inuit magic

       The moonlit globes of her ass rose up and she left the bed. She switched on the bathroom light so that he could watch her. It did not take long. On the wall beside the door hung a framed lithograph by Inuit artist Kenojuak Ashevak. It showed a totem-like figure with a woman's head atop an human-sized owl, its eyes located as such to become her breasts. Flanking her were running polar bears. Sonya switched off the bathroom light and prowled toward the bed. He could hear the hunger in her throat. She was like a dream. It was a dream. She seized him anew. All mouth.
        "I told you I have familiar spirits," she purred. "Torngaks!"
        "Torngaks. I'm doomed."
        Sometimes like now her youthful energy overwhelmed him. She moaned and wept. Riding him spectacularly in the moonlight,  she resembled a tremendous cat. He felt the coarse fur of its belly upon his. Indeed, this was a dream.


                                                                               *


        Brother Ambrose awoke in his own bed. Being alone, he felt relaxed. An erection pressed against the fly of his plaid boxer briefs. That felt good. He lay there with a mind roiling with forgotten dreams. Across his bare chest were scratches, fresh and livid.
        Impossible!
        His alarm clock announced the eighth hour. It rang like a breakfast bell. A bowl of cinnamon oatmeal awaited him.
        It was Sunday, the only day he set the alarm. He sprang into action. Routinely,  he shaved and brushed his teeth while the warm water sluiced. Shampoo last.
        He donned a mother-of-pearl cotton shirt with fluted sleeves.
        On the way out he espied Sonya sitting on her balcony-patio with Mugsy in her lap. Cat people.
        "Hey, sweet-lay!"
        "Good morning, sweet prince."
        "Coming to church? Services at eleven."
        "Yup." Nothing more. Laconic Goth Chick.
        Suddenly he remembered the dream.
        She was upon him, breathing hotly in his face. Her cunt absorbing his cock like molten magma. Teeth laughing, breasts laughing.
         Instead of calling out his question, he descended his flight of stairs and climbed hers, entering her cramped retreat. Mugsy spat and fled. He knelt beside Sonya, noticing her black tube-top and nipples. He asked: "What were you telling me about familiar spirits? The Torngaks? Something like that."
         "Torngaks. I would never speak of them to you."
         "Surely you did."
         "No!"
         Perplexed, he smiled graciously. "All right. See you at Church."
         Sonya reached over and hugged him.  "If you are good, someday I will tell you the story of Senda, the Sea Mother."
         "Tell me now." Determined to charm it out of her.
         "All right. Sedna was a beautiful Inuit girl with many suitors. She refused every one. Then a hunter paddled his canoe up to her hut and sang to her. He offered her ivory necklaces and a tent covered with beautuful furs.  Enchanted, she climbed into his canoe. Oh, but then, she discovered he was not a man but a spirit from the land of birds."
          Brother Ambrose interrupted: "I know this story. You told it to me last night in a dream."
          "No way."
          "Sedna. Also known as the Old Woman Who Lived Under The Sea."
          Sonya's Inuit eyebrows knitted above the bridge of her nubby nose.
          "What are you saying?"
          "That you came to me in a dream last night. A very physical dream."
          He unbuttoned his shirt and showed her the scratches.
          "Christ!" Sonya stripped him and daubbed him with aloe. "This is freaking me out!"
          "How so?"
          "Grandmother, back in Sitka, told me of things, things that happened between her and her first lover. Only she came to his bed as a polar bear."
           Re-buttoning his shirt: "Good grief."
           "Yeah. He fucking died."

                                                                                      



       





         




                                                                                       *

inside sonya

       He set the stage, dropping a red gauze over the lamp and lighting a stick of sandlewood. She had spread the byzantine sweat-cloth in the middle of the floor. Her music was playing. A mesmerizing instrumental by Dead Can Dance. Drums, electronic keyboard, eerie chanting.
       Sonya  smiled and ate a pomegranite. Brother Ambrose toked on a new strain of weed being distributed around town. They kissed like feral children.
        He helped her out of her black denim jeans. She tossed her Nine Inch Nails tee shirt across the room. It fluttered like a bat into a dark corner. She wore just bra and panties and felt groovy as warm honey on a muffin.
        Brother Ambrose felt like his old self. Ziggy, aka Mister Zig-Zag. He could not describe the mood he was in. The pain of losing his wife had dimmed. There was only the movie in his mind. Cherry Blossom lay upon the bare dinng table,  clothed like a San Francisco flower-child  with garlands in her hair. In the owlight he could hear her weeping somewhere up in the rafters.
        "Hey, boy-o. Why the far-away stare?"
        "Sorry, babe."
        And what did he have here? A palefaced Russian-Innuit goth chick half his age.
        Sonya began ab-crunches, wriggling like a serpent. Muscles beneath taut skin were glowing hot.
         Brother Ambrose watched, enthralled. Soon she was sweating, exhaling. This was like sex to her. His arousal began as her lips parted like a Bernini Theresa.
         He knelt beside her and placed the palm of his hand upon her belly. He felt her constrictions and could stand it no more. She gasped, and then they were entwined as planned.


                                                                               *


         "This is so kinky," she said. Feeling his seed within her.
         "Howzat?" Dreamily.
         "Me doing a work-out before we do it."
         "Eh."
         He gazed upon her with renewed intensity. Her black bush glistened. He combed it and placed a moist finger upon her tongue. "This is what you wanted?"
         "Yes."
         "Well, then."
         "Well, then."
         Brother Ambrose felt a sermon blooming in his head.  Sunday he would deliver it and it would be good he told himself.
   

mango pickle

        Solar winds licked the stratosphere.  An aurora soared above the dark treeline in hues of crimson, scarlett and california poppy. To Brother Ambrose it resembled a fantastic native thunderbird. He was standing on Sonya Chekov's little patio balcony. There was a new chia pet. It looked like a gay troll with green hair. Sonya was cooking chickpea dal with spices imported from India. Ghee and rice added  simple aromas.  It all smelled good, and he was glad that Artie had introduced her the cuisine.
        Mugsy snoozed on the ledge. Stretched sinfully to the ends of the earth.
        "How much longer, Babe?" 
        "Another hour."  She trilled.  "Must let everything simmer."
        His stomach was growling. He was unbearably hungry now. He ducked inside to see if he could speed things up.
        "Hellzapoppin! Babe, ya gotta feed me!"
        "Oh, you're being Ziggy again. Here, have a chipati."
        The chipati was fried heaven. He grabbed a bunch and a jar of Bedakar's Mango Pickle and sat on the sofa, almost giddy.
         "Oh, man.  This is so good."  Tears welled in his eyes.  The bastards were spicey hot.
         "You old hippy."
         "You know, I still have that tee-shirt you gave me."
         "Which one is that?"
         "Laughing Jesus."