Ten cuidado, they whisper, as though you were a waiting wolf.

Be careful, as if I do not want to be consumed.


The wood creaks beneath my weight. I stick my arms out for balance; water rushes below me. My laugh echoes off the smooth stones, floating downriver. The sun filters down through brown leaves. One foot in front of the other. I wobble. What a beautiful laugh.


The fire licks the bottom of the pot, blue and orange. Your delicious smell, mint and pine, your neck moist with sweat. A grumble in my stomach. My fingers tingling as I bite my lip, holding back the urge to wrap myself around you, inhale. The tomato sauce bubbles and smokes on the stove. Soon, you say smiling, revealing perfect teeth.


The air warm and here comes the rain, hard and urgent. It patters against the roofs, splashes on the leaves. Our heads are hooded, hidden. You reach for me. What eyes.


The wind raises goosebumps on my arms. I run my fingers through my hair, the smell of orange blossoms trailing. Grass quivers around you as you sit on the ground. I kneel behind you, nibble your ear, let out a soft growl.

Ten cuidado, I whisper. And take another bite.



Elizabeth Moscoso is currently rebuilding her library in her small apartment in Shanghai, China: one book at a time. She is passionate about finding beautiful, interesting or silly quotes and lettering them. She is always on the in the mood for hummus and smoothies. You can often spot her in her natural habitat, a cafe, with her nose in a book.

Darla Mottram