Electric Velocipede Issue 25

by Megan Kurishage

  Who is the teachers? Is the musicians. To reveal vampyr or ghul, you sing to them. But just right. They make note, to break spell. You make right note back. They cannot move. Stop for long time, they burn. Intervals important, pitch very important, good voice not so important. You find tune that work, you teach it to others. Hide in other music, but keep, and teach.

  So, Mozart. Always want to hunt the vampyr, not the ghul. Would have been so good against ghul! Poor Haydn tell him, but no. Always want to be greatest vampyr hunter in Vienna, greatest of his age. Always practice one, not other. He think his Freemasons know about vampyrs, help him, but no good. The vampyr hunt is not in him.

  Is dangerous, to hunt. Beethoven’s ears, Herr Schumann’s little finger. And they were lucky. The Bachs were lucky, too–only ghuls in their country. Well, mostly. The stories I tell you! But no. For Mozart, only vampyr. And so, he hunt the vampyr, but the ghul catch him. He escape, but the fever take him. Old Haydn, he look after the son, Francis Xaver Mozart, teach him. Live a long time.

  So, you study everything, but do what you do well. Dark alley is no place to make wrong guess. And do not be like Mozart. Fine composer, but always miserable to be someone else, the greatest vampyr hunter in Vienna, Antonio Salieri.

  Scar on my hand? No, does not hurt now. No, young one, I am just old man. But tell no one.

  And next week, you play for me the Mozart.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bart Allen wonders which genre he's living in. Alternate-future? Urban fantasy sitcom? In his spare time, he makes music, confections, and excuses. One week a year, he goes to an island and helps make the Viable Paradise Writers' Workshop happen. The rest of the year, he lives in Arkansa, without any pets, a far as he can tell.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  I appreciate Dave Thompson at Podcastle for encouraging me to write this story for his flash fiction contest, and then for encouraging me to send the story out to other editors.

  A Faun’s Lament

  Michael Constantine McConnell

  I.

  I loved a woman carved from green cheese.

  I nibbled her ears, kissed her until nothing

  remained. I, with flute-splintered lips,

  I, with soft belly fur, I, whose horns itch in Spring,

  relapsed onto my haunches, blew into my reeds,

  and condemned the Sun for rolling backwards

  into another's morning. I created, scrambled,

  and smited worlds while colored strings of light

  traded sex with powder-eyed nymphs. The birds

  turned into coffee at midnight, when rat-drawn

  pumpkins swerved home beneath a thousand white

  freckles. I dreamed that night about fingers

  and woke up chewing my knuckles. Will I go

  to bed each night in a shirt and tie?

  Will my children grow into their hooves?

  Will my daughters flaunt their beards? Will they

  anoint the feet of men with their blood, oil, perfume?

  II.

  I made love to a tree that became flesh and wouldn't let

  go. We rose and fell and flushed over the sap-drenched

  earth. She whispered stories to me about fish,

  about ancient scaled queens that climbed from the sea

  and taught humans how to kiss. She hummed soft

  lullabies about a winged lover that flew her around

  the world six times before her orgasm ended, and how

  she could only hear the shrill whine of seconds pausing.

  She remembered nothing more. She did not remember

  arching her back, watching the Earth spin upside down,

  and raining seed onto its bald ground. She did not

  remember my goat smell. When I told her I loved her,

  she released me, reached into the air, returned to wood,

  and sprouted small blossoms in the dead of cold winter.

  III.

  I dream a developing world each night,

  and in those rooms, roaming those streets,

  is an alternate me who dreams about you,

  imagines your voice during mermaid stories,

  sees your face in a child's smile, your little

  hands in maternal love. That me wonders

  how rain can be God's tears and still

  have enough rage left to strip children

  from their mothers' arms, murder them

  like cats in a river. That me flatters a dim sun

  by calling it "moon." I awake, and in moving

  waters stand barefoot girls with delicious toes.

  I tell them that a wet winter and spring brings

  storms through August. I tell them that the forest

  will trick them to sing, and to let it. I tell them

  we are more than language and fears, more

  than simple holes where water settles, that

  from us billow such clouds that neither rock

  nor bird nor beast can climb so high.

  IV.

  Good morning, my baby. Sometimes I wear

  your scent through the day. Sometimes, when I open

  my eyes, you are looking at me. I witnessed

  the first sunrise. I lay purring on God's lap.

  When I jumped down to yawn and stretch my limbs,

  a wind bent around the mountains, sat cross-legged

  on the floor, and said that you'd stopped missing

  me. It blanched my eyes with sand and laughed.

  I lost my balance, fell. On an island in the middle

  of a very calm lake, I am always kissing you,

  and always will. Will our children write fairy

  tales by candlelight? Will they run naked

  across the beach and cuddle beneath a single

  robe? Will they remember how to fall

  in love, how to find their way back to Heaven?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Living in temporary transition, Michael Constantine McConnell breathes in Fort Worth, Texas. A poet, palindromist, singer, songwriter, and musician, he is proud to be included in Electric Velocipede's current issue.

  Musici

  Derek Zumsteg

  The last note of Enri’s exit aria resounded in the hall, the heavy air humming and electric, as the company’s performers smiled in the lamplight and accepted scattered applause. The audience, roused from gawking up at the important people in the boxes along each side wall, began to push for the aisles. One listener sat not moving in his seat in the center of the main floor, He kept his eyes closed and smiled with a warm contentment. His black hair greyed across the temples and speckled his beard, almost concealing remarkably young features and an unpocked-face. He wore modest, plain, clean clothes, unremarkable except for two well-polished gold ear cuffs, clipped high on each side, brightly out of fashion.

  Enri, who had sung the still-audible final moment of Hera, watched him. Stripped of his stage costume, Enri looked like a mantis, or a flamingo, or a hairless, slight chimpanzee, his long arms almost to his knees, his stick-like legs running seemingly to his head. The passing heads of company members breaking down the production didn’t even reach his shoulders. Still the note remained.

  “Bartolo,” Enri whispered to stage left, “bring two men with large staffs.”

  Bartolo, struggling to get a belt around his massive waist, paused to look at Enri. He huffed with contempt and returned to his battle.

  Enri stamped his foot. “Bartolo!”

  “What?” Bartolo said, and the bass-baritone strode out holding his pants up with both hands. Having poured perfume over his layer of performance sweat, his odor trailed him as he passed to center stage, a mix of flower, fruit, stale sweat, and ass. His hair hung like heavy yarn, tangled from being under his wig. Bartolo stopped at his mark, brought both feet together, and faced the hall. He looked at the man, snorted in derision, looked at Enri, and then back at the man.

  “You, good sir!” Bartolo did
n’t give his performance C, but he was on stage with an audience, and his voice enveloped the hall like a heavy blanket, smothering Enri’s high A.

  “Giovanni Sellia,” the man said. He wore a plain vest over a loose shirt, neat and clean.

  “Sellia,” Bartolo said. “Our modest show has concluded.”

  “Has it?” The man stood. “Booooooooooo!” He yelled, smiling and cheeks coloring above the beard. His brown eyes shone. “Boooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

  Bartolo started.

  “Terrible!” Giovanni said, starting to laugh. “I traveled so far for this? An empty spectacle, infertile and boring! Of course your audience talks throughout – their gossip is far more interesting than this worthless Hera!”

  Bartolo gave Enri a significant look.

  “Spaniard?” he mouthed.

  Enri put his empty hand out, helpless.

  “Russian?” Bartolo mouthed.

  “I don’t know,” Enri whispered.

  The man, now at the aisle, stepped forward, smiling. “They warned me Italian opera was a hollow vessel filled with false emotions. Why did I ignore their wisdom?”

  “Enri,” Bartolo said. “The men with staves?”

  “And yet you seem to be in fine spirits,” Enri said.

  “My angel!” the man cried, arms wide in welcome. “Your voice is a revelation like the moment I embraced our Lord Jesus Christ in my heart, and on my love for Him I have never heard anything so beautiful and graceful! You touched me, sir, truly. After the final aria, I could not move, wanting that last moment to go on.”

  “And yet—” Bartolo asked, heavy eyebrows together in confusion.

  “In service of such terrible work, oh!”

  “How dare you!” Bartolo yelled.

  “You are the composer? You are a fine singer,” the man said, quietly, sadly. “But in writing you are like Icarus and fly too high for your wax wings.”

  Enri put a hand on Bartolo’s shoulder, quelling a response.

  “Such a terrible plot. The librettos are the worst in Italy and possibly Europe. But you were an excellent villain,” Giovanni said. “Your voice is powerful and expressive, and with such subtlety.”

  “You flatter me with your outstanding taste for fine opera,” Bartolo said. “I regret speculating you were Spanish.”

  “Spanish? For shame. I’ve returned to Calabria after years in Bavaria.”

  “Ah. Bavaria,” Bartolo said to Enri.

  “Bavaria,” Enri agreed.

  “His vowels are like being stabbed in the ear,” Bartolo said, frowning. “May we never travel to Germanic lands.”

  “May I treat the company to the traditional after-performance meal?”

  “Treat the company!” Enri chirped, and blushed.

  “After such a reception?” Bartolo yelled, drawing himself forward onto his toes. “Never!”

  “But we are performers,” Enri said. “And can’t turn down a free meal.” He smiled at the man.

  Bartolo sank back and seemed to shrink as he relaxed his shoulders. “As you are a recent escapee from the northern tribes, I excuse your rudeness,” Bartolo said. “It is to your credit that you retained any appreciation of the great art while among such barbaric company for so long.” He paused, smiled, shot Enri a half-second of a glare, then smiled again. “A moment.”

  Giovanni nodded and stood as Bartolo hustled backstage.

  “Everyone, everyone! Free food!” the unseen Bartolo yelled. “We have acquired a senseless Bavarian patron!”

  A chorus of cheers rolled through the curtains. Enri sat to hop down, his huge legs almost covering the gap when dangled tentatively, making the jump trivial. Giovanni approached the stage under an amused gaze.

  “You’ve savored the moment?” Enri asked.

  “I have always felt that the appropriate reception for a truly great work is not applause or cheering, but a moment of silence.” He offered a hand, and they shook. The man’s grip was rough and warm, Enri’s weak and cold.

  “The first clap is almost an insult,” Enri agreed.

  “Oh, but the applause,” the man said, and he began to clap. Enri smiled despite himself. “And well deserved.”

  Enri bowed a few degrees, bending head.

  “To food!” Bartolo called, stomping out with the rest of the players behind. They were a colorful bunch: dirty, many of them only half out of costume, already drinking, all with hopeful eyes for Giovanni. Bartolo had put on layers of layers of black, a stark contrast to the airy new-ivy-colored blouse and pants Enri wore.

  Bartolo hopped down to the floor and walked over to clap an arm over the man’s shoulder and raise the other for emphasis. “Meet our generous patron tonight. Sir, I would introduce you to our company but –” he gave a look.

  “I’m Giovanni Sellia,” Giovanni said. “Long of Catanzaro, briefly of Milan and Bologna, lately of the Munich Green Opera Company and happy to meet you all. Tonight’s performance was the finest I have ever seen, and it will be my pleasure to host tonight.”

  They cheered.

  “Liar!” Bartolo bellowed. “We accept! To the street!” Keeping his left arm tightly around Giovanni’s shoulders, he walked side-by-side out the theater and into the street.

  “Tell me, if you would, of these Bavarians. What do they do in the evenings? Have they discovered they can strike rocks together?”

  Giovanni laughed. “No, they mount wild bears and duel. The winner is crowned Duke.”

  Outside the house in the narrow crooked street, the breeze smelled of black pepper and grilling. Hangers-on watched from further up, shifting nervously on the stones and stealing glances. The deep yellow-red of the sunset fired the tangled clay roofs of the city, and made Giovanni’s ear cuffs glow like bronze. Bartolo frowned and went back in after stragglers.

  “Have you missed the food?” Enri asked Giovanni. He hid a yawn behind his drawn hand.

  “If I wrote an aria about it,” Giovanni said, “the audience would be so sad and so hungry they would cry uncontrollably and devour their neighbors. Do you know how long I went without polenta?” He shook his head and laughed. “And two years, two years without olive oil.”

  Enri made a sour face. “I can’t think of it!”

  “It must seem impossible, with so much produced here, even up against that squat monstrosity.” He waved an arm at the flat brutal fortress on the point, masked nearly black against the darkening sky. “There are no traders, no imports?” Enri waved and smiled at a small huddle of admirers. They giggled. Other men glared, straightened.

  Giovanni threw his head to the sky. “Moses didn’t wander as far as I did while searching for fresh olives. And when you’re not at risk of losing your appetite, I’ll tell you what I once did for a single bruised tomato.”

  Enri gave a little leer with his eyebrow and a crooked smile. “Is it a delicate story?”

  “I was not delicate afterwards, no,” Giovanni said, clearing his throat and looking away.

  “I should not delay you, then,” Enri said. He looked back to the hall, each direction on the street, at Giovanni, smiled mischievously, cleared his throat, causing the group to turn and look at him expectantly. Enri stamped his foot and huffed. “I grow bored!” he yelled, and started down a gentle downward slope. “Come, come,” he said, waving Giovanni forward.

  Enri’s walk was a series of lurches smoothed with practice and his own serious-faced desire to maintain dignity, neither of which could overcome the sheer length of his limbs. Giovanni scurried to keep a step behind.

  “Why Bavaria?” Enri asked, turning his head only a little to the side and smiling at a woman in a window as he passed.

  “My singing career drew to a dignified end, and they offered a chance to teach at the royal conservatory and compose.”

  “Bavaria has a royal conservatory?”

  “As it turned out, they did not,” Giovanni said, and Enri glanced back to catch him blushing. “The school was half-built when I arrived, though ther
e were students.”

  “How was it?”

  “I found teaching tedious, the students stupid and unrefined but eager.”

  “What a dangerous combination,” Enri said. “Did you compose, or did they not have ink?”

  “Two works of some local note,” Giovanni said, straightening and pulling his shoulders back, “Torture of Orethestues and Vengeance of Eunomia. But I know someone of your talent is endlessly pestered to read compositions. So I won’t mention them again.”

  Enri stopped, laughing into one hand, and motioned for Giovanni to come close. Enri smelled faintly of stage makeup and stale sweat, and heavily of flowery perfume.

  “Sir,” Enri said softly. “We are in Calabria.” He put a hand on Giovanni’s shoulder. “You, me, and Bartolo may be the three people who can write in our fine city.” He patted Giovanni’s chest twice, smiled, and started again. Giovanni scampered to keep up. The rest of the company, long broken segments, trailed behind them to the last corner and out of sight.

  Enri pointed and led them into an extremely narrow passage between a bright yellow-painted stone building and its faded red twin. He kept up his pace while Giovanni turned nearly sideways and shuffled. They emerged onto a well-populated street. Enri crossed and descended carved stone steps. A narrow column of sea stood ahead of them, and the wind carried over their shoulders towards the horizon.

  “Ah, here.”

  The stairs put them onto a long stretch of worn rocks and sand, and Giovanni stopped to inhale the salt and seaweed. Enri kept on, looking back and waving impatiently with one hand.

  Behind one of the three-story buildings facing the ocean Enri strode into an enclosed courtyard, a historical accident of layout that left space for mismatched tables and warped chairs of all sizes.

  “I am here!” Enri declared. “The evening may begin!”

  He grinned widely to the six people already sitting and the graying, hunched man bringing wine out, and held his arms high for attention. The courtyard fell silent. “I am happy to bring you the great and highly recommended Giovanni Sellia, royal Bavarian composer and conductor, composer of the internationally acclaimed works Torture of Orethestues and Vengeance of Eunomia.” The diners got up to greet Giovanni and politely wonder why he’d come to such a poor region.