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Fetish
Ratings:
177 pages1 hour
Summary
Modern day witch Angela Black faces some strange goings on with an old flame.
About the Author
Edward Bryant is the multi-Nebula Award winning author of over a hundred short stories, over a thousand essays and reviews, and one novel with Harlan Ellison, PHOENIX WITHOUT ASHES.
Publisher: ReAnimus PressReleased: Jan 16, 2014ISBN: 9781310414329Format: book
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Fetish - Edward Bryant
FETISH
by
EDWARD BRYANT
Produced by ReAnimus Press
Other books by Edward Bryant:
Phoenix Without Ashes
Cinnabar
Among the Dead and Other Events Leading to the Apocalypse
Particle Theory
The Baku: Tales of the Nuclear Age
Coming Soon from ReAnimus Press:
Neon Twilight
Wyoming Sun
Darker Passions
Trilobyte
Hardshell
Watch for these and many more great titles from ReAnimus Press!
© 2013, 1991 by Edward Bryant. All rights reserved.
http://ReAnimus.com/authors/edwardbryant
Cover Art by Jill Bauman
Smashwords Edition Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
~~~
This tale is for
Bonnie Meadows,
who knows all too much
about these things
and for the memory of
Robin T.,
who fought many of the same
demons
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m never ashamed to admit that I’ll cheerfully steal, er, borrow, um, well, gratefully acknowledge the support, useful criticism, neat images, great lines, or swell ideas I’m getting all the time from other folks. In all modesty, I do the typing here, but the work itself possesses some real gestalt qualities. So many, many thanks to: The Pulphouse Gang, especially Kris, Dean, and Debb, for patience; the members of the Writer’s Circle and Northern Colorado workshops for their nudzhing wolf-like choruses of Finish FETISH?
; Doug and Tomi Lewis of the Little Bookshop of Horrors for their home away from home; Leanne C. Harper for ages of support and urging that Angie not end up as the splatterpunk Mary Worth; Dan Simmons for quietly keeping the faith; Valarie Abney for herbs and spice; Cary Ennis for showing me the scene of the crime; Marianne S. Jablon for a cool comment about metal; William Rotsler and Harlan Ellison for the great Kong line; Ardis Jakubaitis for generously purchasing a horrible demise for a good cause; Kam Koske, R.N., and Herman Bohnhoff, R.N., for helping the author shed life’s blood for this book; and many, many more whom I’m doubtless forgetting to mention. Please forgive me my omissions. The devil made me do it.
—EWB
FETISH
EDWARD BRYANT
Sex curled around me like a large cat lying across my shoulders. I guess maybe I’ve missed it.
I want to try something new,
said my horny friend Marie.
"Something... or someone?" I said.
Whichever.
Marie sat back in the restaurant booth, narrow shoulders slumping a little. She touched her curly black hair with delicate fingers. You know me, Angie. I need a little help.
She glanced up, shrugged.
You need a little self-confidence.
About six or eight inches of it.
I laughed. After a moment, so did Marie. What happened to the last one?
I said.
Bob? He called me one night and said he just didn’t believe in dating.
I must have looked questioning.
I don’t know either,
said Marie ruefully. It was like one of those Pentagon briefings that don’t make sense. I asked him. He said he was reassessing his life. You know, goals, relationships, standards, all that?
I nodded.
Standards.
She shook her head. What a dick.
It didn’t sound like a compliment. God save me from snags.
I knew the acronym—Sensitive New Age Guys. Marie had met Bob in a Free University outdoor landscaping course—zenscaping, they called it. I took a sip, set the coffee cup down. It was getting cold. You’re probably well off.
Probably.
She looked glum. It was a cold weekend, though. I missed him.
But not all of him.
This time we both laughed So, Angie,
said Marie, "what did you do for the weekend?"
Same as I do most weekends. Library research. Caught up on correspondence. Got a video.
"The new Exorcist flick?"
I don’t take my work home.
The food arrived. The waiter put a fish fillet and a platter of snow peas in front of me. Marie got prime rib and baked potato with all the trimmings. She and I are within five pounds of each other’s weight and the same height, but she looks skinny and I don’t. Sometimes I hate her.
Business first. I toyed with the fish, lightly pricking it with the tines of my fork. Okay, so what do you want? Or who do you want?
Marie looked only a little embarrassed. Hey, it’s no big deal, okay? There’s a guy who works for the architectural firm I contracted with last month. You know, for the shrubs around the community college center? He’s a little immersed in his work. I need to break through.
So invite him to a plant show.
Very funny.
I took a breath, stared from the haddock to Marie. Okay, maybe you can try a little mixture of cyclamen roots and—
Marie interrupted me. Sowbread. We used that on the rancher at the Stock Show, remember? It worked about as well as when the cosmetics people put pig pheromones in their perfume.
I shook my head. The sympathetic magic should have worked. I guess the problem was he was a cattleman.
And no one has a root called cowbread,
said Marie. She sawed off a huge hunk of deep red rib. Here, would you like a taste?
I shook my head. I wanted it, but I was on a diet. The tortoise shell powder. That worked with the cabbie.
Now Marie shook her head. I appreciate the thought, but I was sore for a month. And the powder didn’t really foster fidelity, you know?
You can’t have everything,
I said.
Yes I can.
Sureness was in her voice. Or bravado.
Uh uh,
I said. None of us can.
Hey, don’t be a drag,
said Marie. Something wrong, Angie?
Just the mood swings. I’m okay.
Marie looked at me estimatingly. It’s not miracles I’m looking for. Just a little help in my time of need.
Okay,
I said, pulling my feelings together. I can put together a sachet of orrisroot and vervain.
Do I wear it or eat it?
Marie said from around a mouthful of sour cream, chives, butter, and potato. The food smelled terrific.
Put some of it in your bath,
I said. Or his.
If I could do that, I wouldn’t need love potions.
It’s not really a love potion,
I said. More properly, you should just call it an attractor.
Marie nodded. Whatever. Thanks very much, Angie.
She hesitated.
I could see the wheels turning. What?
My friend seemed to weigh the words, then said, How come you never use any of this stuff?
I’m pretty busy,
I said. Sure. I just don’t have the time to screw around.
I’ve seen you with... someone,
said Marie. But that was quite a while ago.
We go back a long way,
I said. You’ve seen me with guys, and you’ve seen me with women.
But not for a long time.
I nodded. "Not for a very long time."
I’d think you’d get hornier even than I do.
I didn’t say anything, but just addressed myself to the fish.
I don’t mean to pry.
I laughed, but in what I hoped was a nice way. Yes, you do.
Okay,
said Marie, "so I am prying. Angie, I do worry about you. You spend too much time by yourself."
Let’s not talk about this,
I said. I knew I didn’t want to, and I knew I didn’t want Marie to. It’s no big thing.
Marie rushed on. I’m not so sure about that.
She leaned toward me. You’re too darned lonely.
No, I’m not.
Are too.
Am not.
Are.
We grinned at each other and the tension that had been building dissolved.
Angie, when’s the last time you had a good orgasm?
"Marie!"
No, I mean it.
Okay,
I shot back. Last night.
I mean,
said Marie, with a lover.
I shut up.
That’s what I thought.
I couldn’t believe this. I pushed my food around the plate. Let’s drop it.
Listen,
said my friend, Michael—he’s the guy with the architect firm—he’s got a friend.
No blind dates,
I said. No charity double-dating.
No charity,
said Marie seriously. I think there’s some real need.
I spread my hands helplessly. Marie reached over and took hold of my fingers. Honey, maybe you should use some of your own medicine.
She looked me right in the eyes.
I didn’t think I was crying, but Marie handed me a Kleenex anyway.
Maybe it was lunch with Marie, I don’t know, but I spent the rest of the day seeing people together. Or maybe just imagining them together. After I whimpered a little at lunch, Marie made me order dessert. I didn’t argue strenuously. Rhubarb cobbler. My friend made a face, but she was indulging me. I didn’t need the calories, but I guess I was humoring Marie.
It had gotten tense for a while there at lunch, but Marie and I had parted friends. I was reminded that someone still cared. But I was also reminded that perhaps I still cared as well, and that was uncomfortable.
I drove south from Westminster back into the heart of Denver. It was an unseasonably warm October day. Winds were gusting east from out of the foothills. I looked up at the high, wispy cirrus, ahead at the towers of the city, and thought, great, the pollution would all be blowing out toward Kansas. I lowered the driver’s side window of the Geo Storm.
The blast of crisp air blew away some cobwebs.
Marie was wrong.
I didn’t need or want someone sharing my life and my bed.
Did I?
I’d tried that. More than once. It never worked out, and sometimes when it went down in flames, it cratered disastrously.
Shit, I looked at the couple laughing in the Blazer, next lane over. I checked the mirror. Behind me was a young family in a red station wagon. I could see children’s little heads in the backseat. And a dog too, for gods’ sake. It looked like a setter.
I peeled off the freeway at Speer and headed for my neighborhood supermarket. I needed some groceries. When I slowed for the corner at Diamond Hill, I passed a pair of young women in jeans and sweatshirts, walking and holding hands. On the next block, two people in jogging outfits were hugging and kissing.
For crying out loud, I felt like I was starring in a candid camera PSA for the depression hotline.
I parked the Storm in the Safeway lot, raised the window, got out and locked the door. I didn’t need groceries, not really. I needed to buy food and litter for Zooey.
Marie had mentioned her too.
Honestly, Angela, I get worried when anyone I know gets too attached to her cat.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I’d said.
My friend looked serious. I’ll be pretty concerned if you send out a photo Christmas card of you and Zooey, and it’s signed from the two of you.
I don’t send Christmas cards,
I pointed out.
Solstice cards, then. Whatever.
Marie added bluntly, Is she your familiar?
No,
I said. Just a friend. Just a kitty. The brain of a bean and the sweetest personality in the world.
You need someone,
said Marie. You need someone to hold you.
Give it a rest,
I started to say. Then I had to allow Marie to give me another Kleenex and hold my hand. Damn it.
I picked out the usual catfood and the customary bag of litter. Measuring out my life in catboxes? Then I paid and went home to my kitty.
A lump of black with two green eyes peering quizzically out, Zooey usually sat in the middle of the carpet in the front hall to welcome me. I’d never figured out whether she obeyed premonitions of my return, was simply quick enough to dash to the front door from anywhere in the house when she detected the sound of my parking, or if she simply spent most of her hours snoozing on the plush, gray carpet. Today she wasn’t there.
I kicked the front door shut with my heel and set the bag of cat goodies down. I tossed my purse onto the couch and shrugged out of the leather jacket. Zooey?
I called. You asleep, sweetie-cat?
There was no answering meow, no ball of purring fur, no bounce of stiff-legged feline.
Strange, but sometimes she slept her afternoons upstairs on the feather comforter on my bed. I grabbed a wooden hanger from the
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