Tag Archive | Garden

Slow Dance of Enchanting Words

Artist Jim Schaeffing; picssr.com

My words breathe sultry over your ear, the caress of my salacious discourse that finds its way into your pores, through your veins, and straight to your heart. You shudder at my amorous enticement that sends first shivery goose bumps, then incandescent passion, and finally pure bliss. These words of mine draw out your extraordinary essence, a woman of refinement and poise, of beauty and desirability. And you bathe in their tantalizing effect that stirs tiny orgasmic microseisms beginning at the whisper in your ear and spreading lower in warmth and flame.

Next come my lips, a delicate kiss against your ear lobe, evoking a gasp, a moan, a pulsation in your voice, in your breath as you exhale. Trailing down your cheekbone, my lips ingest your velvet skin one brush at a time, slowly, languidly, delighting in the touch of your softness and the aura of your warmth.

Finally come my hands, stalwart and forthright, rugged yet sensitive. The one on your bare shoulder slides lower, trailing delicious curves and resting on your hip, drawing you madly against mine. My other hand like a feather slides your dress strap down your arm, letting it hang over your elbow until it slips further down. When the strap on the other side follows suit, you turn to face me, your eyes a glowing fire within, your breath quick-paced and eager.

As our lips meet with life-sustaining intensity, the words that I planted in your heart earlier suddenly blossom into a rose, a flower ready to be tended and watered.


The Things Time Can’t Touch

Artist Daniel Gerhartz: pinterest.com

Romantic Flash Fiction:

Morning sunlight streamed into the courtyard as the swallows who made a home here chirped their contented salute to the day. Nightingales were the loudest, their songs echoing like a symphony off the stucco walls of the elaborate Spanish home. A cool breeze tickled the air and the roses that grew in the courtyard gardens flourished in the spring dew. White columns lined the south porch near a stone staircase that led to the interior of the mansion.

You were leaning against one of the columns when I first saw you, where my breath was stolen from me for a moment, lost in the realization that I had been in the presence of heavenly beauty. I smiled at how the sunlight made your blonde hair glow like a golden tiara and how its delicate rays settled over your slim, creamy shoulders and melted into the artistry of your radiance. You were holding a rose, leaning against the column, your eyes melancholy, and my heart went out to you. Someone must have hurt you, and in that moment I wanted to slide into you and hold you and be the shoulder you could cry on.

Your eyes were distant, and at first, you didn’t even see me there watching you. You were twiddling with the golden pendant on your necklace, rubbing it languidly in your fingers, and I wondered if he gave that to you, and what special significance it held in your life. I wanted to know this and so much more about you. I wanted to step into your life like bathing in warm natural springs and making myself the heat that enveloped your skin, your heart, your tender soul. I wondered if you would even let me. I wondered why you were holding the rose, and if love was on your mind like it was on mine. Would you let me in if I revealed to you the light of my love, the sound of the birds singing in my heart?

Your eyes glanced up as if on cue to my thoughts that clung to your heart and refused to let go. You gasped and lowered your hand that held the rose.

“Who are you?” you asked.

“Coriander,” I said your name, coming closer. I sensed your discomfort but wanted to set your heart at ease. “We’ve met before. Years ago. Outside a quiet pub in the center of town, we shared a glass of wine and a kiss that I’ll remember to the day I die.”

Your eyes suddenly filled with recognition and your chest lifted as you lightly gasped. “Is it you? All those years ago. We were young, lonely travelers crossing paths in our journey to nowhere.”

“To somewhere,” I grinned, my heart filled with joy that you remembered.

“Barely old enough to drink.”

“But old enough to love,” I said, sliding into your personal space. You didn’t move, your face glowing in the sunlight.

“Yes,” you whispered, your eyes sparkling.

I took the rose from your hand and brought it to my nose, inhaling its sweet fragrance, closing my eyes and wondering if I was dreaming or really awake. I handed the rose back to you.

“What are you doing here?” you asked breathlessly.

“To find that woman I fell in love with back then,” I replied.

Your eyes returned to the melancholy woman I saw when I had first come in. “Time changes things,” you said.

“There are some things time can’t touch,” I responded, my fingers lightly brushing loose strands of hair away from your face. “Come out with me tonight. Let me show you.”

Her Garden of Dreams

Artist Steve Hanks; photo: leslielevy.com

Artist Steve Hanks; photo: leslielevy.com

Romantic Flash Fiction 9:

Beyond the anxiety, tension, and fearfulness of this life flourishes a garden. Chirps, calls, and howls from honeycreepers, kingfishers, and lovebirds intermingle with the sound of gently falling rain through the trees high above. The air is mild and refreshing, and the humidity is just so that beads of sweat bring comfort as well as delight. Soft claps of thunder echo in the distance, a reminder of the power of nature, yet far away and out of reach of this haven. Somewhere nearby, a carelessly plunging waterfall meets a pool of solitude and tranquility. And she is alone. For now.

To Capriana, this garden is her refuge, what her morning routine would not be complete without. A dip in the pools of warm crystalline waters is topped off with natural sunbathing by the edge. And always thinking of him. Dreaming of him. Imagining his hands on her body, his lips on her skin. She would allow him to be with her, to hold her, to give himself to her. But she would never ever open her heart to him. For keeping him distant is her fortitude, her way of reserving what is most sacred to herself. The sentries around her heart are given strict orders to be on full alert at all times. No one is to get in. Close, but never in.

But today is to be the day that all changes. Her heart stammers and her hands begin to shake. He is coming and will be here soon.

Completely bare, lying on her stomach by the edge of the pool, she wonders if he will even come at all. No man has ever been given an invitation to this place, to meet her here on her most sacred turf. She turns her head to the water beside her and watches her reflection as if in a mirror. Then her image is distorted by tiny drops that cause ripples on the surface. Thunder claps louder as the rain tip taps over her skin, drenching her curly hair lazily tied behind her head.

“Capriana,” she hears behind her. His voice. He’s here. Her heart pounds through her chest as she turns her head toward him, afraid to look but still turning.

Then she sees him and smiles, her defenses lowering, the sentries over her heart given a leave of absence. She turns completely to him, happily finding him as naked as she is. Her eyes appraise him in a long, silent moment. Every single bit of him.

“How I’ve longed to meet you here,” he says, drawing nearer to her.

She is still shaking, fear tearing straight through her heart. But the closer he comes, the more she is disarmed. Finally, his breath commingles with hers. And she reaches for him, finding him.

And in that moment, in her garden of dreams, she finally discovers the secret of what has made the garden flourish all along.