Mini (Autumn's Last Gasp) Monday

As you may have noticed, I have a thing about Autumn. The shedding of leaves, the colors. As a young man, I was enamored more of spring, and while I still adore spring, Autumn images are some of my favorites to write stories or poetry about.

Perhaps a symbol of my entrenchment in middle age.

The following is a Flasher I wrote a couple of years ago. Like Autumn leaves, it clung to the branch on some corner of my computer disk. Now it drops gently to the ground.

My search for appropriate images led to Bollywood star Tulip Joshi. In a way, the image is isn't spot on, but in another way, it begged to be included.

Who am I to resist?


Strip Appease, ©Craig J. Sorensen

Bundled against the cold, she moves in tight circles beneath the lava red maples. A green hooded sweatshirt seems to pine for the lost summer. The first scant crop of freshly fallen leaves seem content to be guided into piles at her hand.

She peels the sweatshirt from her back and tosses it in a heap near the leaves.
How is it I’ve never noticed her?

A bright red shirt emerges. She gathers neat piles and takes them to the curb. As suddenly as she appeared, she evaporates into her house.

I stand like the statue as if she will return. Finally, I breathe.

****

A stiff wind scattered blood red leaves last night. She wears no sweatshirt, just a bright red blouse and pale tan pants. She rakes the fresh crop of leaves, piles growing like a farmer gathering the harvest for a long winter. She releases the buttons of her blouse from time to time as if she is overheating in the early morning cold.

She frees her long hair from a tight bun, and it streaks like rain on a clear black night. Her shoulders press back, and the blouse falls.

I gasp.

Her dark skin glows. A bright golden bra, like an Incan idol, begs tribute.

Obediently, I press my weighty groin to the counter as she continues to rake. She works with a joyous smile on her face.

She looks my way, and winks, as she finishes her chore.

Again, I linger and stare at her still, clean yard.

****

She rakes the last crop of fallen leaves. It is a dance, her gold bra glimmers in the clear autumn sun. Her tan pants seem camouflaged in the heaps of faded leaves.

She kicks her shoes away.

Her pants fall to the ground and she steps free. Matching gold panties cradle her hips. The skin on her legs pokes defiantly at the bitter breeze.

The heaviness between my legs now denies gravity.

I can no longer simply watch. A smile emerges on her full lips as I approach, clutching my jacket to my chest. I look at her empty pants. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No colder than the trees.” She strips the gold underwear and walks over to one of the trees. She leans against it like a long lost friend arrived from a voyage. She addresses the tree. “Now we’re ready for the winter.” She looks at me. “Care to join us?”

I peel my jacket and unbutton my pants…