswerving directness. I wonder if this is how she treats all her tenants. I masturbate and think about her while looking out at the dramatic clouds over the city. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.
I sleep off the jetlag for hours. It’s dusk when I’m awakened by the creaking of the wooden ladder up to the loft. I listen to the groaning of the rungs until the presence of someone in my room is palpable. I open my eyes and gather the blankets around me.
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought you would have left by now,” my nefarious land-lady explains calmly, while scrutinizing me in bed.
“You can’t just come here,” I protest. “I rented the apartment for the week.”
“I need to feed zee chouettes,” Sido states, matter-of-factly.
“I don’t speak French,” I remind her.
“Owls. Zey come every night, because I feed zem.”
“You feed them?”
“I leave zem something to eat outside zee window,” Sido says, gesturing at the skylight.
“Something? Like what?”
“Mice, from my apartment.” Sido gestures with the plastic bag in her hand, which contains a few of their still, tiny bodies.
“You shouldn’t do that. Owls are wild animals.”
Sido has the edge of a tear in her eye, which makes her all the more sexy. It confirms not only that I’m attracted to her, but also that she’s somewhat unhinged.
“Anyways, I think it’s wrong for you to come here,” I tell her.
“Are you sure? You don’t want to fuck me?” Sido asks, looking at me with her sultry brown eyes. I hesitate, and within that moment, she puts the plastic bag down and descends the ladder.
“Put zee mice outside zee window for zee owls tonight!” she calls up to me from the floor below. Then she is gone.
I get out of bed and throw out the disgusting plastic bag. I also organize my suitcase, so I’ll know if Sido’s been through it when I get back. I’m determined not to get involved with her.
She’s trouble.
It’s early evening by the time I venture out into the beauty of Paris. I wander past ornate buildings and statues encumbered by roosting birds. Couples kissing voraciously on the city’s curvy medieval streets get me ruminating about my seductive landlady. Despite Sido’s oddness, I’m brooding over her pornographic body and her sense of entitlement. I crave her like a sinful meal.
Night is falling, so I decide to go to Troisième Lieu for distraction. It’s a women’s bar I read about. When I arrive, it doesn’t disappoint. The long narrow space is packed with women in conversation, eating, drinking, dancing, and kissing. I take a place at the bar and order an absinthe from the hot bartender. My gaze flits from one woman to the next, and I drink up the sight of all the lithe French bodies in this oasis. Eventually, part of me realizes that I’m searching for that hustler, Sido, amidst all this beauty. I feel uneasy that she’s entered my subconscious, so I flirt with the bartender, who flirts back. Eventually, a few women draw me into their conversation.
“I don’t speak French,” I explain.
They switch to English and ask questions about my stay.
While they’re inquiring about my apartment, I interject, “Are there owls in Paris?”
“Owls in Paris? Never. Zey live far from here, in zee country,” says Sylvie, a lecherous older woman who’s already whispered that she wants to take me home tonight.
“My landlady claims that she keeps owls in the city,” I explain.
“Impossible! Zis person is making up stories,” slurs drunken Véronique, who is androgynously attractive.
