Poisoned Eros: Mind-bending Tales from the Dark Side of Love

By O. A. Beckett and Peter Nemenoff

A post-apocalyptic tyrant with a pre-apocalyptic fetish. A restaurant where cannibals can take their dates. An interstellar alien come to lure human victims through her dating profile. A young woman who inadvertently murders her male teachers. These are just a sampling of the outlandish fictions you'll encounter in this collection of short pieces from the delightfully-twisted imaginations of O. A. Beckett and Peter Nemenoff. The stories involve a daring mash-up of genres—science fiction and romantic comedy—and are guaranteed to delight, disarm, and disturb. So reader beware: love may be blind, but Cupid's poisoned arrows hit true to their mark… often with unintended consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: O. A. Beckett
• Release date: Jan 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781540135148

Book preview

Text copyright 2018 by O. A. Beckett and Peter Nemenoff.

All Rights Reserved.

This a work of fiction. Well, technically it’s several works of fiction bound between the same electronic covers. Anyway, all similarities between the characters depicted herein and any sentient beings—carbon-based or otherwise—found within our cosmic event horizon are purely coincidental. No such assurances are provided for parallel universes or possible worlds, however.

No aliens, robots, catfish, cannibals, or self-aware toasters were harmed in the making of this work. Regrettably, one cockroach perished.

Table of Contents

Forward

Dinner Date, Peter Nemenoff

The Catfish, O. A. Beckett

Election 2062, Peter Nemenoff

The Sticky Note, O. A. Beckett

Other People, Peter Nemenoff

The Little Dictator, O. A. Beckett

The Anxiety Dream, Peter Nemenoff

At midnight, all the agents: a still life with lavender, O. A. Beckett

Croque-Monsieur, Peter Nemenoff

Behold, the white rhino, O. A. Beckett

Forward

I have known Peter Nemenoff for thirteen years or thereabouts, and since the very first night I met him, he and I have been discussing our writing together. Chain-smoking on our party host’s balcony, breathing in the tepid, smoggy air of summer-time Los Angeles so many years ago, we shared summaries of things we had written, enthused over things we had yet to write, agonized over our past failures, and dreamed about future successes.

Today, we’ve both grown a little thicker in our midsections (sorry, Peter), although the air quality in LA has stayed about the same. Another thing that’s stayed the same is that we still talk about writing. In one form or another, we’ve been carrying on that very first conversation right up to the present, so it seemed only natural to reach out to Peter as a collaborator.

The idea was simple. Peter’s genre, to grossly over-generalize, is romantic comedy. His plays, screenplays, and stories are sometimes heart-warming, often acerbic, and almost-always pointedly funny, but the vast majority of them share an interest in the trials and tribulations of love—finding it, seeking it, losing it, seeking it again. My work, on the other hand, falls under the general banner of speculative/science fiction, and tends be darker, a bit weirder, and a lot more pessimistic. My idea was to combine our fixations: Why not write a book of stories that focused on the macabre, fantastic, hypnagogic side of love, sex, and relationships? Peter was game; the result is the book you’re currently reading.

In this collection you’ll find a rogue’s gallery of short pieces that all, in some manner, touch on the vagaries of romance in the modern world. An ingénue who seems to mysteriously jinx her teachers to death; a restaurant that caters to amorous cannibals; a dictator who gets his jollies by incinerating populated cities; an expectant dater catfished by an actual (albeit intergalactic) catfish—all this, and more, you’ll find in these pages.

Art is a matter of taste, and some tastes are acquired. Whether you’ll find here the flavor you’re looking for, I can’t say. What I can say is that we put a lot of sweat, blood, and tears into the mix, as well as generous helpings of excitement, mirth, and pure, unapologetic love. We hope that you’ll find the bittersweet confection that emerges as oddly-enticing as we do.

Amantes sunt amentes,

—OAB

Los Angeles

February, 2018

In Dinner Date, Peter Nemenoff accomplishes a rare and powerful form of literary alchemy—turning potential romance into absurdist horror, all the while remaining funny. As is true in all of Nemenoff’s best work, the minimalist, even deadpan, dialogue here conceals a depth of tautly-wound emotions and subterranean stirrings that could keep even the best Freudian analyst awake at night. And he pulls it off in less than three thousand deliciously-amusing words. Bon appetit, dear reader! –OAB.

Dinner Date

By Peter Nemenoff

Olivia looked out of place. She sat in a sparse BBQ restaurant with wooden tabletops lined with bottles of BBQ sauce and other condiments. The place was fairly empty, and she sat at a centrally located table, in front of the bar lined with bottles of whiskey and taps for beer. Behind that were posters for several brands of alcohol, promoting a lifestyle of cowboys and hard-drinking frontier masculinity. Apart from that, the place had a few animal heads and horse shoes along the wall and the shades to the windows were drawn, revealing only the smallest sliver of light.

In contrast to the décor, Olivia wore a satin red dress. She wore her light brown hair big, teased and backcombed with curls framing her face like a lion’s mane. Over her shoulders, she wore a thick, white, fox fur stole to protect from the cold.

She held a glass in front of her with something white and sparkling inside it, slowly twirling it, waiting, occasionally taking a delicate sip.

A young man, about Olivia’s age, roughly late twenties, tried to rush through the door as nonchalantly as possible, but from Olivia’s vantage point, he seemed awkwardly hasty. He walked past a host and indicated that he was meeting someone. Before he even finished explaining, he saw Olivia and speed walked over to her.

He was not dressed anywhere near as elegantly as she was. He did attempt a more formal look than normal, though, with a suit jacket over a t-shirt and a pair of nice pants. The difference between their two attires was still noticeable.

Before he even sat down he began to apologize.

Hi, Olivia. Sorry I’m late. The freeway was completely backed up.

It’s fine, she dismissed.

Jason looked over her outfit.

You look great, he said, surprised by her effort.

Oh thank you! she said, stroking her stole, his compliment effectively distracting her from the annoyance of his tardiness.

Jason then tugged at his own clothing, suddenly aware of how much more casual he looked.

I hope I’m not underdressed.

Oh no, she cooed, maintaining strong eye contact. Not at all. You look good tonight.

Well, thank you, he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from her. She didn’t break her gaze though and gave him the once over.

Not to be superficial, but that’s why I talked to you that day at the gym. I saw you running on the treadmill with those calf muscles. How could I resist?

Jason was, of course, taken aback by this brazen flirting. They had, after all, just met, and he attempted to think of something witty to come back with. All he could think of, however, was, Thank you...

Olivia just peeked under the table at the curvature of his legs through his skinny jeans.

Do you do calf raises? Squats? she guessed.

No. Just running, he answered.

She just looked him in the eyes again and smiled with her red painted lips.

Well, whatever you’re doing it’s working. They’re so plump and defined, like a drumstick.

Jason shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ah...

She continued, undeterred. I bet they would be a delicious meal for someone higher up on the food chain.

You mean like a lion, he tried to clarify.

Yes. Like a lion.

Well, let’s hope I’m not chased by a lion anytime soon, he said, attempting to make a joke.

Lionesses are the ones that do the hunting, she corrected him.

Right.

All this talk is making me hungry. Let’s order.

Oh, I haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu yet, he said, looking around the table to realize there were not any menus. She just brushed it off.

It doesn’t matter. Everything here is just so delicious. You can’t go wrong.

She held up her hand and a waiter approached.

A thin, short man, with his hair conservatively slicked to one side, approached their table. He wore an apron around his waist and a white, button-up shirt with a bow tie and a mischievous grin on his face.

Good evening. My name is Calvin. I will be taking care of you this evening, he said.

Yeah, hi. Good evening, Jason responded.

So have we been here before, sir? the waiter asked Jason, fully aware that the answer was no. It was simply a formality, a matter of going through the motions.

No, this is my first time, Jason responded, right on cue.

So have you explained how it works here? the waiter asked, now directing his question at Olivia.

I haven’t. Shall I? she responded.

Only if you’d like to, the waiter said.

I’ll let you, Olivia said, finishing up this overly-polite game that only left Jason feeling suspicious and weird.

I’m sorry, have you been here before? Jason asked Olivia.

I have. This place is my favorite. To eat, she answered in an unholy cadence.

Jason, still unable to shake the strange feeling that was nagging him, decided it must be in his head. Even though both Olivia and the waiter were now staring at him like