Destinies #flash fiction #short prose


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)



Shadow Boxing #Glass Lovers


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


I open my eyes.


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.


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.


our night of nights #poetry


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!



Creation (Un mundo nuevo) #Glass Lovers #manuscript


There were no moon, no stars, no scented roses.

Just rough landscape: red mountains rising straight from the desert, fragmenting a blue tired sky.


Wind drying our bodies, sand glued on our skins.

Oh, but all those things were no going to stop Miguel!

He was determined to defy the impossible.

His rich laughter crashed into the mounting stone; his green eyes pierced into mine; his teeth bit into my lips.

My nails pressed deeply into his back.

His Maria de Guadalupe medallion flickered before my eyes.


Un mundo nuevo was about to bloom inside me.

Miguel’s new serrated moons, new ardent stars, new mystical scented roses stood ready to welcome it.



Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers. 

Photo Credit: Pixabay.



Mental Bonds #Glass Lovers


Winter night tormented by hauling winds. Lying in bed, mulling over our conversation, I could hear that beautiful raspy voice of his:

“I have seen so much in my life: indescribable humiliations; deep scars on burned souls; dreams crushed like broken glass reverberating on empty floors.

We desperately want to love, to possess each other, caught in a perpetual rush to justify our existence.

Yet, there is no love that can fully satisfy us.  The passions of the flesh get exhausted in bed. What is left is exhausted by our imagination.

Love does not bind forever. Mental bonds do.”

Memories of a silky African violet nightgown modeling my flesh. Oh, where are you? Where are you now?


Miguel hit the door of the bedroom with his boot. His metallic shirt buttons were shining in the moonlight. He was fuming. I could feel the heat of his body. I froze.


From the manuscript Glass Lovers


languor of love


White drapes undulating in the calm ocean breeze.

Clocks dripping languor.

My wet hair blossoming with orange smell.

Unknown mysteries of the warm ocean exuding from your salty skin.

Your teeth moving slowly, engraving Moorish patterns on my thighs.

Teardrops of abandoned occult passions scenting the air.

Those Sunday afternoons never born, never allowed to die.

Blue, white, green. Almost. 


Love Battles #Glass Lovers


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 just 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 facile, juvenile judgement of ours.

Steely blue eyes, coat of arms engraved on his shield, Jacques was relentlessly 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 cozy, beautifully tiled hacienda, darkness broke loose.


From the manuscript Glass Lovers




Miguel was there with me almost every day caressing my perfumed body, drinking every nuance of my spoken words, breathing in my abysmal silences.

I was his Mexico. He was my version of a mirific conquistador: magnificent green eyes, blood pulsating in his temples, bible in one hand, roses in the other.

We both knew that something much stronger than sexual attraction, or even love was growing between us. Yet we could not put a name on it.

Miguel had a proclivity for self-sacrifice.  He was the first to ask for redemption, before he even knew for which sin he was supposed to be forgiven.

Alas, I should have asked too.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers   


the virgin goddess #glass lovers

I am driving from Athens to Patras on E-94. On my left steep mountains, made out of white rock, sparsely covered by shrubs. On my right the Gulf of Corinth adorned by the early, dazzling morning light. Its waters are calm, dreamy, soothed in an ineffable silence: the silence which reigned before the beginning of the world. The views are savagely beautiful: mountains and waters coming together, eternally caught in a fearful, hushed battle.


There is only one car behind me. I slow down. The car drives past me. Intoxicated by the beauty of the landscape I close my eyes for a second. In a flash, I am overwhelmed by the premonition of a sudden event. Chills are running through my body, icing my every fiber, cooling my heated soul, slowing the flow of my blood. I open my eyes. And then it happens.


I start breathing in an unfamiliar rhythm.  The sun metamorphoses into a golden liquid: hundreds of glittering rivers are inundating the blue of the sky. The water starts murmuring. The pendulum of the earth goes astray. The North Pole disappears. The icy castle of wisdom, and thought melts before my eyes. The earth becomes a heated humongous ball, carried by Atlas on his mythical shoulder.

A nude nymph, beautiful, wild, appears in the middle of the road. Her black hair is tightly braided, her skin white like milk.  She runs in the front of my car. Bewildered I press the brake. She looks toward me, laughs, and rapidly starts climbing the mountain on my left. The shrubs are scratching her skin.


My legs are tingling, and then pain: the pain from the scratches. I can feel the barren shrubs penetrating my skin. Sonorous blood drops are dribbling on the white rock. The rhythm, I can heart it! My blood’s drops keep the time like a grandfather clock. I am climbing faster now. My soul becomes an alembic where ecstasy and fear are equally distilled. Why am I afraid? Why am I running? No, it’s not me who runs! The nymphs does! She just reached the margins of a small forest. She turns her head around.

I can see him now! An ephebus follows her, his body tense, his passionate eyes wide open, his clothes torn, his feet rapidly crushing the heated mountain rock. He is about the catch her. He is going to catch her! The ecstasy from the beginning of the world penetrates every cell of my body.


Dog barking tears the air apart. Here she is, carrying her bow: Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and forests, the virgin daughter of Zeus, the sister of Apollo!  She throws herself in front of the nymph. The ephebus stops like hit by lightning. Pain, I feel pain, and my body turns cold!

Artemis’ eyes on the ephebus are turning him into stone. He can’t move anymore. He is white rock now. The nymph disappears into the woods. Her laughter dies. In the forest’s silence, the goddess’ eyes filled with cruelty. The universe is shedding tears. No new world will be born today.


My arms ache. I take my foot from the brake. It’s over. My breath returns to normal. I slowly pull the car on the right of the road, and stop. Out of nowhere, I feel his frigid hand touching mine. I turn my head. Jacques is sitting by me, his blue eyes piercing into me. Why is he here? I left him behind in Athens. I left him with Miriam and Angelo.

I stare at him, and suddenly I can hear barking coming from the forest. Oh, no! Please, not again!

I almost scream at him “Run, she is going to turn you into a stone!” He smiles “She can’t anymore. Somebody else has already turned me into a stone. You know who. Don’t you remember what you did, Clara, don’t you?”


Published first in The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch