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 RAVEN

a story by Tamara Vincent

third revised and expanded edition

 RAVEN is © by Tamara Vincent

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction, any similarity to real persons and events

is purely coincidental.
Also, this is a fantasy story, and should not be taken too seriously.
 For Simona

and for my readers

 Foreword: about Raven, and the Second and

Third Editions

I first published “Raven” in September 2017, thinking it would be

the first in a series. It was at the time certainly the most ambitious

project I ever tackled, and it came soon after a bad episode that
dropped me in a hospital bed for three days and gave me the scare
of my life.

Maybe it was that that prompted me to try and write something

different, and big, and break with my usual themes. Or maybe not.

For certain, the end result was not exactly what I had planned. In
the end it was not very different from my usual things, and the

elements I had hoped to add to the plot to make it more significant

were completely lost. I had been hasty, overambitious and in general
not too wise. I guess that’s me.

At the time, “Raven” was my least successful story. It did not sell
as my previous titles, and it did not get any favorable review. It was

a hard blow, that piled on the recent medical misadventure,

contributed to cause me to somehow lose steam.
 But then things got back to normal, and in the following months,
as I started writing again, I often went back with what had not

worked with “Raven.”

I still loved the character, and her evolution (stilted as it had been

in the finished product) and I still loved the premises and the setup.
I somehow felt like I had not only let down my readers, but also my

characters.
I should go and do something about it, I kept repeating to myself.
And in the end, I did it.

So that led to the Second Edition of “Raven”, updated, corrected

and expanded. I took the old story and tweaked a few bits, and then

I let the character carry me on. As it is, the current story is almost
twice as long as the original.

And then again, after one year, I found myself going back to this
story – because I realized I love Raven, and the way she turns into
the woman she had always needed to be. And I wanted to expand it

some more.
As a result, now there’s more characters, more sex, more magic,

more drugs, more general debauchery and depravity. Raven has

grown darker, and possibly sexier. I am sure you will appreciate it.
 If you were one of those that read the original (thank you!!) you

will find the first part of this story mostly unchanged. I have tweaked
almost every chapter, adding material and changing dialogues and
what else. I have added a full chapter that was not there before. I

hope this will make your patience worth its wile until you get to the
all-new second part.

And if you are a new reader, well, I am sure you will love Raven.
But before we get to her, I’ll have to introduce you to Sara.

Happy reading everybody.

XOXOX

Tam
Part One
 Chapter 1

Sara March got out of her yellow VW Beetle, carrying an armful of

folders and books. With a sigh, she used her hip to shut the car’s

door. A history teacher at the local community college, she was

every day more baffled at the amount of work she was forced to

take home and do after dinner.

The throbbing sound of hard rock music echoed and with a

grimace she cast a glance over the fence, at her next door neighbor.

She and her partner lived in a small white house, with a front
lawn, a back yard and a nice lane, old-fashioned blinds at the

windows and a front porch, similar to other twenty houses along the

road, each with its satellite dish and its red mailbox. Urban middle

class houses, rented by young professionals, people with a double

income and no hurry to have children.

Except for the house across the fence.

 It had started, certainly, just like all the other small “residential

units” facing the road, but something had gone wrong along the

way. The blinds were permanently shut, and the front lawn was
strewn with litter and unkempt.

The guy that lived in that wreck of a “residential unit” was sitting

on the ground, working on his motorbike, a big boom box by his side
pouring out the offending noise.

Sara sighed and walked to her door, propping her load as best as

she could as she rummaged in her bag for the keys. She opened the

door, walked in and dropped her stuff on the kitchen table. She
shrugged off her tan jacket and took a bottle of water from the

refrigerator.

In the kitchen, the noise coming from the neighbor’s front lane
sounded deep and hollow like some kind of underwater monster

gargling Listerine.

The window panes were actually shaking.

Sara ran her hands through her short brown hair. A martyr to
headaches ever since she had started her job teaching history to

high-schoolers, or at least try to, the last thing she needed was this

heinous racket as a soundtrack for her evening. Granted, it should

have been her partner’s job to go and set the troglodyte straight,
but Tony was not a fighter and that was one of the reasons she liked
him. He was nice, sensitive, and shared her views on matters of

politics and social justice.

There was a crashing moment of silence, and then another

growling voice started chanting to the sound of electric guitars and

tribal drums.

Clenching her fists, Sara went out.

“I beg your pardon—” she shouted.

The neighbor turned towards her and gave her what she
interpreted as an affable grin around his big cigar.

She pointed at the boom box. “Turn. That. Thing. Down!” she said

out loud, stressing each word.

The guy stared at the boom box, and then flicked a switch.

Silence was so sudden and absolute it almost made her head reel.

“Thank you!” she said with a sigh.

The man stood and cleaned his hands in a rag he then tucked in

his back pocket. He was wearing a pair of very dirty jeans and a

black Harley Davidson T-shirt that was at least two sizes too small.
He was a huge bear of a man, barrel chested and with a heavy beer

paunch, in his late forties or early fifties by the look of him. There

was a scar running down his face, from the corner of his left eye to
the chin, where it disappeared in a bushy ginger beard that matched

his long red hair. He was wearing dark glasses, and a black

bandanna that, together with a golden earring, gave him a piratical

look.
“How can I help you, miss March?” he asked, blowing a thick

cloud of smoke directly in her face and grinning. Sara coughed, and

flapped her eyelids.

“You have helped me already, David.” She pointed at the boom

box. “I thought Tony already talked to you about your music—”

“It’s Clutch,” the man said, taking a drag on his cigar.

“What?”

“My handle, it’s Clutch.”

“Yes, right, sorry— Clutch.”

Just like some kind of Saturday morning cartoon thing, like

Shaggy or He-man. On the other hand, she recalled Tony telling her

the guy was a former convict, and he had probably got his silly

nickname while he was serving time.

“What was that noise anyway?” she asked, to change subject.
 He arched his bushy eyebrows. “Uh? That was Hawkwind. Pretty
cool, uh?”

“Hawkwind,” Sara repeated. She would have never imagined

Hawkwind was a thing, and a thing that could make such a racket.

“Fancy a beer?” Clutch asked.

Sara stared at him. “No—”

Clutch picked two cans of Bud from a bucket filled with water and

ice. “C’mon,” he said, exhaling another big cloud of cigar smoke. “As
a peace offering. I’m truly sorry I forgot about the music thing. You

know, it sort of blows my mind, and I lost the sense of time.”

She shook her head. “No really, on an empty stomach—”

He offered her one of the cans. “Please? As a sign you’re not

angry at me?”

Teaching to teenagers had thought her the importance of

symbolic relations. Sara coughed, sighed and accepted the beer.

Clutch’s knuckles were scarred and tattooed, and there were more

scars and designs on his arm. The man popped his can open and

waited for her to do the same. She did it awkwardly, trying not to

break a nail. Then they clicked the cans together in a silent toast,
and she took a small sip while he guzzled down half of his.

“You don’t like it?” he asked.

 She smiled and took another mouthful.

It was not completely bad, she admitted to herself.

Clutch laughed and threw down the remainder of his can, then he
crushed the can in his fist. His fingers were covered with rings, in

the shape of skulls and crowns of thorns, and there was a grinning

skull tattooed on the back of his hand. He threw the can behind his

shoulder. Sara noticed his front lawn was littered with crushed cans,
scraps of paper and the remains of a pizza box.

“I better be going,” she smiled, handing him back her beer.

He lifted both hands. His palms were scarred too, and calloused.
“You keep it. For later.”

Sara smiled again, and carrying the can between two fingers like

it was a dead rat, she walked back to her place.

“It was nice of you to come visit, miss,” Clutch called behind her.

Sara poured the beer in the toilet and flushed. Then she dropped
the can in the glass and aluminum recycling bin. She shook her
head, smiling despite herself. David… no, Clutch, she chuckled to
herself, was not a bad sort. His looks were gross and a bit scary, and
his tastes somewhat rough, but he was a kind man in the end.

Kind men were a rare commodity, she said to herself.

Later that evening, Sara shared a nice vegan dinner with Tony,
talking about her stressful day at school, and Tony’s bizarre technical

problems with a client’s intranet protocols.

Tony could become pretty heated when intranet protocols were
being discussed. Sara waited for him to stop and catch his breath to

go on telling him about her day.

“And then I came home and Clutch was playing his noise out
loud.”

“Clutch?”
She shrugged. “That’s David, our neighbor. He wants to be called

Clutch, apparently. He was making that insufferable noise, a band

called—” she frowned. It was not Awkward. “Hawkwind. I gave him
a little pep talk.”

Tony gave her a mild, sheepish grin. “And then he stopped.” He

patted her hand. “A good schoolmarm through and through.”
Sara gave him a hard stare, but then smiled.

“He’s a nice brute.”

“He’s had it rough, I think,” Tony said.
 “Yeah,” she nodded, thinking about all those scars. “He was in

prison, you told me.”

“That was the word of mouth. Old Porter told me about it, about
one month ago, maybe two.”

“Mister Porter is an old gossip,” she said.

“But the guy does look and act like an ex con,” he retorted.
She shrugged. “He’s been more civil than a lot of people I meet

during the day. It’s just his cigar that—“

“Foul habit, smoking,” he agreed.
After dinner, Tony put some Enya on the stereo and gave her a

nice foot massage. He would have liked to go further, but Sara had
developed a piercing headache, so they just laid in bed real close,
and soon were asleep.
 Chapter 2

On Sunday morning Sara woke up early, and leaving Tony asleep

in their bedroom, walked to the kitchen and fixed herself some

decaf.
There was music coming from next door, but it was at an

acceptable level, something slow and quiet in which electric guitars

weren’t particularly grating.
Holding her mug between her hand, she peeked through the

kitchen window, and spied Clutch coming into his backyard, a towel
around his neck, his cigar smoking like a smokestack.
He stretched, scratched his big expanse of belly, working his little

finger in his navel, and then disappeared behind the fence.

In a minute, his hands appeared as Clutch started doing bench
presses, a big barbell coming up and down rhythmically.

Sara sipped her decaf, observing that strange show, and enjoying
the music despite herself. It was not particularly relaxing or
meditative, but she was not in a meditative mood anyway.
She poured herself a second cup and took two whole grain
cookies from the jar in the cupboard. When she looked next, Clutch

was up, stretching and flexing his arms. He rubbed the off-white
towel over his arms and neck, and then he moved to a big punching

sack he had chained to the back porch. She squinted, trying to make
out what his tattoos were about. She guessed tattoos had to be
about something. She wondered if he had got them while he was in

prison. She wondered what he had been in prison for.

She had never met a convict, she reflected.
She had never met someone like Clutch.

She had imagined people like him spoke in grunts or something,

and felt ashamed for her prejudices. Feeling ashamed made her
angry. She drank down her coffee.

He took his distance from the sack, and then started punching it,
hitting it with increasing speed and violence.
Sara watched him work out, moving and dodging imaginary

attacks and then hitting back on the sack. He was fast and agile, for
such a big bear of a man.
The drone of motorcycle engines caused him to stop and Sara to

look towards the road. Two bikes were turning into Clutch’s front
lane, maneuvering around the bike parked there.
They drove to the back yard, where Clutch was waiting.

A guy in a leather jacket and black leather chaps dismounted from

his Harley and Clutch greeted him with a grin and a fist-against-fist
salute. He then turned to the other biker, a wide-hipped blonde with

frizzy hair. She threw her arms around his neck and Clutch embraced
her and patted her bottom.
She pulled back and punched him in a shoulder.

They were both laughing. She was wearing a leather vest that
hugged her massive breast.

The trio stood there talking for about two minutes, Sara looking at
them and her decaf getting cold.
She had used to be a good lip-reader, but Clutch’s beard and

handlebar mustache made it hard for her, and the two other bikers
were turned in the wrong direction.
They walked back to the bikes. There was a small cart attached to

the man’s motorcycle. Clutch and his friend picked up two large,
olive green canvas bags, and walked into the room, while the frizzy
blonde waited in the back yard. She bent down. She was wearing

very tight jeans and her bottom was heart shaped. When she
straightened back, she was holding a can of beer, and Sara imagined
Clutch’s ice bucket hidden out of sight. The blonde popped the beer

and poured its contents down her throat.

Then she passed her wrist on her mouth and looked around.
She and Sara crossed stares for a moment.

The blonde held her gaze for five heartbeats, then Sara dropped
her eyes and moved away from the window, pretending with herself
she had things to do.

Clutch and his friends sat in the back yard chatting and drinking
beer for a couple of hours.
Tony walked out of the bedroom at half past nine, yawning. He

gave her a kiss on the forehead and marched into the bathroom.
She went to fix breakfast, heating some apple and blackberry oat

bake, and cast another glance out of her window. The three bikers
were laughing, each holding a can of beer. Clutch was flapping his
arms around, and the guy sitting in front of him was roaring with

laughter. Again the blonde turned towards her, and frowned. She
leaned closer to the man and whispered something. The guy turned
and stared, but Sara was already by the table, shaking the corn

flakes box to check it was half full.

By ten it was all over. The two bikes roared on their way, and
Clutch went back inside.
 #

The following morning Sara kissed Tony and the cheek and waited
by her car for him to back down the lane and drive away. She
opened the door and put her bag and books on the passenger seat.

“Miss March, do you have a minute?”

Clutch was leaning by the fence, a big grin on his bearded face
and his cigar going.

“Actually I’m a little in a hurry,” she said.

“It will just take a minute. It’s about yesterday morning.”
She stopped and stared at him, feeling her cheeks warm up.

“Yesterday morning?”
“Yeah, you know, it’s not really a problem but—”

She walked up to him. “Listen, I was not meaning to—”

He lifted a hand. “No, really. I don’t mind an audience when I’m
exercising. Especially if it’s is a fine woman like you.”

Her cheeks burned hot. “No! Listen—”

“No, you listen.” He was suddenly serious. “I enjoy it, really.
Nothing wrong with that. But my friends don’t, see? The Surgeon’s

just out of the can, and he does get a little paranoid, and his old
woman—” he shrugged. “You know how wives tend to be, right?
Over-protective.”

“The Surgeon?”
“That’s his name. You know, good with a blade. Long story.
Anyway— they left this stuff I’m keeping for them, and—”

“I was not meaning to pry!” she exclaimed. “I was just fixing

breakfast and—”
She shifted her weight from one foot to another, wringing her

hands. This was so embarrassing.

“It’s OK. I told them you are a friend of mine. That’s why we are
having this conversation, you see?”

Sara stared him in the eye. “What do you mean?”

“They were a bit upset,” he said, blowing a cloud of smoke. Sara
coughed. “And Whip tends to over react when she’s upset. They

could get—” he laughed. “You know. Physical. In a bad way.”

Sara was speechless. She felt her heart beating in her temples.
She recalled the blonde woman’s steel eyes, her set jaw as she

stared her in the eye across the fence. Physical in a bad way.
“But it’s OK,” Ckutch repeated, “I talked with them and set them

straight. Told them we’re family.”

“We are—?”
 He held his hand up. “But just in case, next time—”
“There won’t be a next time.”

He smirked. “Anyway, it would be simpler should you just come

over and sit with us. Share a beer, have some laughs. They are not
bad guys.”

Sara was rooted where she stood.

“Same when I’m exercising. You want to come over, sit and

watch, have a chat while I work out. It’s fine with me. I know how it
feels.”
“What it feels what?”

Indignation pushing away embarrassment. What was this hairy

brute resuming about her intentions?
“Being alone and locked up somewhere. I know it can be bad.” He

looked at his cigar and squashed the smoldering butt on the fence.
“Have a nice day at work, miss.”
She watched him walk back to his place, with his stained pants

and too-tight, spotted shirt.

Then she drove to school, thinking about how close she’d come to
get physical in a bad way with Whip and the Surgeon.

But it was fine. She was family.

 She was distracted and lost in her thoughts for most of the day.

She barely noticed the kids, and went through her lesson as a
sleepwalker. She caught herself wondering how it would be to
actually get to blows with a mean-looking woman like Whip.
 Chapter 3

Sara spent the lunch break the next day with her sister-in-law

Maureen, that had a home-based job as an ecologically sound

interior decorator. They met at Maureen’s fitness club, and had a
vegan bio salad and a squash.

“What are you doing on the weekend? Maureen asked.

She was glowing after her morning exercises, her flushed cheeks
somehow contrasting with her straight blond bob and her no-

nonsense blouse. She was not wearing makeup as usual, and was
squinting a bit because she had not put her glasses on.
Sara shrugged. “We’ll probably stay at home and watch a few

documentaries. Or SyFy’s Star Trek marathon. I have some reports

to grade, too. Why, Matt’s out of town again?”
Maureen nodded. Her husband, Sara’s older brother, was a

renewable energies guru, and was often away lecturing or working

on various projects.
 “Two weeks. But it’s not about that,” the blonde said. “I mean,
I’m used to it, right? No, I was hoping you could lend a hand in

setting up our next campaign.”

Maureen was the district coordinator for the National Anti-Smoker
Alliance, and she was very active. Sara had often helped her with

the distribution of leaflets and brochures, and with online mailing

campaigns. It was sort of cool, saying to her colleagues she was
helping her sis-in-law on a project for NASA.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sara said.

“How are things going with Tony?” Maureen asked with a naughty
smile.

“Fine. He’s very sweet.” She sighed. “I only wish he was not so
caught up with his job. When he comes home at night he’s often so
—”

Maureen arched her eyebrows. “So?”

Sara put down her fork. “I think defeated is the word. Our daily

jobs are grinding us down. And then there’s the voluntary service,
and everything else—”
She sighed. “I think we need more time to ourselves.”

Maureen patted her hand sympathetically.

 “Oh,” she said suddenly. “Now there’s something I haven’t told
you yet. You remember my new feng shui consultant?”

They stood and walked to the exit.

“That petite Vietnamese girl—?”

Sara pulled out her wallet but Maureen shook her head and told
the girl at the cash register to put their lunch on her tab. She gave

no option for Sara to object.

“Right, her!” she said.
They walked out. It was a fine day, and the idea of going back to
school caused Sara’s heart to drop.
“Well, we were doing this preliminary inspection of our current

client’s place—”
Sara gave a long good look at Maureen. She had always admired
her sister-in-law’s nice figure, and her supple stance. She was fit,
and sort of hot, in a quiet way. She felt herself blushing.
“This was what,” Maureen continued as they walked to where
Sara had left her car. “Oh, three days ago. Well, we check out the

apartment, take measurements, take a few notes, right? The usual.

And then what?”
Sara had been distracted. She turned to Maureen. “What?”
“She gets a pack of cigarettes from her bag, and lights one!”
 “Uh!”
“Well, I never! And then she had the cheek to offer me one! Can

you believe that?!”

Sara chuckled at the way Maureen’s blue eyes blazed with fury. “I
guess you set her straight.”
But why, she wondered. Because of a cigarette? Because she had
been nice enough to offer her one? There was something, she
realized, that made her subtly angry about Maureen. Sometimes she

acted like a bully, and Sara often thought about answering back,
nastily.
She was the one to be set straight.
She sighed.
“I set her going!” Maureen said. “I can’t work with someone that

is so disrespectful of her own body. So I fired her. But first, yes, I did
lecture her a bit, I guess.”
They laughed, Sara a bit absentmindedly.
She watched Maureen closely. Was this really the same girl that
had talked her into sharing a joint back when they were fifteen?
What had happened to her?, she wondered. Had it been marrying

her brother?
They had come to Sara’s Beetle.
 “Anyway, I’ll think about it, for Saturday, maybe.” Sara said. “A
girls’ day off fighting vice.”
Maureen gave her a peg on the cheek. She smelled of vanilla.

That evening, Sara staggered out of her car, completely spent.

She massaged her neck and rummaged in her pocket for her keys. It
had been a long crushing afternoon: a teacher’s council, then an
impromptu visit from some guy from the School Board, then a stack

this high of essays to grade, wading for hours and hours through
bad prose and weird views about woman’s role in 20th century
American history. She had seriously asked herself if this was really
what she wanted. Teach history to teenagers and discuss school
politics with teenage-minded adults.
And then a nightmare of traffic and pollution.

Her head was killing her.

“Bad day at work, miss March?”
She turned to see Clutch leaning on the fence, his cigar between
his teeth.
“Yeah,” she said. “My head is killing me.”
 He nodded. “Come on over, a beer will set you straight.”

Sara was about to refuse, but then she found herself walking to
Clutch’s front lane. Why not? Exchanging two words with someone
that was not interested in her overdue report on her classes
progress or in saving the world from the evil of nicotine would be a
nice diversion until Tony arrived back home. She accepted a can of

cool beer from Clutch. It was cold and bitter and it dulled the pain in
her temples.
“I needed this,” she said.
“You’re welcome, miss.”
“And please, no more miss March. I get enough Playboy
Centerfold jokes from my high-schoolers. My name’s Sara.”

Clutch grinned. “Nice name for a Playboy Centerfold.”

Sara chuckled.
“What are you doing?” she asked, nodding at the scattered pieces
of machinery surrounding the frame of his black motorcycle.
Clutch shrugged. “I’m just giving her a checkout before I take her
back on the road.”

A cloud of his smoke drifted towards her. She was vaguely aware
of it, but she did not cough, and took another pull from the can.
“You’re a mechanic?”
 She followed his hand as it took the cigar back to his lips and he
sucked on it. “You gotta be one when you’re on the road in, you
know, a biker gang.”

Sara blushed, her cheeks burning. “Uh, I see. That’s not a Harley,
isn’t it?”
“It’s a Norton. British bike made in Oregon. 961 cc parallel twin
with push-rod valve actuation. Crank fired electronic fuel injection,
and a full stainless steel exhaust system with multiple 3 way catalytic

converter. ” He clicked his tongue.

Sara glanced at him. “I see,” she chuckled.
Clutch guffawed. “Yeah, sorry. It’s boring right? But I mean, it’s a
really good ride. The company went belly up in 2006, there’s about
fifty of this babes going around.”
Sara looked at the motorbike. It was just a motorbike. And yet

Clutch was able to see so much more in it.

He crushed his empty can and threw it off, picking another
straight away. “Another?” he offered.
She inhaled deeply the smoke that poured through his mouth and
nostrils. “No,” she said, shuddering. “I better be going.”
“Pity.”
 She smiled. “Thanks for the beer. And the chat. I really needed
that.”
“Anytime, Sara. Anytime.”

Sara took a shower and then sat on her bed staring blankly at the
wall, her headache returning with a vengeance. Her mind was a
jumble of thoughts about her job, about her day-to-day life. She felt
trapped, oppressed, and didn’t know why.

Or maybe she knew, she thought, only she wasn’t willing to admit
it.
“Shit!” she said. She wished she had accepted that second beer.
She called Maureen, and they talked for a while about meeting on
Saturday for the campaign. She let her sister-in-law drone on about
the ills of tobacco and the need for direct action, lulled by her

beautiful voice but totally oblivious of her meaning. From there, they
drifted to talking about their significant others, and Sara was
suddenly aware of Maureen’s loneliness, and her efforts for filling the
space that Matt should have filled, had he not been busy saving the
world.
 Her headache only grew worse.

Tony had had a bad day at work, doing some kind of help-desk
job for a client.
“Help desk duties are not my bailiwick,” he pointed out, launching
in a complicated discussion of inter-operability and Win/Mac issues.
After dinner she asked him to turn off Enya and let her feet be.
Tony’s questions about her bad mood only made her angry. She

retreated to their bedroom slamming the door, and was fast asleep
by the time he joined her.
 Chapter 4

Sara had a dream.

She was with Maureen, and Maureen was smoking a cigarette.
They were somewhere dusky and warm, on a soft carpet that
seemed to stretch forever. It felt a little like that time, many years

ago, when they had got stoned together. But right now Maureen was
smoking a regular cigarette.
“Maureen,” she said. “What are you doing?”
Maureen sucked on the orange filter of her cigarette and winked.
“Isn’t it what you’d like?”
“You don’t smoke!”

Maureen laughed, blowing smoke in her face. “Really?”

She offered her the packet. Sara took one and Maureen clicked
her gold lighter and got her cigarette going. “Everybody does,”
Maureen said dreamily. “It’s good.”
 Sara took a drag, like it was the most natural thing in this world,
like she had done so many years before, when she and Maureen had
got high together. She saw the smoke flood her lungs, that turned
from bright and clear into dark and baroque, looking like black lace.
Of course everybody smoked.

Maureen leaned closer and kissed her on the lips. Sara felt warm
and happy, and opened her lips, letting Maureen’s tongue in. Smoke
poured from Maureen’s lips into Sara, in a continuous sweet, warm
river. She put her arms around Maureen and they were lost in a long
smoky kiss, until Maureen pulled back. She turned, and leaned on
Clutch’s side.

Sara was not surprised at Clutch being there. She took a long
drag, and felt her hair turn into a cloud of sweet aromatic smoke.
She stared as Clutch and Maureen started making out.
Clutch was wearing his usual dirty jeans and a vest that let his
chest exposed. Maureen was completely naked, and covered in a
rainbow of tattoos, her skin like the canvas of an artist. She caressed

Clutch’s pectorals while she sucked on her cigarette.

Sara suddenly felt a pang of anger. She came closer, and Maureen
embraced her.
“Don’t be afraid,” she cooed.
 “I’m not afraid!” Sara snapped back.
Sara’s hair was a big cloud of dark smoke, and she was blowing

smoke through her mouth and her nose and her ears as Clutch ran a
hand down her bare back, his fingers rough and demanding. She
saw designs sprout on her skin where his fingers touched her. She
arched her back and hummed. Maureen was sucking on Clutch’s
cock, smoke pouring through her nostrils. Only it was not a cock. It

was a huge, black cigar, with a thick tip from which Maureen was
taking long, luxuriant tokes. Sara leaned closer and kissed Clutch,
and he touched her tits gently, leaving behind kaleidoscope of colors
and a pair of pierced nipples.
Sara laughed, and Maureen was rubbing against her, her blond
bob streaked through with green and purple. She lit a cigarette, and

gave it to Sara, but Sara shook her head, and put her lips to Clutch’s
mighty cigar. She tried to take as much as possible in her mouth, her
head bobbing frantically. Maureen helped her, massaging the length
of Clutch’s cigar with a delighted grin, using both hands.
“Isn’t it great?” the blonde asked, stroking Sara’s hip. Sara
grinned, and nodded, and took a long drag, and felt Clutch’s smoke

mingle with her hair, and weave new lace patterns in her black
lungs, and then there was something hot and wet between her legs
and she was going wild and then Clutch grabbed her by one
shoulder, and he’s gonna leave a bruise she thought, thrilled, and
then a voice called her.
“Sara, Sara are you OK?”

She woke up.

She was laying on her side, her hand tucked between her legs.
Wet.
“Are you OK?” Tony repeated.
Sara closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Yes, I am OK.”
“You were moaning.”
“Just a dream,” she said.
And she walked to the bathroom, and stayed in there until he fell
asleep again.

The following morning, Sara was up at dawn. She had a quick

breakfast, barely tasting her coffee. Her mind was humming, and
she had things to do.
 She spent almost one hour trying to decide what to wear,
discarding skirts because they were too long and trousers because
they were the wrong color. Finally, she opted for a tight, knee-length
skirt, dark blue, and a pale blouse with a nicely revealing neckline,
sexy but not vulgar.
She slipped on a pair of ballerinas and went out with her bag and

her books while Tony was shuffling to the bathroom, scratching his
back.
She was putting her stuff on the back seat of the beetle when the
door to Clutch’s house opened, and he came out. She turned, ready
to greet him, and start a conversation.
Sara froze, and stared, her eyes widening.

He was holding an arm around the waist of a leggy redhead, a

woman in her forties in a very short blue vinyl mini and a red tank
top that left very little to the imagination. She was smoking a long,
thin white cigarette. They stood on the doorstep and she turned to
him. Clutch put his hands on her hips and she stretched to kiss him.

She was wearing high-heeled platforms, but he was still a few inches
taller than her.
Their lips locked, Clutch’s hands moved from her hips to her
buttocks. The redhead threw her head back and blew a cone of
smoke in the air. Sara kept staring while Clutch pulled her back in.
The redhead was giggling. Then the door closed.

Sara went back in. She slammed the door shut.

“What’s up?” Tony asked her.
She was taking off her blouse. “I don’t feel comfortable in this
thing,” she said.
He gave her an interrogative look, then shrugged.
He was out before she had selected an ecru skirt and rust-colored

sweater from her wardrobe.

She stood in front of her full length mirror, in her bra and panties,
staring angrily at herself. She was so--
So common. So plain. So unexciting.
She hefted her breasts. God but she hated this stupid body!
She checked the watch. She was late. She put on her drab clothes

and went out. She started the Beetle and was on her way to school.

“Hi, neighbor! How was your day?”

Sara gave a hard stare at Clutch.

 The guy was leaning on the fence, and cleaning his hands. Today
he was wearing a formerly white tee and a denim vest covered in
badges. His tattooed arms were glistening with sweat.
“The usual,” she said. She took two steps towards her door.

He pointed with his thumb behind his back. “Would a beer help
make it better?”
“Wouldn’t your guest have anything to object?”
He stared at her, frowning. Then he laughed. “What, Chantelle?”
Sara was not smiling. “Is that her name?”
He pushed the rag back into his pocket. “Shit, miss,” he said. “Did

she— I mean—”
He passed a hand at the back of his head, shifting his weight
from one foot to another. He shook his head. There was a hand of
cards tattooed on his biceps.
“What?” she snorted.
“I mean, we didn’t make too much noise, last night, did we?”

She just glared at him, her jaw set.

“Sorry ‘bout that, miss. We went a little wild. You know how it is,
right?”
She kept staring. She just wanted to walk up to him and punch
him in his stupid face.
 “Anyway she’s gone,” he said. “She was late for work—”

“At Hooters?”
Clutch laughed. “Good one. She certainly has the right assets,
what? No, she’s a stripper. She dances at the Tiki Cave, down on the
fifty-eight.”
“I am not familiar with strip clubs,” she snapped.

Clutch nodded. “Nice girl. We had a bash with a few old mates
last night, people I know from when I was in, you know, in the can,
and one thing led to the other—”
“And I guess she followed you home,” she snapped.
Clutch laughed. “Yeah. What could I do, right? Animal
magnetism.”

But she was not smiling. Her headache was again pounding her
temples, like someone trying to push a steel spike in her skull.
“What about that beer?” he grinned.
She stared at him. “Not tonight, no.”
She turned away. “And I thought you would call me Sara,” she
said, and was unable to hide the pain and the bitterness in her

voice.
She felt his eyes in her back as she walked home.
 #

Tony called one hour later to tell her he’d dine out with some

guys from R&D.

“We’ve got some important stuff to discuss—”
Where was he? There were voices in the background. Noises. “Are
you going to a strip club?” she asked.
“What?”
She grunted. She felt the need to start a fight. She felt like

screaming obscenities. She felt the need to punch someone. She had
felt like that before, but never this strong, this urgent. She was not
sure if she did not like it.
He laughed. “No, darling, we’ll be eating Chinese and discuss the
wiring of the old Barrytown Plaza, you know, that old hotel

downtown.” He laughed again. “A strip club. You are a hoot, darling.”

He hung up.

Sara was feeling out of sorts. On a whim, she sat on her bed and

called Maureen.
 “I’m trying to decide,” her sister-in-law said, “whether to
microwave myself a dinner or once again go for one of the many
takeaway menus in my collection. Exciting life, uh?”
Sara mumbled something. Maybe it had not been a good idea.
“Feeling better?” Maureen asked. “yesterday you sounded a little,

you know, off.”

Sara sighed. “Do you ever feel dissatisfied with what you are
doing?”
Maureen replied with a trill of laughter. “Why should I? I’ve got a
successful business, I do volunteer work for the community, my
husband—”

Her voice trailed off.

“Sometimes I’d like to just let everything go,” Sara said.
“That’s very zen of you,” Maureen replied. But she could feel there
was something wrong. “Is everything fine with Tony?”
“Why the fuck do we have to talk about Tony when I’m the one’s

that blue?” Sara snapped. “What am I?”

Maureen was silent for a moment. “I was only asking—”
“Is your life totally revolving around my brother?” Sara asked.
“Well, we are married—”
Sara snorted. “He’s never at home.”
 “He’s doing an important job,” Maureen said, defensively.

“He just makes sure he’s doing it as far as possible from you.”
“Sara?!”
Sara sighed. “Sorry, I’m a bitch.”
But she was not sorry. Sometimes it was good, being a bitch. She
had actually enjoyed the surprised, shocked tone of her sister-in-law.
“You should take a vacation,” Maureen said.

“It’s what I’m thinking of doing,” Sara replied. She ran a finger
through her hair, twirling a strand.
“Fine, this is good news. Some quality time for you and Tony
would be good. What are you planning?”
Sara would have liked to shout. Why the fuck was Tony always in
her hair?

“I don’t know,” she said. She felt her energies ebbing again. “I’m
thinking about going away, you know. Where nobody knows me.
Nobody’s got expectations.”
Maureen was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her
tone was concerned. “Have you thought about seeing someone?”

“What do you mean?” Sara asked, her voice hard.

“These blues you say you’re having. One has to be careful.
There’s nothing wrong with seeking professional help—”
 Sara sighed. “Oh, that you mean.”
This had been a bad idea, she said to herself. Maureen would
never understand. She felt angry at herself, and at Maureen. She

was silent for a long moment.

“The fact is I think I know what would set me straight,” she finally
said. “Make me happy, you know? It’s just—”
She sighed again.
“What?” Maureen asked.
“Don’t you ever feel like you’re not doing right by you?” Sara

asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you ever feel like you’ve missed the opportunity to be really
yourself? To be something you don’t enjoy being, like an architect,
or a wife, or an anti-smoke activist—?”
Maureen took a deep breath. “Is that all my life comes down to,

in your opinion?”
“What else do you have?” Sara asked, bitterly. The idea of hurting
Maureen made her feel awake.“What do I have? School, my house
—”
“Your relationship with Tony,” Maureen added.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
in general it would be wrong to call dhohor noon, as is very often
done; for none of the other Mohammedans in this part of the
world will say his dhohor prayer before two o’clock p.m. at the very
earliest, and generally not before three o’clock.
[68] Adamáwa is certainly not quite identical with Fúmbiná, as it
denotes only those regions of the latter which have been
conquered by the Fúlbe, while many parts are as yet unsubdued.
[69] With regard to salt, I will observe that the greater part of it
is brought from Búmánda, on the Bénuwé, near Hamárruwa,
where it seems to be obtained from the soil in the same way as I
shall describe the salt-boiling in Fóga, although in Búmánda there
is no valley-formation, and Mr. Vogel, who lately visited this place,
may be right in stating that the salt is merely obtained from ashes
by burning the grass which grows in that locality.
[70] It is a great pity that the members of the Bénuwé
expedition were not able to measure the elevation of the river at
the furthest point reached. My thermometer for measuring the
boiling-point of water was so deranged, that my observation at the
Tépe is without any value. Till further observations have been
made, I think it may be assumed to be from 800 to 850 feet.
[71] It would be rather more appropriate to give the name of
Lower Bénuwé to that part of the river below, and that of Upper
Bénuwé to the part above the confluence, than to call Upper
Bénuwé the part of the river visited by Dr. Baikie.
[72] This name is evidently connected with that of the Balanites,
which they call “tanní”; and several Negro nations compare the
date with the fruit of that tree.
[73] Mr. Vogel, who has succeeded in obtaining a sight of this
animal, found that it is a Mammal like the Manatus Senegalensis.
The South African rivers also have these Mammals, and the ayú
is not less frequent in the Ísu near Timbúktu than it is in the
Bénuwé.
[74] Súmmo, situated between Holma and Song.
[75] The numbers “three” (tan) and “four” (nan) seem to point to
the Fulfúlde as well as to the Kaffir languages.
[76] It is probable that this tribe is indicated by the ‫ مكبا‬of Makrízi
(Hamaker, Spec. Catal. p. 206), although there are several other
localities of the same name.
[77] Probably their real name is Tiká. See Appendix.
 [78] The termination nchí is nothing but the Sónghay word ki,
which in several dialects is pronounced as chí, and means
“language.” On account of this termination being added to the
original name, I have purposely not marked the accents in this
list. The languages thus marked are spoken only partly in
Ádamáwa, the tribes to whom they are peculiar being for the
greatest part independent.
[79] In the following sketch, made just at the moment, I aimed
only at giving the outlines of the mount, without any pretension to
represent the country around. The foreground, therefore, is left
quite level.
[80] Perhaps this was a sign of mourning.
[81] The marriage (nigá) ceremonies in this country fill a whole
week. The first day is dedicated to the feasting on the favourite
“nákia,” the paste mentioned before; the second to the “tíggra,” a
dried paste made of millet, with an immense quantity of pepper;
the third to the “ngáji,” the common dish made of sorghum, with a
little fish sauce, if possible; the fourth day is called “líktere,” I think
from the taking away the emblems of the virginal state of the
bride, “larússa”; the fifth, the bride is placed on a mat or búshi,
from which she rises seven times, and kneels down as often; this
is called “búshiro,” or “búchiro genátsin”; the next day, which must
be a Friday, her female friends wash her head while singing, and
in the evening she is placed upon a horse and brought to the
house of the bridegroom, where the final act of the nigrá is
accomplished. The Kanúri are very peculiar in the distinction of a
marriage with a virgin, “féro,” or “féro kuyánga,” or a widow, or
“kámo záwar.”
[82] Between Yédi and the Tsád, the following places are
situated—Léga, a considerable town surrounded by a wall;
Díbbuwa, Jíggeri, Manawáze, Górdiná, and Mógolám.
[83] Mr. Vogel, who likewise visited this spot in 1854, found the
plain elevated 920 feet above the level of the sea, while the two
mounts attained the respective heights of 1,300 and 1,600 feet.
 INDEX.

Ádamáwa, 401, 428

Afalésselez, 117
Ágades, 175, 203
Ahmed, 371
ʿAin Shershára, Ruins near, 31
ʿAin Zára, 39
Ájirí, 349
Alantíka, 451
Aláune, 343
Asben, 121, 139
Asïu, 127
Aúderas barbarity, 171

Bághzen, 167
Baháushe slave, 313
Bárakat, 109
Bel-Ghét, 269
Bélem, 445
Bénuwé, 451
Benzári, 323
Berbers, 103
Beshér, 353
Bóghel Valley, 173
Bokhári, 323
Bórnu, 333
Búndi, 331
Búwa, 351

Chad, or Tsád, Lake, 386

Chémia, 225
Cheréka, Mount, 165
Cinyps, 37

Damerghú, 241
Dan Íbra, 237
Démmo, 581
Díkowa, 549

Éderi, 67
Enshéd eʾ Sufét, 15

Fáro, 451
Fénorang Valley, 129
Fódet, 149
Fugábú, 527
Fúgo Mozári, 409
Fúmbiná, 469
Gámerghú District, 405
Gazáwa, 257
Gébi, 133
Gérki, 317
Ghaladíma, 331
Gharíya, 59
Gharíya eʾ Sherkíya, 61
Ghát, 101
Ghurián, 43
Gílmirám, 245
Gozenákko, 249
Gúmrek, Lake, 235

Hadánarang, 105
Háj Beshír, 373
Háj Hassan, 395
Hanshír, 22
Hatíta, 89
Háusa, 273

Ikadémmelrang, 125
Imghád, 107
Itísan and Kél-gerés, 157

Jebel Durmán, 47
Jebel Msíd, 25, 33
Jerma Kadím, 71

Kánem, 501, 541

Kanó, 285
Kasr Dawán, 33
Kasr Dóga, 31
Kasr Ghurián, 21
Kasr Kérker, 36
Kasr Teghrínna, 21
Kátsena, 277
Kél-gerés, 157
Kél-owí, 153
Kikla, 18
Komádugu, The Jungles of, 345
Kúka Mairuá, 315
Kúkawa, 353, 369, 379, 491
Kurúlu, 439
Kusáda, 283

Laháula, 425
Lake Chad, or Tsád, 386
Leptis Khoms, 37

Mábaní, 407
Maduwári, 391
Mʿallem Dalíli, 445
Mándará, 561
Mánga warriors, 327
Marghí, 410
Márte, 547
Máshena, 325
Mbutúdi, 433
Melágo, 449
Mejenín, 40
Meselláta, 35
Mizda, 45
Molghoy, 413
Múbi, 479
Múglebú, 479
Múrzuk, 75

Ngórnu, 387

Rabda, 19
Rálle, 95
Ribágo, 459

Salla-léja, 187
Sámmit, 237
Shʿabet eʾ talha, 65
Shitáti, 526
Shúwa, 557
Sókoto, 497
Soy, 367
Sulléri, 475

Taboníye, 57
Tagáma, 233
Taganáma, 325
Tarhóna, 29
Tasáwa, 78, 251
Tébu Merchants, 225
Tekút, Mount, 21
Teléshera, 221
Terguláwen, 231
Tíggeda, 169
Tintagh-odé, 145
Tin-téggana, 215
Tin-téllust, 151, 213
Titíwi, 395
Tripoli, 7, 8
Tsád, Lake, 386
Tunis, 1

Úba, 481
Ugréfe, 71
Ujé Kasúkulá, 409
Um eʾ Zerzán, 15
Unán Valley, 227

Wadáÿ, 497
Wádi, 339
Wady Aberjúsh, 85
Wady Eláwen, 87
Wady Haera, 41
Wady Kérdemín, 18
Wady Rán, 23
Wady Rummána, 23
Wady Shʿabet, 65
Wady Sháti, 66
Wady Tagíje, 53
Wándalá Mountains, 421
Wáza, 605
Welád Slimán, 518
Wúliya, 583

Yó, 505
Yóla, 461
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