Ghosts by Gabriela Marie Milton #flash fiction #short prose #poetic prose

Edvard Munch, Weeping Nude, Public Domain

Ghosts by Gabriela Marie Milton

I spend most of my time in the house. I rarely write anymore. I remember what you once said, I believe you were quoting: Culture has become a demonstration of nothingness. It moves with a terrifying speed in direct proportionality with our appetite for fame.

Three times a year fleshy, peachy roses are still being delivered. They have my name on.  It happens mid-day, at the exact time when I take sedatives before immersing myself in a bath infused with scented Dead Sea Salt. Dried flowers float in the water. They stain my skin. They make me think summer by our lake: scents of blue irises; somnolent movements of algae.

Nights are cruel. No nightingales. Tree branches hit the master suite’s windows even when the air is soft like the breath of a new baby.  Half-naked, lying on the sofa I think Wuthering Heights. Catherine’s ghost knocking on the window. In the dark, Lockwood pushing his hand through the glass. Her cold hand. Her voice. She wants to get in.  

Inscriptions: Catherine Heathcliff; Catherine Linton…  

I kneel and scratch your name under the frame of every bedroom window. I wait.

The windows start rattling. I pick the middle one. I push my hand through the glass. Pain. The warmth of my blood. The ferocity of wounds. Voices coming from the gooseberry bushes.

You.

Come in my love […]

Gabriela Marie Milton
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings

My name is Gabriela (II) #flash fiction #short prose #poetic prose

Head of a Woman’ by Jean Jacques Henner, Public Domain

Flash Fiction by Gabriela Marie Milton

My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie.

One night the moon stretched in our bed, its lips sultry, its breasts soft like two humongous cotton candies bought by the Holyoke Merry-Go-Round Carousel. That night your cascading laughter made all naked desires hide under the bed. I tried to drag them out. I couldn’t.

Later, head on your shoulder I looked at the stars through the broken ceiling, my eyes plagued by an inexorable yearning to prove my existence. I don’t know why. Those who want to prove their existence live in the realm of the inexistent. They are bizarre people who write love letters to themselves trying to deceive others.  Any trick is a cry for recognition. Any cry for recognition is a basic assertion of impotence.

What was I doing? Oh, I was trying to get into my red dress. I couldn’t get it over my hips. The humidity of the night must have made it stick to my skin. Did you laugh again?  Stop. Put your shirt on. We’re going out.

Anyway, I was talking about the absence of existence itself which always leads to sorcery. The skin of an eel caught in the spring, dried, stuffed with rose petals and rosemary, chopped and hidden behind the head of the bed. A night spent in that bed will haunt the two lovers for life. Like I haunt you.  

How did you call me? Why did you use that name? Yes, it is my first name, but nobody uses it. Everyone calls me Gabriela.

Stop calling me Anastasia. I am not resurrected yet. I don’t know who Anastasia is. I’ve never met her. But don’t get fooled. That doesn’t make her less dangerous than me.

Follow me on Twitter here.

Thank you.

Gabriela Marie Milton
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings

I am my mother’s daughter – short prose by Gabriela Marie Milton #flash fiction

lounisproduction; pixabay

I am my mother’s daughter – short prose by Gabriela Marie Milton

I am not who you think I am. My loves are the result of my interiorities in which meanings lie. “Outside” is an illusion. I do not seek the attention of the cup bearer. I am the cup bearer.

It was evening. I was five years old. Mama wore a beautiful dress, pale lines of fresh green dripping on her body. Curves, rose scents, pearled skin. She looked ravishing.

Phlegmatic look on his face Papa smoked Arturo Fuente cigars. He said: That dress is too short.

Mama did not answer. She entered the house. I followed her. She went in the yellow room. The room had a large French tapestry on the left wall. She took a pair of scissors and cut her dress shorter.

The next morning, she looked even more ravishing.  

The thought came to me in the afternoon. A big smile appeared on my face. I ran into my room and took out all my little dresses from the wardrobe. Armed with a scissor, I proceeded to the terrace. One by one I cut all dresses trying to make them shorter. I was ecstatic. I thought of how happy Mama would be. I swear I saw the roses dancing in the garden.  

I am my mother’s daughter.
My sweet love, should I cut my dress shorter?

MasticadoresUSA update

Congratulations to my fellow editors of the Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Romanian, and other editions of Gobblers/Masticadores on their performances.

May I please get some help? There are several new poems up at MasticadoresUSA. Please visit the site here and support your wonderful fellow poets. Do not forget to follow the site.

Thank you.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Cruel Sunsets by Gabriela Marie Milton #poem #poetry #short prose

 Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock

Cruel Sunsets by Gabriela Marie Milton

Summer sunsets with their cruel debaucheries of orange and purple. Concentrated scents of saffron and roses in the hallways. Dates filled with marzipan.  I crave sweetness like I crave you.

Nightmares. A sailor drowned a cat at sea. Someone paid him to do it.

I cannot breathe anymore.  

Last night in one of the upstairs bedrooms the child’s toys changed places. A candle lit by itself.

I do not wish you were here. I am beyond that. My blood flows in the opposite direction. I am the plenitude of my febrilities. I am incandescent.

Remember that scene from Jane Eyre? Bertha: beautiful, exotic, insane, locked in a room. Bertha whom Rochester married in Jamaica. Every time he tried to open the door she would rush to tear him apart. Why am I thinking Bertha?

I can see you walking in the streets of another continent. I can hear your murmurs by the sea.

I still cannot breathe.

My darling, “will you still be loving me when the summer is gone?” 

MasticadoresUSA Update

There are several new poems up at MasticadoresUSA. Please visit the site here and support your fellow poets. Do not forget to follow the site.

Thank you.

Have a beautiful summer everyone.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Who was he? By Gabriela Marie Milton – poetic prose published in Free Verse Revolution Issue II (hermes) #short prose #literature

 Ivailo Nikolov; Shutterstock

My piece Who was he? published in Free Verse Revolution Issue II. You can download the entire issue here.

Who was he? by Gabriela Marie Milton

I met him in the mist of that unusual summer when mama looked more beautiful than ever, and pears grew as big as squashes. Their golden and juicy fragrance hung on my lips even after the touches of the evening wind were gone.

He stood by the fence in his winged hat and his weird sandals, a tricky smile on his face, and a lyre on his hand. I knew whose symbols those were, so I laughed. I figured out he was trying to drag me into some weird play.

When he spoke, his voice pierced my entire body. I felt like a butterfly, pinned, and labeled, and then fixed with a nail on the bottom of an insect box.

“We are getting married tonight.”

Something in his voice denoted an unmistakable hunger to overcome mortality. Who was he? His pale fingers touched the chords of the lyre. The sky started to rain the fragrance of the pears and white petals on us. One of them fell on my left shoulder. When I tried to touch it, it vanished.

He moved toward me and pressed his lips on mine. My eyes closed. I shivered. I felt dragged into a deceptive rootlessness. I could not remember where I was. When I opened my eyes, he was gone.

Under the olive tree on the wooden table there was a basket filled with pears. I touched one of them. It was made of paper. By the basket someone inscribed the words: “That which is above is from that which is below, and that which is below is from that which is above, working the miracles of one.”

 I froze. Those were words attributed to Hermes Trismegistus.

Who was he and where did he go?

MasticadoresUSA update

Please welcome our first guest from New Zeeland: a marvelous poetess Rachel. Read Rachel’s poem Invitation to inspiration here.

Do not forget to follow MasticadoresUSA.

Thank you
Gabriela

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Hallucinations – poetic prose by Gabriela Marie Milton – MasticadoresUSA update

image: kasiaczernik/Pixabay

Hallucinations by Gabriela Marie Milton

I suspect I am subject to hallucinations. I see a woman wrapped in a Cashmere checkered shawl talking to a dead person. The metaphors she uses are stolen, and her heavy makeup reminds me vaguely of a harlequin. Perhaps the shawl projected its sick personality into her, or perhaps she regressed to an infantile state under my very eyes.

She looks like a lacerated doll attached to one of Cuixar’s canvases.

Did you talk? Are you here?

My love, yesterday I read your poems. Your spellbound words reclaimed my very existence. Letters fell into my cupped palms. From the mirror the contour of your body – textured like ripened mangoes under a third eclipse of the moon – entered my world. Your words adapted to my lips. They absorbed the piano’s euphoria with its marvelous rhythmicity.  Our happiness became imperative like the birth of a child at 39 weeks.

Today I am back – albeit sedated – inside the ambivalence of my own introspections swinging from one site to another like the Kirby Cove swing above the Pacific Ocean.

I do not see the woman anymore, but I can still see the dead person. The throbbing pain of Cuixar’s paintings and your absence become unbearable.  

When I do not cry myself to death, I pretend you are here.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

MasticadoresUSA Update

A new beautiful poem is now up at MasticadoresUSA.

Read Two Hearts by Phil Perkins here.

Do not forget to follow MasticadoresUSA.

Do you want to submit? Please read the editorial announcement here.
Thank you
Gabriela

Mistrust #igpoetry #short prose #flash fiction

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Sweetness #prose poem #poetry #short prose

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is shutterstock_603319382-300x200.jpg
IrenaStar; Shutterstock

Scents of linden trees illuminated by an old oil lamp.
The night is me.
I am the night where love delights dwell.
Shed you skin and come with me where minutes melt like chocolate on the tongue of a child.
You, sweetness from beyond the body, what can one say about you?

This poem will be included in my upcoming poetry collection Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetic Prose.

=

Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

Thank you.
Gabriela

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Professions #poem #poetry #love poem #poetic prose #poetry collection

Motto
I get drunk on love, charity, and passion. These are my professions.

*

I walk into the three days we spent together.

On the first day, a nude silence wraps around my lips. Shortly after I can hear the noise of wine poured into glasses.
The hour to get drunk on love has come.
I touch your skin and another you is born.
Birds invade the sky.
A banquet of candles floods the streets.
A white thread ties my blood vessels at the exact moment when a religious procession walks by.

 

On the second day, drunk on charity, my sights descend upon the earth.
The dirty hands of the woman who owns wells touch my skin.
I hear your voice.
I will not counsel her or belittle her desires.
All she will do is sell her fake dreams in the corner of an empty street for her entire life.
I forbid you.
By punishing her you would have ruined the very thing you set out to safeguard: our love.

 

On the third day, stars melt in our palms like soft grapes in winepresses.
The intimations of you and I, with their smell and softness of grass and late autumn roses, invade the room.
A convulsive joy impregnates your eyes.
Words have no pigments and no form. Their register sinks in gravity, shiny coil by shiny coil, musical key by musical key, sleepy touch by sleepy touch.
The perfection of the afternoon’s poplars blesses the air.
Possessed by passions, under the wing of a bird, we died three days ago.

 

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.
image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]

@Gabriela Marie Milton

My piece “Dematerialization” published by Spillwords Press #prose #short prose #Gabriela M #Gabriela Marie Milton

It was a sort of dematerialization that left behind the scent of orange blossoms and the vague memory of sultry afternoons growing by the margins of the pond: those afternoons in need for seed germination. I am sure you can remember them.

You and your love for me which have always looked for my blood. I told you I am air and therefore I do not have a body. I fill the space in which other bodies manifest themselves.

I am every breath you take in your nights of love when …please continue reading here

[This poem will be included in my upcoming poetry collection: Woman: Splendor and Sorrow: Love Poems and Poetic Prose]

You can read my Spillwords Author of the Year Interview here.
My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

Thank you.
Love.
Gabriela.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]