listen to the horses gallop in the water
in the midst of autumn
axes of gold passion
intersect cold laughter
chestnuts crack the time
heaving their fruits
bake my lips with love
born from sounds of flutes
@short-prose-fiction
I had to go through your soul
to get to mine
once in mine
I wish
I would have stayed in yours
boats
memories of that port where demons haunted you
empty chests
our hearts taken out every evening
mornings
pumping despair and agony
no blood left
between your soul and mine
an autumn naked sky
@short-prose-fiction
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
Federico García Lorca
open your veins Andalusia
let him drink from your lynx blood
inject the rhythms of the flamenco
under the coldness of his eyes
tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite
pour the sounds of castanets
into his arms
my fingers swirl
the flesh of ripened olives
covers the old shroud
the flow of blood from the white shirt
has stopped
I hear his voice
there is one cross
and you’re my only love
my body arches
oils flame in my hair
a Moorish verse falls from a wall
his eyes are aiming
cries
the desperation
of the dancers dressed in red
Andalusia
I kneel among your cacti fed by salt
your wounded lashes
resurrected him
for yet
another night
@short-prose-fiction
image: Fernando Cortes; Shutterstock; [link]
It was too late. I was already thrown into my memories, chained to my past, tortured by its unbearable voices.
I ran toward the ocean. I jumped. The water glued my dress to my body, hit my burning face, wiped my century-old tears. In the dark I went deeper and deeper looking for the bottom.
Few seconds, and I felt Miguel’s body wrapping around mine. His arms were pulling me up.
My lungs were burning. I started coughing.
Miguel whispered: “It never happened, Clara. It never happened.”
And yet something terrible must have happened before Jacques left Paris, something that was deeply buried in my memory, something that I was refusing to acknowledge. Did Jacques come to see me that night? Did he?
A horrifying thought crossed my mind.
Miguel, Angelo, and I would not be put in different heavens or hells. We were going to the same place, so we could continue obsessing over and over about Jacques’ imagined love for me and that dreadful fated night that changed our lives forever.
That’s right: a night that I couldn’t remember.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction
you’re looking at the vial
I’m looking at the dagger
neither of us
worthy of redemption
tale of the Verona lovers
the die is cast
vain efforts to escape each other end nowhere
love
erotic pollen
settles between us
it rips my heart apart
it makes your heart bit faster
ropes of destiny
tie us
forever
@short-prose-fiction
