by Various
“What you want, Bola?” she asked, her face dusted with cornmeal, her hands wringing a cooking rag. Ouida the head cook eavesdropped on them, making loud cleaning noises to cover their conversation from the owners but not herself.
“I ain’t eat yet. Can you fix me somethin’?”
“What makes you think there’s some leftovers waitin’ on you, man?”
He put a bold foot on the bottom step that led to the inside. She looked down at his foot, then up at him. She smiled.
“Master Stewart see that foot, you’d be in trouble.”
“Then help my foot not get in trouble.”
Ouida saw this and rolled her eyes at them both. Celestine pushed past the older woman, grabbed a clean table napkin, and wrapped a chunk of cornbread dipped in pot liquor and a thick piece of fatback inside. She had been saving it for her own dinner. She handed it to Bola.
“You gotta live on that for now; the beans are all gone.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Mhmmm….”
“Did you eat yet?”
“No.”
“I’ll be over by the chicken coop. Come eat with me.”
Her eyes narrowed. She looked over her shoulder.
“Telemi kalo,” he said.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Come with me.”
Ouida shook her head. Glared at Bola.
“Master Stewart come through, don’t tell him where I am.” Celestine said.
“You playin’ with fire, gal,” Ouida said, handing Celestine a smaller chunk of cornbread.
Bola walked ahead of Celestine just in case anyone else was watching them. He casually passed Tchula’s cabin. He could hear Celestine’s heavy footsteps behind him, and he picked up his pace to distance himself until they were in the clear, hidden by the chicken coop behind the smithy.
Bola leaned against a tree and ate the bread and swallowed the fatty meat that greased his lips. Celestine slid her cornbread in her apron.
“I thought you wanted me to eat with you,” she said.
“I’ll watch you eat.”
“Why you sniffin’ around me?”
“C’mere,” he said. He grabbed for her arm. She pulled back. But not too far.
“Quit playin’ with me, man.”
“I got no time to play. Only two days left before I’m gone.”
“My sister—”
“She don’t want me no more.”
“Why not?”
“O rewa gan lobinrin,” he said.
“What are you saying to me?”
“Moferan e… I like you.”
“Master Stewart—”
“Ain’t here.”
His accent was more pronounced. Celestine wavered. To want to do it freely and not because she was forced—that was a gift. Bola held out his hand. She took it.
“Oda,” he said.
She wondered if he felt like he was kissing Tchula. Her body would feel new, and yet it would not be new, not really. She fumbled with the buttons on her blouse as he lifted her skirt and apron and fingered her slowly. She spun herself around so that she was facing the tree and holding it with her hands.
“We have to watch out in case someone finds us. Master Stewart is talking with the overseer in the parlor,” she said, but he was busy nibbling her earlobes, his hands running up and down her heavy breasts.
“Hurry,” she said. He pulled down his pants and she reached around and guided him in.
“Be’ ni—yara, yara—” he said with gritted teeth.
“English, Bola, please say it in English,” she moaned.
“Yes, faster, faster,” he yammered
She came before he did. He made sure of that.
Later that day, he slept with Tchula. They held one another, their heartbeats pounding in their ears. Earlier Tchula had smoked tobacco leaves in a tightly wrapped cigar and blew the smoke into a mound of dirt on her altar. Bola gave the mound holes for eyes, a mouth, and a nose. Tchula blew smoke into the dirt mouth and opened the way for their deities to come through.
Tchula had stolen a chicken from the coop, slit its throat and fed their gods with the gushing of blood and prayers on her altar. The presence of heavy Red and Black Gods mingling together and meeting for the first time bent Tchula’s and Bola’s backs. The spirits rode them, exhausting their limbs. Requests were made to the Red and the Black, and she felt their escape was imminent. There was no turning back.
“What if I never see you again?” he asked Tchula in the twilight of their rest. She didn’t answer him. A tingling in her stomach let her know she was afraid to. Any doubt released from her lips would taint their bond. Instead, she placed her lips on his. Maybe she could make him plant a new seed in her. One that she could grow in free soil.
She slid on top of him. Tired limbs or not, she would remember every part of his body. He was asleep when she whispered in his ear, “I will find you.”
The overseer and Junior came for Bola at nine that evening. They shackled his arms and legs and transported him onto a supply carriage. Tchula watched Junior strike his horses and carry Bola away into the dark. Master Stewart would follow them in a few days.
Celestine consoled Tchula when she threw herself down on her pallet.
“He’ll use you tonight,” Tchula said when her tears finally dried up.
“I know,” Celestine said, resolved to her endless fate.
“Promise me something,” Tchula said.
“What?”
“Think of mama’s grave.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Celestine asked.
Tchula reached out and hugged Celestine. Huddled on the disheveled pallet, Tchula squeezed Celestine’s shoulders.
“Just think of Itta for me, please.”
Celestine pulled herself free from Tchula’s smothering arms. She gazed into Tchula’s piercing eyes.
“I will,” Celestine answered, still puzzled with the request.
• • •
Stewart summoned Celestine to his private bedroom in a downstairs wing of the main house. Mrs. Stewart had retired only a half hour earlier after having a nightcap in their parlor, so Celestine was a little thrown off by the scheduling. He would usually wait until his wife had been asleep for some time before crawling out of their marital bed to enjoy his debauchery with Celestine.
She arrived in a pale blue housedress that doubled as a nightgown. Stewart smoked a cigar and watched her undress. She flung the dress across a divan near the full-sized bed. Pulling back the satin bed linens, she positioned herself on her back. She watched Stewart methodically remove each article of clothing and place it on a wing-backed chair across from the bed. He was a man of average height, with a slender physique, but his stomach was bloated and looked like it belonged to a much heavier man. Lying there, Celestine wondered if he had worms.
Stewart kneeled before Celestine and parted her knees, lifting her limbs over his shoulders. Celestine felt her back and buttocks sliding on the cool sheets, and the lips of her lightly haired vulva opened to the warmth from Stewart’s hands. Candles flickered, illuminating her body, her skin taking on a deep orange glow that contrasted with the stark white sheets. Stewart took his right pinky finger and parted her dusky inner labia to reveal her pink insides. He gripped his penis with his left hand and inserted himself, enjoying the fact that Celestine was moist so early.
Her eyes were closed, her lips pursed into a thin line. Stewart partially pulled out, then thrust again, engrossed in the grip of her sex and the light/dark interplay of his penis and her slick orifice. He shifted his weight, driving his knees into the mattress. He moved her legs to wrap around his waist.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
Celestine obeyed. Stewart’s face bore down on her, his passionate tempo faster. Celestine studied his tense expression, his eyes mere slits. She tried to imagine what Bola’s face looked like in the midst of his pleasure, their coupling against the tree still vivid in her m
ind. She tried to recall the words he whispered in her ear in his native tongue, the calloused grip of his hands on her nipples, the muscles of his chest pressing on her back. She felt her vaginal walls quiver then squeeze, a surge of tension racing down her spine as Stewart grabbed her hair from the back, pulling her head forward. He reached his peak. He would finish soon. She pumped her hips furiously to hurry him.
He opened his eyes.
“Oh!” he gasped, his eyes widening. Celestine stopped moving. This wasn’t his usual response to climax. He gazed down below her navel, down to his penis. He drew out his glistening member, grabbed it with both hands. There were two visible bite marks on the tip of the glans. Two tear-sized drops of blood pooled on the skin and dripped down onto the sheets.
“What have you done?” he barked, color draining from his face. Stewart’s penis swelled, turning deep purple. His breath became ragged chirps. He stared between her legs. Celestine felt a fullness pulsating inside her. She shifted her weight, and raised herself up with her hands.
Her labia pushed open. Two long segmented limbs, thin like twigs, poked out hauling out six more brown legs. Eight feral-looking black eyes shined up at Stewart. Its venomous fangs throbbed as it drew out its entire body from Celestine’s vagina. Its abdomen was as big as a man’s fist. Each spider leg was a foot long. Stewart’s naked body fell backwards to the floor, and Celestine jumped off the bed, screaming. The spider regarded her coolly. Knowingly.
She heard the stampede of feet from upstairs. Muffled shouts were moving down towards her. The overseer and a sallow-faced male house servant burst into the room. Celestine draped her house dress around her nakedness and stood on the divan. The overseer knelt down by Stewart.
“What did you do to him?”
“He was bitten by a spider.”
“Where is it? Did you kill it?”
“On the bed!” She pointed.
The house servant cautiously smoothed down the bed linen with one hand while holding a kerosene lamp with the other. A small glint caught his eye. He squinted, moved his hand to the bed and held up a miniature metal spider. He stared at Celestine, then hid the metalwork in his bed clothes and sank to his knees on the floor. He gaped at the bite marks on Stewart’s blackened penis.
“Lyle!” Mrs. Stewart staggered into the room. Celestine took advantage of the distraction. She pulled on the housedress and slipped out.
• • •
Celestine ran to Tchula’s cabin and found it empty. A small fire blazed in the fireplace, burning off mounds of herbs. All of Tchula’s jars were smashed on the floor. Her altar was gone. On the oak table, Celestine saw a stuffed burlap bag and the little metal bird, Bola’s first gift to Tchula.
Outside, the commotion of the main house rose to a loud din, waking slaves in their quarters. Beyond the door she could see dark bodies striding towards the chaos. Ouida shuffled into the cabin, out of breath and holding her side.
“We need your sister,” Ouida said.
“She’s gone.”
“God help us,” Ouida said, and rushed back to the house.
Celestine picked up the bird and tapped its beak. The wings flapped with a tinkling sound. Her eyes caught sight of the empty pallet. She remembered Tchula’s tears, her strong arms squeezing her shoulders, and—
“Itta,” Celestine said. A fearful smile spread across her face. Itta’s grave. Tchula would be there, waiting for her. She closed her hand around the bird and held it to her breast.
“Let’s get free,” she said.
Draping the burlap bag around her shoulder, she ran out of the cabin, past the smithy and the chicken coop. She ran past the Tupelo trees and cotton fields, past all the pain. In the distance, she saw Tchula standing behind a group of maple trees, waving for her to run faster. Celestine ran so fast that she felt like she could extend her arms and soar.
And she did.
Dawn Bonanno became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “How Cherry Coke Saved My Life” in Nature (Oct. 2013), edited by Colin Sullivan.
Visit her website at www.dmbonanno.com.
* * *
Flash: “How Cherry Coke Saved My Life” ••••
HOW CHERRY COKE SAVED MY LIFE
by Dawn Bonanno
First published in Nature (Oct. 2013), edited by Colin Sullivan
• • • •
“AA MEETINGS didn’t work for me,” I told the little alien. I didn’t know what to do with him. He kind of looked like a poodle, so it seemed like I sat on my front stoop talking to a dog I didn’t own. As if the hawk-eye neighbors didn’t think I was strange enough, living in this big house all by my lonesome. Well, what used to be my house. At least the pond was still intact, pretty as it reflected the afternoon sun in purple ripples.
“A… A?” His puppy dog eyes crossed.
“A place where drunks go to cure themselves. Works for millions of Americans. Just not ol’ Harold. It was the crowds, you see. Even the smaller meetings were too crowded for me. Some guy offered to mentor me solo, but then I’d lose the anonymous part of the deal. The guy would know me. People would hear about the screwball who was so far gone even AA couldn’t help him.”
Poodle guy nodded, his ear curls bouncing. “My translator is functioning properly now. Allow me to introduce—”
I grabbed his snout. Not hard, just enough to make him shut up. “Anonymity, dude. Work with me here.” Not giving him a chance to realize I’d already introduced myself, I went on. “So that was around when Jenna left me, and I was really in hot water. I don’t cook. Sure as hell can’t clean. She took care of me and the kids, but after I got fired, she was done. I almost died without her.”
“Is that when the Cherry Coke saved your life?”
“Not yet, but it is when I started on the Cherry Coke. Had to transfer my dependence onto something that wouldn’t get me fired again or permanently divorced or smash my wheels. Figured the Coke was a good idea since I’d already done in my liver with all that drinking. As long as I drink extra water and run a bit, my kidneys’ll hold up. The running did me some serious good. It lost me thirty pounds.”
I felt like scratching behind his ears, but he’d probably take offense to that, being new to Earth and all, and not knowing our relationship with the resident four-leggers. Have to give him credit for just looking at me all strange.
“Thirty pounds.” Poodle guy cocked his head to the side then nodded. “Removing fifteen percent of your body mass would seriously relieve the stress on your internal organs. Is that how Cherry Coke saved your life?”
“Nah. The runnin’ was good, but it wasn’t life changing or nothing.” What was he, a doctor or something? If that was the case, he wouldn’t be much help with my house. “See, I still want Jenna back. I called her today, told her about all I done, invited her over. Damn but she said yes! I started shaking all over, and that’s when I realized I needed a Coke. Crappy timing though, I was all out.”
The poodle guy nodded, his ears flopping, as if making some big discovery from my troubles. “Out of inventory?”
I snorted. “I put a dent in the A&P’s inventory, filled up my trunk. Didn’t even stop for gas on the way back, which my wheels needed to get me back here. So I was late for Jenna. Saw her driving back and caught some nasty words, but she never did slow down. Don’t think she’ll be back.”
“Is that how Cherry Coke saved your life?”
“Nah.” I grinned now and this time I pet him on the head. Probably confused him more than ticked him off. I took a long swig of my warm Cherry Coke, finishing off the can. “See, the Cherry Coke? It got me out of the house, and stuck on those back roads when you lost control of your damned saucer—”
“Spacepod.”
“I don’t care what you call it, it trashed my house. Look at it! How the hell am I supposed to live in a pile of smashed timber and space metal? That’s what I was thinking as I walked up, soda case in hand. Yep. If it weren’t f
or the Cherry Coke, I’d have been home, pacing my living room when your saucer crashed down onto it. So you see, my furry friend, that’s how Cherry Coke saved my life.”
Poodle guy was silent as he stared at the wreckage of my empty home. Not that I cared about the house itself. Like I said, can’t clean. If Jenna had actually gone in, she’d have left me again on account of being a slob. At least I had a dog now. Sort of.
“Welcome to Earth, friend,” I said.
“Oh no,” he said and stared wide eyed at the wreckage.
“What, dude?”
“Wrong planet.” He whimpered now.
“That sucks. Will your friends come rescue you?”
“I was supposed to rescue them.”
The debris that had been my house shifted, the timber and metal collapsing in on itself. Homeless is homeless, it didn’t matter what that mess did now.
“Shit happens, friend,” I said, deciding to keep him, and opened him up a warm can of Cherry Coke. “Best you can do is live in the moment. You never know what might come of it.”
Oliver Buckram became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “The Running of the Robots” in Flash Fiction Online (Jul. 2012), edited by Suzanne Vincent.
Visit his website at oliverbuckram.com.
* * *
Flash: “The Running of the Robots”
Flash: “Un Opera nello Spazio (A Space Opera)” ••••
Flash: “Half a Conversation, Overheard While Inside an Enormous Sentient Slug” ••••
THE RUNNING OF THE ROBOTS
by Oliver Buckram
First published in Flash Fiction Online (Jul. 2012), edited by Suzanne Vincent
• • • •
SERGEANT ALBERTO S. MENDOZA (U.S. Army, Retired) always stayed indoors during the Running of the Robots. The damned things were dangerous.
