…regretfully, he inquired, “Your time here is growing short, I
Teyla sighed heavily, reminded of the difficult task
that lay ahead for her. “No talk or
thought of that tonight, Doctor. Tonight
I long for the tranquility of a quiet garden and the companionship of a kind
man.” To her credit, she sounded light
“Then I will see you have exactly what you wish, my
dear.” Surprising himself, he raised her
hand and kissed her knuckles, then looked out upon the water, wondering if she
would consider that little act too forward—or perhaps wish that he might be
moved to more.
Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder, humming
contentedly. Some unknown nightbird
called out from the grove of fruit trees on the far side of the still pool; its
sweet song was soon taken up by another.
In such a setting, Stephen found it easy to imagine they were mates,
their pleasant trilling the joyful greetings exchanged as they came together
after being parted for too long. That he
was indulging in such uncharacteristically soft musings perplexed him, like a
language long forgotten from disuse—until he considered the light of the moon,
the garden’s perfume, and the gentle woman leaning against him.
“Your moon is quite enchanting, isn’t it,” she pondered,
and he realized she was likely picking up on his emotions without even meaning
to; second nature to her surely, but a marvel still to him. “But she pales in comparison to the moons of
“Moons?” he asked, giving her the encouragement to tell
him more; he could not read feelings nearly as well as was her wont, but the
trace of longing in Teyla’s voice spoke well enough that she was feeling at
least a little homesick
.“Moons,” she repeated, raising her head to look at him
directly, eyes wide with delight, “Anya, the eldest, wise and steadfast in her
orbit, ruler of the tides. Enya, middle
child, ever brightest of the three, mistress of all nocturnal creatures; she
speeds apace or lags behind as her stubborn nature dictates.” Her voice had fallen into a storyteller’s
captivating rhythm; Stephen could picture a circle of Hadeethan children at her
feet, listening raptly as she shared with them the folklore of her people. “And Nonya, wayward youngest of the three,
ever eager to appear before the sun
has fully set, and last to leave the sky each dawn.” Teyla lowered her eyes
shyly as she added, “Nonya is thought the patroness of lovers and their secret
Stephen chuckled softly, charmed by both her tale, and
the bashfulness that had overtaken her at the mention of lovers’ assignations. “That’s far more exotic and appealing than
some of earth’s legends about the moon; there’s one ridiculous one that
maintains the moon is made of cheese.”
“You can’t be serious,” she laughed, “Who would believe
such an outlandish idea!” With narrowed
eyes, Teyla studied his face, searching for any sign that he was teasing her,
“Oh—but surely you jest?”
“I swear it’s true, Teyla—though I like the poetry of
your moons far more than the foolishness of mine.”
That brought a pretty smile to her face, lighting her
dark eyes with mirth. Stephen wondered
if she even realized that she was flirting with him; it had been the furthest
thing from his mind when he’d invited her for an evening stroll through the
National Botanical Gardens of Kathmandu.
What if they’re right?
Those people standing on sidewalks with their twisted faces and hateful signs
Who have crept so far under my skin that I see their ghosts in my mirror
And feel their screams ringing in my churning guts?
What if God hates fags,
Enough that cities deserved to be razed to the ground?
I don’t think a lot about Sodom and Gomorrah, just enough
That the heat of fire and brimstone singes my eyelashes,
Enough to hear my lost brothers and sisters screaming.
Men and women locked in embraces with each other
Tears evaporating from their cheeks as the sky crumbled and rained holy flames
A baptism by fire
While Lot was in a cave fucking his daughters
As thousands of aching lungs choked mercy between coughs of smoke?
When Lot’s wife looked back, what did she see?
Was it the destruction of a people so corrupt they deserved to be incinerated,
Or was that first taste of salt her tears as she saw thousands burning alive
For something as simple and inconsequential as love?
beauty is a passing train doused in graffiti in the palate of a Van Gog painting under a Monet sky by an artist sending her soul scrawling across the country in illegible words scribbled in convoluted patterns and captivating hues
beauty does not stop for you it’s only passing through take a picture if you can who knows if or when it will be back through this town again.
…Harrison slid his hand across the table, lacing his fingers
through Sera’s. She gasped at such
unexpected contact, as he gently tugged her hand closer to him. “Happy couple,” he prompted her, sotto voce. “I know you have it in you, darling,” stressing the last as a
reminder of ‘no names’, “I’ve seen you rise to tougher challenges than this.”
His eyes bored into hers, holding her captive
as he brushed his lips upon her knuckles.Unprepared for such an intimate gesture, Seraphina felt
herself blush, a little moan escaping her throat against her best intentions. Unable (and frankly, unwilling) to pull her
hand away, she realized with sudden clarity:
he’s playing withme…and the bastard is enjoying it too! Two can
play this game, she vowed, and I’ve a
trick or two that might surprise him if I play my handin full. With the skill of a
practiced coquette, she tilted her head and bit her lip with a little sigh,
watching him sidelong as she laid her gauntlet down, “Whatever you wish, my love…”
She let her voice trail off with the sweet innuendo, watching Harrison’s
reaction carefully—his widened eyes and growing grin, encouraging her to
continue, “However you wish it.” As an afterthought, Sera pressed her leg
against his under the table.
She felt his appreciative rumble of laughter as liquid heat
in her belly, reminding her of that craving which had gone unsated for months
and months now. With her hand still in
his grip, Harrison traced slow, firm circles on her palm with his thumb, a
surprising hunger arising in his eyes and in his gruff tone. “Beware how you tease me, desert rose. Unless you mean for me to take you at your word.”
Seraphina was struck mute, fascinated as he flipped her hand over,
letting his lips hover over the pulse point of her wrist, feeling the warmth of
his breath—a tease in itself—before placing a single, moist kiss there. He raised his eyes to hers, silently daring
her to meet his bold move…