Love in Venice #short prose #flash fiction

“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

I bite my lips.

“Oh, no, but I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“Every night I will walk in Piazza San Marco, at that moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. In the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival I will change mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain, lover after lover. Every morning I will mix essences of perfumes, seeking for the very one that can revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic Sea; my body shivering, my soul revived; my memory of him forever gone. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He looks at me: blue eyes, dark hair; powerful voice.

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.
….

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Mohammadreza Zeidabadi; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the train to Vienna #love poem #poetry

let’s take the train and go to Vienna
rent a room for a night and then waltz
in your arms the waist of the night trembles
fingertips touch a blue door which is locked
I sit barefoot on the floor
the windows’ eyelashes are yellow and drunk
your voice moves stones in a lonely graveyard
to bury the tears I cry
and lonely like children of war
we cut in two the same pain for one night
you, the kiss of the love that could be
I, the rhythm of three beats in each bar
in Prater Park they sell lollipops
years pass by in one night
I rest my head on your shoulder
and the train to Vienna has stopped

draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: KimSongsak; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Miguel #short prose #flash fiction

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 and trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.

“Clara, Miguel needs to stop. He needs to give up. Make him do it or I will.”

Nobody could make Miguel 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. At heart Miguel was Cortés. Cortés who conquered an empire. Cortés who enrolled God to help him. Cortés who destroyed and rebuilt.

Jacques had no chance.

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

“Wait, Clara, wait, you don’t know Jacques yet.”

In fact, none of us knew Jacques.  Not even Angelo.

How ironic.

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Kees Zwanenburg; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Art #short prose #prose poem

He hunted for reasons upon which he could build his resolutions.

He hunted in the wrong place for art is not the space of reason, nor is a ratio of whole numbers.

Art is the space in which the profane lays so close to the divine that one would rather find room to breathe through the eye of a needle than to separate the two.

And so is love.

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

image:  Hare Krishna; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Sunday on another latitude #poem #poetry #prose poem

The smell of orange trees blooms in my hair.
Days of magic: a lily and a rose.
A purple sky bites from the imperishable yellow coiled around your finger.
Dark injured blood taints the possibility of the sunset.
The exertion of a prayer.
The reflection of our faces in a desiccated well.
Sunday on another latitude.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)
My blog ranks 20th in “Top 100 Poetry Blogs & Websites to Follow” according to Feedspot.

 

Identity #short prose #flash fiction

“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine

_

Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.

In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn.

We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

 

fires #poem #poetry

fires burn rocks in the mountains
fountains in the parks burn our hearts
I dip my hands into the seven parallels of love
I spin the planetary souls on both my arms
a bird pulls at its feathers in the mirror
the wilderness of autumn
puts on its lipstick

insanity throws stones into a garbage can
exiled from the imagination of Seville
Don Juan lures empty frames inside a bar
your heart meanders among marble stars
scents of flowers, heavy chains 
poetry burns our lips
lonely scavengers of night
you and I

draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Brina L. Bunt; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Attention #short prose #prose poem #poetry

I resurrected him.

It was a mischievous act meant to attract the attention of mortals.

Instead I attracted some demons determined to follow me. I locked them in the sockets of time.

I feed them through cracks which propagate at the speed of light.

Bleeding rays of dark suns and dust left from what used to be your affection for me. 

Words left to dry like laundry in the wind.

Words chewing my soul like termites in wood.

My poetic rapport with myself is bad. 

My alter ego hisses like a snake at every word I write.

What’s the truth? I have no idea.

Any act meant to attract attention displaces the truth.

@short-prose-fiction

image: mehmetcan’s portfolio; Shutterstock; [link]