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.

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