The Lemon Twist
She came in wearing a full yellow skirt, a black halter, and black lace gloves that had the fingers cut off to display her bright red nails. She was so sure of herself when she walked onto the dance floor, they called her ‘The Lemon Twist.’ She would dance and twirl until her dress flew up to her waist. She could wiggle her hips like there was no tomorrow. She could wrap herself around a partner like the snake around the apple tree, and boy, could she twist.
What people didn’t know, was that later, when the lights were turned off, and the mirror ball stopped turning, she stayed behind. In a sliver of moonlight, she changed the music, slowly undressing. First the gloves, then the shoes, black stockings, the skirt, and finally the halter.
She stood naked in front of the large dance mirrors, cooling off after the sweat of the evening. Looking at a body that still seemed, after all these years, like a young woman’s, with thin hips, small breasts, long legs, and strong arms.
To the music of the Caribbean, she began to sway, adding her arms to the rhythm. Then her feet would join, pounding and stomping the ground. From her throat came a song with no words, as she pranced in front of the mirror, lost in the world of lands she would never visit.
One evening, as she moved to her music, a firefly landed on the floor, where it blinked on and off in the darkness. She noticed it and slowed her steps. Quieted the keening and pounding and slowly made her way closer. She stopped and kneeled in front of it and put out a hand. The firefly flapped once and landed on her finger.
She raised it to her face to look at it more closely, then opened her mouth and ate it.
A few moments later, she began to glow pale yellow. Then, slowly from her back she grew wings. Her arms shriveled away, while from her ribs she grew two legs, two more at her hips. And the music played on.
She continued to pulse pale yellow in the darkened room. “So, turn me, teach me,” she said to the firefly inside.
She spread her new wings out, lacy black and diaphanous, and fluttered them back and forth. “Teach me, turn me, show me, burn me.” The light inside of her grew brighter and hotter.
This time when she flapped her wings, she rose off the ground and began circling the room. Clumsy at first, she gained momentum and grace. Now she could somersault in the air, bounce off the ceiling. When she landed on the ground, it was on six legs instead of two.
“Teach me, turn me, show me, burn me.” She cried out, as she rose in the air, and flew once more. The light grew even brighter and hotter, brighter and hotter still, until the curtains caught on fire, the piano. The wall paint began to peel, the mirror cracked. And with a final race around the room, she screamed one ecstatic cry and exploded.
The fire burned all night. When they finally put it out at dawn, black ash lay everywhere. In the center of what had been the dance hall, was a nest of fireflies, just learning to fly. They would rise and fall, refusing to leave their host.
So ended our Lemon Twist, maiden of the fireflies, she would dance no more.
That evening, the headlines read, “Mysterious fire started at a dance hall. Unidentified figure found in the ashes. Body of an insect, face of an angel, with a grin of such joy it was horrifying.”
Marianne was born to a family of artists, and has spent her life exploring creativity in its many facets. She is also a long time landscape designer and earth activist. Follow along as she explores the beauty of the every day and the mystery of the cosmos.
