She hated him. Hated his beautiful face. Hated his unflinching eyes. Hated the way he could speak volumes to her without uttering a single word. Hated his hands, and their sense of entitlement to her body. But mostly, she hated herself for allowing the pure pleasure of him. Having him on her, in her, it seemed his very being had become an appendage. She was never one to play the victim. Though, as she sat up and rolled her now grass-stained dress down from her waist, she felt nothing less than one. She did whenever he was within proximity. Chlo stood up with a finality that was lost on him. Dorian didn’t know it yet, but this was the last time. Not by her own volition, but the last all the same. Continue Reading »
He’d lost track of how long he’d been silently watching her, a thick row of peppers a head higher than himself providing refuge. Although her back was to him and her posture was neutral, he could tell how unhappy she was with her present chore. She ripped pepper after pepper from the thick stalks, and threw them into her basket with disregard. He didn’t need to check his voicemail to know that the message left at 3am was from her. Most likely she was on the mainland when she called, out and about with her otur girlfriends. She had a tendency to call him when she’d had at least 4 rounds. He imagined the morning’s already 87 degrees only exasperated the ire of her hangover.
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near sovereignty: ch 1 (homecoming)
The sacredness of the morning was marked by the heady scent of wildflowers that lined the spit connecting the north side of the island to the mainland. For nearly a century the flowers could only be found on the spit. That ended when the mainlanders, allowed on the island as guests, took the flowers home as proof that they had indeed stepped foot on the island. Now the flowers could be found just about anywhere—demonized as a weed, it’s rarity long forgotten.
But on this morning, the flowers were heralded as young girls rose early to gather only the tallest and choicest of the seerliss to string together for adornment. Small and discriminating fingers plucked the stems from the red clay, careful not to disturb the roots–today was just the beginning and an abundance of seerliss would be needed to sustain the summer’s demanding schedule. Despite the day’s customary white garb, and the seerliss’ blood-red propensity to stain all it came in contact with, the women would don the flowers with an arrogance barely disguised as acceptable pride.
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