| Subject: Feast of Angels |
Author:
TRJ
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Date Posted: 13:14:52 05/09/01 Wed
Author Host/IP: host-216-76-200-204.bhm.bellsouth.net/216.76.200.204
He lay dying with a parched desert sanded mouth, staring into bright daylight. He wept in the beginning, shedding precious water onto the bosom of the arid cracked earth, tears that were devoured as the heat sucked him of nourishing moisture. Gritty soil, turned to ash, scraped and scoured him. The wind would bury him, cover his dehydrated husk.
A mirage danced from the sky towards him, storm cloud eyes, a mouth of rain, arms and legs flashing lightning. He wanted to reach for the threatening tempest, aswirl in blues and blacks and grays, but his hands were gravity’s, held down by unseen, internal pressures. Would she pass over him, take him up in a spinning embrace of destruction or would she wet his cooked, useless lips with the song of a billion droplets of water tumbling headlong from heaven?
The sound of bare feet in the sand, echoed thunder across the dead valley, filling his scorpion imbedded ears. A silver mirror trinket around her ankle twisted sunlight into diamondshine brilliance, refracting celestial spheres, a holy waltz with the elements. She gathered her skirt of midnight firmament, exposing deep brown skin clothing thin legs. Woman. She smelled of ginger and cactus flowers.
She knelt beside him, pressing a cool palm to his forehead. Her eyes, empty of color, searched his face, brimming with a cruel compassion. Lips curved into a ghostly smile, a cold breeze biting through the heat, penetrating his muscles deeper than the gangrenous wound eating into his femur. Her touch caressed and squeezed his heart, fear and comfort thudding erratically in his chest, dizzying his brain.
Humming, the wind carried her sweet song into the atmosphere, clouds forming a symphonic lullaby throwing shadows to the ground. Her voice drew water from the stony marble sky, drizzle then a flood. He opened his mouth and cried out in ecstasy as the thin fabric of her blouse stuck to her dark body. The desert grit was washed from his limbs, rejuvenating him, his agony forgotten as she sang louder the song his mother repeated to him as a child before he slept.
She took him up in her arms, his head to her breast and she smelled of fruit, of Eden. His lips found her saccharine flesh and he bit her. She tasted of summer strawberries, deep red juice splashing the roof of his mouth. She didn’t cry out. Instead, she held him closer, offering herself to his hunger.
Here, the cool crispness of the apples ripened in his father’s orchard, tart. There, the heavy red grapes as they were prepared for the winepress. Her breasts were Spanish oranges, her belly cantaloupe, the delicate folds between her legs, mellow plum. Satisfied, he fell back as she coursed through his veins.
She bent down, kissed him, her mouth a pomegranate. The food of the dead. She inhaled him and breathed him out into oblivion.
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