He #flash fiction #short prose #manuscript excerpt #love

He acted like what he was: one of the most handsome and wealthiest bankers of the city.

Nightly candlelight parties in his villa whose balconies opened toward the ocean. Château Mouton Rothschild Pauillac: deep reds and an unmistakable taste of eucalyptus. Coquilles Saint-Jacques, escargots, Provencal fish stew whose aroma imbibed the corridors from lazy late afternoons until early mornings when it was replaced by that of coffee and freshly baked croissants.

It was an act. He looked like a man who while sleeping with one woman thought of another. Teeth planted in warm lips in an eerie absentness of mind; nothing less than automatism. His entire being was consumed by something else, something as imperative as the birth of a child: the naked vision of a woman whom he could not have.

excerpt from my manuscript Remembrance of Love (working title)

My poetry collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is available on Amazon here .
Passions featured in San Francisco Book Review
Passions featured in Manhattan Book Review.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

Gnosticism [Hellenistic Alexandria] #flash fiction #short prose #excerpt

He was a gnostic par excellence. He loved Hellenistic Alexandria, a place where syncretism, with its unbelievable superposition of religions, grew like oyster mushrooms. Think fleshy greyish-brown, yellow, and pink colors one on top of each other.

During winters, the ghosts of the Alexandrian carnival, inscribed in colored tiles, mesmerized him. They lived in his mind like relics in churches, wrapped in scents of myrrh, overwhelmed by veneration, buried under the kisses and the requests of those who believed in miracles.

Carnival: late Latin expression meaning carne levare, “remove meat.” Some will say “farewell to meat.”

Ah, the famous libertinism of Carpocrates. He did not believe in it. The sweetness of the flesh meant little to him. And I am coming to what you want to know, am I not? You want to know why he loved me so much and how he conceived of our relationship.

Turn around. Breathe the smell of grass growing on old tombs: tombs of saints, madmen, oracles. Remember, the wish to die is as natural as erotic impulses.

I will blindfold you. You will take your shirt off. I will drop on your chest the unadulterated coolness of the morning dew.

In silence I will shade my skin between the gates of heaven and those of hell.  The sun will set on my plump and humid lips.  You can touch my waist with the fingers of your right hand. You can go down to the middle of my left thigh. You cannot deviate.  I am forever yours if the tip of your fingers can read the patterns inscribed on my thigh. Do it and I will kill his memory.

What is going to happen if you cannot read with the tip of your fingers? Oh, I’ve always believed that after death souls go to the moon.

Your call.

For crying out loud, I am joking. Stop looking at my legs.
I know you love me. He loved me too. I am who I am and who I am is hidden from view.
Now, can I get a drink from the bar? And really those devil eggs look so good.

excerpt from my book in progress: Remembrance of Love [working title]

My book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, can be ordered here.
Thank you.
Love
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

Flash Fiction “On Love” and a Review of Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings #poetry book

On Love

I must rebuild your love in my brain.
My soul bears the marks of castles lost at sea.

My Dear Readers,

Thank you again to everyone who bought my book. Special thanks to those who review it on Amazon. I plan to feature each Amazon review on my blog. Until then, here is a review, one among many, done on an online book club by a reviewer whom I do not know.

“The work of art is a beautiful thing. Poem is the master of all arts. It creates emotions deeper than mere imagination and beyond. It transfers human feelings to a realm of wonders. Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings is a book of art written by Gabriela Marie Milton…. I was wowed by the poems. I became engulfed in them…I have been inspired to write my own poems starting with love poems….”

Nothing honors me more than inspiring others. You can read the entire review here

My book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, can be ordered here.

Thank you
Love
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

It was not love #flash fiction #short prose

I alternate deep and high-pitched tones; opposing predispositions of a breathing universe.

You favor discussions about T’s novel. T was a mediocre writer. Yet he did capture a side of me that fascinates you; a side that looks like those apparitions reflected in the mirrors of our bedroom every night.

What brought T and me together?

It was not love. You know that.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that all combinations are fundamentally flawed.

Did you raise your eyebrows?

No. Don’t touch me. I don’t want to be thrown in the swimming pool anymore.

 

My book, Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, can be ordered here.
Thank you.
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image:  Radharani; Shutterstock; [link]

If I say I love you #prose poem #flash fiction #short prose

In a flash my mind shows me a thousand streets tormented by loneliness. These streets – once the grand wine-presses of human bodies and cars – are now haunted by sickness and eaten by desolation.

It’s spring. The ocean’s water is warm like a country bread. I can taste it.  The crisp crust, the sweetness of grains and earth melt on my tongue.

I miss you and the chestnut tree from that pastel afternoon when we first kissed.

Why did I love you? Of course, you were handsome, but it wasn’t that. I loved you because you could not have been conquered by the tricks with which a woman conquers most men. Why would I even want a man that any women with lipstick and stilettos can have?

I am digressing, am I not?

It’s spring. The water is red. Under the light of its pearls, flowers open like fresh young lips.

I avert my mind from the memory of your arms which tries to drag me inside an abyss of naked love; a love blessed with the force of the mistral and the sensuality of linked fingers under the moonlight.

The earth and the waters are one.

Yet the pain is heavy and filled with fluids like the chest cavity of a dead animal hanging up-side down.

I can see your boat. It’s beautiful.

The world is sick.

If I say I love you will you tell me what I can do to heal it?

Please read my Spillwords Author of the Year (2019) interview here 

My thanks again to Kevin Morris – a wonderful poet – for interviewing me. Please read Kevin’s interview with me here.

Love and good health to everyone.
Gabriela

© short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

Heaven and earth #short prose #flash fiction #prose poem

Heaven and earth change places.
The core of the earth shines. Rays pierce waters, beamed from below, springing from the phosphorescent floor.
Dark corridors open in the walls.
I put my hand in the water.
My hand metamorphosizes into bright silver.
Noise. A nymph?! Oh, that pristine beauty which always dethrones Aphrodite’s pagan looks.
I don’t want to leave. This is the only place I’ve known where any remembrance of human neurosis dissipates like morning fog.
“Clara we can’t stay here. We need to leave.”
“Miguel, I am not leaving. You said everything for me.”
“Clara, they don’t sell the damn grotto. If they did, I’d buy it for you. We need to leave.”
“I am not leaving.”
The light from the water floats inside his eyes.
How beautiful.
How seductive.
Is he angry with me?

(excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers)

Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, my poetry book, will be available for pre-order on April 14th; publication date April 20th.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

image: Timur Kulgarin; Shuterstock; [link]

© short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)

Love games #flash fiction #prose poem #short prose

I strolled along that large corridor whose walls were decorated with portraits: trophies of your love games.  You fed on those loves, didn’t you? You overextended. Overextension kills empires. I bet you didn’t think that it could kill real love too.

Every night the fleshless arms of your love games crawl on you like fire ants.

I know misfortune when I see it.

I know it because I am not a saint.

Hope? If there is any left it must be on another corridor.

Follow me.

read my 2019 Spillwords Author of the Year interview here
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

Glass Lovers [Miriam] #short prose #flash fiction

We sat there in the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. A heavy darkness was staring back at me from a white abstract past, like Malevich’s Black Square hanging on a cracked wall.

Who was to blame for all that happened? We had no answer. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.

God did not promise us anything before we were born. He did not promise us anything even after we were born.

Miguel and Jacques looked petrified.

I gazed at Miriam. She spoke.

Miriam and that beautiful face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns. Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching Rodin’s Gates of Hell for hours at the time. I always wondered what she thought about.

Now I think I know.

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Lana Tikhonova; Shutterstock; [link]

Miguel #short prose #flash fiction

I can still hear that deep voice of his and see his striking profile against the walls of the Chartres Cathedral: tormented French Gothic autumn; agonizing blue eyes; gelid rain lingering on stained glass and trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.

“Clara, Miguel needs to stop. He needs to give up. Make him do it or I will.”

Nobody could make Miguel give up. The verb “to give up” was not part of Miguel’s vocabulary.

Miguel was not General Santa Anna who lost the Battle of San Jacinto. At heart Miguel was Cortés. Cortés who conquered an empire. Cortés who enrolled God to help him. Cortés who destroyed and rebuilt.

Jacques had no chance.

Now, when I look back, alone in the mist of those haunting memories, my eyes lids heavy, my body weak, my lips cracked by fever, Angelo was right when he said:

“Wait, Clara, wait, you don’t know Jacques yet.”

In fact, none of us knew Jacques.  Not even Angelo.

How ironic.

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Kees Zwanenburg; Shutterstock; [link]