“Oh, the four of you at that time!
Like the confluence of four deep, unsettled seas tied together into a magnificent enormous drape of spume; feelings suturing earth and sky like stitches suturing wounds; small fragments of fiction scribbled on paper; books of poetry resonating in the dark like cords of mandolins under the fingers of rejected lovers; fragile withered roses kept forever like relics in a church; the smell of fresh painted canvases mixed with that of salt water.
Any relation with the outside world severed.
That was the reality born out of your fantasy, Clara.”
I was in tears
“Angelo, I know of no other reality but my fantasy.”
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
Andrew McDowell, the author of Mystical Greenwood in his own words:
“Though I know why I write , pinpointing what first inspired me to start writing is still difficult to answer. As I’ve said before, as a child I relished in my imagination, putting myself in different worlds. I’ve always loved stories, both written and dramatized. Plus, due to my Asperger syndrome, throughout my life I’ve had a variety of strong interests which I pursued learning more about. Maybe it was a combination of all these factors coming together at the right time. Certainly now as a writer, I want to keep trying different forms and genres, to keep learning and growing.”
Visit Andrew’s site here
Mystical Greenwood, Book I of One with Nature
Publisher: Mockingbird Lane Press
Dermot is a fifteen-year-old boy living in the land of Denú who has always longed for something more in life. His life changes when he encounters a gryphon and a mysterious healer. Drawn into a conflict against one determined to subjugate the kingdom, Dermot and his brother Brian are forced to leave their home.
A legendary coven must now reunite, for they are Denú’s greatest hope. In the course of meeting unicorns and fighting dragons and men in dark armor, Dermot discovers a deep, sacred magic which exists within every greenwood he crosses through, but his own role in this conflict is greater than he suspects. Can he protect those he loves, or will all that’s good be consumed by darkness?
I mistrust definitions. I believe only in that which hides behind them.
So did my father who built an empire founded on the unseen.
I am his daughter.
Image: BALABINART; Shutterstock; [link]
— undress the moon
in old Córdoba
— — at midnight
pql89; Shutterstock; [link]
I was born under the salty light of underwater stars
when autumn leaves were burning
the neurotic passions of forgotten lovers
three fates surrounded my rosewood cradle
the Spinner threaded all my life from purple silk
her fingers soft
her lips a nest of loving birds
the Allotter gave me the sensuality of painted nudes
the interruption of the sanctity of times when church bells toll
the Inevitable fated me with your aquatic soul
inside the smell of the fresh grass and dreams
I’ve learned to crave for your dark eyes
liked wisdom craves for ancient scrolls
We prey upon our own fantasies.
image: NextMarsMedia; Shutterstock; [link]
My poem “lovers without love” at Spillwords Press.
you, quest of lovers without love
your unrelenting islands beaten by the wind-blown sand
Please continue reading here.
image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]
My piece “Sycophant” is now up at Free Verse Revolution.
It rains letters of your name. The name of a sycophant.
Poisoned waters gave birth to a worm. What? Are you …
Continue reading here.
My apologies for not reading your blogs. I am currently dealing with a death in family. If you wish to comment, please do so on the Free Verse Revolution site.
Image: Jiri Hlousek; Shutterstock; [link]
The significance of that which is locked in tombs: bones, skin, my father’s wedding band, jewelries, artifacts.
One hundred years from now – desecrating tombs – thieves will thrive on each piece of glitter they can find.
Yet the sole significance of a tomb is the love we bury inside it.
A tomb is a depository of physical treasures only for the blind.
Papá, I will always love you.
@short-prose-fiction. all rights reserved.
image: Yan luca; Shutterstock; [link]
a canary sings
your flesh pays its tribute to some other lovers
come and go like seasons
noisy V-shaped flocks
then i listen to a monk who reads
from a book of psalms
rings sleep on my fingers
arabesque designs shiver on my skin
pastel sunsets whisper in the winter’s sheen
i walk through your dreams
soaked in poetry, baptized by your verses
your heart adorns my chest
(work of ancient minters)
your lips burn my rings, and with them my fingers
agonizing wings toll bells in the air
i go for your veins, my hands rip your shirt
everything’s a dream
at the edge of silence
mirrors sleep and grin
you’re forever mine!
do you think i joke?
here’s the silver coin which can get you off
that’s what i thought
you would never take it
in the lovers’ bed monasticism’s asleep
a cat purrs on my thigh
your eyes become my eyes
my skin tastes like sweet pie
see, why Adam was so keen to sin?
for hidden in deep waters
You is always I
even in a dream
Published by Spillwords on January 22, 2019