Flash Fiction Feature
At the 2005 World Horror Convention in New York City this past April, writers from around the world gathered to immerse themselves in terrible things. Twilight Tales sponsored the annual short-short story contest and we’re proud to present this year’s masters of macabre in miniature. Congratulations to Martin Mundt , Christopher M. Cevasco , Bev Vincent , and Martel Sardina.
A Bird in the Hand
[First Place]
By Martin Mundt
“Punish me, Mistress,” I said.
Lady Mistress Godiva’s black hair flowed in braids to her knees, shining from the silver wires that were bound into them, the steel tips glittering in the dungeon’s candlelight. She whipped her favorite slaves with her barbed-wire braids, raking up blood with the needle-points. I deserved a whipping like that.
“Your obedience will be unconditional, unquestioning, utterly complete,” she said, her braids shimmering down her back like violet wands as she paced.
I nodded. She paid no attention. What more agreement was needed beyond my eager presence?
“You’re new, of course,” she said, “so you’ll need a safety phrase. . . .”
“Please don’t sue me.” I blurted out the phrase I’d used so often before with women. She glared at my interruption. I hung my head. “I’m a lawyer,” I mumbled, radiating shame.
“I must finish with another slave,” she said after a terrible moment of silence. “When I return, you will be naked and kneeling.” She left without another word.
I stripped and knelt, then glanced around the room, having noticed nothing while my Mistress was present.
Coiled bullwhips swirled like sadistic graffiti on tables. Buckled harnesses hung on the walls, straps spread like black blood-splatter. Unidentifiable chrome devices, like medical equipment gone feral, menaced me with the promise of unbearable stretching and hoisting and piercing. And I saw the parrot, perched on a padded leather stand.
I stood, having never in my wildest fantasies, my most pornographic researches, my most humiliating cravings, ever imagined any possible use for a parrot.
“Kneel!” the bird screeched.
My knees flinched, reflexively obedient. Had the bird merely repeated a word spoken so often in its presence that it mimicked the sound and inflection of command without understanding? Or did Mistress’ mind-games extend even to hidden cameras and demonstrations of abject servility shown even to her personal bird?
“Kneel!” shrieked the bird.
I couldn’t take the chance. I knelt.
“You’ve been a bad, bad boy.”
Guilt-my familiar pre-ejaculate-squirted into my brain. I hung my head, having indeed been a bad, bad boy.
“Awk, you’re a pathetic worm, awk,” squawked the parrot, though I heard only my Mistress’ voice. “Give me your cock, awk.”
In seconds, the bird squirmed in my hands like a clawed vagina.
“Give me your cock!” it squealed, feverish, frenzied.
“I’m trying,” I pleaded.
I was harder than I had ever been before, and I gave the bird my cock in the only opening I could. The sharp, bony clamp of claws on my testicles was a new, if welcome, agony. I thrust my hips, swabbing my penis with the warm, bloody, horrible, lovely bird. Thrust and squawk drowned out the world for minutes or hours, until, suddenly, the bird detonated, feathers exploding everywhere like green shrapnel. I collapsed in a pool of blood, semen and parrot-nuggets, totally spent, barely alive, and certainly no longer fully human. I lay in a post-coital fugue, autistic static filling my mind, until, at long last, Mistress’ stilettos straddled my face, now glued to the drying puddle of my bestial humiliation.
“Please don’t sue me,” I croaked, thinking I meant it, but Mistress knew better. She lashed her fee out of me in blood with her braids, and I gladly paid extra for the bird.
Ars Longa
[Second Place (tie)]
By Christopher M. Cevasco
We chose Hadrian’s Wall country to escape the congestion of London. John brought his paints and easel, eager to translate thought into image among rolling verdure, hopeful that the provocative lines and weather-smoothed angles of the Roman ruins would inspire him. It had been far too long since his last big gallery exhibit, and I feared he contemplated putting away his brushes altogether.
He went off each day to the ruins of the fort at Housesteads, merged right into an extant stretch of the wall Emperor Hadrian had built, to stare off into the “pagan, storied north,” as he called it, to let his imagination draw upon the thoughts of the Roman soldiers who had stood watch there on the ultimate, mist-shrouded edge of their world.
As the weeks passed, John’s satchel bulged with new canvasses, but he made me promise not to peek at its contents while he was gone during the day. He never wanted anyone to see a particular work or a series until it was complete and wholly as he envisioned it, and so I thought nothing of it.
Nor was I overly worried when he grew thinner-a wan gauntness marking his normally fleshy cheeks and the hollows of his eyes. But I did start to fret when I noticed John’s skin taking on a decidedly pale cast not at all consistent with the time he was spending outdoors. During the night, he tossed about fitfully, and if I put an arm across his chest to comfort him, his skin felt clammy with a patina of sweat wholly unwarranted by the cool Northumbrian weather.
Outside our bedroom window, a hoary, white goat frequently munched the long tufts of grass beneath a solitary tree whose ancient, bare limbs cast dancing moon-shadows across our ceiling. One particular night, in the small hours, the beast emitted a single, sharp cry that started John from his sleep, and he sat bolt upright in bed, gasping like a drowning man. Thereafter, he insisted that we sleep with the window closed and the thick, velvet curtains drawn, and I was deprived of my graceful tree-shadows.
Near the end of our planned stay, I could concentrate on nothing but John’s increasingly sickly aspect, his growing mental agitation and distracted forgetfulness, even a visible trembling he tried to hide from me. The satchel containing John’s work beckoned. He would be angry when he returned in the evening, but I needed to know what troubled him and considered his paintings a sound place to start looking for answers.
The first canvas was quite beautiful-a view over Roman stonework into blue-green hills blending with purple mists in the distance. The second depicted toppled pillars lying in the grass, sheep grazing lazily nearby, and the next few featured the sheep themselves-stout, short-haired beasts with wedge-shaped heads, eyes rolled back to stare balefully from the canvas.
But what madness followed-image after horrible image of those sheep in extreme close-up, weeks of work but few paintings showing anything more than the head of a single animal, mouth working the grass, white teeth flashing, jowls suggesting rapid movement so that one could almost see the contracting muscles in the strong jaw. Dozens of smaller canvasses were each filled with depictions of a single bulging eye, staring intently from surrounding wooliness. The detail was astounding-creamy whiteness glistening around each iris, pink tear duct clogged with flecks of yellow encrustation. One of those ocular portraits was on a much larger canvas-the largest in the satchel-and a solitary swollen vein traced its way across a milky cataract like scarlet lightning. I dropped the canvas, ran to the bathroom, and retched bile into the sink.
What was I to do; what could I say to John when he returned? I couldn’t wait that long, and it was a minor miracle I did not crash on the short drive to Housesteads, my car skidding on the loose gravel of the narrow roads that led north into the hills. When I reached the Roman fort, my heart fluttered in pace with the flashing lights of police vehicles parked incongruously alongside ancient stone remnants at the top of the rise. Sliding to a stop on the wet grass, I ran the rest of the way, weaving among the grazing sheep, and I knew before getting to the top that John would be lying in a gulley at the bottom of the sheer drop beyond the ragged wall.
A policeman tried to block me, but I pushed him aside, mumbling that it was my husband, and they let me through. I scrambled down the green cliff-face, tore away the police blanket, and gasped at the terrified rictus that marked John’s cold features. His jaw was clenched, his eyes bulging. I looked up, futilely seeking some answer, and saw that the sheep had gathered atop the cliff around John’s easel, masticating the lush grass contentedly, rolling sidelong glances in my direction. I scooped John’s limp body into my arms, rocked him, pried open the clenched fingers of his balled fists. And at that moment, the sheep began bleating urgently, their glottal cries drowning my own piercing screams as I saw that in John’s hands and beneath his nails-much of it still clinging to pulpy bits of raw flesh and hide-were matted clumps of curly wool!
Your Shoes
[Second Place (tie)]
By Bev Vincent
From the way it takes me so long to wake up, I know something’s wrong. I usually awaken instantly, but today, my mind is sluggish. I’m also on the wrong side of the bed. The first time we slept together, my wife and I each picked our sides and stuck with them. Today, I’m on the left, and it feels as weird as having your shoes on the wrong feet.
My body feels different, too, like the weight distribution has shifted. My chest is heavy, hair brushes against my neck in an unfamiliar way, and my groin. . . .
Through the unaccustomed daze, a terrible comprehension floods my mind. I throw back the sheet to reveal a body I’m used to looking at from a different perspective.
How can this be? My thoughts turn back to last night. We had steak, and wine-plenty of wine. Afterward, we talked on the couch and listened to old music. A familiar tune came on, Nik Kershaw wondering what it would be like to be in someone else’s shoes for a day. We both agreed with the singer that the other person had it easier.
Lisa said she wished there were a way to prove it. I shouldn’t have laughed. The gods frown on those who mock them.
This isn’t a dream, as much as I want it to be.
My awareness in her body. But that’s not exactly right. My memories, the sum of my existence, but not my emotions. As the sleep haze dissipates, countless thoughts and feelings compete for my attention. Everything I’ve ever experienced clamors inside my head simultaneously. Worries and concerns from ten years ago seem no less urgent than those from yesterday. I can’t quiet the mental turmoil.
Is it always like this for Lisa? I’m overwhelmed. I want to cry and scream at the same time, a sentiment I’ve heard her express but never took seriously. My mind is usually calm. Thinking takes concentration, whereas right now, forty-six different problems inundate me, demanding to be addressed at once. Although I’ve resolved most of these issues before, settling them to my satisfaction, it’s like they’re suddenly brand new. I’m compelled to reexamine them, to second-guess myself. Did I do this right? Or that?
It borders on insanity. I try to distract my mind by exploring this body to discover first-hand how it reacts to certain stimuli. My breasts are heavy and full, almost painful, and my nipples are so sensitive that I can’t touch them after the first caress sends intense chills throughout my body.
My belly is flat and smooth. Lisa’s exercise program is paying off. My hand drifts toward the region of her body that has always been something of a mystery to me. It’s like a lock that requires a different key to open it every time. This may be my only chance to figure out how
it responds.
Lisa’s rapist-she was sixteen-was never caught. Though she usually enjoys sex, the trauma comes back to her at the most inopportune times. During a movie. While being searched at the airport. If I touch her unexpectedly.
The moment my finger encounters the folds of skin between my legs, everything I know about her attack rushes into my head. My body freezes in panic. I want to get up and run away. Hide in a dark place and never come out again. Does she feel this every time I touch her, or only sometimes?
While my adrenaline overload abates, Lisa turns in her sleep. I look at her/me for the first time. It’s like seeing a photograph of myself, or hearing my voice on an answering machine. I see the way my hair is thinning where it parts, and the faint scars on my face from a bike accident that I’d convinced myself had grown invisible.
I look like a stranger.
What astonishes me are the emotions tainting my perception. I expect to feel love, or at least affection, but the dominant sensations are loathing and fear. Though I don’t have access to her thoughts, I understand that Lisa is afraid of me.
How will she react when she opens her eyes and comes instantly awake with the realization that she’s inside my body, experiencing her thoughts filtered through my emotions?
What will happen when she looks towards me and understands that she was right to be afraid?
Recalling the slight body I now inhabit, with its soft, weak muscles, I wonder if I’m the one who should be afraid now.
Top Five
[Honorable Mention]
By Martel Sardina
Mistress Reyna smelled Slave’s lust, fear of being alone, oppression of hidden needs. If his wife, Amy, knew his fantasies, respect for the man she knew as Gary would shatter and she wouldn’t stay to pick up the pieces. Aware of his musky, sweet scent, Mistress unfolded the small white piece of paper. He knelt down before her, knees sore from contact with the hard, oak floor. Last time, she allowed him the mat, but not today. Today, he received judgment. Pleasure or punishment? He tried to gauge her expression wanting some indication of what might come next. She gave nothing away; leather mask obscuring her facial expression. He glanced up hoping to make contact with her gray-green eyes, but she focused on the paper in her hands. Sweat formed on his brow; silent, he waited for her answer.
She reviewed the list, simply titled “Top Five”-Slave’s innermost desires. She tensed up; unsure she could perform his final request. New to this profession, insecure about performing any act that would expose her inexperience, Reyna craved the power she had and feared jeopardizing her role of kingpin.
Outside of Reyna’s dungeon, Slave became an ordinary man who had no business wanting the things scrawled down on that piece of paper. He settled for a life where pushing the envelope meant Amy agreed to be on top annually, on their anniversary. The same night he’d get a blowjob, too; that is, if she weren’t too tired.
“Faithful servant, I will grant your requests.”
Mistress Reyna crossed the room, opened the wardrobe, and removed the shackles. She left the door open, allowing Slave a glimpse of the tool number five required. The mere sight of it aroused him.
“Naughty boy. Fix your eyes on this spot.”
She pointed the toe of her stilettoed leather boot at a seam in the floor. She stopped at the small table, exchanged the shackles for a glass of ice water and took a drink. She held the glass before Slave and pointed to a sign above the gunmetal blue door.
“Read it.”
“Your rules don’t apply here.”
“Know what that means?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Obviously not. If you did, I wouldn’t have to do this. Pleasure is reserved for the obedient.”
Mistress Reyna tipped the glass, spilling its contents on Slave’s throbbing member, causing it to wilt.
“Mistress. Forgive me.”
“All right, don’t make me regret it.”
Mistress picked up the shackles and walked behind Slave.
“Arms behind your back, now.”
He obeyed at once. She placed the shackles on his wrists and ankles, binding them tight enough to leave indentations, bruising his flesh. She stood behind him, put her arms over his shoulders and placed her hands on his chest. She dug her nails in, pulling up and stopping when she reached his shoulders, he felt his blood trickling. Dizzy and flushed, he focused all his attention on Amy. He did not worry about her discovering evidence of his visit here, as their routine sex life dictated no encounters before his wounds healed. Her image quelled his desire, kept him from angering Mistress again. Mistress pushed her body close. Her breath warm on his neck and breasts resting against his shoulder blades separated from him by the leather catsuit. She ran her fingers through his collar-length, jet-black hair. She gripped a fistful of hair, tugging gently, then locked on, snapping his head backward so she could look him in the eyes. He cried out in anguish feeling the hair being torn away.
“Do you deserve number four?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Very well.”
She leaned in tight, kissing his neck, working her way up to his earlobe. She took his earlobe between her teeth, bit down hard and simultaneously clawed his shoulders. Pain turned into the intense pleasure he ached for. His breath quickened, chest heaving, trying with all of his might not to lose control and the prize he needed, dreamt of, longed for.
Mistress Reyna went back to retrieve the tool. She needed a reason to deny him, a way out. Extending it, teasing him, she looked down, saw his erection, and retreated in disgust.
“Slave, you failed me. Prepare for punishment.”
“Don’t put it away. I need it.”
“This isn’t about what you need.”
Mistress Reyna sighed in relief as she placed the untainted tool back on the shelf.
Slave wept, cursed himself for disappointing Mistress again.
Gary emerged from Reyna’s dungeon wondering which burden was harder to bear: leaving unfulfilled, or his fear of being alone.
