Untitled.FR11 by Unknown Author Page B

holding very still and the look in her eyes saddened him. She didn’t understand. Here it comes, that was what she was thinking, her face tense. Here comes his seeder. Still, she glanced at the drill, then away.
    “Baby-thing, red drool.” Emerging fuzzhead. Snipped slit to gush blood. He’d once suffered through a movie in school, watching gloved hands coax more damaged goods into the world where less, much less, was called for. Pinching her outer labia, not painfully, simply curious at the pink hidden idolized damned thing with its hooded clit, he said to her, “This has power, you know. This snail
    thing could stop boys from kicking each other, if only you girls would learn how to use it. Disarming little pouch.” They would all shut up tight forever, assuming his attempt worked.
    “Okay, okay,” edging on tears but impressively brave. “You can teach me on the way back to town.”
    He idled a fingertip up through her private hair, her tummy taut and tympanic, stiff breastbone between her eye-achers, a smooth neck. Raising the drill, he rested it at an angle across his chest like a salute. Her face despite her tears was deeply beautiful—-just how deep he was about to find out. A face from some filmbook came to him, Black Sunday, Barbara Steele, deep black bloodless pits, glaring woman-eyes, long black hair. Akin to what he’d plant upon April’s blond-tressed, fair-skinned face. But blood would well up here, well up and spill, from the teeny baby-holes he’d gently press into this unblemished canvas. The pocks he sank would drool blood downward, jagging to suggest the next new place to create one. Teeny tiny holes, miniature temptations being opened in her. They’d only birth blood, and maybe he’d push a pinkie into one of them, but nothing bigger, and sure as heck nothing with seeds in it. “Power to save put-upon boys, power to stop wars,” he said, as he stretched the cheek-skin flat under her left eye. “Convey that to your kind in the next hour.” She pretended not to know how to relay messages to her kin. “Don’t waste ' it on fear and hate, okay?” He raised the drill, quick trigger-test, then silent, pointing it, divining the perfect place between thumb and forefinger.
    “God please no.” She knew it was coming.
    “Hold still now.”
    The whine began, her skin accepted the hole as easily as wine-veined cheese; it was only when they hit bone that April really began to lose her composure.
    M

Love Sweetened, Love Soured
Release and a Short-lived Relief
7
She watched her lover lean forward, setting her ha

Love Sweetened, Love Soured
    iVatt found Love Bunny at an outside table, spry wrens hopping about by the redwood screens. At this restaurant, The Rainbow, she’d enjoyed months of calm and refuge, just a short jaunt north of her new house, a perfect atmosphere for a season’s contemplation.
    But this morning, she felt restive.
    “You made it,” her husband’s lover said.
    “Five minutes by car, twenty at a brisk walk.” Round white table. Sherry wore a tight peach blouse. A thin strand of microbeads fell with coy abandon upon her bosom. Her skirt broke just above the knees, and her legs were smooth and
    curvy and tantalizing. Katt’s heart sank. This woman grew on you. Katt had felt a surprisingly mild interest in her at the BBS party, but that interest seemed to have grown since then. Moreover, Sherry’s whole manner today, the way she was dressed, the way she sat, touched a remembrance of Katt’s brief fling at Oberlin with a former roommate. She dragged out a white plastic chair draped in umbrella shade and sat.
    “Relax, it’s a beautiful day. Have an omelette.”
    Katt smiled. “Sorry.” She accepted a menu and half-heard their waitress recite the day’s special.
    Sherry said, “I liked our chat.” Her hand rested for an instant on Katt’s arm, then away.
    “Oh yes, it was lovely,” Katt said, her voice steeped in lust. Sherry mmmm’d in return. Their exchange had