Persephone's Library and Other Short Stories

Persephone's Library and Other Short Stories

Kathryn Anthony

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

© 2007 S. L. Deefholts

For TCN, my love.

Visit my blog: http://katanthony.wordpress.com.

Cover art by Kit Foster: http://kitfosterfiction.blogspot.com

Message from Kathryn Anthony

Thank you so much for checking out this short story collection. If you enjoy the stories you read, please consider giving the book a star rating and a brief blurb at the site from which you downloaded it. I'd really appreciate it!

Or, I would love it if you dropped me a note to share your thoughts on this or any other books of mine that you've read. I love hearing from readers! I'm at writer.katanthony@gmail.com. My twitter username is @writekatanthony, so feel free to give me a shoutout there if you'd rather.

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Table of Contents

Don Coyote de la Merika

Jemelle's Exile

Persephone's Library

What Rough Beast?

The Talents

About the Author

Don Coyote de la Merika

I: Meme

Silende had to listen hard for the early warning: a heavy, deep rumble that she always felt first under the soles of her feet and in the depths of her chest.

When she was little, Meme had treated it as a game. Go on and play Tires 'n Twine. Hurry now! If you're quiet like I said, I'll give you a surprise when you get out.

Then Silende would scramble under the stilts of the old shack, and hide herself in the dugout, between the worn out tires and the piles of old twine.

And she'd pretend like she was one of them.

Like as not, the rumbling would just stay off in the distance, barely audible, but for the deep feeling of the earth vibrating beneath her. Sometimes, a convoy of Mershants would happen to find their dusty old road. They'd stop by the shack and try to sell Meme something, before going on their way.

That afternoon, when Meme said, Go on and play Tires 'n Twine, baby, her mouth turned all tense and white the way it usually got when they heard the rumbles.

Seeing that, Silende didn't protest that she wasn't a baby anymore—she just slipped out the back of the shack, crawled underneath and settled herself under a pile of twine.

The rules for playing Tires 'n Twine were as follows:

Rule number 1:

Hide. Cover up with the twine. Stay quiet, no matter what you hear or see. Pretend like you're one of the tires, or like you're another big old pile of twine.

Rule number 2:

Only respond if Meme calls you by your own name. If she says anything different than your own name, then pretend you're just tires 'n twine.

Rule number 3:

If she doesn't call your name, then stay hid. Stay hid no matter what. Until the rumbling is long gone. All night if need be.

Rule number 4:

Stay hid except for when you have to sneak out for food. If there's any rumbles, be tires 'n twine and wait for Uncle Coyote. He's gotta come sooner or later.

Rule number 5:

Don't come out for anyone else.

Silende peered out from under the shack. She could just manage to glimpse the tires of the vehicles stopping in the front of the property. And then the scuffed boots of the men, stepping out and walking around. Try though she might, she couldn't see anything else.

She heard Meme's screams, though. She heard the curses, and she heard the men laughing.

And, Where's the other? The baby?

Ain't no baby! Meme screamed.

Don't give me no crap about there bein' no baby, woman! I ain't stupid. There's girl clothes hangin' out, and girl panties and is this or ain't this a girl doll right here?

Silende swallowed. In her rush to hide, she'd left Kari up there. She no longer played with the doll much anymore, but suddenly she wished she had thought to bring it into hiding with her. Now the men had both Kari and Meme. The only two people—aside from Uncle Coyote—that Silende cared about in the whole world, even if Kari was just a toy.

But she kept her mouth pinned shut. She was twine. Twine didn't move or do anything or think anything. It just was.

My baby been dead this past time but I can't let none of this go.

Well ain't that just the saddest thing I ever heard.

More laughter. More screams. Grunts and gasps and broken moans.

There was screaming inside her head, too. At least two voices, moaning and screaming and wanting to get out.

But Silende was twine.

Then, strange, wet, heavy breathing and a final whisper from Meme, Curse you and your damn Mlisha. Curse you all to hell.

The rumble of them riding off in their convoy. And silence.

Silende stayed twine for hours. She stayed twine even though she had to pee.

And then her legs were wet, and the back of her panties heavy, and she could smell the stink, but still she stayed twine. And she stayed, into the dark silence of the night, with the rank wetness on her legs, as she drifted off to sleep from sheer exhaustion.

She dreamed of the other place. The place of tall, green bumps in a shifting expanse of blue.

She dreamed that her world was an island, covered in grass and meadows—that she worked in the fields in the mornings and went to school in the afternoons. And that she was safe because all around was water—more water than she had ever seen in her life. She could see other islands, when she climbed high, high up to the top of the hill—up to where the rows upon rows of tall, bright wind turbines were perched. She could see their own village from up there as well, sheltered from the breezes, the solar panels on the roofs swallowing up the sunlight.

And everyone was safe; the people living there were happy. The world was green and there were children—lots of children—to play with. She had dreamed of this place many times before.

But this was the first time she also found herself hating it.

Silende woke the next day to a foul, stifling silence. It weighed her down and curdled the air in her nostrils. But she stayed listening, straining to hear even the faintest of stirrings. Nothing.

Only then did she sneak out of her hiding place, her long game of Tires 'n Twine over at last.

This time, there was no surprise waiting for her—no little something that Meme had made during stolen moments and hidden away somewhere in the shack. Just more silence.

Meme lay inside, face down. Kari was beside her, her jute skin cut open and the dried grass inside her scattered. Just like Meme.

Silende stood, swaying slightly from hunger, and stared at the devastation. Meme had always kept the place tidy and tight, but those men—the Mlisha, Meme had called them—had changed all that.

Silende cleaned up as best she could. She was old enough to manage for herself now.

Old enough to pump the water she needed. Old enough to scrub down everything she could reach. To wash out her clothes, and leave them to dry.

Old enough to gather up Kari's stuffing and sew her up. She wouldn't be as good as new, but at least she could be fixed.

There was nothing she could do about Meme—couldn't even move her or give her a burial, like Meme had said was the proper thing to do when someone died.

The smell and the flies became too much to live with after a day or so. Silende started living in the old shelter way at the back of the property, past the dusty, yellowed grass. Meme called it the bomb shelter. It was underground, its entrance well-hidden, among the old, half-dead trees. The Mlisha hadn't bothered to investigate it—and good thing, too. That was where Meme kept their stockpile of supplies.

Nights, Silende dreamed of the islands—just as she always had, for as long as she could remember. It was like a second life she lived there, but Meme had told her that dreams were just things her mind invented so it would keep sleeping and her body could get proper rest.

But made up or no, the islands were beautiful. In her dreams, her name was Jemelle. She always wore fresh clothes—and changed them several times a day. Machines did the washing and drying.

She lived with a group of kids her age and had a handsome older brother who teased her most of the time, but comforted her when she was upset. Their mother was a beautiful, tall woman with long red hair who visited most days and smiled and spoke with them, but there was sadness in her eyes.

After losing Meme, Silende began wishing the dreams would stop.

They were no escape from her reality. No escape from the fact that her real ma was bloated and stinking in the shack—some common piece of meat that had nothing to do with the safe, special person who had held Silende through the nights and told her stories and sung her to sleep.

II: Coyote

Silende and Kari hid whenever they heard the rumble, but no more of the Mlishas came up her way. There wasn't much of a road left leading to the property. Most of the convoys assumed it just led to more abandoned houses, and so they didn't bother to investigate.

She lost track of time—of the days and weeks that passed. After a while, Meme stopped smelling so bad and Silende started spending more time near the shack.

When Uncle Coyote did come juddering up the old road, Silende hid out of habit, even though his busted up old armored van sounded nothing like the convoys of Mlisha or Mershants.

Meme? S'lende?

From where she hid, holding Kari tight against her, Silende could see his tall leather boots, browned with dust, as he hopped down from his van and walked towards the shack. Hey, where the hell is everyone? Meme? It's me, Don!

His footsteps, on the front steps. What's a guy gotta do to get a welcome around— His words broke off as he pushed the door open. Silence.

Then, Oh shit, all breathy and soft and shaky, like Silende felt sometimes, when it was just her and Kari and even their little corner of the world felt like far too big a piece of it to manage.

Oh Meme, Meme, baby. What the hell happened? It hardly even sounded like Uncle Coyote, his voice was so wobbly and broken and quiet. A pause. Then, S'lende?

Silende swallowed and lay still.

S'lende? Louder, this time. He stepped outside, walked down the steps and around the house.

So, by the rules of the game, she was supposed to come out now. When Uncle Coyote came, she was supposed to go to him. And he was even calling her by name.

Except that she had stopped playing the game ages ago. And where the hell had he been when they needed