I don’t believe she asked me to go out for smoke. She forgot when she used to smoke those horrible vanilla cigarillos and my kids where still toddlers in that underground apartment and she made us suffer from asphyxia. What more should I expect? She was always like that. She got lucky that her husband died and left all that money for her, she renovated the house and now “go out to smoke, you will make my tapestries yellow”. It’s not her fault, it’s my fault that I even bothered to come and see her. If I wasn’t looking for those puddings for my daughter in law, I wouldn’t even be in the neighborhood. I just wanna leave… But I left the puddings inside.
Category Archives: short story
After how many wrecks the water changes color? Tears filled the sea. Lives that will never live.
Souls that escaped the madness of the war… But never managed to step on solid ground again.
And we? We count ornaments on the trees and writing letters. We swallowed our pain and painted it green; Red; gold.
Greedy the sea that raised us. Like is asking for a payback for all the summers we sank it with our shouting.
But it’s never going to change its color and we’ll always get lost in her beauty.
And we, we that are now counting the tears, when the sufferings wane after the heavy winter, will be the firsts to forget the Souls in its depths.
And when the warm summer nights her waves sing for soreness, Sirens will name them and fairies of the sea.
And we will count the pebbles on the shores under the shooting stars.
And all those who passed and gone in her cold arms, two words and twigs in the soil will witness the tears of last winter.
Check Mortals of Megapolis I & II
You can download them for FREE HERE!
-Hey, moving out?
-You could call it that, I guess… I don’t have a home anymore.
-You don’t…? What… What are you going to do now? What about all these? Wasted? Just like that?
-I got all I need… Only the necessary.
-Necessary? How can you separate what’s necessary among all your stuff? They are all necessary, they are things of your house, part of your life, your family… They are your memories!
-Well… My memories are well stored in my mind, plus I could use some space in it to put the ones that coming, don’t you think? I already see my future self sitting besides a fire with my grand-kids around when all this is going to be over and just tell them stories.
Things are going be so great some day, that my stories will sound unbelievable to them. To tell you a little secret; I’m going to make up some stuff too, to make them even better.
I will tell them about hellish hot days under the sun and cold winter nights in constant fear. Fires in barrels, eating with rats. Torn and filthy clothes, rotten teeth and walking barefoot in the snow.
Silence, desperation and a dying hope writhing inside, dead silent at times, or screaming with wrath.
Yes sir. I got all I need. A strong heart, an immortal hope and amazing stories to tell. Strong as a bull and brave as a lion. And if I will not make it to sit by the fire, remember that I once walked on this world.
Check Mortals of Megapolis I & II
You can download them for FREE HERE!
I fell for my wife and every night I sang outside her house. Her father threw a bucket full of water to my face, to make me go away, every single night. Last time I decided to go up and take her with me. I put a ladder under her window and climbed, then I heard something cracking and I found myself hanging from the vines and fell down. Her father came out with a Winchester. Next morning I asked her to marry me. All that, more than 50 years ago.
If you ask me now, I don’t have a life. I just exist. I barely breathe. No, it’s not my age, it’s I forgot; how to live. I lived so many years with her, that the only thing I ever knew, is to live with her by my side.
Now that she is not here anymore, I don’t know what to do; how to live alone. Maybe, I don’t want to find out, anyway.
Everything seems new, even the most common things. The morning sunlight, the lunch in the small kitchen, the walks on Sundays. The raindrops on the roof; Sleeping at nights on a bed too big for a single body. Yeah, maybe I am just too old to remember how to live alone again. Or again, maybe I just don’t want to.
Father always told me and my sister not to go looking for ways to cross the stream. “Never, never, never,” he used to say. “Our people always stay from this side of the stream, the other side is for the others.” And then he would bend a bit and with a whispering voice, always looking around first, he would say, “…the other side is for the spirits.”
So my sister and I spend springs, summers and autumns looking carefully on the other side to see the spirits. Occasionally we saw one or two but we couldn’t agree if it was a spirit of a man or a woman, a boy or a girl.
That was every year till I became seventeen. Then I left the house for the higher education and my sister didn’t want to return to the stream on her own.
Now, I’m thirty four and I’m standing at our side of the stream with my sister and for the first time we both agree, it is our father on the other side waving. He left us a couple of nights before.
‘But what’s the occasion, Mandy?’ a rather withdrawn and serious Ingrid asked.
‘Ingrid, there doesn’t have to be an occasion to go out and eat at a fancy restaurant during the week.’
‘Oh, Ingrid,’ said Mandy with an urgency in her voice. ‘It doesn’t have to be your birthday or an anniversary or a promotion or something like that. When you live in a city, people go out and eat all the time. There’s no room for the mentality of a small-town brain like yours anymore. You have to think out of the box now. You’re living in Johannesburg now.’ Amanda laughed. ‘You’re such a mouse. You should meet Scotty’s Samuel. He’s also a mouse. Mouse people belong to mouse people. I’m a cat person.’
Yes, Ingrid thought to herself. I’m living in Johannesburg now. After all, I’m a city girl now, so, I should act like one.
‘What was growing up in Swaziland like?’ asked Ingrid, glancing up at Amanda while she perused the menu of the fancy Italian restaurant.
‘Boring but I had my freedom. Should we have wine with our supper, Ingrid.’
‘No, no wine for me, Mandy. To do what.’
‘What? What did you say, Ingrid?’
‘You said you had your freedom. I asked, the freedom to do what.’
‘To go about and do as I pleased. Sometimes me and my best friend in high school, her name was Susan, we’d sneak off and play truant or meet boys or smoke, I guess.’
‘Everybody does that,’ said Ingrid.
Read the whole short story in Ovi Magazine, HERE!
On the day I was born, The War began. Or, better to say – The War began when I was born.
Oh, how sweet was ignorance, which has let my poisoned seed to grow in the infected womb.
At the beginning, I gave them the small conflicts, caused by my impatient crying, spread with my false sweet smiles. I knew so well how to win in this game.
I’ve had the knowledge imprinted in my genes. It was written in my existence. Everyone forgot but I knew…
Oh, how sweet was oblivion, which allowed me to walk unharmed on the unchanged paths of the history, carrying the toxic legacy of my predecessors.
I was growing, seducing miserable souls, trampling over their ashes, rising to the level of the Creator himself.
Each step brought more victims, each movement was a new devastating battle. And I was walking, breathing the scent of my own victory, conquering the world.
Fear and distrust captured the flushed brains in their caves. It was so easy to lure them with worthless images and empty words. It was so easy to divide them.
And then nothing left to them, except bare life they’ve tried to protect, thinking of nothing, wishing for nothing, seeing nothing.
They followed the rhythm of the war, hoping for peace. But the war followed my rhythm, pushing them deeper in their burrows.
And I knew, it won’t stop as long as I breathe.
And I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t have died. I will never die.
I will disappear when the wind comes out of the depths, whirling stagnant air. I will hide from the storm. And the heavy rain will fill drained cracks. The ashes of my victories will cover my seed. The timid creatures will crawl out of their holes, blinded with new light, hungry for new fruits. Licking their wounds, they will build a new illusion of unity.
They will forget…
And then I will come back, with the toxic legacy of my predecessors.
Oh, how sweet is ignorance…
Oh, how sweet is oblivion…