Destinies #flash fiction #short prose

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Our destinies caught in the deep lines of my left palm.

*

With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.

*

None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.

*

One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.

*

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (draft)

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Fires of the Mind (revised) #Flash Fiction

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First, one’s mind catered to the other.

Then, they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.

By the time physical love came into play, they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.

In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.

Yet they didn’t.

 

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passions #poetry

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i seek you

like roots seek water

the thirst which blasts into the rhythms of castanets

in Andalusia of the flamenco dancers dressed in red

i see you

the face of the lost stranger

dissimulating grief in autumn shadows

killed by the aurora borealis in the southern hemisphere

i feel you

dreams of wild young tigers

ravaging the flesh of prey with their teeth

in the Sahara of my burning suns the fate plays games

i chase you

blue hands of nightly ghosts insinuate onto my skin

i’m dragging you into the lands of spells which crawl

passions strike till all is left from us

are ashes in a bowl

*

draft

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Scents of flowers and of salt (Poetry and music collab) — Despite my deepest thoughts

My Dear Readers,

Poetry and music: a collaboration with my dear friend Ankit Thapa.

Title: “scents of flowers and of salt

Music, production, arrangements: Ankit Thapa

Lyrics and recitation: me (short-prose-fiction)

*

I would be truly grateful to you if you take 2 minutes to listen to our work.

Very few of you know that I am not a native speaker of the English language. I ask for

your understanding.

Thank you!

*

Lyrics:

pain is dripping from guitars

into sunsets with no end

pigeons guide ships lost at sea

tears drop from plumy skies…

love is blowing in the wind

scents of flowers and of salt

*

listen

to the night of oleanders

to the magic of the key which turns

take me to the kiss of no return

when the sky is turning blue

and we’re centuries apart

let me kneel in front of you

 

Very happy and excited to present you guys my/our first collab of its kind. Working on this project with Short prose-fiction was such a great experience. I hope you’ll enjoy our combined efforts. Music, production and arrangement – Ankit Lyrics and recitation – Short prose-fiction Lyrics Pain is dripping from guitars into sunsets with no end […]

via Scents of flowers and of salt (Poetry and music collab) — Despite my deepest thoughts

 

Lack of Boundaries # Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (66 words)

Jacques, Miriam, Miguel, and I: What can I say?

As time passed we became like tropical lianas hanging on a giant tree. We used to think that it was the tree of friendship and love.

*

Once Jacques said:

“It is nonchalance that destroys love and friendship.”

To which Miguel replied:

“No, it is the lack of boundaries.”

Time was going to prove him right.

 

*draft

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The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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“Stop it, Angelo, stop it! What did you want me to do?

Wrap myself in the in French flag and sing La Marseillaise?

Write a book called “The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold” and let the entire world know that Jacques was going to fall in love with me?

I am telling you that no matter what things would have happened the way they happened!”

I was enraged: my lips cracked, my body tensed, my dress pinching my skin like I was attacked by an army of red ants.

*

Miguel entered the room.

For a moment his green eyes reflected incredulity. He looked at Angelo, eyebrows raised, his left index finger pointing toward me.

“Why is Clara standing on the middle of the table?”

Ah, Miguel and that dreamy quality of his voice always bringing back our non-ending nights of love.

Angelo tried to put a rebel lock of his black curly hair back in his ponytail.

I did not move. Miguel did not take his eyes from him.

I do not know how much time we stood like this.

Finally, Angelo spoke: his voice raspy like he was awakened from a dream.

“Oh, Clara? Clara is just being Clara.”

*

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.

Draft

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The Woman Before Me #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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“Clara, I did not tell you about the woman who Miguel loved before you.”

“Go ahead Angelo, I can’t wait to hear.”

My eyes pierced into his; in the streets an orange sunset was fighting for its life like a deer caught in the jaws of an enormous anaconda; tired bodies were floating in the middle of the fight; ships on an angry sea.

“Clara, Miguel was in love with a girl born in Buenos Aires. Her name was Helen.

Can you imagine that? Buenos Aires!

The city of Rosas, red ribbons hanging on military uniforms, people screaming death to utilitarianism on every street corner, telluric pampas striving to conquer the city, biting from it…

Ah, I can’t remember the name of the building from which Perón used to speak every year!”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“Angelo, what does Helen have to do with all this? Everything happened long time ago.”

“Oh, but she had a lot to do with…”

*

The sunset lost the battle; the night was breathing satisfied; stretches of a full anaconda digesting its prey.

“Clara, you are not listening anymore!”

“No, I’m not. And if Miguel is not here in five minutes I’ll start singing Don’t cry for me Argentina and strangle you in the middle of the street, Angelo!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t do this, Clara!”

“No? Watch me!”

*

I shivered.

There was no Helen.

Miguel never was in a relationship with a woman named Helen.

What was Angelo trying to tell me?

And where was Miguel?

*

draft

 

Love Call #morning fantasy

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I awake under the cap of a mushroom.

Its spores surround me like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a cave.

Rubbing his forewings, a cricket chirps.

Is that you calling for me?

I know it’s you. You must be hiding in the grass!

Come out!

Every evening I’ll bathe your body in milk and honey.

Every morning I’ll dress you in a cloak woven from mulberry silk. I’ll grow wings around your ankles, so you can fly above the Himalayas.

Late night I’ll rub ginger oil onto your skin; every stalactite will fall in love with you.

At midnight when the Siamese purrs on my left thigh, I’ll dip my fingers into rose oil and mend your wounds.

We’ll kiss in the fragrance of leaves, roots, and ripened berries.

Why aren’t you answering?

Where are you hiding?

Come out!