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A Fast Fiction

Concept: Idomis (best read and listened simultaneously with Sarah Brightman's La Luna)

Shadow of a Secret Smile © 2005 Clee Andro

My name is Liza. Sorrow is my middle name. Yes, Liza with forced smiles. My friends (and even strangers) would ask me if I have posed for a toothpaste brand. No, but... I think of coffee once in a while, sometimes I cram myself with smoke; smoking can be a drag, you-know.

My older sister, Celine, loves Sarah Brightman, especially her La Califfa. Its languishing, slow stab of deathly music, has taken her soul. She whispers to me before I sleep, "I love you." And those where her very words every night before we sleep. Until...

"That is so fitting of you," I open my eyes from almost-sleep. "But you are just my dear, old sister, nothing other than that." She smiles a bit. I look at her, under the shadowy temptations of the room's dull green light, a beam cast, parting into the bed sheets, letting a wicked aura of its own ominous blur. Her silvery-beige nightgown is soft, I feel it, too, against her super soft skin. We've slept, together, on mother's bed for five years now.

A few months back she'd ask me, almost nightly: "Can I kiss you now?" How Fair This Place placated in the background.

She asks, like tonight, again as she dances, swaying a slow ballerina anti-gravity arch to the giveaway Gloomy Sunday. She tries to leap from the floor; grace and serenity altogether: her hand touching to some unseen grave. I just so wanted to see her float right there.

Float into my mind, Cel. I want to remember this moment forever.

That afternoon, an hour after we left Bigbucks, she let herself touched by another girl. I read the letter tonight, its slip, I glanced, from a lid of the wooden box covered with orange Japanese paper:


Thanks for the divine hours you've shared with me this afternoon. For keeps.

Always yours,

That was when I've connected and learned the secret of her nightly "love-whispers" to me, those sweet-nothings I've accumulated over the years found their way on writing after mother told me of Celine's fascination to women. I didn't quite believe her. I do love my sister — in a sister-kind-of-way.

"Fuck, sister!" I said to her.

"Don't be a wuss, woman," she contends. "Remember how'd you'd react to my lips at 2 am. You smell velvety smooth. And you always love to kiss me back."

"A woman's touch, and her kisses, is so damning, yes." I fought back, at her, with deadly words. "But not with you. Don't take advantage of my real feelings for you."

"That's what I'm thinking right now."

"Fuck the petting! Once or twice I did that to you, but I'm over with it."

"I should call Jasmine. Would you allow me, at this unholy, magical two-after-midnight-hour? Both of us and her, yeah?" She chortled.

"Go away, fuck Andrea."

"WHAT! You cunt!" She hurried to the cabinet, beside our bed, to find an empty box. "Where in the..."

"Are you ashamed of yourself?" She stopped there.

"No," I don't know. Said Celine in the back of her head. "Um, I mean, yes!" Turning towards me. "...but would it make a difference if she's over with you now?" She said.



She woke up and went to the bathroom. Jasmine trailed with a damning scent — into our room. She came back. With a quick gesture, she pulled me from my pillows and kissed my mouth, fucked my mouth with her tongue, frolic it with mine, like there was a big penis in it. Fucking two, big penises! Her minty tongue was searing hot, her hands lost into my labia majora as I struggled with her licking-penis-of-a-tongue, heavily, on my breasts, trailing down to my vulva. I moaned with her intrusion, her sweet soulful tongue was fire... I was thinking of mother's letter she found and gave it to me, a week before she died of ovary cancer:

I found this a long time ago. I've kept this since both of you were still in high school. It's from her classmate. Please promise me, Liz, do NOT ever confront this to her. Time will keep you together in peace. Mother speaking to me.

"Oh, caress me sugar! — love me as a clit.
Like me as brutal tears, ululation of your mad kisses.

Come into me, as I come dying to you, in glorious penetrating light!"

I caught myself wincing and grappling and letting go — into her very arms once more. Celine... this is just so not right. I'll burn you now if I were hell itself.

I tried to remember Celine's scents, in a non-sexual way. Can I love her? It was an absolute question, like the scent of Jasmine, one September rainy night, I can't ask to anyone. Not even God.

I remember all her letters.

I remember her wispy words against my racing breaths.

Celine and Andrea arrived, in high spirits that night, laced with liquor in their throats and stomachs. They found me naked. Mother always said, "to be born in this world, nakedness is never a sin, it will never be a sin."

...but a contrition, I added, as my dispirited words joined in the mellowing dark room, as I lay there breathless, beside father's Swiss knife he gave on my 15th birthday.

I remember the chorus of my family's laughters on Christmas Eve.

The room reeked of intoxication. Sarah Brightman climbs to a swift aria, the gradual orgasmic La Luna crescendo:

Luna non veglierà


...I lay there naked and dying in my pool of blood.

Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary. -- Sir Cecil Beaton (1904-1980) English photographer

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by Idomis

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