Three Stories

Glossary

Fairy Tale (noun):

Once upon a time, there was a mad king. Known as der Märchenkönig, or the Fale Tale King, Ludwig II of Bavaria inspired the castle little girls and boys pad through, mouse ears adorning their heads like crowns, in the Floridian kingdom Walt Disney constructed.

Castle (noun):

New. Schwan. Stein. New. Schwan. Stein. Syllable by syllable, you memorize the German pronunciation with your American tongue. You gaze past the city outside the hotel windows, to what you imagine is beyond. White wine slips down your throat, a delicious chill settling. New. Schwan. Stein.

Grotto (noun):

You step past the grotto with its blue and red lighting that casts the space as fantastical and carnivalesque. You peer into the fluorescent shadows, at the candelabra in front of the rock-like wall. This castle is mismatched, a funhouse of design and mythology and ellipses. He never finished the castle, the mad king. Lived in it for only a total of 172 days. They say he built it so he could escape from the world, from his subjects and responsibilities, from the coarse fabric of reality. You picture him in the grotto, reclining on massive fur inside of a boat, a goblet of wine, and a plate of cheese to the side.

Honeymoon (noun):

Three days later, you and your husband arrive in Vienna. The final stop on your honeymoon. You’re tired of drinking and fucking and walking on uneven cobblestone streets. You don’t tell your husband that, not wanting to ruin the trip. Not wanting to become human just yet. There is a period of time, your mother told you, wherein your husband sees you as a divine creature. He falls to his knees and worships you. Presses his lips to the arch of your feet, to your ankle, to that ticklish spot behind your knee. Prays with his lips and tongue and sometimes his teeth. Revels the taste of your golden essence. Your ambrosia. It will fade, your mother told you. It always fades. And then you’re just a woman, a wife, a mother, a cook, and a laundress. An object of obedience, of tasks, and chores.

Woman (noun):

You slip out after an afternoon of wine and charcuterie and foreplay. Your husband, whom you brought to rapture with a combination of your fingers and tongue, snores on the white comforter in the hotel room. You walk without direction, arriving at a museum. You breathe in the scent of air conditioning and welcome the shiny tile floors. You amble without purpose until you see it. A slender woman, nude, framed by an oval that reminds you of female genitalia. She grips the opening, almost appearing as though she’s lassoing it. Past the oval, at the forefront of the oil painting is what appears to be a cave. Venus in the Grotto. You follow her gaze, into the mystery of the cave.

Goddess (noun):

The island forms in your dreams. Its shadows and peaks. Its vegetation and wildlife. It is a place where society is undone, where the natural cycles erase everything manmade. When you explore the island, you are not alone. Hundreds of women walk with you, by your side. The breeze caresses your naked thighs and belly. Your breasts hang free of wire and cotton. You hold your arms up like the goddess in the painting, the reigns of your future nestled in your hands.

One More Lie  

Two truths and a lie is my husband’s favorite game. “It’s the only way to really, truly get to know someone,” he tells me.

My tongue floats to the roof of my mouth. I rub it along the grooves and divots. Strike it with a swish against the back of my teeth while I think of all the other ways there are to get to know someone. Going on dates. Meeting their family. Reading their diary. Finding the parts of themselves hidden under messy stacks of paper in drawers or under their mattress or behind the fridge. These are all perfectly adequate ways to get to know someone, yet my husband dismisses them. He keeps his secrets, his truest self, tethered to his person, deep inside his mind.

My body wilts before his will. “Okay,” I say. “I am an only child. I never knew my father. I was married before.” I deliver each sentence as fact. As truth. My tongue pokes at the spaces between my teeth, waiting.

My husband studies me, his steel mind chewing on my statements. Then he grins, teeth slicing his mouth into two stretched curves. “You weren’t married before. I would know that about you. And,” he purrs, “I would never let another man have you. You have always been mine.”

His eyes focus on my lips then as though they are a delicacy. I know my husband is thinking about his next feast, of my body lining a silver tray, an offering of flesh and blood and conquering.

My tongue hovers in the middle of my mouth, teetering between damnation and lies. Husbands and wives are supposed to be truthful, yet honesty doesn’t always breed immunity. I nod, my eyes smiling. I know how to play without showing my cards. “Your turn,” I tell my husband. My tongue swells with moisture, salivating at the knowledge this might gain me. Forbidden access to my beloved.

He reads the hunger on my face. Gulps my desire with rapture. It is the one thing I cannot hide from him. My single tell. His lips begin to part, then pause, toying with me. “My favorite color is blue. You are my most prized possession. I killed my other wives.”

His eyes trace the lines and curves of my face, searching for a crease across my brow, a pulsing temple, a twitching cheek. He longs for me to see past his veneer. He craves visibility. I lift my tongue to my upper lip, allow my husband to glimpse its pinkness. I tilt my head so that my neck is elongated. My posture slinks into that of a beautiful object, something worthy of being prized. Being a possession means you can and likely will be replaced. Newer, shinier, more obedient models will line the store’s shelves soon.

I knew this with my first husband, and now with the second. They want to be seen, yes, but more so they want to be convinced of your devotion. Everyone knows a husband is compelled to kill his disobedient bride.

I decide to let the game linger. Two more truths. One more lie. “You didn’t murder your other wives,” I say, revealing my canines. “Terrible accidents befall the insatiable.” My tongue glides over the point of each fang. I think about telling my husband how I sometimes daydream about tearing into his flesh. That truth, I decide, can be saved for later. For now, another lie. “You, dear husband, are no more a killer than I.”

My Husband Reads the Paper After I Tell Him I’m a Succubus 

This isn’t how I planned it. I always imagined it would be in bed after a date night in. Flickering candles would sweat, mirroring our flesh. He would be on his back, one arm above his head. I would rest my breasts on his chest, the wiry hairs tickling my nipples. Instead, he comes home to find my jaw detached, trailing the linoleum kitchen floor. My hands, talon-like with their claws, shoveling raw meat into my gaping mouth. Hot blood dripping down my chin and chest, like the candles from our imagined date night. I swallow my food with one slurp. Snap my jaw back into place. Raise my hands. Will the claws to slip away to manicured nails. I eye the meat on the table, next to the newspaper. Blood has stained the edge of the front-page story. It’s now saying “traders warned of US meat shortages, overseas exports of pork and beef continued.”

“Hi, honey. It’s not what you think.” I falter at the disgust on his face. “Okay, it is what you think. What are you thinking?”

“You’re a monster,” he blurts.

I smell the earthy tang dripping from his armpits. I fight the urge to lick my lips. “We don’t like that word. Succibi, I mean. It’s politically incorrect to call any of us that.”

“Us? There’s more of you?”

“Of course there is, honey. You think I just woke up one day and started craving human flesh? I’m a succubus. This is a part of my identity, just like you identify as Irish.”

“That’s not the same,” he tells me.

“But isn’t it? It’s your culture. This is mine.”

My husband exits the kitchen and returns a few minutes later in his pajamas. He grabs today’s paper from the kitchen table and sits down. I watch as he flicks it open with a flutter of inked pages, blood slipping through each section, creating a barrier between him and me. I think about wiping my face and chest. I think about apologizing for who I am. I think about our wedding day and his promise to love me eternally. I sit down across from him. Let my claws reemerge. My jaw distend. I pick up the raw meat left on the table and slurp.