Free Vivisepulture by Wayne Andy; Simmons Tony; Remic Neal; Ballantyne Stan; Asher Colin; Nicholls Steven; Harvey Gary; Savile Adrian; McMahon Guy N.; Tchaikovsky Smith

the Golden Horse but he was not in a thrifty frame of mind. Fifteen floors high, with pretty waitresses and an elderly, distinguished-looking concierge, it was the lodging place of the affluent.
    Michael checked in at midnight. In a dishevelled condition, he went straight to his room, showered, shaved, sprayed on some of the hotel cologne. Then he rode the elevator to the bar.
    “A Glenfiddich,” he said to the barman, knowing Calendar would not have a place amongst the optics glittering on the wall.
    “Single or double, sir?”
    “Double of course.”
    “Ice?”
    “Oh yes.” Michael had not taken ice in his whisky in a long time.
    The bar was busy - with a wedding party. A sickening irony, thought Michael. But just the sort of thing he ought to have expected.
    Michael spotted the bride and groom, sitting on a crimson couch, as happy as kittens in a box of wool.
    Christ, thought Michael, staring at the groom. One day he might be hunted by Cupid. If everything goes awry and his heart is torn apart like wet tissue paper, he might find himself duelling with the malign sprog of amour .
    The groom was clean-shaven, face shiny and hair glossy in the way a man’s face is only on his wedding day. His bride had the preternatural lustre attainable only on this special occasion. They would never look so star-bright again. Michael guessed it was something to do with optimism. You’ll never have it so good again, he thought, sourly. This is the zenith. From now on, it will be decay, despair, disillusionment . . .
    Looking at the wedding guests, he realised that he was wrong. There were countless couples in the bar, some young, some middle-aged, others so ancient they might crumble into dust at any moment, and they seemed happy too. Grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles and aunties, brothers and sisters-in-law . . . Michael saw every combination and he saw love in abundance. Perhaps romance wasn’t a game he could play, but others certainly could. After all, not everyone shared the same talents. Not everyone could sing or paint or sculpt philosophers from bronze and marble, but there were those who certainly could. 
    Michael grew angry. Why was Cupid picking on him ? What had he actually done wrong? Melissa ought to have been the homunculate bastard’s target. It was Melissa - and this was the truth he could barely contemplate, even in his darkest moments - who had abandoned him for some graceless, overweight, cheap-aftershave-reeking work colleague. She deserved to be punished, not him, Michael, who had committed no crime . . .
    But it wasn’t about punishment, was it? It was about a certain kind of natural order. Why would Cupid want Melissa’s heart, when it was a heart healthy with love? Because . . . because . . . and now Michael understood . . . Cupid was a rotting, mouldering thing and the hearts it wanted were rotting and mouldering too . . . It preyed on those who hated love. Who believed, however fleetingly, that love was not a meadow trembling with fritillaries and brimming with birdsong, but something vile, a glob of snot and gristle slubbered in faeces . . . 
    Maybe, thought Michael, if I learn to love again, Cupid will leave me alone...
    “Are you all right, sir?” Speaking softly, the waiter gazed warily at Michael.
    “I, uh - yes, fine. Just thinking,” said Michael dreamily.
    “I think you’ve had enough to drink. Really, sir, I do.”
    Michael looked at the Glenfiddich. “I’ve only had a couple of sips.”
    “You were drunk when you arrived.”
    “No I wasn’t.”
    “You were slurring. And you do have an odour of liquor.”
    “Well, this is a bar.”
    “Even so, sir.”
    “These wedding guests . . .”
    “What about them, sir?”
    Michael dug a ten pound note out of his pocket and proffered it to the waiter. “Which ones are the bridesmaids? I want a bridesmaid, you see. A pretty one. You must know the sort. Youthful, sweet-tempered . . . Look,” he delved out another tenner, “get me a