Joaquine: Short Stories and Poems

The evaporating aroma of roasted coffee spread between her red lips. The enhanced eyelashes accentuated her contacted blue eyes. Her long and curly hair hung on her bare shoulders. It was real and undisturbed. A modern Helen of Troy many claimed. She with her air of a Goddess prowled the streets with her high heels and polished nails. She ruled from her queen-sized throne. Fierce and wild she took men and women to the realm of ecstasy. Her arched back and small breasts covered in the melting of the bodies. She was a good school girl, a nun, a Mom. Anything her victims wanted. She was a fair queen. Dishearten queens tried to assault her realm. She knocked them out with her iron fist that broke noses. She was the only queen this realm needed. She was once mortal. That had a loving mother that made cookies during the long and dark winter nights. During the day she built snow castles and made snow angels with her faithful companion Mr. Spot. ...

Santa Maria Hot and water-sucking wind greets the inmates  day in and day out. Colossal concrete                 watch them omnisciently Trapped they cringe to the shadows, of their former selves. e towers,  Shells of forgotten Hotels loom on the quadrant of death. Where Vertical death hangs, from head to toe. That is if they are lucky on their escape; otherwise wild dogs and half humans devour them alive.                 Deviance was their mistress; beautiful with her blue eyes and innocent smile, she promised never to tell, never to tell… She lurks poisonously in their nightmares, and hallucinations. The desolated and empty beach lures the unwise and foolish. It traps them; in the man-made traps and hungry dragons. The unrelenting Sun cracks open their skins, and their old wounds. The putre...

Color-drained hair falls on her shoulders, like the white foam that used to flow down the drain when she used to take those steamy long showers and my heart pumped my imaginative brain. Hallow eyes dress her skeletal face a pair of emeralds filled those empty shells they made me feel naked and unease now they hunt me among the hidden book shelves. Her decaying rose’s aroma lingers, as she whispers into my ear and I shiver, memories fly to me like shattering splinters she lingers unrelenting and much angrier . Hidden with the others in my secret chamber she lies there with her black veil and rose somber.

Another one of his victims black eyed and running mascara. My heart sinks when I see under the running tears the familiar face she with her fire kissed hair and dark eyes. I greet her with familiarity her sight lost in the distance ignores me. I understand and proceed filling the name and birthday without questioning her. After all, friends of the family know such things. My elbow caresses the butt of my gun and it itches to be fired gun blazing the bastard out of his hiding hole as she details vividly the way the bastard beat, and forced himself into her like a rabid dog. Justice waits for no man , I think as I type every detail. Images flow into my head as I imagine warming up the bastard two to three of us should be enough to hold him down and make little detours along the way. Her voice begins to cackle and I know is the time to stop the questions and take action. Pedal to the metal , as the suburban houses zoom by and the cars part away, like a moder...

The incense lifted into the dark and stormy night and the fire burned under the tent where the Monks counted the rosary to get rid of their worldly desires and once again be reborn. Minutes turned into hours and their faith remained awake while their ghostly desires whispered and taunted in iced hushes that shivered them and turned the candles wild. The darkness turned into a misty apparition that iced their resolve and cold sweaty hands held the rosary, chants and prayers crawled to a stop as the fire died and the human desires unrelentingly awaken the images of a warm bed and food were reborn along the taunting laugh of the shepherd girl: free and wild. She with her milky body that danced on top of the iced grasses outside the monastery as the Sun set her in fire and accentuated her naked figure and turned her wild blond hair into a hallow of light, the Virgin Mary reborn. Hard under their tunics the Monks held on to their rosaries, transpiring they climbed to their ...

The Shallow Canal Water splashed as the sole of our feet crossed the shallow canal that slowly descended the skirts of the ancient mountain with its snowy crown that ruled the innocent minds of our ancestors and the forest that it protected. The fresh air filled our lungs and we leaped forward into the forest where prey and hunter danced to Death. Ceremoniously we presented our offers to the ancient Sun that stood as our omniscient guardian. Protector of the realm that brought swift demise and death to the creatures of the darkness. The face of our innocent children shone as the Sun rays caressed the shallow canal in the heated summer and they carried forward with their echoing laughs as they played in the protected tree glove where parents watched the games of the innocent and where time stopped as the splashing water of the shallow canal soaked their cinnamon hair. But, a midst happiness Death lurked not far. It came out of blinding sky with its ancient wings spre...

La Calle de Los Muertos She with the half worm infested face marches, among others, holding her long stick-candle, It is her only guidance in the world of the living. Her once long black beautiful hair, Now hangs along her face like some rusty copper wires. She half laughs, with her toothless mouth, remembering how long she spent in front of the mirror combing and cleaning every imperfection that her face showed. She continues the march of the dead. The heavy chains around her feet drag along the dusty road. She cannot remember how she got here, one moment she was singing her favorite tune on the car, and the next she was walking among the other corpses. It is an endless march. She thinks, but now she feels like it is almost the end. Just like when you feel you have almost arrived at your destination. The night seems brighter, The wind feels fresh and calm, And she feels her dead beating, or perhaps is just her old human way of explaining things. She feels her legs we...