Fires of the Mind #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.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate. Yet they did not.

 

Destinies # Glass Lovers

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Our destinies caught into 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 profuse 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 

tend

 

Battlefield #Glass Lovers (excerpt)

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I can still hear that deep voice of his and see his striking profile against the walls of the Chartres Cathedral: tormented French Gothic autumn; agonizing blue eyes; gelid rain lingering on stained glass, trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.

*

“Clara, please! This needs to stop!”

We have judged ourselves so many times that the space around us metamorphosed into a battlefield packed with carrion birds.

We became Don Quixotesque characters battling windmills.”

*

Oh, how well I understood Jacques! Yet, he could not understand that no matter what I was going to say or do, Miguel would not give up. The verb “to give up” was not part of Miguel’s vocabulary.

Miguel was not General Santa Anna who lost the Battle of San Jacinto. Miguel was Cortés who conquered an empire; Cortés who enrolled god to help him; Cortés who destroyed the Aztec temples and raised the flag of Christianity.

Jacques had no chance.

*

Now, when I look back, alone in the mist of those haunting memories, my eyes lids heavy, my hands trembling, my lips cracked by fever, Angelo was right when he said:

“Wait, Clara, wait, you do not know Jacques yet.”

Oh, how right he was! In fact, none of us knew Jacques.  Not even Angelo.

****

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.

enroll

 

The Other Man’s Woman #Glass Lovers (excerpt)

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“Clara, Jacques is in love with you!”

At 4 am in the morning calling from Bruges Miguel was beyond angry when he spoke.

*

“The entire evening Jacques talked only about you!  It was like Miriam and I were not even there!

Clara, do you have an inkling how it feels to listen to another man, describing for hours the women that you love? Your dress, the violet one made from taffeta, your estate diamond ring, the way you turn your head, the flares of your eyes, even your knees a bit closer than they should be when you walk, the fullness …”

*

I did not listen anymore. A pale moon was shedding its poisonous light on our bed; ghosts of Miguel and I making love still buried in the warmth of the peachy sheets.

*

I walked to the wardrobe. I took out my taffeta violet dress.  I started cutting it furiously: bit by bit, piece by piece.  From each piece the perfume that Jacques bought me for my birthday was permeating my lungs, crawling on my skin, poisoning my eyes.

Why did it happen? Why?

**********

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

 

The Beginning #Glass Lovers (excerpts from the introduction)

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Our story began in France. From there it took us to the United States, to Mexico, to Canada, and back to France. On the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. Our future, heavy darkness starring back at us from a white abstract past:  like Malevich’s famous Black Square hanging on an indifferent wall.

*

Who was to blame for all that happened? As the story progresses I invite you, my dear readers to be the judges and the jurors. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.

*

There were four of us:

Miguel, my mirific Conquistador: Moorish passions bursting from his Mediterranean skin, gleaming green eyes only half open in our nights filled with lust. His eyes look almost white in the dark. Oh, those nights when after making love he used to hold me in his arms against the window of our condo watching the lights of the city reflecting into the sky. He used to murmur rhythms of Mariachi songs while kissing my neck. Miguel, and his love for me. Miguel, my mundo nuevo.

*

Jacques, a Norman knight at heart: blue eyes cold like ice, expensive, impeccable shirts.  Jacques, in love with the complicities of the smiles that one only finds in the streets of Paris. Jacques and those cuff-links of his made from gold, and encrusted with roses.  Oh, how I remember Jacques’ laughter! It sounded like the reverberations of an iceberg falling into the sea.  Jacques, who used to say: “The beauty of this city dominates us, creates us, for we cannot create beauty anymore.” Was he right?

*

Miriam and that seraphic face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns.  Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching silently Rodin’s Gates of Hell. I always wondered what she thought about it.

*

And then there was me: Clara. Who was I? We have time for that later.

*

How could four people who tried so much not to hurt others, end up hurting each other so deeply? How could we let all that happen to us?

According to our dear friend Angelo, a Greek born in America, it was my fault. I was the one who mistook reality for my imagination. I was supposed to know better.

Oh, no, Angelo, no! It was not like that! It was more like the Billy Goat curse. We were not destined to win until the curse was broken.

********

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

 

Rain-forest Dreams #Glass Lovers

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Aroma of cherry cigars permeates the room.

*

Miguel’s tensed body lies against the bedroom door; his eyes closed; his jaw taut; perspiration trickling on his golden skin.

*

I continue reading Jacques’ candid letter:

“Clara, I saw you through the window of my soul. I cracked the window to inhale you from afar; to get drunk in your freesia scented hair. Just for a moment.  A whirling wind blew in intoxicating scents of the rain-forest: palms filled with sweet red berries, enormous wimba trees fogged in ancient legends, raindrops of violet orchids; anacondas coiling on the soil. I choked. I couldn’t help it, Clara!”

*

I stop. Grief.

Miguel’s eyes open; forgotten green clouds and thunder foment inside.

I walk toward him. Slowly I start unbuttoning his shirt.  My lips touch his humid skin. He does not move. His breath accelerates, his eyes stare into nowhere. Filled with pain, his voice resonates inside me.

“I love you.”

***************

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

  • wimba trees are among the tallest tress in the Amazon Rain-forest.
 

Shadow Boxing #Glass Lovers

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Glass of tequila in his hand, white shirt half open on his chest, raillery in his powerful voice, Jacques’ eyes pierced into Miquel’s:

‘Salud Conquistador!’

Miguel laughed, handsome as sin, wind in his inky hair, flames in his green eyes, hands caressing my hips.

‘A votre santé, mon Maréchal de France!’ 

His laughter resonated in the depths of the night. A shrill echo came back through the cool air.

*

Jacques’ blue eyes fixed into mine. My eyes flickered into his. He spoke:

“Sin takes place in the mind not in the flesh.”

Shock. Jacques was forcing me to fight my own shadows. My hands pressed on Miguel’s; my body tensed. Miguel’s lips shivered.

Knifes were out. All bets were off.  One of us was going to break.

*******

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

Photo credit: Pixabay

 

Agonizing Nights #Glass Lovers

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A whole week.

Seven agonizing nights; seven suffocating nights rushing over me, parching my soul with their torrid breezes.

Myriads of mosquitoes murmuring in the dark, looking for prey: my own flesh, my own blood.

Nights extending their heavy tentacles over the city, strangling it as a venomous octopus; abandoning it at sunrise lacking vigor, emptied of hopes, filled with trash.

*

I am getting out of bed. Lace and silk soaked in perspiration, glued to my heated body. I am looking out of the window.  I cannot see you.

*

In this city clocks have no hands, years have no months, months have no days.  Outside of time, the city is innocent, perverse, philosophical, suicidal. You will have to find a loophole to live here without surrendering your soul.

*

Shadows of your eyes; fragments of your voice hidden inside me. I cannot see you. It’s dark.

*******

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

 

occult

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My liquid shoulders touched by wings of Laysan albatrosses shiver.

The Hawaiian chest delights in the occult aroma of the volcano goddess.

My desirous, pregnant soul in(vokes) my ancestors.

Your eyes are lusting with Dionysian ecstasy.

No, don’t touch me now, my prince, for you’ll be cursed forever to yearn for me in the world of your immortal dreams!

*

Daily prompt evoke

 

Creation (Un mundo nuevo) #Glass Lovers #manuscript

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There were no moon, no stars, no scented roses.

Just rough landscape: red mountains rising straight from the desert, fragmenting a blue tired sky.

Cacti.

Wind drying our bodies, sand glued on our skins.

Oh, but all those things were no going to stop Miguel!

He was determined to defy the impossible.

His rich laughter crashed into the mounting stone; his green eyes pierced into mine; his teeth bit into my lips.

My nails pressed deeply into his back.

His Maria de Guadalupe medallion flickered before my eyes.

*

Un mundo nuevo was about to bloom inside me.

Miguel’s new serrated moons, new ardent stars, new mystical scented roses stood ready to welcome it.

Viable

*******

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers. 

Photo Credit: Pixabay.