Decay

by Emily Faye Holloway

The clearing had been essentially the same for as long as any being could remember. This was not to say that, at some point, it could not have been full of life and teeming with wild fauna. However, ask the eldest elder or most time-wizened elf and they would readily tell you that this specific clearing was known only as “Decay” for as long as they had been alive.

Who specifically decided on that name is a mystery. Humans all tend to say an elven priestess named it because even she could not revive the lingering spirits of nature. Elves refute this by pointing at the fae, who have been rumored to have named it thus as part of a self-fulfilling prophecy (if it is named decay, it shall decay). The fae, all too happy to take credit in a roundabout way, often just say “It could be us. It might not be us, either.”

Local historians have been through this entire rigmarole often. About once a century or so a plucky young thing decides they will be The One who figures it all out. They’ll be famous for solving an ancient enigma and have enough money to woo attractive people and win academic prowess.

They’re usually exhausted of trying to figure out an extensive tangle of tales and fae trickery about a couple of months into their searches.

That doesn’t stop people from just entering Decay as they please. Priestesses and druids make pilgrimages there to pray for healing for the natural world in that one spot. The clearing stays the same. Adventurers offer of bounties of their hunts in hopes of appeasing some nameless deity whom people think rules Decay. The clearing stays the same. Elders bring plants to try and repopulate with flourishing nature. Children brings snacks and cakes. Young lovers offer intertwined songs of happiness.

The clearing stays the same.

No outside influence changed Decay’s seemingly natural state. What worried the nearby populace the most, though, was that everything seemed to actually be decaying. Decay was no longer a stagnant pool of death; it was turning into a spreading illness that might harm nearby areas that were living normally.

Now, this wasn’t to say that Decay would never be fixed. The key to changing its state of rapid deterioration simply had not yet been found. A few good scholars of a local village pondered this one day.

“Perhaps,” said one, adjusting her robes, “if we tried to ask whatever entity governs Decay what is the key to helping them, we might get an answer.”

Another scholar snorted in contempt and retorted, “Yes, let’s just ‘ask’ an entity of unknown scope and source what they want. That will surely work when hundreds of years of other ideas have failed.”

A few of the others scowled at the young man for his tone. He sighed out an apology and let the original speaker continue her idea.

“From what I can tell, most of the records indicate that everyone tries to fix the problem without much prior knowledge. So, what if we ask the source for information on what we can do to help? There’s nothing that indicates that this entity—whatever it may be—is hostile towards receiving help.”

“There’s nothing that indicates the entity is actively hostile, Elyon,” Taranath, one of the previously quiet scholars, snapped.

“I acknowledge your point. Despite this, I still think we should try this theory out in the field. If we don’t, how will we know whether or not it could solve this entire conundrum?”

Everyone looked at Elyon for a moment. No movement entered the space created by silence for a quiet second. Then, Taranath spoke again.

“Do you want to get yourself killed? Think about what our instructors would say.”

“You do realize that we don’t have to tell them everything we do every second of our academic internships.”

A small gasp exited the mouths of several of the young scholars. The stares trained on Elyon were immediately turned into a mix of derisive, disappointed, and displeased looks. Implying in any sort of degree that every second of one’s internship shouldn’t be reported to instructors was like pulling out a list of swears in the regional dialect and hurling them all at innocent passersby.

Elyon, though, didn’t flinch a bit upon receiving the contempt of her peers. She pushed on despite the odd looks.

“I want to figure this out. We all do, deep down. Imagine what could happen to our careers if we solved this. Not to mention saving the local environment. Fellow scholars, how could you not want to seize this opportunity?”

The students fell silent and looked at their feet, the walls, or anywhere besides Elyon’s face. They knew that she was correct. After all, a scholar’s first duty was using knowledge to help others. Knowledge was not meant to be hoarded or kept from those deemed through arbitrary means as “unworthy” of learning. It was a tool to help fix problems using unconventional means.

“Can we call ourselves seekers of the truth while stepping away from a possible solution to a problem because we could get in trouble? Has that ever stopped any great figure in our realm’s history?”

Another beat of silence. Then, Taranath sighed, “She’s right. I don’t know if I one-hundred percent think this idea will work. But Elyon’s correct in saying that if we don’t try we’re going against the foundations of our academic careers.”

A small smile flitted across Elyon’s face for a moment. It had taken much longer than she would care to admit to be recognized in academics—though nobody would ever admit to it, she knew her status as “a fae woman’s bastard” was probably part of it. Her small hometown had been less than accepting when her father—a local magistrate—showed up one day with a child he claimed was his through a fae woman he loved dearly. Most of the town maintained that he was mad; fae made deals through tricks to get others to mate with them. And, as such, Elyon herself was obviously a trickster who would try to harm them all.

Considering all the bullshit that had been thrown at Elyon for her entire life, this moment of recognition was perfect. It was small, and happy, and bright.

******************

It took a few days for the scholars to prepare for this trip. Despite the specific clearing they were investigating being so close, they had to prepare. One student filled a couple of packs with all the specific literature on Decay. Another snuck some provisions from the kitchens as stealthily as possible. Elyon made sure everyone performed a task and that the final party leaving would remain at six members. She’d originally wanted only four to go, but the last two were twins and wouldn’t leave her alone until she said yes.

Once everything was prepared, the group set out in the dead of night. The path to Decay was marked well by many travelers before these students trekked into the darkest woods. It was not a long journey. The party hesitated slightly; then, Elyon was the first to set foot inside the dead clearing.

As soon as she set foot in the clearing, the young scholar could feel it. A type of fae energy emanated from the earth itself. Elyon quietly motioned the others forward, and they stepped into Decay with an impressive amount of hesitation and apprehension. Everyone looked at each other briefly. Taranath pointed at Elyon quizzically, as if to inquire “Are you gonna say something?”

Elyon cleared her throat as quietly as possible, then whispered, “Is…is anyone here?”

Silence boomed back. Even though she knew it was always a terrible idea to disturb fae that obviously did not want to be bothered, Elyon spoke again.

“We’re here to help you. We just—we just need to know how we can help.”

In that moment, a small ripple of energy surged from a nearby tree. Elyon wasn’t sure if everyone else felt it as harshly as she did or if they just turned to look at the tree with her. Another beat of silence passed. Then, a small choked voice.

“You want to help me?”

The fae came into view gradually. She was small and fragile in appearance. Her wings were drooped, torn in places, and only fluttered occasionally. They were a dull pink, like her skin. Her hair was inky black; when the moonlight reflected off of it, Elyon could see hints of a deep blue. The fae sniffled, seemingly holding back a dam of tears.

“Yes. We came here to help,” Elyon replied softly.

The fae smiled and wiped small tears from the corners of her eyes. “You have no idea how grateful I am that you came here.”

miss begotten

by Donovan Cleckley

“Nowhere is woman treated according to the merit of her work, but rather as a sex.”

- Emma Goldman, “The Traffic in Women,” Anarchism and Other Essays (1910)

swept along with the surge of visitors in the gallery, a lone woman looking ahead sees Georges Rouault’s 1906 painting Before a Mirror in which a prostitute, naked except for her stockings, brushes her dark hair.

the woman in the painting stares in loathing and contempt at her own reflection, her mouth clenched and tightened. while tending to her appearance, she takes care to avoid dislodging the scarlet flower placed within the black mass of locks, knowing well she must maintain an appealing visage.

after all, the johns, like all gazers of their sex, do not buy anything which does not look appealing. when writing about “condemned women” in his poetry, Baudelaire was the john who pitied the prostitute and loved her only because he could see himself as infinitely superior to her: “I love you as I pity you.” After all, Baudelaire was a man.

although deprived of light, the prostitute’s pale, yellowish skin casts its glow. if she had experienced more pleasure than pain in her life, then her glow could be called an afterglow. pleasure, however, has always submitted to pain, leaving bruises and burns on her brain. yet, perhaps in defiance to the darkness around her, she radiates a light, not thirsting for satisfaction with anguished sighs, as Baudelaire thought, but rather so utterly thirsted after by men’s hungering eyes.

overlooked and forgotten, she rises to stand like a lighthouse consumed in the dark fog and damned to withstand tempests that slam into her body one after the other. with each new storm, she feels etched upon her body a fresh layer of marks, new scars made upon aged ones from a life ago. shadows of times past lurk beneath her eyes as if burned ashes lay smeared, exposing the dirtiness of her aging face, a visage rejected

by the men who demand more and more youth. weathered, covered in grime, aged with time, her eyes clearly indicate that she knows how to remain awake and, if the impulse strikes, cry.

what time is there to cry when the whore must wipe her eyes and ready herself for the best going price? a skilled businesswoman keeps marketability in mind, and, in the selling of flesh, advertisement is of the utmost importance. wearing only stockings, she sees her vagina and her breasts reflected back at her in the looking-glass. she sees each man who has touched her, whether he has done so violently or intimately. she sees the women with whom she has shared the deepest intercourse, for love and not for money.

living and dying in this moment of being, she sees other prostitutes in her reflection, a vision of sisters like her. for she is Everywhore: the female body offered up as a sacrifice so that other women, even in their alterity, as Simone de Beauvoir once put it, may live married lives as “honest women,” respectable in the man-made world.

when she laughs and smiles with the men, their laughter echoes shrill and thin. like in Oscar Wilde’s poem “The Harlot’s House,” Strauss’ “Treues Liebes Herz,” meaning “True Loving Heart,” plays on horn and violin as the dancers rigidly dance nearby. she sits, adjusting herself for her next customer as the sounds of music and dancing swim around her, framing her profound misery in performed gaiety.

how the creatures must move their mechanical arms! ah, the perceived order must indicate no hurt or harm!

momentary peace between the sexes transforms into war, revealing the truly awful, rotten discordance beneath the harmonious noise. as Wilde wrote, “Love passed into the house of Lust. / Then suddenly the tune went false.” The whorehouse is a place of money and business, not of emotion and love. all throats struggle for breath and singing turns into death due to the fragmented apple core choking both man and woman,

forcing them into the bondage of pain with very little pleasure awaiting them. knowledge awaits.

dishonest men prefer “honest women.” Simone de Beauvoir observed in The Second Sex that an existing caste of “shameless women,” represented in the existence of the prostitute, allows the “honest woman,” at least in theory if not always in practice, to be treated with the respect deprived of women shamed not only for their sex but also for men’s sexual demands upon them. man rejects her, ignoring the way in which his lust perpetuates her condition.

the prostitute’s body tells far more truths than the body of the “honest woman.” men see her as filth, special only when they can use her in secrecy and discard her when convenient. “cleanliness is next to godliness,” the “honest” husbands and wives may say, cheating on each other all the same. free from a life shackled to one man while subject to a life dependent on many men, no man claims her in public as his daughter and every man claims her in private as his whore.

known only as harlot or strange woman, she will soon be the nameless mother of Jephthah the Gileadite. Jephthah will be a mighty man of valor and, as the Bible says, he will be the son of a harlot. he will sacrifice his virgin daughter, the granddaughter of a strange woman, as a burnt offering to God in Jephthah’s thanks for the children of Israel triumphing over the children of Ammon. the blood of a “shameless woman” will run through the veins of Jephthah’s sacrificed virgin daughter.

far away, removed from Jephthah’s life, his mother will never know the name of her sacrificed granddaughter. the aged whore will never know of the youthful virgin whose father spilled her blood in the name of his God, hating the dirty and the clean, hating all that he finds female.

unrealized and yet awaiting the harlot’s realization, her reflected loathing foreshadows the very loss within her. what if she desires to embrace her granddaughter?

in body, mind, and soul, the woman endures pain which kicks inside of her womb, strangling her, stunting her growth. although the loss remains unknown to her, she loses the flesh which is her flesh, but her perceived impurity obscures the human beneath her skin. she, the whore, is also a human. likewise, her granddaughter’s perceived purity eclipses the human beneath the spilled blood of Jephthah’s sacrifice. she, the virgin, is also a human. useable and destroyable, defendable only as property, thoroughly possessed, the prostitute and the virgin both appear as animals, as female, before the eyes of men.

why does the whore receive more rebuke than the john whose sexual demand drives the traffic in women? why am I the woman made into the whore, punished for what man makes me? why must I, not man, receive scorn for my sex?

am I not a woman who is indeed a human being denied her humanity by the pimps, the johns, the police, the husbands, and the wives of the man-made world? am I not human, existing within and yet exiled from the “honest” world of my brothers and sisters alike?

do I not breathe, speak, and sing— alive and hidden where the eyes of the moralists dare not see me?

unclean, condemned in the eyes of supposedly righteous men and women, all of them so honest themselves, she lies and lies and lies. she lives her life as Miss World, the wanted and unwanted bitch with blackened tears streaming from her eyes. she glares at herself in the mirror, seemingly free of man’s eyes for the moment and yet, in reality, never truly free from his hungering gaze. she hates not herself but what man has made of her sex.

on the surface, she appears sexually liberated from the possession of one man, but she cannot truly free when exchanged through countless hands. how many men view her as a commodity, as if she is a piece of land to colonize and plunder for the moment?

even after the transaction, the men carry her image with them, masturbating to the woman whose name they will forget long before they lose remembrance of her body.

created in a man-made world, she exists as Miss Begotten, twisted into the scapegoat of sexual immorality, used when most desired, destroyed when least desired—misbegotten.