Ianthina
Strolling among the ivory ferns in the hothouse one peaceful evening the professor caught sight of a little shadow dancing on the gravel below the drooping fronds. Only mildly curious he knelt not without some difficulty. The pale ferns brushed affectionately against his ears his neck his nose pushing them aside sent the mysterious shadow scampering away into the gloom and the moonlight. On all fours he followed now annoyed as the knees of his trousers were soaked through. Pieces of gravel stuck to the palms of his hands. Thinking that the long hours spent in study had probably weakened his eyes he was about to give up the chase when suddenly the shadow stopped next to a cluster of murmuring bamboo. The professor crawled quietly behind a nearby cabochon bush. He drew a deep breath and the cloying fragrance of the night blooming flowers brought back a bright memory from his youth. Her name was Ianthina and she was sixteen when he saw her for the first time. They were at the museum. A cold autumn rain fumbled at the narrow skylights and the few visitors spoke in dignified whispers as they wended their way through the mummies and suits of armor. He was sketching an unusual pel quintain into his journal when he was momentarily bewildered by the fleeting scent of her florid perfume. Upholstered settees had been provided for the weary. He found her settled demurely on a settee directly opposite a fourth century quadriga giggling over a sixpenny novel. Her pretty appearance was irresistibly attractive to him reconnoitring from behind a fire engine he could watch her face as she read. Unfortunately the shadow disturbed his reverie by disappearing into the ground. Digging there he found a heap of bones.
The gun was rusty and the muzzle was stopped up with dirt. The bones were picked clean. He unearthed the skull and washed it off with a hose. Carrying it into the house he placed it on the mantel lit a candle and got ready for bed. He took up a book about the history of tip cats and made himself comfortable settled between the covers. Though the book was gripping he must have fallen asleep because the candle flame was guttering when he next looked up. Something moved on the mantel.
My heart is a dotted line whispered the skull now covered with blood. My heart is made of wood. My heart is full of hedgehogs. My heart is in the attic. My heart is a blue crayon. My heart is above the clouds.
During this speech the old man watched in horror as the blood flowed down outlining the nude figure of a young woman lithe and graceful topped by the muttering skull. She moved towards him and reached the side of the bed just as the candle went out.
I see the sunflower of another day. I see the dazzling lights. I see the one thing they cannot name.
Blood trickled on to his face as she swayed above him in the darkness. Suddenly Ianthina kissed him. Her rotting teeth bruised his lips and blood slipped down his throat silently she pressed her invisible body against him. Desperately they struggled bubbling choking he died.
