We get high on the nectar of eternity.  We laugh with deep pleasure when our beloved gods, horny men, take us to bed and draw red roses on our bellies with their tongues.  We grow our gardens, lush with fruit and vulva flowers.  We hum and dance to the beat of eternity, a slow pulsating, the orgasm of life.  We stomp love into the ground with our ancient feet, swinging our hips, undulating our bellies like serpents, lifting our breasts to the warmth of the sun, stretching our backs until our punanis brighten red and surrender.

After we have made love to the men, after we have tended our gardens, after we have hummed and danced and stomped love into the ground, we retreat into our temples, and there we beckon the velvet abyss.  Ah, how she comes to us when we call her, how she cradles us in the folds of her sensuousness.  We sink until we reach bottom, and then we gather blood into the palms of our hands so we can paint dreams.  We paint ourselves too, stretching across space and time to reach the skies and earth and the walls of caves.  The lion roars and the dove coos from outside our temple doors.  They are singing to us, watching as we make love to ourselves.


After days of this, we have the strength and wisdom to come down to you, dear women.  We come to you in simple flowing robes of white, our hands before us in a gesture of humility, or we come to you in Egyptian dress, holding onto our ankhs, our eyes smudged with black kohl, and yet others of us come to you in blue or red velvet, witches of the past, our hair flying behind us.  We are magnificent with the knowing of our womanliness.

You have dreamed of this moment, never believing it would happen, and so when we finally arrive, you are resplendent with the deliciousness of your soul, your eyes blazing with passion, your hair aglow with diamonds.  We take you by the hand and lead you down the labyrinth of your own making.  Might it be a labyrinth of moss and feathers, sparkling with the dew drops of spring?  Or might it be a labyrinth of damask curtains with the faces of goddesses painted upon them, golden pillars marking every turn?  Do you hear the owls hooting as you take your first steps?  Do you smell the lavender and sage?  Do you see the stars above in the sky, guiding you?

Step from the labyrinth and into our world, and see that honeyed milk flows from our breasts so that you may suckle and be nourished.  Stars alight from our eyes so that you may be filled with light.  The moon rests upon our fingertips so that you may see with wisdom.  Our sweetness is yours, sweet like berries between your lips.

It is yours for the taking, if you want it.

Related Posts
Filter by
Post Page
Featured Fiction New Fiction The Story Behind the Story
Sort by

“64 Colors”

I had 64 of you before I could even count to 20. Offerings from my mother. Waxy and earthy columns of color
2018-09-26 09:41:14



I. They stand side by side facing a row of dining room cabinets. Audrey examines each one carefully, looking
2019-08-21 09:36:14


The Story Behind the Story: “When Gravity Lets Go”

In the small town of Sylacauga, Alabama, there is a spot on Gravity Hill Lane where gravity does indeed appear to
2019-08-19 09:40:59


“Fly Season”

In a room without furniture, the flies have nowhere to land. They flit from wall to wall, winged dirt, smearing the
2019-08-16 23:38:07



Alan asked me to meet him halfway between Brussels and Paris, at a restaurant around the
2019-08-09 23:36:34


“Baby Lanes”

“Excuse me. I’m over here in the lane next to you and noticed you’re bowling very well tonight.” “That’s quite
2019-08-07 09:34:00


“The Undead”

Ryan said that he needed to call his girlfriend, and I wandered back to the living room and dropped into the
2019-08-05 11:05:12



Not many people knew what I knew about my brother and his wife. I knew it all. The booze, the opioids, the
2019-08-02 23:35:47


“There is Always So Much”

What we did that summer: we hung around torn-down barns and took photos of each other with that old camera and
2019-07-29 23:33:44


“A Rest”

There in the Carr Avenue house on an early spring evening in the year of the Great Shedding, the two youngest
2019-07-26 23:32:47


About Juliana Crespo

Juliana Crespo’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, Hobart, Literary Orphans, Flash Fiction Magazine, Mothers Always Write, Mud City Journal, Ruminate, Fiction Southeast, among others. She is an English teacher at a high school in Bloomington, Indiana, where she also lives with her family.