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.

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.

QUITE PLACE

I just need some more time to pass in between my last message sent and this overwhelming, and highly revealing, quiet space, to regain my sense of personal pride. This distance is leaving me cold while decreasing your relevance. The hard to believe part is that I still need to convince myself about the meaning of this interval, this interruption. I still have to translate these irrefutable facts into a language, the one the heart speaks, my heart. Yours is probably just fine, it risked and gave nothing still got, I dare to say, plenty in return, though it did not last long, the feeling has been quite uneven. Me trying to understand your everyday drama, me cuddling your cold skin, me providing company, me offering appreciation, natural admiration, though you are the kind of despaired artist that I don’t get, and, ultimately, skinny dipping in the sea,my sea, my waters, my very welcoming reception into my temple. Yes, today my body gains a sacred distinction, for it feels profaned as what gets taken for granted must. At the end, it is me left with the odd feeling and, yet again, wondering how I, again, got myself there, here, where I stand, empty handed, and also empty of wishes, and desires. Apparently, I have lost a battle, my lack of competitive drive leaves me with no feedback, however, somehow, my brain does like to keep me entertained. Suddenly I remember the pod of dolphins I was lucky to spot from the deck of the boat today and how that made my day, over all, quite magical and random. Now, I hope for that extraordinary boost to help me feel less spent, less tired, of trying, of first encounters followed by a mere handful, and of the midnight hours hunger, inclination, eagerness, flesh lust and fascination.

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

IN ANOTHER LIFE WHEN WE ARE ALL CATS


Drugs through the needle are to be avoid but no one warned me about the dangers of the little vibrating device I hold in my hand. I was not told that once you get started it is quite hard to stop. Dosification and moderation are key to a healthy, balanced life, getting to know my drinking limit and leveling down the amount of sugar turned out not to be enough. Laying down on my back as I look out and up to the sky, nothing is more hot and sexy that nature, the wind blowing, travelling through the swinging trees, feels so inviting to launch on this free skydiving trip. I forget I’m on my kitchen floor, by the balcony’s glass door, wide open so I can hear the birds. The subtle buzz gets my mood right on and wanderlust builds up, girlscout prepared embarking on the vogage up towards pitch high. Hanging on a thin string with my fingertips for as long as I can bare, it’s at times difficult to handle, specially whilst my body and mind discuss back and forth whether this is the best I can do to relax or should I rather take a cold bath in the aim to simmer the flickering flame of desire. Am I as greedy in other aspects of life, I doubt that. Overall invasion of electric shocks and then, one, is never enough, neither is two. How many treasures can I find, before I run out. Out of power, energy and any conscious thought. An innanimated flesh mass until I regain my strength again, and my will power to get up on my feet, and on with the day. Wondering if everybody feels the same, if we all have this need for attachment through this delightful inner convulsions and extraordinary high voltage charges to our brain. And if so, how come it is not easier to get, how come I need a device to get me there. In another life, when we are all cats, we might just be able to get smoothly close to one another, and ever so gently, touch with the back of our heads the shoulder of the ones we prefer and explore this free love of the hippies and the sixties affair.

In another life when we are all cats. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

DON’T FALL IN LOVE WITH P. N.

Don’t fall in love with Paolo Nutini and the like. Though I have never met this particular man, I can already tell it is highly un-recommendable. To fall for confessions, served with luke warm words, about past adventures hurting his heart, where you will like to reside. You are different you will not leave him astray, damaged on the side of the way. By a carnivore plant designed to attract, trap and catch, I’m being devour alive. When it hurts, celebrate, I say. Uncork the bubbles, put on that dress Lana wears so well, and dance. Drink and dance. Plant-based has good fastfood options as well. I got a playlist, liked songs from the net, randomly switching as I shake it off. The Cremant in the fridge was waiting for me. Aren’t Wednesdays the best of days to let down your hair and listen to how others suffered as well, fell in love, broke up, got together again. I’m not old but I’m too old for this. You don’t know anything about me and your sole feverish attraction is purely based on the idea itself, isolated and disengaged of personification, and it’s our creative nature to blame. In my head I’m very smart, I talk algebra, chemistry, there’s a philosopher, Gilbert, living inside, and, easy or not, one has to let go to get by. Conversations in my mind are my real joy, the treats to my days, I understand the world, us, the universe and life itself. The quality of my sight is defined by the amount of light out there. Through my chest I answer to myself, in morse coded verses, an invisible hand is squeezing the blood pumping organ that takes care of my health. Short and long clutches assembled in threes, as it was done by the marines. I play no instrument of the musical kind but the keyboard in my hand connected to my calling device writes the stories I will tell and share with the hope that, when read, others got to sing and dance as well. When it hurts, sing and dance, be bulletproof, I say.

Don’t fall in love with Paolo Nutini. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

SAND CASTLES

In the realm of the brain we punish ourselves for the doings of our, much under appreciated, biological setting. If we could only just be kinder to our irremediable nature. Walk hand to hand with our deepest desires, the relatable and the obscure, careless to how much our fellow warriors are willing to endorse, for to some of us that might as well compare to an apocalypse of the zombies affair. No license to lust. So my fellow fighters in this crusade for survival can justify the lack of action within the paragraphs of their very own un-satisfaction. Can we blame ordinary life? I can’t help by wonder about the unfairness of the proposition. Life is life, wonderfully raw, tough life. And then, there are our decisions, our standing by the fork of a path unwilling to move nor left neither right, for nothing is meant to remain still. As the plants grow, the rocks give into erosion and the water turns into clouds, and consequently, ever so gently, purple rain falls. We have landed here to feel and decay, hopefully with grace. One apple a day keeps the doctor away. Stretching, drink water, sunscreen. I find it easier to care for you unconditionally now that you are gone and live in my head at one arm’s length. Right where you are, I freely adore you and our history, with its subjective lenght. I use it all at convenience, my own, now that you are a two dimensional colour in my imagination where we are both very kind, building sand castles by the forever erosioning coastline. 

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

ONE FOR THE ROAD

The clicking of her heels on the asphalt was the only sound surrounding her thoughts, as she walked down the street, at an hour when she always felt on top of the world. It was over, the feeling was gone, it was not that long ago they had met and the feeling was already gone. Her firm steps were guiding her heart to a stronger and reassuring beat, as they echoed up the narrow street, though cruelly pebbled, still appreciated by the romanticism attached to the architectonics of the age now passed. She was free and freedom tasted to reality. Shoes in hand, her feet felt cold. A snow flake landing on her nose took her back from melancholia, yet, another story that soon will belong to the past, with no special importance attached, living in her heart. The door from the bar, she had left behind, opened, letting out some recent former partners on the art of casual encountering, and, with them, muffed rhythms of the night, which, down there, often got a little stretched into brighter hours of the day. She grasped the leftover sounds and danced back and forth with time, for, though the feeling was gone, she was not quite yet ready to move on, and, she might as well, just for a short while, stay within the year of the cat with the Lucies in the sky.

One for the road. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

THE EMPTY SEAT RIGHT NEXT TO ME


You haven’t replied to my message but, at this stage and age, I let that micro-nanosecond of disappointment slide through and out of my body without much residual regret. The doings of fermented grapes and grains cannot determine my day. I actively taste the seas, the lakes, the oceans I meet, and I swim free. I greet all the different versions of me as they coexist. Cold sea, head under water. Like the geese by the beach, one of us is on guard always looking up. Only every now and then, I close the curtains to my boudoir, keeping your face in a jar by the door never did any good to the lonely people in the world. I choose to upgrade this episodes instead, and their idle side effect emotions, before they rot, into two dimensional devotion. Mind you, this is not as much an empirical approach as it is a visceral sensation, an intuitive perception, but it works. Now, it’s all translated into colours, riddles and rhymes and I own it all, on my very own terms. It all has a different taste, this dry Martini is now salty and wet, chilled to perfection; I savour its texture and flavours introducing three olives bright green held together by a cocktail-pick. And I sip while looking at the empty seat next to me, reserved for the people with whom I can share agendas, interests and kicks.

The seat right next to me. 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

ORANGE WINE

With your hands covering my eyes I’m testing your wine while you are standing right behind, close, very close, the soft sound of your voice, so very close to my neck, travels with the air you breath, oh, so very close to my ear. Well, how about it then? I nod in approval. Your hands opening up my line of sight, a cloudy light orange wine, which remains I’m still savouring in my mouth, swirling in my glass, your glass cause we share, we share everything we can, exploring this sensorial world on our own terms, we, together, decide. Everything is new, your smile and mine synchronised ‘like a virgin, touched for the very first time’ I wonder what part of my brain is handling all this. Glad to see that you, like me, don’t find your thrill in the chase, a game reserved for the insecure and lame. Cross over here and come swim with me, was all it took, and now, we are hooked, to each other and the wild and pure flow in between. As nature is our witness we cherish our human condition forgetting what we have been told, we have a voice of our own, celebrate our intensity, political drive and physical call. I take a sip of this crisp tropical sunset coloured delight blended with your lips and as I walk towards the little girls room, I consider the thought of falling into this habit of my awaken mind reminding this, all too keen, heart of mine, shall this come to an end, sooner or later me or you shall want different, something else… and I stop myself right there, for I am not sure, either where this feeble routine comes from, neither of its worth of use. This patronizing of emotional brightness by this cocky acuity state of mind. With a life of all wishes granted and in no possession of bucketed list of lamentations, I return to the embrace of your arms, without shell nor shield, to savour this cloudy light orange wine opening up in the glass share.

Orange wine. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales (The red table & A scared black cat book adventure)

LIKE AN OCTOPUS WITH THREE HEARTS

I retrieve my tentacles like an octopus with three hearts. In the manner of a fishing net with delicate round-tipped hooks by the edges, I spread myself to catch the favorable offerings. Over excited about fulfilling the romance prophecy. Rushing, not seeing, not reading, while the red flags play a decorative role to be ignored, unless, until the wind blows, strong, and their flapping, like fingers snapping, lastly breaks the spell. I retrieve like an octopus to heal in my cave, with a garden, in peace, by the shade. With my tentacles I taste life, the one I’ve built. My life. The one where I fit, where I thrive. Surrounded by wood, colours and rhymes. And the sea. I live by the sea, I swim. With my tentacles I play with shells, with algae and a seal. The cold water gets my skin to shine. I wash off the musk from my outer layer for nothing deeper grows when time has been fast forwarded. Clean now, with my tentacles safe, I look at the trees, and everyone that in there lives, sipping from the treat in my morning’s first cup. I let the air deep into my lungs and, as I exhale, I let myself flow, once more, into the unknown.

Like an octopus with three hearts. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)