Rosedust - Supernatural flash fiction...

Rosedusti like the dark, it's friendlyi am the darkhiding in dreams is exquisitehiding in his dreamswas the only way to keep him.She strolls in a garden at sunset, a walking, vibrating shadow. Her long robe made no sound, did not catch on the rose thorns she passed. Her bare feet rested on unbent blades of grass as she stopped before a perfect blossom, one of many on a waist- high bush. Her robe opened as she bent closer to it, almost brushing her nipples against the petals. Cupping the bloom in her hands, she whispered its name, watched as the entire plant shriveled, withered, sighed its death, root and all flowing up from the soil that closed up smooth and undisturbed at her feet. All but the flower she held, now impossibly beautiful. She touched it to her lips and it sighed into reddish dust, clinging lightly to her fingers, face and neck as she inhaled. She walked to a far corner of the garden, stepping through a shadow on an ivy-covered brick wall.She returned to his dreams, to the room she made, where a baby laughed and played amid huge golden pillows, gurgling and squealing in delight as she entered. She walked softly, floating over the cushions, settling beside him. She lightly rubbed the dust from her fingers over his face, breathing little clouds around him, his reddish-brown now redder still. She removed the robe and suckled him, smiling as stubby fingers and wet cheeks smeared red over her dark chocolate nipple.Smiles became cooing, teeth replaced gums, stubby fingers lengthened, he warmed to her caresses. Cooing erupted into moans, suckling spilled over into tonguing, lips playing, from one nipple to the other, a soft beard smearing red between them. Lips finding her neck, then her mouth, greedy tongues sliding together. The blackness drained from two hairs at her temple. Laugh lines and crows' feet creased into her face. She slid a moist red hand between them, grasped him gently, guided him inside.She shuddered, gasped, tightened and released until they found a slow, easy rhythm. The lines in her face smoothed, disappeared; the hairs stayed white, joining the already scattered salting at both temples. Inside the room, now full of shallow breathing and muffled squeals, they danced the song of life; outside, in his dreams, the man danced with death alone. An arrow piercing a buffalo soldier's neck. An infidel run through by a Crusader's broadsword. A tailgunner riddled with bullets, then blasted out of his B-17. A child playing, caught in the second sunrise over Hiroshima. Death after death roared through, quick and slow, peaceful and hideous, crashing. Inside the room each violent death made her spasm, clutching him ever tighter. The last annihilation consumed them both, waves of orgasms pounding, roaring.He never said a word; he never would in here, she knew. In here where he'll always be the gurgling baby boy she should have taken. She thought of that day, watching it play out in a corner of the room. An intensive-care maternity ward; a beautiful late spring day. She stood in a corner all that day and watched him, recalling the many children she'd taken by the hand through sickness, bad parents, bad neighborhoods, bad luck, so many never got to make ripples, and now this one, trapped in withdrawal, waiting for her touch. Looking so much like the child she would never have.When only one nurse was left to watch him she glided over to him, ready to reach past the tubes, wires, and monitors and take his brittle shaking head in her hands. She stopped, because he stopped trembling, opening his sweet, watery, tortured eyes, and smiled. The nurse thought it was for her and began crying: I knew it was for me, she thought. She ran from the room, hurried down the halls, trying not to pass through or brush patients or staff, touching some and giving chills, stepped through the cinder- block walls to the blazing daylight, floated toward it, then fled into a shadowed alcove behind the hospital, passed through shadows into secluded gardens and greenhouses until she found one bathed in first light, took an orchid, called it by name and breathed its life into the boy's sweet brittle soul. When he was strong enough, she entered his dreams, found him there floating and happy. She made a room there, filled it with pillows, brought him to it, suckled him, vowed to only bring him roses each day.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~She stands in a meadow aglow with ambient light, surveying the green expanse bereft of flowers, swathed in an aura of white from the hair on her head, brows, lashes, arms and legs, platinum curls around her tunnels of light. No more days, she sighed.Her regular duties - wars and riots, disputes and accidents - kept her from him more and more often, for days on end at times, but were not counted. Those were migraine days, toothache, sprain and backache days. She'd search for whatever roses she could find then: splattered, crushed, even orphaned petals, anything to ease the discomfort of his normal life. Anything to push the horrors back into his dreams when they made love, but no more. One month past a century and no more days.Her aura began to shine. She stepped forward through sunlight into a dark bedroom where he slept soundlessly. Still has his hair and teeth, she murmured, smiling. She entered his dreams where he stood in a meadow aglow with ambient light, a meadow covered in roses. She walked toward him unclothed, carrying a gurgling baby and a single orchid outlined against chocolate skin sheathed in light.Smiling, she took his hand, wrapped her fingers around his hand and the flower, crushing it between them, offered a breast to infant and old man. Gasped as they suckled, as the three were slowly consumed in the expanding aura, flesh and shadow, the green field, the expanse of rosesC. 1999, Larry Winfield.
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