Issue 8 May 2014 Flash Fiction Online May 2014

Nemi sat on her hut’s woven straw floor, peeling purple skins from shea nuts then dropping them into a bowl. Her bony, gnarled fingers, drenched in purple like withered lavender flowers, struggled with the pearl-sized fruits. Each naked shea clanked into the bowl, a sound like a raindrop on a roof’s straw. Glass mourning beads, stained violet from sheas, burdened Nemi’s neck and dress.

Through the lone window Nemi could see thatch huts and leashed ostriches and baobabs sprawl onwards beneath a lapis sky.

She needed to finish the shea butter before the mob came.

As a child, she would stroll with Grandma Ashanti to the shea tree grove outside the village, ignoring the villagers’ whispers and glares, to pick the fruits. They’d return home and Grandma would show her how to peel and cook the nuts and mix the paste. At night, they’d drink honey tea so sweet it made Nemi happy to be alive.

A shea fumbled from Nemi’s fingers. On instinct her arms tensed and brow furrowed and mind focused. The falling shea then hung in the air, held by the invisible, ubiquitous force of “ma’at.” Ordering the push-pull magic always felt like shifting the air with her mind.

The shea came to her fingers like a chick flying towards its mother.

Nemi had considered leaving many times since Grandma Ashanti died. Maybe there was somewhere where the few who could order ma’at wouldn’t be spat on. Where they didn’t think an orderer would blow you up out of maliciousness like soldier orderers did in the old wars generations ago. Where villagers wouldn’t come sneaking under night’s cover to buy your shea, believing it magical and not understanding that ma’at could not be used to imbue anything, only to push or pull. But she didn’t know where. And imagining Grandma’s gapped-tooth grin underneath this same roof still gave Nemi the warmth of a night’s fire. She couldn’t leave that behind.

“Aunt Nemi!”

Little Jye burst through the wooden door, pushing it open with so much ma’at the door split in half. His sidelock plait bounced as he stumbled towards her.

Nemi understood his tears. After all, Fatima’s funeral was today. The stained mourning beads entangled with her hands. She pushed them away and continued peeling.

“Son Jye. Welcome. I would offer you the usual shea tea and kola nuts, but I suppose you are not here for a secret ma’at lesson.”

“After Fatima’s funeral, people were riled. They’re scared of you ordering ma’at but…Fatima died. She used to plait my hair. Everyone misses her. My father told the village, ‘We should finally kill the dirty ma’at witch.'”

She didn’t look up. Nemi would never forget yesterday’s accident. Little Fatima, with her long braids and brown eyes, screaming as her stomach exploded. It was seared into Nemi’s mind as if branded there. The vision had terrorized her dreams.

Ma’at pushed and pulled however it was ordered to, no matter who or what was around. No matter who was ordering it.

Jye’s gift was so strong, still so uncontrolled.

Nemi put her head down and peeled. She at least wanted to leave poor Fatima’s parents the gift of shea butter. Another shea into the bowl.

Jye hugged her, grasping her as tightly as a falling boy would grasp the nearest ledge. “You let them blame you for Fatima. You have to go,” he whispered into her linen dress.

“Where?”

“Anywhere!”

“I have nowhere else.” She hugged Jye back.

He sniffled.

Her hug tightened. “Do not feel guilty. You were born with power. You needed lessons. You still do, or yesterday will happen again.”

“But our lessons got Fatima killed!” he cried.

Jye’s tears dampened her dress. Nemi had told Jye to be careful during practice, because at rare times people wandered into the distant savanna behind the village. Nemi’s secret student could push more ma’at harder than her, but he lacked patience and awareness of surroundings.

Nemi peeled. Another shea clattered into the bowl. “My grandmother raised me here. It, and sheas, are all I have of her. I will not leave. I will not leave you.”

He gripped her mourning beads with his small fists. “But they’ll kill you!”

“Then they will no longer have the best shea butter since my grandmother’s.” She winked.

He pulled on her dress to raise her to her feet. “I beg you!”

He wiped his nose. His gaze went to the window. When his eyes bulged she knew what would come next. “They’re coming!”

The mob’s distant rumblings reminded her of an approaching stampede.

She continued peeling. She would get done the little she could to comfort Fatima’s family. Her grandmother would have like that.

“Leave me, Son Jye.”

Jye sniffled again. He planted his feet and faced the door. “No. I won’t let them hurt you. I’ll tell them I did it.”

Nemi’s breath caught. She stood, letting the sheas spill onto the floor. The bloodthirsty chants and cheers grew louder, like thunder just over the hill.

Terror stabbed at Nemi’s gut. If Jye gave into his guilt and confessed, the mob would kill him.

Grandma Ashanti had lived for Nemi, peeling with Nemi in this hut until her body gave out.

Nemi would live for Jye.

She ordered ma’at to part a hole in the hut’s rear. She hobbled toward it, overturning the shea bowls with her bare feet. She smiled at Jye, extending a hand.

“My…my family,” he cried.

“I accept you as you. Would they?”

Jye hung his head. “But…Fatima…”

“Dying won’t bring her back.”

“Where will we go?”

“I don’t care. I can have nowhere else. But I won’t have no one. And neither will you.”

The chants grew louder. She could hear the words now: “Kill the ma’at witch!”

Jye reached for her hand. She escaped with him to anywhere and nowhere.

I’ve never given a crap about cars. Just never been one of those guys, you know? Pops spent half his life away from his wives and tearing through engines, elbow deep in grease and antifreeze. He went through wives the way most people go through wrenches and it always left a bad taste in my mouth. I never wanted to end up like him.

Me, I only ever had the one wife. Marla was her name and she was a ray of sunshine if there ever was one. Light on her feet and sharp with her tongue, I’ve never met a single other person like her. We were together forty-seven years before she passed and those were the best days of my life. We had two kids together, Jess and Roxy. They were blessed with her ears and her passion.

I’ve still managed to hold on to our house, even though I’m up to my prostate in debt. Jess got married and moved to Minnesota with the grandkids, but Roxy only lives a town away. It’s been three years since Marla passed but every morning I put on my slippers and shuffle out to the coffeemaker, filling the house with that old aroma like it might bring her floating back through the door.

I’ve done my damndest to keep everything the way she left it until now. Her sock drawer’s always a quarter of the way open, the soft pink fabric peeking out just over the edge. The picture of our old dog Emma is still hanging crooked, where she always bumped it with her hip. The headband she used to hold back her hair while she washed her face still smells like the rosemary oil she used to keep her skin so soft.

It’s autumn now, gold and red leaves just starting to drift from the trees. Every time I go outside to rake the leaves I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach, a knot that just twists up tighter and tighter. She loved this time of year. The color of the leaves, the smell before the rain, and the cold sheet of clouds overhead…

She was the one who loved cars. She liked them sporty and fast, bright red bullets she used to slice her way down the highway. I’d wash the dishes, watching her from the window while she scrubbed and waxed those machines to a glossy finish. She’d wear her tiniest shorts when we were younger, bending and flexing just right because she knew I’d be watching. That’s how we ended up with Roxy, though the devil never admitted it.

I hate cars. They’re loud, they’re dangerous, and they remind me of my Pops. But I’ve babied her last car since she left, hoping she can look down and see me shining it the way that she used to. I’ve worked out dents in the metal from the accident and had the paint on the trunk refinished, red as her lips on our first walk by the lake.

I never thought I’d be out here in the leaves, elbow deep in hoses with a flashlight in my mouth and sweat streaking down my cheeks. Who would’ve thought that this would be how I spent my summer, chasing down old parts and ripping the engine out of this lump of metal. Just a few more days and she’ll be ready to roll. Marla didn’t like cars because they were pretty; she liked them because they were fast and free. She loved the road shooting out in front of her and the wind playing with her hair. She would’ve wanted it to be out there, not asleep in the driveway for the past three years.

I’ve been walking around our house, making sure I haven’t missed anything. I’ve fit my new life into three bags. That’s all I need. I’ll throw her headband in the passenger seat with her picture, throw the bags in the trunk, and spread out that old blanket she loved so much over the backseat. I wonder what she’s thinking if she can see me now, what she’d want to say? My Pops too, if he didn’t wind up where the angels don’t fly. I’m gonna just put the key in the ignition, feel her purr for a bit, and tear out of this town as fast as those wheels will spin. They can have the house. They can have the furniture and the pictures and the money.

I’ve got her car and some clothes and all the road in the world ahead of me…

I miss you.

I miss the feel of your scales, the coarseness of your fur, the tease of your claws, the scrape of your fangs against my skin.

At night, I dream we’re still together: in your castle, in your coffin, in your dark lake waters. Just us, without the world to judge. I dream you were not taken from me.

In the dreams, there is no fire to consume you, no silver bullets or machine guns on bi-planes, no stakes and no curses.

I miss you.

I want you back.

#

It’s cold here in my so-called happy ending. I hate this dull, monotone ever after I’m trapped in. Here I’m just another pretty face, flawless make-up, cast only to smile, or cry, or scream. Never to feel—especially not for you.

The future for me is to settle down, forsake my dreams and forget you. Fade into obscurity, because the monster is the only one who is remembered.

(I will not be content in oblivion.)

When we were together, I was your world and you were mine. You always remembered my name. You knew the inside seams of my heart, the desires unspoken. You treated me as equal.

No one knows me here.

But they remember you, and so do I.

They cry “Stockholm Syndrome!” when I say your name. They twist my story every time, turn it into a lie, because you’re a monster. Their stories can only end one way.

You didn’t take me against my will. I came looking for you, remember? We found each other in the dark, in the moonlight, under the sun, beneath the stars.

We were so happy.

I rage and grieve in silence as the credits roll.

I miss you.

Oh, God, I want you back.

#

They say you were invisible, but I could always see you.

They say you were a dichotomy of good and evil, man and monster, two different faces—but I know it’s you, only you. (They never said the same about me, of course, but I love you because we’re so alike.)

I know you when you wear a mask, when your music echoes beneath the opera house foundations.

They called you mad—but it’s only science. Think of the wonders we created in the laboratory, our bodies silhouetted by Bunsen burners and lightning, our scalpels agleam in the shadows. We discovered the secrets of life, and of death, and how to pass between them. We should have won acclaim for our research. We earned only torches and the cries of a mob.

I miss you.

I want you back.

#

My life is a fractal mirror, showing every possibility but the one I want. The glass always tells the wrong story.

But no longer.

Now the story is mine, and I will give us the ending we deserve.

#

So I’m building you again, my love. From memory and scraps of film discarded in sunless vaults. From coarse stitching that held your flesh together and old bandages that never aged.

I’ve sewn your scalp with lightning and daisy petals thrown in a lake. I’ve carved bones from wolf-headed walking canes and the memory of your touch. Your claws: here they are, made from jungle rock and sulfur.

I’ve riveted your skin with radiation and the devil’s name. I’ve given you eyes only I can see. Your blood I made in the laboratory through chemistry and minor chords. Teeth? Oh, I would never neglect something that important. Here they are, shaped from celluloid and magnetic tape, waveforms written on ivory shards.

Don’t worry, I didn’t forget the final piece: I could never forget your heart.

I found it wrapped safe in old newspapers with glaring headlines, with ticket stubs and cigarette paper. It was locked away in a jar, sealed in a box, buried under the crossroads.

I hid it there so it would be safe until I could break away from the cameras and the binding scripts and the spotlights that never showed me as real.

I’ll put your heart back in your chest, and you will live, you will live, you will live.

When I’m done, they will say I have created a monster.

#

Outside? Yes, I hear the angry voices. The firelight gleams on the laboratory windows. Lightning shears the sky. It’s like the day we first met, don’t you agree?

Your heart begins to beat.

Live, my love.

Your eyes open.

The mob has reached our castle gates. Of course they brought a battering ram. Don’t worry. I came prepared.

Do you see those wings I made for us? Metal frames stretched with supple leather, a harness that can hold us both. An engine will propel us far away, far into the sky, into the night, where no one can ever follow. The cloaking device is one I designed when you were invisible. We will be unseen by radar or satellites.

You smile and I take your hands in mine.

When you say my name, my heart beats wildly again–I live, I live.

The mob has breached the gates; we must go now.

I help you stand. The windows slam wide open. The night gusts in and whips my lab coat like a cloak behind me. You breathe deep the rain-scented air. Your first breath. The first of many.

Footsteps on the stairs, voices echoing along spiraling stone walls. “Monster!” they scream.

Yes, my love, they speak of us both.

Make sure your harness is fastened tight. Hold my hands while I grip the yoke.

The door to the laboratory shatters.

Jump now–I won’t let us fall.

The engine roars and then we’re flying, arching up into the lightning-streaked night, cutting through rain. We’re making history, you and I, and we will always be remembered.

You laugh in exhilaration, and I howl with you. We will never be separated again.

I missed you so.

And now I have you back.

Vari woke up and did the first thing she always did, the thing she hated most: she looked down.

A second later, she felt to make sure. Thank God. No extra bits today.

It was a good day to be a girl. Smooth legs, soft skin, long brown hair. Excellent. If she got lucky, she would stay a girl all day long, and the kids at her new high school wouldn’t notice anything strange about her.

It’s not a school for the blind. They’ll notice. But maybe….

She hopped out of bed and glanced at her toenails. They were polished in a glittering shade she’d never seen before. Grackle’s wing black. Maybe they would just think she was goth.

Why am I even worried? Vari admired her toenails as she walked to school, her flip-flops slapping the sidewalk. The polish changed from black to red to electric blue with each step. The first day of high school is supposed to be hell.

Still, what fresh hell would public school be for someone like her? Her polish inched up her ankle, looking for higher ground. “Settle,” she hissed. The polish crept back down, a sullen gray.

I can do this. I’ve planned for anything. Her clothes were plain and oversized in case she gained weight in class. Once, she’d plumped up forty pounds in the middle of the grocery store. The buttons on her pants had pinged across the aisle, hitting a lady in the eye. “An allergic reaction,” Vari’s mom had explained. She was good at making excuses for Vari’s strangeness.

Her mom had wanted to homeschool again this year. “Let me try real school, just once,” Vari had begged. “If it’s bad, I’ll quit.” She turned a corner and saw the school. It had all the charm of a meat-packing plant, all the welcome of a high-security prison. Homeschool was looking better every minute. A bell rang. Too late now.

She pulled her sunglasses over her eyes, her scarf over her hair. It made her look like a terrorists’s girlfriend, but it was better than anyone seeing her hair grow in class — or worse, shrink.

Today was a good day, though. Only her skin changed in the first hour, growing slightly darker. Her leg hair, hidden under baggy jeans, disappeared, grew wooly, and vanished again during third period science. Time for lunch.

The cafeteria throbbed with the agony of first-day seating decisions. Freshmen like her bobbed about, loose as corks on the ocean current. No one made eye contact with her. Vari felt her hair begin to shrink, and wished she could shrink, too, grow smaller and smaller until she could creep mouse-like away.

Her toenails vanished under excess denim. She was shrinking.

Had anyone seen? Her breath came faster. What would they do? They would tell their parents, and her life would turn into a B-grade movie like The Fly, with a Jeff Goldblum look-alike starring as the mad scientist who vivisected her.

She felt cold, curious eyes on her. Vivisection couldn’t hurt any worse than the stares that slit her, gutted her, right there on the patchwork tile.

“You new?” A voice at her elbow. A pimpled face, a gangly boy, a t-shirt that read Some days it isn’t even worth chewing through the restraints. One of the social outcasts, the kind who would welcome a new girl without hesitation. He had nothing to lose, right?

Vari laughed at the shirt, but didn’t answer. Her throat tickled, and she had a feeling she would sound like she’d been sucking helium if she said a word. The boy answered his own question. “Yep, new. Don’t know where to sit?”

She shook her head. The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Pretty. You could be ones of the Populars, if you weren’t dressed like that. You got pom-poms in your backpack?” He looked suspicious. Vari didn’t know what to say. Yes? No? What was the right answer? She got so nervous, she forgot to keep her eyes down.

The boy looked… and froze.

What were her eyes doing, she wondered, as the boy’s face grew slack, disbelieving. Were they whirling in rainbows? Flashing strobe-like? Morphing into long oval orbs? From the way the boy stared, it was a distinct possibility.

Vari reached up, pulled her sunglasses back down. “I’m not a cheerleader,” she whispered. The boy didn’t answer, just walked a few steps away, toward a table populated by kids like him: wearing back braces, sporting a few hundred extra pounds, shorter, uglier, stranger than normal. He was leaving her behind.

Not even the social rejects wanted her. Her stomach churned. Why would they? No one understood her condition. Even if she told the truth about why she changed, they wouldn’t believe it. A nineteen-year old hippie mom stumbling around on the outskirts of the Burning Man festival, peyote on her tongue, a baby in utero? That baby born during a lunar eclipse, in the shadows of petroglyph-stained sandstone, her first cry heard by the kangaroo rats in the sands and the old gods of a sacred place turned hospital ward?

Had she been cursed? Blessed? Born… or made? Named in a drug-induced vision quest on a holy night, the baby became what her mother had mumbled: Variation.

“Hey,” the boy called out, startling her. “You coming, Roswell?”

She smiled. She’d worried for nothing. There was a group of freaks in every school, a group that welcomed new outcasts, no matter how weird she was. Or he was, Vari thought, feeling a bulge grow under her jeans.

Some things never changed.