Tags: Cèsar Sanchez Zapata, microfiction
Journeyman, by Cèsar Sanchez Zapata
Last August, my daughter, Liliana, turned three. That same month she made her first friend. A man as fate should have it—depicted with frosty hair and a bent nose in her school drawings. All at once, the house bristled with stories of this stranger; it seemed Liliana would speak of nothing else. One evening over dinner, she confessed to her mother that the man called himself Langdon. And Dahlia’s breath caught in her throat.
Liliana claimed he was sitting in the empty chair beside Mommy.
Leo’s are naturally innovative people, spontaneous and prone to flights of fancy—Dahlia read that in an astrology book while she was pregnant with Liliana. If she’d been any more open to the opinions of others, thus becoming uneasy by contagion, Dahlia might have enlisted the help of a shrink. This quack would have espoused notions of imaginary companions manifested physically to serve as mere tutelary in play. A normal, in fact integral part of many children’s lives, particularly an only-child, in order to alleviate stress, nervousness, loneliness.
In this particular case, child psychology proves useless. The answer is more fundamental than creative license. The solution lays in the metaphysical. A traveler cannot present himself within two streams of consciousness simultaneously in a three-dimensional world. It’s a basic principle of dimension slips, just as identical fermions cannot occupy the same quantum state at the same time. The human mind requires the faculty to discern multiverses, manifold scales of overlapping particles, in order for synchronic subsistence to be possible.
In layman’s terms: No ménage-a-trois for journeymen.
I loved to watch Dahlia paint, and not just because she preferred to paint naked. There was a calming effect to her nudity, a serenity. Erotic and effortless and innate. When she was through, she glanced about at the fruit of her labor. The walls were smeared in dabs of sponged blue and white to resemble an afternoon sky. I could see the room’s blueprints flashing across her hazel eyes. The crib would go there. The ivory wardrobe tucked in that corner. The bookshelf filled with the world of Dr. Seuss over yonder.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what you think?”
She always felt my presence, long before I made myself seen. Matter turned inconsequential on the fringes of a portal. She said it was like a lover’s first penetration. That was the subatomic condensing effected by one spatial point on the other. Dimensions curled up in a knot at the point of entry, if only for a moment. Atoms and molecules became pliable, capable of being manipulated like a batch of children’s Play-Doh.
She stood with her back to me, her body sinewy and luscious. Before too long, the child within would be noticeable. She dropped to her knees, then, and grabbed an aluminum can off the floor, rapidly lifting and tilting it high in the air above her head. The blue paint spread along the strands of hair, over her forehead, down her shoulders, adhering to neither. It moved with the viscosity of water over her eyes and lips, except she wasn’t left wet. Finally, it wound around her midsection, taking shape like a metallic, skin-tight mini dress suspended high on her velvet thighs, sweeping sharply below her cleavage.
“You missed me, honey,” Dahlia said.
I’d missed her like hell.
She was the first girl I kissed. The one that introduced nudity to me. The first woman whose flesh I felt, warm against mine. The word fellatio wasn’t in my dictionary prior to that morning in her parents’ shower. I still can’t lather my head without working up an erection. She was the woman who took my virginity. She was the woman I’d come to love.
A woman not of my world, not of my physical plane. I’d found her as a boy not much older than Liliana, only just learning to travel between dimensions, only just learning that the speed of light could be exceeded and relativistic limitations were malleable. The universal wave function is much like tuning a radio dial—each person has his or her own frequency, and there are few with wavelengths concentrated enough to traverse quantum structures.
“Do you think the baby will like it?” she said.
I stepped out from within the wall; the molecules realigned behind me in ripples. My arms, legs, torso—were covered entirely in blue, my hair matted down in long, thick coils around my neck. My cock jutted forth, slick from the paint and oozing clear. She swung back, smile as brilliant as the day she’d told me I was to be a daddy. I stroked my knuckles on her cheek, soothed the hot flesh at her nape, then drew my fingers down, slicing through the blue gloss between her breasts. I spread the paint away; it went without resistance, revealing tiny, rose-peaked nipples, unveiling the soft furrow of her pussy. The firmness of her backside.
We made love on the floor of the nursery, pressed tightly to one another, wrapped in our bodies and united, cock to cunt, much like our planes of existence had become one. She purred into my ear after her orgasm emptied her.
“It was you, wasn’t it? In the drawings?”
“She’s beautiful, Dahlia. And smart as a whip. Just like you said.”
“About time you finally met your daughter. I trust you won’t take so long to meet your son after he’s born?”
I stiffened, as if another orgasm were suddenly gripping the pit of my stomach. “I haven’t long…” I gasped.
With one hand she touched the side of my face, and with the other, tenderly caressed her belly. “I’ve decided on a name.”
I felt my essence crumbling, cell particles breaking up and dark energy bleeding between the cracks to hold my form steady through the wormhole.
“I’m calling him Langdon,” she said, wistfully watching me fade. “After his father.”
Cèsar Sanchez Zapata’s truest passion is conjuring prurient fantasies of erotic bliss, the dirtier the better. In recent years, he has had stories published in many different erotic anthologies, under a number of aliases.