Contributor: Quill Enparchment
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Coming home for the evening after a hard day of work, I had two things on my mind: a hot bath to wash the stench of ink off my skin, and a date with the dragon.
President Grant visited Virginia City today and the streets filled with hullabaloo the moment he stepped off the train. I wanted to cover the story for the newspaper but that son of a bitch editor I work for reminded me that women weren't real writers and told me to go cover the quilter's circle. My afternoon had me up to my ears in tea and talk about the ladies' work being done in time for Halloween.
I'm not part of the quilter's circle. In fact, I don't sew at all - not a stitch. Can't even darn my own socks. I write minor stories and help the guys on the printing presses. Every evening my skin is covered in stinky black ink and sweat. No wonder I'm single.
Mr. Chang was the only one who would rent to me after Philip was shot last year. I lost our house to the man who pulled the trigger. The swindler claimed the property was lawfully his, and the gunfight proved him right.
My job doesn't pay much, but it's enough to rent one of the apartments above the opium parlor. My. Chang wasn't actually using this particular unit anyway. It's up a very narrow, winding staircase that opium users have a hard time ascending. He keeps the stairwell hidden behind a red silk curtain to deter trespassers.
On my way home tonight, a very handsome stranger opened the door for me - obviously a passerby as I didn't recognize him. No "helloes," between us - just a cordial exchange of nods and polite smiles.
It wasn't so much his facial features or stature that impressed me. It was his skin - a stunning golden color unlike a farmer's tan or the olive tone of the Orientals. And its texture was so soft and creamy that I wanted to reach out and touch him, stroke my fingertips across his back, dig my nails into him.
We stepped into the parlor then went our separate ways. The golden man made a bee line for the bar. I headed toward Mr. Chang. I allow myself one taste of the Chinaman's pipe per week. It helps me write. I don't dare smoke too much of it or I'll end up like the others with a fatal case of dysphoria. But the dragon summons my muse the way no one else can. I’m not just a journalist. I'm also an aspiring novelist and hope someday to be the next Mary Shelley.
Mr. Chang took my money and handed me a pouch filled with black paste wrapped in rice paper. I passed through the silk curtain leading to my apartment and took about three steps upward when my curiosity over the new stranger got the best of me. I found myself compelled to tip-toe back down to peak through the slit in the curtain to see what he was up to.
The guest was still at the bar. Thomas the bartender was pouring him a brandy. Mr. Chang greeted the newcomer and rang his bell, signaling for the girls to line up. The girls fanned the room like a peacock's tail, each one part of a train of bright yellow camisoles, blue robes, purple bodices and low-cut green dresses, their breasts exposed to give the customer a view of the merchandise. Jade jewelry dangled from their ears and necks, the pendants running into their cleavages, accentuating their femininity. I stayed a moment to see which woman the gentleman would choose.
He must have been displeased with the selection because he turned to leave. He took about two steps forward when the air in the room thickened. It wasn't from the smoke or dust, though. Adélaïde walked through the door. She was late getting back to the parlor tonight because she sings at the opera house down the street. Beautiful voice - powerful just like the rest of her.
Adélaïde was not part of the peacock fan. She trudged into the room and took a seat at the bar with her back arched, shoulders proud, and legs crossed. Tonight she was wearing a black feather-trimmed corset and ankle-length velvet skirt. Her long, wavy chestnut locks cascaded over her shoulders and framed her neck. Thomas poured her a cognac.
The stranger seemed to know who she was. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him, striking up what appeared to be a conversation between two very close friends. I couldn't hear every word of their conversation, but I made out something about him being in town as part of a traveling performance troupe.
"So you're still singing?" Adélaïde asked in that guttural, breathy tone that drives all the men wild. The stranger nodded in answer to her question, but his eyes seemed more focused on her ankles than her words. He moved in a little closer and started rubbing her bare shoulders. Mr. Chang darted over to the couple, shooting the man a look of "don't touch unless you're willing to pay." The stranger complied and handed Mr. Chang a wad of money. Adélaïde took the gentleman's hand and led him to her room. I closed the curtain and headed up to mine - alone.
Depressed and lonely, I drew the bathwater and tossed in some of the lavender bath salts Adélaïde gave me for my birthday last year. Once the tub was full, I undressed and slipped inside.
"I want that golden skin," I told myself over and over again. As I looked down at my body in the bath water, I compared my figure to Adélaïde's and realized there was no hope of me ever feeling any man's touch again, let alone an Adonis like her golden man. The more I dwelled on the situation, the more frustrated I became, so I stepped out of the bath, dried myself off and slipped into my very plain, white cotton nightgown.
I looked over at my nightstand where my opium kit was sitting. It's an ornate black cloisonné box with images of white plum blossoms decorated all over it. I bought it from Mr. Chang the first time he sold me his drug.
I fetched the pouch my landlord had given me earlier this evening and walked over to the kit. I pulled out the tray and the knife and cut myself a small piece of black poppy paste, rolling it into a pill. The tip of the needle, so pointed and sharp, begged to lance the small capsule. I heeded its command, then inserted the ball into the bowl of the pipe and lit the lantern sitting on my nightstand. As I lay down on my settee, reclining on my right side, I picked up the pipe and held the bowl over the lantern to allow the paste to vaporize and flow up the shaft into my mouth. One inhale, then two. A few more and my mind found itself reaching for the dragon's trustworthy talon as he led our dance, one I'm sure he had shared with partners like Mary Shelley, Emily Bronte and Jane Austen. I ignored the nausea.
When the lucid dreams started, I saw images of a dozen crows standing on the floor of Adélaïde's room. Their feathers carpeted the floor. Adélaïde was nowhere in sight. Her gentleman friend was sitting on the settee completely naked and oblivious to the birds as well as to me. By his countenance I could tell that he had only a puff or two from the pipe. He sat up straight on the settee with a peaceful but not entirely inebriated look on his face.
"These are your gifts, Rossalyn," a chorus of black beaks squawked as one by one they handed me their quills.
"Why so many?" I asked my gracious friends.
"You have much to write," they replied. "Yes, much to write."
"Thank you for the gifts, my friends, but I have no ink or parchment."
"Yes you do." Squawk. "Yes you do."
I knew what they were implying and I wondered if I had the nerve to actually pursue their suggestion.
"This is just a dream," I reminded myself. "I'm not going to actually hurt anyone."
Grabbing as many of the feathers as I could before Adélaïde came back from wherever she was, I knew I wanted to stay and watch her in action. When I heard her approach, I ran and hid in the doorway. She was still dressed in her evening clothes.
Adélaïde pounced on the gentleman caller, knocking him on his back and grabbing his wrists, pulling them over his head and tying them together with a leather strap. She straddled her long-lost friend and started unfastening the hooks on the back of her corset. The corset fell to the ground and she pulled her black skirt over her head, revealing her sensuous body and the black stockings and shoes that remained to cover the bottom half of it. There were no other undergarments.
She moved with the most graceful, elegant, serpentine gestures. The golden man's moaning grew louder and faster in direct response to her movements. When he arrived at his orgasm, Adélaïde wasted no time getting up to clean herself.
The gentleman rolled onto his side, his bound arms reaching for another puff from his pipe. Since Adélaïde was busy, I ran over to him, freeing his wrists from the leather strap and relighting the lantern for him. No thank yous. I was invisible as far as he was concerned.
Although mentally, I acknowledged this whole affair was nothing more than a surreal journey, I still wondered if perhaps it wasn't as illusory as I thought. I didn't want the man to wake and find me or the crows in the room. I started to leave when the corvids called me back.
"You are not done yet. No, not done."
"What do you mean?" I asked my fine, feathered friends.
The man's pipe was soon empty. He rolled over onto his stomach and fell asleep on the settee. His bare back exposed. My temptation was too great. I took one of the quills and thought about my heroines - Shelley, Bronte and Austen.
It was then the most fantastic story line came to me. I had to write it down, but there was no parchment and no ink. However, I did have a fresh quill and the most beautiful canvas in front of me.
The golden man was out cold.
I sat atop his buttocks and started stroking him with the sharp edge of the quill, just a light scratch, not deep enough to draw blood. As the characters, setting, and plot unfolded, I dug a little deeper.
Adélaïde was still washing up. She was totally unaware of what I was doing to her customer.
I couldn't help it. My own version of Frankenstein's monster was before me. The gorgeous sanguine liquid flowed over that stunning golden parchment. The poor crow's quill was covered in blood, which dripped down my hands and forearms. The birds cheered me on.
"Quiet!" I scolded at the crows. "Adélaïde will hear you."
"No, no, Quill, don't worry," they all replied.
"Quill?" I asked, wondering why they were addressing me by such an odd name.
"Yes, yes, Quill," they squawked over and over. "That is your new name. Quill Enparchment. Sign that as your nom de plume. Yes, yes, nom de plume."
The dream ended at that point. I found myself in my own room, in my own bed, with my pipe on the table right where I left it. The crows, feathers and blood were nowhere to be found. But the story I had written was still fresh in my mind so I spent my weekend committing it to paper. I signed it Quill Enparchment.
- - -
Quill Enparchment is a writer living in Northern California. Her work is best described as macabre erotica, although it is tasteful and targeted toward an audience that appreciates cerebral adult fiction.
- -
Coming home for the evening after a hard day of work, I had two things on my mind: a hot bath to wash the stench of ink off my skin, and a date with the dragon.
President Grant visited Virginia City today and the streets filled with hullabaloo the moment he stepped off the train. I wanted to cover the story for the newspaper but that son of a bitch editor I work for reminded me that women weren't real writers and told me to go cover the quilter's circle. My afternoon had me up to my ears in tea and talk about the ladies' work being done in time for Halloween.
I'm not part of the quilter's circle. In fact, I don't sew at all - not a stitch. Can't even darn my own socks. I write minor stories and help the guys on the printing presses. Every evening my skin is covered in stinky black ink and sweat. No wonder I'm single.
Mr. Chang was the only one who would rent to me after Philip was shot last year. I lost our house to the man who pulled the trigger. The swindler claimed the property was lawfully his, and the gunfight proved him right.
My job doesn't pay much, but it's enough to rent one of the apartments above the opium parlor. My. Chang wasn't actually using this particular unit anyway. It's up a very narrow, winding staircase that opium users have a hard time ascending. He keeps the stairwell hidden behind a red silk curtain to deter trespassers.
On my way home tonight, a very handsome stranger opened the door for me - obviously a passerby as I didn't recognize him. No "helloes," between us - just a cordial exchange of nods and polite smiles.
It wasn't so much his facial features or stature that impressed me. It was his skin - a stunning golden color unlike a farmer's tan or the olive tone of the Orientals. And its texture was so soft and creamy that I wanted to reach out and touch him, stroke my fingertips across his back, dig my nails into him.
We stepped into the parlor then went our separate ways. The golden man made a bee line for the bar. I headed toward Mr. Chang. I allow myself one taste of the Chinaman's pipe per week. It helps me write. I don't dare smoke too much of it or I'll end up like the others with a fatal case of dysphoria. But the dragon summons my muse the way no one else can. I’m not just a journalist. I'm also an aspiring novelist and hope someday to be the next Mary Shelley.
Mr. Chang took my money and handed me a pouch filled with black paste wrapped in rice paper. I passed through the silk curtain leading to my apartment and took about three steps upward when my curiosity over the new stranger got the best of me. I found myself compelled to tip-toe back down to peak through the slit in the curtain to see what he was up to.
The guest was still at the bar. Thomas the bartender was pouring him a brandy. Mr. Chang greeted the newcomer and rang his bell, signaling for the girls to line up. The girls fanned the room like a peacock's tail, each one part of a train of bright yellow camisoles, blue robes, purple bodices and low-cut green dresses, their breasts exposed to give the customer a view of the merchandise. Jade jewelry dangled from their ears and necks, the pendants running into their cleavages, accentuating their femininity. I stayed a moment to see which woman the gentleman would choose.
He must have been displeased with the selection because he turned to leave. He took about two steps forward when the air in the room thickened. It wasn't from the smoke or dust, though. Adélaïde walked through the door. She was late getting back to the parlor tonight because she sings at the opera house down the street. Beautiful voice - powerful just like the rest of her.
Adélaïde was not part of the peacock fan. She trudged into the room and took a seat at the bar with her back arched, shoulders proud, and legs crossed. Tonight she was wearing a black feather-trimmed corset and ankle-length velvet skirt. Her long, wavy chestnut locks cascaded over her shoulders and framed her neck. Thomas poured her a cognac.
The stranger seemed to know who she was. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him, striking up what appeared to be a conversation between two very close friends. I couldn't hear every word of their conversation, but I made out something about him being in town as part of a traveling performance troupe.
"So you're still singing?" Adélaïde asked in that guttural, breathy tone that drives all the men wild. The stranger nodded in answer to her question, but his eyes seemed more focused on her ankles than her words. He moved in a little closer and started rubbing her bare shoulders. Mr. Chang darted over to the couple, shooting the man a look of "don't touch unless you're willing to pay." The stranger complied and handed Mr. Chang a wad of money. Adélaïde took the gentleman's hand and led him to her room. I closed the curtain and headed up to mine - alone.
Depressed and lonely, I drew the bathwater and tossed in some of the lavender bath salts Adélaïde gave me for my birthday last year. Once the tub was full, I undressed and slipped inside.
"I want that golden skin," I told myself over and over again. As I looked down at my body in the bath water, I compared my figure to Adélaïde's and realized there was no hope of me ever feeling any man's touch again, let alone an Adonis like her golden man. The more I dwelled on the situation, the more frustrated I became, so I stepped out of the bath, dried myself off and slipped into my very plain, white cotton nightgown.
I looked over at my nightstand where my opium kit was sitting. It's an ornate black cloisonné box with images of white plum blossoms decorated all over it. I bought it from Mr. Chang the first time he sold me his drug.
I fetched the pouch my landlord had given me earlier this evening and walked over to the kit. I pulled out the tray and the knife and cut myself a small piece of black poppy paste, rolling it into a pill. The tip of the needle, so pointed and sharp, begged to lance the small capsule. I heeded its command, then inserted the ball into the bowl of the pipe and lit the lantern sitting on my nightstand. As I lay down on my settee, reclining on my right side, I picked up the pipe and held the bowl over the lantern to allow the paste to vaporize and flow up the shaft into my mouth. One inhale, then two. A few more and my mind found itself reaching for the dragon's trustworthy talon as he led our dance, one I'm sure he had shared with partners like Mary Shelley, Emily Bronte and Jane Austen. I ignored the nausea.
When the lucid dreams started, I saw images of a dozen crows standing on the floor of Adélaïde's room. Their feathers carpeted the floor. Adélaïde was nowhere in sight. Her gentleman friend was sitting on the settee completely naked and oblivious to the birds as well as to me. By his countenance I could tell that he had only a puff or two from the pipe. He sat up straight on the settee with a peaceful but not entirely inebriated look on his face.
"These are your gifts, Rossalyn," a chorus of black beaks squawked as one by one they handed me their quills.
"Why so many?" I asked my gracious friends.
"You have much to write," they replied. "Yes, much to write."
"Thank you for the gifts, my friends, but I have no ink or parchment."
"Yes you do." Squawk. "Yes you do."
I knew what they were implying and I wondered if I had the nerve to actually pursue their suggestion.
"This is just a dream," I reminded myself. "I'm not going to actually hurt anyone."
Grabbing as many of the feathers as I could before Adélaïde came back from wherever she was, I knew I wanted to stay and watch her in action. When I heard her approach, I ran and hid in the doorway. She was still dressed in her evening clothes.
Adélaïde pounced on the gentleman caller, knocking him on his back and grabbing his wrists, pulling them over his head and tying them together with a leather strap. She straddled her long-lost friend and started unfastening the hooks on the back of her corset. The corset fell to the ground and she pulled her black skirt over her head, revealing her sensuous body and the black stockings and shoes that remained to cover the bottom half of it. There were no other undergarments.
She moved with the most graceful, elegant, serpentine gestures. The golden man's moaning grew louder and faster in direct response to her movements. When he arrived at his orgasm, Adélaïde wasted no time getting up to clean herself.
The gentleman rolled onto his side, his bound arms reaching for another puff from his pipe. Since Adélaïde was busy, I ran over to him, freeing his wrists from the leather strap and relighting the lantern for him. No thank yous. I was invisible as far as he was concerned.
Although mentally, I acknowledged this whole affair was nothing more than a surreal journey, I still wondered if perhaps it wasn't as illusory as I thought. I didn't want the man to wake and find me or the crows in the room. I started to leave when the corvids called me back.
"You are not done yet. No, not done."
"What do you mean?" I asked my fine, feathered friends.
The man's pipe was soon empty. He rolled over onto his stomach and fell asleep on the settee. His bare back exposed. My temptation was too great. I took one of the quills and thought about my heroines - Shelley, Bronte and Austen.
It was then the most fantastic story line came to me. I had to write it down, but there was no parchment and no ink. However, I did have a fresh quill and the most beautiful canvas in front of me.
The golden man was out cold.
I sat atop his buttocks and started stroking him with the sharp edge of the quill, just a light scratch, not deep enough to draw blood. As the characters, setting, and plot unfolded, I dug a little deeper.
Adélaïde was still washing up. She was totally unaware of what I was doing to her customer.
I couldn't help it. My own version of Frankenstein's monster was before me. The gorgeous sanguine liquid flowed over that stunning golden parchment. The poor crow's quill was covered in blood, which dripped down my hands and forearms. The birds cheered me on.
"Quiet!" I scolded at the crows. "Adélaïde will hear you."
"No, no, Quill, don't worry," they all replied.
"Quill?" I asked, wondering why they were addressing me by such an odd name.
"Yes, yes, Quill," they squawked over and over. "That is your new name. Quill Enparchment. Sign that as your nom de plume. Yes, yes, nom de plume."
The dream ended at that point. I found myself in my own room, in my own bed, with my pipe on the table right where I left it. The crows, feathers and blood were nowhere to be found. But the story I had written was still fresh in my mind so I spent my weekend committing it to paper. I signed it Quill Enparchment.
- - -
Quill Enparchment is a writer living in Northern California. Her work is best described as macabre erotica, although it is tasteful and targeted toward an audience that appreciates cerebral adult fiction.
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Quill Enparchment
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