by Anthology
"Kill him, Edward."
"Caw!"
Eddie lifted the gun and pointed it at Joey, that pathetic child. Torturing seagulls, just because he thought they couldn’t fight back. He was wrong. And now he would die. Eddie would break his stupid little rip stick too. Just because. Eddie sprayed the gun, coating Joey with honey.
"What the...?" Joey stared at Eddie open-mouthed, his wheels never stopping.
Eddie threw bread at him full force, pieces he had torn from the hot dog buns he'd also stolen from the surf shack. They stuck to the honey, coating Joey from head to toe.
Every seagull on the beach flew at him, devouring both the bread and his flesh. They pecked Joey's skin clean off and quickly moved on to his organs. One took the heart, another the liver, and one each kidney, until all Eddie could see was a mad flock of red flapping wings.
Eddie stood there, smiling, until the seagulls finished. Joey’s body was nothing more than a picked-over carcass. The birds licked their beaks in satisfaction. They followed Eddie back to his truck, and then to the beach showers.
Eddie dismantled the hose and hooked up the iron pipe, making sure the bottom end was fully submerged in the metal bucket full of acid stolen from the chem lab. He didn't have to wait long before Brittany sauntered towards the shower, all dolled up in her tiny yellow polka dot bikini. She walked as if there were someone to impress, not realizing the only people who had been on the beach were now deceased.
That stupid cheerleader, she had always thought she was better than everyone else. Maybe she wouldn't think herself so pretty when her tissue was melting off.
"Die," said the birds.
"Die."
"Squawk!"
Brittany stepped under the showerhead and turned the knob. Acid poured down on her like murderous rain, burning off her perfectly tanned flesh. She opened her mouth to scream, but the acid merely burned off the heavily applied lipstick, and then the lips beneath. Her vessels burst, covering her face with melting flesh and blood. The bikini's fabric melted into her skin. She fell to the ground, organs now bubbling and hissing, until her heart was completely dissolved. The birds hadn't even had time to steal her eyes.
The bucket was empty now. Eddie turned away and walked to the shore, never looking back. The seagulls soared and dove around him triumphantly. When he reached the water he got on his knees, soaking his hands and knees in the cool surf. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his flesh was raw and sore. There was still blood embedded under his fingernails.
He took his shirt off and dove into the dark, churning water. He swam only a few feet, hoping to remove the final traces of blood from his body. He dug his heels in against the riptide, checking his palms.
He felt it then, a soft brush against his arm. A flash of burning. The feeling of eating a hot pepper covered his entire body. He knew the huge jellyfish was there even before he looked down; its tentacles tightly hugged his arms and chest. He tried frantically to pull them off, but his fingers were quickly covered in red, puss-filled sores. The jellyfish pulled its slimy, wet body up Eddie's torso until it had reached his neck.
The tentacles hugged his soft flesh, wrapping themselves around his collar. The pain was unbearable. Eddie tried to scream; the jellyfish seized the opportunity and stretched down his throat. His body was on fire, inside and out, a fire he could never escape. Eddie flailed until his arms went slack, paralyzed. He could only watch the sand now. Through his tears he saw a young boy wearing a Bert visor, his finger lodged in his nose. There was a seagull on his shoulder.
"Caw!" said the seagull. Wings and beaks attacked him. And then Eddie saw nothing at all.
If you enjoyed Alethea’s story, then you might like her book of essays BEAUTY & DYNAMITE from Apex Publications…
Once upon a time, a young girl walked into a world of wonder and delight. But that’s not where this story starts.
The young woman she became published a nationally recognized children’s book and edited a star-filled collection of stories to benefit the tsunami relief effort. But that’s not where this story ends.
Meet Alethea Kontis, a self-proclaimed Genre Chick whose life is an adventure that tears through these pages like a hurricane. Carrot-a-day cancer cures and Murphy as a guardian angel (yes, that Murphy, the guy with all those irritating laws) are just a part of the daily routine for the Incredible Whirlwind of Beauty and Dynamite, the force of nature masquerading in human form.
Through essays, poetry, and commentary from family, friends, and famous authors alike, a world of Blood Oaths and road trips, broken hearts and mended cars, comes alive with the strength of one woman’s conviction that the world is there to be befriended.
You have now been introduced. Let your adventure begin.
Available today from Apex Publications
http://www.apexbookcompany.com/beauty-and-dynamite-book/
KUSATENDA UROYI
Gill Ainsworth
Gill Ainsworth is a senior editor with Apex Publications and part-time writer. Her work has ranged from articles in scientific journals to appearances in small press anthologies. She edited her first anthology with Jason Sizemore in 2006, earning a Bram Stoker Award nomination for Aegri Somnia. Gill has gone on to edit three other anthologies, including the upcoming The Blackness Within (Apex Publications).
While not a practicing Luddite, Gill might be one of the few remaining writer/editors in the business to not maintain a personal website, blog, or any form of social media page. She blames this on being a contrary Brit.
—§—
Hoping nicotine would focus his mind, Martin Chapman drew deeply on his cigarette and then watched the smoke gyrate to the African drumbeats resonating inside his head. Chaps’ beat, he’d named the riffs when, like a serious case of tinnitus, they’d started up one sunny day in England and refused to go away.
“I want to go to Sinoia Caves,” he said, smiling at the white tour operator on the opposite side of the desk.
The man stared at Martin as if cataloguing his African genes, and then he scratched his head. “You mean Chinhoyi Caves?”
“The name has changed?”
The tour operator nodded. “Ja. A while back. At the end of colonial rule, actually.”
“The name isn’t important. What matters is—” he took another drag of his cigarette, held it down for several seconds, then let the smoke-dance escape from his mouth “—my grandmother’s bones are at the bottom of the...Sleeping Pool, I believe you call it. Nguni warriors threw her into the waters.”
“Grandmother? Excuse me, sir, but the Shona lost to the Nguni in the 1830s.”
“Of course.” Martin stubbed out his cigarette and began massaging the wart on his left middle finger. “Genealogy was never my strong point. I read history at university.”
“Wit Kaffirs,” the tour operator muttered, and he rolled his eyes. “May I suggest, sir, that you contact one of the boys over there?” He pointed to a group of local youths lurking outside the shop.
“They’re drunk.” Martin moved his hands to cover his cheeks. Too late, the tour operator now stared at his face as if pink elephants stampeded across it and, beneath Martin’s fingers, he felt his skin rippling into deep ravines. Scars? Tribal markings? He didn’t know; until he’d reached the shores of Africa, his face had been unblemished.
Still staring at Martin, the tour operator said, “It’s the end of a working day; they like to relax with a few pints of chibuku. They’ll be sober in the morning.”
Something more than pink elephants—the way the tour operator now massaged his eyes—told Martin the man spoke from personal experience. Determined to press what advantage he had, Martin said, “I’ve travelled from Mozambique, Beira, in fact, with the express wish to visit my grandmother’s— Sorry, great-great-grandmother, would it be? As I said, mathematics isn’t my strong subject; I read archaeology at—”
“I’m afraid all my tours are fully booked, sir.” The Afrikaner rolled his eyes again.
Bene
ath Martin’s fingers, his cheeks were once again unblemished. He moved his hands and reached into a pocket to produce a wad of notes. “I have to get there. You’re my last hope!”
The man pushed the money away.
“Please.”
He shook his head.
“I see.” Martin rose and brushed the creases from his trousers. Then he pulled out a cigarette, lit it and left the shop.
He turned towards his hotel but, glancing at his watch, changed his mind. At four-thirty in the afternoon, the sun had ninety minutes or more before it gave up on the day; sufficient time for Martin to wander the tourist area. If nothing else, it would distract him from his problems, and maybe the hubbub would drown out the incessant drumming.
Lined with traders, the streets reminded him of the Montmatre area of Paris, only these people were poor, so poor their whole demeanor spoke of despair. Pleading wizened faces peered over carvings, paintings or hand-woven rugs and fabrics. He dropped a US dollar note in front of each and was met with looks so full of gratitude it humbled him. Then he came to a segment of pavement devoted to carvings. One piece of almost heart-shaped symmetry depicted a man and a woman together, his head resting upon hers in a protective and loving gesture. As Martin stared at the carving, his chest seemed to hollow out and collapse in upon itself, and tears seeped into his eyes.
Why? He searched his subconscious, trying to pull up a coherent memory to explain his feelings. Nothing. “Who carved this?” he asked, his voice tremulous.
“My grandson, bwana. The spirits of his Shona ancestors guide his hand. You like it? It is yours for two American dollars.”
With shaking hands, Martin picked up the statue and ran a finger along its smooth polished grain. Moving it to his face, he inhaled the sweet smell of linseed oil. And something else. Something earthy and African. “It’s exquisite,” he said, placing the carving back on the pavement.
“One American dollar, bwana.”
Martin shook his head. “It’s too beautiful for me.” He dropped ten dollars at the man’s feet and walked away, the tears he couldn’t understand now trickling down his cheeks.
Martin stared through the hotel window at the sun-drenched road below. A heat haze rose from the tarmac, and blinding spheres of light reflected off the roofs of parked cars.
Zimbabwe, he thought, and reached for his Stuyvesants. He lit one and then pocketed the box and lighter in his jeans. Smoke streamed from his nostrils, twisting and dancing rhythmically to Chaps’ beat. He wandered to the room safe and, ignoring his few personal effects, ran his fingers down the dwindling pile of notes. The crisp purring sound did nothing to calm his frenzied drumbeats. Only his ultimate destination, Sinoia, would silence them.
He laughed. A dry brittle sound that had as much to do with the thought of following his squashed-flat African nose, as it had to do with the gaps in his memory. From London, working his passage through France, Spain and Portugal, he’d known only that he headed for Africa. It hadn’t been until Mozambique that Zimbabwe’s call had penetrated his being, and Chaps’ beat had become a tribal siren song, leading him to this moth-eaten hotel, to Sinoia. And now he was close. Frighteningly so.
He drew on his cigarette, let out the smoke slowly, and then grabbed twenty dollars. Slipping the money into another pocket, he left his room.
The black youths loitering on the street seemed sober but, behind his shop-front window, the Afrikaner tour operator smirked at Martin. Martin resisted rubbing his wart.
“Bwana, you want to buy tickets for a safari? We know a driver who is very, very good. He can find the Big Five no trouble,” the oldest of the four lads said.
“I want to go to Sin—Chinhoyi Caves.”
“You must pay good money for a guided tour like that, bwana. Zimbabwe dollars are shit!” He spat on the ground.
Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out ten notes. For a second the youths’ eyes widened, and then the one who’d been speaking before said, “Not enough. We must buy petrol.”
Martin produced another five. All fifteen were snatched from his hand.
“We have a deal, bwana. This way.” He pointed towards a side road. “We go and get my car.” He began walking in the direction to which he’d pointed, and Martin followed, the remaining three youths tagging on behind.
I shouldn’t be doing this, Martin thought, as they turned into a street lined with shabby buildings. He sucked hot air into his lungs, and the dust it carried clogged inside his chest like cement.
What choice did he have? The tour operators had laughed at him, or shunned him, or even, in one instance, ushered him out of the shop before he’d had a chance to open his mouth.
I’m black. That must mean something to these youths. But skin colormeant little when Martin’s accent and his need for a guide shouted ‘tourist’.
Now there were no white faces about, and the street they were in looked more like an alley. Martin wiped his sweating palms on his jeans and rubber-necked at the ramshackle buildings with their patched corrugated iron roofs.
When they turned into their fifth side street Martin stopped and pulled out his Stuyvesants. Four outstretched hands appeared in front of his face. He handed a cigarette to each, lit them, then drew deeply on his own. No people about. Not even a black face. “Where are we?” he asked.
And then he saw the glint of a knife.
Even as he registered the fact, his brain recognized the rust-colored patches on the blade as dried blood. He ran, darting into a side street. And another. And yet another. Lost in the labyrinth of alleyways, Martin shrank into a doorway, blending into its shadowy recess.
The youths ran past. Then the door burst open and someone thrust him into the street.
“Here!” a voice shouted, as strong arms grabbed his shoulders.
He kicked out, and his captor yelped. Even so, the hands holding him remained fast. And the youths were turning, sprinting back. Martin squirmed, twisting in the grip to use his elbows. The thump he managed had no effect.
“I’ve got money,” he whispered. “American dollars.”
“Shit-fucker white man in a black skin!” A fist landed in Martin’s kidneys.
Then his guides were upon him. Kicking him, rolling him onto his back. For all its grimy appearance, the knife slid easily between his muscles like a man sliding into a woman. Martin welcomed it, and thoughts of a woman—not his great-great-grandmother, nor his grandmother, it couldn’t be; it had to be someone closer—danced through his mind.
A piece of intestine writhed between his fingers now pressing against his abdomen, trying to seal the hole. Was it the pain warping his thoughts, or were his guts contorting to Chaps’ beat?
As he struggled to solve the conundrum, hands delved into his pockets, emptied them of their contents. Then they relieved him of his watch. Arguments as the booty was shared between them. A few dollars, cigarettes and lighter, a cheap Timex. Not a great deal to him. The world to his attackers. They scarpered, leaving him alone and groaning in the alleyway.
He bit his wart, sucked at the blood running from it, and searched his mind for the word he knew he should say. But he could think only of the woman, whoever she was, as unconsciousness pulled him towards....
“Ouch! Why did you do that?” He looks into her ebony-colored eyes, as he licks the blood on his left middle finger. It tastes bitter. Outside their house he hears singing, and the thrum of drumbeats and African dance reverberate through the ground. All are celebrating their marriage.
“We will be one. It is the way of making it so forever. Now you must stab me.” She dips the point of the chicken bone into a pot—it comes out coated in a silver liquid—and hands it to him. Then she holds out her right hand.
The sharp implement feels wrong between his fingers. He twiddles it. Has he wedded a woman consumed by bad spirits? “I held out my left finger,” he says, stalling for time.
“Balance,” she replies, her right hand still outstretched. “Everything must have bal
ance.” Her free hand begins tapping the pot in time with the music outside, and the silver liquid sloshes around. The action belies the patience in her voice. “Man and woman, sun and moon. Your left, my right. Balance.”
He raises his hand to do her bidding because he’s young, only sixteen cycles, and he’s in love. Even his father’s wrath at bad magic could never assuage such emotions. They are like the rains, unrelenting. Like an Nguni spear through the heart, permanent.
He stabs her finger, but she doesn’t wince. Instead, she kisses him, and he presses his manhood against her smooth glistening body. She begins reciting a poem, not her family totem—that is familiar to him—but something about stars dancing in the sky.
He pulls away from her. “What do those words mean?”
“Nothing important. Only a poem my grandmother once taught me,” she says evasively.
And he floats up towards...
Something licked his face. A dog. Martin petted it. Short bristly fur, a ridge standing up along the length of its spine.
Rhodesian ridgeback? Of course, I’m in Zimbabwe. Gently, he shooed away the dog, and the skinny, half-starved creature hobbled into an adjacent alley. He rolled onto his side and pain gripped him. His kidneys had taken a beating. They would heal. He moved his hand to the hole in his T-shirt. The wound in his guts had sealed.
As he pushed himself into a sitting position, the dull thud from his kidneys became a sharp, stabbing pain that matched Chaps’ beat, and he smiled. Each death brought him closer. He could still feel the chicken bone between his thumb and first finger. Massaging his wart with his ring finger, he now knew its origin. Scar tissue, and it grew with each death, almost as if the memories were accumulating in his finger as well as inside his head.
The dreams were more vivid this time. I touched her body, felt the silkiness of her skin. I even inhaled her scent. African. Musky. Feminine. The closer he got, the more he learnt. Still massaging the unbroken skin covering his wart, he gazed round, wondering which way to go. Then something licked his ankle. He looked down to see the dog. “Which way, boy?” he asked, and the dog limped into a nearby alley. Martin followed.
