One Too Many

This one requires a little explanation. Last night, I was reading the winners of a 55 word fiction contest conducted by the New Times each year. So I thought I'd give it a try. The story has to have setting, character, conflict and resolution. I think it does, but you will have to be the judge. Anyway, here is my 5 am creation.

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One Too Many

She came onstage in a red bikini. She looked like his wife, his girlfriend, that girl from the movies, that girl from the internet.

He rattled the ice in his glass. Another scotch appeared.

She swayed seductively, lowering one triangle, then another. Perfect. The third revealed a birthmark. He sobered. He knew her.

His daughter.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

The Last Dance

"The Last Dance" - a reading (on YouTube)

Symmetry and delicacy define beauty in all things, even the silk of her hand-knotted fishnets. What a perfect mother she would make.

But he was getting ahead of himself, a deadly sin with a creature such as this. She hadn’t even consented to a dance.

He approached her cautiously, hesitantly. Her allure pulled him beyond mere physical attraction. Long, strong legs, raven black hair with just the right splash of red, the sensual curve of her body, her calm aloof even when surrounded by a circle of admiring males. And her scent, a delicate blend of perfume perfectly matched to her body chemistry. Like nectar to a butterfly, it inspired a hunger in him too powerful to ignore. That scent alone had drawn him out of hiding, enticing him from the solitude and isolation that defined his life despite the proximity of his murderously jealous rivals. Her perfume was an elixir.

It was her reputation that worried him, even repelled him - until now a counterbalance to his desire. But he couldn’t get her scent out of his head, along with the warm glow it inspired within. She was a killer brunette who chewed through men as if walking through a spider’s web, pausing only to brush away the remnants that tickled her lovely face like errant hairs blown out of place. One by one, he had seen his rivals fall before her only to end tangled in her web, drained and discarded, without so much as an invitation to dance. As much as he wanted to believe he was better, deep doubts gnawed him inside like a demon brood struggling to emerge.

When he dwelled on the fear, it paralyzed him. Nearly. Until her siren song of scent coaxed him back heedless of the consequences of failure, intoxicating him with desire, armoring his confidence to invincibility. One dance with her would be worth whatever price, whatever sacrifice she demanded. With her beauty, her strength, her sleekness, theirs would be powerful children. If only she would give him the chance.

His desire flared to naked lust, a primal ache, a procreative need so strong he almost rushed headlong into her embrace.

Terror and sanity resumed their tenuous grasp upon him, freezing him before he advanced a step, turning his eyes away before she interpreted a challenge. Any such move would end in suicidal rejection. He needed subtlety and caution. A sprint now would brand him an unrestrained adolescent and set her temper aflare. There would be no dance once her fangs came out. A dance required courting, a strict ceremony with slight variations to arouse her curiosity and appeal to her individual tastes. With a beauty such as hers, he would get only one opportunity.

His desire cooled to measured rationality. While he could no longer fight the pull of her attraction, he knew he had to follow the established ritual, risking rejection in its harshest form and forum, before witnesses.

To calm his nerves, he checked the wrapping on his gift, ensuring the silk ribbon was tied just right. That alone marked him as a hopeful partner among his rivals. When she first made her appearance several days before, he knew she must be his. Her song of scent captivated him even as her dark eyes looked right through him, noticing neither he nor the other assembled males as she tapped out a rhythm of desire that defined the circle of the dance floor.

After her debut, he had spent days hunting up just the right sacrifice for his goddess. He quickly discarded the idea of baubles and trinkets. What use would she have for such trifles? Food seemed the likely answer, a meal, though not one she would share. One meant for her alone to show he was a provider, quick and cunning. A morsel to whet her appetite, to demonstrate he was strong yet sensitive enough to appreciate her refined tastes. Something small and succulent so as not to drive her into a torpor of sated disinterest. Something sweet to sooth her fiery temper without banking her internal flame. An aphrodisiac.

He had spent day after day testing and rejecting each prospect. One was too plain, another too bitter, a third too sweet. He stalked through all his usual haunts finding nothing suitable. Driven to desperation, he tried the unusual and, finally, unorthodox locales. With each day’s failure, he grew more certain that his moment would soon pass.

He was nearly despondent when he had stumbled upon his gift. With a jolt he had seen it waiting then seized it like an opportunity. Like her, it was a perfect shape, a perfect size, a perfect taste, or so he hoped. Elegant, not gaudy, needing only to be wrapped in a silken bow.

He hoped it was to her liking. He knew that she could be finicky from watching his rivals’ rejections one by one. Some approached too early, before she was in the proper mood to dance, tricked by her swaying to the music like the over-exuberant adolescents they were. She had no interest in them anyway. The newly mature tapped out the wrong counter-rhythm, one laced with too much aggression and not enough submission, to be driven off with a venomous glance or dismissive flick of her wrist. The more experienced made it close enough to offer gifts. Some were rejected on smell alone, others on presentation, one on taste. That one found him holding his breath knowing her acceptance would end any chance for him. But all who approached had felt the sting of her anger, the poison of rejection, and staggered away from an anticipated embrace having failed to dance a single step. After each she returned to swaying to the music, oblivious to their failure and her remaining suitors.

Not that he didn’t owe them, the ones who failed. Watching their downfalls had taught him, helped him refine his approach. He learned the subtleties of her tastes and expectations. The young were the most fortunate; they might get to try again. The old nearly as much so, as they took a final stab at glory regardless of the consequences. It was the ones in their prime who were drawn deepest into her web of seduction, not wanting to risk passing into the balding desperation of their elders, heedless of the second chance they might be offered by failing gracefully. Ones like him. The lucky ones she merely turned away. The less fortunate she drained of their desire.

Alone in the center of her circle, she tapped out a new tune. The beat resonated in his chest and seemed to call him forward. Now or never. He gave his hair a final pass, ruffling its spikes to just the right angle. He approached her cautiously at first, not too quickly, not too slowly. Neither aggression nor exuberance would be rewarded. At the edge of her demesne, he matched her beat measure for measure, perfect timing. Her posture shifted as she changed the tempo, adding a hint more sway, permission to approach.

An opening.

Though he could feel his remaining rivals watching, his eyes remained fixed on her. Her own eyes casually, coyly remained turned away as though she hadn’t noticed him, a sultry gesture that fortified his resolve. The pulsing beat of the music only the two of them seemed to hear dispelled all hesitation, anxiety and fear. Instinct took over as, cool and confident, he strode toward her with the slightest swagger of his own to advertise his intent. His heart raced then nearly melted as her radiant heat increased with each step that brought him closer.

A pace away fear once again gripped him, enough to note the annoyed expectation that had crept into her latest pose. She was still open to his advance, but there was protocol to follow with a goddess especially for a mortal such as him.

He paused, uncertain whether he had ruined his only chance before remembering his gift. He extended it toward her, laying it in front of her, an offering. Outwardly calm, he waited, the demons inside restless and writhing.

At first she only sniffed the air as if testing it. Approving, she turned her gaze upon his gift as though curious how this parcel had arrived at her feet. She admired the painstaking precision he’d taken in wrapping it. A second test passed, she lifted it daintily and began to tear away its delicate covering, revealing the morsel within. She considered a moment, cocking her head, then sniffing a final time. The allure of her nostrils’ flare with each breath made him tremble. Her sultry detachment drove him to a near frenzy. But he remained frozen, knowing his quest for this one dance balanced on the next few seconds.

Gingerly at first, she nibbled at his offering, pouting seductively as she chewed the tiny sample. As she swallowed, her radiant heat intensified. Her eyes rose to meet his.

An invitation.

“Shall we dance?” he asked hoping his voice was steadier than his legs.

Licking a finger, then her lips, she nodded.

Acceptance.

He fell into her embrace and began swaying to the music, ignoring his rivals’ jealous stares. The young would try again; the old could not. His peers consoled themselves with the thought that they could be him had they only moved a little faster - the same thought he’d consoled himself with as he’d watched others dance the times before.

Their bodies swayed in harmony, their legs entwined in the careful steps of this ritual, rhythmic dance. His consciousness of the others fell away as her perfume enveloped him completely. So close, so soft, he thought as he caressed her hair. The swell of her abdomen pressed against him. Her teeth played along his neck as they danced in time, the tempo steadily increasing. It was finally happening. She was finally his.

As his passion peaked into fiery bliss, he barely felt her fangs sink as deep within his neck as he found himself in her. Each drained their fire into the other, his spreading life, hers a poison.

Consummation.

© 2006 Edward P. Morgan III

Yoko Meshi

"Yoko Meshi" - a reading (on YouTube)

Yoko glanced at the magazine lying on the table. Though she couldn’t make out the title, the woman was pretty. She was tempted to pick it up and breeze through it with her legs crossed one over the other at the knee, her hair cascading over one shoulder as she flipped it casually, disinterestedly, past stories on how to attract and keep a boyfriend with better sex. Instead, she straightened in the chair, eyes forward, knees together, hands resting on the bag on her legs, her hair firmly pulled into the ponytail her mother told her all respectable women wore.

“The doctor can see you now, Ms. Meshi,” the assistant said from the open doorway. “Right this way.” Yoko smoothed her beige skirt as she stood. She followed the perky young woman in the short, black skirt and pink top that reminded her more of a bright, extended version of the lycra bras she found so comfortable and plentiful here than anything she would wear out in public.

“Right in here,” the woman gestured to the exam room. “The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

Yoko sat in the chair in the corner by the modular desk, tugging her skirt over her knees then straightening her blouse to make sure all the buttons were fastened and nothing provocative was peaking through her blouse, camisole or bra. Once she was certain she was arranged, she sat with her eyes down, waiting for the door to open, attempting to ignore the reclining examination chair she knew she would be expected to climb into, having no idea how she could without revealing more than was proper. In her mother’s voice, she chastised herself for not choosing a woman doctor. She had hoped this act of rebelliousness would help her fit in, would make this alien world more understandable. Why had she left Honshu? But he was supposed to be the best. All the women at the office said so, some who had come over just months before Yoko had. None had her trouble reading the language now, though they all admitted they had started worse than she had.

After a moment, the door opened and the doctor strode in, chart in his left hand, his right extended. “Good morning, Ms. Meshi. I’m Dr. Rose.” He reached his hand toward her. She not so much shook it as touched it briefly. “What seems to be the problem today?” he asked as he sat at the desk.

“I am having a problem with my vision,” she said shyly. “I can see everything clearly, but when I try to read, the words do not want to come into focus.”

“Hmm.” He scribbled a note in her file, then gestured toward the chair, “Why don’t you sit up here and we’ll see if we can find out what’s going on.”

Careful to keep her legs together, she wriggled into the examination chair, smoothing her skirt after she was positioned properly. The doctor dimmed the lights. Reclining in the chair in the dim light, she felt vulnerable. The air felt warm. The doctor handed her an instrument to cover one eye and asked her to read a set of Roman letters reflected in a mirror in front of her. Instinctively, her brain scrambled to make sense of the decreasing size of the letters non-existent columns.  Finally, she settled on trying to read the rightmost letter of each row, top to bottom though they didn’t align. “E, S, U, V, F, I think,” she said uncertainly.

“Ok, can you try that again, but instead of reading down, try reading across from left to right. Start on the last row.”

Now her mind fought hard to align the chart in a way that made sense. Letters seemed to slide out of her field of view. “N, uh, F, maybe.” As she continued to struggle, she began to feel dizzy. Finally, she closed her eyes. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Ok, let’s try something different,” the doctor said in a reassuring tone. He turned out the light creating the letters. “I know I have it here somewhere,” he murmured, “Ah, here it is.”

He clanked around the machinery a moment then turned on the light again. This time when the letters appeared, they were arranged differently, a single, large “E” on the right with each column to its left shrinking in size while adding letters. “Try the leftmost column.”

“S, V, N, F, E,” she said without hesitation.

“Mm-hmm.” The doctor scribbled something in her file. “Ok, let’s try the other one again, only this time I’m going to have you look through these lenses.” He maneuvered a set of adjustable arms supporting thick, black goggles with small lenses until they rested on her nose. He made an adjustment to center the lenses on her eyes, then flipped some switches on either side. As he flipped a final switch, the lenses over her left eye went dark. “Try and read that.”

Something about the lenses changed the way she saw the lettering. With the help of whatever he had done, the odd arrangement made sense to her. She read off the bottom row quickly.

“Now the other eye.” He flipped a switch that covered her right eye and uncovered her left. She read the letters as easily with that eye as the first.

“What is wrong with my eyes?” Yoko asked, as he rolled his chair back and jotted more notes in her file.

 Dr. Rose smiled at her. “You’re eyes are perfect, 20/20. What you have is something called a ‘Cultural Astigmatism.’”

Yoko frowned.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious. In most people, it’s something that fades on its own, usually after a couple months. In some cases, it can be stubborn and last a few years.”

Yoko frowned more deeply.

“Fortunately, there is something we can do to speed the process along.” He handed her a set of dark pink tinted glasses. As she put them on, he slid his chair around in front of her and gently adjusted the way they sat across her nose and ears. His touch was light, nearly a caress. It made her shiver against her will. As he pulled his hands back, she no longer felt uncomfortable.

“Can you read the bottom line?”

After an instant of her eyes adjusting, Yoko found she could.

“What we can do is have you wear these. The lenses are plain glass, so they won’t hurt your eyes or alter your vision.  I’ve found the tinting helps in cases like yours. The tinting is temporary; it will fade completely after about six weeks. By the time it disappears, you should have no trouble reading at all.”

Yoko looked at the doctor to see whether he was trying to play a joke on her. What she found was that with the new glasses, he reminded her of her father in a completely alien, yet recognizable way. She felt much more comfortable with him now.

As he brought up the lights in the office, she slid from the chair and offered her hand. “Thank you, doctor.”

He took her hand and smiled. “That’s why I’m here. I’ll want to see you again in six weeks. You can make an appointment with my assistant on your way out.” He released her hand from his. Her hand felt warm from his touch.

As she left, she reached back and released her hair from the confines of its ponytail. As it started to fall, she shook it free until it cascaded down her back. Perhaps she could learn to view this foreign place as her own after all.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III