never seen you look at a woman before. I thought it was a challenge at first, but then I just figured you and I would share Trevor. But you’re not even interested in that. So what is it with you, Prince Charming? You’ve never given your heart away, have you? How about to a nice little mute girl?”
I pushed her back against the wall as I shoved past.
In my room I fired up my laptop. You can find anything on the Internet if you’ve got a credit card handy. Anything. I lost myself in blood and bondage and pictures of pleading eyes and tried to avoid superimposing Minnie’s face over any of it while my hand moved on my cock, demanding release.
No. I’m not a prince.
But I never claimed to be.
We were at the Patong aquarium, lost in mazes of murky, green-lit glass. I stood by a case and watched a diver feeding black tip and leopard sharks, spots riding their backs like miniature saddles. Their eyes were flat and black and expressionless. I watched them tear the fish to bits, toss their heads like dogs with their teeth buried in something. Rending. Ripping. My heart pounded in my chest.
Minnie came up beside me but I wouldn’t look at her. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her watching too, her face inanimate and nonjudgmental. To her the sharks, their teeth, the blood in the water, were just another fact of life.
I took her back to my room and closed the door.
It was early morning, and my head hurt from lack of sleep. I sat by the river again, but all the hash was gone. The coffee was bitter, and no matter how much creamer or sugar I added, it stayed that way.
Trevor and Ivory were still asleep, but Minnie had followed me out of bed like a silent shadow.
She leaned over and took my hand in hers, her eyes blue and enormous. She laid her fingers, her fragile, boney fingers, in my hand. Then she closed my fingers over them with her other hand and squeezed. She was much stronger than me. Her grip was painful but she didn’t let go even though she must have been crushing her hand. She kept watching my face.
Arousal at the pain in her face surged through me like a crashing wave. It would have been easy to give in. But I’m not a prince.
I pushed her away with a sudden shove and she fell backwards, still looking at me. Then she stood.
“ Where are you going?” I said with a flash of panic. My thoughts boiled. Maybe I could take her home after all. No. No.
She ran down the riverbank and didn’t look back, discarding clothing as she went. First the shirt then the skirt, followed by the wisps of underwear. The rust-red shoes were still on her feet. I followed, slipping and foundering in the mud. I don’t know why. Half of me had changed my mind, half of me was pursuing her.
She arched and leapt into the water of the swirling brown river in a single motion. And then there was only foam, dirty foam like polluted soapsuds, and my heart was still safe.
“ Heart in a Box” was the story I workshopped my first week at Clarion West. I had arrived at the idea of doing something with the Little Mermaid that summer and had brought the first couple of paragraphs, the opening scene by the river, with me in my idea file. I set the story in Phuket, Thailand, where I had spent a Thanksgiving with some friends several years earlier.
The story is partially about feminism and the idea of sacrifice that sometimes gets woven into love stories, but it’s also about guilt and being complicit in a system that consumes such sacrifices. It also expresses a certain irritation with the roles for women available in fairy tales. It appeared in Strange Horizons in 2006 under the title “Foam on the Water,” since the editors were concerned about the similarity of the original title to Saturday Night Live’s “Thing in a Box” skit, which had recently appeared.
In the Lesser Southern Isles
It was one of those Tabatian evenings when the sky is dark, pulsing blue. The shadows swelled and the sunlight, darkening to orange,
I pushed her back against the wall as I shoved past.
In my room I fired up my laptop. You can find anything on the Internet if you’ve got a credit card handy. Anything. I lost myself in blood and bondage and pictures of pleading eyes and tried to avoid superimposing Minnie’s face over any of it while my hand moved on my cock, demanding release.
No. I’m not a prince.
But I never claimed to be.
We were at the Patong aquarium, lost in mazes of murky, green-lit glass. I stood by a case and watched a diver feeding black tip and leopard sharks, spots riding their backs like miniature saddles. Their eyes were flat and black and expressionless. I watched them tear the fish to bits, toss their heads like dogs with their teeth buried in something. Rending. Ripping. My heart pounded in my chest.
Minnie came up beside me but I wouldn’t look at her. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her watching too, her face inanimate and nonjudgmental. To her the sharks, their teeth, the blood in the water, were just another fact of life.
I took her back to my room and closed the door.
It was early morning, and my head hurt from lack of sleep. I sat by the river again, but all the hash was gone. The coffee was bitter, and no matter how much creamer or sugar I added, it stayed that way.
Trevor and Ivory were still asleep, but Minnie had followed me out of bed like a silent shadow.
She leaned over and took my hand in hers, her eyes blue and enormous. She laid her fingers, her fragile, boney fingers, in my hand. Then she closed my fingers over them with her other hand and squeezed. She was much stronger than me. Her grip was painful but she didn’t let go even though she must have been crushing her hand. She kept watching my face.
Arousal at the pain in her face surged through me like a crashing wave. It would have been easy to give in. But I’m not a prince.
I pushed her away with a sudden shove and she fell backwards, still looking at me. Then she stood.
“ Where are you going?” I said with a flash of panic. My thoughts boiled. Maybe I could take her home after all. No. No.
She ran down the riverbank and didn’t look back, discarding clothing as she went. First the shirt then the skirt, followed by the wisps of underwear. The rust-red shoes were still on her feet. I followed, slipping and foundering in the mud. I don’t know why. Half of me had changed my mind, half of me was pursuing her.
She arched and leapt into the water of the swirling brown river in a single motion. And then there was only foam, dirty foam like polluted soapsuds, and my heart was still safe.
“ Heart in a Box” was the story I workshopped my first week at Clarion West. I had arrived at the idea of doing something with the Little Mermaid that summer and had brought the first couple of paragraphs, the opening scene by the river, with me in my idea file. I set the story in Phuket, Thailand, where I had spent a Thanksgiving with some friends several years earlier.
The story is partially about feminism and the idea of sacrifice that sometimes gets woven into love stories, but it’s also about guilt and being complicit in a system that consumes such sacrifices. It also expresses a certain irritation with the roles for women available in fairy tales. It appeared in Strange Horizons in 2006 under the title “Foam on the Water,” since the editors were concerned about the similarity of the original title to Saturday Night Live’s “Thing in a Box” skit, which had recently appeared.
In the Lesser Southern Isles
It was one of those Tabatian evenings when the sky is dark, pulsing blue. The shadows swelled and the sunlight, darkening to orange,
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