“Meat always tastes better fresh,” Poppa pronounced as we walked through the public market located out near where the wall of the pressure dome curved down and met the regolith. He held my hand in his, claws retracted so as not to hurt the tender skin on my palms. He could be uncommonly gentle for someone so big.

“I know it can all be a bit overwhelming,” he continued, “the sights, the sounds and all the exotic smells. Don't forget, honey, we used to hunt for our food. That’s right. Eons ago on the Homeworld, if you couldn't hunt you didn't eat. Sadly, some might say, those skills have been lost ... what with technology and food so readily available these days. In any case, we can at least respect our traditions by continuing to skin, butcher and prepare meat in our homes. That’s in my opinion, of course.”

Judging by the crowds strolling through the aisles of the market, lots of others felt as Poppa did. I stopped in front of an especially large cage equipped with what even I was able to recognize as a high-tech containment field. The plasma bars that constituted the door rippled with energy. They obviously functioned to secure something rare, something fit, perhaps, only for a gourmand.

“Those beasts are too expensive.” Poppa remarked, noticing my interest. He ran his serrated tongue over his razor-sharp front teeth. “I know some folks, those higher up in the Ministry, who have tried them, though, and they tell me they're very tasty. They ship them from that newly colonized planet. I've also heard they're a bit hard to control; so much so that some importers are killing and freezing them before transport. All the same, there’s something about those creatures. To me, they look almost too intelligent to eat.”

I was fascinated by the animal in the cage. It appeared to be a bipedal primate of some sort. I noticed its opposable digits as well as its pale skin and general lack of fur. It had clearly been born in a place with a much weaker sun than either of the two around which this wretched outpost orbited.

“You know,” my father whispered as we began to move away, “I've often wondered if those things might be domesticated? They appear to be able to use crude tools and the survey teams report that they even live in rudimentary dwellings on their own world. Rumor has it, though, that they're very aggressive, even dangerous. Their planet shows signs of constant warfare. We'd have to breed those tendencies out of them. Ah, well," Poppa sighed, “probably more work than it’s worth. We'll bring one home to the crèche for dinner once the prices go down. I'm sure someone at the Ministry has a recipe.”

Over my shoulder I glanced one last time at the creature in the cage. It looked up at me. Then, with an expression that clearly bespoke understanding – and maybe the beginnings of a plan – it winked.

"A Day at the Market"
Copyright: © 2009 James C. Clar
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James C. Clar has published short stories in print as well as on the Internet. He hopes that, if the Earth is ever colonized by aliens, they're intelligent and peaceful. He also hopes they're herbivores!

“And steeples pierce the cloud on her shoulder And the streets that the fisherman combed When his long-legged flesh was a wind on fire And his loin was a hunting flame.” - Dylan Thomas
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“I'm sorry, sir, we no longer carry those sorts of books. You should know better.” The officious young sales-clerk shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “In fact,” he continued sensing his advantage, “I could report you for even asking.” Beads of perspiration appeared on the forehead of the disheveled looking middle-aged man on the other side of the counter as the store employee continued. “They keep a national registry now of everyone whose, well, you know … whose tastes run in that direction.”
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By now the other customers in the store had taken notice of the conversation. Camera phones were discretely recording the encounter. Embarrassed and more than a little concerned about how much attention he had attracted, Ashe, the man making the inquiry, buttoned his stained and tattered overcoat and left the bookshop.
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Outside, a harsh November wind was blowing and it had just started to rain. Ashe turned and made his way three or four blocks north on Front Street. Before long, neon lights from the peep shows, strip joints and seedy bars that proliferated in the area reflected garishly off the wet pavement. More than once he had to rebuff the lurid offers made by the barkers and hustlers standing in dimly lit doorways trying to drum up trade.
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Looking down at his hand he noticed that, somewhere along the way, he had acquired a flyer advertising one of the adult movie theaters he had passed. The paper was wet from the rain and crumpled from the pressure of his fist. As a result, its colors had begun to run and merge. The image it once bore of a large-breasted woman with moist, pouty lips had become hideously distorted. Ashe wasn’t sure how much more he could take. When the urge hit him like it had this evening, there was only one thing that brought him relief. Still, he had to be careful.
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Head down and collar up against the chill, he turned off Front Street and found himself on McQuaid Avenue. The neighborhood was even more rundown. Both sides of the street were lined with disreputable looking hotels advertising hourly rates. Ashe remembered when many of those same places were luxury establishments catering to the rich and famous. Off to his left, old St. Mary’s Cathedral, once a magnificent structure, was now a hulking ruin. Ashe’s shoes, socks and pant legs were soaked; he had been splashed when a carload of teenagers drove purposely through a large puddle at the side of the road. “There you go, ‘Pops’. That’s the closest thing to a bath you've had in a month” they jeered as they went roaring by.
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As he passed the mouth of Kleghorn Alley, Ashe felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a wan looking young man of twenty-five or thirty-years-old with short, dark hair. Now, I’ve done it, he thought. It’s bad enough that I lost my composure at the bookshop but now I’m going to be mugged.
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“Hey, mister,” the stranger said as he gripped Ashe’s elbow lightly, “I saw what happened back at the store. I can get you what you want.”
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Ashe considered fleeing, but before he had a chance, the younger man made a series of arcane gestures with his right hand. Almost reflexively, Ashe followed suit. Without another word, the man with the black hair turned and started walking quickly down the Alley. In the throes of his compulsion, Ashe followed. Overhead he saw a network of rusted fire-escapes. The yellow light oozing from around curtained windows cast eerie shadows on soot-stained brick.
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They walked in silence for five minutes or so. Just before they got to the end of Kleghorn where it debouched onto Wilson Boulevard, the man in the lead turned and descended a series of worn, concrete steps. He rapped three times on the frame of an ancient door inset with two large panes of leaded glass. The entire structure was covered by an iron grating. Ashe heard the sound of a bolt being withdrawn and a chain being unfastened. The door opened slightly and then closed again. Ashe heard the sound of another chain. The door reopened and the two men went quickly inside.
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If Ashe had been surprised by meeting another individual in public who obviously shared his predilection, he was utterly shocked by what he now saw. In the first place, the man who admitted them was clearly the oldest person he had ever seen; he was stooped, with long grey hair and a grey beard stained yellow by nicotine. That someone like this had so long escaped the government roundups and subsequent “re-education” programs of the last ten years was nothing short of a miracle.
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What really took Ashe’s breath away, however, were the books and magazines. There were shelves upon shelves of them piled high. Like a somnambulist, he lurched forward and began tracing the lettering on the cover of one and rubbing his hands lovingly over the spine of another.
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“As you can see, sir,” his young guide said, “Mr. Rood has the finest selection of such volumes left in the city. Browse around as long as you like. Obviously, we have to insist on your complete discretion.”
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Ashe had a thousand questions but he was too absorbed in the books to give voice to any of them. He picked up one particularly attractive volume and opened it at random. His breath caught in when he saw the illustration: a half-naked woman astride a strange beast with numerous heads and spiky, menacing horns. It was all there within the pages – adultery, incest, rape and perversion. Thumbing back to the front of the text, he came upon another image. This time he gazed at two nude figures – one male and one female – in a decidedly suggestive pose. The couple was surrounded by lush, exotic vegetation. Ashe’s palms were sweaty and his pulse was racing as he began to read: "In the beginning …"

"Exegesis"
Copyright: © 2009 James C. Clar

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James C. Clar's work has been published in print as well as on the Internet. To date he has written over 200 stories in a variety of genres ... fantasy, science fiction, mainstream and noir. A few of those stories are even worth reading. Fewer still might even be worth remembering!

Thunder and lightning storms are rare on Oahu; the temperature seldom varies enough, or quickly enough, to create the conditions that produce them. When they do occasionally occur they tend to be prodigious. Those visiting for only a few days often fail to recognize the special nature of such storms. They're too concerned to make every moment of sun, sand and surf count… and who can blame them? A thunder storm is disruptive, intrusive, an annoyance. And, “hey,” they complain, “we get weather like this at home – we came to Hawaii for the sun.”

Those who have lived in the islands for even a short while, on the other hand, tend to revel in the sudden downpour and the loud crack of thunder that reverberates as it rides the trades. Most to be savored, however, is the jagged bolt of lightning that re-illuminates however briefly the usually azure skies that have gone unaccustomedly black.

Late in the afternoon during one such storm – and sensing something portentous in the unusual weather – I decided to go for a walk. Living alone and having no real attachments to speak of, I could engage in such absurd behavior. The streets of Waikiki were awash with water and, uncharacteristically, empty of pedestrians. The Ala Wai Canal off to my right was lost in a wall of rain. The palm trees that grew along the sidewalks shook like mad dogs shedding water after a swim. The normally dry rustle of their fronds had been replaced by the sound of a swarm of hungry locusts. I turned to the left. Up ahead I could just make out the wane lights from the upper floors of the hotels and condos along Kuhio and, just beyond that, Kalakaua Avenue. The entire scene reminded me of something from the palate of a Dadaist or Surrealist painter.

Needless to say, I was soaking wet before I had taken three steps. I wandered for fifteen minutes with no purpose or destination. Up one and down another I traced and retraced the mandala-like network of streets that ran between Ala Wai Boulevard to the north and Kuhio Avenue to the south. The thunder continued to roll overhead and in the flash from one particularly spectacular jolt of lightning I understood what I needed to do.

One after another I began entering the foyers of the apartment buildings and condos that were found in such profusion here. I'd stand, puddles of water forming at my feet, and press a button selected at random from the bank of intercoms that could usually be found in such establishments. Not too long ago, in many of these same buildings, you could gain admittance only from a doorman. I wondered what I might have done back then.

“Karen, is that you?” I'd say into the little grill above the occupant’s last name.

“No one named ‘Karen’ here, Brah. You must have the wrong apartment,” was the usual response. “Mahalo.”

Sometimes the reaction was far less polite. “Take a hike, asshole. I don't know anybody named ‘Karen’. You'll have to do better than that!” So much for Polynesian hospitality; the weather, obviously, was taking a toll on everyone’s nerves.

Ten minutes or so later, I slogged my way up the white coral walkway and entered an elegant little place on Kanekapolei with wind-whipped royal palms in front and a porte cochère that must have dated from the sixties. I jabbed a button with urgency and intent.

“Aloha, Karen, are you home?”

“Yes,” a disembodied voice answered with a tinny, distorted electronic accent. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Steve…”

“‘Steve’… I don't know anyone named ‘Steve’.”

“That’s OK,” I replied. “I don't know anyone named ‘Karen’, either, but I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

A drop of water from my hair beaded and rolled down my forehead onto the bridge of my nose where it followed the contour of my cheek before she answered.

“I guess I've been looking for you, too. Come on up. I'm in Number 225.”

I heard the metallic ‘click’ of a bolt being withdrawn electronically. Before I entered I looked outside. The rain had stopped and the sky had begun to clear. The lingering scent of ozone was strong as too were the rain washed fragrances of ginger and plumeria. People were out and about again. The streets sparkled as all manner of debris was being washed inexorably into the storm drains where, eventually, it merged with the warm, life-giving waters of the Pacific.

"In Search Of"
Copyright: © 2009 James C. Clar

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James C. Clar's work has been published in print as well as on the Internet. Most recently his short fiction has found a home in the Taj Mahal Review, Shine: A Journal of Flash, Bewildering Stories, Apollo's Lyre, Flashshot, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Everyday Fiction, Golden Visions Magazine, The Magazine of Crime and Suspense, Antipodean Sci-Fi, 365 Tomorrows and Static Movement. His story "Starbuck" was voted story-of-the-year by the editors of Long Story, Short for 2008.

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The corner of Smith and North Hotel Streets in the dark heart of Honolulu’s Chinatown can be a frightening place. Just blocks from Maunakea Market, the sights, sounds and, yes, even the odors can be overwhelming. Sidewalk stalls feature a variety of exotic seafood and rare tropical flowers, each in varying degrees of freshness. Picture as well as a swarming mass of humanity (with questionable dentition) hailing from the far corners of Asia and the Pacific. It’s enough to intimidate even the most seasoned traveler.

Just imagine, however, that you're an anthropologist specializing in shamanism and ancient medicine. And maybe you're looking for just the right ingredients to cast a spell or craft a potion to, say, increase your husband’s flagging libido. In that case, Smith and North Hotel would be just the place.

Of course, you'd need to have a contact; much of what you'd be looking for is strictly black-market material, poached from the declining ranks of the world’s most endangered species. But you'd assuage your conscience with the thought that this was just a one-time thing, and since the stuff’s there anyhow what harm would you really be doing?

So you screw up your courage and negotiate the narrow streets amid the seedy bars. It’s early in the day and so you dodge the hardened hookers heading home after a rough night’s trade. You find the shop you're looking for. As you enter, a small bell nailed to the door jingles softly, welcomely. You mention a name and the old woman behind the counter smiles toothlessly in relief and recognition. The shop is redolent with smells you have no desire to identify. You procure bear paw, powdered rhinoceros horn, tiger penis as well as extracts from the organs of the pangolin and civet cat.

“T’ank you Ma’am, t’ank you,” the old woman bows as you turn to leave. “Dis just what you need … you no tell nobody …T’ank you.”

You tuck the expensive contraband into your shoulder bag and head for home. You try to look casual but, as you walk down Bethel Street toward Ala Moana Boulevard, you turn furtively and look over your shoulder. The beautiful blue sky and the already-fierce Hawaiian sun seem especially bright, especially revealing.

That very afternoon you prepare the philtre according to the traditional recipe in an old Taoist text and mix it into your husband’s wine. He downs the first glass so quickly he never notices the slightly pungent after-taste. Nor does he pay much attention to the strong smells lingering in the kitchen. After all, he’s accustomed to your rather outré culinary inclinations.

* * *

Three days pass in dizzying profusion; easily the most bizarre and nightmarish three days of your life. The results of your machinations have yielded powerful results that in no way correspond to your expectations. And there’s nothing you can do. No one’s likely to believe the story you have to tell. Your only option is to stand by your husband, a man arrested, vilified, held over for psychiatric evaluation … and banned from zoos worldwide for life!

"Love Potion No. 9"

Copyright: © 2009 James C. Clar
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James C. Clar's work has been published in print as well as on the Internet. Recently he has placed short fiction in the Taj Mahal Review, Golden Visions Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Word Catalyst Magazine, Orchard Press Mysteries, 365 Tomorrows, Flashes in the Dark, Shine:The Journal of Flash, Everyday Fiction, Powder Burn Flash, Apollo's Lyre, Antipodean Sci-Fi and Flashshot. His story “Starbuck” was voted story of the year for 2008 by the editors of Long Story, Short. There's little he enjoys more than wandering the streets and alleys of Chinatown.