until the end of my life and beyond #short prose #flash fiction

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“I, Miguel Julian Veracruz, take you to be my wife until the end of my life and beyond. I swear on the true cross of my ancestors who endured famine, who fought hurricanes, who sailed their ships through darkness and light into the vastness of the ocean, bible in one hand and sword in the other, to love you until the end of all worlds. My ancestors killed. May my love for you wash the blood from their hands. My ancestors burned down temples. May the fire of my love for you redeem them. May […]

Say yes, Clara, say yes, please!”

Miguel’s words cut the sky in two. The green of his eyes looked exactly like that of his Maria de Guadalupe medallion which he never took off. That beautiful silver Spanish ring, a family heirloom, worn by his mother on the fourth finger of her right hand, appeared on his palm out of nowhere.
*
Lightning struck the waters. A whirlpool of colors flamed the boat; the air was spinning around me like a tornado let lose over the face of the earth. My breathing stopped.  I thought I was imagining everything.
*
Jacques asked in that deep, unmistakable voice of his.

“Where were you Clara?”

“In Miguel’s boat on the waters of the Atlantic. In the beginning it looked like an ordinary Sunday afternoon. Miguel ordered the boat out.  I thought it was odd that he was not sailing it. He hired a captain whose wife cooked dinner, set the table, and brought a bunch of papers for us.  I did not know what they were.”

“What did you say, Clara?”

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)
@short-prose-fiction

imagine: Sofi photo; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Sutures #Short Prose #Flash Fiction

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“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”
@short-prose-fiction

 
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Restoring Memories #Guest Post #David Wesley Woolverton

My Dear Readers,

“Restoring Memories” a guest post by a very talented writer David Wesley Woolverton. David is an aspiring author currently pursuing a master’s degree in creative writing at the University of South Alabama. His interests include trains, books, and daydreaming.

 

Nesrin and Ceylan had just joined the restoration staff of an open-air museum preserving the remains of an ancient city. They surveyed the ruins around them, finding very little left of the city; some scraps of wall, a few statues, minuscule traces of road.
Nesrin stopped to pet the nose of a stone lion, analyzing the contrast between her young-looking fingers and the years recorded by the moss and dirt on the statue. “Hard to believe this was our childhood home.” Continue reading here.

 

 

 

blood #poem #poetry

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my body is dragged
i’m covered in mud
sword in my hand
still i can cut
you’re looking at me
i hear the word love

fight!

children are crying
the moon has been stolen
the winds have stopped
right all the wrongs
lighten the sun
straighten the earth
bloom all the buds
i’ll see you again
there are other lives

fight
do not stop!

i’m choking on blood…

draft

@short-prose-fiction 

 

Self-sacrifice #short prose #flash fiction

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The great poet was expelled from Florence.

Miguel expelled himself from himself to make room for me.

Self-sacrifice.

I melted into his being like an enormous orange sun into dark, desert sands.

Neither of us saw the eight bad omens of the conquest.

Our bodies were flaming mightily in the Aztec sky.

That inky night the fire of our flesh destroyed the temple of Huitzilopochtli.

What have we done?

*

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

@short-prose-fiction

imagine: Sandratsky Dmitriy/Shutterstock 

 

 

landscape #short prose #flash fiction

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“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine

*

Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view, like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.

*

In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn. We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.

*

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

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Destinies #flash fiction #short prose

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Our destinies caught in the deep lines of my left palm.

*

With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.

*

None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.

*

One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.

*

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers (draft)

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Shadow Boxing #Glass Lovers

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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, hands caressing my hips.

‘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.”

Shock. Jacques was forcing me to fight my own shadows. My hands pressed on Miguel’s; my body tensed. Miguel’s lips shivered.

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

*******

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

Photo credit: Pixabay

 

The Purple Lotus #Morning Fantasy

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I open my eyes.
Shimmers.
Over the night an enormous spider transformed the canopy of the bed into a cobweb made from white diamond dust.
I can see you through it.
You are by the lake.
My royal purple lotus floats silently on the surface of the water.
Morning dew adorns the grass.
In the music room the piano starts playing.
A bunny jumps on my bed. Is that one of your tricks?
Indelible memories of a night in which your hands touched my body come alive.
Silk embraced by skin.
You dive and swim toward the purple lotus.
One of your fingers touches its petals.
My pupils dilate.
No!!!!
I didn’t tell you. There is a love curse. He who touches the lotus…
I can’t hear my voice anymore.
The music hits a crescendo.
The lake freezes.
It’s over.
Through sheets of ice Merlin, the Wizard, smiles.

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our night of nights #poetry

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i land on your soul

like a butterfly on a tiny flower

the sky rains stars

on wounds dressed in velvet gloves

from the middle of the earth

a blue tree branches

heated arteries overflow with Spanish music

your hands caress my thighs

you’re melting in my kiss

i taste the depths of the forest

it smells ambrosia

cinnamon and anise

a nude by Pellison-Mallet sleeps

your spade flickers

the candle murmurs with delight then goes out

i am one with you

covered by the sheer splendor

of our night of nights.

*

give me one more night!

Mallet