I Am Santo

Fiction, poetry, music and mindscape pictures by creative artist Jason Santo

The allure rests somewhere beyond the unyielding sun or hourglass sand, the wafts of cleansing cilantro, smoky chorizo, or bliss resin peppering bareskin evening, the explosive aerosol flora turning edifice to canvas or the fevered industry of four million restless lovers blanketing the sky. Beyond such accumulated scurry and linger are hearts open, hands turned up in welcome, words that pass easily through smiles. All spin and dance, toil and grin, welcoming, wanting, wishing for this better or that improving, and their skin creases – olive, brown, peach – at pinched eye corners, umber when mixed by sunset, glorious and teaming shoulder to shoulder like the azure tide-swells at midday, cresting, pulling, withdrawing and delivering. Lovesongs float on the breath-warm air and arms extend, find that lover, hold on, fill, and then shed ugly beliefs, the no’s, the can’ts, the don’ts and instead feel, like sand welcoming the wave, hungry, feasting, absorbing melody as if each heart near joined in chorus and set the day’s end to adagio, the slow simmer of desire within the crowd; the lazy waltz that hangs stars in the night like earrings near a neck awaiting kisses.


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Carol and Bruce had said all they could say. The day was expiring the same way their words had; quietly, but with a kind of ferocious inevitability that spread like hungry fire across the cloud-bruised sky. Carol looked up often, noting to herself how the gray had exploded into rich orange above the sea, their sea. Bruce kept his eyes straight, registering little, his senses shuttered against whatever noise the sparse crowd of beach revelers might have made, the sky’s rage, and Carol. They’d held hands for the first part of their walk despite the failure of their understanding, as if each felt obligated to save the other from falling from a cliff, fingers lazily laced. It took only the tiniest hint of truth’s gravity to yank them apart, and they both tumbled down, into the abyss of their dying affection. Carol believed he owed her another chance, their beautiful days vastly outweighing the stormy which recently forced them into hiding from each other, for she’d become a cold front and he was a bloom of passion making the world hot and thick, his presence surrounded by temper lightning and disdain’s thunder. Bruce hated her for this crucifixion; for setting thick nails of regret into his wrists, and Achilles. She was Judas, had shared their sea with another, and now the shoreline was in ruin, hurricane stained and littered with the refuse of their failure. He knew he’d climbed on the cross first, his waning tolerance of this life perhaps a bigger betrayal than her straying intimacies, but he couldn’t forgive. So they walked, silent and unable to stop the setting sun ending their life together, words spent like sand in the wind.


This was a collaboration with the fantastic and immensely talented Ana, who guys by @mylifespix here on IG. She selected one of her photos and sent it to me, and above is the story it inspired from me. Thank you, Ana! I hope we do more of these in the future!

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