Prediction Winner

So glad to see the Femmes Fatales showcase hasn't held anyone back from entering the Prediction challenge. And this week - wow! How is it possible to just keep getting better?

I'm a little behind on time so will jump straight in to summarise - however, I must point out I usually have a glass of wine as I do this - and there is none. What is the world coming to?

• Ellie paid her first visit to The Prediction with Paper Cuts, a murderous tale of skinning and scribes.
• Mimi's Jealous Gods fought for supremacy in temples of old.
• Sue summoned up the undead to present Peter as an eternal treasure in Incanto.
• AJ's batteground gathered the defeated victims in a Spartan bloodbath to win the Trophy.
• Chris's colonial adventurers blew their chances by the tomb in You Are So Fired
• Melenka's Tribute is to a sacrificial virgin, offered to an inhuman beast, and corrupted for life.
• Aidan's super-antiheroes save the planet from each other in The World In Flames.
• Antonia's protagonist lives with a despicable Know All who gets what's coming to him.
• Asuqi's robotic creatures scritch and scratch, and lie down to order in I Can Make Them Come Alive
• Susan offers herself up to the ancient ones in her own tome ;) Snatch.
• I think I flipped my lid for five minutes when I wrote Married To The Job, but corsets and flab it was.
• Scratchypen's Anubis explored the heart of the dark matter in Dead Pretty.
• Rebecca's disgusting little crossbreed answers back and gives her jip in A Prickly Issue.
• Pixie's poisoned dart came flying through the air, killing us slowly in If The Crime Fits...
• William brought mad, bad Alan Kook back to dole out his own warped justice in The Undoing.
• David's Virus spreads, spiralling us towards its chilling and tragic conclusion.

Is this a record? In number and quality of entries? Certainly feels like it.

My winner is Melenka with Tribute. I loved the surreal and mythical quality to this. I felt as though I was peeking, uninvited - but couldn't tear myself away. Congratulations Melenka.

Because I couldn't choose between them, my two runners-up are R.S. Bohn with A Prickly Issue and Pixie's If The Crime Fits... Well done Rebecca and Pix!

Right. More FFF to prepare and a cannibal feast to finish (on paper) so... back tomorrow with three new words. Bye for now.

_____________________________

A Pixie Flutters By - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 10th

Friday Prediction followers will know Pixie J. King by her dark and always heart-rending prose. Her observations are cynical, cautious. Many writers and artists will recognise the sensation of isolation she so carefully presents; that feeling of being different, misunderstood.

When I was Pixie's age I wrote morbid poetry and tiny stories. Last year I found a box of my scribblings - and it was shite. This is where Pixie and I are different - because she has a natural talent that is already shining bright.

Pixie has two pieces showcasing this month. I chose her poem Dead Girl Walking as the first because I think it perfectly represents her skill.

She's asked me several times why she has been invited to be showcased on February Femmes Fatales. This is why:

Dead Girl Walking by Pixie J. King
(First published on Writing Magazine's January One Word Challenge 2010)

The silence greets me again
as I become speechless,
hurt and torn
my heart dying a little more.

You've already shattered my
defences, made me cry all those
pearl glazed tears and you
show no mercy of stopping
unless I was dead.

My heart is empty.
My blood sucked away

like my soul was.
I’m just a pale, lifeless freak
who has no emotion left.

You can’t hurt me anymore 

when there is nothing left to hurt.

You have raped me of my life.

Made my days unbearable.

The walls are closing in on me.
There is nothing left to prove,
nothing left to do.

There is no happiness in my life.
I’ve forgotten how to smile, how to laugh.

There is no feeling left in me, 

just the chill of my tears and blood.
You frown on my tears anyway.
What’s the point?

So I ripped out my heart

and handed it over for you to devour.
After all, I do have a big heart for you to feed on

and people are going to miss out
on its love.

I’m just a dead girl walking.
You killed me years ago.
_______________________________

Bio: 

Pixie is a student who is trying to balance writing with her college work. She is a full member Fictioneer. Pixie’s work can be found at http://theworksofpixiejking.blogspot.com

_______________________________

The Library of Sue Harding - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 9th

It was a Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers thing, as it so often is, when I first met the marvellous Mrs Sue H. She likes her noir, her crime and her blood - and I like everything she has to say about it. Her writing is clever, and hard-hitting. It's also humorous, and twists like cat gut.

When Sue began contributing to my weekly Friday Prediction challenge, I saw a whole different side to this highly-talented writer. Her observations touch the soul and more than once her poetry and prose have brought a tear to my eye.

We've got a few things in common, me and Sue - and I am very proud that she has accepted to be a February Femme Fatale. Be Careful What You Wish For is the darkest of her three spots this month - please take your seats, the show is about to begin.

Be Careful What You Wish For by Sue Harding

The reveal was coming soon. Another few bars and in one swift movement his true features would be laid bare.

Christopher LeGrande eyed the faces as he glanced out in the darkness but there was no time to watch for their reaction.

Now came her hand, reaching up and pushing away the mask. He heard the collective sharp intake of breath as the audience caught their first brief glimpse of his grotesque, misshapen face.

He turned away, recoiling from her touch. All part of the act, a well rehearsed scene that he’d performed for so many months.

He continued in his role but it was almost as if he were on auto-pilot. His voice, his stage presence and bearing had been honed and crafted over the months until he could almost do it in his sleep. Where once there had been joy in his soul, was now pain and loss.

At last, he escaped from the stage as the scene changed and folded himself away within the hushed but busy wings. Actors and stage-crew jockeyed for position, miming signals and cues as the performance continued and Christopher sank thankfully onto a waiting chair.

Now his mind had time to reflect. This role was his big breakthrough, a passport to fame and success. As the lead in the ‘Phantom of the Opera’, he had earned stunning plaudits from even the least generous and hard to please theatre critics. But he knew deep inside that he was trapped.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, hung nearby to afford the actors a last chance to check their attire before they stepped out onto the stage.

The white half-mask stared back at him in an evil grin, concealing a secret irony. He realised it was too late now; that he’d reached the point of no return and thought back to that day all those months ago, when he’d celebrated not only his birthday but the announcement that he’d landed the part.

“Be careful what you wish for!”

It had been said jokingly at the time, but now he realised the truth and wisdom of those words. Closing his eyes, he’d made his wish - to become the greatest Phantom the show had ever seen. He’d held his breath and then blown out the candles. All but one. A single flame had defied his efforts and winked back at him, tauntingly, as if echoing that warning. As he’d silently repeated his wish, promising to sell his soul for the chance he’d been given, the flame guttered and finally went out.

As the weeks and months had progressed he had worked hard and immersed himself in refining the songs, the moves and the magic. The box office tills had rung in celebration of his skill and the critics had fallen at his feet.

“Christopher LeGrande IS the Phantom!” the reviews stated.

How little they knew.

It had been a few weeks into the production before he’d realised the full enormity of the bargain he had struck, resigned to the fact that this was a role he was destined to play. The only role.

Now, as he sat in the dimness hearing the orchestra beyond his view, he raised his hand and lifted the mask from his face. The air felt deliciously cool on his skin. The rippled and puckered flesh felt rough to the touch of his fingers as they traced the bloated and misshaped lower lip. There were no smudges, no smears that needed to be attended to before he strode back out into the auditorium.

With each performance his face had become more and more distorted. First it was a slight droop of his smile, then a darkening redness to his skin. He’d begun taking concealer home from the make-up cupboard, in an effort to mask the reality that was slowly becoming apparent, but soon he was forced to employ more refined techniques as the changes gathered momentum. He’d become adept with creams and colours and hairpieces as he’d desperately tried to hide the growing deformities that stared back at him each morning in the bathroom mirror.

Now, the crossover was complete. Months had passed into the current living nightmare he inhabited and he was thankful for the sanctuary of a private dressing room. Each day he arrived and attended to his make-up alone, removing the lie he carried about on his face, wiping away the attractive features that he’d come to perfect to reveal the vile truth beneath.

The music jarred in his ears, calling him back to his own private hell, where illusion and reality danced a sinister and macabre tango.

“Be careful what you wish for!”

The words echoed again in his head as he stood up and headed out into the footlights’ glow ready to continue the masquerade and he knew that later, when ‘Christine’ chose ‘Raoul’ over him, the tears he shed would be no act.

__________________________________

Bio:
Sue Harding worked in public libraries for eleven years, where her greatest joy was introducing customers to new books and authors and also discovering them for herself. Having taken early retirement, the intention now is to knuckle down to serious writing - perhaps one day her former colleagues will be shelving her books!

__________________________________

The Colour of Laurita Miller - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 8th

I believe I first crossed fair and floral paths with today's February Femme Fatale Laurita Miller over at The Not, Michael Solender's marvellous blog. We've also had words on The Six Sentences Network and The New Flesh.

Her writing is beautiful yet wistful, dark and mischievous - what more could we want?

But Laurita isn't just a fine mistress of the pen, she is also a very brave woman who I truly admire. On March 12th Laurita is having her head shaved to raise funds for Young Adult Cancer Canada. She has already significantly supassed her $2,000 goal and donations continue to come in. What a big-hearted way to raise awareness. All the best of luck, Laurita.

Read more about Laurita's Shave for the Brave...

And now, you really are in for a surprise if you go into the woods tonight. Forget lions and tigers and bears, oh my - Red is made of far darker things.

Red by Laurita Miller

He wouldn’t have long to wait. He knew her schedule well. Every evening at eight-fifteen she walked into the woods with her picnic basket. Every evening at nine she walked out, licking her lips and her fingers. This evening, he would be the one to enjoy her goodies.

He waited patiently until he could see her cloak, a smear of red through the shadows and the trees. The scent was delicious and it pulled him from his hiding place.

She turned only her eyes toward him as she passed, offered a shy smile, and clutched her basket closer. Her hair fell in tangles, dark slashes against the vivid red cloak.

He breathed deeply, absorbing the delectable subtleties of her scent. His mouth watered. He stepped forward and gently placed his hand upon her arm.

“Well, well. You must be Little Red Riding Hood.” His gaze traveled from her face to the large basket on her arm. So many luscious temptations in one night.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound, unexpected and unwelcome. Distressed, the crows above flapped away. Their calls echoed through the pines, and then there was silence.

“No.” She snarled and turned to him. Sharp fangs gleamed as she licked her lips.

“I’m the big bad wolf.” 

_______________________________

Bio:

Laurita Miller enjoys writing in the dark and walking through revolving doors. Her work has been featured at Gloom Cupboard, Six Sentences, Flashes in the Dark, The New Flesh, Yellow Mama and has appeared in several anthologies. She blogs here: http://ringkeeper.blogspot.com/

_______________________________

A.J. Humpage is today's astonishing February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 7th

A.J. Humpage has a lot to answer for. She not only writes the most disturbing of dark fiction she also unselfishly helps her fellow-writers with honest critiques.

In mid-2009 she was kind enough to read a story I'd written for a competition - the first competition I'd ever entered. Using the constructive advice she gave, I rewrote it using her suggestions and the story went on to win a national competition out of 1200 entries. Thank you Ally!

If you contribute to or follow my weekly Prediction, or have dallied at the marvellous Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers you will no doubt have read Ally's extraordinary prose.

Her words are poetry, they dance in your mind dealing out danger and dread. She exposes the horrors and atrocities of human behaviour, all the while using her uncanny ability to touch your innermost fears before laying them bare to be teased, again and again.

In Driftwood, the first of four contributions to the FFF showcase Ally takes us to the sea around Crete - the favourite island of several of the Feb Femmes Fatales, myself included. Dare you step into the water?

Driftwood by A J Humpage

Amphitrite glided gracefully through the water, unaware of the jagged darkness hovering just over the horizon.

Stella Harris peered over the side of the yacht, watched the swirling dark water. Childhood fears bubbled at the bottom of her stomach - the thought of what lurked beneath the surface. She hated the water.

And now she was stuck on a boat drifting around the Mediterranean, her husband’s idea of a holiday, even though he knew the water terrified her, but she always caved in to his forceful ideas. It was easier to do that than have his hands rip at her skin in a drunken, violent haze. It was easier to absorb the pain, something she’d done for 23 years.

Every holiday revolved around the yacht, but this was their first foray around Greece.

His voice punched through her reverie. ‘Don’t just stand there, get me a drink.’

She looked up, her mind catching up with her.

Her husband stood at the helm, faux captain’s cap glinting beneath the last of the ruby-tainted sunlight that shimmered in the distance, his hands caressing the wheel as though it was his mistress.

Amphitrite’s deck moaned against the swell. The deep shudder made him smile.

Stella moved away from the rail, inched across the deck towards the steps to the lower cabin. Her voice bristled with caution. ‘It looks quite squally in the distance.’

‘Nothing unusual in these waters,’ he grunted. ‘It’s the Med, for Christ’s sake. It can turn on you.’

Her stomach pitched. ‘Perhaps we c--’

‘Just shut up and get me a drink, yeah?’

She recoiled against his sting, silently descended the steps to the galley and grabbed a beer from the fridge. She gazed at a framed picture hanging on the wall near the steps, two people laughing beneath a cherry blossom tree in full, lusty bloom.

Her wedding day, 23 years ago.

They had no children. He didn’t want them, but she was too lost to the ideal of love that, eventually, her needs became redundant. And now familiarity bred contempt, like a rotting corpse beneath a hot sun. Maggots writhed beneath the surface.

She went back up the steps. A vermillion scar stretched across the horizon to her left, steadily devoured by a creeping darkness to her right. The wind had picked up, no longer satiated by the sunlight.

She handed him the beer, watched as he steered Amphitrite into the speckled grey clouds clinging to the ocean.

The sound of the sails made her look up. They flapped like a flock of stricken birds, became loud. She fastened her life jacket.

He didn’t wear one. He hated wearing them. Confident as always.

Soft spittle grazed her face; the squall rolled in from the distance. The yacht sailed headlong into the approaching theatre of darkness. The sickly swell in her stomach rose up her gullet and threatened to make her vomit, but somehow she managed to keep it down by sucking in the cool air.

The yacht creaked, rolled a little.

He fought with the wheel.

The dark crept in quickly, brought rain with it.

Something across the ocean rumbled. Her insides shuddered as the storm rushed toward them. ‘Perhaps we should turn the yacht around and go back.’

‘No way. You wanted to go to Crete. This was your stupid idea, so that’s where we’re going.’

‘We can still turn back,’ she said. ‘No point in being foolish.’

‘Foolish? No point turning back, we might as well sail through it get out of it as soon as we can. Besides, the yacht is strong; she can face a moderate storm.’

The water around them gurgled with agitation. Something groaned; a dark, malignant shadow quickly rose above the stern and smashed into the deck, washing them both towards the guardrails. The boat listed, heaved by the engorged swell.

Their voices melted into the night. Screams...like dust particles, swept across the bow.

She clung tight to a capstan, saw a blur of colour sweep by as her husband shot across the deck, snatched by the force of the wave. He clung to the handrail; his eyes bright with dread through the darkness.

The sea was cold against her skin, callous against her eyes.

The ocean heaved again, sucked him down.

She lurched as the yacht panned. She gazed down; saw him clinging to the ladder.

‘Help me...’

The ladder parried against the side of the boat and the frothy swell undulated as though drawing the strength to wrench him from his security. His knuckles whitened against a savage God of the sea, a grotesque creature that rose up and snarled, lashing at his feet.

Her fretful expression melted. Her expression melted. She could almost see the trident rising from the depths, the shape of Poseidon lurching beneath the surface.

His voice cleanly sliced through the darkness. ‘Help...Christ!’

She leaned over the rail, barely able to cling on, her fingers outstretched.

The yacht pitched.

Her life with him inked her conscience; memories dulled the numbness in her fingertips. The cold closed in around them.

He reached out for her.

Grasping fingers lured him; her deviant invitation, but a malignant demon squatted in her expression, shuddered with rancour, hungry for spite.

He reached up. Fear dribbled from his face.

She saw through the thin thread of his panic. Saw fear of a different kind. Fear that she had often felt; the closeted pain inside, and out. The stifling feeling of him on her, in her.

Stomach swill threatened. Fingers touched.

His pulse was strong and fearful against hers, bulging with panic.

The God of the sea growled, churned with effortless cruelty, as demons of the deep gathered beneath her husband’s feet like a shoal of foul, rotten-mouthed sharks.

The slight upturn of her mouth betrayed her intention. She let go.

He dropped into the water, sucked down by a devious current.

The lightning stole a glimpse of her relief.

Then, above the storm, she heard his screams. Drifting.

Diminishing.

Then silence.

________________________________

Bio:

A J Humpage has stories published in many anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines. She also writes articles and dispenses writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com. She has completed her first novel and some of her stories and poetry can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com.

________________________________

The sun always shines on Lou Treleaven - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 6th

Back in early 2009 when I decided to stop leaving scribbles hidden in drawers and do something with them, I really had no idea where I was going. I joined Talkback, the private online forum of the UK's leading writers' mag Writers' News and Writing Magazine. I can now safely, and happily blame TB for what I have become.

Lou Treleaven is a fellow Talkbacker who has offered her voice of experience, her support and opinions over the last couple of years. And she's just... lovely! She writes dark fiction for children, young adults and big grown ups like us. To be able to gear your writing to those specific age-groups is a true talent which Lou has perfected.

I am proud to share space with Lou in horror anthologies Caught By Darkness and Daily Bites of Flesh.

Lou's February Femme Fatale story Fun With Derek is indeed a lighter-hearted tale with a determined humour, perfectly suited to a Sunday. I hope it tickles your fancy.

Fun with Derek By Lou Treleaven

“I suppose you’d better come in now you’re here,” I said, reluctantly opening the door to my ex-boyfriend.

“You’ve done all right for yourself, haven’t you?” he remarked cheerfully.

I narrowed my eyes at him as the thick wooden door slammed shut with a bang, rattling the grubby chandelier on the ceiling which released a shower of dust and a couple of plate-sized spiders. “You think so?”

Derek brushed the dust off his brightly-coloured jumper and followed me into the kitchen. “I never thought you’d be able to afford a decent place of your own.”

“I don’t think I’m ever really on my own here,” I said, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard. Above us, thumping noises and the rattling of chains announced there were still things in the attic I hadn’t managed to purge, but Derek didn’t seem to notice.

“I thought you’d come running back to me. I guess I was wrong.”

I handed him his tea. Behind him drawers started opening and closing of their own accord, but he didn’t hear them and walked over to the kitchen window. He took a hanky out of his sleeve and cleared a little peephole in the grimy glass. “Interesting.”

“The statues? They seem to change position every day. It’s like they’re acting out some bizarre play for me,” I said, joining him at the window.

“Not them. The stones. Is that a –“

“Graveyard, yes. It’s the previous occupants. You do realise this is a Dark Neighbourhood, don’t you? I mean, you saw the signs, the gibbets? It’s not ideal, but the rent’s dirt cheap and it’s handy for –“

“Rachel, won’t you come back to me?” Derek cried, putting down his mug and grabbing me by the shoulders in an uncharacteristic fit of passion.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a statue outside pretend to vomit. I tried to ignore it. “It’s not that simple. What about my job? You don’t like it and I do, and I’m not going to give it up for you. I’m doing okay now, better than ever before in fact. Being in a Dark Neighborhood suits me. Now if you could consider moving to Unhallowed Acres as well…”

Derek looked sulky. “Are there any good gastro pubs?”

I considered. “There’s the Hangman’s Noose, but the food’s a bit ropey. The Cannibal’s Arms do a nice pie though, if you’ve got the stomach for it.”

“I’m serious, Rachel! Okay, I’ll try. I’ll even put up with your stupid job if I have to.”

My phone beeped. “Talking of which…” I glanced at the text and sighed. “Dr Chilling’s transformed again. I’d better get over to the surgery before there’s another bloodbath.”

Derek slumped. “Here we go again.”

“All right.” I put the phone down. He was doing his big puppy eyes. The ones that had got me into trouble the first time round. “Dr Chilling can wait a few more minutes. Go and sit on the sofa.”

I pointed him towards the living room. A shabby velvet chaise longue was the only furniture. Tall stained glass windows depicting macabre scenes looked on. Derek sat down awkwardly.

“I’m just going to fetch my silver dagger,” I called lightly.

“Your… what?”

“My dagger.” I was back with it already. I prided myself on always keeping the tools of my trade close at hand. I advanced on him and raised the weapon ready to strike; immaculately clean and polished to perfection, it shone prettily in the purple and red light coming through the window. What a lovely tableau we made at that moment.

“But – but you only kill vampires and… and werewolves and… horrible unnatural creatures!” Derek cried, putting up his arms.

“That’s right,” I said. I wrinkled my nose. Derek had lost control. How disgusting. “You are a horrible unnatural creature. Look at that jumper! And you keep hankies up your sleeve!”

“That’s not a crime!” Derek sobbed.

He was dribbling now. I sighed. Vampires were much more fun to kill. And that was the whole problem. I enjoyed my job so much more than I enjoyed spending time with Derek. In fact, I loved killing full stop.

“It is a crime, Derek. You are a crime.”

I shoved the knife into Derek’s chest, deliberately just missing his heart a few times before hitting the target. Outside I could hear the statues scraping along the ground towards the windows, pushing each other out of the way to get a look.

“Now this is fun,” I said, shaking a blood-stained strand of hair out of my eyes, but Derek seemed to have stopped listening.

Typical.

___________________________________

Bio:
Lou Treleaven writes speculative fiction for adults and children, and can be found on the web at www.loutreleaven.wordpress.com.

Worship at the altar of R.S. Bohn - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 5th

I can hardly begin to tell you how I feel about Rebecca Bohn's writing. Dark is an understatement. The beauty that flows from her pen is exquisite and cruel in equal measure and she has a literary voice I could listen to all night.

November 2010 was obviously an important month on The Feardom when several of the Femmes Fatales originally appeared in the weekly Prediction, my Friday flash fiction challenge.

Rebecca first stunned our little community on Bonfire Night with a gorgeous, smutty little number. I'm pleased to say she kept coming back, teasing us with offerings of love and death.

The Devil Wants A Word is the first of two entries by the inimitable R.S. Bohn. Believe me, it's a piece of bliss.

The Devil Wants A Word by R.S. Bohn

You must excuse me. I am a stranger here. Your courtesies and traditions bewilder me, though I find them beautiful and intriguing, like the Japanese written language. I have not yet found my voice, but when I do, that language is one of many I will learn.

There is a cortege of vultures sitting on the roof of this hotel. The management sends a bellboy up each day with a towel, a pillowcase, or something equally ridiculous, which he flaps at them. They flap back, and he comes down with a new gash on his leg. Tomorrow, I predict, he will not go up at all. They will have to find another bellboy. I consider the average length of time it takes for your people to learn a lesson, but perhaps I am being unfair. No lesson is more difficult than death, after all.

In my own country, I am known for my eruditeness. I am known for a great many things, some of which you will come to understand soon enough. In the meantime, it is my hope that you will see this part of me, that you will admire me for intelligence, for knowledge, for characteristics you hold most noble here. It would please me if you did.

And so you do. You call me Scholar. I look forward to the time when I can say that word aloud, roll it around my mouth. I do not look forward to it as much as I do the moment I can say your name. There is every chance that it will sound prettier coming from your lips, but I think you will not mind.

The vultures have a voice, one more glorious than the bells the monks ring each morning and afternoon and night. When I have my own voice, I will add it to the vultures’, and together, we will smash those bells. The iron and clay will lie on the ground like so much rubble. Perhaps this will occur when a young monk is heaving the lines, and the shattered pieces of bell will pierce his fine young muscled chest. Perhaps the dust will choke the little dogs that are everywhere here, clog up the eyes and nose of the women bringing water from the well.

Have I made you cry? I would apologize – oh, fine, I do. But how divine you look! Your tears are a divinity, do you not know this? A god in every droplet. Ah, ah, the pictures. Well. I will not give you anymore pictures of broken bells. There.

Sometimes, your frailty disturbs me. Normally, it would please me. Amuse me, even. But the longer I spend in your presence, my sweet, the more I fall victim to these little storms of conscious. I know what I must do, to make the storms abate. And I want that peace. Don’t you? Don’t you, my little one? For I have heard your pleas, and I have listened. At the times you think I am not listening, I am. That is how I know what you most want, what you are afraid for me to see inside your soft, soft head. Your pictures, and how they touch me. I have shed the first tear of my existence here, in this room, while you sleep and I sort through your head.

You do not love me, little liar. You love the monks, and secretly—for you have told no one but me, and that, inadvertently—you want to be one. You cannot, for it has been explained to you that but for a little cleft in place of a stick, you could have had whatever you wished. Do you not see how this world binds you, and how I offer you freedom? When the bells are broken and the dogs all dead, I shall lift you on my shoulder, show your nakedness to those who denied you, and they shall fall in columns of fire while you expose your sacredness for worship. Of course, it will all be Gomorrah by then. You would not remember. It is as yesterday to me, that paradise. His destruction of it only culminating my delight, a climax of euphoria. I might have wept then, but no. Not until you.

The monks offer knowledge. Well, the monks are damned. You should know this now. The vultures will pick apart their damned bones, and we will toss them in a pot and I will show you real knowledge: how to read the futures, all of them, in the broken bones of broken monks. Is that not true knowledge? An education so fine has never been offered before, not by me. I have sons, thirteen, and not one of them can claim what I offer you now, child.

All you have to do is give me one thing in return. One small thing. Offer me your tongue, my darling, my goddess. It is the only thing you have to give, and in return, I promise a fortune. You will be my own daughter, and the knowledge you want will be yours. Exalted, my sweet. Held above all others. In exchange for something so insignificant to you, but it will give me a voice. A voice which will call down the mountain, the sky, and every bird and everything capable of crawling. A voice to join with the vultures.

What of the monks? What of them? Here is a robe, it is orange, it is yours. Keep it.

They deny you. I offer.

Accept. Accept, girl.

Ah, I feel it. You are hungry. You will be sated.

Open.

One small cut, that is all. Wider.

I knew this morning would come.

You taste like honey and I thank you.

And now. I promised.

“Bayarmaa.”

Take off your dress, daughter. We have work to do.

__________________________________

Bio:

RS Bohn lives in a suburb outside of Detroit with a motley troupe of creatures and one lucky man. She's currently writing a steampunk novel, and you can find more of her shorter work here: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com/

__________________________________