Flash fiction by Kerry E.B. Black
Sacred Symbolism
There was something about the moon that night, something exciting in the way it pulled her into the garden. Night-blooming Casablanca Lilies perfumed the air, and toads serenaded crickets. Bev’s lips tingled as she thought of Frog Princes and magical first kisses. She’d already kissed a boy, of course, but on a dare in a closet at her best friend’s house. His lips had smelled and felt like bloated worms, and he had pushed a slug-like tongue between her teeth. His shocked expression when she recoiled made her laugh, and she’d decided she could wait to repeat the experience.
She stretched her arms toward the sky, as a toddler pleas for an embrace. Her hair tumbled to the waist of her night dress when she threw back her head, eyes closed, to enjoy the silver radiance enveloping her. She spun, a sacred symbol danced by bare feet, an ancestral rhythm collectively known. She laughed, adding youthful abandon to night sighs rippling the treetops.
He, too, felt the draw of the moon that night, and he spied. Never before had lust consumed him, but seeing Bev, his first kiss, dancing with moonlight turning her nightdress sheer, he understood. Within him, the wolf of fairy tales lurked, leashed by social niceties. It chaffed at the restraint as she spun, hair a halo about her. He clenched his teeth and fists, nostrils filling with her scent and the lilies’, and he wrestled the beast back into his chest. With a whimpered howl, he ran from the scene, from the desire, from her.
Her steps faltered not a bit.
There was something about the moon that night, something exciting in the way it pulled her into the garden. Night-blooming Casablanca Lilies perfumed the air, and toads serenaded crickets. Bev’s lips tingled as she thought of Frog Princes and magical first kisses. She’d already kissed a boy, of course, but on a dare in a closet at her best friend’s house. His lips had smelled and felt like bloated worms, and he had pushed a slug-like tongue between her teeth. His shocked expression when she recoiled made her laugh, and she’d decided she could wait to repeat the experience.
She stretched her arms toward the sky, as a toddler pleas for an embrace. Her hair tumbled to the waist of her night dress when she threw back her head, eyes closed, to enjoy the silver radiance enveloping her. She spun, a sacred symbol danced by bare feet, an ancestral rhythm collectively known. She laughed, adding youthful abandon to night sighs rippling the treetops.
He, too, felt the draw of the moon that night, and he spied. Never before had lust consumed him, but seeing Bev, his first kiss, dancing with moonlight turning her nightdress sheer, he understood. Within him, the wolf of fairy tales lurked, leashed by social niceties. It chaffed at the restraint as she spun, hair a halo about her. He clenched his teeth and fists, nostrils filling with her scent and the lilies’, and he wrestled the beast back into his chest. With a whimpered howl, he ran from the scene, from the desire, from her.
Her steps faltered not a bit.
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Raised with fairy tales and fantastic stories, Kerry E.B. Black believes in the magic within the everyday, the beauty the commonplace. She hopes to represent these beliefs in her writing. She crafts her stories from a buttercream cottage situated in a swamp along the Allegheny River, five kids in tow. To follow the author, find her social media accounts: www.facebook.com/authorKerryE.B.Black and https://.twitter.com/BlackKerryblick
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