Here is my collection of micro-fictions. In each post I’ll pencil a weird action, a character in precarious balance on the imagination, a theory soaked in a noxious environment.
It’s all here; the result of my imagination when not insufflated in spite of myself.
The thankless task of forcing the gate to elsewhere is left to the images.
No logic required. Just enjoy.
In a recurring dream,
- stripped of the dark courtesan clothes -
I toy with the idea of killing with my own bare hands
Once she said “Think”
“if love is a recurrent mood, doubt is the condition that lends credibility to the fight between opposite feelings.”
I don’t know;
I’ve never been able to close the circle of her theories.
When I dream
I feel as guilty as if I were rummaging in someone else’s rooms and getting my hands on the odd pictures of the lady of the house who – in a very private moment –
allows herself a little smile of satisfaction.
Playing dice he lost love, home and hope.
He found room in the Ocean’s arms, but it was a terrible trip and while the others cried invoking their own Saints in a Babel of tongues, he oared silent, resigned, the empty head.
“After all, not even my name they could spell, I bet”.
Tidy, clean, ideal; potentially perfect.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t exist.
When the script is vague, life is a commedia, pure improvisation.
How can you fight against your feelings if your eyes are closed? Not to mention the horde of fake figures hidden in the folds of your fan;
they don’t fit for the job.
More than once, he got caught by the coils of a hug or something that was just a bit more intense than a branch in the backlight.
And the eyes who stared at him, standing quietly on the doorstep behind the flowers, were most of the times distant and gloomy.
He was a dreamer; the only clown in a moribund circus that ends the show with a hint of a bow and whispers in your ear a candid “with love”.
What a strange story.
When the fame knocked at his door, he wasn’t ready.
The day he realized his qualities (originality, critical thinking and musicality) were finally known, he allowed himself a long moment of hesitation.
He woke up in the middle of the night, wrote down a couple of lines on the kitchen wall and vanished.
“Don’t look for me”
“How good is coffee in Istanbul”
Of his studies of emotional anomalies only a couple of pages survived; two poor pages debating the unexpected spasm that we, improperly, call ardor.
It was he, himself, who one day set everything on fire with a matchstick.
“People around me are cold” he said brusquely ”there was no thrill left, but mine”.
No surprise, the world welcome the act with a genuine enthusiasm.
In this frame, the arena is overfilled with characters fighting for a fake tower.
We hustle about waiting for the line that follows our name in the script.
When the light is on us, the face is clear, the wrinkles enhanced, the shade gets heavy, the breath short; all this makes the drama.
She’s there, shaping us with that light, burning our souls in the name of the Art. She writes our role again and again and stares at us scribbling furiously with that impudent purple ink that ticks everybody off.
She’s a damned troublemaker.
Earth has a melancholic and reflective character; it’s an issue she doesn’t talk easily about. Most of the time, she racks her brains about a simple question: “How scared am I of emptiness?” “So much” she answers herself from distant.
One day she met Light and got totally baffled, but didn’t step back from that chromatic turmoil.
At first, she was caught by the warmth of a solid, proud but quickly blended yellow hue; then by the greedy and deep hug, typical of some red tones. Finally, she fell into a dry black space and cried out, without shame, all the solitude of her being.
Surrounded by the chiaroscuro, she closed the eyes and reached the apex.
It followed an exciting yet meaningless masterpiece, born of the rainbow and the over rolling.