By Stephanie Anderson
She and her sisters, confined to their rooms six days a week, were custom-made for all kinds of desires: pose in the most appealing positions, eat a lean meal, drink Momma’s chamomile tea, and sleep as well as they could. This was true except for the nightingales—the girls who stayed up through the night for any desperate stragglers.
The very next morning, Sunday morning, Momma unlocked Viola’s shutters. The golden glow of summer sun had been building all week. In fact, when Viola set her bare foot on the threshold, she clenched her fists so as not to fling off her loose blue raiment. The wind was fresh, the sunlight warm, something she wanted to wrap like a blanket on her bare shoulders. Nature was the best lover: the grass was her bed, the sky like the largest, most beautiful eyes, and the breeze stirring all her senses to a rapturous swelling that turned her fair skin to fire.
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Stephanie Anderson recently graduated from Butler University’s MFA program in Indianapolis, and has read fiction submissions at Booth: A Journal, Split Lip Magazine, and Anomaly Literary Journal. She now teaches English composition in Anderson, Indiana, and works as a ghost blogger for an interior design blog. She has been published in Abstract Magazine.