The sky opened like a used towel, bleached with clouds and birds. The gull's laughed against the traffic, making music with the shuffling of cars. People all around threw open their windows and hung out their garments to be dried on the sea breeze so that, when they put their clothes back on and walked to the grocery store, they smelled of beach and cooked meat.

On the way home from work a woman wrapped her car around a telephone pole. Hot asphalt cooked her face, wrapped its black around her neck until the paramedics came to peel her away. Children stopped playing on the beach to stare as she stared back at them, empty red sockeye salmon ready to eat on the dotted yellow lines. The children licked their lips and turned away, laughing as they recalled the funny way her spine snapped through the windshield. Though a few people stayed home that day, sweating against hickory chairs and watching golf games through old televisions, it seemed that the whole world was laughing under the hot sun.

It was the kind of day where nothing wanted to go wrong.

Angela Bergen owned three linguire stores. She was strong, willful, and never once in her life needed a man to wrap his arms around her. Her hair cut short now, left violent black strands in her face, trapped in a web of eyelashes to itch the eye within. Her mouth appeared soft, the skin hiding those painfully sharp teeth, hard as diamonds.

She walked along the strandline, her eyes to the expanse of ocean before her. Pine needles from the forest to her right stuck pain in her foot. She was far from anyone, walking back wood trails where homosexuals came to spread their seed. Not that she was afraid of them. Lord no, a woman in her position wasn't afraid of hardtech corporate scum, and definetly not afraid of a bunch of men who liked to drop their pants in the woods. She stared at the trees with a hatred buried deep; she wasn't afraid of homosexuals that was for sure.

It seemed odd that today she come to the beach. Usually on a day off like this, she would have spent it in her expansive backyard with her legs bent toward the sun, and a blocked head between them.

"A martini would go nice right about now," she thought to herself as she settled on the sand, picking pine needles and sticky sandspurs from her feet.

Her parent's had been good to her, having brought her up in a right-wing, left-conspiricy, upper-class, white-suburban, hyphenated-lamentation of the American dream. John Bergen took part in the cities local bank, spending hours away from home, locked in an expansive office with his lovely secretary Belinda. From this grew Angela's undying trust in secretaries. Fran Bergen was a treat though. The flower had men and women wait on her hand and foot, offering her specialy mixed drinks on the hour every hour while another handful of men and women were sent out to fetch dinner and the latest fashion from Saks Fifth Avenue.

And always during dinner, when they ate together, she would say with the utmost dignity, "I hope you're all grateful for the meal I prepared tonight." This was the que for Angela to leave, and John to start imagining Belinda in a short cut maid's uniform, bending over a hot oven.

Angela had grown up a hard woman, expected by her mother's softening attitude towards life, her father's absence. She had grown to spurn men of their lackluster devotions and patyever, in all her thirty-nine years alive, had she been penetrated by a man. Though true be told she enjoyed the company of a woman to man, her thoughts al

The ocean seemed strange today, that was for sure. The waves looked ready to split in half under their own weight, the froth sliced into quarters slapping the ground before the wave came to a complete stop at her feet. She shifted her weight and reached to slap at a buzzing in her ear, smearing the blood on to her bathing suit to leave a red trail in the elastic gray.

________________________________________

Don was in love with Cherek the first moment he stepped foot inside of his car. They shook hands, their eyes casing the other's body with suspicion. Neither had met before.

"Do you know where you're going," Cherek asked. Don only shook his head no, a small smile forming along the edges of his mouth.

"Go down Shade until you hit the Crossings, then take a right towards Tuttle. It's the second house on your… left. Is something funny?"

Cherek's breath smelled of his violent tempers, and rains that never come. When he reached over to change the station, his loose white shirt fell open just a bit, the buttons opening to show dark skin; pliable skin that seemed to move underneath as if it housed a thousand bees. His eyes were so unusual, sharp and angled they reminded Don of a Japanese cartoon.

"I don't suppose anything is," Don replied, "I'm just happy to be here."

Cherek grinned and turned his eyes to the road. The night was still fresh, the road a sleek animal that begged to be cut with rubber, and burned with oil.

Don held his breath and drove without saying a word. His hands feeling up the rubber steering wheel, his mind thinking about the boy next to him. The lips that reminded him of seagulls, the kind kids would draw in Elementary school, two graceful arcs.

Cherek began to sing, the lips flying against his cheek, sending shivers down Don's back. "I've waited hours for this, I've made myself so sick… I wish I'd stayed asleep today. I thought this day would never end, never thought tonight could ever be so close to me."

Don knew that by the time the night was over, he would have the boy next to him. His lips would meet flesh, and they would mold together into one being. His tongue would extrude from Cherek's stomach, his lips sprouting from his back, they would form cherry-red wings, tipped with muscle. It was a fantasy he thought of as he drove, and listened to the soft singing of Cherek.

The house they drove towards was a gray box where kids would meet to share the finest in drugs. Crystal, to Coke, Hash, and Heroin they would sit along beat up sofa's and mingle their sweat and spit over mirror and syringe. Cherek had been there many times, laying in one man's lap, then in another; but tonight he wished none of this, and simply went in to buy a quarter bag off of his dealer and leave. Don watched Cherek's body move along the sidewalk, his fingertips tingling against the old leather steering wheel. When he slid back in the car, his fingers opened the bag, and brought it to Don's noise. "It's good. Smell?"

They drove toward the coast after that, while Cherek began to roll the hash. "Do you smoke often?" Cherek asked. His brows furrowed in concentration.

"Not often enough. I try to steer away from that, but… on special occasions I'll take a few hits."

Cherek giggled over this, pressing the paper to his tongue to lick it down.

The night was full of blank space, stars that fought against the suburbia's glow to fill the sky. Don drove to the docks, glancing in his rear view mirror with the nervous glance of an amateur.

The ocean was a roll of blackness that fought over itself to snap away the wooden pilings. They walked side by side along the docks, Don brushing up against Cherek's arm as he stumbled over the uneven boards.

Cherek laughed, flashing his brilliant teeth as he caught Don and pushed him away towards the water. Don grabbed onto a piling, and looked back into the dark surface.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're dangerous to be around?" Don spoke in breathless whispers.

"Of course," laughed Cherek. "I also keep a six-shooter in my back pocket - just in case." He winked at Don.

"So… um, where do you come from?"

"I come from Earth or, more to the point, from right here. Sarasota, Florida. I moved out when I was sixteen though," he shrugged.

"You don't have an accent. Do you mind if I ask why you moved?"

"I was there before the accent. But yeah my mother used to beat me with a broom, claiming I was a demon. 'A curse on my womb!' she would scream as she pummeled my back. She was very English, very Catholic, and very superstitious. I was born a shade darker than anyone else in her family, so I guess… she didn't like it very much." He sighed, kicking the ground with the toe of his shoe. "I don't know why she did it really. I guess she didn't really want kids. I just couldn't take it anymore… so one night I left to live with my cousin."

Cherek dug in his pocket and withdrew a lighter. "Let's spark, shall we?"

Don stood for a moment, staring at the boy. His hair streaked red and black, the coal eyes, and the dark skin of a man breed by demons. "Here? There are people here."

"And boats, and trees, and water. You're more perceptive that you previously let on. Though I do recall you glancing over at me several times when you should have been paying attention to the road." He leaned into his hands to cup the flame to paper. The fire of the lighter illuminated his face, the soft features slowly melting from black to red and back again. Burning his tears into drops of ash that fell through the air, leaving smears across his shirt. His chest sucked in, and he held his breath as he spoke. "Do you want some?" He passed it to Don, who reluctantly began to pull on it.

The back of his throat felt burnt, and he coughed loudly as he inhaled the blue smoke. His feet backed up against the piling again, and leaned against it to exhaling slowly.

"Wow…"

"I told you it was good stuff…"

He stumbled towards Don to reclaim the joint, pressing up against his chest. He lifted the joint to his lips, breathing in through the paper, and out of Don's mouth. Don blinked, feeling Cherek's tongue part his lips, and his throat fill with smoke. He closed his eyes and leaned back as Cherek leaned in, his hands already working up his chest. His tongue flicked in the soft place behind the teeth, massaging the flesh with flesh.

They parted, both exhaling the blue tinted smoke into the night sky. It hung around their heads, hiding the feeble stars light.

"Do… you want to come home with me?" Don stared into Cherek's lazy eyes.

"I would like that."

They walked closer this time as they made their way to the car. Don not stumbling, Cherek not pushing or making jokes. They both just listened to the night, their footsteps, and the ocean as it slowly ate away the docks. Cherek seemed to drink in the silence, the dark. He stuck his elbow out of the car window and opened his mouth wide to the oncoming wind.

Don opened the door to his rental, the one bedroom, one bath, one color, and one carpet fits all banality that he called a home. They stepped inside to an awkward silence when Cherek sat on the orange couch, and Don asked him if wanted something to drink. Cherek denied, questioning if he had any food instead.

"I think I have some Popsicles, but that's about it. I forgot today was my shopping day."

"Oh, I enjoy those. Can I have one?" He smiled, snapping his lips impatiently.

They both leaned back on the orange couch, silent once more except for the crinkling of plastic, the smacking sound of skin against ice. Cherek leaned close to rest his head on Don's shoulder.

"You don't mind, do you? I mean, I did just stick my tongue down your throat."

"I noticed that," Don laughed. His mind and mouth wheeled on the hash they had just smoked, on the sticky juice that stung with cold the sides of his mouth.

"I like cherry's," Cherek's voice filled the silence.

"They're good."

He finished his Popsicle and placed it on the living room table, then reached over and locked his arms around Don's body. They both sighed, quietly, in their minds.

"Can… I keep you…?" Don's voice began to shake, the rafters of his mouth seemed ready to collapse. Cherek laughed and dug his face deeper into Don.

"Do you always set up your one night stands like this? Or do you just enjoy to hurt yourself?" He looked up at Don, saw the brim of tear around his eyes, and came up to kiss him. Their lips met, locked together in chocolate-vanilla swirl. Cherek tried to keep from smiling as he turned himself around, and pressed into Don's leg.

"Stop," Don whispered, his hand half in Cherek's shirt, half tearing his own from his body. "Stand up for me." Cherek did as he was told. "And take off your shirt?" He did that too.

Cherek stood before him, his skin a light chocolate, his abs not quite defined. He was the embodiment of a perfect teenage body, except for the fact that he lacked a left nipple. The skin was smooth, and apparently soft to touch.

"You…"

"Find me less attractive?"

"No. Never. Do you have any other surprises for me tonight?"

"Several. You haven't even taken off my pants yet." Cherek lead Don into the bedroom, turning slightly to offer him a glorious taste of his eyes and mouth. They lay back on the bed, Don feeling the knot of flesh that hid behind the fabric of Cherek's jeans. Outside the dancing of rain began to hit the glass windows.

"Do you know what that sound is?" Cherek began.

"The sound of falling rain?"

"The sound of falling angels."

When Don ran his tongue down the length of Cherek's flank, edging the hairs that swam around his abs, Cherek grabbed Don's head.

"Are you sure you want that?"

"I don't know what you mean. Of course I'm sure."

"I'm not like other boys. Down there I mean…"

Don slid his hand into the child's pants, his fingers tracing the shape of his penis. Cherek leaned back; his eyes watching the rain caress the glass, his bottom lip bitten. He knew what was to come, the gasping, and the yelling. It had happened ten fold in the span of his life, and always ended the same, with blood as dark as his eyes staining the wallpaper, the carpet.

Don slipped Cherek's pants off. And there it stood against his dark skin, veined in dark purple. Don's head swam as he stared at the sight before him; the flesh not quite flesh as it seemed to him that a hundred insects were crawling underneath the skin of his genital. It stood hard like a man's penis, but the veins and darkened patches of skin changed. One instance it was a shape he could easily recognized, the next it faintly resembled a vagina then it shifted again into a form that reminded him of a butterfly half-torn by a child's greedy hands.

"What are you…?"

"I don't know what I am." Cherek closed his eyes, the impression of the rain still echoing beneath his lids.

"You were born like this?"

"My mother kicked me out."

"I don't understand…"

"She said I was a demon, that I was dead."

"I…"

"I'm sorry." He turned on his side, tucking his knees under his chin.

"Don't hide it. It's okay."

"I'm so fucking sorry. I shouldn't have done this." The boy's body shook. His spine rippled as he let out a short muffled sob. He bit into his knee, trying to stop himself the embarrassment. No, Don whispered. It doesn't have to be this way. Everything is okay…

He pressed against the shifting of the boy's back, the spine whipping back and forth under the skin like a dog's tail. He wrapped his arms around his knees, pressing his lips to Cherek's neck.

"Do you know what that sound is?" Don whispered into the boy's ear.

"Me crying?"

"It's the sound of a fallen angel, falling in love." Don turned Cherek over, his lips licking away the spilled tears. They stared into each other's eyes, the rain reflecting tiny silver meteors in their vision. Cherek finally broke, "What do you want?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Inside of me."

Lovely was the music they made with their tongues. Beautiful was the notes they played on odd angled C-Sharps and D-flats; the sharp clavicles and down-on-the-bed-flat tunes. Don never knew such a melody, as the cacophony of music that he made with his knees wrapped around Cherek's side, and strode back and forth on the boy's hips. His insides swam of imperfection, of something other than human flesh, and human blood. They rode back and forth against each other, Don bending to kiss Cherek's sweet lips, dipping his tongue into his mouth, coming out with a nectar finer than anything he had ever before tasted.

The rain fell in short fat drops, spliced by the sand outside of Don's apartment. The ground slowly turning into a thick molasses of sand, rivulets of sludge moving off of the street into the ground. Their bodies moved as such, turning around and cutting paths through the air with voices as loud as heaven, with flesh as red as hell. The night spread open for them, turned them inside out.

Both exhausted, one lay inside of the other for the remainder of the night. Don shivered in the cool Floridian winter air, the sweat cooling to his skin. Cherek's body fell into a slow rhythm that matched the breath rate of Don. Up and down they moved as one, rocking against the air until dawn broke.

((CRAP))

Eighteen past five in the morning is the darkest hour of his life. Neither quite night, nor quite day, the morning's sluggish hold has yet to creep over the horizon to claim yet another lazy Monday. Eighteen past five in the morning is the time of dark things, when all of the hanged innocents of Salem, all of the burned creatures of England, come out of hiding from beneath the wet moss of ancient forests, and stalk innocent babies crib's until dawn. But these creatures of the night do nothing to compare to the feelings of mortal man at this hour, his future laid before him with the time it takes for the sun to rise. Eighteen past five in the morning, Don thought to himself, is the darkest hour of my life. He rolled over to a face pitched by the dark. The angles all-wrong in the absence of light, yet all so right to Don's eyes. Cherek breathed slowly through his partially opened mouth, the motion sending ripples down his chest like gentle waves. Don took the time of rest to study further Cherek's alien anatomy: The chest held only one nipple. And a deep scar from Adam's apple to sternum gave the appearance that someone had mistaken the child for a crab, and had tried to crack open his ribs with an old jagged knife. His inner thighs held more numerous changing scars, swirling against the few hairs that dotted his body. His penis was a strange mix of tender flesh and vein, the skin forever moving, telling stories in his soft phallic, yet never losing its basic shape. He reached over to touch the corners of Cherek's face, his fingertips brushing his lips, the erect jaw line. He smiled and quickly wrapped his arms around Cherek. He need not worry about the night now, he wasn't alone, and never would he be again. It was a dream, and the steps creaked with innocent abandonment as Cherek climbed, one hand on the wall to steady himself, the other holding a blanket around his waist. He didn't expect the cold to be so severe this morning, but it crept up over night, rolling in from the sea. He smiled to himself as he reached the top of the house, the Widows watch; a tall tower-like projection that reached into the bleak cold skies. The windows held a layer of grime that came away onto his fingers when he smudged it. He wiped his hands on the blanket, and slid down the wall to watch the ocean breath. Cloudless skies swept over him. His head rolled back and forth as the ocean's dark water's swam in his eyes. Back and again, the froth bringing new found garbage to the surf. The sky pitched magnificent beasts into the ocean, their flesh unraveling as they fell. Their screams as chaotic as the sea below them, they screamed until their throat was a blanket of sand on the beach. Cherek nestled deeper into the blanket around him, letting the fabric slide up between his legs. "I don't think I should be here," he whispered to the orange material. And then he switched. It was a dream, and the steps creaked with innocent abandonment as Cherek climbed, one hand on the wall to steady himself, the other holding a blanket around his waist. He didn't expect the cold to be so severe this morning, but it crept up over night, rolling in from the sea. He smiled to himself as he reached the top of the house, the Widows watch; a tall tower-like projection that reached into the bleak cold skies.

Cherek vaguely remembered doing this before, but if it had happened, he couldn't recall quite enough to quicken his thoughts into conclusion. He watched the ocean and the sky as it claimed and rejected the beasts of burden from heaven's doorstep. Some of the beasts held things, broken bottles, bottle caps, and old plastic tops that dotted the beach as they crashed into the surf.

"I don't think I should be here," he whispered to the orange material around him.

And then he switched.

When he reached the top of the Widows watch, the sea below began to swirl in gray and black against the beach. Higher and higher it edged forth, swallowing the sand under its sluggish jaw.

"I shouldn't be here."

Don woke suddenly to the sound of neon ticking silently in the dark of his room. The air seemed timid and violent, darkness sinking into the groove's of his eyelids, slipping past his skin.

He turned to the body next to him, watching the curves contract and Cherek's breath quicken.

"Wake up Cherek," he said as he bent to shake the sleeping body. The skin responded by rising between his fingers like water spilled.

________________________________________

He found, two days after the incident, that his lover was dead. He had been shot through the occipital lobe around 10:34:29 at night; the bullet had pierced his brain at 10:34:30, and hit the sidewall of the house, burying deep into the wood at exactly 10:34:31. It would be sixty-four hours later that Cherek's heart would break, and another week before the pieces would be swept away. The empty space would then slowly close, the flesh fusing together in a knot of gray mesh.

Cherek would survive until the age of thirty-three when his body would be found along the banks of the Mississippi. His skin a light shade of blue, his face like crushed lace held underwater for too long, his fingers shredded and broken. His chest an empty socket, his heart missing, his body filled with a strange emptiness that would bring tears to the coroner's eyes.