KITE.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
TWO COUSINS AND A KITE AND THEIR CLOSENESS.

Submitted: November 05, 2008

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Submitted: November 05, 2008

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“I see the boy with a kite,” said Katy, “he allows it to drift in the pale blue sky. There is joy on his face as he watches it rise higher and higher. My cousin Kitty, had a kite like that, she allowed me to fly it on the windy days of our childhood. She would hold my waist with her hands, her breath on my neck. Higher, higher, she would whisper, her hands squeezing me tighter as the kite rose high. We would watch the kite as the wind took it, lifted it higher and higher, almost touching the clouds. Hold tight, she would whisper, in case the wind takes you off, too. Her hands held me closer; her breath warmed my neck, the tingle raced along my spine, down to my toes. When the sky grew dark, she would draw in the kite, pack it away, then taking my hand we would race to the summerhouse, hide the kite from prying eyes. Look how the sky darkens, she would say, the stars will come soon, and the moon shall borrow the sky. We would sit in the dimness of the summerhouse, talk of the following day, the weather of the day to come. Shall we go now to the house for tea? I would ask, searching her face, looking at her dark brown eyes. Later, she would reply, not just yet. She would take my hand in hers, hold it to her cheek. Your hand is cold, she would say; let me warm it against my skin. She would rub my hand between hers, the friction warming my hand as if by magic. She would warm both my hands in this way, all the time whispering of the day ahead, of the kite, of the promised wind. Auntie Ada will wonder where we are, I would say, she will send out Jenny to find us. Kitty would shrug her shoulders, and place a finger to my lips. Hush, she would say, this is our time together, away from prying eyes. She would then kiss me on the lips, her soft skin touching mine, the union of flesh on flesh. What if they find us here? I would ask. They will not find us here, she would say, they will think we are in the woods searching for bird’s eggs or flowers for the house. However, we would run to the back of the house, enter the kitchen laughing together as the darkness descended, the cook would gaze at us as we rushed to our rooms to get ready for tea. At night, Kitty would come to my room, tiptoeing across the chilled wooden floor, climb into bed, her cold hands wrapping themselves about my waist for warmth and closeness. She would whisper news of the War she had heard on the radio. The bombing of London is bad again, she would say, her lips touching my ear, her warm breath on my neck, her hands squeezing me closer and closer, her feet feeling mine beneath the blankets. We would whisper in the dark, of the rising kite, of the deep blue sky, of our fathers away fighting, my mother in London, all the time the closeness between us grew nearer and nearer, we would unite our flesh in the moon blessed night, dream of the kite in the sky on the following days of our childhood times.”


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