by John Everson
Mark blew.
The sound was harsh, rushed, fearful. He squinted his eyes shut and thought hard of his mother. Of her hugs, of her caring. It made him squirm to admit to himself that he did love her, that he missed her. He pictured the two of them walking, joking, kicking stones into the pond…
The flute trilled from flat, to sharp, to a major key. As Mark thought of the good times he’d had, and could still have with his mother, his fingers sped faster and faster. They burned with pent-up feeling, and just as he felt a gate open, in his heart and all around him, the troll grabbed him.
“Noooo you don’t boy. Not escaping that way.” A claw ripped his shirt.
Mark opened his eyes as he hit the top note of the flute’s range. The troll slapped the instrument from his hand. The tip splintered in his mouth with a wayward whistle and flew up to strike against the ceiling. But with the sound of that last note, as the claws shredded his shirt, Mark also felt himself grow lighter, as if he were dissolving in the tune…
…and then he was standing, one foot in the muskrat hole.
He blinked, his eyes blinded by the greying dusk. After the green glow of the caverns, the edge of the night was as brilliant as noon. He pulled his foot from the hole, then looked for the flute. Had he lost it in the cavern?
There. A grey tube half hidden beneath a leaf. He grabbed for it, and came up with half the flute. Then he saw the other piece, a yard away. He pressed the two halves together and they fit without flaw. He hadn’t lost any slivers. Crazy glue could join them, but could he ever play a magical song again?
Slipping both pieces in his pocket, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to. Life was tough enough without trolls trying to turn you into dinner. Though he’d like to see the girl again…
The warm, musty smell he’d always hated about the house seemed welcoming, not stale tonight as he pushed through the door and into the kitchen. Grandma was fixing dinner and her mouth dropped when she looked up from peeling potatoes at the sink.
“Mark, what happened to you? Are you alright?”
His mother’s voice sounded from the front room. “What’s wrong? Mark?”
She rushed into the kitchen, her face the mask of concern he recognized from so many nights when he’d been sick and she’d sat beside his bed. She came halfway across the room, then slowed, and stopped. She knew he hated her fussing, and she was trying to give him space.
“What did you do to your lip – and your arm?”
He touched his mouth and his fingers came away bloody. From when the troll had smashed the flute into his mouth as he played. It hadn’t hurt until now, but it was swelling, he could tell. The pain suddenly hit him with a dull snap.
Kicking off his muddy shoes, he crossed the kitchen and threw his arms around his mother. Then he stepped back a pace.
“I’m fine, I just fell in a hole by the pond and got cut up a little.”
He met her eyes then, and saw the love and pain mixed there. “I’m sorry about before, Ma. Really.”
“So’m I, kiddo,” she reached out and ruffled his hair. “Hey, your hair’s wet, too!”
“I know, I know. The… um… hole had water in it. I’m gonna go up and shower and then I’ll be down for dinner, okay?”
“Why don’t you take off your shirt and let me look at that…”
“Ma…”
“Right. Wash up.”
“There’s alcohol and bandages in the linen closet,” his grandma offered.
“I know. I’ll be down in a bit.”
He walked between the two women and down the hall to the stairs. And it didn’t feel like he was escaping. For once, he thought as he climbed the stairs, he might enjoy Grandma’s bland cooking. For once, this house seemed as wide as he wanted his world to be. Tonight, he might even be in the mood for some small talk.
Pulling the broken flute from his pocket, he stared at it for a moment. Then he walked to the bed, slid it away from the wall, and opened the door to the eaves. There was the box, barely visible on the floor a few feet away. He tossed the instrument, heard the pieces clatter to the bottom, then slammed the door shut.
He stripped off his clothes, wincing as his sleeve pulled at the already-scabbing arm. He hurried to the bathroom to clean up. He wanted to get back downstairs quickly.
For the first time in a long while, he was hungry.
~*~
TRICK AND TREAT
The exit ramp for Willow Springs comes up fast, hidden as it is behind a copse of dense trees and brush, but I didn’t miss it. Not with my eyes straining to see it for miles before I was even close. This was a rendezvous I desperately wanted.
Needed.
I hate to be alone on a holiday. Even a little holiday like Halloween. To sit in the dim yellow light of a living room leafing through the latest People magazine or watching “Talk Soup” on cable while in every house around you people are gathered together: lovers, families, friends… It’s just too dismal to deal with. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, the Fourth of July, and yes, even Halloween, I try to fill with company; anyone besides myself. This particular occasion was going to cost me cash to indulge my desire, but hey, if I wasn’t paying for affection in this way, I’d be paying for it in another, right? Engagement diamonds, matching towels, a sofa set that didn’t have sagging springs… So maybe this way was cheaper.
I saw her as soon as I hit the exit: long black hair flowing over an army jacket that stretched baggily to her knees. Her legs were provocatively bare from knees to her ankles which were protected in dark miliary boots. Her face gleamed bone-white in the headlights, which I flipped to parking lights only as I pulled onto the shoulder.
“Alex?” I called out the window, still safely belted into my seat.
She nodded and immediately moved to the passenger door.
“What’ll it be tonight?” she asked, as she slid into the seat beside me. I could smell her as soon as she opened the door, a sweet mix of jasmine and soap.
Good. I always worried about hygiene in these situations.
“I thought we’d drive up 41 a couple miles and pull off the road for a couple hours, if that’s okay with you. There’s a mattress in back.”
She glanced into the back of the van and shrugged, apparently unconcerned.
“Fine. Two hundred dollars up front. And a guaranteed ride back here.” Her voice was light as a summer breeze, but its tone was no-nonsense. I didn’t counter. “Deal.” I held out my hand and she gave me a tired smile; her grip was strong.
I pulled out the cash, and slipped in an extra fifty for incentive. Her eyes lit when she counted the cash and came out ahead.
“Let’s go!” she grinned.
There’s a great little side road off 41 that leads down into the woods and ends just a couple blocks short of the canal. The best part about the road is that the lone house that it leads to was abandoned when its owner died a few years back, and the “condemned” notice on the window, not to mention the rather predictable flooding it undergoes almost every spring, has kept any interested parties from snapping it up. The pavement is more like a gravel road these days than blacktop, as every year the ice and overflowing canal carry it away in chunks.
It was to this private drive that I took Alex for a Halloween date. It wasn’t your standard holiday get-together filled with love and affection and Rockwellian warmth, but it was something. I wasn’t sitting at home alone, answering the door to a bunch of barely-costumed teenagers looking for free candy every ten minutes.
As I turned off the engine at the end of the road, she made a show of unbuttoning her heavy khaki coat. I watched with growing excitement, catching glimpses of her pale skin through the opening of her coat. All at once she yanked it fully open, exposing firm white breasts and a beautiful dark pit of a belly button.
“Trick or treat!” she called out, and I must have blushed as her teats jiggled in the blue light of the dash.
She laughed and slipped the coat off. She was completely naked unde
rneath, and I could feel my interest stirring. Or should I say rising?
“Actually, it should be ‘and’ not ‘or,’” she announced, sliding closer, her flesh squeaking on my vinyl seats.
“Huh?”
“You’re the trick and I’m the treat.”
I had to laugh at that, but couldn’t for too long. She thrust one soft, wide-rimmed nipple into my mouth almost immediately.
“What do you like, baby?” she purred.
I moaned a little, sucking harder on her nipple.
One cool hand scratched through my hair, coming to a stop at the back of my neck. She squeezed. “Tell me,” she demanded, her grip uncomfortably tight. She had amazingly strong hands.
I broke away from the kiss, and looked up at her, embarrassment showing.
“I… I like to be told what to do,” I admitted. “I like to feel nails and teeth all over my body. I like to feel… um, raped, kind of.”
“Had a feeling,” she nodded, looking not at all surprised. Maybe it was my extra cash or my red face. Whatever gave me away, my dark kink didn’t phase her for a second.
“Take off your clothes,” she said. Her lips were pouty and red – an incredibly sensual combination – but I could see in her eyes that she was bored by this routine. How many guys wanted her to slap them around then fuck them, like they were little boys being Mrs. Robinson-ed, to climax? I didn’t want to know.
I did as she commanded, my heart skipping a beat as I slid out of my jeans. My cock bobbed out of my underwear like a lazy dog’s tail, and she grabbed me by its head. Not the most comfortable leash I’ve ever been on.
“Let’s go back here.” She pulled me, hard, to the bed in the back of the van, and pushed me down on the thin mattress.
“So you like it rough, huh? We can do that. Get on your hands and knees.”
I rolled over, presenting my ass to her. She promptly met it with the palm of her hand. “I think you need to warm up a bit before we start anything.”
I cried out at the next slap of her hand, reveling at the heat building in my ass and groin and spreading through my chest. My arms began to tremble.
“Roll over,” she commanded, and I did. My view of the world darkened as she straddled my face and bent to lick my belly.
“Eat,” she said, her voice growing throaty now. Maybe I was turning her on a little, even if it was only business. That made me glad – I liked to actually be friends with the company I kept on holidays. I could jack myself off anytime I wanted. Without human connection, that’s all this would be – glorified masturbation. I wanted something a little deeper than that.
I felt teeth suddenly gripping my cock, and I cried out, the sound smothered in the musky, slick muzzle she held me in.
I bit back, and a tremor ran down her thighs. Her teeth moved up and down, scraping me painfully, and my desire grew.
Her nails began raking my ribs, and I twisted in that weird mix of masochistic pleasure and pain beneath her. I slapped at her ass, and she bit me back, harder. I must have screamed.
I was worried she’d broken the tender skin of my cock, but worry quickly slipped away. Fear was taking its place. I suddenly felt trapped, helpless. And her actions grew more violent. Her nails felt like tiny razors, slicing hard at my skin. I could picture tissue-thin strips of skin rolling off my body. I tried to push her off of me. I was getting scared, even as my penis grew harder. Don’t they say that a man’s cock is often at its hardest right after death?
This was too much, I couldn’t handle it.
But her legs locked around my face, her nether lips seemed to loosen and kiss me deeper. My cock was engorged and powerful, thrusting on its own into the toothy heaven of her mouth. And just as I was ready to throw her from me with all my might, she released me, and came up to stare into my eyes.
“Now I’m going to fuck you,” she announced. “Don’t try to get away.”
She sat down on me, and I could feel the sore spots on my cock where she’d chewed me. If I survived this little adventure, I was going to be walking funny tomorrow. But right then, those raw spots only made the pressure she was exerting unbearably hot. She raked at my chest with her nails, and now I saw them as claws, digging into me. I cried out, and I saw in her eyes the cruel flames of power, of lust. She was totally turned on by my pain, and I could tell from the set of her jaw that she wasn’t going to stop. She wanted my blood.
Her head came down, her mouth wide open, and I could see the points of her canines. What had I brought into my bed? She buried her teeth in my neck, and I came, buried inside her. With excitement and sadness I realized that we had passed the point of no return.
Suddenly, I flipped her so that I was atop her.
Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw the glitter in my own. I mashed my mouth to hers, and her hands began raking my back – not in her powerful sadism of moments before, but in terror.
I couldn’t pull back now. The sore spot on my neck from her teeth sung in my veins, of mating and feasting, and the two within me were entwined. I bit off the tongue that was struggling to push me from her mouth. She tasted so good!
The hot stream of blood triggered my transformation.
Teeth extended, hands turned to yellow-clawed knives, I ripped open her throat as she screamed one short burst of terror.
I hope, at least, that she came before she died. I was too swollen with bloodlust to ask her.
I suckled her bountiful breasts briefly before chewing them off. Then I followed that sweet white trail from sternum to belly to dark musky delta. I thrust my snout back in where I had been so recently lapping as a man, bit off the tender flaps of her vulva. Oh, they were succulent. And her scent – ripe with sex and blood – sent my head reeling.
With one claw I poked at her deep belly button, and then with a hooking motion, ripped the creamy skin away. Oh, the meaty smell! I dove in as if she were a deep blue pool, slobbering with hunger as I rolled my head through her kidneys, feasted on the steamy coils of her entrails.
At last, sated in both cock and belly, I sat back on my haunches, and with some return of intellect, looked at her once more.
Her body was as beautiful now, still and shattered, as it had been mounting my manhood in frothy lust. Her limbs lay akimbo; marble-white death framed against crimson. I leaned forward to lick a spot of blood from her still pouting lips.
I hadn’t wanted to harm her, but she took me too far. At the high point of passion, a man can’t control himself.
And I’m not, after all, wholly a man.
I felt the beginnings of regret, as my teeth receded a bit, and my hands thinned slowly back to the type of fingers meant to peck on computer keyboards from the hooked claws meant to filet live dinners.
I sighed, looking at the hard beauty of her face. She had been too good for her own good. I really had only meant to have a little sex and company tonight.
I try to reserve my wild holiday slaughters for Thanksgiving. But sometimes I can’t control my instincts.
I backed the van slowly onto an overgrown path and down a canal loading ramp so that its rear end bubbled up with water. I thought that perhaps it was best that I didn’t have a family to spend time with on holidays.
The noise level at dinner would be unbearable. And the mess to deal with afterwards! I also doubted if they’d consider it polite to fuck your food before eating it. Families can be funny that way.
I pulled the parking brake up, sloshed my way into the back of the partly submerged van and began using the slow current of the canal to help me clean up after dinner. The equivalent of doing the dishes.
Having company on the holidays can be a messy business.
~*~
AFTER THE FIFTH STEP
After the fifth step, it was mundane.
Ahhh… but getting to the fifth step. That was the trick. That was what it was all about. The crowds below, they thought the tough part was in the center, once the safety net was removed. “Oh, such danger,” the ringmaste
r would cry. “Such daring-do.”
Such malarkey, Reind thought. Once you were moving, in the groove, you didn’t need a net.
The difficult part was in placing one step in front of the other when leaving behind the wooden platform. The first step was like a switch between stepping on sandpaper and high-gloss ice – with a slight movement, his foot left behind the immobile, grainy plywood to slip down a quivering, thin decline of twined, worn fibers. It was stepping through the door from plane cargo bay to open air. That step was the first trick. And the second, bringing your anchor with you.
The hardest was the step after the first. That’s where you gained or lost your balance. That’s where it became a walk or a fall. After the second step, there was no going back. You didn’t turn around on the high wire.
The third step was a beginning. The first complete motion forward on a new course. The fourth step was an affirmation.
After the fifth step, it was just walking.
Reind put his first foot down on the tightrope and felt the horsehair fibers catch on the Lyrca net of his tights. Comforting feeling, that. While an unpracticed person would simply feel his foot slip down on a waving thread of uncertainty, Reind could feel his sole wrap and grip on the tightly-wound fibers of the rope. It wasn’t like stepping on air. It was solid to him. Different than earth, maybe, but solid. If you were in tune.
Maybe that was the best simile. Walking the tightrope was like performing a violin solo. Long, elegant strokes across thin strands of fiber.
Of course, if you flubbed a note on a fiddle, you didn’t end up so much dog food in front of an audience of hundreds. Usually. He thought of a spider, stepping without thought across skeins and strands of web.
Tarantula, sang a dirge in his mind from a long-ago album by This Mortal Coil. That’s what he tread across. This Mortal Coil. A skein of filigree and shadow. The web of a tarantula. He smiled and hummed.
The second step fell true. He sighed, a breath of success. The audience didn’t know the peril of those first two steps. It was the job of the ringmaster to keep them from focusing on that while the tightrope walker gained his composure and rhythm.
