Elusive

"Spectrum" by Malkia Roberts

A sweet kiss lingered on her neck as he gently pulled her towards him by the wrists. Such delicate wrists. He smiled, beckoning her with his fingers and she willingly came, pressing her body onto his. He pushed her hand down as she reached to touch his unruly bronze hair. Her black eyes searched for his under his thick lashes. He avoided her eyes at first, then met them with a strong uncontrollable emotion. Not lust. . .not love, but thirst. A thirst that burnt him from the inside out. Like salt on wounds. He kissed the side of her jaw and allowed his fangs to slink down to her neck. He allowed them to pierce her throat and with one hand, stifled a yell from her. He drank, twisting a lock of her golden hair around his fingers; like sunlight pouring into darkness. He left her in her room, nothing more than a shadow dancing across the wall.

He was out hunting again. It was night. Darkness drenched the streets and the walls of the buildings. He saw her, twisting to the music on her ear phones, the sound of guitar and drums. She was lost—immersed-- in the music. Her eyes were closed and she barely noticed where she was going. Her raven hair swished in the wind, hovered. . . then graced her shoulders again. Something about her was different, irresistible. It put her on a pedestal above prey. He had to know what it was.

He stepped behind her, electric blue eyes focused on her with intensity. She turned swiftly and he “accidentally” bumped into her causing her to drop her Walkman on the steps of a shop. He gasped a little and bent down to pick it up, murmuring apologies. She smiled warmly at him, a smile that lit up her eyes and quickened his pulse.

“What station,” he asked her, dying to hear her voice.

“It's a tape,” she said and her voice was silk against soft skin. His eyes sought hers but she never allowed him to look into them. He guessed that she was afraid he’d steal her soul. When someone appeared in the doorway he turned to leave, begging pardon. As he moved away he looked back at her and their eyes met. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes slightly begging. She smirked a bit, used to the attention, and continued on her way.

His heart thumped in his chest and the rhythm of his walk set the beat. The wind blew hair into his eyes but it didn't bother him. His mind was set, anyone could see it. But still the girls pined over him, thought him darkly beautiful, longed to touch his pearl skin. He was a “look but don't touch” item. The world stopped for him. But he didn't want them. Just the dancer. The one with the elusive eyes.

His rhythm was set by her now. She was only a few feet away from him. He would claim her as his own.

“Come to me,” he told her, barely above a breath. He could feel her smile as she kept walking. Who was this creature that he followed? What was her make? She was unlike any other. His arm wrapped around her waist. His lips pressed against her ear, “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.” She smiled again, “And you want me.” He did. “You'll have to catch me then.” And just like that she was gone. Nothing but a rumpled newspaper swayed in the breeze. He lifted his nose to the air to capture her sent.

His footsteps echoed as he moved through the winding streets until he gained sight of her. Even with her back to him he could see that smile. She picked up her pace and jumped into a tree with catlike grace. He repeated her movements to perfection until they were on the roof of a church. The roof was sharply triangular with only the joint where the two halves of the roof met one another to stand on. He watched as she walked down that thin gather. She stopped about halfway down and pivoted towards him. He thought she was going to fall and he started– but she only smiled. Her eyes burned his skin– and he loved it. She started dancing backwards, down, down the line of the roof. He was afraid she'd miss her footing, that she might fall, so he followed her. That was what she wanted anyway. His step was careful and he took long strides. . .but never once did he break eye contact.

He pressed his lips, his body, against hers. The wind howled against them, swaying their bodies. If he lost his balance and fell, he'd fall on spikes. And yet he still pressed his lips upon hers, hoping she would receive the kiss. She did and then he realized that he still had no idea of what this creature was. So he nibbled her lip, drawing blood. And once he tasted it--once he tasted her blood– he knew. She was Azrael, the Angel of Death and she had summoned him for his demise.

The Soothsayer of Doha

I was, by most accounts, a demon-child. I was avoided, taunted, and warded off by the pious and the superstitious daily. Had they but given me a chance, they would have realized what a sweet child I was. Or so my mother thought. She had the sweetest hands. Sweet and brown like halvahs. And whenever she smoothed my unruly auburn hair, I would think of them and she would lead me into the kitchen where they were always fresh.

“It's hot,” my mother warned. I engulfed one anyway, relaxing as it melted in my mouth and released its sapid flavor.

“I wuv eze,” I said, mouth full and crumbs on my cheeks. I swallowed. “Oh! Guess what?”

“What,” she said, as she covered her coarse black hair with a khimar.

“I made a friend! There's a new girl in school from America and today when Asiya made fun of my eyes she said they were the prettiest she'd ever seen and that if Asiya had a problem she knew where to go.” My mother raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? And where's that?”

“Uh. Nowhere, Umm.”

After that day there was no girl who had a more dear friend than I was to Simoni. She helped turn me from a people-shy bookworm into someone who would meet the eyes of others. Of course, that made things worse. The more people saw my eyes the more they thought I was witch.

--

Time passed, I hit puberty, and I began to have strange dreams that sent my social status plummeting. One night I had a dream that made me wonder if I really were a witch.

The moon hung full in the sky. I was lurking amongst shadowed green plants and peering into the window of my neighbor's house. Through the shiny glass I could see mahogany four post bed with rumpled silk sheets.

On the bed there were several packages of various shapes including a small semilunar bundle. Somehow I knew they were drugs and contraband goods. Harsh voices whispered inside the room and then there were gunshots. I fell back into the mud, feeling sick at the sound of their baby crying and the death rattle of one of the men.

I tumbled from bed, reaching for my phone. I paused briefly in the mirror, more out of praxis than anything else, and looked out of my window into my neighbor's bedroom. Everything looked as it had in my dream, down to the semilunar bundle. I called Simoni and recounted my dream.

“Wha?” Simoni mumbled.

“I said I think I'm having mantic dreams.”

“Manic? You're bi-polar? What?”

“No, mantic, like an oracle.”

“Why can't you use normal words? Look, we've talked about this before. Do you remember what happened last time you told people your dreams?”

“Yeah. They thought I made those bad things happen.”

“Right but it was just chance they came true. Hey, don't worry about it, okay? I'll come by later.”

I sighed knowing I'd gotten no better than a lick and a promise. But maybe Simoni was right. The dreams coming true could be a result of bad luck and serendipity. Still, I was uneasy until I had the idea.

By nightfall, I was standing at the window, armed with my phone. There were door slams and mens brusque voices wafted in the night. Soon I was talking with the police and crouching by the window as in my dream. Everything happened as in my dream: the gunshots, the crying, the sickness. But then the police arrived. Then more gunshots and the police slammed a man against the window. He looked into my eyes and screamed. I couldn't blame him, for I was bathed in moonlight but still inky dark, hair aflame, and eyes piercing blue.

I awoke early the next morning, the scent of halvahs fresh in the hair. I looked in the mirror, tied my hair in a knot and hurried into the kitchen. There Simoni was, smiling and scraping the confection from the pan.

“You were right. It's all over the news. I just wish there were a way to get your predictions to people without scaring them.”

Later Simoni blamed the zeitgeist of our age for the idea. Whatever the case, my “fortune halvahs” with predictions printed on them, gave me an unparalleled ataraxia and improved my relationship with the community. No longer shunned, my life was filled with grace. No longer hated, my life was filled with joy.