CIBER GIRL

  A ciber girl from the new age, she is expected to be. She knows how her electro sensorial wires, devices and appliances attach. From her head and heart all the way down to her feet, the pretty left one and the other one that the set completes. Automated emotions, simple repetitive reactions; the buttons to press are predetermined, no surprises expected. She is the master of her own creation. Yet, there she stands trying to analyse her unusual recent behaviour; that silly comment that came out of nowhere, that answer she kept to herself. Why she stood there and stared, trying to figure out this person performing in front of her, struggling to find the common points to connect; isn’t that supposed to be very human like. Artificially built intelligence naturally fails to comprehend the business of the heart and the spontaneus life. She shakes her head, resets and rebounds from this autopilot state. Now, she is back on those feet that redirect all kinds of electromagnetic feelings throughout the nerves in her body. Religion and politics are said to be non-recommended conversational directives in the world of the bartender, yet, without that agitated passion they all just shared for the reigns of the unfair, they would have never had that spark in this encounter in which the rhythm of their hearts have just aligned till the end of the fight against unjustice. The world, a wonderful place that has become a great mess. Tapping beers, pouring wine, is the way she remains attached to the life that she knew, the simple life with the simple sosial arrangements. Sit down and unwind while I serve you the drink you like. The one you don’t even need to command. We have never met before but, in a way, I know who you are. Someone like me, with your things and your different dreams but, still, with a heart that beats, just like mine.

Ciber girl. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts.

DIRTY, SHE SAID

With the tip of her unpolished nails she plays by the rim of the glass resting infront of her by the surface of the bar, beautifully raw, like she. The intensity of her libation she thought to match well the situation. Anticipation had been building up since the sun raised, she had been gently commanded. Good girl, he had said, she very well knows how good she is and is overall aware she is no girl no more, but this, was a game she was curious to play. She enjoys her own company by the bar, to the movies, through anything else she does throughout the day. On full control, her life is very much of her own. Still, collaboration in certain areas of this kind of fulfilled lives can be quite lovely and delightful. She is a mother, to her inner child and to all of the wonderful creatures that live in her mind, nevertheless, she had enjoyed this affair with this, her new friend for the day. They met under the same underlined demands, left, almost, no trace behind besides the burning on her left cheek she could feel while resting by the, apparently, not soft enough though very elegantly designed stol she is seated on, reminding her to the whip in his hand, how it made her laught but no further emotion than that, a substitute feeling for the lack of substantial and deeper spasms. It had been fun. The collar buckled by her neck attached to the leash she had been directed with had left a subtle red rash by her smooth and silky skin, she applies on it the coldness in her hand transferred by the drink she is celebrating all the flashbacks of this her latest venture with. Being dominated is not in her nature but this had been well consented and accepted. The delightfully present and teasing cravings under her skin should not be ignored, she has learned. highly un-recommended in the making of a healthy mind, an advice she so naturally endorses. Intense red, whether a curse or a bless, it runs through her veins. Yin-yang molecules make their way through her nose with every breath she takes, travelling in and out through her poors. Tapping now her lips with her fingertips she gets that silly grin on her face. The last olive in the cocktail pick, resting in the emptiness of a glass with dripping brine remains by its crystalline walls, will receive the last bite of the night in which she opened the door to that room she had not been before.

Dirty, she said. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts.

THAT EXIT


For about two years I walked around with panda eyes, they all laught at such an abrupt statement, and so did she, even though it was true and it had taken a long while for it to be fun at last, while savoring drinks in this fancy hotel where, apparently, Madonna often stays, second fun-fact of the day. As the content in their glasses leveled down, quite evenly and synchronized, they continued to share past love affairs, the ones that no more hurt, of course, so they could gracefully deal with the more current events. All of them three were of the intense kind, love fully, get high, fall hard. Nightlife represented on its best. Flavours, colours, sounds and sweat, sweet dancefloor sweat. As almost always, the day will gradually aim towards that three floors venue with free love blessed, by collective ecstasy connected, filled with rebel hearts and freedom of mind. Techno beats spread through a crowd full of intimate possibilities, all of us sellers and buyers in this meat market of the tolerant and humane kind. Up the stairs, and above this all, an optional exit, entertainment and atraction for the consenting and curious adult. Discretion underlined while trespassing its doors, and impossed by the lack of light and inability to distinguish all parties involved. She has never dared to go as far up. There are things she hasn’t seen yet, secretly, she wonders how far she will be willing to venture, she wonders about all this places and arranged events she has heard of but never dared to. The bottle of beer offered by her, now back from the world above friends brings her back from wonderland. The music here is too good to stay still, all three together now swing their way into the dancing area where different outcomes to the end of this night lay out on a Tuesday, while the twilight outside wakes up Amsterdam and its romantic canals, its loud singing birds and its green and flower coveted parks.

That exit. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

THE WITCHES ARE OUT TONIGHT


Though she knows being on her own is grand, all this beautiful things she gets to do, all this wonderful adventures she guets to go through, still, sometimes, she does notice a slight gentle touch of loneliness sliding from her naked shoulder down to her bare hand and all the way to the tips of her fingernails, plain and untended, to ever so gently, for the slightest of moments, ardently swathe and linger to her index finger. Sleep, eat and swim, randomly, not in a one, two, three manner but in a six, ten, sixty-nine kind of way and then, maybe, paint for a while and write something nice. The female strength, the masculine tenderness, like a snake orgy they intertwine, tangle and curl. Life is such a mystery, you don’t have the answers and neither do I, one can only give it sense by letting it in, pour through and see where it sails to. Sensuality, sexuality, not weapons but tools for us to celebrate, life, ourselves, to connect, to communicate, develop. ‘Bring me a higher love’ she had heard Whitney say. Music, what an empowering platform, to cling to with sharp claws, sentient, like all animals, we are. This musical frequencies devouring our stress, our ‘I don’t get what this all is about’. Back glued to the wall, hands above the head, hips and spine slowly sliding down to the rhythm that commands her best interest and intentions. What’s your best dance move? They asked, she lifted up her hand and shook her head, feeling the air through her hair and by her neck. The heels under her feet help her leg get the right angle to awkwardly bend to the demands of the tunes so finely disposed. Sets of eyes encountering each other as they recognise the great invasion of passion they all share from the very core of their very odd beings. A Dancefloor Witch Project, Akelarre of the modern age, gathering around the brewing pot we all keep and hold in our bellies, warm and round. The witches are out, tonight and every night since the begining of time.

The witches are out tonight. Short-story 12 from o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

RASPBERRY LANE

One, two, three, her rhythms, her routines. She has her habits, her divisions in the fridge, her daily little techniques. Not too fancy to her view, is all low key, her coffee, instant powder, to the horror of the ones that pass by. By her room, by her life. The excitement of this life is subtle sometimes. It takes a while to understand and realise about the changes inflicted by time. Swinging her hips and her head, she still follows the beats of today’s Dj’s pace. The alcohol free bottle of beer in her hand is the new substitute to the drinks she had held in the past, the same way those had took over the cigarettes when her own body decided without warning, nor discussion, to discard that vice and the pleasurable details attached. She had to adapt to no more smoke signs nor enchanting orange lighted butts drawing figures in the dark whilst she danced. Her free hand up in the air worshiping the spotlights and the goddess of sound waves and sensual affairs. It’s been a while but, to her delight, she’s still got it, though her participation in the game has changed, social norms differ, and she astonishs herself by feeling slightly shy and self-aware, maybe with the next song she can shake off this emotion. Suddenly, she understands, she has been playing alone for long, has lost habit to partners, audience, friends and public. Mango orange toe nails is the only element of decoration she cares to make the effort to exhibit and wear. Her ordinary has become quite extraordinary, naturally, and as proof of her sentient character, she still likes to play. Little she knows now, by tomorrow at this hour, she will still be amazed, on how the highlight of the day would be the second of a thought in which her mind will embrace the idea of a warm cacao cup in her hands, dipping leftover homemade cake, whilst walking back home, after a beach spent day, through the organically grown raspberry lane.

Raspberry lane. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

A DIFFERENT LIFE


You will not hate me tomorrow, were the gentle words served alike with the gentle pour of water in the glass next to her other glass, the one filled up with the good stuff. How could I? she thought, unable to refrain from displaying a smile full of satisfaction, it is a grand feeling, indeed, to be handled by professional pride and natural empathy, like the one from those who can claim to be a properly skilled bartender. This particular admiration affair had over ten years of existence, for she had enjoyed the kind treatment and tender attention from the lady tendering the bar today since way back then. Back when she had a different life, or maybe not, for she still, somehow, feels the same, only improved, perhaps, like whiskey and wine do when time, righteously, plays its part. This talented bar attendant, who by now has gained the prestige of a dear friend that knows her well, still gets this elegantly new age rye based concoction beautifully chilled to perfection in this new mystical environment framed with dark velvet curtains, subtle lounge sound waves and pink marbled bar surfaces, like back then, in another time and a different place when she had a different life, or maybe just not, not that distinct after all.

A different life. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT TOUCH

I go down clutching my legs to reach out and tide up my shoe laze. What can I say, it has been a good night. I met the people I was supposed to meet, saw friends, and yes, you’ve touched my hand. Hidden in plain sight, our fingers have teased playfully behind the stem of the glass where my drink was held as witness. It was a public event, still, you have decided there and then, to show me your intentions with a display of public affection. As I reached to grab my glass, you have mirrored my hand and your fingertips have played with mine. As a default in the trade, the bartender had to pretend he was not there. I shrunk and blushed at the unexpected act. I froze as I felt the shivers down my spine. I want to be my best self and respond with equal dare, but, this is not one of those occasions in which I rise gracefully, leveling with the circumstances. I’m in the loosing side, I am clueless, I cannot read the signs. As I calibrate with reality, something just doesn’t feel right. But, for now, I take this as a little victory within my, still, relatively inexperienced spectrum of conquests. There is so much to learn, and as an eager student, practice is the only way to advance. I fix my dress’ wrinkles as I stand up, shoes now ready for walking, I resume my pace as I look down at my hand that, still, every now and then, tingles to the memory of the, now part of the past, thrillingly revealing moment at last.

Hidden in plain sight touch. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.