Not so flashy

Refer to Evening Star.

A piece of fiction - short and short - but is it flash fiction?

Smitha
By Thaatchaayini Kananatu

She stood in front of him, a golden goddess - shapely like a curvaceous Sarawakian clay vase, skin as creamy as rich coconut sweets - draped in delicate lavender silk. Her almond eyes watched him as he writhed nervously. With each flutter of her wing-like lashes, his heart skipped many beats.

Mesmerized by the sparkly diamond between her brows, matched only by green emerald pupils, Joe stood in a trance. She soothed him with Arabic prose. He eased. Her ebony hair flowed like a luxurious horsetail as she swooshed around the room like a fleeting nymph. On her silky drape, tiny mirrors shimmered like an embroidery of prism-dreams.

He garnered his scattered courage and reached out with trembling masculine arms, a sacred ochre string coiled around his wrist. Gingerly stroking her arms and holding her petite waist kindly, he whispered.

“Smitha.”

Somewhere, a mellow music played - embraced with the lament of violins and soft beats of a drum. Suddenly gaining momentum, staccatos becoming louder and obnoxious, graduating into accelerated drumbeats pounding like wild African tribes. Then, a rough mannish voice echoing.

“Joe!”

Smitha’s slender waist dissolved into a humid incense-filled smoke and reappeared a sari-clad tree trunk. Her smooth youthful face transformed into a wrinkled turmeric-yellow facade with an enormous red spot on a crinkled forehead. Her heavenly arms no longer draped around Joe’s neck like a luscious scarf; instead flabby short arms waved at him.

Joe shrieked like a sacrificial goat at a Kali temple.

“Do you know what the time is?” yelled the irate face.

Joe – trembling with aftershocks – opened his eyes wide to the rude awakening.

“Breakfast is ready,” said Joe’s mother.

As she closed the door behind her, a luscious figure reappeared. Smitha – flat - on a movie poster.