Fiction

Afternoon light drew long shadows before me, cast flickering stream ripples onto the overhanging willow trunks. I sipped slowly from the cup cradled in my right hand, peat drifting across my tongue.

I probably should have been surprised when the horse rose from the water. Droplets sprayed over me from his black mane as he paced up the bank. I lifted my cup, and the kelpie bent his muzzle to inhale the rich vapors.

Shakily I rose, his flank cold and damp where I leaned for support. He watched me from one eye, head canted back, silver tracery glinting on his dark leather bridle.

He knelt when I failed at boosting myself onto his back. Were his victims ever in need of so little coaxing, or so much help? Cruelty or compassion, I needed no glamour to ride him into the depths. Here, now, while I could make my own choice.

[Fanfic? Maybe.]

Last century a cartoon appeared on lab doors: “Save the world. Teach your dog to photosynthesize.” It wasn’t a joke now. No dogs though, because fur interfered with solar absorption. Alexander popped a marshmallow into his mouth, his sweet tooth not satisfied by the sugars he made himself. Scientists had experimented on themselves for centuries, sidestepping permission and derision alike. How else to know if the models, the naked mice, the years of work had succeeded?

His deep green skin provided all the carbohydrates he needed, though he still craved proteins and minerals. No more would starve because corn fed machines instead of people. He put up the latest microscope images with clothespins: chloroplasts embedded in his epidermis. He lifted one of his chlorophyllaceous mice from its sunlamp and stroked it.

The airborne spores would solve all the world’s energy problems. He just needed enough land for 9 billion people to sunbathe.

He stopped her hand as she reached for the bedside lamp, fingers biting into her wrist. “Leave it on.” She shrugged, though she preferred cloaking darkness. The relief in his eyes morphed into inky hunger. She gathered her long hennaed hair off her neck and turned her head away. His fingers smoothed the last tendrils from her scarred skin, sending a tremor of fear and desire down her spine. She closed her eyes; she could have that much privacy. After, he lay sated next to her, as relaxed as he ever got, and she dared to ask. “No, of course I’m not afraid of the dark. That would be foolish. It’s the monster under the bed.” Her friends would laugh when she told them that. She dozed then, lethargic from blood loss. She didn’t notice when he left, turning out the light, didn’t notice until cold clammy fingers gripped her ankle.