Message-ID: <54819asstr$1162332602@assm.asstr.org>
From: "Ryan Sylander" <ryansylander@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} All Souls Night (MF flash Halloween)
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Date: Tue, 31 Oct 2006 17:10:02 -0500
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All Souls Night
By Ryan Sylander
http://storiesonline.net/library/author.php?id=3191

I wonder what she will be this year.
As I weave through the tail end of the gathering mass of fiends and
angels, and all things otherworldly, I do not know what I am looking
for.  Nevertheless, she is here.
The throb of the drums becomes more physical as the crowd becomes thick
and slow.  Copal burns my nostrils as a black caped ghoul on a
disfigured bike rides leisurely by my side.  The rider turns slowly to
grin at me through a mask.  I stare for a moment, and then push through
a new gap in the crowd.
The drums change.  Their rhythm increases and pulses inside my chest.
Up front, a large skeletal head floating overhead wavers for a moment,
swaying as if unsure which way to go.
The procession has begun.
Torches flare up around the edges of the street.  Faces flicker golden
in celebration of the fire.  An ashen angel swallows a burning brand,
and all around shrill screams welcome the beginning of the march.
I press forward.  Tonight the drums seem to be calling to me.  She is
near them; for some reason I am almost certain of that.
A man with haunted eyes playing the fiddle materializes in front of me.
 Around the scroll hangs a small wreath of dried golden sempoalxochitl.
 He plays a phrase of his morbid piece just for me, before disappearing
again.
There is no stopping now.  Like a slow river, the accumulation of souls
walks, crawls or rides of its own accord.  When I catch an opening
before me, I enter it, moving slightly closer to the drums, and to her.
I check a neighboring face, staring intently into the eyes, watching
the body move.  Nothing rings familiar, so my gaze wanders again.  Last
year she was a red demon with searing lips.  The year before, a silky
white apparition with delicate touch performed her magic on me.
Having passed through the densest thicket of people, I reach the
drummers.  Two giant armed men muscle beaters against their taut
calfskins.  Surrounding them is a legion of dumbeks, bodhrans, and
axatses, moving in a perfect circle along the dusty street.
Three belly dancers move sensuously in the miniature arena created by
the drummers.  Dressed in pallid facemasks and dark blue sequined
velvets, the golden bells worn on their ankles, waists and wrists add a
sparkling cap of sound to the guttural thunder of the drummers.  I
watch the fluid movements of their hips and waists, legs flitting out
from under flying skirts, and shiny beads flashing in the light of the
periodic flames from nearby fire-breathers.
It is then that I catch the glimpse of a particular movement.  Even in
the mesmerizing and frenetic dance, she gives herself away through a
twist of her hips.
Her mask is watching me.  A glint is in the eyes hidden deep with in
the dark holes.  The thrill at having found her is equaled by the
thrill of seeing her move like this.
And the thrill of what is to come.
The procession enters a long underpass just as a locomotive motors
overhead, adding its pounding wheels to the compounded echo of the
percussion.  The air seems to ripple; the drums concuss the air on one
end of the tunnel, and the tunnel answers, swallowing and regurgitating
the sound back to us.  All around us, ghouls and lost souls howl into
the darkness, carried along by the inevitable movement of the
processional snake.
The white mask never stops looking at me.
I leave the drummers, and slip out of the stream of demons.  I hear the
sparkle of bells close behind me.  Behind a post, I hide for a moment.
No sooner does her ghostly mask float into view, I grab at her arms and
pull her behind the pillar, startled by the cold hardness of her arm
bracelet.  She slips the mask up just enough to reveal her lips.  Her
bells jingle slightly as she pulls on me.
I know it is her when we kiss.
She replaces her mask, and turns.  Her pale skin exposed at her middle
faintly glows, revealing the flare of her narrow waist into her curvy
hips.  Bent forwards at the waist, she presses back against me as I
raise my cloak.  I part the folds of her skirt and then the folds of
her sex.
The thundering of the drums grows more disjoint as the thousands of
echoes begin to overwhelm the main rhythm.  The pulses drift and blend,
and soon it is as if we are under a massive waterfall.
She begins to dance again, leaving me rooted against the pillar.  Her
spine sways in time with her own internal rhythm now, the drums long
washed out by their distance.  Now trumpets and clanking metal provide
the grotesque soundtrack.
And the bells.  She writhes forward and backwards, up and down, side to
side, and the her tiny bells never stop singing.
More drums begin to come nearer, a second brigade bringing up the rear.
 I slip out of her as she pulls away, and then she pushes back against
me, guiding me into her other place.
This is how we will come.  Again, I let her do the movements.  I cannot
dance like she can.
A whirlwind of spirits seem to whirl around us.  Things become
frenetic.
I feel her shudder, and her dancing stutters, bells pausing briefly.
I let out a demonic scream as I finish inside of her.  The tunnel spins
and the drums threaten to overwhelm me.
A moment later, she is gone.  I peek around the pillar and watch her
dance her way back to the procession.  She slides into this new ring of
rhythm, and dances anew.
Then she is lost in the sea of black and white ghosts, and gone.
Until next year.

-----

Have a fun holiday...!

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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