Behind the Wainscot

Behind the Wainscot #16

admin — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 15:57:08 +0000

	FASTER THAN A SPEEDING BULLET BECCA DE LA ROSA
	SOME NOTES ON THE EISENBERG ESTATE WILLOW FAGAN
	BIRDHOUSE KRISTINE ONG MUSLIM
	EXOSKELETAL LAURA ELLEN SCOTT

FASTER THAN A SPEEDING BULLET

admin — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 15:49:28 +0000

FASTER THAN A SPEEDING BULLET

BECCA DE LA ROSA

     It was neither a bird nor a plane. Callista and I sat on the roof garden, drinking cold, clear beer and discussing lust. “What are we going to do?” Callista asked, meaning a tapestry of things, calling me by her husband’s name. We smashed our beer bottles like fortune cookies to decide our fates. Under the trip of high-heeled shoes along the flagstones, the glass shards looked like shattered bones.
     Callista is a piano tuner. She goes to work in her blue VW van, and every note in every key lives inside her smiling mouth. I wanted to bite her bottom lip as though my teeth might be the needle on a record player, all that was needed to release a river of music, and I would be flooded, I would drown. Callista is married to a piano teacher. He does not play the piano.
     ”What is it?” Callista asked, the first time she looked up. I’ll give you a clue. It was neither a bird nor a plane.
     These days are hard times for those who believe in the science of flight, in airfoils and frictional drag and turbofans. The days of internal combustion engines are numbered. Aerodynamics is a ritualistic study, and an esoteric one. I’ll give you a clue. The speed of light is no longer a formula that rests neatly in your mind like a mummy in its sarcophagus. The speed of light is a runner bean, and it has grown flame-red flowers and seed pods. How did this happen? Science has given birth to mythology.

     This man, he was born in red and blue, he can see in the dark, for him the laws of physics are medieval artistic perspective, two-dimensional. This man has a taste for latex and leather. He married a costume designer. His children grow up to fear him, but he is a thoughtful man, his fist is strong and just, he can save the world. He has dreams in which he is a caterpillar. He spins a cocoon, and tries to sleep away the days until he can take wing, and just as he is about to break out in a flame of colour and flight, he is eaten by a blackbird. He wakes from his dreams crying. His wife kisses his smooth shoulder blades. “It was a bad dream,” she says, “just a bad dream.” He can’t tell her that this is the best dream he’s ever had. That he is crying only because he woke.
     Callista and I sat on the roof garden, drinking beer. “What are the ramifications of divorcing ourselves from science?” I asked.
     Callista shook her head. She rested her bottle against her cheek, her cool cheek.
     I went on, “What are the ramifications of the physical without physics?”
     She smiled. “I don’t know.”
     ”If the laws of physics don’t apply,” I said, pressing my hands together, “then what applies? What laws apply? The laws of fiction?”
     Callista laughed, but she turned away, one eyebrow raised, as though she was displeased.

     Callista’s husband, he used to be a concert pianist. He travelled the country with a chamber orchestra. Bent over Stravinsky, his hands bucked and darted like small animals, and his head tipped and tilted, his hair pulled neatly back, the muscles in his face warped and twisted. Seeing him play the piano, you could believe that he understood something too complex and impossibly passionate to articulate. Callista’s husband left her alone in their echoing house for months at a time. One day in December a patch of ice tripped up his car, sent the pair of them dancing into a stone wall; and his hands, braced against the dashboard, crumpled like cloth; and his radii and ulnae shattered like saucers at an unfortunate afternoon tea; and that was all it took, one spill of frost, to upend his life and his musical career. He never played the piano again. Now he teaches children how to play “Mary Had A Little Lamb” and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and “Goosey Goosey Gander,” their fingers taunting him, so stiff and sticky on his multilingual Steinway. I met him after the accident at one of Callista’s disastrous parties. The two of us sat on the roof garden, drinking beer. The skin of his hands puckered around the twisted bones, like a votive candle, half-melted. “How do you know my wife?” he asked, politely, but I couldn’t answer. My chest tugged like a wound. I wondered if he was jealous of Callista, the way she carried clear notes around in the pocket of her jeans to distribute freely, cheerfully, as though they meant nothing. I wondered if Callista loved her husband’s broken bones. If she loved her husband. If anyone had ever been loved the way I loved Callista. “We met at a party,” I said.
     I think I was asleep that night on the roof garden. If I was asleep, I would have dreamed that I was a caterpillar. I would have dreamed up a cocoon. That big shut-eye. The solace of silence.
     Callista pressed her hand to her husband’s arm, her head tilted towards the sky. “What is it?” she asked.

I’ll give you a clue. It was neither a bird nor a plane. If there is no such thing as frictional drag, what do you have in its place? Fictional drag? Does the universe always right its imbalances? If my name was his name—but it isn’t, it has never been his name—would I have shattered hands or would I be able to fly?
Callista laid her hand on my hand, my hand that would never play the piano, never break like fine china. All I wanted was Callista. All I ever wanted. I wanted her to devour me, wingless. I woke up crying. On the roof garden my smashed beer bottle was a fortune, mine, his. Callista lifted her dark head. “What is it?” she asked her husband, but I was already gone.

Becca De La Rosa lives in Dublin, and wishes she was still a student. Her fiction has appeared in various places, including Strange Horizons, Farrago’s Wainscot, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and Fantasy Magazine. She has nothing against superheroes. You can find her online at www.beccadelarosa.com.

EXOSKELETAL

admin — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 15:42:31 +0000

EXOSKELETAL

LAURA ELLEN SCOTT

     The-the-the-the-the-the-the buggo kid, he was hiding in a crawl space behind the hall closet and shoulda been found way sooner since there’s a freaking draft coming through the false wall. Which, by the way, is just a piece of primer-painted board covering a hole. So I think if anyone did sloppy work, it was you. Nnyerrt me. No ways. S’okay though, kid’s in the kitchen now, surrounded by the premier boys and crying like, well, crying like a kid. He managed to bite Terry through to the shoulder, but the scene’s under control now. The magicians will take it from here.
     Oh wow-wow-wow, would you listen to that? Lucky kid, he still has tears. They also serve who only stand and wait in the dark with the mice and the spiders and the insulation . . . Aw, man—don’t give me that. Nobody just does a job anymore. Creativity and instinct, pardner. Those are basic tools these days. You go write a report that omits your oversight, and I won’t say a thing. I’m no project manager, no skin off my
     —wait. Uh huh, there he goes. Annnnd pop. That’s about it then. Better mosey, unless you want to get tapped for clean up. Thanks, no, I’ll catch a rickshaw back, gotta follow through. Show ‘em that we’re not all feckless ass burns. Yeah well, don’t be like that. Dang, inattentive and sensitive; just how does that work?
     Right, the premies are headed for the scrape. We’re up next, you coming with? Shake it off. You can second-hand me, if you want.
     Whoa.
     That kid is completely terraced—chalk it up to hormones. Tell you what, if people only knew what the buggo does to your insides before it shellacs your outsides they’d think twice before dancing. And guys like us, we’d get parades. Guys like us, oof-oof! Im-mune to romance.
     Put all the shiny into Bag A. And don’t forget to tag it with the customer number. Righteous. The magics left some Popeyes. Love the skin.
     Okay, so what’s the tot? About twelve ounces of shine, three skeins of zwikky, and maybe two liters of sweet? Kid was cooking, man. A real Casanova. But we can handle the whole yield, we pack it right. Hey there, watch out. And work faster. Zwikky’s coming unwound. Unwinding itself, azzamatterofact. Shouldn’t do that. Not the quality stuff.
     Bad sign.
     The shine might not be real.
     Work faster, love:

Buggo, buggo into my bucket,
Break my heart before you chuck it.

Ho ho! You feeling it? A little stir in the inseam? Happens, nothing to be ashamed of. Just move your bum already. Smell that stuff, it’s sexy ozone. Makes your hairs stiffen. In a good way. Is it warm in here or is it just me (that was a joke)
. . . which means the sweet is going off. We may be a bit fucked. Like trapped fucked.

     Here I’ll.
     Get that.
     You almost got some on ya.
     My guts are crawling like.

     I hate to tell you this, but I mighta been buggoed, man.
     Too much time on site. Feels like the house is moving, with
     my bowels going in the opposite direction.
     You might be in trouble, darling, because I am the gimbal

     in a gyroscope made from meat ‘n chitin.
     And this ain’t no random hidey-hole.
     So I don’t care if the chicken was bad, I only wanna know
     are you gonna finish yours?

Gonna eat your skin? Gotta love the skin.
Gonna eat your skin. I think I have to.

Laura Ellen Scott has stories forthcoming in Storyglossia and Barrelhouse’s “The Future” issue. Next Spring she’ll have a ghost story in Paycock Press’ Gravity Dancers: Even More Fiction by Washington Area Women. She is currently writing a magic realist novel about post-Katrina New Orleans. To see how that’s going and to find other stories please visit probablyjustastory.blogspot.com.

BIRDHOUSE

admin — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 15:34:00 +0000

BIRDHOUSE

KRISTINE ONG MUSLIM

     The imaginary nest has long been overtaken by worms, which the birds have plucked from the soil. Severed, the worms have finally learned to grow more of themselves out of each cut sustained from the bird’s beak.
     It is not enough to be many. It is not enough to be regurgitated and to multiply in the predator’s gut until it splits open. Perhaps someday the worms will have wings as well.
     And how they presented themselves to the swooping birds, how their tiny breaths enrich the soil, how they willed the birds to shear off their soft bodies off the ground.

More than six hundred of Kristine Ong Muslim’s work have appeared or are forthcoming in over three hundred publications worldwide. Her stories and poems have appeared in Aberrant Dreams, Abyss & Apex, Cemetery Moon, Dark Recesses Press, Dog Versus Sandwich, Down in the Cellar, Fear and Trembling, GUD Magazine, Kaleidotrope, Niteblade, OG’s Speculative Fiction, Spinning Whorl, Tales of the Talisman, and Trail of Indiscretion. She has received several Honorable Mentions in Year’s Best in Fantasy and Horror as well as nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Rhysling Award and won Sam’s Dot Publishing’s James Award for genre poetry twice.

SOME NOTES ON THE EISENBERG ESTATE

admin — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 15:23:38 +0000

SOME NOTES ON THE EISENBERG ESTATE

WILLOW FAGAN

It’s probably best if you don’t read this. You see, my aunt N——— carefully constructed this bundle of pages to contain a menace that has been stalking our family for generations. I’m fairly certain that her efforts have safeguarded our line—what I’m trying to say, Dear Reader, is that the risk here is to you.

Needle Man, Needle Man, I see your plan
Broken Man, Broken Man, the cake’s in the pan

The Nymphaea veneficus is an extinct species of fresh water flower. Strangely enough, N. veneficus died out because its evolutionary strategy was too successful . . .
. . . [t]o the untrained eye, N. veneficus might resemble a hybrid of a lotus and a pitcher plant; with an alluring scent (undetectable to the human nose) it lures frogs and jumping fish into a bowl-shaped cavity and digests them. The cavity is not a trap; the frogs and fish remain motionless while acids slowly dissolve their flesh because the scent is simply that irresistible. . . . In the end, the lure proved too attractive, too potent, and too many of the flowers ending up sinking beneath the weight of their own captured prey, pressed down to the bottom of the pond, rotting underwater.

     My name is N——— Eisenberg and I am happier than I have ever been.
     My name is N——— Eisenberg and my sister just slit her wrists with rusty razors and I am happier than I have ever been. Mister Needles, your thread is broken, your spool is undone, your trap has sprung but no one cares. I am happier than I have ever been. Mister Broken Toe, Mister I-Sew-Shadows-On-The-Edges-Of-Newspaper-Clippings, nothing you can do can hurt me now.
     My sister’s name is S—— Eisenberg, and she is happier than she has ever been. She is safely held now in these pages, and nothing can hurt her anymore.

I, Sarha Eisenberg, being of sound mind and unbroken soul, do hereby bequeath my anguish to anyone foolish enough to read a will found in a box full of dried blood, wrapped in the skins of fish, at the bottom of an empty well. You, Betsy, can have all the lies tangled like ratty hair. You, Natalina, can have the nightmares hissing round my skull like bats. And you, you, Arcamadeous can have all the poison gathered up and distilled in the brewery of my heart, pulled from all my veins, from all the red and black ink injected there by —— ——— ——, yes, sucked in from our damnable house and the never-dying orchards and the fields of flowers with petals sharp and flawless as diamonds. My blood vessels were polluted rivers drawing all the stink from a cracked landscape, from the ruined map of my body, our house, drawing it all in to one placid lake now finally, mercifully sinking beneath the soil.

In their own tongue, the Namachi refer to themselves as “the People of the Swamp.” They have many ingenious adaptations to their environment, such as . . .their use of treated mosquito probiscides as sewing needles.
. . .Tentatively, then, we can state that the technology, mythology, and customs of the Namachi all point to a historical origin as a persecuted minority fleeing from a much-larger, urban civilization, which seems to have been in the process of politico-economic collapse. Venturing into speculation, we can approach an intriguing possibility: might the Namachi be the descendants of the sole survivors of Hussert’s theorized “Fifth Kingdom”?

The funeral was lovely, perfect. We Eisenbergs were gathered together as a whole family for the first time since B——’s wedding, and everyone looked so lovely, so perfect in their shiny white dresses and suitcoats. The flowers were perfect, lovely in their ivory splendor, without a single discolored petal. Everything was lovely; not even A————— could mar the perfection (though he tried; Lady knows he tried; something was buzzing in his pocket, and he kept reaching into it furtively, like a pervert, like a mad bomber, but the Pale Throats Chorus, who generously drove all the way from C——— Town to grace the funeral with their lovely voices, sang with such sweet perfection that his twisted little scheme, whatever it was, that buzzing, was drowned out).

Dear Arcamadeous,

I will not include your letters. I have burned them all. May ~~you choke on the smoke~~ the fire transmute your venomous words into sweet prayers, may the smoke carry them up to the sky.

I remain, as always,
Your Sister,

Natalina Eisenberg

The tales of the Namachi return again and again to the motif of fire, the dangers of fire: of flames burning out of control, like rabid dogs whose appetites are as uncontrollable as their spreading infection; of unvanguishable furnaces with [apparently] endless sources of fuel; of infernos rampaging across the land like giants, forming and reforming the world with their epic steps: melting mountains into smooth black glass, incinerating forests into deserts, toppling cities into ruins, releasing undersea volcanoes into the frenzied outpouring of new islands. . . . [W]e can see clearly that, in such a world, the swamps would be the only imaginable haven. And so the question becomes: did such a world truly exist? Or, rather, to what extent do the myths of the Namachi encompass or enfold an oral history of their ancestors?

Betsy sang me the sweetest song today. I scribbled down some of the lyrics—

          Like a ballerina spinning glass
          You turn and turn
          Oh, why do you spurn
          The truth
          The light streaming through windows
          Of colored glass

. . .

          Spider, your legs are too long
          You spin and spin
          A thread far too thin
          For warmth
          For comfort in winter lingering
          Far too long

Broken Man, Broken Man, the cake’s burned to black
Needle Man, Needle Man, there’s no doorway back.

Willow Fagan lives in Ann Arbor, where he reads Tarot and cultivates dreams. This is his second piece of published fiction; his first appeared in Fantasy Magazine. You can find him online at willowfagan.livejournal.com.

Behind the Wainscot #15

admin — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 19:57:41 +0000

The Reading

guest editor: Jonathan Wood

	INTRODUCTION JONATHAN WOOD
	I: THE HERMIT PAUL ABBAMONDI
	II: TWO OF SWORDS FORREST AGUIRRE
	III: THE STAR BARTH ANDERSON
	IV: THE TEN OF SWORDS BARTH ANDERSON
	V: THE SEVEN OF SWORDS JACQUELYN BENSON
	VI: THE FOOL HAL DUNCAN
	VII: AUCUN IMBÉCILE JE BERRIEN HENDERSON
	VIII: THE TOWER PAUL JESSUP
	IX: HIEROPHANT BRIDGE JAY LAKE
	X: SEVEN OF PENTACLES J. M. MCDERMOTT
	XI: QUEEN OF CUPS MICHELLE MUENZLER
	XII: THE MAGICIAN CAT RAMBO
	XIII: TWO OF CUPS EKATERINA SEDIA
	XIV: SINGLE CARD SPREAD RACHEL SWIRSKY
	XV: THE EIGHT OF SWORDS S. BOYD TAYLOR
	XVI: DEATH MARK TEPPO
	XVII: THE HANGED MAN CATHERYNNE M. VALENTE
	XVIII: THE SUN DAMIEN G. WALTER
	XIX: SIX OF SWORDS ERZEBET YELLOWBOY

INTRODUCTION

admin — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 19:23:59 +0000

INTRODUCTION

JONATHAN WOOD

     Strip lights that pull down a sheen of glass between you and the world. The sterile buzz of the air conditioning—that chill that is never quite there. Step outside, step away. Onto the streets. Out into the real—and, yes, that feels better, that is real light, that is real air, those are real advertisements, that is real sex they sell. And still, still . . .
     You see a door, green, paint blistering—must be the heat. God the heat and the humidity like dog-wet breath on your neck. And you tell yourself, yes, you would like the air conditioning now, that it is better than this, because you are not the sort of person who goes into the sort of place that that sort of door enters, with its sign written in neon, its hocum and its pocum and all its other bullshit. But this real, well, it is all well and good in short bursts.
     So up the stairs into the not-quite-blessed cool. And at least the light here is just that which stretches through the chicken-wire tattooed glass. And maybe that poor light leaves shadows, but maybe shadows are what you want, thank you very much. Maybe a little mystery is what you like.
     You look at the shelves, which are beaten and battered but still functional at least, much like the books they hold. Spines that are still holding it together. You run a finger over the soft cotton smoothness where the sheen of the new has been worn away.
     This feels real.
     There is a noise behind you, and there is a girl. But of course there has to be a girl, this is a store, someone has to be minding it, yes, yes, that makes sense. You just didn’t see her straightaway. There are shadows here. You said it yourself.
     She is younger than you expected. Black tank-top, green frilled skirt that brushes the ground and hides her feet. Her fingernails are not painted. Her hair is pulled up high, not quite in a bun, but not quite in a ponytail either. She walks across the room, over the threadbare carpet to a small card table. Her feet don’t make a sound, just the swish-swish of her skirt on her legs.
     She indicates the table’s other chair. You hesitate but then you sit. Why not? Where can be the harm? Where?
     She produces a deck of tarot cards. Her fingers blur. The soft slap of the cards against each other, the click of her nails as they catch their edges. Back and forth and back and forth between her hands. She shuffles, cuts, shuffles again. And then eighteen cards are laid out before you, perfect rectangles, perfectly aligned.
     Somewhere in the background you hear the A/C unit grind to a halt.
     She smiles at you. Her teeth, perfect white rectangles, perfectly aligned. Pick a card, she says, any card.

Jonathan Wood is an Englishman in New York. He writes odd little things that show up in odd little places, like Weird Tales, Fantasy Magazine, and Farrago’s Wainscot. His work is forthcoming in Electric Velocipede, and several anthologies, including Crawlspace: Selections from the Inaugural Farrago’s Wainscot Exhibition. He’s also had a few pieces in this magazine as well. This is his first attempt at editing it. He can be found online at thexmedic.livejournal.com.

SIX OF SWORDS

admin — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 19:16:03 +0000

SIX OF SWORDS

ERZEBET YELLOWBOY

     This is about time, and the mind. This card has many faces. Are you the hooded woman, concealed and enclosed, detached from the turbulence around you and yet suffering by it? Are you the boatman, steering onward through violent waters, riding the waves lest you drown? Are you at the center of the rose, experiencing a painful unfolding as you evolve?
     A struggle is implied: frustration, agitation, confusion, an insuperable battle between your very body and soul. Leviathan has you by the ankles and is pulling you down. You have often felt overwhelmed or, just as often, dead to the world. You have been unable to formulate a plan, or break yourself free. You ache for resolution. The journey from there to here has been a long and difficult one.
     Look into the monster’s face. Let go of whatever might bind you in indecision. Do not bargain with distraction, nor give in to despair or remorse. Here is the moment you have longed for; the elements are suddenly balanced on the point of a sword. Perception of the senses is magnified; you comprehend every petal and every wave. The chart is drawn in which destiny may be fulfilled.
     This moment, fine as it is, is impossible to capture. It is fleeting, it passes, but in this spark of perfect clarity you will find resolution. In this moment, acumen reigns. You will know it when it comes; you will see it go by. In this moment, the clouded glass shatters and falls at your feet. One thousand glittering pieces of madness can now be swept away. This flash of light may temporarily blind you. It is the sun in your eyes reflecting from the well-polished blades of these six swords.
     This beautiful moment will pass, but with it will go leviathan, bloodied and slain by the piercing insight you have gained. The waters of chaos recede. The dominion of reason is established. Wisdom comes. So was the atom split and a new world made.

Erzebet Yellowboy is an author, bookbinder, and editor whose works has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Goblin Fruit, Mythic Delirium, and Jabberwocky. Her first novel, The Bone Whistle, was published by Prime Books in 2007 and was written under the name Eva Swan. She is also the founder of Paperveria Press and fiction editor of Cabinet des Fees, a journal of fairytale fiction and academic essays. To learn more visit www.erzebet.com.

THE SUN

admin — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 19:10:04 +0000

THE SUN

DAMIEN G. WALTER

     Marian took a train out of the city as the day grew bright. She had been back on Earth for over a year, but had avoided the light of the sun, even filtered through London smog. She ignored occasional glances from the other passengers. Her scars and her celebrity were so entwined she could not tell which attracted the eye.
      ‘What do you feel for him, now?’ Her councilor had asked that morning. Marian gazed out of the high windows overlooking St James Park, at the hundreds of people walking through their own lives, and realized she could not answer. She got up and left without a word.
     From a cafe on the Westgate Rd she e-mailed Emilio Palmer at the Gates Foundation with her resignation, renouncing all contractual entitlements owed to her. He responded, before her coffee had cooled, with a plea for Marian to reconsider. She folded the laptop closed, passed it to the bemused Algerian behind the counter, and began to walk.
     They had walked London’s streets together. Eighteen months of mission training and if asked Marian would have said they were just friends. Between mission simulations and specialist training, they found a thousand momentary fragments of time and conversation each to learn the other inside out. But they never gave a voice to the feelings they found for each other. The word was always too difficult.
     Marian left the train at a small town surrounded by countryside. She traipsed through fields of wheat, and splashed across a shallow brook. In a field of long grass a boy and a girl rode on the back of a white stallion. She let herself wonder how their children might have looked.
     At the crest of a low hill, Marian sat for a long time staring up at the sun. It seemed unreal that he had died there. She remembered the heat burning through their shielding, eating their ship from the nose up as the first Sol mission ended in catastrophe. The sun that had scarred her so badly was the same sun that now warmed those scars. In that moment of illumination Marian found the answer to the councilor’s question.
      ‘I love you,’ she said.

Damien G Walter is a writer of weird and speculative fiction. His stories have been published in Electric Velocipede, Serendipity and many other magazines as well as BBC Radio, and numerous anthologies. He reviews for The Fix and blogs for Guardian Unlimited. He is a graduate of the 2008 Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy workshop at UC San Diego.

THE HANGED MAN

admin — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 19:04:12 +0000

THE HANGED MAN

CATHERYNNE M. VALENTE

     In the 1912 Qabbani deck, completed shortly before the designer’s death in a Tangiers brothel, the Hanged Man, most unusually, takes the place of The World at the terminus of the Major Arcana. Qabbani, a profligate student and senet gambler, was branded on the right knee and taken on in bondage by a fortune teller of great beauty. When his debt to her was satisfied, she left him without pity, distraught, destitute, and possessed by his worship of her. Ferocious and determined, he used the last of his money in the senet slums and won enough to collapse into a brothel where he directed for several weeks a pair of underage twin prostitutes to paint seventy-eight cards for him. Qabbani married the sisters and widowed them on the same night in a rite he believed, along with the alchemical energy of the cards, would grant him immense powers and bind the four of them, Qabbani, his new wives, and his lost fortune-teller, through all their subsequent incarnations. Heavily dosed with laudanum, he chanted and whipped his own flesh into a wreckage of blood and lymph. At his inevitable climax, the girls strangled him on a makeshift altar.
     The deck was unknown until 1997, when it was made public and immediately sold to US Games by Firyal and Widad Ghobril, aged 17.
     The doublet of the Qabbani Hanged Man is colored in gold leaf, the only card in the deck to receive such expensive attentions. The pinks of the sleeves are scarlet, giving the appearance of slashing, weeping wounds. So too are his eyelids traced like a woman’s with a delicate line of gold. He is naked from the waist down; there is a curious scar on his knee where it bends to create that crook of leg common to all known versions of this card. A universally acute angle, right ankle resting across left knee. This is the Mudra of the Hanged Man. He cannot escape this gesture, no more than the Querant can escape the predestination of dolorous sacrifice, the flaying of the heart, release of the will into heaven.
     The angle of the knee is 47 degrees.
     The penis of the Hanged Man is erect, pointing downward toward his young chin, his tranquil, inverted face. From the corners of the card come snaking, spiraling boughs of mistletoe to entangle and ensnare his member, which extrudes one single drop of gold-tinted blood, or semen.
     The face of the Hanged Man is unmistakably that of Harith Qabbani himself. His expression is serene.

Catherynne Valente lives in Ohio. Her short fiction and poetry has appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, Fantastic Metropolis, The Women’s Arts Network, NYC Big City Lit, Jabberwocky, Fantasy Magazine, Electric Velocipede, Cabinet des Fees, and Star*Line, and has been featured in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror #18. Her novels include The Labyrinth, Yume no Hon: The Book of Dreams, The Grass Cutting Sword, The Orphans Tales: In the Night Garden and The Orphans Tales: In the Cities of Coin and Spice.