Authors: Edward Lee
Shifters (5 page)
Locke sat down to write. It was his only escape, or at least he thought it was. Before, he’d written of social themes, relevancies re-formed in art for the reflection of the reader. Now, though, he could only write of her. He’d written nothing good in months.
Writer’s block? No, there was no such thing. Writer’s block was an excuse for writers who didn’t want to write. Locke
always
wanted to write.
Mode,
he thought.
always
wanted to write.
Mode,
he thought.
Selfishness. I’m being selfish.
Poetry was emotion—a personal one. But real poetry must always be relatable. Locke must change the mode of his vision. He must turn his indulgence
into
art, or at least try. God knew, nothing else was working.
Poetry was emotion—a personal one. But real poetry must always be relatable. Locke must change the mode of his vision. He must turn his indulgence
into
art, or at least try. God knew, nothing else was working.
He must transcribe how he felt in a way that was relative for the work.
But how?
Be honest.
Even now, he would do anything to have her back. But she didn’t want him back. He knew that—she scarcely spoke to him anymore. Where once he’d seen the brightest love in her eyes, he now saw only discomfort or dressed-up annoyance. Locke was a blight to her—that was how
she
felt.
she
felt.
But how do I feel?
he asked himself again.
he asked himself again.
I still love her. I love her more than anything in the world, and I’d do anything to get her back. I’d do anything. I’d even wait forever.
Really? Forever?
Yes!
he thought.
he thought.
He began to type.
FOREVER by Richard Locke
I ascend in light, then I fall
In the ashes of this last curtain call.
There’s nothing else but love, you see,
And this beckoning siren that carries me
Into heaven or the saddest realm of nether.
And even though you’ve cut the tether
My love for you goes on forever.
Yes. That was it. That was how he felt.
He stared at the piece of paper. He saw black ink on white pulp transcended into an image of his truth.
Then he tapped out another, a gust of spontaneity:
What sad phantoms stalk the warrens of your spirit?
What pale shapes rise on angel’s wings?
Have you traded the chasm for resplendence?
Or have you stopped believing in all of those things?
The window darkened. His eyes flicked down at the picture of her: beautiful, resplendent, in love.
My love for you goes on forever.
A single tear crawled down his cheek.
Forever,
he thought.
(ii)
Forever,
the malefactor thought.
the malefactor thought.
“I am forever,” he whispered.
“What?” the girl inquired. “Did you say something?”
He smiled and faintly shook his head. She giggled, quite childlike. She’d unbuttoned her bright vermilion blouse several notches. He could smell the sweet youth of her flesh. He could smell her heart.
I am oblivion,
he thought.
he thought.
He wore black, all silk; he shimmered in his own darkness. The heater kicked on and fluttered the dark-green drapes. He peeked out, frowning.
San Francisco,
he thought.
An abyss. A canyon. Seamy
light, crime, lust. What wonderful blood for a city.
I’ll miss this city, but it’s time to move on, she’ll be northward, and we’ll find each other, and she will be mine again… forever…
The lights looked like stardust in ebon streaks, through which tiny dots travailed—tiny dots that were human beings.
How insignificant,
the malefactor considered. He hadn’t been here in ages.
San Francisco,
he thought.
An abyss. A canyon. Seamy
light, crime, lust. What wonderful blood for a city.
I’ll miss this city, but it’s time to move on, she’ll be northward, and we’ll find each other, and she will be mine again… forever…
The lights looked like stardust in ebon streaks, through which tiny dots travailed—tiny dots that were human beings.
How insignificant,
the malefactor considered. He hadn’t been here in ages.
He’d only loved one woman in his ancient life. The girl, here, in the vermilion blouse and short black-leather skirt, was something less. No, he didn’t love her, but he rejoiced in her. She was warm. She was alive. She was food. How old could she be? Twenty? Twenty-five? Her vitality whispered to him. The malefactor sensed a deep and wonderful dichotomy: the absolute contrast of her youth and the sheer age of what she was.
Strompet,
he thought.
Whore.
The consideration impressed him. Her profession was perhaps the only human thing on the earth that was close to his own age.
Strompet,
he thought.
Whore.
The consideration impressed him. Her profession was perhaps the only human thing on the earth that was close to his own age.
He’d paid her a thousand dollars cash, five times what she’d asked.
She looked wholesome somehow, cherubic—another contradiction of self and effect. She wore no stockings, her young legs looked smooth and sleek in the lamplight. Nor did she wear any panties, he noted, when she wriggled out of the tight leather miniskirt. The malefactor watched from across the room. Fake, pretty blonde hair, long and straight. Chocolate-brown eyes. A trimmed and nearly black pubic patch. Each of these images assembled into a complete contemplation. The
freshness
of her being. The
surge
of her youth. Her blouse slid off her shoulders to reveal smallish, pert breasts and pointed nipples.
freshness
of her being. The
surge
of her youth. Her blouse slid off her shoulders to reveal smallish, pert breasts and pointed nipples.
“What’s your name, by the way?” she asked.
My name is oblivion,
he thought.
My name is forever.
What would her reaction be if he actually said that?
I don’t really even have a name. What worth are names?
He smiled at her again.
he thought.
My name is forever.
What would her reaction be if he actually said that?
I don’t really even have a name. What worth are names?
He smiled at her again.
“I know.” She laughed. “It’s John Smith, right? I get lots of John Smiths.”
“My name is Lethe,” the malefactor said.
“Well then why don’t you come over here and join the party, Mr. Lethe? You’ve got me for the whole night.”
No, I’ve got you forever.
“Just…” he began. His eyes grew wide on her, the vision blooming. It was an erotic vision, a fleshy and sensual one: the young girl sitting naked at the edge of the big hotel bed, coyly smiling. All she had on were black high heels.
“Just…” he began. His eyes grew wide on her, the vision blooming. It was an erotic vision, a fleshy and sensual one: the young girl sitting naked at the edge of the big hotel bed, coyly smiling. All she had on were black high heels.
“I know,” she postulated. She leaned back, splaying her pose. “Lotta guys like to watch a little first. They like to look.”
“Yes,” the malefactor said.
She lay back on the bed and parted her legs. She closed her eyes and sighed, and began to caress herself. The malefactor felt enraptured; this was beautiful, watching the beautiful young girl delight in the pleasures of her own body. Her hands roved her breasts, distending the nipples. In moments she was touching her sex, fervidly plying it with her fingers. She writhed on the sheets. Her heels kicked out of the black shoes. And in just moments more, she’d climaxed.
Yes,
the malefactor thought.
the malefactor thought.
She seemed exhausted, astonished. After lying back to catch her breath for a minute, she leaned up. “God,” she whispered. “I don’t know what happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“I…” She faltered, squinting at herself. “I never come that fast. Usually I don’t come at all, when…” Her finish dissolved.
“When you’re with a…client,” the malefactor finished for her. “You don’t generally find pleasure in the province of your profession.”
She looked at him. Sweat dried on her chest. “Something like that,” she said, at once seeming sad.
“But why shouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t you find pleasure in yourself? Why shouldn’t you
rejoice
in yourself?”
rejoice
in yourself?”
Now her smile was a crux. Of course, she didn’t understand him. She would, though, in a little while.
She didn’t scream at all—they never did. She wrapped her legs around him as he thrust. With each thrust he could feel the frantic contractions of her sex, her repeated climaxes. “I love you,” she breathed each time she came.
The protracted incisors sunk into the beautiful white flesh of her throat.
Sleight of mouth,
he thought. She continued to climax as his teeth dug out the sternomastoid and scalenus muscle groups, exposing the jugular and the common carotid. They pulsed side by side amid the shorn muscle. The malefactor bit into them both.
Sleight of mouth,
he thought. She continued to climax as his teeth dug out the sternomastoid and scalenus muscle groups, exposing the jugular and the common carotid. They pulsed side by side amid the shorn muscle. The malefactor bit into them both.
She writhed beneath him, still convulsing her own silent, hot ecstasy.
Lovely,
he thought. It was lovely, to consume her so ardently. He swallowed all that she was in essence, not just simply her blood but her beauty and her vitality, her youth, her whole life.
Lovely,
he thought. It was lovely, to consume her so ardently. He swallowed all that she was in essence, not just simply her blood but her beauty and her vitality, her youth, her whole life.
The malefactor sucked her dry.
I am forever. I am oblivion.
He felt warm deep in his guts as he dressed. She didn’t look beautiful anymore, she looked vitiated, wizened. But that was all right. Her beauty was in him now.
She
was in him.
She
was in him.
Faith was power.
Belief
was power. He’d known that for eons. Everything was either an insouciant lie or an unassailable truth. In all his years, in all his centuries of gleaning, that was perhaps the only real thing he’d ever become convinced of. It often depressed him—the fait accompli that the true quintessence of meaning was meaninglessness.
Belief
was power. He’d known that for eons. Everything was either an insouciant lie or an unassailable truth. In all his years, in all his centuries of gleaning, that was perhaps the only real thing he’d ever become convinced of. It often depressed him—the fait accompli that the true quintessence of meaning was meaninglessness.
But I still have my love
, he accounted. He adjusted the knot in his tie, aware of himself in the mirror. More superstition. He saw a thousand different things. Were they facsimiles? Were they falsehoods? He saw himself red as blood, covered in the blood of ages.
, he accounted. He adjusted the knot in his tie, aware of himself in the mirror. More superstition. He saw a thousand different things. Were they facsimiles? Were they falsehoods? He saw himself red as blood, covered in the blood of ages.
He stuffed the girl’s poor shriveled mouth with clumps of garlic. There was no potential here, no reason to bring her along as he had others, she was, regrettably, just food. He opened her eyes with his fingers.
Love like blood,
he thought. From the small bag he’d brought along, he removed a common red-bladed hacksaw.
Love like blood,
he thought. From the small bag he’d brought along, he removed a common red-bladed hacksaw.
Then he sawed off the girl’s head.
Words drifted across his sentience. They weren’t his words. Whose could they be?
Into heaven or the saddest realm of nether
…
my love for you goes on forever.
A poem, an edict. Someone’s love unloosed unto the night. The malefactor felt sad now, not for the girl whose head he’d just sawed off but for himself. It was a cruel trust.
I still have my love,
he repeated. Even that sounded like a lie.
Into heaven or the saddest realm of nether
…
my love for you goes on forever.
A poem, an edict. Someone’s love unloosed unto the night. The malefactor felt sad now, not for the girl whose head he’d just sawed off but for himself. It was a cruel trust.
I still have my love,
he repeated. Even that sounded like a lie.
The malefactor left. He did not leave through the door. He did not leave as a bat. He left instead as a desire, an…edict. He left as a longing, or as the passion behind the saddest tear.
I am forever. I am oblivion.
He fell adrift, into the sea of night. Drifting.
I…am…Sciftan…
FIVE
The Arrival of the Dead
(i)
Locke walked down Sunnyside Avenue. An odd ambiance struck him—it always did. It was night, obviously there was, at present, no sunny side…as with the neighboring Meridian Avenue, which certainly wasn’t the nexus of anything that Locke could determine. It seemed to show him something. Poets were weird.
Am I weird?
he pondered. He knew he saw things differently, but he felt that, as a poet, he was supposed to. Walking at night was more than that to him. It was walking through imagery, through a panorama of visual abstraction which solicited creative assessment.
he pondered. He knew he saw things differently, but he felt that, as a poet, he was supposed to. Walking at night was more than that to him. It was walking through imagery, through a panorama of visual abstraction which solicited creative assessment.
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