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~  2 Eye of the Beholder  ~   3 Possession  ~   4 Red Wool   ~  5 Adalia  ~  6 The Couch  ~  7 Rocks and Foundations

~ 8 Mistletoe ~ 9 TipToe ~ 10 Columbus (age 9 )  ~  11 Tara (Unfinished) 


 

Mistletoe
by Marsha Steed
 
The morning began like all the others.  The covers tossed  from her warm body with a single flick of her arm.  She actually liked it that way.  The sudden shock of cold awakened her senses and made her feel alive.  She placed her feet on the floor and rose.  Her body accepted  the chill as if it was a second skin.  Reaching out for the caress of it, gooseflesh appeared over her naked form.

A slow smile rose on her lips as she watched herself rise and begin the morning routine.  Such comfort was the normality of it all.  The opening of the window, the drawing back of the shades, even the crack in the blinds of the neighbor who she knew enjoyed her dressing regime as much as she.  

Her hair was not long, she liked it that way.  Free and  bouncy against her neck.  She lifted it and quickly caressed her scalp with manicured nails.  The laugh that always elicited from her felt good.  Her lungs reaching out for the air and the sound of her own voice raining over the rooms  silence.  Her feet carried her across the room to where she began the slow dance of awakening and the gentle coaxing  from her lurid dream state into the awareness of the day.   

She reached high above her head, and pulled down the crimson silk scarf.  It was an odd habit, she knew that, but she didn't care.  It too made her feel alive and much loved as the  silk flowed around her body in the movements of the dance.  She turned then from the window, the back was always her  favorite part of a woman’s body.  Long and unbroken, the lines reminded her of a waterfall spilling over the curve of her shoulders.  The gentle valley of her spine parting the two sides in the gentle womanly curves was most alluring.  She watched herself in the mirror, the blinds always opened fully at this point as the neighbor pretended to innocently carry on his own daily schedule.  She could almost feel his eyes on her.  It had  ceased being sensual long ago, and now was only one more part of her morning.  She turned with a smile just thinking of it.  

Today it was different.  Today the blinds remained closed.  She arched a brow, wondering about that  for a moment, but hardly let herself dwell on such a small  detail.  Her eyes took in the large tree standing outside her window.  Funny how the mistletoe clung to the branches. The tree was stark and barren, except for the clump of  green.  The parasite, able to drink the green  from the tree and flourish, even as the host gave up its own  life.  It was just then that she heard a click.  Barely  perceptible in the stillness.  She didn't turn, but waited  like some marble statue.  The scarf draped languidly over  her shoulders and down her back. 

It seemed such a little thing, that feather light touch on her neck.  Perhaps it was just a breeze lifting the scarf  and replacing it delicately back.  She hardly felt the  attachment,  the world was sent into a  dreamlike place in a slow swirl.  Was she falling?  She could hardly tell.  Yet there was something hard now, hard  and warm against her.  So warm.  Her body was cloaked by the warmth, encompassing and filling and yet  emptying at the same instant.  She felt the transfer of life into life, she could feel each drop of her existence as it flowed from her in a steady gift.  She was powerless to stop it, but would she if she could?  The hands that caressed her felt magical, insistent, deathly.  The branch outside fell  suddenly in a great crack to the ground, the weight of the mistletoe too much for the tree to support.  Within the walls, a  soft thud echoed the sound outside.  A woman lay on the soft carpet, a crimson scarf her only covering.                          

Funny how nature imitates life.

---<- © Marsha (Chantaclair Rose) Steed


 

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