Black, perfectly manicured nails caressed my skin, a stark contrast of shimmering onyx against pale flesh. Her lips, also a deep shade of black, curved into a slow smile as she situated herself closer to me in front of the fire. I watched awestruck as she deftly threaded her hand through mine, excusing her closeness on the frigid air. Her eyes glittered in the dancing firelight as her dark hair tumbled in chaotic curls around her. I could feel my heartbeat accelerate under her penetrating gaze, her knowing eyes memorizing every angle and curve of my face. She was bold, a dark angel drawing my timid heart to the surface. And when her lips brushed mine, I pulled back slowly, my mind screaming warnings as my heart begged to be devoured. With our eyes locked, the question tumbled from my mouth.

“What is this?” I asked quietly.

The smile crept back into her eyes as her lips inched closer to whisper one simple, yet altering word into my ear.

“Magic.”

#flashfiction #blackmagic

I've always looked thoughtful.

So much so, that at the young age of 19 I've acquired a few "inquisition lines". That's what I like to call them at least.

A single, straight fissure between furrowed brows; the countless microscopic creases and folds around tired eyes. Simple sketch lines that I've spent hundreds to erase.

But for what? To someday unveil baby soft skin? To sit and revel at my own beauty? When all I've done is remove the evidence of my appreciation for others' beauty? Their writing, art and cinema.

I've enjoyed inumerable sleepless nights earning my dark circles and squinting eyelids and fatigued sight.

I want to wear my wise face proudly. Why try so hard to look naive when all I've ever really yearned for is knowledge?