The History of StarlightHere, in the darkness of a cloudless night and on the crest of a hill, Máküs stands beside the most welcome of familiar strangers. There is a thunderous silence beneath the throbbing surge of blood in his ears. It is muggy and still: a mosquito night. He feels the dampness of sweat trapped beneath his shirt, and he blushes at the threat of revelation in it. There are ways, he has heard, to read the presence of pheromones in human sweat, and he wonders—now—if telepathy is simply a matter of recognizing the language of odor.The History of Starlight2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
—if lust can be named in the mingled redolence of sweat, cigarette smoke, and wine consumed in a cellar bar more than twenty narrow steps beneath Vodičková Street.
Can Nathaniel—standing so close to him on the ruined, crumbling base of a dead statue’s pedestal—smell the lightning-bolt surge of amatory turbulence burning through Máküs
Slumber.He awoke to find himself asleep.Slumber.2 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
© Rocio Belinda Mendez 2013