Les Géthennères
Or, Burn this Feminary
The perverts live here on the windy islands, the ancient rings of sterile volcanoes long put out by cold and ocean, half-submerged. The ones in permanent kemmer, the ones they call disgusting and halfdead, thrown out of the towns and homesteads if they won’t numb their sex, their drives, their passion, their minds with hormone shots. The ones who go into kemmer as the same sex as their partners, only to see them recoil and then to be avoided in the kemmerhouse. The ones in permanent somer. If they aren’t jailed or killed they find their way eventually, quietly, to the southern islands.
The perverts built a tall lighthouse, a shining phallus, in the center of the largest island’s ring. By its phallic light, the “normal” youths of the south continent’s coast, who have dared each other to raid the land of the half-dead, navigate and land on the black sand beaches, they enter the lagoons. This time, none of them will come back.
