A Song of Water and Fire

Between her legs, she was patchouli: earthy and musky smell,           sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance—           and for the rest of the night, I tasted her tanginess.

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When I first met him, he was a wanderer, gypsy
          his eyes thirsty
          and his body fire—

Image by Freepik

When I first saw her, she was a wonder, water
          to put out fire.

Photo by Ric Rodrigues from Pexels.com

The fountain between my legs dripped, gushy
          from the same spot of a leaking roof.

Photo by John Rocha from Pexels.com

Fire burnt from the pit of my stomach, hot coals
          and I knew I had a home.

You will never wander anymore, Gypsy, I told him.

Between her legs, she was patchouli: earthy and musky smell,
          sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance—
          and for the rest of the night, I tasted her tanginess.

Keep it that way, I told him and put out the fire.

Image by 0fjd125gk87 from Pixabay

The Crying President

She turned to the cameras and pressed the back of her wrists to one eye. She had used the methylated chapstick that her personal assistant (and campaign secretary) had placed on the podium to dab the edges of her wristwatch and pantsuit coat with menthol. The sting drew the required tears.

Miss Dependent

First published on Storymoja for May Photo Drama Contest. For the first time in five years Florence bumped into Brenda and regaled her with stories of her marvellous happily thereafter life

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