Winona and His Rump

I stare through a doorway, the room within half cast in shadow. The young man within, Winona, sits behind his board of musical keys. His fingers dance across its surface, a soundless orchestration of melodies beyond my ears’ comprehension. A monotone rhythm is all I hear.

Winona stops, abruptly, and casts aside the conch shells that share to him their secret melody. He stands and walks forth from his darkened hideaway, lips parched for waters salt-less. Bearing forth into the light, his form is revealed: tall, lanky, and face sharply defined. Stalking through the outer bower, Winona rounds the bend and drinks from the cascade.

Having drank his fill of the fresh waters, Winona returns gracefully to his secluded habitat. He slows, and stops at the entrance to the chamber within. His eyes shift to me, wide, and overpowering with freakish delight. His nose, narrow and sharp, tilts on threatening accusation. He thrusts his hips abnormally effeminate, hand raised and stayed for a long moment.

Suddenly, and with a cruel swift movement, Winona swings down his hand and strikes his rump with ungodly enthusiasm. A curt smirk touches his lips. He falls back away into the darkness, closing the portal behind him.

My soul is wounded beyond restoration.


This post was originally published under my old blog, The Rapport.

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