UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1)

by Michael Harris Cohen

  "I don't. Trust me. Do I need to remind you that just yesterday we got chased outta who knows where we were by pissed off people with guns and torches? Just saying we might need to lay low for a bit."

  "Don't you fuck this up for me, Mel. We have a good thing going here. Don't piss your pants now."

  She was right. Ruby was always right. "Nah, I know. It'll be fine. Okay. I'm getting outta here. Have fun, babe."

  "Thank you, Mel," she said. The whole conversation played out like he was playing a soft tune on the piano, while she leaned up against it singing. It was, after all, how she did what she did.

  9

  Melvin Mitchell shot abruptly out of the tent. He stopped, pulled his vest down sharply, bowed and gestured towards the opening of the tent. "Ms. Ruby awaits! Thank you for coming tonight! Thank you in advance for your gift." Melvin prattled on as he stumbled down back towards the main tent.

  Where is his walking stick? Wait. What gift?

  Michael cautiously approached the entrance to the tent. He pulled back the flap and peeked inside. Quickly taking in the scene from his view at the rear of the tent, Michael didn't see anyone. But once his eyes adjusted he could see a very fine, high-back parlor chair that sat next to a small side table with an oil lamp in the center. Was there someone in the chair? He stepped all the way inside, and even took a few unsure steps before he called out, "Hello."

  "Hello, Michael. I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Ruby. Ruby O'Dell."

  "Nice to meet you Ms. Ruby. I can't see you."

  "Oh, you can dispense with the formalities, Michael. Just Ruby will be fine."

  "Oh, okay. Ruby."

  Michael turned when he heard the sound of a match striking and a small flame appeared. The flame grew within the glass globe of the lamp and emerging from the darkness was simply the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his entire life.

  Ruby.

  The face of a goddess, with the most stunning red hair, and sapphire blue eyes. She was an angel. She had neither arm nor legs but sat stoically in the chair. She commanded his attention. Michael couldn't look away.

  "You're staring Michael," said Ruby melodically.

  "Yes, I am. But not for the reason you may think. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." Michael hoped he wasn't stuttering. He didn't want to look like a child in front of this woman. Michael thought her smile could tame the wildest beast. Considering her current company, it probably had.

  "And what reason is that, Michael?"

  "You're so beautiful. The most beautiful I've ever seen."

  "You flatter me Michael. Or are you overcompensating for my deformity?"

  "Deformity? No. Not at all. If I may say, in the presence of your beauty I see no deformity, but a set of circumstances of which you have made the best." Michael had no earthly idea where those words came from, but he sure hoped he could continue.

  "Oh dear, Michael. Do you think I was born this way? If God had made me in this manner, I might be able to accept it. But my fate was a cruel one, at the hands of a butcher." Ruby closed her eyes and turned away from him, but Michael knew well she had nowhere to go and no way to hide her shame.

  Michael felt a pang in his heart for her.

  "I'm...sorry. I don't know what to say Ms. Ruby. Why would someone do such a horrible thing to you?" Michael felt like he was sinking in a pool of humiliation. That's probably the last question she wanted him to ask.

  "I've asked that question of myself for years. Michael, I was in the capture of a madman. He surgically removed my arms and legs and kept me alive out of pure malevolence. I begged him to take my life as well. This man, he refused. He told me 'Now all you have is your looks. See how far that gets you.' After he discarded me like a piece of useless garbage, it took me years to see that he was wrong. I am much, much more than looks. I am intelligent. I am creative. I am intellectual. I am pain. I am joy. I am deception. I am harmony. Michael, I am whatever I choose to be. This is what makes me smile."

  "You are an inspiration!" exclaimed Michael.

  "No, Michael, I am just Ruby. A woman who chooses to share her experiences with those who can take something positive away from it. We are a very giving group of travelers, Michael. We give our time, we give our stories, and we give...ourselves. But do you know what amazes me every time we stop in a wonderful town like Ransom?"

  "What's that?

  "Each and every time we embrace a city or town. We are embraced in return. There are always good hearted, generous patrons that want to give back. Do you smoke Michael?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you be a dear and enjoy a cigarette with me?"

  "Of course Ms. Ruby. I'd be delighted," Michael said genuinely.

  "Thank you. Would you so kindly pull out that drawer and retrieve my cigarettes and matches?"

  That question caught Michael a bit off guard as he clearly recalled a match lighting to engage the lamp. "Is something the matter Michael?"

  "No, I...I'm sorry. It's just I thought I saw a match strike to light the lamp when I first entered the tent." Michael said unsurely.

  Simpleton, thought Ruby. He thought he saw a match light? Damn fool already doubts what he clearly saw. He deserves what he gets.

  Ruby chuckled. "Why, clearly you are mistaken, Michael. How on Earth could that've happened?"

  Michael looked to the ground, grateful the semi-darkness shadowed his blazing red face of embarrassment. "Yes ma'am. That's correct. The lamp was lit when I entered the tent. Let me get those cigarettes for you."

  Michael approached the small side table and pulled out the drawer. He picked up the pack of Lucky Strike smokes and the matches. There were only two left in the pack. Tapping the pack against the inside of his palm, he slid one out. Holding out the cigarette awkwardly towards Ruby, Michael hoped desperately for direction.

  "Just put it in my mouth Michael," she said with a wry smile.

  "Yes ma'am." Michael flushed bright red again before placing the cigarette between her lips, then taking the last one for himself.

  He opened the book and struck a match. The small blaze of the match catching reminded him again of what he saw...or thought he'd seen. He wasn't sure anymore. He offered the flame to Ruby who took a drag and exhaled.

  Michael popped the cigarette between his lips, struck a fresh match, and lit it.

  Ruby said to Michael, "Could you take mine please."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I suddenly don't feel like it. Sometimes they hit me just right, sometimes I'm just not feeling it."

  "I think that's everybody, Ruby. These things are little nuts," Michael said, taking another drag.

  "But really, Michael, what are we without our vices?"

  "I don't know as I can rightly say," said Michael.

  "I have my vices. Things I crave. Things that may be to the detriment of others, but I just can't help it."

  "I...uh...what?" Michael suddenly felt ill. His vision was losing focus and his legs felt as if they couldn't support his weight.

  "Michael, are you alright? You don't look so good. Should I call for help?"

  "What...kind...cigarettes..?"

  "Why, Lucky Strike, you saw the pack. Oh my goodness!!"

  Michael collapsed to the ground. His eyes rolled back and he wet his pants.

  "Michael! Michael!!" Ruby screamed as loud as she could. She knew, however, that nobody would come. Both of the Lucky Strike smokes were dipped in Ruby's special solution. Laudanum and a few other key ingredients. Ruby had been at this for quite sometime. Even if she had to light her cigarette, she would be just fine. Michael would not.

  "Dear Michael, don't go just yet. There's something very important I need you to do for me. Declan, help Michael, please dear."

  Declan, who was the equivalent of a human chameleon, walked out of the shadows and around to where Michael lay. Declan went everywhere Ruby did. He was her private bodyguard.

  He cast shimmers of a form but nothing concrete.
>
  To the human eye it looked like Michael Wootten sat up sharply, and lazily scuttled in front of Ruby's chair.

  A small amount of drool made its way out of Michael's mouth, and down his chin.

  Declan placed an item next to Michael and disappeared back into the shadows.

  "Michael, sweet Michael. I need you to do something for me. Something very important."

  Michael was in his final moments before his life would change forever. As he slipped away, the most sinister and horrifying laugh he'd ever heard echoed in the ether.

  10

  MELVIN MITCHELL PRESENTS: RUBY AND HER AMAZING FREAKSHOW FRIENDS was long gone before Ransom woke up the next morning. Some towns are harder than others, but this crew of performers and roadies made an absolute art form out of tearing down and hauling out under cover of night. Besides, it was never in their best interest to be around after at least one particular individual came to.

  Ruby and Melvin drove for hours without saying a word. Ruby chose to break the silence. "Thank you in advance for your gift?" She couldn't help but smile as she looked across at Melvin.

  Melvin, in response, doing his very best Ruby impersonation said, "Michael! I was the capcha of a mad-man." They both laughed hysterically.

  "Where to now, my dear?" asked Melvin sincerely

  "Wherever the next dollar lays my love."

  11

  Michael awoke slowly and was very disoriented. He knew he was in his house. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten there. He knew instantly he needed to vomit. As he attempted to push himself over on his stomach...nothing happened. He was able to partially sit up before he vomited all over the front of his shirt and pants.

  What the hell? Damnit! My head is killing me.

  Beads of sweat collected in his brow and he tried to wipe them away. Except he couldn't. Michael looked to his right arm...it was gone.

  He immediately vomited again over the side of his bed. On the floor next to his bed was a blood-stained hack saw. His head swirled violently and he threw himself back into the bed. Tears streamed from his eyes as he screamed.

  Ruby always gets her cut. Always.

  About the Author

  Bob Williams lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Sara and daughter Kate. When Bob isn't writing he works for Habitat for Humanity of Greater Nashville. Bob has two previous short story titles "Smoke" and "Magenta," both currently available in the Amazon Kindle Store. Bob hopes you enjoy reading his words as much as he loves writing them.

  bwilliams.thirdscribe.com/

  UnTamed

  by Laxmi Hariharan

  Summary: Wolf girl Leana Iyeroy, the first hybrid in her family, only ever wanted to be 100% human. An unexpected encounter with the Hugging Saint of Bombay forces Leana to face the wolf inside her. Will she finally make peace with herself?

  Sept 30, 2060. 4pm

  "Your stories are very amusing, old man, but now that you know who I am, I have to kill you." I pull grandmother's sword out from its sheath. Everyone in this new world has been looking for this sword and I inherited it a few weeks ago. Me, the first half-human descendant of the woman who destroyed Bombay.

  She was impulsive and hotheaded, my grandma. She'd never meant to cause such havoc and yet, she'd gone and touched the sword to the altar in that little temple and set the tsunami free. The storm had leveled the city and for this my family has never been forgiven.

  Pulse racing, I rush forward, bringing the blade down on him; but he moves aside and I slide past and bang my head against the railing of the boat. I spring back to my feet and waltz around him, ready to leap.

  He's looking at me, arms hanging by his sides. He seems not in the least surprised. Then, he raises a hand and beckons, one side of his lips quirking in a smile. Blood thudding in my ears, I jump towards him, and again he steps aside; only this time he puts out his foot and I stumble over it and crash, face down, right at the feet of the other two, who burst out laughing.

  "You sure fight like a girl," the fisherman snickers.

  What the—! Is he making fun of me?

  Anger blasts through my head, filling the space behind my eyes. The hair on my forearms stands on end, bristling like spears; my nostrils quiver, leg muscles tense and I grip my sword.

  "Came to learn from the master swordsman himself, did you?" the baker chuckles.

  "What do you mean?" I growl, already swinging to face the old lamp seller.

  "He's Aki, the best swordsman in the islands; perhaps in all of this new world. And he's been waiting for you," the fisherman replies.

  "Oh! Yeah? Has he now?" I sneer and, pushing the fisherman aside, I lunge once more at the lamp seller. One step, a second, a third, and I leap through the air–Didn't see that coming did you old man?–and fall head down against the wooden floor.

  The breath whooshes out of me and my nose slams against the wooden boards. I hear the sickening crunch of it breaking and pain shoots through me, screeching through my nerve endings, so I almost black out. My hands are flung out, the right gripping the sword and I scream as a heavy weight crunches on my palm, forcing me to loosen my fingers.

  "No! No! No!" He's wrenched my sword from my grasp and is holding it aloft.

  "Don't you dare!" I grind out through clenched teeth.

  He grins and, still looking at me, tosses the sword up in the air.

  What the–? I follow the blade as it whirls around and up and up and up, 'til it is silhouetted against the sun. It drops down, hilt up. Grabbing the sword by the blunt side, he swings the handle towards me.

  A scream boils up, then everything goes dark.

  An hour earlier

  My thoughts are in tumult when I arrive at the pier. This is the only way to the island with the temple where it all started. My mother had been hunted and stayed on the run most of her life. But not me. No, that's not me. I am here to face my past. To find out about my origins in the city of my ancestors.

  Soon, I am joined by a man carrying empty fishing nets, that distinct, dried fish smell clinging to him like a jealous lover. Then, a young baker, dragging along a metal casket full of various local delicacies. A third man joins the queue.

  He's carrying metal and clay lamps of various sizes in a large basket on his head. With a sigh of relief, he drops it to the ground and seats himself next to it. He pulls off his hat and fans himself. He's older than the others. At least fifty. He's probably the oldest person alive I have seen. Definitely is.

  He smiles, showing stained teeth, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. His eyebrows rise slightly. A tattoo in the form of a third eye between his brows moves, as if it's alive. It's watching me, even when he is not looking. It's following my every move.

  I tear my eyes away from him.

  The others chatter about the local market where they are headed to sell their goods. I don't want to talk to the locals.

  Best to keep to myself. I shrink into my skin, and step away, touching the hilt of the sword tucked into the back of my waistband. It's hidden by the long shirt I wear; at least I hope so.

  The ferry arrives, gears churning in the water. I walk onto the upper deck past the rows of wooden benches, seating myself on the one right upfront. All three men follow me on board.

  The fisherman–taking his smell with him, thankfully–and the baker sit at the back. The lamp seller settles across the aisle from me. The boat toots its horn and pulls away from the pier.

  "I've always wanted to get as far as possible from where I was born," he says aloud.

  Eh? Is he speaking to me?

  "One belongs to the entire universe, not just one part of it, don't you think?" he continues.

  I ignore him, looking across to the shore. I can just make out the triangular shape of a building in the distance.

  "Been to the temple of the Hugging Saint yet?" he asks, following my gaze.

  I look at him properly. He's wearing a thin, cotton shirt carrying a tiger skin pattern. His loose, white trousers fray at the hems.

&n
bsp; "I don't believe such stories," I reply, while wriggling around and trying to make myself more comfortable on the narrow seat.

  His bushy eyebrows shoot down over his eyes. "A myth. Is that what you think he is?"

  "Isn't he?" I sneer, "Mr. Hugging Boy, the one who can cure you of all your sicknesses, who can help you find your path. All with just a hug."

  My voice comes out all cynical, and I hate myself for it. I'm just sixteen, but already I feel tired. Tired of being world-weary. Soul-weary. Sad and lonely. Yes, yes, go bury your head in self-pity.

  To my surprise, the man chuckles, "Hugging Boy. Hug Boy. Boy Hug...hmmm," he says aloud. "You should tell him that's what you call him. He'd enjoy it too."

  Yah! He's kidding right?

  There's a smile playing around his lips, but his serious eyes never leave mine. His matted hair is wound in a braid around his head. The intricate coils resemble the pattern of a cowrie seashell; yellowish-white and all held in place with a pin in the form of a crescent moon.

  "So, are you going to tell him, yourself?" He raises his hand to take a drag from the hand-made pipe.

  There's a second tattoo in the shape of a trident on his right lower arm. This one's dark, almost black, and stands out on his light skin. The sun bounces off his gleaming, teak-colored skin. It's as if he spends as much time polishing himself as he does the lamps.

  The silence stretches.

  He's waiting for my answer.

  "Uh! No," I say. "I doubt hug boy can help me. Help with what I have." I mutter the last in a low voice, but he hears it anyway.

  "And what is it you have?" He takes a drag from his pipe and offers it to me. I stare at it then back at his face.

  "Really?" I hear the surprise in my voice despite trying my best not to show it. "You're offering me, a teenager, your pipe? To smoke?"

  "As if you follow the rules?" He is about to take his pipe back, when I lean forward, grab it from him, and put it to my own lips, taking a deep breath. And promptly cough. My lungs are on fire; my throat feels like it is being smothered in clay and little white puffs of smoke roll out of my nostrils.