Stories by Amy Sisson Cheri Crystal Robert Hyers Val Gryphin

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Stories by
Khimairal Ink
Amy Sisson
Robert Hyers
Cheri Crystal
Val Gryphin
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Khimairal Ink
Publisher
Claudia Wilde
Managing Editor
Carrie Tierney
Assistant Editor
C.A. Casey
Cover Photograph
Claudia Wilde
Layout
T.J. Mindancer
Khimairal Ink Magazine
is published January,
May, and September.
© 2006 Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company
In This Issue
Autumn Musings
Waterfall
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HH
Claudia Wilde
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HH
6
HH
Carrie Tierney
Amy Sisson
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Seeing It Through HH
Cheri Crystal
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Divine Intervention HH
Robert Hyers
Spring and Fall
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HH
30
Contributors
Val Gryphin
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Khimairal Ink
elcome to the Autumn issue of Khimairal
Ink. Although this ezine was originally a
fanciful notion to fill an empty niche in the online
writing boom, it has expanded past the devoted
readers of the Xenaverse to various genres and
their audiences. What’s even more exciting is
realizing Khimairal Ink is becoming an avenue
for talented writers to get their hard work and
valued words developed into books. Four of our
favorite Khimairal Ink authors have now been
published with a Bedazzled Ink imprint. Check
out Sias Bryant, T.J. Mindancer, Tyree Campbell, and Barbara Davies at Bedazzled Ink
(http://www.bedazzledink.com).
With our readership and writing pool expanding, we’re pleased to showcase some first time
contributors to our issue. Developing a short
story takes a lot of thought and skill and we
appreciate these talented writers sharing their
visions with us. Perhaps one day we will be touting their new books.
“Waterfall” by Amy Sisson gives us a glimpse
of a bright and provocative future tempered with
human frailities. The age-old question of “why?”
lurks unsaid in “Seeing It Through” by Cheri
Crystal. “Divine Intervention” by Robert Hyers
offers us a budding awareness of a new world
while “Spring and Fall” by Val Gryphin shows us
the comfort of a warm, established one.
Enjoy!
See you next issue.
Claudia
Join us for the January 2008 issue featuring . . .
Mayan Summer by Brenda Cooper
Spell, Book and Candle by Catherine Lundoff
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Khimairal Ink
ur guidelines were met with some skepticism when we first started publishing
Khimairal Ink. Many writers and readers had
problems grasping the idea that lesbian fiction
could be more than a “first time” story or have a
plot that was more than an excuse for a romantic encounter. I think the stories in the pages of
Khimairal Ink have more than demonstrated the
spectrum of ideas for lesbian stories is limited
only by an author’s imagination.
I love the irony that some of our best and favorite stories are by males and by women who
aren’t lesbian. I am grateful that they feel our
little magazine is a worthy showcase for their
work.
Sometimes we find a unifying theme for the
stories in an issue. Other times we let the stories
stand on their own. The four stories in this issue
take us into the lives of an artist of the future, a
girl reconciling religion with being a lesbian, a
woman struggling with giving away the girl of her
dreams, and a woman exploring her life with her
partner through pencil strokes. Each takes us on
a different thoughtful journey.
I hope you enjoy this issue.
Carrie
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H
ope Chatterjie will be known as the greatest
artist of the twenty-third century, perhaps
even the entire Third Millennium. Her name will
forever be linked with Waterfall—not surprising
considering she spent six years of our lives, and
billions of other people’s credits, creating it.
And my name will forever be linked to Hope’s.
I was her model, her muse, and her wife. And,
of course, her widow.
I
met Hope in 2287, when I was an art student
in Paris. My advisor, Randall, had taught Hope
briefly several years before, and had managed
to get tickets to the inaugural performance at
the Chagall Institute of Arts on the moon. He
even paid my passage there in addition to his
own; he’d always been very generous to me.
Hope had designed the dome over the Institute’s main hall. I had never seen anything like
it, or her. I’m not sure which was more spectacular.
When the dedication began, the dome was
transparent, showing a sky brilliant with stars.
The performance had been carefully timed to
coincide with the lunar sunrise. There was even
a live orchestra, although later showings would
use recorded music.
We sat in plush grey chairs with soft headrests made even more comfortable by the low
gravity. The music began, and as it built slowly
in a crescendo, the chairs gradually reclined
until we were looking straight up into the dome.
At the music’s climax, light exploded over the
horizon, so very different from Earth’s diffused
sunrise. The dome protected our eyes, of
course, but it also absorbed the sunlight, mastered and re-emitted it in patterns that cascaded over the dome’s surface so quickly we could
not analyze but only absorb them. The images
pulsed and throbbed with the music, colors melting
together and exploding apart. During one movement I thought I saw flower-like patterns, each
petal consisting of a Mandelbrot set. When the
performance ended, the audience sat stunned
for a moment before erupting into applause that
continued for several minutes.
At the fête that followed, Randall and I sipped
champagne while I tried not to stare at Hope.
Her flawless coffee-brown skin and black
hair were set off by a traditional silk sari of an
orange and yellow design that mirrored a
thematic movement from the dome display. She
moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations with a professional smile. Once her eyes
met mine and I looked away in confusion.
When she finally reached us, Randall kissed
her cheek and turned to introduce me.
“Hope, this is Lisanne Tanizaki, one of my
most promising sculpture students,” he said. I
shook hands with Hope and murmured something polite and inadequate. She smiled and
continued to hold my hand as she leaned
towards me.
“I would like to paint you,” she said softly.
“You paint?” I said without thinking, and then
felt stupid. Most trained artists grumbled about
the few painting classes they were required to
take. I specialized in digital sculpture, creating
three-dimensional holo-displays indistinguishable from physical sculpture except by touch.
I had certainly never thought of painting as
particularly relevant to my work.
“I paint every day,” Hope said. “Well, almost.
I try to take paints and canvas with me when
I travel, but sometimes I can only manage a
sketchbook and charcoal pencils. Drawing and
painting are so fundamental to all forms of art.
Most of my multimedia work starts with ideas
I’ve gotten while painting.”
“I see.”
“You are very beautiful,” she said. “I would
like to paint you first in kimono, pouring tea
perhaps. Or as a warrior. Something about your
cheekbones . . .”
She couldn’t stay with us for long; she had
obligations to the Institute’s benefactors. But
before the end of the party, an Institute
employee approached me when I was alone
for a moment and discreetly handed me a keycard.
“Ms. Chatterjie asked that I give this to you,” he
said impersonally. I blushed and thanked him.
When she finally came back to her suite, I
was lying, naked and wet with anticipation, on
a pile of blue and green cushions I’d arranged
on the floor. She looked at me without speaking,
and I could see her trying to decide whether to
paint me or make love to me.
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We made love.
When we woke several hours later, Hope
ordered an elaborate breakfast from room
service. “Compliments of the Institute,” she said,
smiling at my reaction to the fresh fruit arranged
so beautifully on the heavy, plain white china.
I couldn’t imagine what it had cost. I moved to
pick up my dress before sitting down. “No, darling, you don’t want to put your gown back on
now.” She laughed. She went to a closet and
chose a red silk robe with intricate black trim.
I put it on. She reached out to adjust the neckline, opening it slightly to reveal a hint of my
breasts. “Beautiful skin, and with the black hair
. . .” she said, tilting her head to one side for a
moment. “Now, darling, come and eat. Tell me,
what did you think of the performance?”
“Oh, it was . . . wonderful,” I said, wishing I
could think of more appropriate words. “I . . .
the way the patterns melted and merged and
diffused . . . it was like being behind a waterfall, I think, like seeing everything through a thin
curtain of water.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I was thinking of using
water in my next piece. I wasn’t satisfied with
the dome; the edges were too sharp, too crisp. I
thought perhaps moving water between sheets
of glass . . .”
“I love the water,” I said. “I grew up outside of
Sydney, and I miss the ocean, living in Paris. I
took a cruise once with my parents, and when
we were in the middle of the ocean I imagined
the whole planet was covered with water. It was
wonderful.”
“Yes,” she said, absently stirring her tea. The
spoon made a delicate sound against the cup.
After breakfast, I called Randall and told him
that Hope had offered to give me some painting
lessons, and I would be delaying my return trip
to Earth for a few days.
H
ope was the most passionate person I had
ever known. We couldn’t see each other
every day during those first months, because
she was working in London and I was only able
to get there from Paris on the weekends. But
the visits were wonderful. I modeled for
her, the sessions turning into lovemaking more
often than not, and before long the simple act
of posing was enough to arouse me.
Exactly six months after the day we met, Hope
took me to a gallery opening —Nitja’s threedimensional weavings—and then to dinner.
That was unusual; she normally liked to mingle
at the after-parties for hours. When we finished
eating, she ordered champagne and presented
me with a small velvet box.
The ring was stunning: a large, off-center opal
of blue and green, with layer upon layer beneath
its translucent surface. A trail of tiny diamonds,
evoking a sparkling wave crest, spilled out from
one side.
“Darling, I want you to be my wife,” she said.
“Be with me all the time, not just for these visits.
Please say yes.”
“Yes,” I whispered. I looked back down at the
ring but it swam in my vision. Then I laughed at
myself for crying. “Hope, this is exquisite.”
“It’s a waterfall,” she said. “To commemorate
our lives together, and my new project.”
“Waterfall?”
She explained, and I was astounded.
L
iving with Hope was more difficult than
I had expected. She was possessive,
demanding. But she was a brilliant artist, and at
first it wasn’t too difficult to overlook her flaws.
Although based in London, Hope was rarely in
one place for more than a few days at a time,
and she insisted I accompany her everywhere.
I left art school, promising Randall I would finish
my thesis project within the year.
It took three. Even though Hope received
royalties from the Chagall performances, she
needed that money to court possible sponsors
for Waterfall. I began doing freelance work to
fill in the cracks, turning corp logos into clever
sculptures for display in headquarter foyers.
I also helped Hope design the preliminary
models for Waterfall.
It was exhilarating to work with her. I had
never experienced that level of excitement in
my own work. And she was incredibly astute.
She wouldn’t pitch her idea to anyone except
an Index 1000 CEO, and only if they signed
an airtight nondisclosure agreement. She gave
them timelines for feasibility studies, financial breakdowns with projected returns on
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broadcast and merchandising rights, and even
actuarial tables for insurance purposes. And of
course she showed them the holo-model we’d
created together.
Hope always made love to beauty before
painting it.
After that, I learned to avoid catching Hope in
bed.
T
I
he first time I caught Hope in bed with another woman—or girl, rather; she couldn’t
have been over twenty —was right after I
presented my thesis work in 2290. Randall
was at the showing, of course, beaming like a
proud parent. Hope was there too, and I could
tell that in spite of the attention she was getting,
she was uncomfortable being the artist’s
partner rather than the artist.
The reviews of my work the next morning were
generally positive, though I was annoyed that
they all mentioned my relationship with Hope.
Nonetheless, I felt heady with success.
That is, until I walked into our bedroom late
that afternoon and found Hope asleep, her long
limbs entwined with those of the girl. I watched
them for a moment, noting the beautiful picture
they made together. Then Hope woke up.
“Darling!” she cried. The girl blinked, still half
asleep. I ignored her. As Hope shooed the girl
out of bed and into her clothes, I simply stood
there, cold and dignified, and admired my
performance as if from outside myself.
“Do you want me to go?” I asked tightly once
we were alone. “I certainly don’t want to hold
you back.”
“Darling, no!” she said. “I love you! You’re my
muse, you know that. She didn’t mean anything;
she was modeling and I got carried away. I’m
so sorry, darling, it won’t happen again.” She
approached me where I stood against the
bureau, arms folded tightly against my chest.
Her hand reached out to stroke the line of
my cheek, the line she had painted so many
times.
My performance and I both dissolved into
tears. By then she was hugging me, although I
still hadn’t unfolded my arms.
“Darling, shhh, I’m sorry. Shhhh,” she whispered against my hair. She sounded so sincere
that I couldn’t help believing she could make
things right again.
The second time I caught her, it was a boy.
Beauty isn’t gender-specific, of course, and
n late 2292, the preliminary work for Waterfall was done and we left Earth. I hated to go.
I’d never had any desire to be a spacer, and
I knew that the work pace would only become
more frantic during this last year. By the time
we left, there were eighteen artists and techs
on the project. Most of the artists were young,
and they knew this project would make
t h e i r careers. It was obvious they worshipped
Hope.
The Anna Christine felt claustrophobic with
twenty of us on board. But once we arrived at
Denali-D, the view was breathtaking, and not
entirely unfamiliar. It was a blue planet like
Earth, with white patterned cloud systems that
seemed frozen in place for hours at a time. The
only thing missing was land, although there
were small polar ice caps. Whenever I had a
few minutes to myself, I watched the planet
out of one of the ship’s tiny windows, imagining patterns in the clouds and trying to think of
ways to portray clouds and waves in a moving
holo-sculpture.
Once we’d established our work routines, our
pilot went down to obtain samples of Denali-D’s
atmosphere and ocean water. The scientists
confirmed what the preliminary probes had
already told us; although the atmosphere was a
littler higher in oxygen than Earth’s, it was well
within safe limits. Harris, the marine biologist,
had cataloged several dozen species of small
marine life by that time. It was unclear if any of
them would be dangerous to humans, although
it shouldn’t have mattered because we weren’t
there to go swimming.
Hope apparently thought otherwise, though I
didn’t find out until after the fact. She made the
pilot fly her to the surface along the equator and
hover a few meters above the water, and then
she actually jumped in. Even worse, she made
the pilot fly away and leave her there alone for
fifteen minutes. When he brought her back up
to the Christine she was covered with an angry
rash. She’d been nude when she jumped in, of
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course. Without a life vest of any kind. I wanted
to kill her.
“Goddammit, Hope!” This was far worse
than her infidelities. “You could have drowned,
you could have been eaten by something, you
could have been poisoned. You have been
poisoned!”
“Oh Lisanne, it was beautiful!” Hope was
radiant despite the rash. She waved her hand,
carelessly dismissing my concerns as well as
the doctor’s attempts to examine her. “It was so
warm and salty, I floated without any effort at all.
Now I know this place, really know it. Don’t be
mad, darling, I had to do it.”
After that, Hope became even more obsessed. We worked longer and longer days,
pausing only when corporate reps showed up
to check on us and to look for ways to squeeze
more money out of the project. Hope always
put on her gracious-artist-hostess persona,
introducing the reps to the marine biologist, the meteorologist, the nanotechs, and the
artists.
After they left, she drove us relentlessly. One
of the nanotechs, Kathlyn, left the project after
one of Hope’s tantrums reduced her to tears.
“This is never going to work! I’m going to be
ruined because of you, you stupid bitch! I need
the cascades to happen within seconds, not
minutes! Milliseconds! And how many times
do I have to remind you to allow for the
currents?”
She screamed at me, too, when I had trouble
getting the models to match her internal vision
of Waterfall. Once, after she had snapped at
me one too many times, I huddled in a chair in
the common room. There was no real privacy
on the Christine, of course, but everyone was
working and it seemed unlikely anyone would
bother me there.
A hand on my shoulder made me jump.
Harris, the marine biologist, tall and thin with
kind brown eyes. Something about him had
always reminded me of Randall.
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “It’s almost over.”
I nodded miserably. He handed me a tissue,
sat down next to me, and rubbed my arm as I
composed myself.
“You’re very patient,” he said. “You must love
her very much.”
We sat for a while, then I got up and followed
him back to the main workroom.
S
hips began to arrive at least a week before
the event, when the meteorologists were
running the final tests to perfect the dissipation
of Denali-D’s cloud cover. That had been the
hardest part to get past the environmental
experts; even though we were only going to
suppress the clouds for a short time, it was
difficult to project exactly how long it would take
for the normal weather patterns to reestablish
themselves.
Waterfall took place on New Year’s Day of
2294. For hours beforehand, shuttlecraft
flitted back and forth between the orbiting ships
and the floating observation towers. Three
hundred meters high, held motionless against
the currents and wind by stabilizers, the towers
were scattered across the planet’s dayside, far
enough apart that none could be seen from any
other. The seats in each tower were arranged
so that the observers had a completely unobstructed view to the horizon they were facing,
a horizon made purely of water, with different
hues mixing where the currents came together
and drifted apart.
Others watched from ships in orbit or from
under a dome on Denali-D’s small moon, but
their view would be much different than ours,
particularly since we couldn’t do anything about
Denali-D’s polar caps. Hope had grudgingly
planned the designs around them.
It began. From hidden speakers in the towers
came the sound of waves overlaid by a fluted
melody so soft that it was barely discernible.
The wind was too strong at that altitude to allow
open-air platforms, but tiny air vents had been
built into the towers. When the vents opened,
the smell of salt water and the unfamiliar air,
sometimes like Earth’s, sometimes not, drifted
in as softly as the music. Hope and I sat together
facing west in the main control tower on the
equator.
At several points halfway to the horizon, the
ocean seemed to explode with colors that spread
rapidly outward as the quadrillions of nanobots
with which we’d seeded the ocean carried out
their programmed sequences. As far as we
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could see, the entire world changed before our
eyes, then changed and changed again. The
water made the colors shimmer with life.
I reached over to take Hope’s hand, but she
was busy fussing with a console at the back of
our compartment.
The cascades became more complex, more
defined. Suggestions of images raced from our
tower to the horizon and back so quickly that
they lulled the mind into adding its own patterns
to those on the water’s surface. We had created
this vast thing of beauty. I have trouble believing
it even now.
Just minutes later, Waterfall ended with
patterns comprised of every shade of blue and
green visible to the human eye. My throat tightened as I thought back to that first time on the
blue and green cushions in Hope’s suite on the
moon. That last sequence of Waterfall was for
me.
The final images dissipated gradually as the
nanos unobtrusively dismantled themselves
into the ocean’s component elements. Aside
from the multimedia recordings that would be
released within the next few months, Waterfall
was a one-time show.
A
fter the party, Hope and I lay spoonfashion, her body curled around mine, on
the largest, most comfortable bed I’d been in
for over a year. The sponsor had put us up in
an executive suite on their flagship liner for the
days immediately following the performance.
Again I thought back to the Chagall party on the
moon, and the first time Hope and I made
love.
Hope took my left hand and held it up in the
dim light, and ran her finger over my opal and
diamond ring.
“It’s over,” she said, her voice full of wonderment and sadness.
“Tomorrow we can start making plans,” I
said, even though I was sleepy. “Maybe you
can paint me. You haven’t done that in a long
time.”
“Mmm hmmm.” She put my hand back down
and pulled me tighter against her.
H
ope suggested I go back to Earth on one
of the corp liners and start looking for a
place to live while she stayed behind to oversee
the holo and vid edits and the tear-down of the
observation towers. I agreed, eager to find our
first real home together. Money was certainly
no object by this point. We’d kept Hope’s flat in
London, but I wanted to go back to Australia.
I wanted to capture in my work the dichotomy of Australia’s stark red centre and languid
coastlines.
Five weeks later, I was in the Sydney ’port,
having just arrived to look at a couple of
properties our real estate broker had found. I
wove through and around the disembarking
passengers, eager to escape the crowds and
the incessant ‘port announcements. But something on the edge of my consciousness made
me hesitate, made me slow my steps gradually until I finally stopped in front of one of the
massive newscreens.
Hope’s beautiful face, larger than life.
“ . . . small scout craft with two technicians
from the Waterfall project. Initial reports seem
to indicate that the ship somehow skimmed too
close to the Denali sun, causing the pilot to lose
control . . .”
Images—whether on the screen or in my mind,
I don’t know—cascaded over me. Hope accepting an award. Our wedding portrait, which all the
nets had carried within hours of the ceremony.
The final blues and greens of Waterfall, fading
so gradually that I hadn’t been able to isolate the
exact moment the performance really ended.
It was several minutes before I was recognized
as the widow whom the newscasters were even
then beginning to discuss with great sympathy.
I
had thought the announcement of Hope’s
death was the worst moment in my life, but
the worst came later, when mourning was far
from over but had at least become familiar. I
was celebrated as Hope’s widow, her muse, the
love of her life. I missed her terribly, but the
unflagging public attention almost made me feel
like she was still with me.
The feeling didn’t last. Seven months after
the accident, the corporate sponsor delivered
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Hope’s personal effects from the Anna Christine to me. It shouldn’t have taken that long, of
course, but there weren’t many ships traveling
between the Denali system and Earth now that
Waterfall was over. Among her clothes—the
beautiful sari she’d worn at the Chagall opening
—were her notepad and a small box.
I opened the box to find a ring, a glowing yellow
stone surrounded by tiny orange and red gems
spiraling outward from the center. I tried it on,
but it was too big for my ring finger.
I used Hope’s general password to activate the notepad, and a file name immediately
caught my eye: Sunrise. It had its own password, which wasn’t like Hope at all. I started
trying passwords, using the first name of every
artist I could think of who had worked on
Waterfall. The file opened on the fifth try.
Audrey. Which one was she? I closed my eyes
and saw a slight, pretty young woman with
auburn hair and green eyes.
Hope’s voice came out from the notepad, bursting with enthusiasm. “Sunrise! The
Waterfall technology could be adapted for a
sun’s outermost layer, or maybe the colors could
well up from within somehow. The technology
doesn’t even exist, but there must be a way. I’ll
find a way—” I closed the file. It was dated only
a few days after I’d left for Earth.
And that was the worst moment, the moment I
realized. If Hope hadn’t died, if she’d had a little
more time, the entire world would have seen me
discarded, a muse who lasted the length of a
project and no longer. Hope would have filed
for divorce, would probably even have married
Audrey. It was almost more than I could bear.
But how could I ever tell the world that I wasn’t
Hope’s eternal muse after all? Most likely
even Audrey didn’t even know yet. She probably thought she was just another of Hope’s
well-known flings, flings that supposedly never
threatened the great artist’s wife.
In the end I told no one, not even Randall,
who is my closest friend and for some time has
wanted to be more. I couldn’t decide whether he
would understand my silence. It’s true that I’ve
had some success with my art, but the requests
for my work have always been outnumbered by
invitations to accept awards on Hope’s posthumous behalf, to speak at exhibits given in her
honor.
To tell the truth now would be to give up that
part of my identity that is intertwined with hers,
and it’s the only thing I have left of her. I ask
myself whether I would have fought to keep
her or whether I would have let her go with my
dignity intact.
I wish I knew.
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hat’s taking you so long to pack a few
lousy items? From the bottom of the
stairs, I shout, “I’m going out for a smoke.” I
don’t wait for your reply. The sun turns my eyes
to slits and the still air makes it hard to breathe. I
light up on the stoop and blow smoke that hangs
in the humidity. I walk down the lawn to the curb
and wipe bird shit off my bike with a rag I keep
for just such emergencies. The second drag of
my cigarette tastes worse than the first one and
I shred the life out of the butt before heading
back to wait on the porch.
I can’t stand how badly I want you. Nothing
drives me crazier than having something or
someone just within reach but still out of touch.
My heart pounds from too much caffeine, not
enough sleep, and the way you sneak up on me
while I’m thinking about you.
“Goddammit, April, what the hell!”
“Why so jumpy?” You’re wearing a skimpy pale
pink dress made of something clingy. It shows
off every curve.
“You really should invest in a bra, you know.”
I’m pissed at you, and at me, and at how your
breasts point at me and poke fun at my plight.
“Shelby, you’re flushed.” Like a devoted mother,
you put your lips to my forehead and feel
for fever. You have no clue what you do to me
when you do that. If you’d stop parading around
in heels and dresses that are barely there, then
I wouldn’t be burning up alive.
“Perfect,” I say, but you know me too well, and
I see that frown you get when you worry.
“Olivia is waiting,” you say. “You coming?”
“Sure.” I run my sweaty palms through my
spiked hair, making an already sticky situation
into an unbearable mess.
“Shell, what is it?” Your hand on my arm melts
my flesh through two layers of clothing.
“Let’s just go.”
We walk to my bike. Do you have to run up
ahead so that I can get a great view of your
ass? You’re wearing a thong or nothing at
all. I hand you the spare helmet. You take my
helmet and place it on my head. Then you hop
on behind me.
My pants feel two sizes too tight, the sun casts
an unwelcome glare, and I get this sick feeling
in the pit of my stomach.
“Shelby, honey. You want me to drive?”
I take off with a cloud of pebbled dirt in my
wake, but the only things that registers are your
arms holding my waist and your thighs hugging
mine. You know I’ll keep you safe, and you trust
me. It’s a familiar dance, only this time you’re
promenading with someone else, and you’re not
returning home for the do-si-do. This time you’re
going to be Olivia’s lawful wife. This time I’m
giving you away for good.
Would you forgive me if I forgot the way to
the airport or conveniently lost our tickets? What
would you do if I kissed you? My heart is being
ripped out of my chest, and this time, you won’t
be there to put it back. I can’t imagine feeling
any worse if I were going to my own funeral. And
I damn well better not cry at this thing.
Y
ou were the prettiest girl in the graduating
class of ’01 and I was the homeliest. I’m not
kidding. I was ugly with a capital Ugh. The kind
of teenager kids couldn’t help teasing and adults
were always trying to fatten up, straighten up, or
when all else failed, give up. My sister tried to
tweeze my eyebrows one day, but after she’d
plucked maybe three hairs, she ended up with a
black eye. I swear it was an accident.
Mom bribed, threatened, and begged me to
stop chopping off my hair with her fabric shears
and to put on a little rouge. I was offered
everything from a nose job--broke the schnozzola twice tackling the boys in the schoolyard
just to prove they weren’t so tough--to a trip
to Disney. Seriously, Disney! I refused to have
my teeth straightened and thought the overbite
gave me character. My teeth were crooked, but
so what? They worked.
Mom said I had such pretty blue eyes, and
if only I’d use a bit of mascara since my
lashes were so light, I could really show them
off. Yeah, right, Mom. She said I’d be grounded if
I didn’t stay out from under cars, but her threats
were meaningless, and I knew it. While other
girls snuck cigarettes or gave head behind the
bleachers, I was sneaking an oil change or doing brake jobs at Fred’s body shop. Mom gave
up for good when I told her I was joining the
Marines.
Up until I left for Parris Island, you and I hung
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Khimairal Ink
out in my basement getting high and listening to
CDs, mostly heavy metal for me or pop rock and
shit like that for you. You were the only person
on the planet who didn’t try to change me. You
were my number one fantasy, and I never told
you. Heck, I don’t think I admitted it to myself.
I’ve relived your Sweet Sixteen party so many
times. We played truth or dare. You looked suddenly shy, and I felt like a heart attack waiting to
happen.
The boys punched their fists in the air, and
more than a few girls joined in. “Do it! Do it!”
The whistles and catcalls echoed in time with
my heart. I walked over to you, took your hands
in mine, and gazed directly into your sparkling
eyes. You glanced at my lips and licked yours in
what seemed like slow motion.
A boy had kissed me, once, but it was different
with you. Monumentally different. We leaned in,
the shouts grew louder, and I placed my lips on
yours. I expected a friendly peck, but you had a
better idea. You allowed me to taste you. That
lingering caramel nougat flavor is forever in my
brain.
Every cell in my body was on alert from that
kiss. You put your hands in my hair and pulled
me closer, I could feel your breasts, hipbones,
and torso. I got carried away, and so did you.
The cheering sounded distant and muffled. I felt
every lick and suck as if it was happening to my
crotch. I couldn’t help it. I had to have it. There
was no turning back. And then I let go. I came
hard in my pants, shuddered slightly, and died
right then and there, more mortified than I had
ever been.
You pulled away first, looked at me for a
second, and then turned to our audience. You
curtseyed. It was all a show to you. You gloated
like we’d just pulled off the greatest prank. I fled
without looking back. We never talked about it. It
feels like yesterday—not eight years ago—that
I kissed you. I still keep a ready supply of
nougats.
I
’ll never forget the first time I stepped out of
a limo in my full Marine Corps dress uniform.
They let me fly out of Okinawa for my sister’s
wedding and I’d convinced my family to invite
you. I’d missed you like I’d never thought
possible. Daily letters were never enough. Did
your heart do a leap at first look? Mine did.
You flung yourself into my arms and I squeezed
you tight, right there in the Synagogue. There
wasn’t time to talk, so we took our places for
the wedding march. As I smoothed out my
uniform, you gave me an appreciative glance.
You sat close to the front, which distracted me,
but I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
At the reception, when you caught the
bouquet, I wished so hard that it was an omen
for us that I gave myself a headache. It might
have been all the champagne. Lucky for us, my
sister married an ultra-Orthodox Jew in a traditional religious ceremony, which meant that
the men and women sat, ate, and celebrated
separately. This was not a hardship at all. We
partied hearty. Too hearty.
I introduced you to Olivia, my distant cousin
who was quite the handsome butch. That was it.
The next day I left for Japan, and you wrote me
letters filled with loneliness. I hated to see you
unhappy. I didn’t think you’d take me up on my
suggestion to hang out with Olivia, but at least
your letters sounded more like the cheerful and
bubbly April I knew and loved.
T
oday, on your wedding day, you wear a
vintage powder blue gown. I can see a
hint of cleavage through the lace yoke. You do
a quick spin and the effect is breathtaking. The
unlined gown is made of a fine double knit
material, which hugs your body. I help you with
the center back zipper, trying not to linger. You
turn towards me.
“Do I look okay?” As if you need to ask. “Mom
had her heart set on this dress, and she’s been
so good about the wedding and everything, I
couldn’t let her down.” I have to agree with you
there. You look at me tentatively and suck in one
side of your bottom lip.
“Perfect.” I mean it, too. “My parents would
send me a one-way ticket to Siberia if I were
doing this.”
“Don’t let anyone stop you from realizing your
dreams, Shelby. Promise me that.” You brush
my cheek with the backs of your fingers. I bite
the inside of my cheek and turn away.
“Wait.” You adjust my lapels so that they line
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Khimairal Ink
up with my shoulders and even fix my belt.
“There. You’re so handsome in your uniform.
And gallant. And the best friend a girl could ever
have.”
“Stop.”
You kiss my cheek. “Have you seen Olivia?
Mom is adamant about not letting me see her
before the ceremony. How’s she doing?”
“Fine. You’ll see her soon enough. I’ll let them
know you’re ready.” I swallow hard and leave.
Olivia is a stud. I can’t find fault with her no
matter how hard I try. I know she’s good for you
and that she’ll take care of you, but I hurt all over.
I wonder if I had been home and not off being a
Marine, if I could have been in her place.
When it is our turn, I take your father’s place.
I feel him watching from heaven as I walk you
down the aisle.
“You’re trembling,” you whisper.
“Sure it’s not you?”
“Maybe.” You let out a nervous laugh. “I love
you, Shell.”
“I love you, too.” I hold your elbow even firmer
now. My dress uniform and your pale blue gown
are a perfect match.
You and Olivia exchange a look that holds the
promise of love and all that good stuff. I’d have
to be blind to miss it. You exchange vows, rings,
and a kiss.
I, too, kiss the bride—on the cheek.
“Mazel Tov, April.” I shake your wife’s hand.
“Take care of her, Olivia.”
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Khimairal Ink
19
“B
Khimairal Ink
ut, dear, that’s just Satan’s game. Once
you’re convinced he doesn’t exist, he’s
won.” Becky’s Aunt Datherine responded to
Becky’s assertion that, perhaps, the devil was
an artificial construction. Aunt Datherine spoke
with the certainty of a scholar. She waved her
thin white fingers, displaying the remnants
of natural nail that were never manicured and
always bitten to the skin, and periodically
using one of her index fingers to scratch her
scalp through her short, schoolboy haircut.
“Enough of this talk,” she said, taking the two
Bibles from the nightstand and handing Becky
one. She bent forward and kneeled on the floor.
Becky did the same. Each put her Bible on the
bed and opened to the page Aunt Datherine
had bookmarked earlier. They recited Proverbs
3:12 together: “For whom the Lord loves He
corrects, even as a father corrects the son in
whom he delights.” They repeated this passage
two more times.
“Dear God,” Aunt Datherine said, “please let
Becky be delivered from the evils of homosexual
sin, and let her realize that you only have her
best interests at heart.” She took a dramatic
pause. “Let her realize that this perverted
behavior is only sanctioned by man, by a world
that has lost connection with Your Word, and
that such behavior is an abomination in Your
eyes. Please keep us all in Your protection and
love. Amen.”
Aunt Datherine rose, took the Bibles, and
returned them to the nightstand. The wrinkled
black leather of the Bibles stood in contrast to
the pressed, white-washed wood of the nightstand. Becky got into bed, pulling the comforter,
with designs of ivy and small pink flowers
running across it, over her. “Do you understand
that proverb, Becky?” Aunt Datherine asked
as she turned out the light and gave Becky a
kiss on the cheek. “It’s very important. God may
seem harsh now, but it is all for the best. You will
be thanking Him later when you are no longer
deceived.”
“Yes, Aunt Datherine. I understand.”
“Good. I love you, Becky. Good night.”
“I love you too, Aunt Datherine.”
Becky was tired but knew she wouldn’t fall
asleep anytime soon. Too much had happened
during the day, giving her more to worry about
at night. She heard Aunt Datherine’s muffled
footsteps fade down the small hallway of plush
carpet. Soon Becky heard more prayer through
the wall.
Another proverb; one Becky didn’t recognize.
This surprised her; she thought she knew them
all. She had learned them at a very young age
through different Christian workbooks her mother
had given her. Aunt Datherine was praying with
her nine-year old daughter. Becky appreciated
what Aunt Datherine was doing for her; Aunt
Datherine had problems of her own. She had
recently caught her daughter reading Harry
Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Aunt Datherine
didn’t actually catch Sara reading it. One day,
while Sara was at school, Aunt Datherine
spotted the orange G of J. K. ROWLING sticking out from beneath the bed. When Aunt
Datherine inspected it, she found the beginning
of the last chapter earmarked. Needless to say,
Sara never read the last chapter. Becky smiled
and laughed to herself, wondering how Sara
could’ve hid a 734 page hardcover book for so
long. But Becky knew it was possible. Becky
heard the prayer finish, a kiss being given on
the cheek, and the click of a lamp.
“W
here did you get this?” her mother
demanded, surprising an unsuspecting Becky as she walked through the front door
from school.
Becky stood there in silence.
“Becky, I asked you a question. Now where did
you get this?” Her little sausage-link fingers held
the sticker close to Becky’s face. Becky smelled
the cheap plastic and ink, the aged smell of mold
from residing in the bottom corner of her closet.
The sticker had a pink background with white
lettering that read GAY BY GOD. “I don’t know
where it came from,” Becky said in an almost
whispered tone. “Lukas must’ve dropped it or
something. I’ve never seen it.” Becky hoped this
lie would work; the last time she was allowed to
see Lukas he had been questioning his “sexual
orientation.”
“You mean to tell me Lukas accidentally
dropped this in the back of your closet?”
Apparently, the lie wasn’t working. Becky tried
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Khimairal Ink
to come up with an alternative plan as quickly
as she could, but lying like this was never her
strong suit. If she had to lie, she had to
create the lie well in advance, thinking of all
the possible arguments one could make against
the fabrication, then alter the lie accordingly.
She had no choice. It was time to tell the truth. “I
got it at Equality Forum last month.”
Becky’s mother nodded. “What is Equality
Forum?”
“It’s a festival they have every year.”
“Really? Where do they put on this festival?”
“Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia! Becky, how could you! You went
all the way to Philadelphia without me knowing!
What if something happened to you! What if the
police called me! Do you know how irresponsible that was!” After this outburst she paused.
She calmed herself, her large frame taking in
slow, deep breaths, her large and flattened
lumps of breast rising and falling. She asked
her daughter to sit on the couch.
“Now we’ve had this conversation before,
Becky. You need help, and whatever people you
met at that festival need help. They are twisting
God’s Word to suit their own needs. Satan is
leading them, not God, because they truly don’t
know God’s love. You know God loves you, right
Becky?”
Becky slowly nodded. The adrenaline still ran
through her blood, being absorbed into all of her
organs, all of her muscles, keeping her acutely
aware of everything, of every fiber that made up
the fabric of the couch, of the remnants of antimicrobial Febreze that hung in the air.
“Something has to be done, Becky. I don’t
know what. I was hoping for some divine intervention in this. I know that God will speak to one
of us about this soon.”
A
unt Datherine stopped her ten year old
station wagon in front of the small brick
church. Becky slowly got out of the car. “I’ll see
you this evening.” Becky nodded. She walked
around the side of the church to the basement
entrance. It was a cold morning. There was a
heavy fog that had resulted from intense rains
the night before. Becky didn’t want to go today.She didn’t want to see anyone. She didn’t
want to speak to anyone. The cold and moisture
soaked through her clothes and skin, soaked
into her skeleton and soul. She felt heavy today,
each simple movement being laborious, an
inexplicable ache in the centers of her muscles.
She slowly made her way down the flight of
cement steps, opened the door, and entered.
The old, yellowed linoleum floor was no protection against the bitter cold that ran up Becky’s
legs. She was surrounded by the four familiar
walls of dark wood paneling, with a few tiny
windows at the very top. Everyone, including
today’s speaker were waiting for her.
“Very nice to see you Becky. Come sit with us,”
Brenda said, smiling and presenting the only
empty chair in the same manner one of those
obnoxiously beautiful women on The Price Is
Right present brand new living room sets during
the Showcase Showdown. The speaker then
stood in front of the girls and began.
She had bleached blonde hair that curled upwards at her shoulders, lightly tanned skin, and
long, pink fingernails. She wore a conservative
business suit colored in various pastels. Her
name was now Christine. It had been simply
Chris before Christ saved her life, and she had
been an ex-lesbian for the past three years and
counting. She admitted to still having lesbian
tendencies, but these became weaker as her
faith in Jesus Christ grew. She then gave her
testimonial, or the moment she gave her life to
God.
“I was living,” she told them, “if you can call it
living, on the streets of Philadelphia. I lived with
my lover in filth, with only a few articles of clothing and an acoustic guitar. We would set up at
a street corner by Suburban Station and sing
for a short period—she was a very good with
the guitar and my voice is all right—until we had
enough money for another hit. Crystal meth was
our drug of choice; we would snort it, smoke it,
inject it, whatever worked. I loved it so much at
the time; it made me feel like I was on top of the
world instead of under the ground, hanging out
with other bums in some subway station. In fact,
‘on top of the world’ is insufficient; meth made
me feel omnipotent; it made me feel like I was
God. Of course that wasn’t true, and He would
show me this only a month or so after I had
fallen into this dangerous lifestyle.”
21
I
Khimairal Ink
t took a lot of coaxing to get Cindy to the
Equality Forum; she said it was too malecentered of an event, that lesbians were
overlooked at it. But, in the end, Becky got her
way, and the two drove from Becky’s house in
North Jersey to Philadelphia in Cindy’s little
1990 Toyota Corolla.
Becky was amazed with Cindy’s coordination
as she drove: Cindy smoked her cigarette, moved
the stick shift as the traffic slowed and sped up,
and drank her bottle of Pepsi. She wore a tight
baseball tee that clung to her chest and smooth
muscles, dark blue jeans with a man’s purple
necktie pulled through the belt loops and knotted, and her favorite piece of clothing, an old,
dark blue baseball cap. The timid bass
line of Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” shook the
geriatric speakers when Cindy turned it down
to inform Becky that they were almost in Philadelphia. “We’re going over the Ben Franklin.”
As they crossed over the Delaware River Cindy
told Becky of the time when the bridge had
no cement divider, only red and green lights to
guide opposing lanes of traffic out of head on
collisions. Becky didn’t find this interesting, but
she nodded and made periodic eye contact with
Cindy in the rear view mirror anyway. Becky
realized she had conducted this ritual of pretended interest with half a dozen or so of their
conversations by now. And she didn’t mind it at
all.
Before Becky realized it, they were in Olde
City, and found a parking garage. Cindy got out
of the car while Becky checked herself quickly
in the rearview mirror. She ran her thin fingers
through her hair. She hated how stringy it was,
and the fact that it was always oily no matter
how much she washed it. She hated her pasty
white skin, but she did like her blue eyes. She
felt awkward in her thin frame, but at least she
wasn’t heavy like her mother.
“You’re gorgeous—Can we go please?”
Becky smiled and got out of the car.
They walked down Market Street, Becky following Cindy’s lead. Becky never quite knew where
she was, especially in cities, and always found
herself following another. As they walked hand
in hand, Becky felt the old cobblestones under
her feet, became absorbed in the history. She
made Cindy stop so she could read the plaque
posted at Franklin’s Court, then forced Cindy to
wait a few minutes as she passed through the
small brick tunnel into the green courtyard lined
with benches. She saw the entrance to the
underground museum but didn’t approach it;
they had no time and it probably wasn’t open
now anyway. She turned and hurried back to
meet Cindy. They continued down Market and
took a left on 2nd Street. Christ Church was a
small building that could be easily missed, but
the commotion that now engulfed it could not.
B
ecky’s mother had chosen this particular
reparative therapy center for a few
reasons. First, and most important, God spoke
to her when she read the brochure. He told her
this was the right place to fix her daughter.
Second, it was close to Becky’s Aunt Datherine,
so Becky would always have a pair of born again
eyes on her. Finally, the center segregated their
groups by sex. She felt Becky needed this sort
of same-sex environment in order to face her
demons honestly. The center was called “Never
Walk In Darkness,” citing a piece of John 8:12.
Becky’s mother always liked that passage. During the first few days, Brenda, the moderator,
explained lesbianism:
“It is much more complicated than male
homosexuality—as are most things with t h e
female gender.” At this point she smiled,
eliciting a faint, nervous laughter from one or
two of the girls. Becky looked around the room
as Brenda continued. There were only three
other girls, all about her age.
“A man’s gender confusion can be traced back
to what we like to call a ‘smother mother’ and/or
absent father, while gender confusion in us girls
is created by a significant deprivation of mother
love—no smother mothers for us—and both a
deprivation of father love and what we like to
call a ‘default attachment and identification’ with
our fathers. See? I told you we are more complicated than men.” She smiled, but this time there
was no laughter.
Becky wondered how true this was. She always
saw men as being more complicated; that’s why
she liked women. Women were easier to read,
easier to understand, easier to be with.
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“I know this is a lot of information at once,”
Brenda concluded, “but it will become easier as
our journey together continues.”
A
n old black wrought iron gate divided the
side courtyard of the church and a small
park. On the park’s side of this fence were the
protestors, holding up signs that said “God
Hates Fags” and chanting “The Bible says
Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!” Cindy
turned back to Becky. “That Adam and Steve
one is my favorite, how ’bout you? Very creative.
Who would’ve thought God spoke to them in
rhyme?”
They passed through a small gate, moved
through the courtyard, and entered the church.
As Becky and Cindy passed the large church
organ with pipes that rose to the ceiling, Becky
noticed the long middle aisle of beautiful dark
tile with surrounding sections of white pews that
led up to the magnificent altar. A series of small
box windows were situated behind the altar and
a large chandelier hung from the concave ceiling. There were no seats left in the first floor of
pews, so the two were escorted to the second
floor.
This was not really a floor, but more of a
platform containing more pews that lined the
two opposing walls leading to the altar. From
Becky’s vantage point, she could see more
people pouring in through the side entrance.
There were fags in straight-legged two hundred
dollar designer jeans, tight button down shirts,
short, cropped hair with bleach tips that were
frozen into place with massive amounts of gel,
and a tan so perfect it was either from a booth
or the best bronzing lotion AmEx could buy. She
recognized one of them; it was Lukas. His bony
arm was wrapped around a fit, older man. She
wanted to stand and wave to him; it had been
so long since they had seen each other. But that
would bring her unwanted attention from the
strangers sitting around her. So she stayed in
her seat and kept people watching.
Dykes with brown mullets entered, dressed
in oversized flannels and Walmart jeans, who
would be off to the local lesbian bar after this for
the all you can eat buffet and two dollar drinks.
Becky turned her attention to the pews below
and saw what Cindy had told her were “bears,”
or slightly overweight, older looking men in
strange, black leather outfits. Their body hair
escaped these outfits in numerous bushes, and
a few had grown their mustaches over their top
lips. In a pew opposite Becky and Cindy sat a
queen wearing a green T-shirt that read “It’s Not
Easy Being Easy.” Becky thought of what might
happen if any of these people tried to enter the
church she grew up in. She shuddered and
quickly laid the thought to rest.
“I
was lying in an underground tunnel down
in Suburban Station—you see Center City
has this underground tunnel system that you
can use to get to key places in the city—anyway, this is where we were sleeping, or trying to
sleep.” As she spoke she suspended her tanned
right hand at the left of her painted lip with the
thumb and index finger extended. “The smell of
urine saturated our surroundings; I didn’t know
if the repugnant odor I could smell was me, my
girlfriend, or the homeless man lying across
the tunnel from us. I was now as we called it
‘tweaking,’ or needing more meth. But there
was none to be found. This is when God spoke
to me. He said, ‘Christine, look around you. Do
you see this depravity? Can you smell it, taste
it, feel the desperation you are in?’ I didn’t know
how to react. I simply sat, with my girlfriend’s
greasy, matted hair and unwashed face in my
lap, and listened. He said ‘Christine, this is all
because you are living in darkness. You are
living in darkness with this other woman, living in darkness every time you consume that
drug. I do not want my children to live in darkness. I want them to live in the Light with
Me. But in order to do that my child, in order to
see the Truth, you must shed these things that
you keep you in darkness.’”
Ambivalent feelings surged from Becky’s
abdomen, infecting the rest of her body. She
rejected what Christine was saying as nonsense, but deeply feared that this same fate
waited for her. Is this what happened to your
life when you went against God’s wishes?
“At that moment,” Christine continued, “I felt
a high unlike any meth high I had ever had
before.” She became more focused on her
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audience now, her voice becoming more acute,
her eyes more fixed and penetrating. Her hands
were now resting on the podium. “It was a thousand times greater, a thousand times stronger,
and from that moment on, I gave my life to Jesus
Christ.”
A
fter a few men in long robes spoke, Malcolm
Lazin, Equality Forum’s executive director,
introduced the next speaker as Reverend Beth
Stroud, stressing her title, to which the eclectic
crowd applauded. Becky didn’t understand this.
Cindy turned and explained in a short whisper
that Reverend Beth Stroud had recently been
defrocked for being a lesbian. Becky nodded. She
watched this woman, unassuming in stature, with
curly brown hair and small, wire-rimmed glasses,
stand at the altar and smile. She thanked everyone for their outpouring of love and support. She
told the audience about her life as a pastor in the
closet and arrived at a freeing conclusion. “I was
living as if the word of God was chained,” she
told them. “But the word of God is not chained.”
This statement resonated with Becky. As
Reverend Stroud continued, Becky remembered
pieces of her religious upbringing. Memories of
a small white church in the Jersey suburbs
where the congregation sat with their Bibles in
uncomfortable wooden pews as the stark white
preacher, bald except for a few black strands that
he combed from back to front, would scream and
shout until his entire head and face had turned a
deep red, and a silhouette of the small saliva bits
that shot from his mouth could be seen against
the bright lights that hung above the altar. He
would scream and shout about the evils of pornography and homosexuality. He would tell his
congregation that some of the other religions in
town, like the Episcopalians around the corner or
the Presbyterians down the street, were practicing “feel good Christianity” and would burn for it.
She remembered her little sister talking about
when she became “born again,” the moment
when Christ spoke to her and changed her life
forever. “Why aren’t you born again yet?” she
used to ask Becky.
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps there is something wrong with you.
Perhaps Jesus knows this, so he won’t talk to
you,” she would say with that smug look on her
little twelve-year-old face. She had been born
again when she was nine. Becky always wondered how that was possible, to know something
so life changing at such a young age. Could she
really know? Sometimes she even questioned
her mother’s conversion at thirty. How could
either ever really know Jesus was speaking to
her?
“Perhaps,” Becky would say, partially to end
the conversation, partially because she kind of
agreed.
She remembered every Good Friday, when
her mother would take her and her sister to the
church’s Passion Play, which always brought
people in from all over town. She never remembered much of the play, but remembered that
after it ended, the preacher would tell the
audience to close its eyes, and ask all who’d
given themselves over to Christ that night to
raise their hands. In the fifteen years plus she
had been going, she wondered if anyone ever
actually raised that hand. She always wanted to
open her eyes and peek, but never did.
Becky wondered if this preacher, if her mother,
if the congregation that jumped up and down and
shouted things like “Hallelujah!” as the preacher
shouted about sin, if all of these people were
keeping God’s word chained. And if so, was it
God’s word, or was it those people, that kept her
chained?
“A
fter much soul searching with God’s divine guidance, I figured out what caused
my gender deficit.” By now the speaker had finished her written speech and took a chair with
the other girls already in their routine circle.
Brenda had asked the speaker what her ‘gender
deficit’ was, a term the girls had learned a few
days before. A girl’s gender deficit happens
early, they learned, and creates confusion
regarding gender roles which then leads to
same-sex attraction. “God decided it was best
to take my mother early in my life; I was only
four when she died of cancer. My father had to
become both parents and, being the oldest, I
became very close with him. I never witnessed
how a man and a woman should act, how God
intended them to act, because my father had to
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take on both roles. So when I thought I was a
lesbian, I was really looking for my mother.”
“I
urge you to begin with knowing how much
you have in common with one another as
people God loves, as people Christ has redeemed, as sincere believers seeking to be disciples.” Becky couldn’t believe these large and
epiphanic words came from this petite stature
at the altar. “Present yourselves to God,” Reverend Stroud continued, “and one another as
workers who have no need to be ashamed, and
together you will discern and proclaim the word
of truth.” Could Reverend Stroud be correct?
God didn’t want Becky to be ashamed? Was
this the real God?
Everyone applauded Reverend Stroud and
Malcolm concluded the afternoon. Cindy and
Becky waited in a line as everyone slowly exited
through the same side door they entered from.
In the courtyard, Becky saw the same protestors behind the wrought iron gate again. But
there was something different now. A counter-protest had started. Men and women had
clasped hands in a long chain, obscuring Becky’s
view of the protestors and obscuring the chants
by singing “Jesus Loves Me” as loudly as they
could. Emotion swelled up in Becky from her
abdomen in waves, pushing tears into her eyes,
and escaping from the tip of her head into the
atmosphere. She had to pull herself away,
toward the side of the brick church, to try and
deal with it.
Cindy asked what was wrong but Becky
couldn’t tell her. She sobbed for a moment,
then composed herself. She wasn’t crying
from isolation, or pain, or shame, the reasons
she had grown accustomed to crying for. This
emotion that swelled inside her, it was an
intense felicity that almost scared her. She
wondered if, perhaps, Jesus was finally speaking to her.
She wanted to stay here in this moment, stay in
Philadelphia, stay with Cindy. No one knew who
she was here. There was no fear of someone
recognizing her and telling her mother that poor
Becky had gone astray, had been seduced into
sin with some woman, and needed to be saved.
She could start new here, in the tradition of the
Europeans who had built this city hundreds
of years before her. Here she’d be free to create
a new identity on her own terms.
T
here was a sharp tap at the window. Then
another. Then a third. Becky slowly pulled
the comforter from her body and rose to
investigate. As she drew closer to the small box
window surrounded by light pink curtains, the
old baseball cap came into view. Becky opened
the window.
“I’m breaking you out,” Cindy whispered. “Well,
come on. You want to get out of here, don’t you?”
The whisper became slightly louder. The raised
volume scared Becky. Who knows how angry
Aunt Datherine might get if she was woken at
this hour? But she didn’t reprimand Cindy.
Becky nodded. “I need to get my clothes,” she
whispered.
“We don’t have time for that.”
“Just a few outfits.” Becky turned her back
toward Cindy. She would need her suitcase. But
moving it would make too much noise. What
about her laundry bag? She could empty out the
dirty clothes and put a few clean outfits in it. But
what about getting the clean outfits? She’d have
to open the old dresser that she was keeping
her underwear and bras in, and slide the door
open to that closet for the rest of the clothing.
This might make too much noise. Especially the
closet. Its doors had a tendency to fall off the
guides.
“You have to make a decision, Becky. Are you
coming?”
Becky didn’t want to say yes, but she didn’t
want to say no, either. So, as silently as she
could, she pulled back the pink curtains and,
with the help of Cindy, fit her body through the
small window.
Becky felt safe as Cindy pulled away from the
house. She felt safe as they drove through the
dark forests of West Jersey. She always felt safe
in transition; it was the final arrival that made her
anxious. They were going west, heading back to
Cindy’s house, right outside Philadelphia. Perhaps they were going to use the Ben Franklin;
perhaps Becky would hear that story about the
dividers again.
She felt the touch of Cindy’s hand on her
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shoulder, and when Becky turned her head,
Cindy’s outstretched, muscular arm came into
view.
“Are you all right?”
Becky didn’t respond.
“You don’t have to worry from now on, Becky.
You can live with me. My mother said it was okay.
I can’t imagine what you’ve just been through.”
Becky nodded.
Cindy leaned in and kissed Becky’s cheek. She
turned up the CD player, then intertwined her
olive fingers in Becky’s white ones. It was one
of the newer Madonna albums. The inspiration
had been techno or so Cindy had told Becky.
Becky was never allowed to listen to Madonna,
or techno for that matter.
Becky looked at Cindy. Her muscles were tight
and toned, and her posture was commanding in
her backwards baseball cap and football jersey.
She could pass for one of those straight jocks
who had always ignored Becky throughout her
high school years.
There was no use in saying anything now. She
would wait until the morning. She would wait
until everything had settled. She would wait until
there was no longer this hectic transition. Then
she would tell her mother. Maybe she wouldn’t
tell her mother. Maybe she would just disappear
and start new with Cindy. But that would be
decided tomorrow. For now, she could finally get
some sleep.
-Equality Forum 2005, used with the kind permission of Malcolm Lazin
-Excerpts from the sermon “Expanding the Conversation,” by Irene Elizabeth Stroud, are used
with permission of the author.
-Christ Church, Philadelphia, is used with kind
permission.
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27
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Khimairal Ink
ulie shoved the window wide open, permitting the hum of the bees and the scent of the
honeysuckle that surrounded the frame to enter
the room. Through the partially drawn curtains
the leafy canopy of oak trees could be seen
swaying gently and the breeze carried in the
smell of freshly mown grass. The breeze flowed
gently over the bed, over the cool blue sheets,
and over the woman who lay there.
She turned back to the bed and moved the
pillows around Amy’s body. Amy complied lazily
as Julie frowned, stepped back to eye the
composition of Amy’s long body, then propped
up a knee with a pillow, placed Amy’s hand on
her belly. Finally she draped the sheet over
Amy’s calves and patted down the pillow to make
sure she could fully see Amy’s face. Satisfied,
she moved across the room to the overstuffed
armchair and folded her legs underneath her
bottom, the soft contours of the chair hugging
her body. For years she had threatened to swipe
one of the armchairs from Barnes & Noble, so
for her last birthday Amy had bought her one
just as squishy, just as big—and with more fashionable covering. It occupied the corner of their
room by one of the windows, next to the shelves
of books, art supplies and trophies.
Julie settled her drawing board across her lap,
and inserted fresh paper underneath the clips.
Then she picked up her box of drawing tools
from a shelf and with a piece of willow charcoal
swiftly sketched the outline of the bed, the
curtains that swayed in the window above it, and
the shape of the body and the pillows supporting it. After a couple of minutes she refocused
and saw Amy grinning at her, tongue sticking
out from between her teeth.
“Stop that.” Julie scolded. “How am I supposed
to draw when you’re laughing at me?”
Amy chuckled and leaned up on her elbow.
“Really, I don’t know why you even need me to
pose for you. I’d think you’d have every wrinkle
and roll committed to memory by now.” Slowly
she drew her other hand down her flat stomach,
over her hips, letting her fingers draw trails as
she moved it between her thighs.
Julie sighed in mock exasperation. “Quit trying
to distract me!” She waggled her finger at Amy,
who chuckled again and lay down, settling her
body comfortably into the pillows, the naughty
hand demurely resting against her belly where
Julie had placed it before.
Julie refocused and began to draw her
charcoal over the contours of Amy’s long legs,
the sinewy cords that were visible even while
she was at rest. The muscles were pronounced,
even after the years of dancing had ended and
the running began. Occasionally Julie would
allow herself be talked into going out for an early morning jog with her partner, but more often
she would beg off with a laugh and sit on the
porch swing with her mug of coffee and a blanket, yelling encouragement until Amy turned
out of their lane. Her secret, silly worry was that
one morning Amy would jog past their gate and
somehow never find her way back. Once she
had shared her fear with Amy, who had laughed
heartily and then hopped up on the swing to
straddle Julie’s lap and lick her ear before
she leaned back and turned mock-serious.
“You know I’ll always find my way back—where
else would I go?” Julie had laughed, but she
still waited in the swing until she could see Amy
bobbing back up to the house, as sweaty and
breathless as she had made Julie feel the night
before.
The charcoal curved up Amy’s slender waist,
over her broad shoulders, and then down her
arms to her long-fingered hands with their short
nails. Leaving the details for later, Julie traced
Amy’s head and feet, then the outline of the
fabric that cushioned her body, the sheet that
was barely draped over her ankles. Carefully
she shaded the arms and legs, shaping
and caressing as she went, her fingers knowing every dip and ridge. The filtered light cast
soft highlights on Amy’s mocha skin, giving it
the subtle glow Julie loved. Once she had looked
up from between Amy’s thighs at her partner’s
sweat-covered face and said, “You taste just
like dark chocolate, and what do you know,
you’re good for me too!” Amy had alternated
between gasps and helpless giggles until she
was hiccupping uncontrollably. After that she
had vowed revenge and soon it was Julie who
was laughing and writhing on the bed.
Julie traced the shadows down to the permanently calloused feet she had spent hours
massaging, and with a smile rubbed in texture
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Khimairal Ink
to accent the not-so-graceful shape of the wellabused toes. Back up the legs the charcoal
went, then over the calf muscles, pausing as
she traced the outlines of the highlights on the
inner thighs, moved up to the curve of her hips.
Julie traced the patch of hair at the junction
of Amy’s legs which Julie had shaved into a
neatly trimmed landing pad just the day before,
an activity that always took them longer than
they planned, interrupted as it was by laughter,
tickles and interludes.
She shaded the shallow hollow of Amy’s belly,
moved across the graceful curve of her hips,
around her pelvis, shaded underneath her ribs.
Amy’s chest rose and fell softly with her breath,
and Julie’s hand slowed as she thought about
the nights that she had traced those curves with
her fingers, whispering comfort as they both held
back the tears, grasping one another as tightly
as they could. They could touch, they could hold
on for dear life, but even Julie’s fragile determination to support her couldn’t chase away the
nightmares that left Amy soaked and shuddering in her sleep.
Julie shook herself back to the present and
moved the charcoal to Amy’s hand, fingers
curved lightly on her belly, deceptively soft.
Amy’s handshake was crushing, although every
time she drew them across Julie’s body, parted
her hips, thrust them inside, they were dizzyingly gentle. Up the arm, across the black tribal
bands that interlaced all of the way around her
tricep, following the path that Julie’s fingertips
often took, then reached up over the shoulder
and spilled down toward her chest. Julie moved
across the curve of her neck, the shadows of her
throat, over the sweep of her high cheekbones,
across the broad nose, curving up to the depth
of her eyes, up and over the high forehead.
Julie paused and felt a smile tug at her lips as
she watched Amy sleep. After having posed for
Julie for so many years, Amy could hold a position for a long time without shifting, even while
she slept. Lovingly Julie shaded the eyes with
their long lashes, and the heavy shadows that
lurked underneath. The shadows never left, no
matter how often Julie kissed them, no matter
how much Amy slept, and Julie knew they were
mirrored on her own face, flanked now by the
grey that had appeared in the red of her hair.
Up Amy’s forehead the charcoal went, gently
scratched in the short hair that covered her head.
Sometimes when they were together, fingers
clenched in Amy’s short tight curls, Julie had a
flashback of Amy’s hair before, the long tight
dreads that she had painstakingly maintained.
Although she constantly complained about what
a pain they were, Amy was extremely proud of
her hair, but the day that they shaved the last
of it she was stoic and Julie was the one fighting back tears. When it finally started to grow
back, she had laughed. “This is much easier; I’m
gonna keep it short.” But Julie still saw her run
her hand absentmindedly over her head, as if
looking for her missing locks.
Julie hesitated as she began the final part of
her drawing. Even though it had been three
years, a tear rolled down her cheek. Her charcoal traced down Amy’s throat the way she often
went with her lips, down her collarbone, and ever
so gently kissed the scars that puckered all the
way across Amy’s chest. Amy refused to wear
the special bras that gave her a semblance of a
chest, or to have reconstructive surgery. Instead
she proudly wore whatever she wanted out in
public. But Julie remembered one long night a
few months later when Amy finally broke down,
hysterical with grief. Julie had held her, shaking,
unable to find a way to comfort Amy, or draw any
comfort for herself.
Julie finished the shadows and studied her
drawing. The tips of her fingers worked softly,
caressing a spot, rubbing a shadow, smoothing a highlight. Finally satisfied, she sat and
watched Amy as the dust motes danced in a
stray sunbeam over her body. Then she set her
board aside, crossed over to the bed and gently
covered Amy with the sheet.
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Amy Sisson
Amy Sisson is a writer, librarian, book reviewer and cat rescuer, not necessarily in that order. She currently lives in Houston, Texas, where she is reluctantly getting used to the idea of living in hurricane
country. For more information, visit her website at http://www.amysisson.com.
Cheri Crystal
Since Debut appeared in Erotic Interludes 3: Lessons in Love, Cheri Crystal has erotica with two other
Bold Strokes Books; with Cleis Press in After Midnight: True Lesbian Erotic Confessions; with Alyson in
Best Lesbian Love Stories NYC; Ultimate Lesbian Erotica 2007; and Best Date Ever: True Stories that
Celebrate Lesbian Relationships.
Robert Hyers
Robert Hyers writes and works right outside Philadelphia. He has other fiction published at Shine . . .
The Journal, fictionville, and 3:AM Magazine. If the mood strikes you, please visit his website. And feel
free to leave a comment here or there. http://www.roberthyers.com
Val Gryphin
Val Gryphin lives in the Green Mountains where she writes, dreams, and works on her plot for world
domination. You can visit her at http://valgryphin.com.