From time to time I’ll throw up short stories or flash fiction. Here’s the first one.
When the last man and woman came, the orgy subsided. Cordelia walked along the candle-lit balcony. She rubbed her belly. She watched the mighty business district of Baltimore, already extinguished at its heights, breathe a sigh of relief down her steel and cement roots. The bars let out. The shouting lasted few moments. Even the cab drivers went home. She blew on a flame, but did not blow it out.
Sperm chased their way down her uterus. She breathed in, breathed out. She had seven kinds of cum inside her. A dragon was a contest from conception. Cordelia did not enjoy these mortal affairs. The hemming and hawing before the clothes came off, the grunts and moans, often fabricated by people who thought themselves wild looking over their shoulders to see if someone else was having more fun.
The dragon wouldn't hesitate. When he grew up and took to the sky, he'd know the greatest joy. That’s what the poets got wrong. Dragons don’t hoard treasures to make up for their lost souls. They don’t hoard treasure at all. They accept the gifts of mortals in return for one simple piece of advice: pursue bliss.
Cordelia mourned the child that came before the beast. He’d be an orphan by nature if not by birth. He’d grow up in a desolate, shit-ridden Baltimore City raised on the smog that choked the Chesapeake Bay. She stood on tip toes, her forehead over the candle. She blew down on the flame, but didn’t extinguish it. Let it dance.
He’d be an outcast, the child. Most children are. In school, thrown from their homes. Like a second time leaving the womb. They’d just started to learns the rules of the household. But this child would have it worse. Because deep inside he would know his importance. He’d feel the lingering blood of flame and flight. It wouldn’t do him any good. Just like all the other children. Sad, and frightened, certain it's safe past the windows and the fences.
A man within the penthouse suite stirred. He stretched his arms and drained a flat glass of genuine champagne. He saw Cordelia out on the balcony. Her large but low breasts. Her long, graying hair. A belly that tucked over her sex and bounced as she walked on tip toes through the candle sticks on silver trays. He did not pull on a shirt before he approached her.
“Me,” Cordelia said. She didn’t stop walking and though she was no dancer, she was a mother now, and that gave her grace. The stream of seed jumped and fought each other up inside towards her womb. She giggled in a most girlish manner. She could feel them.
“I’ve never seen you at one of these.” He walked towards her. “Who do you know?”
“It doesn’t matter, young man.”
“Young?” He bristled, raised his shoulders, pushed out his impressive pectoral muscles. “I was with you inside. When things got heated. I was behind you, don’t know if you saw my face.”
“That was you? Well. Thank you.” She brushed her hand through a candle-flame and it jumped a foot taller. “Are you ready, then?”
“Ready.” The man frowned. His name was decaled on the front door of his law firm. He made policy, and he only slept with thin women. He couldn’t tell you why he’d chosen the big-bellied maternal woman who danced naked on the balcony. Alcohol and lust drove men crazy. Something was different tonight. “Listen, I don’t think you should come back.”
“I won’t. Are you ready?”
“You want to go again?” He didn't blame her. And even though she bothered him, offended him, his cock wanted to dip another time. “Well then get over here. You can see I’m all set.”
“Good.” She grasped a candlestick. She sauntered, on her toes, towards the tall business man. “It’ll be fast.”
“You think so? Listen lady, I’m…” His words fell off. She kissed him on the lips. She held him with her left hand and dripped hot wax. Down his back. He shuddered.
She thrust the candle in between his scapula. The flame went out. He yelped with joy. She kissed him and kept pushing. The shaft crumbled until the silver candlestick pressed against his spine.
He broke the kiss. “You’re a wild woman, you know that. Maybe you should come back.”
She smiled. She pushed hard. The candlestick cracked his spine and slid through his rib cage and up into a lung. The business man gasped. Cordelia pulled the candlestick out again. He heaved air that went out and into the clear night sky. He collapsed.
Cordelia wiped the catalyst’s blood on her pubic mound. She would give birth to a dragon. A mighty beast that sewed horror and re-birthed the world in its bliss. She draped herself in a silk bathrobe. A kimono. She giggled. A sperm met the egg within her. It was a time for change.
She disappeared down the elevator into Baltimore’s streets. No one troubled her. Those that understood bowed.