Desdemona, Tag Cavello [classic literature list TXT] 📗

crevice in the attic window to get inside, careful of spider-webs, and rats, and roach traps and stray cats. Wings sparkling in the moonlight, Breezy next flew down a flight of old wooden steps. A dark hallway led past the giant’s bedroom, which she easily avoided, to an open door at the far end. Inside that door was a den. And inside that den…

Dainty as a butterfly, Breezy alighted atop the aquarium. It was long and rectangular. The shape of a coffin. Moonlight glowed in its deep waters. This pleased Breezy a little bit. She would be able to see while she dove. It also upset her. Deep waters they were indeed. For the first time Breezy began to seriously wonder about the capacity of her lungs.

Stop wondering and find out! her thoughts chided.

But first the fish. From a small petal-pouch around her waist, Breezy removed several slices of fresh minnow meat. She tossed them into the water. Instantly, the convicts swam up to gobble them whole. Ah, yes! This was going to work!

She took off all her clothes before going on that final, dreadful, deadly swim. And let me just pause here to mention how pretty she looked, standing naked before the water, her slim, soft body all aglow in the moon, her wings like the blades of polished swords, her pointed ears listening, listening oh so intently, for any sound down by the giant’s door. But they just couldn’t hear anything, you know? Not that they were bad ears, but that the giant was so very quiet, and of course he knew where to step so the floor-boards didn’t creak, and could hold his breath for a long time, much longer than a female fairy, so that Breezy just…didn’t…hear him at all.

Her bare, boney chest filled with a practice breath. And another, and another. And when her lungs felt good and ready to go, Breezy tossed some more minnow meat into the water. The convicts attacked. Good for them. They were probably both male. Noisy and stupid.

Breezy took another deep breath, and this one she held before diving into the water, making nary a splash with her glass-shard frame. Down, down, down to the bottom she swam, kicking her legs. The pearl rested on a mound of stones between two large rocks. It looked like a moon itself. Its pale glow made Breezy’s heart skip a beat.

Happy thus far with her adventure, she swam up for air.

“HAHH!” she gasped, breaking the surface.

A shadow fell over the water. Breezy screamed. The shadow belonged to the giant. Now his face loomed above her, grinning.

“And whom do we have here?” he inquired. “A pretty little insect. I thought I heard wings outside my door.”

Screaming some more, Breezy made to climb from the tank. But her wings were all wet. She couldn’t fly.

“A late night book is just the tool,” said the giant, “to catch a fairy in your pool! Reading keeps me awake!”

With his thumb and index finger he plucked Breezy from the tank. Now for a human to touch a fairy—especially a female fairy—is absolutely and utterly beyond all question anathema. Imagine how much more delicious it was for the giant to seize one who wore no clothes!

“I can feel your teensy, tiny little heart,” the giant said, raising her before his eyes. “Fast as a humming bird’s.”

Breezy kicked and squirmed to get free. Her small breasts heaved. When a fairy is out of breath her lungs sing like steam escaping from the world’s tiniest tea pot. Breezy was very out of breath indeed.

“Help me!” she screamed. “Somebody help me!”

Nobody came to help her. Instead the giant began to stroke one of her wings in a thoughtful way, no doubt admiring its shape, its texture. If asked, he would probably count it among the most beautiful fairy wings he had ever seen.

“Now this will only hurt for a moment,” he promised.

And with a quick jerk of his wrist, he pulled Breezy’s wing right out of her back.

“EEEEEEE!” Breezy shrieked. “My wing! My wing!”

The giant held the severed wing before her disbelieving eyes. “So it is,” he said. “Yes. But it looks as if my convicts are still hungry.”

He dropped the wing into the water, where it was devoured instantly. Then he tore off Breezy’s other wing and did the same.

“NO!” the little fairy kept shrieking. “NO! NO!” Tears gushed torrents down her cheeks. Even if she were to somehow survive this horrific encounter, she would never fly again.

The giant’s thumb moved to her throat. There it began to stroke, ever so gently, Breezy’s delicate skin.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, “but you really must pull off a fairy’s wings before you eat her. They taste awful to humans. And the pieces tend to get caught in our teeth.”

Breezy’s eyes bulged in terror. She drew a breath to say something. I don’t know what it could have been. Nor does it matter today in the least. She couldn’t get a word out before the giant popped her whole into his mouth.

Female fairies taste just like sugar cubes. That’s what I’m told. You can eat them raw, or you can boil them in water and serve them with your holiday ham. I have a fairy cookbook somewhere in my bedroom. Perhaps one day I can show it to you.

Anyway, the giant preferred them raw. His tongue licked her a number of times, enjoying the softness of her skin, and of course the taste, and most of all, he loved how she squirmed to get free. Occasionally he would pull her out of his mouth, her body all covered in spit, to lick her like a lollipop. The whole sordid ordeal took several minutes, I think. Perhaps even longer.

But sadly, it did have to end. It was late at night and the giant needed his sleep. So with a sigh of regret, he put the screaming little girl back into his mouth, and bit down hard, crunching her delightful, delectable little bones.

∞

“Good Heavens, Sunny!” Dante’s mother gasped. “What would the moral of a story like that be?”

Sunny looked at her. The coffee was long gone. Rims of empty mugs shined. There was a bit of lip-stick on Sunny’s, and of course Mrs. Torn’s. “Always,” she said soberly, “make sure you have a strong man to protect you.” Now her eyes moved to Dante. “Always.”

“And has our Dante been protecting you well so far, Sunny?” Mr. Torn asked. His face looked straight as the horizon of an obsessionist’s landscape, and his voice was deadly serious.

As was Sunny’s voice, when she replied, with green gaze still on the boy in question: “He takes wonderful care of me. Wonderful care. I always feel safe when we’re together.”

Mr. Torn smiled. “Good lad,” he said to Dante.

And Dante thought later that was the first time he ever sounded proud of his son.

“But Sunny, really,” Mrs. Torn put in. “I must repeat what I said earlier about your not liking fiction. That it’s a waste of time.”

“So it is,” the girl said.

“So what was Breezy’s story then, if not fiction?”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Torn. Allow me to repeat: Breezy’s story is true.”

“Preposterous!”

“Not at all. You see…my father was the giant. And he still has that fish aquarium.”

“And the pearl?” Dante asked.

“Still at the bottom,” Sunny said with an evil wink. “Safe and sound.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Ides of March

There are among boys no one virgin. A virgin is a girl, until as such she gives it to her man, a token of something strong, be it love, or lust, or the heartfelt wish of a woman inside, impatient to burgeon.

 

Sunny’s birthday fell on a Monday. As promised, Dante would of course spend it with her, only it would be at school. By no means did this create a deterrence for what happened over the following weekend—or more specifically, on Saturday night, while Brenton was away on business. Brenton only, for Sunny’s mom had decided last minute to stay home with her daughter. This made not the slightest difference either.

Dante’s father drove him to Sunny’s house. He, Dante, was to stay the night there. The pretense existed in form of the birthday party, which, Dawn Desdemona informed Mrs. Torn, could run late, as Sunny was now an official teenager. Would it be an issue for Dante to sleep over in the guest bedroom?

Dante overheard this telephone exchange at the kitchen table Saturday morning, fully aware of its content. He had planned it all week with Sunny and her parents. Watching his mother nod, he took a bite of toast. The butter had melted into the bread just right. Just perfectly right.

Sunny’s porch greeted him with a cold March wind. Dead foliage swept his legs, enticing him to the door. Dante knocked. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, purple dress shirt, and black pants. Half a dozen terra-cotta roses rested in one hand. In the other, a small white box.

The door clicked and was pulled wide. A slightly taller version of Sunny smiled in the form of Mrs. Desdemona. Gushing welcomes, she led Dante into the living room. The lighting was dim but pleasant. He remembered its sweet odor of pipe tobacco. It greeted him now. The books were also still here. Shelves of ancient-looking volumes, bound in brown and red. One title in particular stood out: Tuet Enormity Among The Stars.

“Dante?” Mrs. Torn said. “Could you make a fire? I forgot to have Brenton do it before he left.”

“Of course, Mrs. Desdemona. No problem at all.”

Her eyes, every bit green as Sunny’s, shimmered. “Thank you. I just love having a man in the house. Sunny too. She’s upstairs, by the way. Give her just a few more minutes.” She looked at the flowers. “Are those for her?”

“Three of them are,” Dante said, before executing a tricky maneuver to get three others free. “These are for you.”

Mrs. Desdemona took them with chest heaving for air. “I’m overwhelmed! Thank you very much!”

“My pleasure.”

“Let me put these in water and check dinner!”

She disappeared into the kitchen. Dante could now smell cooking food in delicate association with the cherry tobacco. Putting Sunny’s gifts down, he set to work on the fireplace, getting a healthy flame alight just as the sound of clicking heels approached from behind.

“Guess who?” a girly voice purred.

“Hello, beautiful,” Dante said, without turning around.

The flames seemed to grow higher for a moment. A curtain of heat brushed Dante’s face. He stood to his full height, then turned to find Sunny shining in the darkness. She wore a green, sleeveless kitty blouse with a short but serious black skirt. A silver-studded belt hung from the skirt. Her shoes—high-heeled, open-toed—were sleek and sexy. She thanked Dante for coming. Ever so slightly, her head tilted as she spoke, capturing the blaze in her emerald eyes, setting them in turn alight, so that they shimmered with the playful iridescence of her jewelry, bracelets and ear-rings, rendering her as a star that sparkled in solitude, adrift from any galaxy, bereft of satellites, alone until this night, upon which Dante knew her vacant system would become binary.

“You’re as lovely as I’ve ever seen you,” was all he could think to say.

“Thank you, Dante. I know you mean that.”

Her flowers were on the coffee table. Dante picked them up. “Happy thirteenth, Sunny. This is yours, too,” he added, reaching for the little white box. The box was decorated with a blood-red bow. “Would you like to open it now?”

The flowers sighed their fragrance as she kissed the corner of his mouth. “Later. Upstairs.”

“Almost time to eat,” came Mrs. Desdemona’s voice from the kitchen door. She leaned on the frame, wearing a smile that knew everything. “I’ll just borrow Sunny for a few minutes, Dante, if that’s all right.”

“Certainly,” Dante said.

And Sunny, arching a brow: “We’re having oysters tonight, Dante. Do you like oysters?”

“I’ve never tried them.”

“Oh,” she replied, in the voice of a detective who has just discovered a clue. “So it’s