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  Praise for Steve Berman’s

  TRYSTS

  “Subtitled ‘A Triskadeicollection of Queer and Weird Stories,’ Steve Berman’s Trysts delivers dark fantasy of varying degrees of gay eroticism. His prose somber, melancholy, and polished, Berman achieves subtle effects in a nighted palette reminiscent of this description from the opening story: ‘The shades of dark gray and black were all new, perhaps had never even been named before.’ From the Poesque ‘The Ressurectionist’ to the Lovecraftian ‘Path of Corruption,’ Berman reinvigorates old tropes with a modern queer sensibility. Several stories take place in a deracinated urban venue known as the Fallen Area, and this homage to the Bellona of Delany’s Dhalgren proves effective and enticing.

  —Paul DiFilippo for Asimov’s

  “Like a surgeon spider crawling through the most private recesses of our minds, Steve Berman uncovers true horrors and truer beauties.”

  —Alex Jeffers, author of That Door Is a Mischief

  “These thirteen tales of desire and passion—with a nod to the supernatural and the fantastic—are skillfully wrought with surprising, wonderful results.”

  —Greg Wharton for Strange Horizons

  “Steve Berman’s first book, Trysts, is a haunting collection of stories imbued with both the dark temperament of the goth culture and the eerie otherworldliness of old fairy tales. In Berman’s world, everything has the power to take on life; anything can become the incarnation of our deepest desires or darkest fears.”

  —The New York Blade

  TRYSTS

  A Triskaidecollection

  of Queer and Weird Stories

  by Steve Berman

  Copyright © 2001 by Steve Berman

  All rights reserved

  isbn: 1-59021-000-x

  Beach 2 © 2001 by Steve Berman

  Stormed and Taken in Prague © 1997 by Steve Berman, previously appeared in Black Elf’s Dark Desires

  His Paper Doll © 2001 by Steve Berman

  The Resurrectionist © 2001 by Steve Berman

  Path of Corruption © 1998 by Steve Berman, previously appeared on Queer Horror (www.queerhorror.com)

  Vespers © 2001 by Steve Berman

  Left Alone © 1999 by Steve Berman

  Cries Beneath the Plaster © 1998 by Steve Berman, previously published by Goth.Net (www.goth.net)

  Finn’s Night © 2001 by Steve Berman

  Resemblances © 1998 by Steve Berman, previously appeared in Oasis 3/98 (www.oasismag.com)

  Tea Time with Corn Dolly © 2001 by Steve Berman

  The Anthvoke © 2001 by Steve Berman, previously appeared in July edition of Strange Horizons (www.strangehorizons.com)

  Hair Like Fire, Blood Like Silk © 2001 by Steve Berman

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, except for brief passages in connection with a critical review, without permission in writing from the publisher:

  Lethe Press

  118 Heritage Avenue

  Maple Shade, NJ 08052

  www.lethepress.com

  Design and composition by Sandy Freeman

  Cover image by Matt Bauer

  Cover design by Sara Cucinotta

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  EPIGRAPH

  For my father who taught me

  how to dream and scheme,

  for my mother who showed me

  that love is not a myth,

  to both of you I dedicate this book.

  “Alec,” said Richard. “It really isn’t safe for you to be going out alone here after dark. People get wild, and not everyone knows who you are yet.”

  “No one knows who I am.”

  ELLEN KUSHNER,

  Swordspoint

  “Wait! You haven’t seen anything.” She put down her books by the graveyard gate and swinging it open went inside. “You have to look at the tombstones. They’re all weird.”

  JOHN COYNE,

  Hobgoblin

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  FOREWORD

  BEACH 2

  STORMED AND TAKEN IN PRAGUE

  HIS PAPER DOLL

  THE RESURRECTIONIST

  PATH OF CORRUPTION

  VESPERS

  LEFT ALONE

  CRIES BENEATH THE PLASTER

  FINN’S NIGHT

  RESEMBLANCES

  TEA TIME WITH CORN DOLLY

  THE ANTHVOKE

  HAIR LIKE FIRE, BLOOD LIKE SILK

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As this anthology contains work written over the past few years, it may be impossible to thank everyone who has offered encouragement and help.

  First and foremost, all blame for any success Trysts might have falls on Holly Black. Without her I’d be lost and many of these stories would never have been finished. She knew when to harass and when to praise. I could not ask for a better friend or confidante.

  Mike Thomas, who has been a devoted e-mail friend over the years and has seen too much of my work to ever remain sane, never was afraid to tell me when my grammar was horrible. Jed Hartman, one of the kind editors at Strange Horizons, a premier web-based magazine of speculative fiction, helped to guide several of these stories from raw draft to finished work.

  I cannot forget my cadre of friends who listened whenever I rambled about some new story intended for Trysts: Evan and Natalie Cutler, Judy Paterson, Theo Black, Bill Hadsell, and Frank Slattery for his business advice.

  To those lost or left behind, I miss their role in my life: Dave Pinto and Michael Carte, who have always served as inspiration, especially at my most lonesome moments.

  Sandy Freeman and Sara Cucinotta are responsible for the incredible design of the book, inside and out. I would also like to thank Matt Bauer. He’s the talented artist who created the piece on the cover. Not only is he creative, but he’s one of the sweetest guys around.

  FOREWORD

  It’s only a matter of time before the word tryst is listed in the dictionary as obsolete, antiquated, or—my favorite—archaic. Which is sad, really, because there is no better single syllable to describe a stolen moment of passion.

  Daydreamers like the word. As a teen, I did an awful lot of daydreaming; being gay and closeted meant that the only trysts I could have were in my imagination. But simple games of pretend quickly became unsatisfying—idle thoughts of the boy who sat next to me in class leaning over to kiss me were not enough. Soon I began to invent romantic rendezvous: we would find ourselves alone together, then we would talk—bits of conversation that made me shiver—and finally, well, the climax of our little meeting. Day and night I replayed these dreams, changing scenes, endlessly trying to perfect them. Without realizing it, I had become a writer, creating and revising characters, setting, dialogue, and plots.

  Of course if you don’t have to worry about reality, then there are no limits to what kind of tryst can be had. I have always been thrilled by thoughts of magic and monsters; one of my fondest memories as a child was sitting down next to my mother and watching the old black-and-white horror movies on television. So my trysts quickly became more fanciful, even adventurous, than just two boys in love. Often there were secret passageways or ghosts or fiends.

  The Encyclopedia of Fantasy defines Dark Fantasy as a genre in which stories incorporate a sense of horror or unease but are clearly fantastical. That is a good description of my work. Like characters in Gothic fiction, my characters are often confronted with dismal situations and surroundings that mirror the turmoil they suffer inside. Some are tormented by being different; all feel the pain of loneliness.

  There are thirteen stories here, all told—which makes this, to adapt anoth
er archaic word, a triskaidecollection. Not every culture thinks thirteen is an unlucky number. I share that view; thirteen seems more thrilling than awful. Each tale revolves around a tryst. It may be a chance meeting which incites new passion, or a pair reigniting lost love. But remember that these stories are weird as well as queer; as you read them, you may find that sometimes two people can come together in strange (and even unnatural) ways.

  Steve Berman

  [email protected]

  July 2001

  BEACH 2

  Daniel had left the beach house a little after midnight, but now it was almost two o’clock. His senses were oddly awakened. The shades of dark gray and black were all new, perhaps had never even been named before. Sand was washed over with spray until it was all overcome by the night sky. The only real colors came from over his shoulder, the garish flashing bulbs and neon of the casinos.

  There were odd sounds and smells, too. The surf had so many different roars; like snowflakes, no two were exactly alike. The rushing water brought from the ocean the stink of seaweed as well as the cleansing odor of salt. The casinos’ distant din reached out over the beach, perfectly matched by an atmosphere of dinners, cheap buffet meatloaf vying against trout amandine. Even the sand had a smell, and the boardwalk itself. Clean and seasoned from so many summer years, and layers of suntan oil pounded into the grit and wood by countless feet.

  All in all, it felt wonderful to be out there. At least until he looked at his watch and saw he had only twenty minutes left. He turned in the direction of the beach house. It was out of sight, quiet and slumbering. He wasn’t sure if he could go back inside.

  That afternoon, the two couples had just been settling in. Well, maybe not couples—Susan had brought along this guy, Seth, who Daniel and Hilary hadn’t met before, but it seemed obvious to Daniel that Seth was nothing more than a friend of Susan’s. Maybe just a passing fad of a friend. But it was her folks’ beach house, so she could invite anyone she wanted along for the weekend.

  Hilary instantly disliked Seth. When she and Daniel were together in the guest bedroom unpacking, she had begun her usual routine. Daniel had become so used to the routine that he only started listening on the third comment.

  “And what’s with the piercings? Is Susan into skaters now?”

  Daniel emptied her suitcase while she sat on the queen-sized bed. “I don’t think they’re dating.” He carefully put each folded silken undergarment in the top drawer of the dresser. Then he started on the bathing suits and tops, and finally the skirts that needed to be hung in the walk-in closet.

  “I hope not. He gives me the creeps. I think he was staring at me.”

  Daniel chuckled. Not that the idea was silly, because he knew Hilary was attractive. Many guys told him that. They especially loved her legs, which had always seemed a bit too long for him. But no, he didn’t think Seth was staring at her. Seth had hazel eyes. And maybe used a touch of brown eyeliner. “Don’t let him bother you. The weather is supposed to be great, you wanted a tan to show off to your co-workers, and everything will be fine.” He hugged her—not too tightly, as he still held a coat hanger in one hand draped with her cotton dress, the one with the embroidered neckline.

  When he went downstairs, Seth handed him a full wine glass. Daniel smiled back and told himself again that everything would be fine.

  Daniel started to walk back along the shoreline, where the sand lay heavy and dark. His sandals were open to every grain, and when the rushing water came rhythmically in, he shivered at the coolness.

  Not that far, just over a few ridges and a jetty. So what if he ran across anyone out here? He was only out because he couldn’t sleep. He rarely slept well these days.

  After a day spent soaking in the sun, the four returned to the beach house, parched. Hilary had turned a shade redder than she wanted; she blamed the manufacturer of the department-store-brand oil she had lathered herself with. She had developed a mantra: “SPF 15, my ass.”

  While Hilary took a cooling soak in the tub, Daniel helped Susan and Seth with dinner. He had never grilled before—it had always been his father’s cooking territory, never relinquished—and so he worried that he’d lose one of the skewered shrimp down into the hot coals. Thankfully, Seth stood by his shoulder, helping, showing him how to carefully turn the food and to keep it from being burned. Susan drifted by and winked at both of them, as if she knew a secret, perhaps one about the giant salad bowl she carried.

  Out on the deck, they all sat down to eat. Hilary’s job turned out to be pouring wine. She was very good at it and became almost chatty as she refilled glasses.

  When the dishes were cleared, the night sky had turned bruise-purple and the stars were just beginning to shine. Seth had left the table and leaned against the deck’s railing, one bare arm dangling over the side. Daniel wondered if by summer’s end Seth’s skin would reach the same caramel color as his hair.

  A cool breeze off the ocean wrapped around all of them. Hilary shivered, a silent cue to all of them that she wanted to go inside.

  Back in the den, they stole the cushions from the sofas and lounged on the carpeted floor, discussing what to do next.

  Daniel picked up a nearby chamois pillow. “We could build a fort.” There were some laughs.

  Hilary had her hand on his bare knee; she gave it a squeeze. “Is there any place to go dancing? Danny and I took lessons for a wedding last month.” She smiled at him. A nice smile, one of the infectious ones she rationed out. “He’s really good.”

  Susan shook her head. “Nothing, really, in A.C.” Her tone was curiously flat.

  “I brought something.”

  All heads turned to Seth, who looked to Daniel suddenly impish, especially with his soft brown bangs and the golden rings along his ears.

  “Hold on.” He rose and left the room.

  “Well, what do you think of him?” Susan asked conspiratorially, leaning in close.

  Why did Daniel think the question was aimed at him? He opened his mouth, but Hilary answered for him. “Okay, but a little young for you, isn’t he?”

  “What’s wrong with twenty-four? Your guy isn’t much older.”

  Seth returned with a board-game box that had seen better days. The edges were bandaged with masking tape. “Here we are. Something different.”

  Susan fairly squealed when Seth lifted off the top and revealed a Ouija board. Daniel heard Hilary’s soft “ugh.”

  “I’ve had it since I was a kid.” Seth had a wide grin. Daniel saw that his bottom teeth were crooked.

  “Oh, let’s play.” Susan helped to take the board out.

  “Shouldn’t we dim the lights?” Daniel regretted speaking, for Hilary gave him a look.

  A harmless game. At least, that was what the small print on the underside of the lid promised. Susan insisted that two people had to work the small plastic guide, the planchette, but Daniel did not recall reading that in the instructions.

  Susan and Seth went first. They knelt close over the board and laid their fingers lightly on the planchette. When it started to move, Hilary whispered to Daniel, “I think the only spirit pushing that thing is the bottle of vino next to Sue.” Her lips tickled the sensitive skin of his ear.

  Seth spoke aloud every letter, number, and symbol, in a mock-eerie tone. Susan’s laughter, heavy and alcohol-rich, often skidded the planchette out of control. Daniel grinned madly. The very last movement landed on the question mark—a fitting end, as they then spent over twenty minutes trying to unravel the jumble’s meaning over soft cheese, apple slices, and lots of cheap, dry wine.

  “Your turn,” Susan said to Daniel and Hilary.

  “No, I don’t like this crap.”

  Daniel began to beg her, but she just shook her head, causing long brown strands of hair to get in her face. He saw it was pointless.

  “I’ll do it with you.”

  Daniel blinked suddenly. Then he saw Seth slide the planchette over to him. He blushed.

  For both men
to move the piece from opposite sides would have been awkward, so Seth stood up and moved around next to where Daniel sat.

  Daniel caught a whiff of Seth’s cologne. It hung lightly about the man’s shoulders and neck and smelled wonderful. He took several deep breaths of it.

  “Ready?”

  Daniel nodded and gently put his fingers on the plastic piece, finding it too small for Seth not to touch him.

  Daniel struggled to keep his eyes on the board. But he could barely pay any attention to the black script or numerals, even as he felt the planchette move. He closed his eyes—the safest path, he decided—and let Seth guide him.

  B. E. A. C. H. Then the planchette reached the 2 and stopped.

  “Beach 2? What the hell does that mean?” Hilary drew back, finally removing her hand from Daniel’s leg. She nearly knocked over a half-empty bottle of California white.

  Daniel was silent. He rubbed the tips of his fingers idly, secretly remembering Seth’s presence.

  They spent far less time interpreting this second prophecy. Susan had reached the point where any more drink made her more tired than giddy. Seth had become silent, fingering the silver ring around his thumb, taking it off and putting it on, and rolling it in his palm.

  Daniel faked a yawn. His mind turned over one thought—Beach 2—again and again, like the movement of that ring.

  “Tired, sweetie?” Hilary squeezed his arm. Her breath didn’t smell from the wine, which he thought strange considering how much she had drunk.

  He nodded. “We’re going to turn in,” he told Susan and Seth.

  “So early?” But Susan said it haphazardly, almost breathless.

  As they undressed in the guest room, both had eyes more on the bed than on each other. The sheets, so glaringly white, seemed more inviting to each of them than the common sight of the other naked. When they finished undressing, Daniel made the attempt to be amorous, cupping his favorite of her breasts, the one with the dark freckle. She sighed, then shuddered. But when he touched her back, she winced at sunburn.