The Dark Issue 26: The Dark, #26

By Kelly Stewart, Nadia Bulkin, Osahon Ize-Iyamu and Michael Harris Cohen

Each month The Dark brings you the best in dark fantasy and horror! Edited by award winning editors Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Sean Wallace and brought to you by Prime Books, this issue includes two all-new stories and two reprints:

“A Performance for Painted Bones” by Kelly Stewart
“Girl, I Love you” by Nadia Bulkin (reprint)
“A Lasting Legacy” by Osahon Ize-Iyamu
“Harvest” by Michael Harris Cohen (reprint)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prime Books
• Release date: Jun 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386658764

Book preview

THE DARK

Issue 26 • July 2017

A Performance for Painted Bones by Kelly Stewart

Girl, I Love You by Nadia Bulkin

A Lasting Legacy by Osahon Ize-Iyamu

Harvest by Michael Harris Cohen

Cover Art: Long Shadows by Vincent Chong

ISSN 2332-4392.

Edited by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Sean Wallace.

Cover design by Garry Nurrish.

Copyright © 2017 by Prime Books.

www.thedarkmagazine.com

A Performance for Painted Bones

by Kelly Stewart

Fade in.

The street is ermined in thick fog. The corner of a building solidifies through the mist, all filigree balconies and tall, winking windows. Hibiscus and hydrangea droop over the ledges like spent revellers.

Figures begin to appear through the fog, most in pairs, some alone and others part of clamourous crowds. They are dressed in sables and silks, in top hats and tails. Excess and excitement converge on a single point.

The door to a theatre; the backs of the theatregoers’ heads, the ticket-taker’s face in shadows.

Inside the theatre, chandeliers glitter with guttering flames and drip with jet and finger bones. The theatregoers are seated around tables. Servers are generous with drink. A spotlight hits the curtain. Chatter goes quiet. The on-stage pianist bangs out a roisterous ragtime tune. Viewed closely, the pianist’s fingers are old, cracked bone. The audience is a garden of painted skulls, corsages and flowered hats. A city of skeletons.

The young man who glides out on stage, however, is fully human. Lustily human. His body glitters with gold chains, and, after a few fevered minutes of dancing under the hot lights, with perspiration as well. It’s a wonder he has the air to belt the too-fast lyrics at the same time he dances, but stamina comes with practice. The shimmering fabric pleated around his legs is a token gesture of modesty. He’s grown his hair out since coming here. It wings and bobs around his face like licorice candy with every toss and twirl. His smile feels genuine. The playful rolling of his eyes, of his hips, is charming and nonthreatening. He begs captivation, possessiveness.

Glimpses of the audience reveal gleaming teeth in permanent grins, knucklebones clapping and ladies swooning in their chairs, their hats and wigs sliding off their smooth heads. They love the man with skin who dances for their pleasure.

Backstage, in a dressing room, THE DANCER sits on a sofa with his knees drawn up to his chin, wrapped in a warm, deer-coloured duffle coat. The room is dark except for the lights ringing the vanity mirror, where the MISTRESS OF CEREMONIES, sits and applies cosmetics to the bony contours of her face.

Another marvellous set, coos the mistress. She addresses the dancer’s reflection in the mirror. You’ll go far. Mark my words, young man, one day you’ll go far.

The dancer looks up, startled. Without the stage lights, the creaminess of his skin looks more like pallor. What seemed like the shadows of deep-set eyes are really dark circles. There’s somewhere else to go?

Probably, says the mistress. We would hate for you to leave, though. It would be so lovely if you stayed here and played for us every night, forever. But we must be realistic, mustn’t we, dear? She appraises the flowered hat on her golden curls, and then tosses the hat away, curls and all.

Y-es, the dancer falters.

The mistress leans back in her chair and regards the dancer with hollow eyes. It really is heartening how you have carved out a niche for yourself here. It can be so difficult for people who arrive with their luggage, as the expression goes. Not a lot of room on the train for luggage.

It was very crowded, the dancer admits.

Come now, and the mistress picks herself up and tugs a set of short, dark brown curls around her ears—or she would, if she’d had ears. I’m for luncheon.

Dressed for the weather, the dancer and the mistress of ceremonies step outside arm-in-arm. The mist is not as thick as it was the night before, but it looks cold, and drizzles miserably. The street appears empty—until the dancer looks over his shoulder.

On the opposite street corner, another man with skin leans against the rusty brickwork of the building. THE HUNTER wears a dark brimmed hat and a dark trench coat. The strap across his shoulder insinuates a rifle. Two skeleton dogs are with him. One sits alert by his side. The other snuffles around in the mud, but looks up when the dancer appears.

The mistress bows to see around the dancer and gives a little start. "Pay him no mind, dear. He tries to look scary, but he won’t bother you as long as you