Her Worn Wings


Wêh hunched on a three legged stool. She was stark naked waiting to moult. Her pale skin resisted reflections because it would slough in a few hours. Her nips, lips, and tip of her nose drew attention with their deep dull pink and pre-ecdysis swollen flesh. But her eyes and her dark cyan hair, which fell from one shoulder nearly to the floor, were both bright and glossy. I asked about her eyes.


We’d been waiting and quiet awhile now, and I’d been doodling in my journal after making several notes and pointedly avoiding staring more than was scientifically necessary especially at her vulva which matched her lips in color and sheen—dammit. My unexpected query surprised her, but she quickly recovered and continued in a language we both understood, “My eyes? They don’t…uh, shed. You think they might?”

I chuckled. Her cultural preference for speaking in the present tense made for some funny conversations. “I thought they might. But was asking you since the didn’t look to be.”

170 words on day 710