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Finding Crisantha

Artist Edwin Georgi; pinterest.com

A Friday-Night Date-Night Short Story:

So I wasn’t invited to the dance. I didn’t care. Except that I did. Her name was Crisantha. Gorgeous eyes as bright as bluebells, long curly hair like a flowing river valley, and a smile that melted my heart the moment I laid eyes on her. I had wanted to take her to the dance on the day I had heard about it, but someone who was more important than someone else heard that I heard about it and make a ruckus. He found a way of keeping out all the lesser important types and making the dance invitation-only – to which I received none, naturally.

But Crisantha was there. And I was here – moping, waiting for the next move. Outside my window, rain fell down in sheets and relentlessly pounded the gravel driveway, making ankle-deep puddles. I had no car, no motorcycle, no bike, and no invitation. I just stared out into the rain and wondered what Crisantha was looking like in a formal dress. Something like a princess, a bride, an angel. By the top of the hour when my clock chimed, I had made up my mind. What was the point of staying dry when getting wet was going to get me to Crisantha? So I charged out the door and splashed through muddy puddles, letting the squall douse every inch of me. I ran and ran until I was out of breath and had to stop, bending over, placing my hands on my knees, and panting like a rabid beast. But when I looked up, I was there – standing outside the dance hall with rain showering over me.

How I got past the door guard, I’ll never know. I must have come later than they assumed anyone would, so he was off doing who-knows-what with who-knows-whom. At once, I barged through the double-doors like I owned the place. It was packed, as expected. Lively music echoed off the four walls in the warehouse-size hall and people in formal dress were dancing swing, whipping each other around like ragdolls. I knew the dance. Seen it once before. That was the extent of my skill at it, too. But I still had to find Crisantha no matter what it took.

As I meandered across the crowded dance floor, people stopped and gasped, staring and murmuring at the guy who came in from the rain soaking wet without formal clothes. I grinned and nodded at some, winked at others. Then I saw her. She was a vision across the dance floor and immediately I shuffled around a group of dancers so that she wouldn’t see me and I would spin right into… her arms. As she fell into me, she gasped with a squeal.

Instinctively, she pulled away, but I held her to me tightly and wouldn’t let go. To keep the rhythm going, I swayed and felt the warmth of her body against mine. She was lovelier than I imagined she would look, her dress maroon and fuchsia with a long, flowing, ruffled skirt. And those bluebells captured me once again.

“Davey!” she cried in recognition with that wide smile I loved. “How did you…? And why are you all wet?”

“I had to get here before it ended,” I replied, staring deeply into her eyes.

“Why?” she asked, seeming to know the answer already.

This was it. I stopped swaying, placed my hand gently on her cheek, and crushed my lips to hers. Elation tore through us like fire over water and with that one kiss, she finally knew my intentions. I was delighted to discover that she felt the same about me. It was in her kiss, her tongue on mine, her hold around my waist and not letting go, regardless of the fact that I was soaking wet and she looked like Cinderella. Our kiss that night had one of those time-stands-still moments with the forever-in-love kind of heart connection.

When I withdrew and gazed once again into her eyes, I said her name, slowly over my mouth so that I could feel each syllable on the nerve ends of my tongue touching my lips. “Crisantha…”

“Hmm?” she groaned with her arms wrapped all the way around my waist. Her face was soft and glowing.

“Let’s get out of here,” I grinned.

A smile crept onto her face slowly, her eyes shining. “Let’s go!”

As I held her hand, we rushed past the stiffs – the invitation-only’s, the important people who hung with other important people – and crashed through the double-doors out into the pouring rain, laughing together without a care in the world.

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Breaking Free

Artist Enoch Bolles; pinterest.com

Romantic Flash Fiction:

After running almost a mile into the deep forest, I finally found Honeydew lounging against the half-supine trunk of a tree. I stopped to catch my breath and loosen my tie and collar that had been suffocating me all afternoon. Sweat was pouring from my brow as I removed my suit jacket and hung it on a nearby branch.

Then I took in the scene – Honeydew in rare form – the woman I had met less than an hour ago on the lawn of one of the richest homes in the county. The formal Victorian dress that I’d last seen her in had been haphazardly tossed into a bush nearby along with her corset and other items of intimates. She casually lay back on the tree trunk with only one article of clothing wrapped around her body. Apparently, she’d found my white scarf. I watched her, entranced in her spell of beauty. The melting softness of her smooth skin drew me further in as I revered her seductive and delicate features.

Under her broad-rimmed straw sun hat, she joggled her thick, dark hair that hung in graceful curves over her slender shoulders. As she watched me appraising her, the tender moistness of her ruby red lips curled into the most adorable smile I have ever seen in my life. My heart melted at the sight, and I knew in that moment, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I loved her.

After I caught my breath, I said, “Honeydew, everyone’s been wondering where you’ve run off to. Some of them were starting to worry.”

“Yet you were the only one who came to find me,” she replied suggestively with a flirtatious squint in her eyes.

I didn’t know what to say to that. What she didn’t know was that I had desperately needed to find her. One dance, one glorious spark that could light a flame, doesn’t disappear without the slightest measure of a broken heart. She had no idea how happy I was to have found her.

“The truth is,” she continued, her voice whimsical and free, “I hated that party, those people, that crowd. It was stifling, suffocating. I had to get out of there or I was going to faint. Or vomit. Whichever came first.”

“I thought they were your friends,” I said.

“My father’s,” she shot poignantly. “Not mine. I have no interest in conceited men and women that flash their wealth and play a role of expectation in society. I’ve never enjoyed being a part of that crowd. Never for a second have I even desired to be in the presence of those who do. Me, I like to live outside the box, to do the unexpected, to shed at my will the things that bind me… so here I am. You found me.”

Everything that she had said was what I had always thought in my heart. Everything she did was what I had wanted to do, too. For years. So why didn’t I? Why haven’t I? In that moment, I suddenly admired her most for her courage. So I thought I’d start right now on my own.

“Honeydew,” I began, “I think… that I am head over heals in love with you.”