Spillwords presents: “Spotlight On Writers – Gabriela M” #interview #spillwords

Dear Readers,

I am grateful to the Spillwords team for giving me the opportunity to share more about me.
“...most fascinatingly America is a country of dreamers. We are all dreamers...”
“..I have very few moments when I get stuck creatively…”
You can read my author interview here.
Love and hugs to everyone.

G.

image:  Billion Photos; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Bones #Short Prose #Flash Fiction

“This city lost its compass, I am telling you, Miguel. Bones. This city is filled with bones. Some alive, some dead, some on life support, some better looking than others. Even the sea looks ossified like an humongous bone condemned to carry the sky on its head forever and ever, amen. I am getting tired of so many aching bones. Articulations that don’t work anymore. Well, apparently, some still crack, and then so many perforated veins in which the blood flows in the wrong direction. Truth be told only God knows what the right direction is anymore. And the cemeteries: there are so many cemeteries. And of course, that brings me back to bones. Even my blouse has the color of bones, and even the roses that Angelo brought me the other night looked suspiciously like bones. And look at the walls of this restaurant!”

The waiter interrupts me. 

“Would señorita like some fish tonight?”

“Does it have any bones?”

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction

 

Neither Good Nor Bad #short prose #flash fiction

We were neither good nor bad. Those are words invented by us, poor biped beings, to chronicle our actions.

In retrospect, I think we resided in the unknown, in the fuzzy space situated at the core of that city: a city born from some kind of inexplicable cosmic irony.

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction

image: YuriyZhuravov; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Tragic #short prose #flash fiction

“His story was tragic.

Yet he was too shallow to live his own tragedy, and too weak to escape it.

It occurred to me that he has woven a web of lies in which he lived like a curious spider lacking his own body.

Night and day crawling, spastic legs weaving lies, suffocating anybody who dared to approach him.  Empty, in the middle of his own cobweb, contorting his legs, existing somewhere between heaven and earth in a demotic world not created by God, but by a relapsed and dark demiurge.

Angelo, are you still listening to me?”

“Who dares not, Clara?”

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.
@short-prose-fiction

image: conrado; Shutterstock; [link]

 

languor of love #poem #short prose

Clocks drip languor.
White drapes undulate in the breeze of a faraway sea.
The fragrance of oranges blossoms in my hair.
Mysteries of the blue waters exude from your salty skin.
Moorish patterns engrave themselves onto my thighs.
Teardrops scent the air.
Our afternoons: never born, never allowed to die.
Love.

@short-prose-fiction

image: nito; Shutterstock; [link]

 

atrocities #poem #poetry

it rains atrocities on fields of love
predatory nights, barbed wire walls,
the silence of asphyxiated birds
funerals of human parts
the geopolitics of pain engulfs the maps
revulsion, 
eyes intoxicate the shadows in your chambers of delight
I change the course
I walk on heated rocks
hurt, the sound of waves invades my mind
I sail my boat into the hearts of those who are misunderstood
pain, the first dimension, runs at the speed of light
space, the nothingness between your soul and mine,
mistress of the purple,
jacaranda hides its kisses inside the metaphor of us
a lily cries
I feed a child
with grains that grow within my palms
it rains the echoes of tomorrow
asphyxiated birds
barbed wire walls

@short-prose-fiction

image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Samos, perhaps Crete #poem #poetry

on the barren shore
you play your mandolin
I conjugate “to leave” in the voice of trees
the air reverberates expressions of old gods
the space changes its mind
maybe it is Samos, perhaps it is just Crete
traces of death, glimpses of the future
your thoughts are cut in marble
scratches turn to yellow
delineations, conquerors of islands
the shore melts in the waters
your eyes tell prophesies
the time changes its mind
perhaps it was just Samos, maybe it was Crete
the dying mandolin, the smell of ripened olives
an unmade wooden bed
solemnity, delirium
the names of I, You
We

from the series “Mediterranean Love
read more poems from this series:
amor, amore, mon amour – mediterranean
bullfighter (matador de toros)
Greek summer
Andalusian resurrection
forgotten in the Port of Naples

@short-prose-fiction

image: leoks; Shutterstock; [link]