by Mark Joseph Kiewlak
(7/30/08)
There was a forest at the edge of her property, and one day Smithfield decided to take a walk there. She had taken many walks there in her later years, always stripping off her clothes as she went, until she was completely naked, and soon after touching herself in all the places her mother had said she never should.
She hadn't been walking for very long when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. It was like a tiny glittering butterfly swept up on an impossible current. It flew past her ear with amazing speed, swooping and whirling about in an errant fashion, a glistening center with wings. It seemed foolish to run after the creature, so Smithfield merely stood and watched as it vanished into the tangle of forest ahead. She waited a moment for it to reappear, but it was gone.
Smithfield tried to forget the creature and concentrate instead on the afternoon's pleasure. She was always concentrating on pleasure, too much perhaps, but she could never stop herself and had never really tried. All the creatures of the world seemed to know instinctively that it was enough just to live, just to feel yourself and to luxuriate in existence itself. Smithfield knew it too.
When she was very young Smithfield used to play in the forest, climbing trees and running along paths without need of a destination. Her mind had been fluid then, following its whims, engaged in endless creativity. Even her daydreams had been vital. She had never thought to dream of tiredness or of old age. But now the forest had become her only escape from the encroachment of years: a place to ravage herself and to forget all else.
Smithfield felt a tickle behind her ear. Before she could reach to scratch it, another butterfly had appeared, similar to the last, but somehow individual. It hovered momentarily as if taunting her, goading her into pursuit. There was something else too. The creature had sprinkled a shimmering dew in its wake. Of course it made no sense. It couldn't be real. But Smithfield was content to continue upon her path, inhaling scents and exhaling ecstasy. Her hands found with each turn something new in Nature to stiffen her nipples, to wet her lower lips. She did not refuse these gifts, nor those she offered herself.
She walked a while longer and began to feel as if her climax was near. Her fingers were deep inside of her, one breast to her lips. For a moment her mind went blank. Then, without warning, thoughts began to pour out of her. She remembered every sunny day, every trill of delight as she wrung the juice from inside herself. She held in her mind simultaneously all the visions of herself sprawled upon rocks, laid out in meadows, every arch of her back, every scream let loose when she just couldn't keep the passion inside anymore. Suddenly the glittering butterflies were a swarm about her head. Smithfield grew afraid. She tried to swat them away, but they had no substance. She swung wildly, flailing in every direction. The next she knew, she had wandered off the path and found herself lost amid a stand of tall trees. The butterflies were dissipating before her eyes. The shimmering dew they left in their wake seemed to comprise the very substance of their being. Within seconds all that remained was a mist, and then that too had vanished.
Smithfield felt a tingling and looked down at her hand. She was rather startled to see light pouring from her fingertips. She watched as the light took form, grew wings, became the butterflies, then dissipated. She watched as her arm became light, and then her leg, and then the light was pouring from every part of her. Soon the butterflies were a swarm so thick that she could barely see the forest. Smithfield found herself engulfed in the radiance of her own being and grew afraid that soon there would be nothing left.
Quite suddenly she came to understand that perhaps that was all she had ever been: a mass of pleasure given human form. And now the process was reversing itself. The pleasures were flowing out of her, every inch of her discreet mysteries, and she was content to let them go. After all, they didn't really belong to her. She had only borrowed them for a time, kept them caged in flesh. They belonged to the universe. As did Smithfield.
She lifted her fingers to her lips, tasting herself one last time...
When she awoke beneath the tree, Smithfield couldn't help but think what a wonderfully convoluted, uplifting dream it had been. For just an instant she had existed as a million, billion points of light. And as she flitted off into the forest, her wings feeling lighter than ever before, she marveled at the most transcendent aspect of the fantasy -- how, for just one moment, she had been a woman.
