THE QUEEN OF LOVE
She smiles.
Spring had sprung early one chilly afternoon; the sun's brilliance muted by tombstone skies but down below –
"I love you. I love you. I love you so much!" he whooped at the top of his lungs into her loving ears then proceeded to awaken an imagined hazy lazy daisy field with a prancing, enhancing Strauss Waltz.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
Jacket and shirt flew off like abandoned kites.
"Honey," he called, laughing in the down-pouring rain, genuflecting toward her statuesque pose, "the heaven's are cleansing this poor, pore flesh, christening me to a new beautiful life!"
Yes, even the water that trickled down from his mated hair and collected in the crevice dimples of his ecstatic smile created a microscopic sea of beauty. At last his love was exposed, expressed, executed.
"The pants and shoes too," she cheered on. He was a butterfly leaving his cocoon. Thunder clapped and rain dropped applause.
"Everything's so, so, wonderful! The ground, the sound, the trees, the weeds, mothers and others, the -- the holy whole damn world is --" he coughed, splashing his way up and down in knee-deep slush while proclaiming himself the King of Love with an ooky, gooky, half-frozen mud crown. What majesty. She smiled in her disarming way. Black birds collected on her sculpted shoulders. He lay down basking in the glory as if it were a sunny, balmy day at the beach. Of course there was no sun, no balm, no beach. Just her and an onslaught of polar powered winds clearing this scenic stage for a glorious, global, grand-finale iceberg disk of a moon. Magnificent.
"Now try to fly!" she commanded. He summoned all of his fading strength and took one last wondrous jete, a lunging leap, an immortal blast of desire toward her. Angels cheered as his spiraling spirit catapulted into the universe like a field goal over the pearly gates. Meanwhile, his body fell, flopped, and toppled flat like a blob of frozen peach yogurt. Triple pneumonia. D O A.
She smiles, her marble radiance glowing moonlight in the center of the square.
excerpt from "The Brief Literary Career of Miles Dowd" © 1999 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
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She smiles.
Spring had sprung early one chilly afternoon; the sun's brilliance muted by tombstone skies but down below –
"I love you. I love you. I love you so much!" he whooped at the top of his lungs into her loving ears then proceeded to awaken an imagined hazy lazy daisy field with a prancing, enhancing Strauss Waltz.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
Jacket and shirt flew off like abandoned kites.
"Honey," he called, laughing in the down-pouring rain, genuflecting toward her statuesque pose, "the heaven's are cleansing this poor, pore flesh, christening me to a new beautiful life!"
Yes, even the water that trickled down from his mated hair and collected in the crevice dimples of his ecstatic smile created a microscopic sea of beauty. At last his love was exposed, expressed, executed.
"The pants and shoes too," she cheered on. He was a butterfly leaving his cocoon. Thunder clapped and rain dropped applause.
"Everything's so, so, wonderful! The ground, the sound, the trees, the weeds, mothers and others, the -- the holy whole damn world is --" he coughed, splashing his way up and down in knee-deep slush while proclaiming himself the King of Love with an ooky, gooky, half-frozen mud crown. What majesty. She smiled in her disarming way. Black birds collected on her sculpted shoulders. He lay down basking in the glory as if it were a sunny, balmy day at the beach. Of course there was no sun, no balm, no beach. Just her and an onslaught of polar powered winds clearing this scenic stage for a glorious, global, grand-finale iceberg disk of a moon. Magnificent.
"Now try to fly!" she commanded. He summoned all of his fading strength and took one last wondrous jete, a lunging leap, an immortal blast of desire toward her. Angels cheered as his spiraling spirit catapulted into the universe like a field goal over the pearly gates. Meanwhile, his body fell, flopped, and toppled flat like a blob of frozen peach yogurt. Triple pneumonia. D O A.
She smiles, her marble radiance glowing moonlight in the center of the square.
excerpt from "The Brief Literary Career of Miles Dowd" © 1999 by John Kirkmire, © 2013 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
return to stories page