A Stirring in the Wind

A Stirring in the Wind
by Mischa


Disclaimer; All items contained on these pages are non-profit amateur fiction. The Enchantments of Flesh and Spirit, The Bewitchments of Love and Hate, The Fulfilments of Fate and Desire and all characters named in those books are the copyright of Storm Constantine and her publishers. No infringement on the copyrights are intended. These stories are for personal enjoyment only and should be reproduced, electronically or otherwise, only for this purpose and never for profit of any sort.

A Stirring in the Wind

We’re different, he and I. We know it and so do they. They can smell it on us, I’m sure, even though I’m equally sure that we’ve never given them slightest hint.

They look at us, squinty eyed and almost snarling when we pass. Whispering amongst themselves, working up the nerve to spit at our feet. One day, I know it will be something far worse that they do.

We have to go, get away from the narrow-minded streets and alleys we were born to. Away from parents who stare at us dull eyed and suspicious, not quite sure who we are. Did we spring from these dried-up, fearful loins? Or are we changeling children, destined for something else?

If we are, I don’t know what it is. I only know that this place is choking me, these attitudes are wringing the life from me as surely as the gang kids on the corner would like to wring our necks.

They live in fear, terrified of the death and the decay, the change that they can sense is coming, knowing they have no way of denying it entry.

I welcome its coming. Anything has to be better than this.

I look at him, strolling with false insouciance by my side. To look at us, walking down the cracked pavement, wrapped in tough boy rags and sneering poses, you would never guess at the nights when we sit upon the rooftop of the tenement I call home, arms wrapped around each other, exchanging secrets and kisses as others exchange goods and violence.

I find comfort in his soft skin, his hot wet mouth pressed to mine, the feel of his strength giving way to me willingly as I lay him down on the broken tiles. The crunch of grit and dirt grinding against his back as I push myself inside. Seared nerve endings set off a smell in my brain, like burning rubber, the pounding of my heart, the feel of his pulse against my throat, all these things lend me courage.

After, we lay together, touching, yet apart, sharing a stolen cigarette or just a moment’s peace before we must break away, return downstairs to the lies, the pretense, the despair.

The breeze lifts our hair and whispers promises in our ears, we listen and want to weep with impatience. Make it soon, make it now. Save us.

Whatever it is that I smell on the wind, he smells it too. It’s something for us, coming for us…our time. Seel’s and mine.


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