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    The Dark Issue 12: The Dark, #12
    The Dark Issue 12: The Dark, #12
    The Dark Issue 12: The Dark, #12
    Ebook57 pages51 minutes

    The Dark Issue 12: The Dark, #12

    By Sean Wallace

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    About this ebook

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

    “The Haferbräutigam” by Steve Berman
    “The Body Finder” by Kaaron Warren
    “Caroline at Dusk” by Kali Wallace
    “The Jacaranda Wife” by Angela Slatter

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPrime Books
    Release dateApr 30, 2016
    ISBN9781533767721
    The Dark Issue 12: The Dark, #12
    Author

    Sean Wallace

    Sean Wallace is the founder and editor for Prime Books, which won a World Fantasy Award in 2006. In his spare time he is also co-editor of Clarkesworld Magazine and Fantasy Magazine; the editor of the following anthologies: Best New Fantasy, Horror: The Best of the Year, Jabberwocky, Japanese Dreams, and The New Gothic; and co-editor of Bandersnatch, Fantasy, Phantom, and Weird Tales: The 21st Century. He currently and happily resides in Rockville , MD , with his wife and two cats.

    Read more from Sean Wallace

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      Book preview

      The Dark Issue 12 - Sean Wallace

      The Haferbräutigam

      by Steve Berman

      Plüschow’s libido diminished as he traveled into Switzerland and finally stepped foot onto German soil. He did not linger on the visage of any of the young men aboard the train cars or waste his imagination on a fleeting glimpse through the window working the fields or travelling the roads. They all wore far too many clothes covering pale skin and he thought of them like snails, a supposed-delicacy only the French could conceive of, poor things that needed the Mediterranean sun, which would divest them of wool and bronze them into something worthy of the palate. By the time he saw the Baltic Sea he suspected he’d have the arousal of an old wether.

      His last tryst had been before he had been jailed—had been the reason he had been jailed in Rome. It had not even been a particularly satisfying refreshment, yet, his statement to the judge that had he known that the boy lacked promise he would never have taken him to bed did little to mitigate his sentence.

      Now he stood at the Konstanz rail station, almost three decades since he had expatriated. His memories of crossing borders so long ago were dim and fragmentary but the station had prospered since then. Italy wanted to retain its rural aesthetic for tourism while Germany had little interest in its past. A nation that stubbornly looked forward. Plüschow would benefit from this by purchasing the latest Voigtländer camera. He brought along his old Century no. 10, small enough for the limited space allowed in a single steamer trunk and not valuable if lost.

      He tipped the porter loading his trunk into the cars of the train heading north. One Pfennig since the man was almost Plüschow’s age. He reached for his pocket watch to check the time, felt nothing in his vest pocket and remembered—yet again—he had pawned it to help pay for the trip. He decided against purchasing a beer; it would only be a waste of money as years in Italy had stolen any appreciation he once possessed. As the station clock showed he still had a while before departure, Plüschow wandered and browsed, two acts that did not require expense, not even on an October morning that had some bite in the wind.

      When he happened upon a disheveled young man fixated on the resting metal behemoth engine, Plüschow began staring at the youth. He saw nothing socially unacceptable about staring—it was a most efficient and potent means for conveying a host of emotions, especially Plüschow’s two favorite: desire and envy, both sides of a single coin, beaten from a golden sliver of Eris’s apple.

      His assessment of the uncapped young man was that he must be poor, because his clothing looked patched, had what looked like a grain stalk poking out of a worn sleeve and collar, traveling alone, because for brief time Plüschow stared none had approached him or even acknowledged his existence with a nod or greeting, and he was very handsome, despite the blond hair that needed trimming, with cheeks and chin without a wisp of hair, as Plüschow preferred.

      Plüschow casually strode around the young man and noted the fearful expression on the boy’s features. He must never have seen a locomotive before and was utterly intimidated by its presence at rest. Once it screeched steam, the young man would likely run back to whatever fields he had just harvested.

      Plüschow felt so moved by the sight of such rustic innocence that he was inclined to approach the young man and allay his fears—and Plüschow became aware that this kindness was, in fact, motivated not out of philanthropy but rather a renewed stirring of his cock. He decided then that he owed this boy a debt, one he intended to pay, for returning desire to its proper housing.

      So he walked up next to him and said, I agree they’re ghastly, belching terrible smoke, reeking of coal. And the sounds they make. Squeals and roars. Like the engineers are shoving an entire menagerie of animals into the fire. But I wouldn’t be too afraid. It is far better than traveling on one’s two feet.

      No response, not even a glance in his direction. The poor boy must be deaf! Plüschow became more tumescent—a crippled lad was

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