Spectre, who had both arms wreathed around my chest.
'Yes,' he said. His voice was firming. 'You are part of me, now. I am part of you. We are one. We
can live in everything but water. We don't like water.'
'So you can live in hard vacuum?' I asked.
'We can,' he corrected. 'By myself I am just a wailing ghost, seeking human heat. We love humans.
Humans taught us love. They taught us about the flesh. We never had flesh before.'
'Will contact with you kill me?' I asked. Not that I minded. I was already overdue.
'No,' said Spectre, as he caressed my cheek. 'We don't die,' he said. 'Humans tried to teach us
about death, but we didn't like it.'
'So, we'll be together forever,' I said. 'And you'll be my lover?'
'Unless… you, know, water,' he replied, resting his cheek against mine.
I stretched luxuriously. I was more alive, for a given sense of alive, than I had ever been. And
since Spectre could not survive water - and I couldn't swim, anyway - we retained the
ability to die, if we wanted to, if the centuries tired us out. Already his essence was saturating
my cells. I was becoming my lover, and he was becoming me. For some reason I could smell apples, a
hot orchard scent.
A quote from the second mate's 20th century films came to mind.
'Spectre, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship'.
His laugh was like sunlight.
THE DANCERS
Kirsten Henry
The scene is sharp, transparent as ice.
It's late one Friday, the dancehall's makeshift.
Outside there's snow, and a long old war.
Piano notes and cigarettes thicken the air
like the hundred soldiers in their damp uniforms,
like the perfumed shopgirls in flowery dresses
throwing back their heads to bite at the night
with their lipsticked laughs and their feverish eyes.
A young lieutenant leans into the fug,
rolling a glass between his palms and staring
at the room's far edge, where a captain sits.
I watch the lieutenant as he crosses the floor
to stand wordlessly beside the captain's table,
and reach for his hand and pull him into his arms
and without ever speaking the men begin to dance.
And yes, at first the other dancers gawp,
but soon the hardest of us stand aside
as if the sudden beauty of these men
has somehow wiped the meanness from our lips.
Then the orchestra dissolves, with all the onlookers,
and a new private music beyond my range
seems to move the soldiers, unhurried and turning.
The lieutenant's chin on the rough serge
of his captain's shoulder, the captain's whiskered cheek
rests against his partner's. Turning, turning,
their lit faces, first one then the other
sweeping the room's dimmest corners like beacons.
They've closed their eyes and they hold each other
as you would hold a woman, and
without one single hair of manliness lost.
They hold each other as though they've crossed the earth
instead of just a dance floor to reach this moment.
I've remembered this scene; glittering like ice,
but unlike ice, it never melts.
VANILLA
Mary Borsellino
His hair is blond and soft. All of him is soft. There's just enough fat in the
layer over the muscle to smooth the planes of his body, to replace the lean lines with yielding
flesh. His lower lip is plump. His eyes are dark and made all the more striking by their pale
lashes, and his apricot-and-cream complexion.
He's dressed simply in dark blue denim jeans, a white t-shirt, and Converse sneakers. I'm much
the same, though my shirt is blue and collared, and my shoes are cream. We could be variants of one
another, if it weren't for the sharpness in my features, the slightly darker cast to my skin and
brown hair that makes me tan beside his peaches and gold. Everything about him is vulnerable.
There's been nothing vulnerable about me in a long time. But aside from that, we look alike.
'I'm Sam,' he tells me, voice as soft as the rest. I think he's perhaps twenty-two. Twenty-three
at the most. I'm twenty-one but my eyes make me look older. There's something knowing in my gaze
that
'Yes,' he said. His voice was firming. 'You are part of me, now. I am part of you. We are one. We
can live in everything but water. We don't like water.'
'So you can live in hard vacuum?' I asked.
'We can,' he corrected. 'By myself I am just a wailing ghost, seeking human heat. We love humans.
Humans taught us love. They taught us about the flesh. We never had flesh before.'
'Will contact with you kill me?' I asked. Not that I minded. I was already overdue.
'No,' said Spectre, as he caressed my cheek. 'We don't die,' he said. 'Humans tried to teach us
about death, but we didn't like it.'
'So, we'll be together forever,' I said. 'And you'll be my lover?'
'Unless… you, know, water,' he replied, resting his cheek against mine.
I stretched luxuriously. I was more alive, for a given sense of alive, than I had ever been. And
since Spectre could not survive water - and I couldn't swim, anyway - we retained the
ability to die, if we wanted to, if the centuries tired us out. Already his essence was saturating
my cells. I was becoming my lover, and he was becoming me. For some reason I could smell apples, a
hot orchard scent.
A quote from the second mate's 20th century films came to mind.
'Spectre, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship'.
His laugh was like sunlight.
THE DANCERS
Kirsten Henry
The scene is sharp, transparent as ice.
It's late one Friday, the dancehall's makeshift.
Outside there's snow, and a long old war.
Piano notes and cigarettes thicken the air
like the hundred soldiers in their damp uniforms,
like the perfumed shopgirls in flowery dresses
throwing back their heads to bite at the night
with their lipsticked laughs and their feverish eyes.
A young lieutenant leans into the fug,
rolling a glass between his palms and staring
at the room's far edge, where a captain sits.
I watch the lieutenant as he crosses the floor
to stand wordlessly beside the captain's table,
and reach for his hand and pull him into his arms
and without ever speaking the men begin to dance.
And yes, at first the other dancers gawp,
but soon the hardest of us stand aside
as if the sudden beauty of these men
has somehow wiped the meanness from our lips.
Then the orchestra dissolves, with all the onlookers,
and a new private music beyond my range
seems to move the soldiers, unhurried and turning.
The lieutenant's chin on the rough serge
of his captain's shoulder, the captain's whiskered cheek
rests against his partner's. Turning, turning,
their lit faces, first one then the other
sweeping the room's dimmest corners like beacons.
They've closed their eyes and they hold each other
as you would hold a woman, and
without one single hair of manliness lost.
They hold each other as though they've crossed the earth
instead of just a dance floor to reach this moment.
I've remembered this scene; glittering like ice,
but unlike ice, it never melts.
VANILLA
Mary Borsellino
His hair is blond and soft. All of him is soft. There's just enough fat in the
layer over the muscle to smooth the planes of his body, to replace the lean lines with yielding
flesh. His lower lip is plump. His eyes are dark and made all the more striking by their pale
lashes, and his apricot-and-cream complexion.
He's dressed simply in dark blue denim jeans, a white t-shirt, and Converse sneakers. I'm much
the same, though my shirt is blue and collared, and my shoes are cream. We could be variants of one
another, if it weren't for the sharpness in my features, the slightly darker cast to my skin and
brown hair that makes me tan beside his peaches and gold. Everything about him is vulnerable.
There's been nothing vulnerable about me in a long time. But aside from that, we look alike.
'I'm Sam,' he tells me, voice as soft as the rest. I think he's perhaps twenty-two. Twenty-three
at the most. I'm twenty-one but my eyes make me look older. There's something knowing in my gaze
that
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