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Desires of the moonlight; a telling of Sexuality

as written by Percy Cicilia

Would you want to scream to a point were your lungs go dry, when your cries seem silent and your eyes see colors of heaven in each corner? Sparks surround a kiss; your tongue becoming a snake that seeks pleasure and rapture and the easiest path to heaven is through the flower. Would you want to become the envy of the moon, become the goddess that commands the fleet of voyeuristic dreams?



The sunlight fell through the slits in the curtain, darkness receding into the colder corners like a naked child in a spotlight. Waking to the natural accordance of nature she felt her body heavy with odd regret. Pinned down by a yearning so great that she felt it in the lighter regions of her mind, she was still holding onto a dream that was as real as the sheets that barely covered her nakedness.

She had fallen asleep before the window, the moon her companion as she drank from the bottle of worldly wine and fell into a dream as pleasant as it was lucid. The wind had raped her whilst she slept; the evident curves on her body attracted subtle breezes to pick along each valley as if it was filled with tastier fruit than the hills above. Yet the soft build of her body was also testament of the soothing passing of nightly shower as the night cried onto her sheets. Small droplets of essence covered her thigh and she brushed it caringly as not to disrupt the sensation between the sheets of truth and the dream world.

As the sheets seem to part more from one another, the seams of the different lights failing to mesh harmoniously, she felt the bitter wind that accompanied a morning awakening. The collective tranquility of a nights sleep was washed from her face, the horrid movements of limb and joint relieving her of the precious scene from her mind’s eye. His mouth still wanted her return to his realm, his yearning, his growth was of her: He needed her for satisfaction. His arms reached from the void; clasped her—come hither—in his arms of tone and definition, union as their mouths closed upon one another, two realms becoming one.

When breath no longer sustained her joyous rapture, panting, she awoke from trance only to hear his voice lingering within her soul. Her ears did not perceive the silence of the day, only his words were of importance, even as they faded. His fingers still touching hers she felt him near her face, masculinity folding her skin into his, and he whispered into her the words of wonder; "Your lips are fine dew upon the petals of my flower, descend upon me with the lifting night, whispering sinisterly of a returning grace.”

Her eyes opened to this whisper, faint as it was, diminishing the words until she could remember but fine dew upon the petals of my flower. With eyes still glazed from hours of being veiled, she stood under the running water, steam rising up. Dragons, mythical creatures as they are, hid themselves within the silent waterfall, slithering to her feet, binding her to this realm of thought, further pushing him from her mind until but a specter lingered in the mists of the mind. Each scale that plated the armored creatures upon the floor was a scene of awakening as the vapor urged into the apparition she tried to imagine, as if by dragon’s breath it fell into the haunted realm of dreams. Each scale cascaded sunshine into her face, slowly folding curtains of nightly occasions back as the sun truly welcomed her into day, Herald; the rooster’s first cry.

Looking up from the crème basin she found a person staring her down. With the same glance she would afford another she scrutinized herself in the mirror; eyes shamelessly inspecting each visible ounce of dreamless body. Bee honey perfectly molded into the bark of a tree, softening and coloring the skin until the new tone of brown spice came to be. Her allure was apparent even to the mirror; it creaked shyly when she tried to remove its glance to medicate her mouth. Rinsing her mouth with the serenity of a goddess the fluid left her mouth smelling of delicate mint and the mirror once more satisfied its voyeuristic approach of her body.

Her complexion told a story of its own, without words her skin would leave a behind a story of her ancestry. Each passerby would be able to distinguish her traits, her smooth skin, and her plump lips as fruits from her kin. The fruits did not shame her into submission rather she grew from the strengths of her minority backdrop.

Her eyes once more inched their way down her skin, ranging from the softer curvature of her lips to the riper freckled mangoes on her chest, and lower still to the gorge around her navel. Her eyes did not go much further; they shied away from what would not touch if not under circumstance of hygiene. She did however trail her fingers across the swelling of her hips, and the rest of the journey was lost across her thighs and her twinkled toenails which had been painted a light chocolate. Her thoughts trailed much like her fingers did, gearing her towards a fantasy of goddess and masked minions who unselfishly would devour her very will until she was left panting upon a bed of lily and roses. Her desires were of a shadowed crowd, voyeurs who’d never be able to identify her in current life streams, looking on as her puffs as wheezes grew to its apex and released with the binding energy of creation, much like that expelled in the beginning of time.

Pulling away from the luring reel of fantasy she proceeded to the bedside window and gazed upon the sunlit metropolis beneath her. Before her sprawled iron hives housing capitalistic worker bees, structures containing bankers, lawyers, lobbyists and other obnoxious posts to which we aimed. Her face glowed in morning’s glaze as her eyes peered to the streets of myriad denizens, the citizens of the caged dominion of metropolis. Between all the motion, in the middle of the black buzzing insects stood a woman dressed all in red, her dress folding with breezy delight. As if respecting her position of hive princess the crawlers edged her brilliance with awe, giving her a path of her own. She stood there, magnificent in the Apollo’s tears, wearing nothing but the grace that God had bestowed her and the seducing robe of red. Her hair, golden like the streaks of a river in sunset, played in zephyrs that scouted along the city. Her scepter of dominance was unseen yet none doubted her ambiguous dominance of the night. That was her allure, her presence was moonlight woven into a pond of black, eerie yet delightful to the senses. Apollo’s rays fell silent beside her, instead leaning behind a cloud and peeking bashfully at one who was born not of the realm of goddesses but was destined to become one still. With the last bit of red dress to be seen she closed the curtains, forbidding the room to witness a woman that outshined the apollonian god.

Moments later her eyes adjusted to the stream of insects as she herself became a part of the monotonous flow. Unflattering drab clothing comforted her from the cold winter morning, her mind wondering if the goddess had felt a slight shiver or if the heat from her essence boiled up to her skin and that was why she had such radiance. Her passion was bottled up, brimming at the rim as she waited for the metro and it spilled when she saw an inch of red cloth. It fluttered up the stairs, as if to tempt her to deviate from her custom of going to work. Biting from the apple of sin she pushed through a throng of oncoming bees, her head rang from their chants—to work, to work—onwards and upwards, she emerged from the subterranean structure hoping to catch a glimpse of crimson. Across the street, holding an umbrella devoid of color, she stood, her hair moving freely in the winter morn. Traversing the street littered with cabs—move it lady—she came but two meters away from her when the goddess pointed towards the sky and smiled. Fat raindrops fell from the clouds, quickly filling the city with a drabness that brought no comfort. She lost sight of her ruby goddess as the streets flared up with black ordinary umbrellas, quickly turning the city into a quick river of grey and black. Grabbing for her own umbrella she too became part of the endless stream.

Her hair damp and her eyes downcast she entered the elevator. Her sullen disposition followed her into her office littered with stacks of books and the little notes hanging on them. The rotor blades started to move slowly, giving ample ventilation to a room full of stuffy papers. She envied the fan; it had no other purpose than to swirl, no other use than to ventilate, while she was built for freedom, thought, love, and abstract conversation yet here she was, caught in a momentum so dull, so tedious it fell on her with heavy weight. The droning of the twirling fan reminded her of her own circumstance; moving objectively round and around, yet never truly grasping the center. Whereas the fan had no mind to object, she did, and her whole being was opposed to the idea of being here in the now, in her office. Captured in the modern version of a cage she started to work, deepening her being into the sole objective before her, forgetting all that bothered her within. Was that not the way of the modern woman?

As the city darkened around her she put her final notes on a manuscript, noting dully that the writer, a female, should never try bleeding her soul onto the page again. Her eyes tired from the endless voyages to one-man-against-the-world realms, tired of uninspired stories of ‘contemporary’ writers, stories of cheap lust that ended in fermented climax. Weary feet traveled down the empty hallways, the sinuous shadows folding across her chest, and as she neared the elevator, the only source of illumination, she felt a rush that only be described as unknown. Her feet could take her anywhere, to the outskirts where the naked trees were witness to lovers calm or maybe the jazzed hums emitting from shady establishments would reach out to her bohemian soul. Wherever, whenever, her feet were the guiding: the primal force behind her movements as she wandered into the mystery, if not the mischief, of hedonistic lifestyles.

Her feet moved her to the pane, as if to symbolize a window into another place where she was free of the bindings of her feet, where her mind, soul and heart worked in perfect synchronization fueled by her wants and needs. Putting her lips to the glass she felt a shiver trickling down her spine, as if the snow which clothed the city was falling on her flesh also. Little flutters of crystal fell from the skies onto a night and cast a sheet of perfection and jewelry upon the steel dwellings, littering the blacktop with white freckles. As everything slowed to a crawl, secretively the lights started to mold into a giant optic treat that seemed destined to be viewed by her and her alone. The chill spread to her fingers, which in the silence had ran to her face, and continued down her hands. The image in the glass reached for its throat, softly reaching up to the manifestation which had connected her and the reflection and she felt the moist of her tongue as it spread on to her fingertips. Without guidance of feet she moved herself to a state of elated self-consciousness and she saw a white bird flying high in the night sky, symbolizing her self in a precarious form of joy. When her maroon irises allied with those of the reflection and they reverberated with the same harmony as the flaps of bird’s wings she pulled away from the pane and walked away, flushed, relinquishing dominion to her feet and leaving the bird alone in its trek through the darkness.

Dominating her passage into the snow-covered streets her feet drove her across the pavement, through the masses of twilight travelers and into an establishment that supplied the wares that would satisfy a reader’s desires. Stepping from the nightshade and into a blaze of churning light she shook her hair, dropping small crystals as she did so, and continued on to a place where luminescence her fingers could reach and but the tranquility of a digest awaited her. Her avid taste for books was wetted by the rows and racks yet she was here with a desire that no page could fulfill. Waving through the ranks she ran to the exit situated at the other side of the store. Her black jacket trailing behind her she crashed into the alley panting heavily, her eyes finding no equilibrium in the white sheets. She started to turn when she saw two golden wings faintly illuminating where streetlights did not reach. The wings belonged to a bare girl with a chest dotted with freckles, the paleness of her skin rivaling the glazed wings annexed to her back. Erika, the name flashed behind her eyelids, a tempest fire in the soothing calm of white and she tried to grab on to reality as she watched the girl reach out to her. As little flakes fell onto the stark nubile, an angel in the desolate alley, her eyes lit up with the same hue that covered her wings. Erika, the name appeared once more, this time it was whispered into her being by unknowns. As she stumbled backwards, away from that winged beauty, she oddly felt no harm from the girl before her. As her feet, again overriding any thought from the mind, retreated from the girl she urged her mouth to spell the word that blanketed her mind with a burden: [i]Erika?[/]

Erika, for that was the winged angel’s name, smiled a smile of a thousand joys, blushing in the frosty air. Her young hands grabbed onto the clothed editor, the opposites of age and clothing apparent in the spark of embrace, and pulled her through the alleyway. The moon played its way behind the clouds and left the passage dim, silent beside the scurry of their feet. With a delight that seemed to originate in her youth, Erika guided her companion deeper still down the maze that was foundation to the city. Flights of downward stairs followed by tunnels littered with emptiness finally brought them to an opening; a scene of trees and snow were before her. Erika turned around; the hair at the origin of her thighs now also had flakes of dandruff, and smiled a smile of a thousand joys. The robed one closed her eyes to defend from the wintry breeze and when they opened again Erika had disappeared into the night, an angel among the stars.

She had been left alone in a field of barren trees clothed in white, much like the one she had envisioned in her dreamscape, yet there were no lovers for their eyes to witness. Instead of lovers were two flames; one indigo like a sky without troubles and the other a ruby that flamed in the snowy country. Their snakelike movements inspired her to lean against a tree bark; and as she slid down the bark the flames waived in unison, slowly trailing their fangs across the icy backdrop. The snakes slid through the snow, mist rising from the cold, and climbed her legs, into the crevice of her hips and up to the lips. The flames weren’t hot; they seemed drawn to the tempting nectar which flowed in her orifice and the instant they combined, as in the blue and red, it created a tongue that entered and took hold in her mouth. The flames drew her into a state of angst; they seemed to force themselves onto her, rushing into her clothes, pushing her against the bark with heat and intensity. With a blink of an eye she cast away that fictional cloak she had given the flames and saw them for what they were; a desperate man who had no control of his desires both sexually and aggressively. Without reckoning he threw himself into her, hoping to eradicate all of her being under the weight of his passion, his fury; his ardent rage that consumed all until but a wisp of a flame was left. Her eyes closed with the strain of saying “No” becoming too unbearable. As the grip upon reality faded and the mildly erotic thrusts of his pelvis started to numb her into a dazed state, she found her face fall to the side, her eyes focused on a bark further up the way. The bark, black as root, seemed to walk in her direction. Its branches did not sway. When the nearing bark stopped before her, an ethereal stance, it opened its branches, it’s coat of white came down, crashing, taking her into a realm of unknown, but not before the flames were doused from atop her.


------
Art is addicting, an addict am I,
truth is I, the truth am I, the truth a lie!



Comments

The following comments are for "Desires of the moonlight"
by Siah

Desires of the moonlight
Siah, what a great opening image: "darkness receding into the colder corners like a naked child in a spotlight." Frankly, you had me from there. There's so much in here that's good, so much gorgeously abundant language, but what works for me most, on first reading, is the contrasts; You really feel her return to the city and to waking reality like a descent in to Hades. Also, understand absolutely her weariness with contemporary writers, nicely sketched. Think I'll probably have to come back and read this one again to have anything vaguely intelligent to say, but at the moment I like it, it has great promise.

Shannon

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: July 7, 2006 )

Vivid...
Wow...I have never before seen such vivid imagery in a piece of writing before! It is as if the reader is one with the environment. I commend you, Siah, on yet another phenomenal work!

-Aubri, a. k. a. "Leopard Lady"

( Posted by: ArsPoet2789ica [Member] On: July 7, 2006 )

Desires of moonlight
Thanks Shannon and Aubri. I have been gone from the web for a while, only dropping in for a comment here and there.
While I've been gone I dedicated my time to writing on three different novels i'm working on. Editing and writing 24/7 *sighs*
This piece is actually inspired by Anais Nin's books, like a spy in the house of love and delta of venus. The mix of ethereal and reality was so perfect that I wanted to write something akin.
I'm working on the second chapter right now :D

( Posted by: Siah [Member] On: July 7, 2006 )





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