Night and Day

by Krista Wissing

Those were nights when semen rolled along the blades like jewels of dew. Those were nights that pinned us on our backs, our eyes wide with Orion and Leo. You propped your feather weight on a crooked finger, the rest of you levitating over horsetail and miner’s lettuce.

“Try it,” you cooed as you plucked a bloom of honeysuckle and placed it in my mouth. The full moon shone like blush on bone, and how you shined all night like some beautiful thing.

Those were nights when you levitated in the moonlight, and I took my fill of forest.

Daylight. I stood outside the Tudor home at the corner of Rose and Lilith. I eyed its pitched roof and prominent gables, craning my neck to catch glimpse of your slanted window on the third floor. The sun cast reflections off the warped glass, and for a moment the specter of a medieval lord awoke before being swallowed by time.

Your drapes were drawn tight like a corset. I imagined you behind the slanted window of your slanted room on the third floor of the Tudor house. I squinted my eyes and threw all my energy at you. I’m here, love. Come to the window. I waited, fingering a hole in the sleeve of the sage cardigan you gave me on one of those nights after the heat died and the sweat chilled my skin. I waited, but you didn’t show.

I saw you once during the hours of Apollo. You asked me to never come calling during daylight. But I did. Your gardener, the forgetful bugger he is, left your back door unlocked. I slipped in and made my way through the corridors like a faint scent. I walked the halls as if I’d always known this place and ascended the narrow stairway leading to the third floor.

At the top of the landing, a heavy door stood slightly ajar. Light shown through the crack. I tip-toed towards it, excited to reveal myself to you. I peeked in. There you were at the far end of the room, your back towards me. Sensing you weren’t alone, you whipped around and stepped into a lone ray of sunlight infiltrating through a breech in the drapery.

That’s when I saw you. Your albino skin was thin and cracked like centuries old parchment. Blue, spidery veins shown through as if back-lit by a light box. Your hair, stiff as straw, was white and matted. Beady, pink eyes darted erratically about their sockets like bats.Your gnarled hands cradled a dead rat stiff with rigor mortis. Shaken, I stumbled down the stairs and ran. I ran hard and fast out of the dark Tudor house and back into the arms of Apollo.

That’s when I saw you. In that lonely gable. You. White as a specter, light as a feather. You. Longing for those nights when semen flows and the full moon drowns our bodies in buttermilk, because oh how you shine like some beautiful thing.


Krista Wissing comes from a long line of dutiful procrastinators. In fact, she’s surprised she finished this story.
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