A short story

Published by Unsung Stories

My father is the heavens, the wind, and the bones of the earth. My mother is the snake goddess who crafted the first woman out of yellow mud and pity. The explanation crouches on my tongue like a waiting leopard but I swallow it. She’s too beautiful to frighten away.

“My parents are dead,” I say.

Around us, the crowd pushes together, sinuous and clumsy, a stew of limbs and laughter and ink-painted mouths.

“Oh,” She runs a hand through her hair, black and neon-blue. Her bangs are soaked with silver. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“It’s okay. We weren’t that close.”

“So, why are you visiting your dad’s grave on Father’s Day again? Seems a bit morbid, doesn’t it?”

“It was my mother’s dying wish.”


She smiles wanly. Circe might have a punk name, but her heart bleeds Jane Austen. Her eyes are soft and wicked, bright under a veil of kohl-kissed lashes. Just like the fishnets and the velvet she wears, future armour for the optimistic goth girl.

Circe slinks closer, and reaches for my hand. I stroke my fingers over hers, revelling in the texture of the skull rings, the vine of scars undulating over her knuckles.

Her eyes gleam. She pushes off her barstool and into me, catching my face and hair in her small, clever hands. Her mouth finds mine. I taste tequila and tongue, lilies and sex. My fingers discover again the writhing topography of her back and hips, the taut muscles bridging ribs and pelvis.

We kiss. Hard.

Read the full story at Unsung Stories