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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Art / Music / Theater / Dance
- Published: 04/28/2023
The Soul of Spain
Born 1969, M, from Herten, NRW, Germany.jpeg)
The Soul of Spain
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
***
Dedicated to the passion of the Latina Temperament.
***
Rioja. Sangre de torro. 2021.
The proverbial bull's blood in my large wine glass had a dark red color that reminded me of soft acrylic paint splashed on a Dali fresco. It swung in waves as I moved it in circles, feeling the glass in my hand like I would feel soft skin upon soft faces like a black haired beauty from Seville revealing her Velasquez-like beauty, wreathing on seductive red satin.
There was something sensual about dry red wine, something personal. Paranormal like a tropical secret, a lady with light chocolate flavored pigmentation pushing her eyebrows down toward her closed irises, mouthing a passionate "Ooh!" while swinging her red skirt to and fro to the music of de Falla.
Lifting the glass to my nose, a scent of Spain rushed through my nostrils. Nougat skinned toreadors with thin sabres and swinging capes grinned a suave "Hah!" in my mind, their pointy boots kicking up the arena's sandy dust into the heat, the sound of Bizet's overture of the opera "Carmen" reverberating across the stone auditorium.
I let the soft and characteristic liquid rest in my mouth for a moment. It embraced my tongue, surrounded it, kissed it, tickling tastebuds with functions from A to Z. The oak barrel tinge in my mouth bath sent some warm waves across my body. I remembered reading Cervantes "Don Quixote" at age 9, being rivited over how this old knight seemed to be willing to do anything for his Dulcinea. Oak barrels. The taste of wine stored in wood brought me back to the image of wind mills with wooden wings, possibly with wine stored in aging caskets close to white walls. The wine stung my tongue with a scorpion's bite, but the pain was as luscious as the kiss Pedro Luiz Reyes received from his raucous mistress Sophie Fernandez in my favorite teen romance movie "Español".
My sisters said I just wanted to take Sophie's place and they were right. His three day beard reeked of testosterone and musk and me, little Wendy from Walthamstow, became a flamenco dancer because of him. So, once again, I put away my wine glass and swung my hips to the music I had turned on.
My high heels clicked like machine gun fire to the strumming guitar and pentatonic vocalises. My golpe stomp followed the planta jump on the ball of the foot, the tacon heel lift before the latigo snap whip. I bent backwards, showing only myself and the dance hall mirrors how tightly my breasts pushed against the fabric of my red dress. As I pirouetted around once, I got a glimpse of my cleavage bouncing about at me in my mirror image. A feeling of hispanic blood rushed through my veins and up and down my spine.
I realized my soul was that of a latina.
My black hair, my brown eyes, my Jennifer Lopez complexion, they were the images of a Madrid ballerina at the Ballet Nacional. But as soon as I opened my mouth, my cockney slang gave me away as the prime candidate for a Victorian hooker in a mini series about 19th century Whitechapel.
But flamenco, I realized, was my soul.
As spicy as oak barreled Rioja.
I ended my dance in an alante lean and an affilá shout on the augmented c minor seven, panting for air like a woman made love to on golden silk.
I bent over, supporting my hands on my knees, sweat running down my forehead.
As the music subsided into a mysterious echo, I stopped, panting again after the third run through of my number for next Sunday's matinée. One sweat drop clearly ran down my forehead down my cheek into my mouth. I could clearly taste the salty quality of my bodily liquid. How vivid it was, this sweat. As vivid as the dance I had just performed. The drop mingled on my tongue, molecule by molecule, with my favorite bull's blood wine, making me feel vibrant and alive, a woman, a soul, a spirit, a dancer, an artist, a lover, a mistress, a child, a grown-up, a priest, a hooker, a companion, a spirit. A Velasquez Venus. A Dali Metamorphosis. A Picasso Dora Maar. A De Falla Fire Dance. An Antonio Banderas Puss in Boots. My body throbbed with vibrating energy after my hour of training, the last sip of my wine running down my throat in a ritual of lust. One glass during the last run through of a solo number. That was my privilage as the boss of my own dance academy.
As the water later showered down across my female forms, chili magnolia shower gel foaming on my buttocks, I remembered Pedro's words in the sequel to "Español". "Las palabras de amor" had been shot right here in England and my West End experience had gotten me a good gig.
"No puedo creer que no seas español. Tu alma es la de un torero."
"I cannot believe you are not Spanish. Your soul is that of a torero."
And so, as I stepped onto the porch of my school fifteen minutes later, he was there, picking me up with a rose in his hand, his three day beard as sexy as it had been on screen in my youth. Pedro spoke to me of Andalusian nights, the evening sun shining through the coastal palm trees and how the Chorizo tastes best when served with olives.
And when we shared our Rioja later that evening, gazing out toward Lloyd Park, I day-dreamed of our future beach walks at the Costa Brava, where we would be filming the third installment of the "Español" series for MGM in a year's time.
If bull's blood truly coarsed through my veins, the torero rising in me through my flamenco, the one spirit that could conjure up the passion was the father of my future child. Pedro Luiz Reyes. If anyone, he truly was the soul of Spain.
The Soul of Spain(Charles E.J. Moulton)
The Soul of Spain
A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
***
Dedicated to the passion of the Latina Temperament.
***
Rioja. Sangre de torro. 2021.
The proverbial bull's blood in my large wine glass had a dark red color that reminded me of soft acrylic paint splashed on a Dali fresco. It swung in waves as I moved it in circles, feeling the glass in my hand like I would feel soft skin upon soft faces like a black haired beauty from Seville revealing her Velasquez-like beauty, wreathing on seductive red satin.
There was something sensual about dry red wine, something personal. Paranormal like a tropical secret, a lady with light chocolate flavored pigmentation pushing her eyebrows down toward her closed irises, mouthing a passionate "Ooh!" while swinging her red skirt to and fro to the music of de Falla.
Lifting the glass to my nose, a scent of Spain rushed through my nostrils. Nougat skinned toreadors with thin sabres and swinging capes grinned a suave "Hah!" in my mind, their pointy boots kicking up the arena's sandy dust into the heat, the sound of Bizet's overture of the opera "Carmen" reverberating across the stone auditorium.
I let the soft and characteristic liquid rest in my mouth for a moment. It embraced my tongue, surrounded it, kissed it, tickling tastebuds with functions from A to Z. The oak barrel tinge in my mouth bath sent some warm waves across my body. I remembered reading Cervantes "Don Quixote" at age 9, being rivited over how this old knight seemed to be willing to do anything for his Dulcinea. Oak barrels. The taste of wine stored in wood brought me back to the image of wind mills with wooden wings, possibly with wine stored in aging caskets close to white walls. The wine stung my tongue with a scorpion's bite, but the pain was as luscious as the kiss Pedro Luiz Reyes received from his raucous mistress Sophie Fernandez in my favorite teen romance movie "Español".
My sisters said I just wanted to take Sophie's place and they were right. His three day beard reeked of testosterone and musk and me, little Wendy from Walthamstow, became a flamenco dancer because of him. So, once again, I put away my wine glass and swung my hips to the music I had turned on.
My high heels clicked like machine gun fire to the strumming guitar and pentatonic vocalises. My golpe stomp followed the planta jump on the ball of the foot, the tacon heel lift before the latigo snap whip. I bent backwards, showing only myself and the dance hall mirrors how tightly my breasts pushed against the fabric of my red dress. As I pirouetted around once, I got a glimpse of my cleavage bouncing about at me in my mirror image. A feeling of hispanic blood rushed through my veins and up and down my spine.
I realized my soul was that of a latina.
My black hair, my brown eyes, my Jennifer Lopez complexion, they were the images of a Madrid ballerina at the Ballet Nacional. But as soon as I opened my mouth, my cockney slang gave me away as the prime candidate for a Victorian hooker in a mini series about 19th century Whitechapel.
But flamenco, I realized, was my soul.
As spicy as oak barreled Rioja.
I ended my dance in an alante lean and an affilá shout on the augmented c minor seven, panting for air like a woman made love to on golden silk.
I bent over, supporting my hands on my knees, sweat running down my forehead.
As the music subsided into a mysterious echo, I stopped, panting again after the third run through of my number for next Sunday's matinée. One sweat drop clearly ran down my forehead down my cheek into my mouth. I could clearly taste the salty quality of my bodily liquid. How vivid it was, this sweat. As vivid as the dance I had just performed. The drop mingled on my tongue, molecule by molecule, with my favorite bull's blood wine, making me feel vibrant and alive, a woman, a soul, a spirit, a dancer, an artist, a lover, a mistress, a child, a grown-up, a priest, a hooker, a companion, a spirit. A Velasquez Venus. A Dali Metamorphosis. A Picasso Dora Maar. A De Falla Fire Dance. An Antonio Banderas Puss in Boots. My body throbbed with vibrating energy after my hour of training, the last sip of my wine running down my throat in a ritual of lust. One glass during the last run through of a solo number. That was my privilage as the boss of my own dance academy.
As the water later showered down across my female forms, chili magnolia shower gel foaming on my buttocks, I remembered Pedro's words in the sequel to "Español". "Las palabras de amor" had been shot right here in England and my West End experience had gotten me a good gig.
"No puedo creer que no seas español. Tu alma es la de un torero."
"I cannot believe you are not Spanish. Your soul is that of a torero."
And so, as I stepped onto the porch of my school fifteen minutes later, he was there, picking me up with a rose in his hand, his three day beard as sexy as it had been on screen in my youth. Pedro spoke to me of Andalusian nights, the evening sun shining through the coastal palm trees and how the Chorizo tastes best when served with olives.
And when we shared our Rioja later that evening, gazing out toward Lloyd Park, I day-dreamed of our future beach walks at the Costa Brava, where we would be filming the third installment of the "Español" series for MGM in a year's time.
If bull's blood truly coarsed through my veins, the torero rising in me through my flamenco, the one spirit that could conjure up the passion was the father of my future child. Pedro Luiz Reyes. If anyone, he truly was the soul of Spain.
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Lillian Kazmierczak
05/01/2023I really enjoy that, Charles! The Puss in Boots line had me laughing out loud. Your descriptions are so vivid, I feel like I am in the room with her! Another great story, my friend!
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Lillian Kazmierczak
07/18/2023Charles this was a wonderful story! Your descriptive writing brought the story to life. A well deserved story star of the day!
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Charles E.J. Moulton
05/02/2023Thank you, Lillian. I am glad to inspire you. That inspires me. Glad you like the Puss in Boots comment. God bless you.
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