Myrta

ZJG Excerpt from Short Stories 2, by Z J Galos on BoD-Books on Demand, Norderstedt, Germany.

 

‘Myrta’

 

The winding road was linked to his thoughts. He loved this place and noticed that he was feeling uprooted again, just as he found the basic roots for a home. Since the last and greatest upheaval of his entire life, where would never be a permanent place for him to set roots again. That was almost a year behind him and was still vivid in his mind. Since he had met Myrta, a young Eurydice, embedded in her mystical presence, her eyes like dusky mirrors of her soul reflecting her being like a painting. In the dusk of its revelation, the pictures of all his Muses melted together into one dot of silver that flowed from the heat of the torch, Myrta was holding close to his heart, turning into a burst of fire that incinerated him at an instant.

But he felt alive and his mind wandered to her. He took her along for an extended walk on the beach and they bathed in the colours of the dissolving sun that melted into the horizon of the gentle sea, like his bracelet she had dunked into the cooling liquid hissing like a snake.

He had visions of her. Was this the return of a vengeful Eurydice who turned into parts of Myrta and wound around his tested heart, to squeeze the spirit of life from all its chambers? Or, was it her disappointment to find only ashes, foregoing a test she had wanted to approve of his new relationship?

 

As if he had met Anna’s cousin in Myrta, from years back during his time in Athens, with similar tensions and habits that caused him to fall head over heels in love with her. And recently the dark and hot woman from a tavern in a small village with a glorious tree, having come across it through his travels through Crete. Damned! He sensed these women were related. She, an excellent cook of dishes she spiced-up with red peppers from a huge tree nearby, dominating the village square within a decked terrace. She had been flirting with him, some incidental touches and direct approaches quite soon afterward, as she served him a hot stew, Cretan style. “This will spice up your life,” she murmured like Pythia reborn. He knew by instinct that she liked him the same way he liked the peppery food that set him on fire for her. He liked her coincidental brushes and touches, the same way she liked his flirtatious banter. He called her A-2.

 

To be continued. ZJG-Poetry & Prose-Poetry.

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