The Raping of Cyrynda Strong

Is it ‘rape’ if we give ourselves willingly, even when warned of the outcome?

Back in the early 1990s I wrote a triptych of stories (I hoped) from a woman’s point of view. Cymodoce, written in the late 1980s and in limited 3rd, had a female main character and, when anonymously workshopped, people thought it the work of a female hand. It went on to receive a Nebula recommendation in 1995 (Tomorrow Magazine).

With that behind me, I went for it. Rachel, Above the Clouds, While Flying came first (and was recently published in Across the Margin). “The Raping of Cyrynda Strong” came next and I’ve hesitated sending it out due to the title (I explain the title at the end of this post). Next week I’ll share the last in the triptych, “Striders”, which I think is a great story and am still reviewing before sending it out.

Let me know what you think, and thanks.


The Raping of Cyrynda Strong

 
It was done and she felt herself relax.

***

 
“Care to go for a walk?” Michael asked.

She thought for a moment.

Pros slid into cons faster than she liked: she liked him, he was cute, he was a gentleman, he listened to her. It was their first date, there were some beach houses within screaming distance with lights on, the beach was deserted, he might turn into a monster — two arms, two legs, and a dick. She remembered a joke a friend told her, “…I’ve already got one asshole in my pants, I don’t need another.”

Another car entered the parking lot. A man and a woman got out, the man’s deep voice and the woman’s high laughter ran ahead of them as they made their way down to the sand. Not far onto the beach the man and woman kissed lightly, affectionately, then continued hand in hand.

Something in Cyrynda ached. “Sure. Maybe a short walk. I don’t want to go far.”

She and Michael walked from the parking lot down to the beach followed by a coterie of quietly clacking gulls. Behind them the late summer sun was setting. Red arms of dusk started in the west and reached along both north and south horizons. Above them the sky was dark. Waves licked up the beach and foamed briefly when they broke. Small pools collected in their footsteps as they walked along the sand. The ocean smelled of a rapidly cooling night, tidal pools, and sun-dried seaweed and skate-cases. When they stopped the gulls gathered ten feet from them, waiting for any scraps they might throw.

A slight breeze brought a hint of autumn and winter to come. The other couple ran past at a respectful distance, their laughter and whispers washing up and over Michael and Cyrynda like a gently tearing wake. Cyrynda took Michael’s hand and he kept his eyes on the sky.

“Do you know anything about the stars?” he asked her.

“I’m a Sagittarius, if that’s what you mean.”

He laughed. “Do you know which stars are in Sagittarius?”

“No. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen it before. Except in books, I mean.”

“May I?” He stood behind her and gently moved against her so that their bodies were touching, then rested his head on top of hers.

She felt her belly quiver at his touch. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Now, move your head with mine and look along my arms.” He framed part of the sky with his hands. “See that collection of stars between my hands?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Sagittarius.”

“It is?” She bobbed her head forward as if the extra inches would bring the stars closer.

“And that star at the tip of my finger?” He twitched his right index finger, “That’s called ‘Kaus Australis’.” He moved a finger on his other hand. “That one’s called ‘Nunki’.”

“What’s that kind of fog going through it?”

He laughed again. “That’s the Milky Way. The galaxy. Sagittarius – the constellation – is on the way to the center of the galaxy. The different stars aren’t, though. All those stars are different distances away. You’d eventually pass them all, but not all at once.”

“Sounds like you’ve gone out that way.”

“No,” he smiled. She felt herself getting used to him being there, behind her, wrapped in his arms. It was safe and protected. “Not out that way.”

“So what sign are you?”

“I don’t know. They don’t have zodiacal divination where I come from.”

“Zodiacal divination,” she repeated. “Sounds like some kind of disease. Where are you from that you never learned your Zodiac sign?”

“I’m from Siyo Sunka.”

He pulled away but she held his arms around her, letting him encircle her beneath her breasts.

“I never heard of Siyo…sunka? Where is it?”

“You really want to know?”

“Of course I do. I might have to go there on business someday.”

He laughed again. “Okay.” He turned them south and pointed to a bright star on the horizon. “See that?”

“Yep.”

“I’m from a little planet orbiting a star about sixty years behind that one.”

She felt herself go cold and wondered how to gently pull away from him. Her friend’s asshole joke echoed in her mind. Her breath caught tight in her chest, her belly’s excited trills stopped and her gut twisted slightly.

He released her before she said or thought any other thing. “You asked,” he said.

“You’re serious?”

He put his hand to his forehead and scrunched his face in concentration. “Uh? What? Jimmy? Janis? Is that you?” He stared into the sky, just overhead, then to the horizons. He spun on his heels then stared back overhead. “I’m coming,” he said and smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back.

He held his hands up, palms out. “Sorry. Acid flashback to the sixties. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

***

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Teri Polen (Bad) Mooned Me

(and i liked it!)

Young adult horror, sci-fi, and fantasy author Teri Polen Bad Mooned me.

I know, it’s true. I should have known better and I’m ashamed of myself.

IT WAS SO MUCH FUN!

 
Teri asked me a bunch of questions – Would you rather be a vampire or a lion tamer? (no, that’s not right. I have The Magic Show on my mind. sorry), What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters of the opposite sex?, As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal? and others.

I must have done good because the comments were flattering and I do oh so love flattery.

I do, I do, I truly do.

And please check out Teri’s books. We’ll both appreciate it (my reward is knowing I helped Teri out).

Empty Sky Chapter 16 – The Gardens of the Moon

Sometimes the most beautiful gardens can only be seen at Night

Read Empty Sky Chapter 15 – Pangiosi and Tom


A cold wind roughled Jamie’s bathrobe against his pajamaed legs. Thick animal fur warmed his face like a blanket, its smell filling his nostrils with each breath.

But not Shem’s fur. It smelled…heavier than Shem’s fur…more urgent than Shem’s fur.

He raised his head, his hands stiff from clenching Graywolf’s coat.

“We’re almost there, Jamie.”

They moved through a rush of trees. White barked birch and scotch pine, gray ash and winter oak towered over him, their branches alternately pine needle and leaf and snow covered and offering a canopy through which the night sky, its stars and planets, could still be seen.

High overhead the moon still sailed through the sky, full and rumbling like a big church organ. The Aurora walked back and forth across the cold night sky, crinkling like cellophane candy wrappers, sounding almost like words just beyond his ability to understand, like the Aurora were people talking at a party, like when Mom and Dad had people over and Jamie and Shem listened from the top of the stairs.

The wind moved through the trees and sounded like long, low, breathy, conversations, as if the world talked all around him, ignorant or perhaps unaware or maybe even uncaring that he and Graywolf ruddaRumped underneath. “It sounds like everything’s talking,” he said.

“Everything is, Jamie. The world just waits for someone to listen.”


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A Tale of the Woods: The Little Flower

Our greatest decision is deciding who we’ll be

I started writing Tales of the Woods during Winter break in freshman year of my first time through college. In the mid 1990s I contributed a Tale each month to a New Age magazine. Sometimes I wonder if I should gather them together and publish them as a children’s book of some kind.

Let me know what you think.


A Tale of the Woods
The Little Flower

 
Once upon a time a beautiful flower rested in a Woods. All that came by stopped and wondered because few had seen a flower with petals so bright and stem and leaves so radiant. Many creatures stopped and sniffed the air as they passed, carrying with them the scent of her beauty. This flower, small and delicate and thirsting farther and farther, always reached for the rains and lights that brought her life.

One day as she sat and looked upon the hillside she noticed a lone elk wandering through the Woods. The elk walked strong and proud, his coat showing scars from the many contests he’d been in. Watching the else, she grew sad. “He is alone,” she said.

The elk didn’t come near the little flower at first. “Perhaps he can not see me,” she wondered. “Perhaps he is afraid.”

Each time she saw the elk she talked gently to him., each time the elk drew nearer to her. Finally he would come and sit beside the flower, telling her of things he’d done and things he’d do. The little flower listened and nodded. “We are not that different,” she thought. “We both have hopes and dreams.”

The elk came often and shared stories of the rest of the Woods and especially the things he had done, grateful for her listening and the time they had together.

One day the elk came bearing a long scar down his flank. He neither flinched nor stumbled as he moved but the little flower knew some horrible thing happened to him, something he would not share, something she could not understand.

But in all the Woods, the elk came to her for rest and comfort, for solace and quiet. Although only a small flower, she spread her leaves and stretched her petals as wide and as far over the elk as she could. And an amazing thing happened!

The little flower found that she wasn’t as little as she thought! Her leaves and flowers offered a shade the elk could find no where else in the woods; a place to rest and leave thoughts of conflict behind. She offered herself gladly to the elk, and the elk, unaware that the little flower had grown, slept quietly underneath.

Soon the elk awoke. He got to his feet and shook his mighty head, strengthened for the time he had beneath the flower’s leaves, the scent of her petals clinging to his coat.

The elk came and went many times thus. Each time the flower spread her leaves and petals. Each time her soft, flowery perfume rested upon his coat and gave him strength.

Each time the little flower thanked the Woods and all those in the Woods for her gifts. Many others came — small flurrying birds and scurrying little mice, wise old owls and ancient wizened oaks — to see the beauty of the little flower’s petals and leaves, and to heal their hurts with her gentle, fragrant scent.

But sometimes the love we give is not the love we receive.


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Joseph Carrabis Signing and Reading The Augmented Man 17 Oct at the Nashua, NH, BookCellar

That Augmented Man…he sure gets around…

Come join the fun!

Thursday, October 17th, 6:00pm at the


34 Northwest Blvd
(in the Westside Plaza on 101A / Amherst St, next to Marshalls)
Nashua, NH 03063
(603) 881-5570

Local author, Joseph Carrabis, will read from his novel, The Augmented Man, answer questions, and sign copies!

 
What do you do with a deadly weapon when it's no longer needed?
Nicholas Trailer is the last of The Augmented Men, beings created first by society and completed by a political group the public can't even imagine exists. Captain James Donaldson takes severely abused and traumatized children and modifies them into monsters capable of the most horrifying deeds without feeling any remorse or regret.

But the horrors of war never stay on the battlefield. They always come home.