Angelo #short prose #flash fiction

“Angelo, are you telling me that last night instead of ending up in the room of your most beloved 18-year-old nun to indulge her virginity, so to speak, you ended up in a small decrepit chapel?”

He was furious. His voice was raspy; his dark curly hair disheveled; his shirt open. Nesting on his chest that gold cross of his which he never took off. I pulled the white sheet to my neck and retreated toward the head of the bed.

“Oh, no, Clara, I am telling you that somebody changed the room number that she gave me with another number.”


He raised his voice.

“Precisely the point. You did not ask ‘why’ you asked ‘how’.  You tell me how, Clara.”

“Are you implying …”

Miguel entered the bedroom.

“What on earth…”

The whole scene must have looked ridiculous: Angelo in the middle of the room gesticulating, his eyes rotating in his head like those of a mad man or like those of a prophet – ah, that city in which the difference between mad men and prophets was blatantly blurred  –  and I, under the bed sheet, knees to my chin, trying not to laugh.
Through the open window the morning wind brought the sweet earthy smell of the dark olive groves, which for years have lain on right side of the mansion.

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”/draft



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

image: YuriyZhuravov; Shutterstock; [link]


Flesh #short prose #flash fiction

Oh, that quarter of the city wounded by its own sexuality.

Every street filled with shadowy characters: hungry scavenger birds looking to devour each other’s flesh.

Exposed skin and uttered sexual desires; bodies becoming their own souls’ mortuaries; a type of grotesque Greek tragedy whose protagonists lacked the nobility heroism bestows upon us.

It was painful to imagine what kind of wounds could reduce a thousand of Petrarch’s Lauras to infantile despondency.

And yet…

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

image: Kozlik; Shutterstock; [link]