It was a hot and dry summer. The harsh air wrapped around clothes and skin, the heat stuck to your lungs, and it was as if an extraordinary force pressed hard against your chest every time you had to breathe. Continue reading
They say you’ll live forever if a writer falls in love with you.
Tell this to the right girl and she’s yours. Of course, it might take a while to find her, and it obviously helps if you’re somewhat famous.
But I don’t tell them that I’d only write about them if they’d break my heart. Because that’s how I put the pieces back together. I don’t tell them that I stopped loving a long time ago.
It’s not that I don’t want to, I simply can’t. That bizarre mechanism that allows people to feel as if someone else is a part of who they are, as if they’ve found something they’ve always felt was missing… well, that mechanism’s broken for me. Continue reading
Everything she did carried with it the solemn grace of a ritual. Her mornings were alike, but never the same.
She’d walk out on the balcony of her small flat to stretch her arms and legs and breathe in the new day. Her lungs filled with something more than just air, something exhilarating and fresh, wearing a pair of black shorts and a white undershirt, her naked feet caressing the marbled floor, she’d smile at the lethargic city.
“Good morning, Paris,” she’d whisper, staring at the Eiffel Tower cutting through an angry sea of buildings, cars, and noises.
As the new day rushed through her veins, her smile would grow bigger and bigger. Her smile screamed of life and passion and love. Her smile was life.
She’d spend a few moments of quiet contemplation, thinking about what was old and what was new, about what could be, what had been, and what could no longer be. Her smile always faded away… and when it did, she knew she’d have to wait until the next day to regain it. Continue reading
You think about the beginning. About the way you used to look at her, as if she were magic. She fascinated you from the moment you lay your eyes on her. After your first conversation you decided she was a beautiful mystery that you just had to solve. You were going to stop at nothing to make her yours.
You opened your heart to her.
Not because you decided to do so, but because you couldn’t help it.
In fact, you couldn’t help it when you fell in love with her. It was almost impossible not to miss her when she was not around.
After all, she was the only one who could silence your demons.
And you had plenty of those.
But with her it was different. With her, you were different. Better. With her you were the one you always wanted to be.
“Where have you been all my life?” you once asked her. You stared her in the eyes and smiled and she smiled back, a bit scared by what you just said.
You told her that you’d like to hold her hand.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I could conquer the world… if only you’d hold my hand.”
She lay down her cup. She put it to the side of the table, then moved the ashtray next to it. Then she did the same with your cup. She put her hand on the table, palm up. And she said, “You’re brave, you know? To think that you can conquer the world with just one hand.”
Excerpt from 2:22 AM. Find it on Amazon here.
Also available in the e-book bundle on my e-store.
“Sometimes we love with nothing more than hope. Sometimes we cry with everything except tears.” — Gregory David Roberts
I have loved and lost, and still I love the people I have lost. And I miss them everyday, and there are no words to be said to bring them back.
As much as I have gained with the help of my words, I have also lost.
Words have sometimes failed to mend my broken heart, and yet this brokenness is the one thing that keeps me writing.
Such a vicious circle, isn’t?
“Do you believe in fairytales?” You asked him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. God, he felt good. It felt good; your head was meant to lie, right there, on him.
“Only women believe in fairytales.”
“Only women believe in fairytales…yes…but who writes them?”
It is women who want love, and men who understand it.
It is women who believe in fairytales, and men who write them.
It is women who want to be a man’s last love, and men who want to be a woman’s first true romance.
Women and men and all the words they use to get what they want.
Sticks and stones may break your bones, but it’s words that break a heart…
Disclaimer: This short story (technically not a short story) is a part of a new project of mine, called God, The Devil, and a Man walk into a bar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
— Antonio Machado
The traveler sat down on a sand dune and saw nothing. He heard nothing. He feared the worst. He had reached a truly godforsaken place: a vast, mournful pan of emptiness where anything sentient resented anything else that was alive. Every sun-scoured scrap of fauna had barbs, hooks or thorns, every animal had poison, paw or claw. Scorpions scuttled and snakes hissed and slithered while they went about their grisly business of survival. Even sand was an enemy. It burned his feet raw, it stinged his eyes and acted as a surrogate for pain.
His skin felt like scraped by sandpaper, his tongue was cloven to the roof of his mouth. His eyes felt like they’d melted into the back of his mind, making everything seem mirage-like. He knew he was alone, abandoned, and doomed. A colorless heat haze had blurred out the background and his vision had become myopic.
Yet, through the silence, through the nothing, something throbbed, something gleamed. Continue reading