Sacred Skin

by Michael Stone

Hodges threaded the other foot into the skin and eased it up over Heatherstone’s shins. It was a tight fit. Hodges was surprised at his master’s tolerance. He bore the scratches from the rough seams, bones and shells without complaint. This man threw a tantrum if his bath water was one degree above his preferred temperature, or the butler arrived a minute late with his pudding. No one had ever accused Lord Heatherstone of bearing discomfort stoically. When the skin reached halfway up his thighs, Heatherstone stood and tugged it over his privates. He sat down again gingerly to allow Hodges to thread his arms through and fasten the skin at the back with laces of black sinew. Hodges began to tighten the straps at the ankles, working quickly in the dim light. Lord Heatherstone plucked indelicately at the crotch. “Is my lord all right?” asked Rider.

“Not really. Why should I be defending myself against something that could be repelled by the, er . . .”

“The Ayat al-Kursi? The Phylacteries?”

“Yes. Those.”

Returning My Sister’s Face

by Eugie Foster

Mother sat bolt upright and stared at Oiwa. “Where is your face?” she cried.

Oiwa reached a hand to her cheek. “I-It is at the front of my head, where it always is.”

“No, only half of it,” Mother replied. She glared at me. “I pledge you to return the other half of your sister’s face. Swear it, Yasuo!”