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.


I write novels, he said. I write short-stories, said she. Well, that is also fine, replied he, a patronizing clumsy tall pale male standing in front of her, giving the impression of embodying a degree of hope for success in the business of inspiring some attraction and interest with his unfortunate display of efforts. She looked away with her eyes narrowed and a closed grin, are you for real, was the thought making her mind laugh. Apparently, he was. He proceeded by seriously suggesting going for a walk some day and went away with his clumsy ways. She looked at the sea, at the waves, the geese, the seagulls, the Jacob’s staircase, and allowed herself to be fascinated by nature’s beauty and nurturing balance. The take and give, the here and now, the then and there. Her feet dipped in the sand, her toes getting wet. Her back on the ground, she faces the sun with her arms stretched out and the palms of both hands down, her fingers exploring the newly born morning dew moisture, playing to get lost in the crispy green grass in this fine and random Sunday blast with a tall pale stranger and his clumsy ways delivered with a tender look in his sweet pale blue eyes.

You’ll meet a tall pale stranger. Short story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.


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 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.


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


Things go fast, very fast, around me. I seat back and sip my lemonade, with a twist. It gets warm, hot, I put my fresh hand on the back of my neck while I see my world melting, things are changing, I learn to deal with it. My body is not my temple, it’s my friend. We are masters in collaboration. I see the phases showing on my face, my breasts, my hair, while I hear everybody say “you don’t look your age” and I wonder how was I supposed to look instead. I am likely to stop hearing it soon, not a frighting thought at all. I look in the mirror, at myself, though slightly different, I am still there, more than ever if anything. Seating outside this venue is not in my nature, but today, I make an exception, I want to look at them go, not all of us are in a rush. I am thrilled to see, somehow, my path is not so crowded. We stumble between political regimes, I wonder if wasps’ democracy is equally weak. I think on the times when I grabbed a loaded glass instead of a guitar that would have made me romantically weaped for my neglected floor rather than lamenting the grimy state of the, pardon my French, salle de bain, this days are behind me now, or, aren’t they? Whether out of love hurt, the doors I shouldn’t have opened or simply a turn gone wrong, my companion, that is not a sacred vessel, forgives me along the road. This is how it feels to live. This is how we got here, vow to a bond based on kindness and acceptance. Together we have built a creature that thrives within nature’s guidelines best. With this quirky, cocky, lowercased “d” diva ways of mine, I am a queen. I wear my crown underneath my skin, full of precious stones, like pebbles of green peridotite.

Changes. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” ( The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)


I fight progress one human-tended supermarket counter at the time. I don’t mind the waiting, in fact, I like it, to a point, of course, and I enjoy the soft voice in the corner of my ear whispering, you do have time. I am, indeed, in no rush. I have been to many places and, sure, there is more to come, but for now, I have no reason to feel that I’m missing out, nor need to run after none. I welcome encounters of any nature that are worth of my time and attention. Like the finding of hidden tiny wild strawberries, the sweetest little things you will ever know, worth of immortality by the finest Scandinavian cellulose, along the way as you go. And here it is, by the queue that invites me to wait, that I dream. I dream of where I have been and how it could all be if any of it would have happened somehow differently. And the sound of my laugh wakes me up, for where would I ever want to be if not here. This is lovely, my place, my space, my thoughts. My warmth, my pain, the cold. For I own a Satie beating heart and, as it strikes on every key, my blood runs full of life and excitement, until I can almost taste, and smell, the metallic flavour making its way up and steaming out through my head and up into the air. Bunny shaped clouds floating above, I look at them and, once more, I dream. I dream of progress slowing down its pace, hanging on to life through the cable of the headphones attached to my mobil phone, I was modern once, while I keep on fighting, one groceries shop visit at the time, cherishing the memory of the sweet taste of wild tiny strawberries along the way.

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


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)


To my astonishment, I have, indeed, met, ‘cross my heart and hope to die’, believe me you, I kid you not, the, oh, so very adored, imaginary no more, unicorns. Four beautiful, sparkly and magnetic creatures and they were planning to round up the night by innocently snatching a police vehicle, with me casually picked as decoy. I totally agreed to it, of course. How could one say “no” to unicorns. After an interesting enough soirée, Nihon-shu infused, I was just seating there, tantalized by the events displaying right before my eyes and the story unfolding from within. Please, write about us, said the one with the reddish curly hair with a charmingly British accent while they walked by the bench where I sat. My eyes had been locked on the four enchanting characters since I made notice of them, adjusting the details of their master plan, involving the teasing of an officer, yet to prove his negotiating skills on the unpredictably upcoming fling, sharing giggles fueled with remains of angel’s share. One, two, three… Unicorns! They cheered, hands piled up on top of each other, as they broke up the circle where they held their improvised affair. I would, I said, of course. Here, therefore, to my charming and beautifully intoxicated unicorns I had the luck to encounter on a Saturday late hour while waiting for the last boat home on an oddly warm night on September. Shall this be the last time I meet such magical creatures, so be it at last, on the eight of the ninth on the twenty twenty-one.

Unicorns. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)


Is it me, or the screen of our telephones is taking our will to be physically wherever it is we might find ourselves on any moment, one login at the time. If this was something, somehow, we pondered about before, now, in a way, it is almost a matter of fact, one could even say. Says the woman writing this story on such a device. I try to avoid it, falling into the trap. Used to feel so embarrassed of finding myself nose to screen in public. I am still embarrassed, the only difference is that, now, that does not stop me from acting like an idiot anymore. Cause I do feel like an idiot while I’m holding this little, it didn’t seem so little at first, kind of the opposite, actually, rectangular flat screen shinning back at me. A sudden hope for a Midnight special to shine a light on me instead, reminds me that it is up to me to be this way. As the idiot in me snaps out of her idiotic hypnotic zone, though still with the help of the same device, I decide to play the song, unavoidably surrounded by flashing propositions and catchy lifestyle changing improvements for five seconds, that this days have the same sensorial length as an eternity, and I look through the window to my left hand side, for to my right there’s only a sea of idiots like my kind and that could, almost, make me cry, for only five minutes ago I was giving the same sad show. It is very much in my nature to loose track of space and time getting lost in my thoughts, though, that was the sort of thing that made me proud, it was almost like a super power, whereas this, now, feels almost dishonest towards my evolution, diminishing my chances to a graceful future.

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