by Kojo Black
“What is that?” His voice was so quiet she barely heard him.
“One of the lost ships. I don’t know which one. Norwich has its share of shipwrecks.” Her arms ached from pressing her palms so hard against the glass, holding back the storm writhing only a few feet from them. “I can’t hold it anymore.” She dropped her arms to her sides. Immediately, the phantom ship collapsed in trillions of rain droplets and fell into the sea.
Tibor said nothing. Sierra rubbed the cramp out of her arms, and waited for him to say something. Anything.
“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.
Say you aren’t afraid of me. “I know. I don’t show something like that to people often, but when I do, they’re dumbfounded.”
“Why did you choose to show it to me?”
Her heart thumped with anxiety as she revealed herself to him. “Because I trust you. And I like you. I took a chance with you, and I hope I made the right decision.”
He smiled at placed a hand on her shoulder. “You did. I’m speechless, and that’s rare for me.”
She flexed her hands, working away the stiffness. “I hope I didn’t scare you. I’m really quite harmless.” She turned to him, but he wouldn’t look at her. He only stared out to sea, searching amid the waves. Was he looking for more magic? “I usually cast protection spells and read tarot cards, although I’ve never been able to read my own future. I’m not good at that.”
“You can read cards?” He turned to her and squeezed her shoulder, not holding back his eagerness. Her body eased into his touch, happy at his attention. “I haven’t had a card reading done since I was a child.” He smiled at her. “My grandmother used to read them. She was quite good.”
“Did I put you out?”
“I don’t understand what you mean—what is ‘put out’?”
She swallowed hard, nervous. “Did I scare you?”
“A little.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she took his hand in hers. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. You sure you don’t cast curses?”
She giggled, still nervous. “No, I haven’t had a need to. Would you like me to read cards for you?”
His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. She relaxed a little, since he seemed to be warming to her again. “I’d love that. You surprise me, Sierra. You’re a very exciting woman.”
She took him by the hand and guided him back to the swing. “It’s too dark in here. Let me light some candles. Watch me. You’ll get a kick out of this.”
He sat and she walked to a dark red pillar and blew on the wick. The flame sparked to life. Tibor laughed. She turned to smile at him, walked to the next candle, and blew the flame alive. His smile lit up his face.
“You amaze me. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. You’re magical in more ways than one.”
“I need some champagne,” she said. “That little trick with the ship took a lot out of me.” She sat on the swing next to him as he poured champagne for them both. Lightning forked against the clouds far out at sea, reaching for the heavens and crashing against the waves.
“That show was very impressive, but this storm is impressive all by itself. Your view is incredible. I’ve never seen a storm at sea before,” he said. “It’s rained near my home but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“This is a typical Nor’easter. They’re intense and perfect for spending time indoors enjoying a meal by candlelight.”
“And other things.” He grinned.
She giggled in agreement. “You’re right about that. So you’re okay with me now?”
“I’ve never not been okay with you.”
“Good. I hope you keep coming back. I know you aren’t far away. You live in Rockport?” Rockport was the coastal town about 20 miles south of Norwich.
“Yes, in mid-town in a 200 year old rental. I love it. Living in this area is like going back in time.”
“Norwich and Rockport do have that other-era quality about them. In winter they look like a Currier and Ives painting when it snows.”
“I know who they are. My family sends me Christmas cards with those paintings on the front.” He patted her shoulder, and in response she curled her body into his. Tension left her as she realized he wasn’t going to flee her home in terror knowing who and what she was. They relaxed in the swing and sipped champagne for several minutes in silence, listening to the call of the storm. Sierra felt at peace, secure in knowing Tibor would not leave her.
Sirens howled in the distance and grew louder as they approached her home. Red and blue lights flashed past her windows. The sirens dopplered to a lower pitch as the ambulance and police crew sped down the road.
Curious, Sierra stood up and walked to her stereo. “I wonder what that’s all about?” She turned on the radio and turned the knob to a local station. “The news here is pretty quick. There might be a report already about what’s going on.”
Static crackled from the speakers and a deep voice spoke. “… flooding along the Rowley and Norwich coast leading into Innsmouth. Police report a single car accident on Atlantic Road two miles south of Norwich at the Old Cape Beach Bridge, which has been destroyed by heavy rain. The inhabitants of the car are presumed washed out to sea. Helicopter crews are scanning the area looking for survivors. The road has collapsed in severe flooding. Gale force winds, heavy rain and flood warning in effect until 10 am tomorrow morning. Please remain indoors and do not drive except in the event of an emergency. Avoid Atlantic Road until further notice …”
A chill descended over Sierra. “Didn’t you say you took Atlantic Road to get here?”
“Yes.” His quiet voice couldn’t hide his unease. “I remember crossing that bridge. The tide was so high it was almost up to the road around it. I’d have taken that route to get home.”
Sierra understood Cymopoleia’s warning. Although she feared his reaction, she felt an urgent need to tell Tibor about her dream. “Well, you’ve seen my books. You saw the galleon. I told you I practice ocean magic. I didn’t tell you the truth when I said I couldn’t remember much of my dream. I remember it very vividly.” She paused to swallow, but her dry throat only clenched with anxiety. “It was about you.”
“How? What did you dream?”
“I saw a goddess I’ve been familiar with for a long time. She’s a storm goddess, and her Greek name is Cymopoleia. She’s the one I called to give you that little demonstration at sea. This is the first time she ever appeared to me. She told me to not let you leave my home tonight.”
Tibor blinked a few times. Sierra saw the trepidation on his face. “So you think I would have tried to cross that bridge and possibly drowned in the ocean?”
“Seems obvious enough to me.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen your magic in action myself. This is very unnerving. I’m grateful to you for the warning. And to your goddess. It’s very unsettling. I think you need to hold me now and make me feel better.” He smiled at her, clearly taking advantage of his situation.
She walked to him and wrapped her arms around him. His arms hugged her back, and she felt secure in his embrace. When she lifted her head, he smiled at her again and lowered his face to hers. Their lips touched, first with hesitation, and then with passion to intense she melted in his arms. Their kiss blossomed into the passion she felt for him as her tongue found his. He tasted of coconut, exotic fruit, and mint. His manly scent floated around her, making her so dizzy she clung to him fearing she’d topple over in her excitement. Her head spun as his tongue explored her mouth. How long had she craved a man who attended to her every need and lusted after her as much as she lusted after him? Had it been weeks? Months? No man she had dated thus far could match Tibor in the rugged manhood department. He felt comfortable in his body and it showed in the way he kissed her and made love to her. She liked a man who enjoyed himself.
; When was the last time she trusted a man so fully as to show him her power? Despite not knowing him well, something about Tibor urged her to reveal herself to him. She took a chance, and he responded well to her. She couldn’t let him get away from her, especially since she could so easily have lost him to the sea.
She glanced at the clock and saw that only a short time had passed since he had arrived on her doorstep. “Are you hungry? I think dinner is warm enough by now, even with the blackout. The oven holds heat very well.”
“I’m starving. That little ocean display gave me an appetite. Your fruit salad was incredible but I need a meal for sustenance.”
She took him by the hand and guided him from her deck and into her living room, pausing on the way to pick up the fruit salad. Both of them were stark naked. She placed the salad on the dining room table, and gave him a sweet smile. As she walked around the dining room table and blew the flames onto the extinguished candles, Tibor’s eyes widened in astonishment and he smiled with approval. Once their plates were full of his exquisite Hungarian food, she set them on her table. Tibor took his seat, waiting for her. But, instead of sitting beside him, Sierra walked to her coffee table to grab her favorite tarot deck before returning to the dinner table. It was a deck depicting cats of exotic breeds. She loved cats. Her own puss slept in his bed in her living room, oblivious to the storm. Once the meal was finished, she would introduce him to Tibor. She took a seat at the head of the table away from their plates, and called Tibor over.
“Let me read a spread for you, since you asked, and then one for us. I love reading the tarot. This way, we can look into our futures and decide how we want to go about things.” She laid out a spread of cards. “But first, let’s have more of my fruit salad. It’s given us good luck so far this evening.”
She spooned some oranges and maraschino cherries into his mouth, and he closed his eyes as the juice burst onto his tongue, a contented smile unfurling across his handsome face. Sitting back, happy and serene, her upcoming days looked bright and full of magic. She might never have been good at reading her own future, but she had confidence that the future held only love and passion for her and Tibor.
The Cherry Orchard
A Steampunk Fairy Tale
Vanessa de Sade
“We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruit,
Who knows upon what soil they fed, their hungry, thirsty root.”
–Christina Rossetti (Goblin Market)
Chapter One – Magda and Victor
Though all the trees have perished, in her dream she is still surrounded by cherries, bunch after bunch of rich garnet-black orbs, clusters of them glistening-wet like luscious just-licked lips waiting breathlessly to be kissed, a plethora of erotic wishes desperate to be fulfilled, or, perhaps, a million shattered promises just waiting to be broken and lie in jagged fragments like discarded mirror shards at her bleeding bloody feet. Who could tell?
And even when she wakes—naked, sweat-drenched and panting, her heart pounding like an overcharged defibrillator—she can still taste them sweet and sickly in her mouth, their purple-black sap pungent, almost bittersweet, on her own dry lips.
And, strange though it might seem, her future seems to lie before her in that magical forest, all her expectations contained in the waxy, glossy fruit, just waiting to burst open anew and awaken the forgotten sensations that she feels have atrophied centuries before …
No one remembers the old Paris. The iron tower remains, of course, or what’s left of it, at any rate. Though Magda doesn’t much like it. It reminds her of her dreams, she says, with its mangled metal arms reaching vainly into the white cloudless sky like a mad woman writhing in a gray bed, or the sea when the storm winds come to gobble up more and more chunks of the fragile coastline, whole cliff faces and even cities crumbling into the boiling cauldron that is now the ocean.
The Party denies it all of course, saying that reports of The Erosion are greatly exaggerated, but Magda, a State Cartographer and no dumb bunny to boot, knows better, though she keeps her seditious opinions quietly to herself. Her position has given her access to some of the New Republic’s oldest atlases in the restricted rooms of the great windowless library on the Rue de Celeste, hefty leather-bound volumes that smell of salt spray and dried grasses, heavy as a sleeping child and bigger than her straining arms; yet she pores lovingly over them daily and reads them like adventure stories, seeing not tables of crop allocations or pestilence barriers, but the living contours of the great mountain ranges of the north, their snowy peaks immense like great white breasts arising from the fertile body of the old earth; or the vast immeasurable oceans, mighty like speckled mares pawing angrily against their landlocked halters.
Today, though, it is Saturday and she heads not to her allocated place of employment but to the Automation House of Madame Augustine. An old nineteenth century mansion which slumps sleepily on the steep slope on what is left of the Rue Montmarte, tucked neatly into the shadow of the shattered black tower of the now derelict Ministry of Aviation building, and invisible to the prying eyes of patrol ships as they sail majestically by above, great ocean liners of the sky with their long observation decks and glinting brass telescopes silently observing an annotating.
Magda especially likes this particular Automaton House because Madame does not charge in credits, preferring instead the soft warmth of the antique copper Centimes of the Old Order which can still be bartered for Food Tokens from the Carpet Baggers on the Boulevards, hasty exchanges made in the cat-pee-scented shadows of the dry bridges in the wake of the Patrols, everyone still alert for silent whales creeping menacingly across the polished platinum of the noonday skies.
Sun goggles are issued with glass that is a bright ocher-orange verging on red nowadays, making the blistering pavements look like pock-marked kiln-fired terracotta, but they hurt Magda’s eyes and she still prefers her ancient set of ex-military issue in a cool green, turning the stifling noonday streets into soft undersea cycloramas, the passing Damsels in their summer frocks and high-piled hair ornaments like fecund mermaids beckoning her into their coral-flower bowers.
And a Patrol Ship passes soundlessly by now as she strides boldly along the Rue Montmarte, momentarily blotting out the burning sun with its lumbering bulk, a huge verdigrised behemoth in tarnished copper, myriads of dials and levers swirling in a perpetual symphony of brass cogs and steel rivets, a humming analogue beehive unceasingly cataloging everyone’s every move, the blank-eyed faces of the Observers on the viewing decks expressionless as they identify her and record her locale, the thin spidery masts at the rear of the ship beaming all their data soundlessly back to the whirring calculation units in Party Central.
Not that visiting Automation Houses is technically illegal, of course, and with the shortage of fertile men after the Second Great Pestilence, even the Party Stalwarts have been forced to turn a blind eye to their existence, acknowledging in secret memorandums that they do, in fact, form an integral part of maintaining discipline in the Republic. But it is still not good to have too many visits to them recorded on your files, and many a Citizen has been transported to the Mutant Zones on the strength of an Excessive Decadence charge, an attached record of credits cashed at establishments of ill repute being sufficient evidence to uphold the order.
So, breathing like a lonely deep sea diver in her private subterranean world, Magda, resplendent in her best Dandy suit, stops and quickly stoops on one knee, ostensibly taking care of an unlaced boot, until the great air vessel sails by above her and then counts to sixty, as she has been taught, clearing the range of the viewing deck’s data sweep, and then, rising, darts like a quicksilver fish into the softly curtained vestibule of Madame’s domain.
And, at first, she can see nothing in the womb-like gloom, her flinty blue eyes sun-blinded despite the green goggles and the visor of her neat brown derby. But then, gradually, as she unfastens her ocular prot
ection, her vision become accustomed to the gloom, and she discerns the padded doorway to her place of enchantment behind the thick and all-enveloping red velvet drapes.
Madame has her usual room ready, a modest chamber on the third floor with carpet on the floor and old sepia photographs of naked women on the walls. And though many of the ladies who patronize this house question the very existence of all the female pornography on its walls, Magda finds a quiet pleasure in studying these softly arousing images while she’s being fucked. Not for erotic stimulation, per se, or even for the body comparison that some of her friends indulge in, weighing up the heavy udder-like bosoms of those long-dead courtesans against their own little bubs as the Automatons tirelessly service their aching cunts. No, Magda finds no stimulation in competition, but there is, nevertheless, a hunger in her for the stories that these concupiscent images have to tell.
Today, for example, she regards a heavy-hipped voluptuary who stands preening into the camera, naked save for her new ostrich feather hat and gleaming leather lace-up ankle boots, a luxuriant fur wrap draped casually over a chair in the background and expensive clothing strewn upon the freshly polished floor. Her breasts are pert and pointy, stomach and thighs rounded and nubile, and her cunt shaved smooth and her slit obvious. Ah, men’s cocks must have risen like the morning tide, Magda muses, following the curves and contours of all that exposed labia as though it were a map in her place of work, visualizing the eager tongues which would have flicked and teased at the almost certainly large clit that nestled just out of sight of the camera’s probing lens. No wonder clients lavished furs and velvets upon this Victorian Venus, sucking on her pointy little tits like hungry piglets at the teat, impatient to push their big slippery cocks up inside her, coming like tropical geysers within seconds of being admitted to that most holy of valleys, vying amongst each other for her hand and her heart, all of them rich with promises of bonbons and apartments on the Champs Élysée where they would keep her, secret and hidden, a brightly-colored butterfly fluttering on the pin of their outward respectability. No wonder she mocked them with her laughing eyes and elfish grin.
