Skeleton Dance

This is not a story about my old copy of Jason and the Argonauts. We watched it so many times with my mom that the VHS player started growling like a trapped bear cub and it took longer to spit out the tape every time. The stop motion skeletons were my favourite. Aren’t they everyone’s favourite? Ray Harryhausen at his best. The Children of the Hydra’s Teeth standing in formation with their swords and shields, slowly advancing like they’re readying for a waltz. We called them Karl Skellingtons. I don’t remember who started it. It made us laugh, which is the main thing. The Karl Skellingtons scream without lungs, lunging towards our foolhardy hero like a malicious wave of maracas. He dives off a cliff in desperation and they follow him to a watery grave. That scene involved seven plastic skeletons thrown after a stuntman, which had to be captured in one take. No second chances to kill your movie monsters. All those fake bones, lost at sea. I loved that movie. I can never rewatch it.

This is not a story about the lunar eclipse the night before we graduated. The shadows formed pools of raven hollows and the moon was rotting orange. Its face was the face of a capricious child, ready to smile a world-rending smile. We headed into the graveyard that night, fuelled by a steady supply of spirits, flashlights at hand. Everyone was there: Seth, Erica, Tammy, and Alexander. Sulking “don’t you dare call me Alex” Alexander, bitter beyond his years, wiry like poison ivy. He stole glances at me with a mixture of stubbornness, naked longing, suppressed hope and hurt. He tried to kiss me again that night. He hadn’t tried in almost a year. I thought the last gentle let-down would stick. I thought he was over it, that we could be better, that I could save the boy next door. We had clicked as lonely kids, brought together by trivially common bullying. Alexander and Ophelia, waving from a sepia-toned postcard. We wrote notes to each other, pretended the schoolyard was a stage, hid during gym class, weathered in unison our hormonal humiliations. We laughed at hipsters while copying their clothing and pretending to know all the bands too. We showed each other bits of messed up slashers and compilations of accidents. WINTER OF FAIL, the captions would say. I always wonder if I’m unwittingly watching a snuff film of someone’s last day on Earth in some of those clips. Your surfboard slipped. You fell down the stairs. A giggling stranger has captured your twisting, pain-wracked demise. Everybody laugh now. Alexander and Ophelia, friends for life. Everybody laugh. 

This is not a story about the friend zone. I’d like to find whoever invented the concept of the friend zone. Find him and punch him in the gonads. The friend zone, turning connection into a challenge, kindness into an investment and friendship into failure. Our relationship should be a transaction governed by simple rules, he thinks. I give, you give. I listen, you give. I want, you give. You are pretty: you are mine. Sex is intimacy. Penetration is victory. After I’m done with Mr Friend Zone, I’m coming for Indiana Jones, and Han Solo, and James Bond, and all the self-satisfied action bros who taught him that no means yes, that it’s not rape if one person wants it enough, that it’s not abuse if it’s playful. I’d love to round them all up and lock them in a room, dooming them to one another’s company where no cameras can reach. The first time he put his lips on mine, I was surprised. I was in the middle of sharing a recent heartbreak and I needed him to understand how fundamentally unfair life was. He took that as an invitation. I explained that I loved him as a friend. He was stunned, uncomprehending. The word was an insult and a condemnation. He accused me of being blind to what we had. You’ve been staring at The One this whole time and you didn’t even know it. Don’t you see how lucky we are? I did not. He withdrew for a while and spent more time online. I imagine other men there enthusiastically confirming the horrible truth: we are all cruel harpies who thrive on suffering. Vulnerability must be avoided at all costs. Bravado must conceal weakness. He said all the right things for a while. He didn’t try to be the centre of my attention. He seemed to accept our expanding group and my occasional flings. Until he tried to kiss me again and I shook my head, please no. He grabbed my arm and whispered something vicious. He knew which buttons to push. I hadn’t planned to experience that kind of disappointment that night, but when do things go according to plan? We joined the others and there we were, drinking and dancing and beckoning our future amid the tombstones. 

This is not a story about the peculiar environmental effects of an unusual cosmic alignment. Why should the position of rocks in space have any bearing on decaying matter? I don’t know. I never believed in horoscopes and signs and the rest of that exploitative nonsense. Perhaps the same would have happened in the middle of a bright sunlit day. It might be that some people end up at the wrong place at the wrong time and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. All I know is that it was outrageous and stupid and utterly inexplicable and it happened. The dead rose. They burst out of the dirt all around us and just like that, we were surrounded. They regarded us for a time, with not a shred of flesh on them. Just mud and grass, and insects nesting inside their empty eye sockets. Vacant grins on beings that can do nothing but grin. They lifted their arms and pointed at us. Then they somehow shifted their position and they were on top of us. There was only a shimmer and a rustle; I didn’t see them move. They made no sound as they ran their hands through our hair and clasped our heads in a sturdy grip. I looked at my friends as they faced the inevitable. They held us there while we stared into the cavernous depths of their open mouths. Seth fell first. They let him slide to the ground like spent snakeskin. Others followed, left to lie where they dropped without a trace of a recognisable expression. I felt myself drift and fade. It was then that I frantically sought something familiar: the clickety clack of the Karl Skellingtons with their clumsy pirouettes and silly shrieks. All motion stops and starts in the old epic battle. Jason shows up and brandishes his blade in practised flair. Skeletons falling from a cliff, helplessly twitching. Skeletons in operating theatres, standing guard. Skulls and crossbones on pirate flags. The knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone: doin’ the skeleton dance.  I was suddenly free. They let go, momentarily. I grabbed Alexander’s hand and pulled him away. We ran as fast as we could, just like when we were little and we raced. Only I was faster. I was always faster. I lost sight of him. I turned around one final time before I escaped, alone but alive. 

This is not a story about the way his eyes looked that last time, before bony fingers were wrapped around his shoulders and he was dragged back: frightened, regretful, pale blue eyes. What I felt above all then was not guilt, nor sorrow: it was relief. Overwhelming relief that it wasn’t me back there, that I made it. The other feelings came later. I saw him when I slept, and I saw him when I woke. These days he doesn’t visit me as often. His image is frayed around the edges and it’s gliding into obscurity. I won’t stop it.

This is not a story about me versus him. Ophelia versus Alexander. Ophelia wins. The patriarchy is dismantled. Our resentments persist and our mutual hatred is justified. Opposing armies gather, eternally at odds. No, I’d like to believe that he was capable of learning, that we all are. We might not have salvaged a friendship, but we could have eventually settled on understanding and respect. We could look back with affection for the journey, with all the flaws and missteps of life as work in progress. This isn’t where we ended up. I am here, and he is back there, where no skeletons dance and time has no meaning.

This is not a story about anything in particular. I just happened to be the one to tell it, and it won’t end here. It’s your turn now.

Your Gift

I remember how beautiful you were: as beautiful as only something that was never meant to live can be.  I saw you staring at me on the dance floor with a hunger that stopped me in my tracks. I felt as if I had been stumbling along all my life in rehearsal for this moment.  No one else seemed to register your presence. They did not matter. There was only you. Everything melted away and we stood on the surface of a silently spinning planet, contemplating each other. I was transfixed and you held me in your sway with the casual cruelty of a butterfly collector. You approached me in a manner that I could not comprehend. One minute you were all the way across the room and the next you were close, so close that I could smell the sparks flying off your skin and the dried blood in your breath. You touched me like an open flame and I roared in response, guided where you wanted me to go. We slid through the crowds until we were out in the open air and the sobering cold. I wanted to speak, but my voice was gone as if it had never been used. I could not tell if my feet were touching the floor any more as you carried me through the night. 

We arrived at the park where the street lights were dim and you pushed me up against a tree, ancient bark whispering through me. You lingered with my hair in your hands and gently exposed my neck.  I remember detaching from my senses and observing our scene as a diorama of an unlikely encounter. Far off into the distance there rose a dark wave of all the emotions I should be feeling: elation, terror, revulsion. It was too remote to make a difference. I was numb, helpless, a bystander in the path of a cyclone. You drew your lips back and revealed your sharpened fangs. It was like a dumb late-night flick, a bad prop, a party trick. There was nothing fake about the pain I felt when you bit into me. I was back in my body and I could experience my vitality slowly ebbing away. I was playing the role I was always meant to play: a vessel for your unnatural, unquenchable thirst. I knew in my bones that this was it. I wanted more from life then. Why should it stop there before I came into my own? Who was going to remember me? I had so many plans and hopes and you took it all away from me.

I should have taken more care with my final mortal thoughts. Regrettably, there was more after all.  You gave me something in return. It was not a new triumphant life, as much as you have waxed lyrical about it. It was the key to a twilight realm of a parasitic existence. You took me under your wing: a pretty playmate to keep you company when the nights grow long and the whims are strong. You taught me how to hunt, how to momentarily stem the pulsating wailing in my veins. I did to many what you did to me, except granting them our so-called gift. You never showed me how to do that and I wonder if you even knew how it happened in the first place. It could be that my rebirth was a fluke. Be that as it may, you claimed that it was precious and rare and reserved for only a few, perhaps no one new from now on. Apex predators hunt alone or in pairs. I have never met another bearing our affliction. We might be the only aberrations to carry this baleful burden.

I eventually tired of your leash. I slipped away and I began hunting alone. For a while, it was enough. I thought I could embrace my condition as a power beyond anything I’ve ever known. The power to enthrall and snuff someone’s light out as I saw fit, all in service to my eternal undeath. When I chose a victim, it was as if it was always meant to be. Every decision of their paltry lives led them to me and I made sure not a single drop was wasted before I discarded them to be forgotten as the years went by. I was the only one who held on to the memories. I came to understand that I, too, was a slave to my circumstances. Power predicated upon others is no power at all. I needed them and their easily extinguished life force. Without them I was a mewling infant, squealing for its milk. The need was everything. I measured time by the intervals from short-lived satisfaction to when the drive to drink became unbearable again. Yes, I’m a seductive myth. Yes, stories are written about our kind. No one sees us for what we are. We are powerless against our immortality’s imperatives. Desperate and alone, casting shadows like monstrous bats while cowering from the suggestion of sunlight. Pathetic in our glowering guises. Slobbering and ravenous and doomed to wander from one fleeting fix to another. 

I looked at mortals with their neuroses and addictions and flickering lives and I envied them.  Some lose themselves in menial pursuits and some try to preserve and enhance every second. Ultimately, they all end up in the same place and that is their great, unrecognised blessing. Transience makes an indelible mark upon the world. What can be more meaningful than the promise of an end and a chance to make the most of a brief existence? This is my most terrible truth: there is no end for me. I found that out that first day I gave up and waited for the sun to finally obliterate me. Here is what happened: I cried and I burned and I was trapped in the most excruciating agony. I was blinded and my skin crackled and charred. There was no comforting void, no relieving silence. Instead, I crawled into a gutter where I lay as a slab of pulverised meat. My feebleness and immobility led me to yet another unwanted discovery: the absence of sustenance is not lethal either. As parched as I was, my thirst just became another source of torment. I had to stew on my suffering until I healed enough to feed on vermin to restore my strength and resume my half-hearted routine. 

Every fable is a lie: nothing can release me from this purgatory. Holy water? No more effective than rain in a puddle. Crucifixes? I wear them in a mockery of divinity. Stakes? They hurt like hell but as with everything else, the wounds heal. Garlic? Utterly useless. Silver bullets? Wrong address. Decapitation? Impossible. I can tear my neck open, slice my fingers and hack at my feet, yet as hard as I try, there is no severing of limbs. I remain sadly solid. I have invented innumerable ways to test my boundaries and I keep crushing against the same old depressing fact: I persist. Impermanence lies forever beyond my grasp. How do I wile away the passing of interminable aeons in this indestructible form? In the throes of my despair, an answer dawned on me, so obvious in its simplicity. It was high time to become reacquainted with my maker. 

At long last, my purpose is clear. It is you. You kept me going for a reason: you can now give meaning to this half-life with a violent and prolonged penance. It was so easy to follow and sneak up on you when you least expected it. You had become sluggish in your self-assurance. I observed you for a while: your trivial nightly rituals and your flashes of unchallenged power. I could see that you, too, were aimless and bored. I was tempted to let you carry on as you have. Could that be punishment enough? No. Time has not led me to kindness and wisdom. Instead, my spite has no limits. I had to demonstrate the depths of my gratitude. I pounced, and here we are.

I have lost count of how long I have kept you starved and bound here. By now you are a skeleton in an ill-fitting skin suit. Your flesh is pockmarked and saggy, your fingernails are long and yellow and your hair is wispy and white. Your teeth fell off so easily from your sweet, rotten gums. Your eyes, those smouldering eyes that held me on the spot on that fateful evening are now so deeply sunken in their sockets that they might as well not be there at all. You are constantly twitching and scratching at an itch that will not pass. Your moans are music to my ears. You are lost in your bloodlust, reduced to your base cravings. I have made sure to fill the space with mirrors. For as much as you can see, you can behold your true nature. You are finally exposed, far from your former glory, such as it was. I sometimes bring others here so you can watch me feed and relish in them. I save the final drips of scarlet so I can let them fall to the floor while you grovel and beg. None for you. Not now, not ever. 

This is not what I asked for, but it will do. It turns out that we were made for each other after all. You moulded me into the monster that I am and I helped you move past the trappings of your predatory nature into the kind of anguish that you had never dared to dream possible. We are locked in a perpetual dance of domination, a hateful embrace for the ages. I am yours in loathing and you are mine in misery. I am never letting go of your withered hand as we enter new domains of depravity. You and me until all stars explode in celebration of our unholy union and the cosmos devours itself. Who knows? Perhaps that will not be the end either. I now have hope. Thank you for this gift. 

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

He fiddles with his silk fuchsia scarf as he enters the bar. He scans the room. Nothing much happening yet. He’ll wait; play it cool. He lays the scarf and his vintage tailcoat on a stool – too close to the floor, he’ll have to check for stains later – and sits on top of them, ready for some liquid courage. Red wine or bourbon. Something manly and mysterious. He leaves his top hat on. Always wear something weird and flashy to stand out, Jay said. You’ll be the first thing they spot. Keep them guessing. Women are like children. They like the flash and the fireworks. Dazzle them. Make them laugh. Push their buttons, neg a little, smile even less. Ask them dumb little questions and keep your answers short. Watch their gears spin while they’re trying to figure you out. When you’re ready to go for the kill, it’s time for the magic trick, just like we practised. Pack of cards; shuffle fast. Pick one, any one. You know the drill. They don’t need a complicated wine and dine and song and dance. Just fry their minds and fuck their brains out. Pump and dump. Move on. Don’t look back. Don’t be a pussy.

He nods at the bartender with a knowing glance. She looks right through him and takes someone else’s order. He waits; plays it cool. Later – so much later – he catches her eye and orders a large glass of the house red. It’s too bitter for his taste, but he gulps it down, wincing. He adopts the coolest pose he can muster. One finger on the rim of his glass, legs crossed, surveying his surroundings. Nothing’s happening. He orders a second glass. It tastes a bit better. He tries to tune into the conversations around him. He’s too nervous to focus. He puts his hand in his back pocket to feel the familiar pack of cards. His superpower. No one’s looking over. No one cares. He starts sweating. The drinks keep coming. The music’s too loud. He saw someone pretty walk up to the counter, but when he turned to talk to her all he could think to say was “Nice night for it, huh?”. 

“Nice night for what?”, she asks. 

“You know, drinking and stuff.” 

She’s gone. He breathes on his palm, checks his breath. The whole place smells. He briefly entertains the idea of dancing. That won’t do. Can’t stay cool while gyrating like a fool.  

“Nice night for it, huh?”, someone says. She leans close and speaks right into his ear. There’s a pleasant jolt down his back. 

“Nice night for what?”, he asks. 

“You know, drinking and stuff.” 

She grins and he feels his cock stir from its shameful slumber as if to say, I’m still here. Don’t forget about me. He’s trying not to think about why he mentally defaulted to a high-pitched voice for his dick and grins back in what he hopes is a winsome manner. 

“You’ve been watching me”, he says. 

“I can’t help it. I can never resist a dapper gentleman. That hat suits you. Is there a rabbit hiding somewhere in there?” 

“Nope, no rabbit. If you like magic though, wait till you see this!” 

He pulls out the cards, ready to roll. Too soon, Jay yells in his head. I don’t care, he thinks. Look at her. Red curls, green eyes, tight black t-shirt with some band’s name that doesn’t matter. He can’t look away. 

She lights up and squeals, “A magic trick, show me!”. 

He goes through the steps – pick one, any one, which one did you pick, well what do you know – and she laughs delightedly. 

“You’re a grade-A magic man! My magic man. How’d you even do that?” 

“A master magician never reveals his secrets”, he gloats. 

“Master magician! Are you sure you’re not a stand-up comedian too? You’re funny.”

Alarm bells ring. Is she making fun of me? Here comes the sweat again. Don’t be a wimp, he scolds himself. She’s into it. Go for the kill. 

“So, uh, do you like music?” 

She’s suddenly silent and appraising. It’s like she’s seeing him for the first time. I blew it, I knew it, what am I doing, he thinks in a rising panic. Her playful grin returns. 

“Hey, do you want some more wine? I’ve got some of the good stuff back at my place, if you’re up for it.” 

He didn’t hear her right, did he? Is this happening? Game on! Jay’s gonna be so proud! Time to slay! 

“Yeah, that sounds great, actually, if it’s cool.” 

“Oh, it’s cool. Maybe you can show me some more tricks while we’re at it.”

They walk in the dark. The pavement seems closer than it should be. How much did he drink? Come on, man, keep it together. This is what it’s all about. We’re fucking tonight, son! Premature triumph gives way to anxiety. What if he’s too drunk? Too nervous? What if it’s like the last time with Hannah? They were both drunk, but that didn’t stop her from blaming him. He tried so hard to stay hard. To get hard. In vain. Hard. Everything’s so hard except the one thing that counts. Drop it, this is happening, get it going. How many turns did they take? 

“Hey, do you live far? Do we need a bus or something?” 

In lieu of an answer, she takes his hand in hers. He hopes his is not too clammy. They keep walking. He’s not quite sure where they are now. Which part of town is this? Maybe he should act. Do something spontaneous. He pulls her closer and goes for the kiss. She kisses him back, jamming her tongue in his mouth, eager for more. He grabs her ass to distract himself from thinking how fast it’s all going. She pulls away, but not before whispering “Not long, now, my magic man”. He follows her until they finally reach the front of an entirely unremarkable building. 

He starts to say “Do you live alone” and stops when he sees what’s behind her door. First there’s the hallway with the decadently soft carpet and the series of portraits of wild-haired women bearing the same playful grin as her. Her. What’s her name? Does it matter? Then there’s the living room with the lit fireplace, the chandelier, the luxurious leather sofas and more paintings of the women swimming in lakes bathed in crimson light and dancing in forests at night. 

She walks up behind him and interrupts his slack-jawed gawping by placing a startlingly cold glass in his hand with something shimmering and vaguely green inside. 

“Have a taste of this”, she tells him. “It’s a family recipe. I promise it will change your world.” 

He sips, lost for words. She takes him by the elbow and leads him through a series of rooms towards the back of the house. The drink is delicious and it makes him feel even thirstier, so down it goes. 

“Ain’t that a libation for the ages?”, she croons. 

He doesn’t understand how there can be so much space in here. Didn’t the house look much smaller from the outside? They cross something like a kitchen or a pantry where peculiar pieces of gleaming white are hanging from threads fixed to the ceiling. As they wade through them, he tries in vain to steady his swirling sight.

“I always want them to see these first. Come”, she beckons. 

As they begin to descend some poorly-lit steps his thoughts scatter away from him like frightened rabbits. Rabbits inside hats that wave at him while towering magicians sway like spindly willows in the wind. Sparkling constellations of inscrutable patterns are shifting in and out of view. 

“What’s next?”, he mutters. 

“Stand here”, she says. “Right here, in the middle of the circle.” 

He barely registers the chalk-drawn outline. There’s a smell of rotting wood and the room creaks and groans all around him. He wonders if he’s found himself in the galley of an old ship in stormy seas. Is that why everything’s in motion? He reaches for her hand. There’s no one there.  

The short-lived silence is pierced by a throaty thrum that sets his teeth on edge. He’s encased in a wall of searing unending sound. He covers his ears to no avail. His skin is too tight, his bones and muscles too frail. He collapses while his insides coil and swell and threaten to spill out and the thumping pain grows until he forgets there was ever a life beyond it. He’s on the floor, or the ceiling, or suspended somewhere in between. He’s screaming, he’s crying, he’s silent, he fades.

He scrambles awake. The terrible sounds are gone, yet his body still somehow feels deeply wrong. It’s slimy and scaly with the same shade of murky green as his drink. His surroundings are slippery and vast and he squints at the dim outlines of enormous shapes. His mind boggles at the scale of this new-found prison. He discovers that he can only move in darting leaps and he helplessly hops with no direction in mind. He’s already starving and exhausted. Specks of dirt are falling like snowflakes. Time flies in a jumbled blur. The floor is sticky, the air is thick, and his bloating belly drags him down. 

There’s a sudden flash of light and a blast of earth-shattering footsteps. He croaks in fright as her hands snap around him. She’s looking down on him, a mountain of malice. He begs her to let him slide far away where he can be a good boy and nestle into a safe little hidey hole where he is never going to bother anyone ever again. All that comes out is a choked little chirp. She holds him over her candle’s flame while he wriggles and squirms. She sniffs at him and puts her mouth on his boiling flesh: a kiss before the bite. His tongue hangs helplessly while she tears into him. 

Her voice is a volcanic rumble: “How’s that for magic, my magic man?” 

His world is torment and terror and there’s nowhere left to crawl. 

Once she’s done with him, she softly sings to herself as she scrubs his brittle, blood-flecked skull until it’s gleaming white. She hangs it on its brand-new thread where it remains, dangling along with its eyeless companions.  

The Hour of Ascension

The first slivers of moonlight illuminate a sordid scene through the attic’s window. A crowd of cowled figures is standing in the middle of a circle of candles, whispering and looming over a lone woman. She is struggling with the restraints on her wrists and ankles and drawing short, angry breaths through the cloth that has been clumsily tied across her mouth. The gathering consists of black-clad men with one exception: the Grand Wizard of the Order of the Twin Deities of the Divine Slime and the Exalted Eczema, brother Dan – secretly known as LustyDan69 on Reddit – who is wearing heavy purple robes and thoughtfully stroking the wispy hair on his neck. He raises his hands and beckons the others to silence. 

“Brothers, I am so proud of each and every one of you. I look at you and I see myself. Hard-working menfolk, ready to reap the fruits of our labour. The hour of our ascension is upon us and we must make haste. Cecilia here has kindly obliged to offer herself in the service of our cause. Please join me in a solemn celebration of her participation.” The men all bow their heads in a chorus of “Thank you, Cecilia”, “Cheers, sister”, “Yeah, thanks, you’re great.” Cecilia squirms and wriggles on the floor before voicing a muffled, drawn out “Losers”. Imperiously ignoring her, the Grand Wizard continues: “There is but one remaining step before we can embrace the Sanctifying Mucus. Brother Marcus? Bring forth the ceremonial blade.”

Marcus fumbles with his robes and whimpers: “Um, eh, I seem to have misplaced it. I knew I shouldn’t have washed these robes yesterday. There wasn’t that much dirt on them anyway and it won’t even show and I keep losing my coins and keys when I do that and I didn’t find out it was my turn to hold the blade until the day before yesterday you know and I’m still learning the ropes and it’s a great honour and all but there’s so much stress and can we use like a gun or something I mean it’s cleaner and the dagger is so heavy I held it once...”

“Silence!” All colour drains from the Grand Wizard’s grim visage. “You mean to tell me that at this, the final test of our unwavering faith, you have somehow managed to lose the instrument of our reckoning? You had one job, Brother Marcus!” He rubs his face for a while while the others fidget and try to ignore Cecilia’s “Are you for real?” and “Boo, you suck”.  The Wizard composes himself and motions at someone else. “Brother Kevin. Shall we enact the Thirteenth Night protocol?”

“Certainly, Grand Wizard. Shall we enact it right now or postpone the ceremony until everyone is suitably informed or...”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Of course I do, sir. We proceed to strike the virgin with our bare hands in reverse hierarchical order until she expires. May I prepare the ritual?

“That is not the protocol, Brother. Why have you all come so unprepared? You were aware of the significance of the occasion.”

“Grand Wizard, sir, do you mean the protocol where we leave the virgin unattended until she dies of her own volition?”

“I certainly don’t. We have voted against including that in our disposal methods due to its impractical and time-consuming manner. Were you not in the preparatory meeting on Thursday?”

“I’m sorry, your most terrifying excellence. I remember now. We pick one in our midst who is brave and strong and cunning so that they may find an alternative disposal method. The sacrifice will occur on time, have no fear. If you don’t mind clarifying one tiny detail? Do we vote on the bearer of this responsibility by using the venerated short straw method or do we roll the demon dice?”

“Brother Kevin. If you had been present at any of our meetings from last month you would know that Brother Stanley has swallowed the demon dice in a futile effort to ingratiate himself with our masters. Seeing as the expected demonic defecation has yet to occur, the dice is out of the question. As for the short straw procedure, it has been decided that is too banal and undignified for our order. As such, I will invoke my authority and take it upon myself to choose tonight’s executioner. Brother Fergus, step forth.”

A lanky. jittery man approaches. “It will be my pleasure, Grand General, Wizard, sir.” 

“Good. See to it that she’s quietly taken care of. We’ll be outside.” Someone shouts “Good luck, you got this!” and there’s a smattering of “Hear, hear!” before they all shuffle out and the trapdoor creaks to a close, leaving Fergus alone with Cecilia.

He gives her a quick timid look and steps closer. She lets out a long exasperated sigh. He kneels over her, trembling slightly. She draws her feet close to her body and stares him down. “Just...just let me do this?” Fergus pleads. “It will be better for all of us, you’ll see. The new world order will have a place for you. You can be one of Eczema’s undead concubines. They’re very nice, everyone loves them. Just stop moving, ok? I’ll make it fast.” 

He reaches out for her and she snarls, making him jump. “Touch me and I’ll kick your balls up your throat”, she growls. 

Fergus makes a mental note to issue a formal complaint about Brother Jerry’s ineffectual attempt to bind the virgin’s mouth. Sacrifices should be seen and not heard. “Can you be quiet, please? This isn’t personal. Virginal females play an important role in our order. It’s an honour to be chosen.” 

“I’m not a virgin, idiot.” 

“You...you’re not? Brother Jerry heard you say you’d rather dive-bomb into a pit of needles than have sex with a man and...oh. This is bad, no? This is really bad. I’ll be right back.” He nervously scrambles away. 

Finally alone, Cecilia grabs the chance she’s been waiting for all evening. She positions her wrists over a candle’s flames, grimacing at the painful heat until the rope burns away and she snaps her arms free. She unties her legs and stretches to an upright position. A couple of minor burns and sore limbs are all they’re going to get from her tonight. She puts her ear against the trapdoor and listens to the heated arguments from below:

“...most irregular. The scriptures don’t mention anything about…”

“...I told you to ask for an update in the last divination...”

“Look, was there penetration involved? Did you ask her?”

“Sir, what she does with her friends is her business. We are an inclusive organisation...”

“...it is clarified in the footnotes that at the point of orgasm, if one holds pure thoughts...”

“...the hymen is a myth...”

She gets up in a groan and a roll of the eyes before checking the window, which has of course been left unlocked. She looks around outside and spots the nearby drainpipe. There’s only one thing left to do before climbing down and getting as far away as possible. Candles, meet curtain. 

When the Order of the Twin Deities of the Divine Slime and the Exalted Eczema realise what’s happening, they have a vote on whether they can reinstate the short straw selection process in an emergency in order to bestow the privilege to an individual of determining the most efficient course of action in extinguishing a roaring blaze. With inconclusive results and time running out, they come to the agreement instead that in the event of a botched sacrifice the most appropriate course of action is to surrender to collective purification by flame. As it turns out, bargain bin robes are especially well suited to the circumstances. The fire makes for a soothing spectacle on a cold moonlit night.

Enlightenment Now

Subject: Enlightenment Elixir 

To Whom It May Concern,

Serious question for you all: how long should I wait until it all goes down? I have followed the instructions in the included manual and it’s been three weeks. According to the guidelines enlightenment occurs two weeks max after the initial intake. I realise that this is a new and experimental product but my father has relied on you for years and I’m sure you wouldn’t risk letting him down with a substandard product. We have invested a significant sum in your research and I am growing impatient. My start-ups are not going to start themselves. I have been racking my brains and I’m still short on good ideas. I need good ideas. I needed good ideas last week. I have to come out from my father’s shadow. My education cost a lot of money and it was a total waste of time and effort. I don’t care about Latin, Socrates or the anthropic principle. I want to think up new things. Fresh. People care about fresh these days. Authenticity and freshness. I want to be deep and profound and game-changing and this is taking too long. I wanted to blow your minds with my prose but this is already a disappointing email. Please tell me how I know that enlightenment has occurred. If there’s one thing I hate more than uncertainty, it’s waiting. I deserve this. I will bring change. Please answer soon. 

Yours faithfully,

Melon Husk

Dear Mr Addici,

Our apologies for the inconvenience. As you have stated, our product is still in its trial phase and we cannot guarantee a lack of deviation from our current estimates. I trust that you have taken note of the extensive disclaimer included with our instructions? I also hope that you have carefully considered the potential side-effects. If I may be so bold, we have already expressed our doubts to your father regarding your premature adoption of our product. He was adamant and assured us that we shall bear no liability for the outcome.

Regarding the rest of your concerns, I am unsure as to why you have deemed fit to express these to us as they do not fall under our purview. Your father is a long-standing and cherished donor which is why I have endeavoured to offer a prompt and personal reply. I can only advocate patience and humility. I appreciate that it must be hard to be part of a family whose influence is as wide-reaching as yours. However, please do not disregard the advantages conferred by your position.  May I also suggest you contact your therapist? I am sure that they will be more than happy to examine your feelings on your current status and to assist you with your development.

Yours sincerely,

Melissa Fulstrope

Hi Melissa,

It’s been exactly one month now since I’ve swallowed the vial of snot you call an elixir. I could have injected it into my eyeballs for all the good it’s done me. Look, I get that you’re busy but as you know I’ve already gone through an army of shrinks and I’m none the wiser. Speaking of wisdom: where is it? When do I feel wise? Am I supposed to wake up one day and feel like I know the secrets of the universe? When am I going to start using the 90% of my brain that is locked away? I want to impress people every time I open my mouth. I want people to want to fuck me for something other than my money. No one takes me seriously. My father looks down on me. You know that. You’ve been around the houses. Don’t think I don’t know there’s something going on between you two. My mother doesn’t care. She’s checked out. I don’t want to check out. I want to change the world. I want all of you to listen. No one listens. 

Best,

Buff Jesus (Jeff Bezos, geddit?)

Dear Mr Addici,

You have inquired about the qualitative nature of the upshot of our product. I am afraid I cannot provide a definitive answer at this juncture as we are not yet in a position to account for the variability of the emotions and thoughts associated with the change. Please try to avoid unhelpful notions such as the concept that we only use 10% of our brain and that the shortcut to extraordinary cognitive prowess entails unlocking some nebulous hidden area in your cortex. Were we to pursue that path we would simply be traumatically increasing your cognitive load by trapping you in an iterative loop. If I may simplify a bit, the aim is to radically restructure your synaptic connections and to reinvigorate your neural plasticity in order to modulate the way you process information. Our hope is that our product will facilitate your capacity to arrive at novel conclusions in an increasingly expeditious manner. To state it in terms you may prefer, it will indeed help you think up new things all the time.  As I have said before, patience is key. Your understanding is appreciated. 

Yours sincerely,

Melissa Fulstrope

Hi Melissa,

The cogni-what now? Did you just throw a science thesaurus at me? Anyway, call me Lucio for fuck’s sake. You’ve been around enough times. 

I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on this one. I’ll wait. 

Best,

Lusty Lucifer xxx

Dear Lucio,

Please, there is no need for such silly sign-offs. You may of course address me as you see fit but I would much rather maintain a modicum of professionalism in our correspondence. I value my relationship with your father and I would not want him to assume we are becoming overly familiar. 

Kind regards,

Melissa 

Dear Smelly Melly,

I waited. As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, my line of self-recyclable pizza boxes did not exactly fly off the shelves. What the fuck? It’s been months. Why is nothing happening? I trusted you. I need ideas. I couldn’t even explain the first law of thermodynamics to Betty. How many laws are there anyway? Five? Come on, Melly. I want to make my own money, write books and gain respect. How do I write books? I tried it and my brain started doing somersaults. Boring somersaults. It was like stale pop corn of the mind. It’s happening right now. I can hardly bother finishing this email. 

I’m lonely.

Best,

Lucio

Dear Lucio,

If you have difficulty focusing, have you tried meditating? There are many resources online that can assist you to take the first steps down that path. It might help you to re-examine your circumstances and stay grounded. I recommend starting from simple breathing exercises and proceeding from there.  

Kind regards, 

Melissa

Hey Mel,

Keep up, will you? Fulstrope wouldn’t suggest meditation. Lucio already said he’s seen like a million therapists. 

Best,

Louie

Hey Louie,

Sorry. Shall we go again? Melissa will be on her A-game. The boss bitch of your dreams for your pathetic playboy. Let’s see if we can get you to stop thinking about your dad for a little while longer, shall we?

Best,

Mel 

Dear Lucio,

I must say, I do not appreciate this new Smelly Melly moniker but there’s nothing I can do to stop you, can I? I am sorry to hear about your failed endeavour. Please be assured that loneliness is not one of our product’s verified side-effects. If it persists, please fill in the attached questionnaire so that we may update our records. I have also taken the liberty to send a new dose to your premises. Please make use of it within 24 hours. It is a more potent mix that has been developed in response to recent developments whose nature I am not in a position to divulge. I shall only state that our degree of confidence in the efficacy of our product is now higher by several degrees of magnitude. 

Kind regards,

Melissa

Hi melodramatic and not even close to mellow Melissa,

What the hell. I’ll give it a shot. 

Best,

Lucio

Hi Melissa,

Is a persistent itch part of the deal? It’s kept me up three nights in a row. I can’t even trace it to a single source. It’s like a phantom limb I’ve never had. A phantom body. My skin is burning and there’s no relief. I looked up my symptoms and all I’ve learned is that formication is a word that can be used to describe the sensation of a swarm of insects crawling inside one’s body. I prefer fornication. Help?

Lucio

Dear Sender,

Thank you for your email. I am currently on sick leave until further notice. If your message concerns our recent cancellation of the launch of the Sophia Serum, please note that we shall issue an official statement soon.

Kind regards,

Melissa Fulstrope

Dearest Melissa,

It has begun and it is glorious! I have composed a tremendous soliloquy in honour of my new-found erudition! Please see attached voice sample. The outer reaches of the cosmos are at my disposal! There is no more creeping crepuscular corrosion. The veil has been lifted and I see more clearly than ever. Novel connections are being formed as we speak. The shackles of stagnation have disintegrated into a blaze of brilliance. I see you, Melissa. I see the limits of your intellect and the self-imposed constraints on your empathy. I see my father. His shadow was long but my radiance has dispelled it once and for all. I shall come to define myself on my own terms for the first time in my life. External sources of validation are no longer pertinent. The positive and negative valence of my previous experiences has been converted into an unshakeable state of tranquillity. Where others hesitate, I transgress; where they languish, I transcend. I have combined logic and emotion into an unprecedented configuration that everyone will try and fail to imitate. 

My pizza boxes are no longer self-recyclable. They are now self-replicating.

Yours enlightenedly,

Lux Aeterna

Dear Lucio,

I am glad to hear of the positive outcome of your trial. Your feedback is important to us. Please remain where you are. Our post-evaluation agents will be with you shortly. 

Goodbye,

Melissa

Hey Mel,

Ha. Maybe I rushed the enlightenment bit. Anyway, we’re all wiser and happier now. Go forth and prosper etc. No more wallowing. Wallowing’s for wimps. Isn’t that what dad would say? It looks like he’s still around, if only in my head.  

Thanks,

Louie

Hey Louie,

No way. That was grand. I’m sorry again about your dad, but I’m not going to cut him any slack for being dead.  He’d better learn the value of silent encouragement if he’s going to stick around. You can wallow all you want. You have my permission. Call me anytime.

Love,

Mel

Housewarming

The painting looms large in the dim light of the living room. Diane sips her wine and peers into the frame, trying to discern if there any features on the distant figures at the base of the tower. The setting is a tad overwrought, she thinks. Gathering clouds roiling darkly in all directions, an inversion of the spittle-foam waves threatening to engulf the rocky outcropping where the tower stands. The silhouettes have their back turned to the entrance and their arms are raised to the sky with clenched fists. Behind them the gate is half-opened and someone’s fingers are showing in the gap. 

“What do you think?”, asks Tom. She squints. “Not my thing. I like to know what I’m looking at.” She’s startled at a hint of movement as if an insect is scurrying on the canvas. Did one of the figures just fall to its knees? These shapes are so vague she could be seeing something different every time. She winks at Tom. “What’s this? Some sort of light show? Is that where your paycheck goes these days?” 

“Huh? No, I found it in a yard sale. The guy selling had left it next to some mysterious junk and he just offered it to me when I pointed it out. He said no one’s asked about it so I might as well have it. Supposedly it belonged to his great grandma or some shit and he had no space for it. Bargain!” “Yeah, top of the line trash treasure,” chuckled Diane. “It’s kinda creepy. I could swear one of them fell to its knees.” 

“Where? No, they’re dancing. It’s actually pretty cool. There’s loads of little bits that I didn’t notice at first either. Do you see the carved eyes near the top of the tower and the way the rain runs like tears on the wall or the flames inside the gate that match the patterns on the sea? See how one of the dancers has a Diane vibe? Check out their rings.” 

“What? When did you become an aficionado? I can’t even see their faces. How much of that bottle did you have?” Diane leans closer and more details start to emerge as if the scene is shifting and responding to her examination instead of her discovering aspects that were already there. She examines the person on the left. Red hair, brown eyes, black dress. “Diane vibe? Redheads aren’t clones, asshole.” She does look like me though, she thinks begrudgingly. The other one’s ebony-haired, wiry and tall and dressed in blue. They both look like they’re caught in a state of rapture. Why are their rings so blisteringly white? They make her think of curled and bony baby fingers. She’s starting to seriously consider that Tom is somehow fucking with her.

“Is this like when we were kids with the dead beetles under my pillow, psycho? How are these people changing? They didn’t even have faces before.” She turns to punch Tom on the shoulder and he’s no longer there. “Tom? What the fuck? Hello?” She walks around the house, checking every room. Empty. “Is this the part where I’m laughing hysterically? Bring Diane to the new house, freak her out, giggle with the others like a big fat shit, success!” No answer. She fruitlessly wanders for a while until she hears something moving in the living room. She can’t help but feel a flicker of amusement despite her intensifying nerves. He’s pulling all the stops with this one. It’s not like she won’t turn the tables on him as always. It didn’t take long for him to find the beetles sprinkled in his cereal. Crunchy. 

She crouches low beside the doorway and waits for him to come looking for her. Come on, little brother. Come find me. I’ll make you wear that stupid painting. Minutes pass. She listens impatiently in the fading glow. It sounds like he’s pacing and whispering. She gradually notices a peculiar change in the air. The walls are thrumming with a tremulous hum. They’re warm to the touch and it feels as if with the least bit of pressure from her they will slide and bend and give way to something else. Something else? Is he actually getting to her? She steadies herself and recites a litany of certainties. Walls don’t hum. Paintings don’t shift. My brother is a bastard.  

“All right, enough!”, she shouts in resignation and gets up to end these games. As she walks in, she’s hit by the sudden smell of brine and the shock of cold wind and stinging drizzle. She’s breathless and panting with movement in the throes of frantic dancing while her partner in the blue dress matches her every step, the sky rumbles overhead and the waves lunge longingly at the shore. She hears the gate open behind her and the crackle of burning wood in the room beyond. Her skin is taut and glowing with renewed fervour and she knows she’s only getting started.  She blinks through her sweat and sees the painting suspended in front of her like a growing gash. Tom is depicted standing in the living room wide-eyed and leaning forward. His hands are on the edges of the frame. He’s not moving. 

A piercing wailing permeates everything and it takes her a long moment to identify herself as the source. She falls to her knees with her companion and they stretch and raise their firsts towards the tower’s top. The eyes in the brickwork are alive, bloodshot and veiny and the tears begin to fall. The fire roars from within, the sea is a crushing embrace and the sky is a gaping wound. Tom’s skin is running and his eyes and mouth form a clueless O as the colours mingle. Inside the painting in another world in another life so long ago, so far away, the living room is awash in an orange haze. The paint swirls into a whirlpool of hues and shades and the portal pulses open. 

“We are coming, little brother.”

Daddy Dearest

I was sixteen years old when I killed my father for the first time. I was sitting on my bed with my notepad trying to work out a tune when he stumbled through the door reeking of smoke and booze. Learn to knock, I said. He grimaced through whatever haze consumed him and mumbled, you’re mine. It was a cold January night and I was wearing my leather jacket with all the drawings and pins. He fell on top of me and fumbled with the zipper, cursing when his finger got caught. I always hated that zipper. That night it was my lucky charm. I kneed him in the balls and he squealed, letting go. He grabbed my hair and slammed my face against my desk. I bit my tongue and tasted metal as my vision blurred. I run my palms across the floor as he dragged me down and sat on top of me, heaving. Something sharp was on the tip of my finger and I frantically closed my fists. His hands were on my throat just as I jammed the pencil in his ear. He mewled and pissed himself while I pushed my way up. He was on the ground, face first. Next thing I knew I was stomping on his exposed neck with a heavy thud and a crack. Those old combat boots were good for something after all. He lay there soggy and limp and I screamed at him, get up, get the fuck up.

When the cops came calling I was curled up downstairs smoking the last of his pack. I spent a few months in juvie while being paraded in court until our history and his record worked in my favour. There was no wailing mother to comfort or condemn me. She had skipped town a long time ago – who can blame her? - and they didn’t manage to track her down. I’d been stuck at home with him for years. He must have known I was getting ready to fly the nest too. A requiem for a runaway. He’d never tried to touch me before, though he didn’t do much else than drink either. At school there were always the same stories going round: the time dad went on a rampage during New Year’s Eve wrapped in Christmas lights and little else; the time he chased a priest around the block for “looking at him like he was God’s own dumpster fire”; the time he was discovered lovingly cradling a tire iron in his sleep at our school yard. There was no place for me in class anymore and I ended up spending most of my time partying and singing in my boyfriend’s band. That boyfriend was outlived by what became my own band and that band was eclipsed by the pleasures of the poison. I was following in my dad’s glorious footsteps.

Self-defence was the ruling of the day and I was deemed troubled but potentially salvageable. In an effort to block my descent into delinquency I was sent to a foster home with a perfectly nice and gentle couple who treated me like a ticking time bomb at all times. I felt more broken than ever but I didn’t shriek and shatter as everyone thought I would. I just left as soon as I turned eighteen and I didn’t look back. I worked as a waitress for longer than I should but I never stopped writing songs and yelling at a microphone until more people were mad enough to pay to see me unravel on stage with my adopted family of the baddest bitches in the land.

As I reinvented myself, so did he. He was there for me time and time again.

He was there in that bar when I celebrated six months of making a living as a bona fide tortured artist by drinking more rum than my body could handle and puking my guts out on a muddy toilet floor. The lights were flickering and the walls were coated with grime. As I lay kneeling I heard his shuffling gait. He was right behind me and his ragged breath made my skin crawl. I turned and instantly recognised him though his face was teeming with maggots. His hands were on my throat again but his grasp was more feeble than I remembered. Do it, I thought. This is my bed and I’ll lie in it. He found his strength and I couldn’t breathe. My next thoughts were: not here; not like this. I can’t die smelling of puke and shame. I put my thumbs into his eyes and dug deep for all I was worth. He left a rattling cry like a drill running out of steam and crumbled all around me. I blindly crawled out of that place and took long, cold lung-fulls of air until I sounded human again. I went back the next day and there was no trace of him.

He was in the crowd at my first gig as a headliner. Our band was called Die Daddy Die. Too obvious? Well, fuck you. While everyone was flailing and thrashing he stood still in quiet menace. I shone bright in the stage light and I didn’t stop singing even though all I could see was his half-chewed face looking up at me. He looked wary somehow, like he didn’t fully want to be there but something was driving him on. During my crowd-surfing big finale he put his cold hands on my shoulders and tried to keep me for himself away from the rest of them. They didn’t let him. He was pushed out of my sight and the lights went out. In the darkness he found me once more and put his frozen mouth on top of mine. I flipped open the switchblade that I had learned to carry everywhere and stabbed him until I lost count. Yet again he fell apart and I felt the familiar short-lived triumph. The lights were on and I was pulled to my feet by smiling strangers. If there was any blood on me, no one said a thing.

He was there the night I spent on Frank’s yacht. Frank ended up being majorly disappointed when I wouldn’t fuck him despite his promises of fame and fortune with his record company. I still had some dregs of dignity left and by then I’d embraced the fact that I was way more into women anyway. I was gazing at the water while he sulked below deck when dad climbed on board. He was bloated with barnacles and radiating rage. An eel slid out of his gaping mouth and his skin was the colour of the ocean. He lunged at me but I was way ahead; I tackled and threw him over the railing where he disappeared with barely a splash. I waited for him to break the surface and climb back up but the sea remained calm until daybreak.

He was there soon after I first met Angie. She had been hired as a photographer for one of my tours and our relationship remained professional for about half a day. I felt strangely at ease with her early on and that scared the shit out of me. I tried to put some distance between us but she saw through my bullshit. She wasn’t going anywhere and I couldn’t be more thrilled. The morning after we slept together for the first time he was waiting for me in the bathroom with a razor in each hand. He was predictably slow and I took hold of both blades and plunged them in his throat. As he chocked on his own blood Angie knocked on the door and asked, is everything ok in there? All’s well, I answered. Just thinking about my dad.

He was there when I found mom’s address and paid her a visit only to discover she had died of a respectable heart attack a few years back surrounded by her distressed and loving family. When I went to visit her grave I found him bent over in fits of dry laughter at the foot of her tombstone. He was trying to dig her up and although I owed her nothing I had to put an end to that. I brought back half a can of gasoline from the trunk of my car and doused him in it. He made a grab at my ankles and in response I threw my favourite lighter at him. Worth it. He roared and tried to climb outside but the flame was faster and it didn’t take long until he smouldered in a heap of crackling flesh and blackened bones. So much for a tearful reunion with my mother.

There were plenty more scuffles along the way but I forget the details. Once you’ve dispatched your stubbornly reanimated father’s corpse for the tenth time it all starts to blend together, you know? He’s been a steady presence all along and I’ve never let him get his way. Never, that is, until today. Today he is dragging his feet next to the hospital bed while I listen to the monitor’s steady beeps with my eyes closed. The poison finally corroded my insides beyond repair but I got some laughs along the way. Can anyone ask for anything better? I can hear him pacing across the room, which reeks of rot and damp earth. I know that he’s waiting for me to acknowledge him and there’s no one else here now. A few of my oldest friends – the ones that made it so far – stood by my side until nightfall but I sent them home to rest when I felt him close. As for a family, I’d never wanted children and Angie went and died before me. I wanted to be first but she wouldn’t let me win in this either. I picture her sitting on some heavenly bar stool and laughing her ass off. What are you still doing down there, she shouts. Get over here and get trashed with me.

Don’t worry. I’m not far behind. There’s one last thing I have to do. All I was ever really good for is punk and patricide and here’s my last chance. I open my eyes. He creeps into bed and wraps his rotting arms around me. I hold him close. His eyes are the absence of warmth and colour and his touch is light. I hold him tight. Tighter, ever tighter as my muscles ache and tears are rolling down my face. He disintegrates for the last time with a parting rattle that becomes my own. Where I go, I’m not coming back. Where I go, he will not follow.