the day in which the sun dies #short prose #flash fiction #poetry prose

I lost my name. Yet what sense is it in looking for it? You knew I would do it. You knew I would come back to you: my feet burned, my eyes full of sand, my heart crushed like an empty can of coke, my hands voided like those of King Lear.

It was as easy as you said. One day the celebration of the tree of light would be over, and nobody would dress in black at funerals.

This is that day.

The day in which the sun – eyes bloodshot, rays pale like distant memories – dies in the rose and violet of the sea.

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image: nodff; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Water #short prose #flash fiction

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

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…keep my memory #short prose #flash fiction

“I want your flesh to keep my memory, and your soul to forget me.”
*
“Well, Angelo, crucify me. I said that because at the time I did not believe flesh has any memory. Now, I do not know what to believe anymore.”
*
Every night the wounded blue of his eyes haunts me.
What have I done? 

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

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Shadow-Boxing #short prose #flash fiction

Glass of tequila in his hand, white shirt half open on his chest, raillery in his powerful voice, Jacques’ eyes pierced into Miquel’s.

‘Salud Conquistador.’

Miguel laughed, handsome as sin, wind in his inky hair, flames in his green eyes. 

‘A votre santé, mon Maréchal de France.’ 

His laughter resonated in the depths of the night. A shrill echo came back through the cool air.

Jacques’ blue eyes fixed into mine. My eyes flickered into his. He spoke.

“Sin takes place in the mind not in the flesh, Clara.”

My hands pressed on Miguel’s.  Miguel’s lips shivered.

Angelo turned toward Miriam and froze. 

Knifes were out.
All bets were off.  
One of us was going to break.

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

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mardi matin (Tuesday morning) #short prose #flash fiction

“If things were always what they seemed, how impoverished would be the imagination of man!”
Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar. 
 
Debout face à moi, Miguel, les bras croisés, porte son regard au-delà de moi. Que fixe-t-il ? Voudrait-on lui voler son droit au bonheur? Je lis la lettre tandis que Miguel ne détache pas son regard du rideau fleuri, derrière moi.
*
 « Dans la rumeur de la rue parisienne, j’entends ta voix comme si tu étais près de moi. Tremper les doigts dans l’eau froide de la Seine, c’était frôler tes cheveux. Tu me parles tout bas. Combien de temps a passé ? J’aperçois un bateau éclairé qui descend le fleuve. Je t’ai toujours aimée, car j’ai toujours su que t’aimer était pour moi un besoin. Jamais mon amour n’a altéré la magie de ton être. Tout au début, je t’ai gardée telle que tu étais, contemplée de loin, de crainte de parcourir seul, par delà le temps, le chemin frayé par toi dans mon âme. Plus tard… Je te voyais encore tripoter une marionnette dans ce magasin… Rue de Vaugirard. En ce temps, tes paroles n’arrivaient pas jusqu’à moi. Mais je me sentais attiré vers toi par un fil invisible et, une fois entré dans le jeu, ma raison chavirait : étais-je la marionnette animée par ta main ou bien la main caressant le chaud velours de ta robe ? … Les bateaux remontent et redescendent la Seine…Jacques.»

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image: franckpoupart; Shutterstock; [link]
 

Sutures #Short Prose #Flash Fiction

 

“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”
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