Who’s the God of an empty box? #short prose #flash fiction #poetry


I hope you do not expect me to greet you.

I do not greet takers and parasites. The sins of takers – who laugh in the faces of those who give – cannot be expiated.

Oh, you pray God! To whose God do you pray?

Who’s the God of an empty box?

Your actions are similar to those of others. Perhaps too similar.

Don’t confuse your emptiness with the majesty of death.

This August is too hot.


@short-prose-fiction. all rights reserved.

image: CARACOLLA; Shutterstock; [link]


Love Battles #short prose #flash fiction

Rage darkened Miguel’s green eyes. His blood was boiling. Bible in one hand, sword in the other, breathing heavily, determined not to let his Spanish Armada be sunk the second time.

Ha! And by whom? By a Frenchman?!

Wasn’t Jacques supposed to spend his entire life alluring the other sex?

Oh, how wrong all of us were to judge Jacques like that!

And how dearly we were to pay for that juvenile judgement of ours.

Steely blue eyes, coat of arms engraved on his shield, Jacques was fighting to conquer only one heart: the heart of the woman who Miguel loved.
Both of them reduced me to a war trophy.

In the old, beautifully tiled hacienda, darkness broke loose.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


image:  ELORDUY; Shuttershock; [link]


Thoughts [2] #short prose #flash fiction

I would rather worship the silence of empty walls than your barren heart that you hold so dear; that heart that has never learned how to give.

You thrived in mud like a spring flower, yet by dawn you did not bloom. An infernal amalgam of erudition and sexuality eats your soul like worms eat dead plants. You became one of them: a decomposer par excellence.

I seek purification.

Therefore, forever forgotten – I hope – I return and kneel inside “The Wisdom of the Sands.”*

In the distance patheticism licks your self-inflicted wounds.

*reference to Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s  The Wisdom of the Sands


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



Bones #Short Prose #Flash Fiction

“This city lost its compass, I am telling you, Miguel. Bones. This city is filled with bones. Some alive, some dead, some on life support, some better looking than others. Even the sea looks ossified like an humongous bone condemned to carry the sky on its head forever and ever, amen. I am getting tired of so many aching bones. Articulations that don’t work anymore. Well, apparently, some still crack, and then so many perforated veins in which the blood flows in the wrong direction. Truth be told only God knows what the right direction is anymore. And the cemeteries: there are so many cemeteries. And of course, that brings me back to bones. Even my blouse has the color of bones, and even the roses that Angelo brought me the other night looked suspiciously like bones. And look at the walls of this restaurant!”

The waiter interrupts me. 

“Would señorita like some fish tonight?”

“Does it have any bones?”

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


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]


Tragic #short prose #flash fiction

“His story was tragic.

Yet he was too shallow to live his own tragedy, and too weak to escape it.

It occurred to me that he has woven a web of lies in which he lived like a curious spider lacking his own body.

Night and day crawling, spastic legs weaving lies, suffocating anybody who dared to approach him.  Empty, in the middle of his own cobweb, contorting his legs, existing somewhere between heaven and earth in a demotic world not created by God, but by a relapsed and dark demiurge.

Angelo, are you still listening to me?”

“Who dares not, Clara?”

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.

image: conrado; Shutterstock; [link]