Kenneth D. Woods lives in St. Louis, MO with his partner Chris, and holds down a day job as a software developer. He spends his evenings and weekends writing short stories and novels. He belongs to a pair of Italian Greyhounds, Fiona and Maggie. They run a tight ship.
Detox
Elspeth Potter
Maria wipes crumbs from the doll-sized table and arranges two chunks of chocolate-cherry bread on a brown Wedgwood saucer. The shot glass of organic milk, skim, goes to the saucer's right, and a gold-plated dessert fork to the left. A sprig of rosemary in a bud vase adds a touch of elegance. Then she goes to bed.
The following afternoon, she wakes and stretches luxuriously before prodding her face. Her skin is taut, and last night's zit has vanished from her chin. She slides her hands down her thighs: firm, smooth, no visible veins. Her ass feels round and tight. Yesterday's fortyish sags--well, really, fifty-one, but who's counting?--are a bad dream. Her brownie deserves cake next time, perhaps even from Mrs. Tootsie's on South Street.
Not tonight, though. Mrs. Tootsie's is always jam-packed on Saturday, and Maria needs time to get ready. She slips into a lacy silk robe, pours herself a Campari and soda, and runs her bath.
Three hours later, she dries off with a heated spa towel and examines herself in the full-length mirror. She rubs her thick, newly dark hair with the towel and decides to wear spandex pants. Those are back in, for clubbing, if paired with a different texture on top. She'll go to the new place, with the weird name, Anubis.
It's a crisp autumn night and she's wearing a red sweater her brownie left for her once, made of gauze-light wool with a faint organic smell, like moss or lichen. The sweater never gets dirty or snags or stretches out; it clings like an aura. When the valet takes the keys to her Mercedes, his eyes never once lift from her breasts. Maria gives him a nice tip and sashays into Club Anubis.
Stench and heat and light and roar flay her to nerves. It gets worse every time. She needs a drink. Several drinks.
Girls appear on adjoining stools as soon as she sidles up to the bar and orders peppermint schnapps. She knows them, a hip young couple from the 'burbs. They're a tag-team act, shouting witty comments into Maria's ears; at least she pretends they're witty; really, they're inaudible.
The bathroom's quieter. All three of them screw in the handicapped stall while bass thumps in walls and floor and pussy. It's crowded and sweaty, and she can barely smell sex over stale cigarette pong, the broken toilet next door, and horrific cherry disinfectant. The sex is hot anyway. Maria revels in bending and twisting and grinding. She can bend over backward without a twinge. It's sordid, true, but only old people insist on comfort.
Yet again the girls want to go home with her. She'd like another fuck, but after sharing a cigarette with them, she says no. Her brownie needs time to fix her up, and they'll get over it. With her looks, and her sweater, she can pick them up again, or someone else, as easy as winking. Still, to be merciful, she gives them her cell phone number.
The car valet eats out her pussy in the back seat when she picks up her car, even after she explains she's gay and doesn't want to fuck him. He's good enough to make her come anyway, or maybe it's the magic. She goes home in the wee hours, floating on sex and schnapps and secondhand cigarette smoke. Giggling, she leaves out a cut of filet mignon the size of a half-dollar and a tiny glass of wine, and as an afterthought, the mysterious tab the valet (she thinks his name was Raoul or something) insisted on handing to her.
When she wakes up she feels soggy and hungover. It's been so long since she felt like that, it takes a few minutes to figure it out. She stumbles out of bed and peers into the mirror. She looks like a hag. Her hair is graying and scraggly like it had a bad tease job after a dip in Elmer's glue. Her thighs jiggle when she turns. She stares into eyes like fried eggs with catsup. Her head hurts too much for her to panic. She can panic after she's had a pot of coffee.
Only there's no coffee in the house. She stopped keeping it after her brownie came. She didn't need it any more. She wakes up every morning as fresh as a five- year-old. Except this morning. She thinks about hair of the dog and nearly vomits, so she struggles into a pair of old sweats and crams a floppy knitted hat over her horrific hair before going out to the local coffee shop. She doubts anyone will recognize her.
The coffee and a big glass of orange juice help. She remembers the pale blue tab she left out for her brownie the night before. Perhaps that wasn't the smartest thing she could have done. She didn't even know what the pill was. She'd put it out in the same spirit as drunken teenagers throwing rocks at buses.
She hopes she hasn't killed her brownie. When she gets home, she has a screwdriver made with the fresh orange juice she brought home, then checks all over the house and under the furniture for anything that looks like a tiny corpse. She doesn't know what it looks like, exactly. Her mental picture is something like a cartoon Keebler elf, only wearing brown, maybe like the little dresses the cookie-selling brownies wear, but with some of that Queer Eye stylish flair. She doesn't find anything like that, just a half-empty tequila bottle beneath the couch.
She hopes her brownie enjoyed its trip, but she has a pretty strong feeling it didn't, given the way she looks today.
That evening, she disguises herself and goes out again and buys food, mostly for her brownie, since she doesn't cook. She has a weird feeling she needs to make amends. She gets organic yogurt and one of those fresh juices with pomegranate and blueberry and other ultra-healthy ingredients, and some bread made with sprouted wheat and birdseed and such. A cookbook attracts her eye, and she picks it up. It has pretty illustrations, so she changes her mind and buys several. Shopping takes a while and makes her arms hurt from lugging groceries. She's too exhausted to think about her standing commitment to Margarita Night. She ignores the cell phone's repeated, insistent blaring of the "Hallelujah Chorus." Instead, she takes care selecting and arranging the food; she lays the porcelain dishes on a silk scarf, and pops a fragrant rose into a bud vase.
When she wakes up the next afternoon, she looks like Heidi. Latina Heidi, rosy and robust. It's not really her look but it's miles better than the day before. Maybe she'd go out tonight, there were always plenty of people in the mood for Happy Hour after the work week started.
She isn't in the mood for a decadent bath. She has a quick shower instead. While she examines her new, prodigious cleavage in the mirror--it's truly gravity-defying, perhaps her brownie's finest work--she thinks about Happy Hour later on and is surprised when the idea revolts her. She stays in, instead, not that unheard of; sometimes she needs a break after a weekend's hard partying. She remembers the tequila bottle under the couch and decides to clean the house; it's not something her brownie does, and lately she hasn't been cleaning, either. She's been too busy going out.
Then she bakes bread. She can't stop herself, and she doesn't even remember buying the yeast. It's freaky, but not as freaky as waking up in the body of a teenager every afternoon, so she gets over it.
She cooks all evening and, that night, finds herself putting out oatmeal for her brownie, oatmeal with raisins and a dribble of maple syrup and just one artistically placed dab of butter, along with a slice of her homemade bread. After a moment, she shifts the slice of bread a hair to the right, and shudders in artistic pleasure. It looks really nice, so maybe she'll look extra nice for the coming weekend.
The next afternoon, Heidi apparently had a facelift and a couple of tucks, because Maria looks and feels even better, but she still doesn't want to go out, except to shop. She buys a lot of groceries this time. She feels so much better, though, so much stronger, that she still has energy after she hauls the groceries home. She makes more bread, and cookies, and a fabulous lime chiffon pie, and lays it all out for her brownie and feels really, really good, high on endorphins.
Wednesday, she remembers to drop off her favorite clubbing dress at the dry cleaner's, but by Friday she still hasn't picked it up. It doesn't seem important any more, and anyway she
left her cell phone at the grocery store or something--she can't remember when--so she hasn't been able to make any dates.
The week blows by and she hardly notices, she's so involved with new cookbooks. Saturday comes and instead of taking her fabulous new bosom out for a few spins, she's hand-beating egg whites for meringues. In fact, according to the television, tuned to the Home and Garden channel, it's actually a couple of Saturdays later than she thought. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass oven door. Only then does she begin to suspect the tables have turned. But by then, it's too late.
Elspeth Potter lives in Philadelphia in a 19th century brownstone that could really use its own brownie. Her erotica has appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Women's Erotica, Tough Girls, and many other anthologies. Currently, under the name Victoria Janssen, she writes for Harlequin's Spice line. The Duchess, Her Maid, The Groom and Their Lover was her first erotic novel; the second, Moonlight Mistress, will be out in December 2009, with two more to follow. www.victoriajanssen.com
From Asphalt to Emeralds and Moonlight
Aynjel Kaye
Aine and Fionn ride with the hounds of the Morrigan through the shadowed forests of the Otherworld, though neither of them is one of the lords and ladies of the hunt. Aine's stallion breathes mist and Fionn's breathes smoke, the air thick around them with shadow and sweat and steam. The Morrigan's thick-bodied hounds are muzzled--this hunt will not result in bloodshed--but this doesn't stop their howling cries.
Tonight the lords and ladies hunt neither the damned nor the saved, their lances of blue flame and shields of white light left behind. Tonight they hunt for a child of blood and fire, a child of the dance.
Maeve lies dying beneath the sidhe. Tonight, they hunt their new queen, and Aine and Fionn race with the hunt to see which of them will be the new king.
---
Tara Brady walks out of Venomous Crow Productions for the last time, escorted by security lest she walk out with more than belongs to her, more than what's in her head and the box of action figures and artwork that kept her cubicle from being drab and lifeless. They stand at her back as she walks down the steps, her boot heels clunking hollowly on the granite squares in the empty entry. For a moment, with the pair flanking her, she feels like royalty, and then she walks beyond the half-circle of granite and onto textured concrete, box tucked under her arm, and the illusion is gone.
Fall, and the air is crisp and damp, the streets empty this late in the evening, people chased away by the cold and the constant threat of drizzle. Even the buses seem reluctant to run, and Tara swears, continues walking down the street. Wind whips through the tunnel formed by corporate buildings shading the street, pulls at her hair and her coat, her scarf. She pauses at the stop for the Number 10 bus, rests the box of her entertainment against her hip and closes her eyes. So much for making on-screen magic happen; with Venomous Crow Productions letting her go, and the state of the industry, she is unlikely to get a job doing anything but simple digital editing any time soon.
---
"I saw her first." Fionn leans over his stallion's neck, wind pulling at hair and cloak. He's not dressed in the tight silks that the lords and ladies of the hunt wear, and he fairly glows with the wildness and color and streaming ribbons of a court princeling.
One of the lords of the hunt snorts, slows his mount, spidery fingers pulling lightly on the reins. He'll let the princeling have her if he can manage without unseating himself.
Aine is better dressed for the hunt, the sedate browns and greens of her cloak and tunic embroidered with golden leaves, and her hair is braided, but she is not so compliant as the other lords and ladies as Fionn takes lead. This is their hunt, hers and her brother's, and she'll be damned if she is going to let anyone else snatch their quarry and the throne from under her. She touches her heels to her mount's sides and the stallion stretches longer, digs up clods of earth with stone-sharp hooves. "You did not," she hisses.
The hunt lands stretch out in front of them, reaching for the buildings and pavement and asphalt, covering steel and concrete, hiding graffiti and swallowing electricity, making way for the hunt.
---
More wind and Tara shifts the box to her other hip, looks at the bus schedule, its plastic covering damp with the humidity in the air. She checks her watch, looks at the schedule again, and looks down the street. Wind pulls at her hair, makes the wild red curls lash her cheeks and lips and threaten her eyes. No bus in sight. Nothing in sight. Street lamps hum and go out in pairs, starting seven blocks away.
Tara takes a firmer hold of her box and walks. The streets have never felt so empty, not even on her latest nights at work. The shadows feel more frightening and she quickens her pace, pausing at corners to make certain no cars are coming, or perhaps to find a car on the street so she won't feel alone.
Sound of hooves and she stops, spins around, wind grabbing at her again, trying to pull her in the direction she was already walking. The evening is early enough for one of the horse-drawn buggies to be dragging lovers down the street, but the street remains empty, the shadows longer as streetlights continue to go out.
A dog howls, a long low truculent sound that raises goosebumps on Tara's arms and neck. She shivers, pulls her coat more tightly around her and continues walking, the clunk of her heels against the pavement mimicking the sound of horse hooves. The echoes mock her, bouncing off the walls of closed shops and the windows of executive towers. Even Starbucks is closed and Tara looks at her watch again. Nine fifteen. They should have escorted her out of the building earlier, but they wanted to get as much out of her on her last day as they could.
Two weeks of severance, she reminds herself. Two weeks to job hunt and rebuild her portfolio. "If I make it home tonight."
---
The lead hound howls, finally scenting what Aine and Fionn have already seen. The rest of the hounds of the Morrigan echo the cry of their pack mate one after the other as they catch scent of their prey. One of the lords of the hunt picks up his horn, blows a battle cry, a sighting. The antlered shadows of the lords' helmets stretch far in front of the hunting party, the moon ever at their backs.
Aine's heartbeat quickens as the horn's long note vibrates through her. Her thighs squeeze tighter and she glances at her brother. A cloud of starshine surrounds him, trails behind him along the length of his unbound hair and her breath catches; she couldn't possibly look so regal. Aine refuses to let herself ease up on her mount, won't let Fionn catch their prey no matter how beautiful he seems to her now in the moonlight, no matter how much like a king.
The glimmering shape at the edge of the forest is her prey as much as it is his and she has as much right to snatch it up as he does. More right, in fact, because she knows more secrets than her brother does. Aine knows the name of their prey.
---
Another howl and other dogs pick up the cry. And something lower that makes Tara's heart pound. The sounds wash over her like the wind, wild and whipping and she walks faster. She's halfway to Madison Avenue when the rain starts. Wind makes the sharp stinging droplets fierce, the rain coming down like razors against her face and hands.
Hooves and howling and Tara doesn't want to look behind her, wants to get inside, get home, get into a hot shower to drive away the cold that's weighing down her coat and making her skin ache. She'll even settle for the bus with the old guy with the crotch ripped out of his jeans, who sits there with his legs spread and the unfortunate choice of nothing on underneath those jeans.
Lights go out over her head and Tara holds her box closer to her. The cardboard feels flimsy, the rain making the sides warp, making them less reliable. Where is the damn bus?
The scream of horses, wild shouts, and the echoing moan of a horn fill the air and the shadows come to life, spread, weave together and reach over the street like tree branches. Tara turns and drops her box of distraction. Action figures spill onto the sidewalk, one figure's wing breaks and skitters off the curb into the gutter.
Buildings no longer flank the street. The world is emerald and shadow and threatens to swallow Tara.
---
"She's mine," Fionn says, pressed close to his stallion's neck, taking his eyes off their prey for a moment to look at his sister.
Aine spurs her mount faster and reaches for Fionn's reins. "You only wish, brother dearest." She snags his reins and yanks but Fionn's stallion doesn't budge; Aine isn't in that saddle and their mounts know better than to give in to the rivalry between siblings. The stallions are seasoned in the hunt while the princelings consider it a game to be won no matter the cost.
Steam and smoke curl in the air, thick as the mist sinking from the trees.
Their prey is lovely.
And frightened.
---
Tara runs, damns the heels on her boots. She clutches her coat tightly to her chest, but the wind pulls at the bottom of it, slows her down. Cold as it is outside, she shrugs out of the coat, lets it fall behind her the way she did on the playground as a child.
Her heart beats loudly in her ears and the air feels thick enough with water to choke her.
They're behind her, huge and dark and overwhelming, the moonlight making them indistinct shadows. Don't look again, she tells herself. Don't look. Just don't look.
The street doesn't exist in front of her anymore, neither does the city. The ground is nothing more than stone and twigs, grass stomped flat, crescent moon divots torn up from the earth, and leaves. The trees and their twisted branches block out the sky and the stars that should be above her.
Sauna heat blows up through her hair, lifts it from her neck. And then the heat blows against her neck as well, and against the backs of her knees. Snuffling, whuffling, howling, shrieking behind her, right behind her. Sandpaper-rough fur brushing her calf. If she had any breath left in her to scream, she would.
So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction Page 12
