The Tigress in the Sun (From Dreams to Postcards- Chapter: The Whimsical Jukebox)

Over grown grass, brown and dusty  from the baking summer sun, rustled as the wind bristled through the field. The damp shadows from the distant green trees were their own faraway paradise in the full afternoon of a wintry day. The landscape’s surrounding serenity is only a veneer; the prey is being watched from under the canopy of her thick eyelashes.

Her silky mane glistening with the gold of the sun-rays gently falling on her elongated neck and her eyes seem heavy with the drowsiness that comes from a full stomach, basking in the glory of the otherworldly ball of fire. But her graceful body sprawled over the corn-coloured grassy field was anything but slothful. The languid posture on the surface was masking a sanguine vigilance hinting at the thousand passions buried in her bosom. A throttling heartbeat, enough to silence any preachers on nirvana, a fiery gaze fixed on the distance horizon, seeing the yet invisible to the naked eye, piercing through the mirage of existence. A deep breath to calm the qualms of the unseen future, she let the heavy lashes fall on that damp crater above her cheeks and below her eyes. A few watery drops slid down the bends of her cheeks and the blazing glare of the predator in her dissolved within them. For once, she proudly looked down on her on coat, be-speckled with dark spots against the amber stretch of skin across her body and smiled. Closing her eyes again she raised her slender neck, towards the sun. With the orange darkness penetrating her eyes through her tightly closed but not sunlight – proof lids, she replayed the image of her own skin glistening in the sun and smiled with the pride of a goddess who accepts the darkness within her and airs it out in the sun so that the darkness does not mix with the dampness and spoil the glory that she knows she has.

As she opened her eyes, she was on the other side of the horizon, the glistening coat gone, replaced by a fluid fabric, synthetic, processed, reeking of industrialization. The flaxen flowers of the corn-coloured grass were gone and the urban existence reared its face. Yet she looked down proudly on her elongated neck, noticing a single spot near the collar bone, feeling the same assurance she did in the savannahs.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Blog at

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: