The Lobster Dance

Podcastle, despite being a fantasy podcast, has some of the best horror fantasy from Escape Artists (and doesn’t pretend trigger warnings don’t belong in horror–looking at you Pseudopod.) “The Lady’s Maid” by Carlea Holl-Jensen (narrated by Kim Lakin-Smith) is a short horror story about the relationship between the maid and her mistress, who has a collection of beautiful heads to wear. 

Basically Mombi but even more terrifying. [Image: Still from the film Return to Oz, featuring Mombi’s collection of heads for herself to wear]

Sometimes she wonders about the girls whose heads her mistress wears. Sometimes, though not often, she wonders where they came from, who they loved. She wonders who, if anyone, keeps their memory now.

Mostly, though, she doesn’t trouble herself. It is her lady’s right to take what she desires. Everything is hers, as far as the eye can see: the mirrored sitting room and the marble statues in the courtyard and the deer in the forests to the east and the endless farmland, now fallow, to the west—all hers. Any passing milkmaid with a handsome head of curls, any traveling fortuneteller with changeable sea-green eyes—they are all hers, too, if she wishes it. This is the order of things.

This is a spooky exploration of exploitation. The narration by Kim Lakin-Smith is as gorgeous as the writing. Although this could have easily slipped into a cautionary tale on vanity, the maid’s increased daring with her small retributions keeps the story spinning rather than having it follow a straightforward large-scale revenge story.

Listen for free on Podcastle (run time: 59 min). If you prefer to read instead of listen, you can read it in Queers Destroy Fantasy Special Issue of Fantasy Magazine, Dec. 2015.

Contains body horror (headless mistress), dubious consent*, mutually abusive relationship, helplessness, power play. Rated R.

*Dubious consent: you can’t consent to having your spine/throat manually stimulated if your head isn’t on. It’s creepy as hell. Just because that doesn’t trigger me doesn’t mean it’s everyone’s cup of creepy tea, though, so be warned.