by P. K. Tyler
Kristy comes to my desk at the end of the day. She’s undone an extra button since I saw her last. Getting ready for the night or a leftover from a tryst in the file room? It wasn’t unheard of, assistants and their attorneys finding a secret corner. Kristy certainly acted like someone who wouldn’t mind a little extra overtime off the clock.
She smirks at me and I’m sure I’ve guessed right.
“You ready?”
I click the mouse on save and log out of the file-management system. “Almost.”
She perches on the edge of my desk again and sets her oversized purse down. I can smell the leather and my stomach turns, it’s a dried husk and I can smell its death. I feel the deep thirst from the other night swell in my gut.
“So where are we going tonight?” I ask.
“Just downstairs.”
“We only go there when you think the paralegal guys are going out. Is this going to be another night of talking more work after five than before?” The last time we’d gone to the bar downstairs, Kristy had gone home with one of the junior law clerks and I’d woken up the next day with my clothes still on and the stench of tequila all over me. Memories like that make me wonder how I’d ever acted that way. Motherhood changes you in so many ways.
“No, please, I don’t need those boys drooling all over me tonight. It’s just that Lisa can’t stay long, so this way we can spend more time chatting than walking.”
I shut down my desktop and smoothed my skirt before standing up. “Alright, let’s go then.”
“Don’t sound so excited.” Kristy teases.
“Sorry, I’m just really thirsty.”
“I know the perfect solution to that!” She takes my arm and pulls me toward the elevator.
I didn’t have a coat; the weather broke and, this morning, I’d spotted the first crocus of the season on my way to the office.
The restaurant downstairs is sectioned off into private dining, general dining and a large lounge with booths and a mahogany bar. We enter and head straight for the bar, descending a few steps into the recessed area where young professionals dance around one another.
I wrap my arms around my middle and hold my babies tight.
One of the floater secretaries walks up to us with martinis in her hands. I shake my head and hold myself a little tighter.
“Kristy, you would not believe what Horoshi did today. He called me into his office to listen to him rant about the injustice of him not being allowed to telecommute because of how long it takes him to get to the office. Of course he lives all the way out in dumb-fuck suburba-hell because his perfect wife wanted the perfect house for their perfect kids. And here I am, barely making enough to pay for my kid’s community college classes and living in a two bedroom apartment. But does he care about anyone’s situation but his? Nope. Life’s so fucking hard for Mr. Big Shot Attorney.”
“I’m gonna get some water.” Kristy nods absently before comparing notes on which attorneys are the worst to work for and which can’t keep their hands to themselves.
At the bar, I settle on a stool and wait for the bartender to wander by. Alec, one of the newer researchers is already there. “I didn’t think you came out much Ada.”
“I don’t, just stopping by for a few minutes.”
We chat for a moment before I return to Kristy and the other assistants. The night passes with talk of bosses, husbands, kids and fantasies of running away and starting over. All of them complain about families who take too much time and money.
I smile and laugh, but I’m distracted. My darlings are active tonight and I feel them pushing against the confines of my body.
In the bathroom I gag. The scent of waste is strong and infiltrates every cell in my body. It must be my imagination. A place like this is clean and I see nothing that should smell so awful. At the sink I spit and it’s tinged red. Blood.
My thirst swells, crashing against me. I need… I don’t know…
I turn on the water and gulp down handful after handful but it does nothing. I remember Mr. Darcy and how well I’d slept after his sacrifice.
But there are no cats here.
“Ada! Here you are!” Kristy stumbles into the bathroom. Her eyes are bleary and tired but there’s a wickedness in her smile. “Saw you talking to Alec out there.”
“He’s nice enough.”
“Please, he’s delicious. Completely lickable.” Kristy enters a stall but doesn’t close the door. I try not to watch her in the mirror. “Does your whole body cleanse include a douche? If not, I bet he could help you flush things out!”
“I think you should go home.”
“No way! Lisa just got here. Jim Spector made her stay late to collate some case files. Of course he’s sitting in his office playing solitaire the whole time.” Her words slur as she pushes on the door without washing her hands. “Come on back out soon, ‘kay?”
When the door falls shut, I fling myself into the stall she’d been using. She hadn’t flushed. The diluted urine is bitter, igniting the saliva in my mouth. I gulp down handfuls, my hair falling in the bowl, but I can’t get enough.
I sit on the floor, my breath coming in labored pants.
Mother!
Back in the lounge Alec asks if I’m alright when I return to the bar to gather my purse. I don’t answer, barely able to make out what he’s said over their screams inside my skull, begging me to hold them in my arms, but I can’t. They’re deep within me, not yet ready to be on their own. I’m not ready to let them go.
“I think you may have drank too much tonight.”
“I haven’t had anything but water.” The words catch on my dry lips. I can feel them crack as I move my mouth. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Let’s get you outside.” He puts an arm around me and we walk out the front door and around the corner to an open square where we sit on a bench. The streetlight overhead illuminates the black marble statue of a cherub with arms open wide.
“Feel better now?”
I nod my head, unable to answer. I don’t feel better, but what can I say?
“Good.”
I lean forward, nauseous again.
Pain wracks through me, ripping the fibers of my body apart. I open my mouth to call out, but instead I feel them, surging forth like a wind storm. I have given them everything I have and their birthday has come. My darlings are ready. I fall to the ground as their long bodies climb up and I can feel each movement as they overtake my throat. One after the next, they make their way out of me.
“What’s…?” Alec’s voice breaks as the first of my children slips from my mouth, clinging to my face. It weaves up along my cheek and disappears into my hair as the next emerges. My tiny black darlings climb over one another, battling for their turn. I feel them sliding over and around each other as they fight their way up.
He screams. I don’t care. I have everything I need here within me.
My mouth is full of their small bodies as they slide up my esophagus and over my tongue. Their gentle caress wraps around me and fills my cheeks until there is no room. One intrepid angel makes her way up my sinuses and out my nose. Pride replaces the space where air had been. Burrowing under my flesh, they create their own paths.
My lungs burn and when my babies begin chewing their way through my body I am overcome with a sense of peace. Like nothing I’ve ever known before. They slither under my clothes, through my hair and against my body.
My eyes begin to dim and stars burst across my vision but my babies ground me, keeping my soul in place. The swarm of their bodies reminds me of all I need to do. The last of them is born and curls its length around my tongue, not yet ready to leave my warm embrace.
It’s alright. I coo in my mind. Mama’s got you.
They wriggle with delight and move as one against me. I’m wrapped in their love. I run my fingers over each one, whispering to my children. When I cradle my arms, they gather together into my shirt, a bundle of black writhing life. My face aches from the small holes th
e more desperate of my babies created.
Soon they spread out, exploring the space. They’ve grown so much already. Still long and thin, they unfold and stretch. My body looks like a moving swell of water, black and slick. They cover me. They explore every part of my body, behind my knees, under my breasts, around my fingers.
If someone were to walk by, I doubt they’d even see me, only the smooth movements of my children. Their flesh finally against mine. I doze, hypnotized by the constant movement against my skin like a lover’s sigh. Darkness fills my world as one probes the depths of my ear and another slides along the inside of my arm.
They cover me with their tiny mouths. Nursing a baby is never pain-free and I have hundreds who need so much. They surround me, tasting me, taking nourishment from the body which gave them life. I feel them enter my mouth and my sex, searching for more.
“Ada?” Alec stands behind the bench, eyes gaping. I see him through the roiling bodies of my children. Their heads lift up as one movement, gazing in his direction with swaying bodies. “What the fuck?”
He’s pale and gripping the bench with hands so tight they gleam white in the lamp light. I stand, blood dripping from my face and mouth. My babies dangle from my tattered clothes, some languish in my hair while others trail alongside me on the ground.
“It’s all right, I’m a mother now.”
“This is seriously fucked up. How did?…Where did you?…” He lets go of the bench and glances behind him quickly.
Before he can move, my darlings swarm around his feet. I hold my hands out as they leap from my embrace toward the nourishment they need. Up his pant legs, under the hem, along his inseam, they swirl and squirm.
He screams, trying to step on their thin bodies, but they are not bugs to be squashed, so they slither away unscathed. I watch with pride as they weave up his body. He opens his mouth to scream, but they surge into him, knocking him down with the force of their approach.
As I watch, I feel a smooth arm wrap around my waist.
“I knew you’d come back.” I sigh and lean against his lithe body. We watch in silence as our children feast.
He leans down to my neck and nuzzles, the way he had that first night, barely a month ago. His first kiss is a gentle nip. A love bite.
About the Author
Award-winning author of multi-cultural and transgressive literature, P.K. Tyler is an artist, wife, mother and number cruncher. In addition to literary fiction and Sci-Fi, P.K. also writes erotica and romance under the name Pavarti K. Tyler.
She graduated Smith College in 1999 with a degree in Theatre. After graduation, she moved to New York, where she worked as a Dramaturge, Assistant Director and Production Manager on productions both on and off Broadway. Later, Pavarti went to work in the finance industry for several international law firms.
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The Tombstone Man and the Coming of the Tigress
by Nillu Nasser Stelter
Summary: Jermaine Wyoming lives in a cemetery, isolated from the world, obsessed with the idea of replacing the memories of his harrowing childhood with new ones. Seventeen-year-old Lana Norse suffers from a debilitating disease that promises to rob her of her future. When the two meet, the boundaries of their worlds blur and it becomes difficult to tell what’s real from what is not.
He lived in the darkest shadows, stealing what he needed to survive. This had been Jermaine’s way for so long: preying on children at her behest. Sometimes, he wondered how it would feel to be born on the other side. To be one of the wanted, cherished by loved ones, brimming with hope. It didn’t do to dwell. He quickly pulled the shutters down on his thoughts and locked them away in the murky depths of his mind. He had been trusted with his task and he would not question it.
The evening had cooled. Above him, gunmetal clouds sagged in the London sky. He stumbled across a loose drain cover and cursed harshly, his resolve increasing. He needed to push on before the light failed. He flexed his sinewy shoulders, stooping heavily and narrowly missing a wayward branch of a broad oak tree, leaving great swaths of autumnal leaves falling in his wake. His body, cumbersome and angular though it was, like the anchor of a great ship, could still summon the lightness of a thief when required.
Tonight was such a night. He had his mark: a slip of a girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, with fiery red hair and a smattering of freckles across her wide nose. Soon, her parents would return from their night out at the Royal Albert Hall, drunk with vintage wine and the smugness of the highbrow. But Jermaine would be there first. While the girl slept in her whitewashed bed with the heart carving, he would stoop and caress her face, feel her innocence seep into his dry hand, as commanded.
Their house, a three storey Edwardian with a white-pillared entrance and gold letterbox, rankled him. Was this family any more deserving of splendor than the wan faces at the food bank or in the dole queue? A gust of wind blew an empty Coke can against his leg. Jermaine grunted, pulling his collar up around his neck, sank his head down into its folds and glanced furtively up to the second storey. The girl slept, just as he had known she would. He prided himself on his thoroughness; sloppiness was for amateurs. Goddesses like Firenze expected - nay, deserved - results.
He scanned the street. A swarm of shiny blue beetles shuffled past him, inches from his foot. A quick look over his shoulder told him he was otherwise alone. A faulty streetlight blinked at the end of the street. Jermaine flicked the index finger of his right hand. The slightest twitch extinguished the bulb. He expelled a throaty laugh. The bulb was Firenze’s doing. She must be watching: a silent partner. Still, it made him feel powerful to pretend it had been him, all god-like.
He climbed the steps to their home and imagined he could hear the girl’s breathing as he did, light, not labored like his own. Her privilege angered him and he was not sorry for what he must do. He leapt like a giant, clumsy cat, his butcher hands catching the façade of the house. He hoisted himself up, clawing at a drainpipe for extra leverage, uncaring about what damage he might do. He paused outside the girl’s window and ran his thick fingers over its casing before pushing against the sash, inching it up until he could stoop and step his black boot into a bedroom the color of sunshine.
There, tucked neatly under her plump duvet lay the girl, her ginger tendrils fanned out on a pillow. Up close she seemed older than he expected, the oldest yet. She snored lightly. In his experience this was not unusual. A tattered toy, a grey goose with a once red beak, nestled in the crook of her arm and, for a moment, Jermaine imagined the bird coming to life and angrily squawking at him. He refocused, unremorseful, without pity. The girl stirred in her sleep, perhaps sensing the rush of cool air through the open window, or the intruder who lurked, but still Jermaine pressed on. He could not risk being disturbed. He touched her face, drinking in her innocence, just as the girl jerked up in bed and filled the house with an ear-splitting scream.
* * *
At seventeen years old, Lana was already tired of life. Her diseased body didn’t always obey her commands. The doctors had promised the progression would be slow, but they had lied, like everyone else. Like her parents, who had pledged to be with her each step of the way, but who fled at every opportunity. Lana had spent the entire weekend alone. Her mother had made sure the fridge was fully stocked of course, with all sorts of wonderful treats and the creamy cheddar pastries she knew her daughter loved.
Still, Lana didn’t want treats. She wanted time. She wanted her parents to go shopping with her for pretty things, to fly a kite across the green, to talk until they fell laughing in a heap, and make her forget that her life was slipping away at seventeen. She had spent all day looking out her window, thinking about missed adventures. If only her parents would be more wrapp
ed up in her, than in themselves. It hadn’t always been this way. After the diagnosis her mother stood vigil at her bedside day and night, placing cool cloths on her brow as she lay limp with fear under the sweaty bedclothes. That was when her mother could still cope.
Tonight, her parents had another date, the old romantics. They had left her at home, alone, without a carer, taking advantage of Lana’s health peak before the next crash. As if she were just a nuisance, a tagger on, not welcome in their cozy twosome. The front door slammed shut. Lana peeled back her damask curtains in time to see her father help her mother into their gleaming tangerine coupé. They looked ridiculous and happy. Her father noticed her and gave a cheery wave. Lana waved back, though she didn’t want to. Did they leave to forget her, or to remember themselves?
The speaking statue at the corner of the street surveyed the scene, a knowing twitch in the corner of its cracked mouth, its stone eyes peering into Lana’s room. Lana let the curtain drop. She didn’t want to stay up like the other teens. What was the point if the loneliness still crept up on her like a stranger in the night? She kicked off her shoes and flopped on her perfectly made bed and then crawled under the covers, fully clothed.
Sleep had once been a poor companion. Not anymore. She felt in charge of her fate when she slept. She coveted sleep, day or night. Yearned for the mist of drowsiness to envelop her so she could assume stronger forms in the dream world, more real to her than her human body. She even had a dream notebook packed full of her adventures on her side table, recounted in her precise, spiky handwriting. Legend said that if you couldn’t sleep at night, you were awake in someone else’s dream. Lana believed it.
The dream she liked most was her as a tigress, majestic and predatory, with a roar that frightened even the worst foe. She drew the covers closer around her when a breeze found its way into her room, imagining her dream-self padding through a jungle. A shadow loomed above her, but instead of a roar, Lana let out a scream, startling herself awake.
