2 comments/ 18244 views/ 3 favorites Nova By: mercutioiixiv Her eyes were twin, corposantic quasars in the dank room's inner night. Long had learned to move carefully towards such energy, and through such accretion of waste, the dangerous befoulment of this his perfect find. But tonight was different. No caution, no need. He was not expecting to live through this encounter. Long lit a match and then a smoke, exhaled into the dim galaxy betwixt them. No, he thought, nothing left to lose, nothing left to save. He sidled off his bar stool, towards her. Long was a hitman, one of the best, but discreet, not flashy like many in his trade. Those who flaunted their skills, their inked-up biceps and latest gadgetry, usually busted down one too many doors and met the ice-cold stare of too many one-eyed greetings. Long had learned to keep low, work carefully. He was a skinny mess of tendons and bone, long, ragged hair cut shoulder-length haphazardly, and dress in the shabby cowboy style of old-time Marlboro commercials, like the smoke that dangled ember-first from his lips as he edged his way past rough-looking brigadiers in scuffed boots and jeans. He hadn't been out west in a while, and this little military bar outside Indianapolis, scab on the flaxen-downed leg of a Midwestern road, was conjuring up the worst sort of memories. He shook them aside, though, as he came within her orbit. "Evenin', darlin'. Buy you a drink?" Twenty-one years of doing this, and he still couldn't break the tyranny of the cliché. For a full five seconds she didn't say a word, just stood there looking at him, sizing him up. She knows, he thought. The damn bitch knows, and now we're right in the thick of it. But then she smiled, a little maelstrom flash of fire that matched her eyes, and consented: a whiskey, double, no ice. He nodded and with an "I'll be right back," turned and returned to the bar. She studied his back, shoulder blades protruding a bit from his ragged shirt. She matched his height, but was slightly wider at the hips and chest. Her wrists were the most fragile part of her, pale and hollow-looking, but the rest of her curved elegantly in one sloping hill of flesh, mapped by a pair of tight, black jeans and matching blouse. Her hair was also raven-black, and long. She wore no makeup or jewelry. Her eyes, as Long had noticed before, were ageless, insomniac points of light. He returned with the whiskies, one for himself, and watched as she sipped deeply. He was thinking of what to say next when she asked him how he planned on killing her. His eyes shot up and into hers like a diver enters a pool. "I don't plan on killing you," he said. Then added, as an afterthought, "but I don't expect you to survive." There was a moment of depthless silence. Then everything began to happen. She spun and made for the door, and he went to follow. One well-intentioned, mountainous man stepped between them, and the next second he was on the floor. Long had broken his leg without slowing down. She was through the double doors, into the parking lot, into the night. God she moves fast, Long said, sprinting to catch her as she crossed the road and disappeared into a maze of corn. Long followed, locating her easily in her crashing mêlée through the stalks. Sheaves whirred past his vision as he struggled to match her cuts and feints, back and forth through the crop. I shoulda' been a damned cereologist, I just figured out how crop circles are made. This thought occurred as a macabre moment in his chase, and faded. The field ended. She whirled to face him, hands like claws in front of her, ready to fight. He slowed to a walk, stepped out of the corn. She seemed to shimmer slightly in the black night. She waited. He took another step forward, opened his shirt, slid it off. His frame was thin, and laced with the rigging of a hard life, veins, scars, and muscle fighting for space. He slid a long bowie knife out of the sheath on his belt. The blade caught the moonlight as he spun it from finger to finger, contemplating her. "Now what am I going to do with you?" he asked. She was silent, still in her stance. "I asked you a question, girl," he growled. "You'll quit talking and playing with your little phallus, and come let me hurt you," she said, a touch of mockery in her voice. "You got me all tuckered out running away, the least you can do is bleed a little for me." Long chuckled. "Well then, let's do it." He strode towards her, knife held slightly behind him, left hand up. As soon as he stepped within range, her left heel came up lightning-quick and nearly caught his jaw. But he ducked under it, slicing up with his blade, slitting the front of her blouse, which, as tight as it was, ripped loudly open, revealing her full, pale breasts and the black lace bra that held them, and below a smooth porcelain stomach. She hissed and made a grab for his eyes, just missing them. He backed off a few steps, and smiled. She glared at him, and her star-sign eyes had become wrathful comets of icy, cosmic phosphorescence. Baring her teeth, she shot forward, heedless of his weapon. He side-stepped neatly, and slit the back of her blouse as she passed, leaving a thin line of parted skin beneath the cut that with surgical precision had stripped the cloth from her shoulders. She gasped. A thin ruby trickle dropped gracefully down the nacre of her back, and with the sudden advent of pain her anger dispersed. The wound was not long, nor was it deep, but she realized what it meant. Long realized it too. She, who had never been bested, was going to lose this fight. She turned back towards him. Her bra had been cut away with her blouse, and her breasts hung free, kissed with sparkling sweat. "You win," she said bluntly. "Kill me." He stepped towards her, still cautious, knife still ready. He had thought she would be better than this. He reached her, placed the knife's edge against her throat, saw the pulsing life beneath it. She stared at him defiantly. Was this the look she had given the magistrate when he had sentenced her to ten years in the labor camps for her role in the Magdalen Wars? Or the same gaze she employed when she murdered her guards with a makeshift pickaxe and fled into the tunnels? Was it, he wondered, the same inscrutable confidence she hid behind when, as a courtesan, she had pleasured so many of his government's leaders in what would be their last dance of love? And to be so easily beaten, in a corn field in some ignoble town, after the wars, the product of a loose-end contract bubbled up in the bureaucratic tar pits and passed on to him, a mercenary taker of life. They were both executioners, but in her was also the execution of ideals, in him only the base desires of logistics and employment: paychecks, food, whores, and beer. Here he was, the Pharisee, not even the Pharisee, the grunt centurion with hammer and spikes. He was Alaric, the Visigoth general, the first sacker of the city of Rome. All this passed like a squall through his mind, but took no time, and his blade still rested gently upon her jugular. He began to press down, and her eyes closed. She did not see him lean forward, and when his lips caught hers she was not prepared for the molten rush that swept her body. When his knife slid blunt side down along her stomach, and cut away the clinging denim with a loud tearing, she was not certain the sound was not her own sanity, tearing loose from the supernova of her mind. Her jeans were shredded and pulled away, Long working blind as he continued to assault her lips and neck, biting down hard and receiving equal treatment from her catlike mouth and tongue. He winced as her fangs opened his shoulder and sucked the warm blood from him. He placed one leg behind hers and pushed her forward, so that she fell heavily on the grass, and he followed, pressing his thin weight into her, both still clawing and panting. Her back lanced out in pain, and she rolled him over, straddling him with her muscled thighs, digging her knees into him. He tore her flimsy panties off, grasping her full buttocks in his hands, administering a stinging slap that made her yelp and kiss him harder. She pulled away and began to move along his torso, kissing each precious rib, before tearing open his jeans and feasting on him. He writhed in the dewy grass, counted every star and started over as the full tide of orgasm began to rise in him. He grasped her sable mane and hauled her up, kicking off his boots. She nuzzled his pants off, and became him fiercely in the dark. Her eyes were searchlights, their movements the trepidations of the planets, and her explosions the death of every star he had counted. At last they were spent, and lay huddled together in the stillborn cold, tracing the warfare of each other's bodies, the marks they had left and the ones left by others. At the edge of a cornfield the two naked killers, one still and smoking, the other shivering slightly, unwound two strings of violence, and as the sun emerged from over the shallow, umber forest, they again embraced in that strange, illicit miracle of death and regeneration, the growing warmth. Nova Scotia Women Into Black Men If you're black and male, and you're a halfway decent human being, then you become instantly invisible to black women. As a university-educated and church-going brother, it used to happen to me. Until I began dating a white chick named Emily Dedham, and black girls suddenly noticed that I existed. My name is Steven Guillaume and I'm a young brother of Haitian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I work as a security guard to pay the bills, and I study criminology at Carleton University because I dream of working enforcement someday. Emily Dedham, my girlfriend of two years, is simply heaven-sent, ladies and gentlemen. A lot of guys say that about their ladies, but I mean it. I think I got a good one in my hands. Lord knows what I had to go through before finding her. Before I met Emily, my life was in a downward spiral. If a man lets a bad woman into his life, she can fuck things up in ways the poor shmuck couldn't imagine. A while ago, a hurricane called Annie Andrade blew me into my life, and wrecked things for a bit. Fortunately, like all bad things, it came to an end. Annie and I met at the Silver City movie theater in the east end of Ottawa, the day the movie The Dictator opened in theaters. I was standing in line at the box office and spotted this tall, curvaceous and downright sexy young black woman standing there by herself. Typically, pretty sisters like her don't venture nowhere without their girlfriends or some male friend with them. Yet here she was. In an uncharacteristically bold move, I approached her and asked her what movie she was seeing. The young woman looked at me, smiled and told me she was here to watch the dude from Borat. I smiled and told her I was thinking of seeing the same movie. Grinning, she asked me if I wanted to sit together. Thus Annie and I went into the movie theater, two perfect strangers, and sat next to each other, talking like old friends about Hollywood actor Sasha Baron Cohen's movies, much to the annoyance of other moviegoers, whom we casually ignored. You have to understand that things like that don't typically happen to me. I've always been painfully shy with the ladies, even though I've been told time and again that I'm a good-looking guy. I'm six-foot-one, with a cute face, or so I've been told, but a somewhat chubby body. I weigh two hundred and seventy pounds. Like all of us, I've got my insecurities. For me, my weight and shyness are what have always held me back from living life to the fullest. I get noticed by the ladies but then I start talking to them and they see right through me, and tend to go for the nearest jerk. Annie wasn't like the others, or so I thought. I mean, here was a gorgeous black chick who definitely could have any man she wanted, and this gal wanted me. From the get go, Annie didn't hide her interest in me. I thanked my lucky stars for meeting her. The gal was studying police foundations at La Cite Collegiale, and worked at Pizza Hut to make some extra cash. Oh, and she also loved comic books and action movies. I thought Annie had just dropped out of the sky. I read Marvel and DC Comics religiously and collect them the way old ladies collect cats. I didn't think there were women out there who shared my passions. Annie and I liked a lot of the same things. For a black nerd like myself, meeting a gorgeous black female nerd with whom I could argue about whether Blade or Wolverine would fare better against zombies, that's the definition of love right there. For a while, Annie and I were happy together. We became inseparable, hanging out in malls, restaurants and movie theaters. I proudly introduced her to my friends, and I must say, we looked good together. Things change in a man's life when he's got a lady on his arm. Your friends, co-workers and colleagues look at you different. I walked through the hallways of Carleton University while holding Annie's hand, and a lot of people looked at us, for we cut an impressive figure. A tall, well-dressed and intelligent brother holding hands with a gorgeous sister. Now that's definitely not something you see every day in Ottawa, that's for damn sure. Understand that I wasn't used to anything of the sort. My whole life I've been a loner. Highly intelligent, friendly and easygoing, yet with very few friends. A guy with a decent amount of female friends and acquaintances but no girlfriend. A smart guy with a lot of academic accomplishments but no social life. The saga of the black male nerd, ladies and gentlemen. Annie was like an injection of life into my otherwise dreary existence. One I was most thankful for. I was glad to have someone like her in my life. How many black girls do you know are capable of appreciating intelligent, sensitive brothers instead of chasing thugs or worse, worshipping white guys? Yeah, that's what I thought. In hindsight, Annie Andrade wasn't the angel I thought she was, and I definitely should have showed less naivete in my dealings with her. Still, what did I know? I was nineteen years old and in love for the first time. We've all made mistakes, and this was one of mine. You see, while I was going around wining and dining one Annie Andrade, she was busy giving up the booty to quite a few guys, some of whom were friends of mine. Of course, I wouldn't discover this till it was too late. Annie began pushing me away, and like a fool, I sought her out, pleading with her to resume our relationship. Little did I know that this was her pattern. Annie typically finds a guy who's willing and able to take her around and show her a good time without making too many demands on her. Oh, and she also has a stable of guys she keeps around, trading sex for favors. Man, I've been such a fool it's not even funny. In the end, I had to let go of my illusions of love and face the grim reality. Annie and I never had a relationship. The whole time this broad was just using me for fun and cash. Yup, I went out with a female sociopath. I'm not the first young man this happened to and I doubt I'm the last. Lesson learned, though. When something seems too damn good to be true, it usually is. Pass it on, fellas. Even after Annie Andrade did what she did, part of me missed her. Eventually, though, I moved on. One day, while walking around Billings Bridge Mall, I literally bumped into this short, curvy blonde chick. My cell phone clattered to the floor, and got dented. I freaked out, man. The gal apologized profusely, and told me that she worked for a cell phone company and would do whatever she could to help me. Upon hearing all that, I hesitated, for I'd only come to the mall to grab a bite. I was working at Alta Vista that day, and I only had forty five minutes before my shift began. I smiled at the young woman and shrugged casually, then took her up on her offer. For some reason, when I looked into this blonde-haired and blue-eyed beauty's face, I found myself smiling for no reason. Honestly? White girls aren't usually my type, especially bubbly gals like this cell phone saleswoman. I told her that I trusted her, as she peered over my smashed cell phone and ran my information on her computer. You're in good hands, the cute blonde said, smiling at me. Thus I met Emily Dedham. Later, I would learn much about her. Emily Dedham was born in the City of Halifax, Nova Scotia, and moved to Ottawa for school. She was studying communications at Algonquin College, and worked at the cell phone store to make extra cash. Not only was this gal cute, but she proved to be a woman of her word. Emily got me a new cell phone after contacting my service provider, argued successfully that my warrantee should cover it, and explained to me that the new device would arrive in the mail within a few business days. In the meantime you'll have to use a loaner phone, Emily said. Thank you ma'am, I said with a smile as I signed for the loaner phone. I looked at Emily, and felt beyond thankful for this young woman's help. I was about to turn to leave, when she stopped me cold. Grinning, Emily told me that in case I had any cell phone issues, or whatever, I could call her anytime for, ahem, tech support. Day or even late at night, Emily said, grinning suggestively. I looked at the cute, petite and curvy blonde gal with the bright eyes and smiled. Absolutely, I said, and punched her number into the phone. I went to work that day with a smile on my face. Emily Dedham was something else. I called her the next day, and even though I knew I might sound too eager, I asked her to grab a bite with me. To my surprise, without fussing or bullshit, Emily said yes, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it all began. The romance destined to change my life. I fell in love with a gorgeous white chick from Nova Scotia, and I'm a black man from the island of Haiti. We're an odd pair, I know. But so what? Emily and I are happy together. When the moment comes to decide about love and fate, you just know.