To conquer the world…

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.

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Fairytales

 

“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…

The Traveler

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

On a winter’s day

It was the third time she was asking me to come by her place. I did not want to see her, but I have always felt… inadequate when refusing people. It feels wrong, that’s all. Nevertheless, I told her that I didn’t have the money to pay for the cab fare to her place. No other means of transportation. It was in the dead of winter, I couldn’t just walk ten miles. She said she’d pay my cab fare.

“Just give me a ring when you get there and I’ll come down,” she said.

I feel I should apologize. This isn’t one of those stories where something extraordinary happens. The kind of things that are stranger than life itself. No. I am sorry. Also, there’s not even the kind of dialogue that would make you smile because it was just that clever. No witty remarks, no sarcastic comebacks. I haven’t been blessed with remarkable people in my life, so my stories tend to be about folks who aren’t good at conversation. Continue reading

Dome: Episode One

A heartbreaking portrayal of ambition, betrayal, and intrigue, Dome is a serialized Science-Fiction Thriller that tells the story of a small group of people who try to figure out the reason behind the construction of this dome-city in the center of the world’s harshest continent.

Prologue

For a man who knows that our worst nightmares are about to come true, Jack Riddell has no trouble sleeping at night. “It is said that Caesar wept when he found out about Pompey’s death.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” the host of the show, a woman in her mid-thirties, asks. For the last hour or so, the richest man in the world has avoided giving her a straight answer.

Jack laughs. “A man’s character is determined by how he reacts in the face of adversity. By how strong his enemies are.” Ignoring the dumbfounded expression of the host, he adds, “I believe people should realize Dome is a simple reminder that we can fight against insurmountable odds and win.” Continue reading

The Sea

Beautiful butterfly. So precious, so fragile. Its wings colored in orange, red, white and black. With a determination worthy of heroes, the little creature kept flapping its wings, flying with the strong wind that blew from the sea.

Charaxes brutus natalensis. A species that didn’t belong on that continent. But that was a miracle no one noticed. How it got there, a question no one bothered to ask.

Ships were coming to port. The sky had turned grey, covered with a curtain of angry clouds and a bizarre tension hovered in the air, making the sailors nervous. It was going to start raining soon. The old ones could feel it in their rattling bones. Continue reading

A Sad, Sad Symphony

Old Francisc Goyer had been working on his symphony for too long to even remember. It was supposed to be his masterpiece, his magnum opus. At times he was afraid, and with some reason, that he might never finish it.
But that night he had a dream: instruments being played by angels. Such a profound mastery hid beneath their long, white as marble fingers that he began to scribble notes on a piece of paper, his hand trembling under the weight of such a clear and extraordinary vision. Inside his head, the instruments kept playing in a miraculous way that couldn’t be explained, but couldn’t be denied either.
It was real. The music was coming from somewhere far, far away; a muffled concoction of sounds. And Francisc feared to do anything other than write. He was afraid to light a cigarette or even drink a glass of water. The symphony could dissolve into the stifled air of the living room, and all would be lost. Continue reading