Sliver by A J Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

AJ Humpage's character Hackett came to wicked, wicked life here at The Feardom. Festering in AJ's mind, this monster - for he can barely be considered a man - slips in and out of The Prediction chambers and has started venturing further. A terrifying thought indeed.

Hackett is the shining dark star of Sliver. Enter his world - you'll never forget it.

Join me in trying to convince AJ to take this beast into a full novel of his own.

SLIVER

A sliver of skin.

Sliced delicately, thinly, it had started to curl. Soon it would crumble and the only thing left of her would be gone. The only organic thing left of her.

Light reflected from Hackett’s grey eyes. His mind drifted from the noise of his exhibition.

He’d burrowed beneath her conscience like a maggot, manipulated her whims and thoughts with voracious audacity and plied her with meaningless trinkets. He’d spent months moulding her, priming her. The more she trusted him; the more the veil of promised love trapped her beneath his sticky blanket of persuasion.

‘I saved your messages on my phone,’ she gushed, the day he picked her up. ‘Don’t worry; no one knows it’s you. My parents think I’m staying with friends. Daddy would be furious if he found out.’

Daddy was a highflying financier in the city. Rich sonofabitch.

Hackett chose his girls for their simple beauty, those who would become works of art. She was delicately boned, soft. Pliant.

He took pride in his petty deceptions, turning them into something exquisite.

He showed her around his country house, led her to his workshop.

She noticed his collection of instruments. A famous sculptor by trade. Enfant terrible.

He fingered the knives. ‘You’d be perfect to carve.’

A master’s muse and model, she wasn’t afraid to show off her pert little body. ‘Yes. That would be amazing because Daddy collects art.’

Petty deceptions. Like tinselled snowflakes descending through a frosty dusk, finite and cold to the touch. He wondered if she could see the satanic shadows squatting in his expression, the hint of a blackened, ghoulish imp impatiently salivating.

A smile slithered across his lips. Deceitful. Sedulous.

‘Carve me, make it beautiful,’ she whispered.

And he did.

But not how she imagined.

That evening - the perfect time for creativity and secrecy - Hackett lulled her to the workshop with the pretence of sublime creativity. The first punch stunned her. The second one blotted out her consciousness and made it easier for him to handle her.

She was ready to carve.

She awoke to a dull grey cloud which stained her expression with dreadful sickness. She lay gagged and strapped to his sculpting table, naked and vulnerable, like a cold joint of beef.

The throb of her heartbeat crawled beneath her skin, stuttered with abject terror every time he moved. Perspiration oozed across her skin from swollen pores, darkening like a stain.

He placed his blade against the meaty flesh at the top of her thigh, forced the knife towards her knee, scraping out a long thread of flesh, like an ice cream scoop.

She jolted. Terror engorged veins stiffened in her neck, eyes shot wide. Hands contracted wildly as she strained against the straps. Fear bristled across the workshop, like chains scraping across a concrete floor. It clung to the cold walls, reluctant to fade.

Blood spilled down her trembling thigh. He smiled at how dark and rich her juice was.

He dug another part of her leg, lifted muscle and skin, laid the pieces on the table next to him - moist, human spaghetti, gleaming beneath the light.

Her body stuttered. Tears gilded her pain with terror, skin sickened to a strange glaucous hue - made worse by the strip lights which sucked the colour from her flesh.

Hackett then reached for the dermatome to harvest her skin.

The shock of his onslaught spread through her body like a thick, malignant shadow, overloading her nervous system. A trickling sound diverted Hackett’s attention. He saw pale yellow liquid ooze from between her legs and dribble down the table leg.

They did that sometimes when the fear became too much, nerves shut down and they lost control of their bodily functions.

An hour later, he moved to her neck.

But even when he sliced into her, she remained conscious, fraught. She watched every moment, soaked by a grotesque, bilious-tinged horror. The workshop quickly became odorous with approaching death - her misery stained the air, roused his senses. Her bowels had opened, spreading like a stain across the table, spattering onto the floor.

Hackett ignored the stench and pushed the knife through the thick sinew and fibrous neck ligaments. It took a while, sawing through her delicate neck bones. She gave one final blink before the last slice detached her head from her shoulders and dropped to the floor. A wide crimson arc shot from the stump and spattered the wall.

Her eyes flickered, skin twitched.

He carved her.

The noise of Hackett’s assembled guests broke his thoughts. His memory of her vanished.

A large crowd had gathered around the exhibit; art dealers, critics, buyers, the press...Hackett loved the attention. Craved it.

He moved around the sculpture – a decapitated human, feminine in shape, reclining, stripped of flesh and holding her severed head as though clutching a purse.

Martin Burroughs – Hackett’s most favoured client - gazed at its brassy sheen. ‘It’s fascinating, macabre, but that is your signature style, Hackett.’

Hackett’s eyes shifted. Most of his sculptures resided in many of Burroughs’ various offices and homes. Hackett leaned in, lest the press should hear. ‘I read about your daughter in the paper...how terrible...’

Melanie Burroughs had run away from home.

‘Seven months and still no word. She’s always been rebellious. It’s not a pleasant place out there.’

Hackett’s lips twisted. ‘No, it’s not. Kids...they think they’re so grown up.’

Burroughs peered at Hackett. ‘She’s barely fifteen years old, she’s my little girl.’

Hackett’s eyes shuttered. He touched the sculpture. ‘Well, I’m sure she’s not too far away...’

Burroughs shook his head. ‘Anything could have happened to her.’

Anything indeed.

Petty deceptions filtered through Hackett’s mind. He glanced at the sculpture, the way 14-year-old Melanie Burroughs held her severed head as she lay on a bed of her own flesh, bits he’d so lovingly carved. He lifted the little plastic container, stared at the sliver of skin inside.

Smiled.

All that was left of daddy’s rebellious little girl.

_________ The End _________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: AJHumpage

Pustula Peculiar by Lily Childs - February Femmes Fatales

Pustula Peculiar began life as a 100-word piece of flash fiction here on the weekly Prediction Challenge. I expanded it into an even more revolting tale for Daily Bites of Flesh 2011.

It's horrible, it's disturbing - and if you are the slightest bit sensitive and/or are tucking into your breakfast/lunch/supper then look away now. Zombies will do that, and this is a descent into their world.

As such, this comes with a freakin' huge WARNING...

PUSTULAR PECULIAR

It was all she could do not to swallow as they poured New Orleans’ finest Absinthe into her mouth. Labella convulsed as the fire water cauterized her gums. Ginger laughed. The pinks of his albino eyes prismed in the flickering light of swamp torches. He bent across Labella’s face and licked the fluorescent green liquid from her chin.

“Pretty, mmmnn.”

His friends grinned, treading awkwardly from foot to foot. Behind them, swaying to the rhythm of frantic drums the crowd moved as one, hypnotised by the beat, empty stares going nowhere. Ginger’s jaw tightened; his swagger less sure. Labella caught the drunken whiff of fear.

“As long as the drums play, mes jolis garçons, you are safe.”

Ginger limped sideways to reach for another bottle. Taking a swig he gazed at the dancing dead.

“More,” the woman called from her shackles. “I need more”.

She widened her mouth to accept the Absinthe. The excess ran in rivulets down her neck raising the skin in blistering welts. Labella took the full mouthful into her throat in a single, rasping gulp.

The men looked on. No more smiles, just pant-pissing terror as the drumming began to slow.

“Quickly,” they begged. “Do it now.”

One of them offered forth the bottle once again. Labella shook her head.

“That’s enough,” she said. “I’m ready. Give it to me.”

The alcohol blazed on Labella’s tongue. It was now or never. The money lay on the table; her price – even though she couldn’t use it. She glanced at the clan lumbering steadily towards the makeshift healing space. Time was running out. Despite her undead state Labella had just enough conscience for this one last job. She nodded at the boys to tie her down even tighter. The friends helped the trembling Ginger lay on top of the woman’s decaying body in a nonreciprocal 69 position, holding him down as he cried. With Ginger’s bare groin squashed against her breasts Labella turned her mouth to the phlebitis-ridden thigh. Once a doctor always a doctor, even if the methods had warped. Fighting hard not to tear at the flesh with rotting teeth she swabbed the pustules with her anaesthetised tongue. Probing into the blisters, forcing them to burst open in cloying lumps Labella sucked the suppurations dry.

“Run,” she slurred.

Ginger fell off her, sobbing; the others dragged him away. Still bound, Labella watched the heaving mob plunge through the trees after their prey. She listened for screams. Instead she heard the slamming of car doors and a screech of tyres. Moans of defeat rose then faded away as the disappointed left in search of sustenance.

Unable to move Labella felt her gut reflux, forcing the putrid content of her stomach back into her gullet as she succumbed to the ultimate stages of the change. With no control over her body Labella bucked in rabid frenzy until at last, her bindings fell loose. She was free. Her soul reborn. She sat up, hungry. 

And spat.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Lily Childs is the author of a growing number of short horror and dark fiction stories that have appeared online and in print. Watch out for the first volume of a new collection coming out on Kindle this Spring.

Horror Editor at Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, Lily is also a Spinetingler Award 2011 nominee.

The first two short novellas in Lily's Magenta Shaman dark urban fantasy series are available to download from Amazon, with the third book planned for the summer of 2012. She is currently completing her first supernatural novel.

EROS ERRORS by Absolutely*Kate - February Femmes Fatales

Oh, how the world has been waiting for the truly, madly, deeply unique voice of Absolutely*Kate Pilarcik. Never - I promise you - will you have read words performed or uttered in such a way. She peddles intelligence in places that need her, rising above academia to pirouette between clouds of creativity.

If you don't know Kate, you'll think I gush too much; if you do... you know I speak the truth.

Not only does Ms Kate write with a mythical authority but she also spends her extremely valuable time promoting the work of others. Do read her extended Bio below EROS ERRORS for places to meet with her, share with her and be inspired. But if you don't do anything else then take the time to dally at The Bijou where Noir is the order of every single day.

And now, I give you...

EROS ERRORS

Pointed arrows make sharp points.
Light doth hark though heralds dark.
Trajectories sublime hover joy o'day
yet ironically, swallow bitter dismay.

Once upon a Myth, Truth became a fragile Reality. I have lived to tell this tale, but barely, just barely, and delectably, with pun ensconced. Let's make that firmly ensconced, where Cupid, ne'er stupid, made good his golden mark 'pon my naked truth.

Amazing what flies in one's open window on a deep-sleep moonless night. Son-of-a-bitchin' son of Venus became my plight . . . but ahhhhh, my pleasure too. Therein lies the rub. His rub, his reach, his grasp, his touch, his lurid tongue, all to lure me in, to make me his Psyche . . . sensually, his soul-felt mate. Eros' arrow lost potency to do the deed his maniacal mother bade proceed. Vexed rose vainglorious Venus when sunny sonny boy botched his midnight mission. (Even more so, when her cosmos of spy-minions chortled on about our conflagrant positions.)

Cock-sure was Eros, where his potency did excel. He lusted me as his heaven ~ I knew him as my hell. Skin against skin, depth surging depth, eyes screaming 'Yes!' to permissions unwhispered. Like butterfly wings our animated force beat on as breath of Life itself. But what price to pay, for natural beauty sensating his way? You've no idea what damage a riled up goddess on a rampage can do, do you?

Mama Venus, by her lopsided Aphroditian soul, had access to the wilds of the four winds, and the ear of zany Zeus. She conjured plots of torment and avidly let loose. Oh she did. And she did some more. Twas majestic for immortal gentry to see, though for me to abhor. I mean, who was I - just a gal minding her own earthly business, setting her womanly wiles on betrothal to a run-of-the-grist Alexander or Barnabus, Damon or Gregorious? But come the vivid rage of Venus, no one reigned victorious.

The world itself floundered without Love begot from Cupid's arrows, for Eros -- as he was known at the best Greek daises -- went on strike. He resisted the persistence of his mother's vile insistence. The floundering world withered, cold to touches which now did not come. Eros came though. Again and again, invisibly so. He hunted the locale where I was secreted away. The good god of the west wind, sage Zephyrus, turncoated loyalties as he suited, and whisked me to higher safety, a mountaintop away. There, night after night, Eros entered more than my chambers. Passion's darkness beaconed his insight.

Greater insights though were needed for our erotic coupling to see eye to eye. Eros coulda, shoulda, woulda seen barricades to my being his beloved, but mama-boy gods are not consistently clever. Have you truly looked up into menacing skies on a stormy day? The Underworld hath no fury like a furie scorned. Venus on rampage through the heavens did emerge. Nevertheless, tough love is tough love and I went searching for potency in answers.

"Will you help me, to a together-ever-after . . . for your son, certainly you see, is enamored of me?," squeaked the tentative tenacity of my ardent plea.

There then, the mother-lode of a bitch showed true her colours -- envy green and pitched black to taunts testing me. "Separate these grains in this basket before the nightfall! Retreive golden wool from the field where the killer sheep graze! Make water flow from a serpent-guarded rock-cleft impossible to see!" Verily, Venus staged set-up shots and torment traps deigned for my mortal failure. Only sheer valour conjured fortunate what my spirit called forth in mystical aid: An ant busied his little self with dissection of the grains. A river-god warned of the killing fields, pointing instead where branch and bark beckoned rubbed off wool for the gathering. I was no goddess' fool. I thanked all these spirits heartily, including the soaring eagle who winged about my water divination. But salutations aside, Venus veered one more task, a greater task, a greater risk. "Go into the Underworld, Girly. Bring me back a box, bountiful with bits of beauty."

How I muttered low, how I glared at the mother goddess so. "Go connoiter your own cosmetic challenges, venal Venus!," I wished I'd shouted. Upon my descent to the Underworld of Hell, how I regretted not telling her where to go. But I muddled on. Will Love conquer darkness? This time I prayed aloud, for an oracle of an outcome. A tower of power came to my aid and this task too, I muddled through. But I was tired. So tired. Bone tired. Stop in my tracks up out-of-the-horrors-of-the-Underworld tired. So I peeked into the bit of beauty box, for any small touch of revival.

Zap! Zowie! An eternal infernal sleep arose to my head with such a clatter before my battered senses bade what was the matter. Then there, in true courses due, on blitzing, on dashing, the fate of my Eros/Cupid flew. By Jove and by Jupiter, we got this thing right! A celestial council was convened. Heavenly, the democratic vote careened. Gods and goddesses, bless those Greeks and their political discourse ~ of the mortals, by the mortals and for the mortals. Celebration lit the heavens. They served me ambrosia and immortality. As I said, I'm no fool. I sipped full of both. We wedded. We bedded. We honeymooned on Mount Olympus.

When our daughter was born, Grandma Venus and I ultimately saw it best to see eye-to-eye. Intuitively gleaning less power as adversaries. we femme-fataled a truce of peace. Doubling our pleasures insured that the world prospered . . . the ambrosia flowed . . . the democracy of the Greeks would garner a model of political genius . . . and for centuries to come, many would play good sport upon Mount Olympus.

~ ~ ~ 

ILLUSTRATION:  L'Amour et Psyché, by Francois Edouard Picot

T H E    E N D ?

No, not at all. Only the beginning of a brazen beguine. 

Eros and Psyche named their girl ~ Voluptuas. 

In translation, to all immortal days ~
'Sensual Pleasures' lives on.

________________________________________

Bio: Absolutely*Kate? Prolific author and promoter/publisher of innate design flair with moxie. World needs more moxie. Her writings flow as shadows shimmer Noir, as creamy poils on Ziegfeld Goils, and in synergistically researched decades-of-distinction from the roaring 1920's to the swinging '60's. All on stage at her theatre for the mind creation, AT THE BIJOU ~ "Where Writers' Raves are Readers' Faves" ... There, Believing in Believers, and authors taking authors higher in their  soar, Kate deftly adjusts spots and kleigs so worthy writers rise. The smash sensation "THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR" is currently in its 4th month of intrigue, highlighting international authors' tales.

Bookings? Absolutely*Kate is published online at Thrillers, Chillers 'n Killers, other literary and crime scenes, including 'spirited' appearances at Femme Fatale Erin Cole's. One of the authors of GRIMM TALES, by Untreed Reads Publishing; ("You Dirty Rats"), Absolutely*Kate is also co-author with Harry B. Sanderford of Sweet Chili Philly . . . co-writing THE 1976 SOCIETY with Irish/Frisco muse Kevin J. Mackey and . . . co-rollicking/writing SPY-SIDE ECONOMICS with the illustrious AJ Hayes. Absolutely*Kate is editing for publishing in eBook and print ~ IF THE GUMSHOE FITS and "HOLY MOXIE!", while working on her physics time-travels novel, THE VILLAGE SMITHY.

Promotion? Absolutely*Kate launched on Valentine's Day, the "Brevities" Salon site of WOMEN, LOVERS, FRIENDS & MOTHERS, to attract lively interactive readership flow to know and follow fellow authors. Early reviews were sensuous and exciting! She goes 'live' this week inviting millions of women readers through channels her silver spade has been digging.

And The Best Is Yet to Be ~ HARBINGER*33, sailing the destinies of 33 stellar authors, with 3 stunning artists, 3 sensational 'authenticators' . . . featuring 33 noted author salutes,  33 ports of call to writerly havens, and a *Treasure Chest* to behold . . . watch for it in this brave new year.

Coming Up? Mais Oui! Absolutely*Kate joins promotional ranks with author/marketing whiz Kevn Michaels. Shhh, Lily's secret: It's the ultimate RIGHT ARM ~ "Authors' Reach Marketing", finding a need and filling it ~ taking authors' books in today's markets to tomorrow's intended reach. Holy Momentum!

Absolutely*Kate recharges energies with coffee, jazz, loving her Prof man, walking at sea, and realizing the fortune of daily jivings with authors and publishers she greatly admires. She's on a Quest this year to read and review all  fellow authors' books on the rise -- thus putting in a new bookcase, at the historic home at the confluence of two rivers in Derby, Connecticut.

CABARET OF DREAD - News and Book Cover

I've been gathering all my short horror stories, from the less-than-drabble to the big fat five-thousand-worders. Some have appeared online, others only in print, still more have never seen the light of day. The result is that I have enough pieces for two volumes of deepest, darkest tales to terrify the blood from your veins.

The books will be called CABARET OF DREAD. Volume 1 is in production at the moment and will be available as an eBook for Kindle in March.

I thought you might like a glimpse at the book's cover, and to read a short excerpt from one of the stories...

In Adoration - an Excerpt [If you're easily offended - you shouldn't be here.]

Reuben slips a withered hand into a side pocket of his sensible jacket and rummages – an old man seeking a buttermint. He squeezes hard. Thick red liquid oozes through the grey cloth in blooms. He brings a bag out of his pocket and thrusts it towards a straggling child.

“Want a cherry?”

Reuben delights in the girl’s scream as she runs away to catch up with oblivious parents. By the time she reaches them, she won’t remember the scary man with blood on his teeth.

The suit hangs off the body he is wearing; cheap fabric, and designed for a younger, oh so much younger man that Reuben had pleasured to death in some other town along the coast. He snorts at the memory, his expression turning to derision as he shuffles within the octogenarian skin he has adopted for the day. It itches. He scratches at his face, watching the flakes fall into his lap, already dead.

***

“I’ve been waiting for you Reuben.”

‘Reuben’ sheds his clothes and the outer flesh of that day’s victim. He stands before the Holy Father. His peeled skin is the dark blue of game that has hung in a butcher’s back-room for a month. As he reaches the pulpit the spikes and jewels that habitually decorate his body burst forth once more, taking their place upon the landscape of his living corpse. He lunges.

“You don’t frighten me,” the priest smiles.

Reuben isn’t the demon’s true name. He has hundreds of names, and none, but the good Father needs something to remember him by. Face to face they stare each other out, nose to nose, rancid breath mingling between them in the sacred air. The building shifts. It skews. Pews crack with the weight of the confrontation. The knee-cushions unravel, disintegrating the biblical quotes so neatly strewn across their tapestry. Father Judas throws himself to the cold ground as stained glass shatters and sprays the holy structure with killing shards.

The demon pulls the man of God into his embrace. His split black tongue sucks that of his master. Their cocks fight each other for attention before they fall into each other, plunging back and forth. They fuck. They spill. They die a thousand deaths....

Much more to come...

Your thoughts are very welcome, nay - invited. Thank you.

Fire Dance by Tania Redd - February Femmes Fatales

She's hot, she's not what you expect her to be - for who is?

Tania Redd's second February Femmes Fatales piece packs a powerful, breathless punch. Goth, pagan - traditional - I am LOVING  the image Fire Dance throws at us, its shadow burning...

FIRE DANCE

Dimona looks wicked tonight; the long black bridal gown hugging every curve.

“Your hour will come” she smugly reassures.

I give a crooked knowing smile; follow her through the undergrowth cursing under my breath. Her betrothed is waiting; he’s unable to meet my eyes. He leads her into the nine foot wreath lined circle.

Facing each other, their hands are tied together with cord, a broomstick at their feet as the ceremony gets underway. My role is to sweep the circle with the broomstick, dance around the happy couple. I rehearsed earlier to ensure everything goes to plan, and add a little sizzle to the nuptials. Snatching up the fire torch, I advance swiftly, an ancient flame thrower shrieking in delight, as the petrol sodden broomstick flares up, engulfing the traitess and her quarry in flames, the circle collapsing into a burning pit.

My hour has come.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Tania Redd enjoys writing black comedy, horror and crime fiction in the form of short film scripts. She is currently redrafting her first novel and working on a radio play.

Lily's Friday Prediction

Apologies for the lateness of today's post. School half-term means snatched time here and there - even moreso than full-time work! But my little gorgeous girl comes first - sorry!

Now I'm a blub of tears - an old Soul girl - I've been listening to a new complication of tracks whilst I cooked up some Poulet Basquaise, all of which I already possess over and over on (original) vinyl, tape, CD and MP3. So -"Give Me Just A Little More Time" and I shall become Chair(wo)man of the Feardom Board - vaguely organised. If you're under 40 - forget what I've said.

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

New Predictioneers will not be familiar with her writing but R.S. (Rebecca) Bohn's writing sends me - every time. I'm so glad she dipped in to the Feardom's Prediction challenge this week, for her beguiling and disturbing piece Heiress is my winner. Congratulations Rebecca - an exquisite experience from your pen.

Forgive me, but I cannot decide on a runner-up this week. There are four that make me tremble in completely different  ways which just shows the overwhelming talent here, and I don't thing it's fair to split the vote. Apologies - if you have read all the entries I'm sure you all understand.

Words for 17 February 2012

I'm slipping my fingers into the dictionary's pages - ooh, it's tight tonight. Here we go...

• Riddle
• Hook
• Venus

May your synapses glisten.

Rules

The rules are: 100 words max flash fiction or poetry using all of the words above. Please add your entries in the Comments box below. You have until 9pm UK time on Thursday 23rd February 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 24th February. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it. Do give feedback to your fellow Predictioneers - we all appreciate it.

If your lethargy is getting you down, look out the window. Whether you see an apartment block or an open field - study the finest detail, become awed, write about ants, or dust, or murder...

___________________________________

Between Feathers and Fins by Erin Cole - February Femmes Fatales

I owe a lot to Erin Cole. Even if I were purely a reader and not a writer I would be eternally grateful for the blissfully dark prose she pours onto pages. She is a writer whose words twist and turn, lilting with sinister poetry and stealing us back and forth between the horror of the bizarre, and the terror of reality but always, always delivering her unique fiction with soul.

Believe me, you'll want more after you finish reading Between Feathers and Fins. And I can tell you where to find it. Of the Night is an amazing collection of Erin's supernatural horror that will leave you spiralling in wonder and fear. You can download the book to your Kindle from Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com

Back to my words of thanks. Erin has constantly encouraged, supported and promoted me on my writing journey so far and we have shared thoughts and emotions across the ocean. Erin, you are an inspiration. Thank you.

Read her words...

BETWEEN FEATHERS AND FINS

The ocean took him and never returned him to me, keeping him as though she hadn't enough treasures buried at the depthless bottom of her frigid heart. But I know better - I have seen them, once a time ago. Before I loved. Before any memory of him. Archaic relics inlaid with gold and precious stone, mountains of coral, shelled-lockets of pearl, legions of vessels from different spaces of time, and so many bones that she has built castles out of them. My love is among them now, his spirit still smiling, not caring that he is dead.

I search the shores, pretending I'm looking for seashells. Tiny crab bugs spring from the wet sand beneath my step. I imagine I am a giant plodding through their town, smashing their labors, creating havoc. Are they screaming and I just can't hear them? They dive at me, sharp as pointed sticks against the tender flesh of my ankle. I believe they are not fleeing in blind terror, but assailing their monster. I am not fazed by this thought. My grief vindicates the horror, for I battle my own monster, and it has calloused my heart.

The cat killed a bird this morning. She pounced into a savage dance of murder and pierced her sharp teeth into the warm pulse of life. I yelled at her and chased her off. She sulked around the trunk of a pine, lingering to finish the job. I picked up the bird. White feathers swirled in a mess. The tail tapped at my wrist. The body wriggled in my palm, and its glassy, red eyes were frozen by the probabilities of death. I am the monster now. It knows not fur from skin.

The bird stills. My hand is stained cherry. I climb over the dunes into the wild sage and bury it beneath a handful of sand. At the water's edge, the cold froth of gray-green waves distend a mirrored sky at my feet. A playful tease. She wants me back, wants us all back. I deny it no further and step into the bitter cool of her infinite deep, up to the curve of my breasts. She is quick to take me back. My skin molts into scales, my legs no more, as a fish's tail conquers the form of my feet. The current seizes me, and I swallow the icy salt into my lungs as they too transform back into gills. The song of the sea comes to me again, a lulling, violin melody. But I am listening for him, beneath the boom of tide and gurgle of bubbles in her throat. I am keen to the harmonics of his voice.

I roll in the waves, my fin scraping rock and sand. The gravity of her breath pulls me back from the shore, but another force is greater, and I am unable to find the deep. My body is lifted, as if thrust ashore by a rock giant's hand. Resting on the sand, I shed her waters like tears, his tears. Legs have found my body again. The crab bugs continue their assault, and I surrender to their calloused hearts. In the dunes of wild sage, I see my love. He is no longer smiling - he has battled his own monster.

White feathers somersault and swirl across my panoramic view of the beach. I stretch my fingers up and catch one. My legs are no more. I know not feathers from fins.

_________ The End _________

2012 © Erin Cole

Bio: Erin Cole fears the ocean more than strangers, but writes about them both from the Pacific Northwest. She's won a couple of cool awards, while still enjoying the torture of rejected submissions.

You can learn more about her dark fiction at www.erincolewrites.com or www.erincolelive.blogspot.com.