Dear John,

Some weeks ago I wrote you a letter
it felt like running backwards
to a time and place that bore little resemblance to what I thought I was
for that I used to travel so much
through words and images and symbols
I scarcely felt alone
as I was constantly moving and had hordes of characters hanging around.

Living since has been feeling like stepping further into a sticky
stinky slimy mud
Entering the Nothingness of a world of
reasonable thought and (sometimes polite) savageness
in which all my fellows cannot follow me.
I think I disgust them
all covered in realistic boredom and
crude stillness.

Dear John,
Sometimes I feel the urge of writing
but it soon fades
as so many people and creatures did
(you included)
then I am assaulted by shame
and embarrassment
of being unable to cope with this evermounting
reality
Also, incapable of fantasizing
I've turned you, so concrete and real (somewhere
out there)
into an old phantom

(maybe this time you won't disappear when needed)

On unvegetable plants

Some weeks ago I bought a plant. A succulent, to be precise. The uncheerable office would at least have a cute, though rather boring, being.  Boredom should be displayed at the office entrance, instead of its untrue name. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate”. Strip it off, it shall be useless, and a burden.

So, within those barren brittle walls I have spent quite a lot of time, breathing judicial thickness, mites and dust. Preventing myself from leaping to find open air – which is easy enough, once the windows are sole glass panels, inopenable. Trying to imprint some sense in the anguish that spreads through the central air.

I was pretty satisfied with my succulent, which, to me, had shown signs of adapting quite well to the unfriendly place. Watering twice a week, and leaving it in the parapet during the weekends, I had the impression that it was actually growing, happy to leave a dull shelf in the supermarket.

Today however I was surprised by the assertive analysis of two colleagues that declared that that was no plant. It’s fake, they peremptorily stated.  Bewildered, I examined it. I had already watered, cherished, caressed. An unvegetable plant.

Unconvinced, but hurt all the same, I refused to tear a leaf and settle the matter. It would not make a difference. Stunned by being incapable of differentiating a living thing from a piece of plastic.

CineMinuto 2

No image.
"It's coming.
It's coming down the mountains, it'll spread through the air, it'll enter your house, your body and soul. It'll laugh at humankind, it'll kill and give birth, and, someday, it'll vanish... Things will remain changed - what about that, huh? - and life will go on.
But it's coming, I'm sure it is".
"But, mate, what is coming?"
Sound of liquid being sucked.
A gasp.
Silence.

Somewhere, some night...

“Your Majesty, thou shall wake up hurrily... Your Majesty!”

“What..?”

“Your Majesty, I am terribly sorry for being as irritating as a woodpecker carving its nest, but ye must raise your body! Something awful happened and Counselor Whittingham is waiting for ye!”

“I was having a sweet dream, so it better be important.”

“I beg ye to rush... here is your robe, Your Majesty.”

“Where is William? Give me my slippers; this floor is freezing my feet just like the caress of Death.”

“Counselor is waiting for Your Majesty at the entrance of the chamber. Here they are, let me put them on for ye.”

“I appreciate your kindness, ancient Clarisse. Ye should stay here.”

“As ye wish, my sire.”

Clarisse stands still, the king crosses the door.

“Milord!”

“What’s happening, William? Why are we speaking at this time of night? It's time for demons to wander and conspire, not kings.”

“I beg thy pardon, but thy vigil shall not be in vain. The Duke of Wallerstein has stood up against Your Majesty's troops, and an envoy hath just arrived from the battle, claiming reinforcements. I took the liberty of congregating all thy knights. They're waiting for thee.”

“That man could be nothing but a rascal. We shall go.”

The steps from the Counselor’s wooden heel echo through the corridor.

“Your Majesty, I have some issues which should be brought up before the meeting.”

“Thou shall release thy thoughts, loyal William.”

“Richard Durkan’s army was the most affected by the struggle. It would seem sensible if thou giveth him some kind of compensation.”

“Indeed.”

“And Mark Lunn is there. Your Majesty must remember that he was the closest man to Wallerstein. Therefore, I recommend that we should keep an eye on him.”

“Obviously” they reach a closed door “Anything else?”

“Last but not least – I assure you... Here in these papers lie some radical changes that I propose for the strategy of the battle. They are the content of this sheet.”

“I will examine them carefully, then.”

“Good luck, my sire.”

“Luck serves only weak people.”

The king opens the door and enters.

In dictatorship's basements...

'Was there much pain?' it asked tediously. Why should only it make the question, though there were more than a dozen 'its' around him, waiting for the next one to cross the closed door of the chamber and listen to the same torture story? Inside the chamber the yells had stopped some minutes before, which made all of them gather together and wait for it to come out. And it came.
'Did I die?' it put to in response. It seemed awkward and confused with its new foggy body. 'Have I just crossed the door's wood?' it came closer and shrunk as a thunder voice commanded from the chamber 'Bring the next one!'.
'Yes' replied the first one '…and yes' it completed. 'We're something like a… ghost, I dare say. Why had they arrested you?'
'I had sheltered the leader of the socialist guerilla' it shrugged. 'Can we haunt them?'
'No'
'Ah, what a shame'
'They can't see us. And we can't touch things'
'Ah' it seemed disappointed.
'What did they do to you?' asked shyly another one that hadn't spoken yet.
'Oh…' it thought a little. 'I think they used everything on that chamber and also in the chamber number eight'
'Oh, that's bad'
'Indeed'
'Dictatorship sucks' said another one, smaller than the others.
'How old were you, my dear?' asked the newcomer.
'I was twelve years old'
'That young?'
'Yeah, they caught me too because my parents were communists'
They remained silent.
'Look, there's someone coming to be done for' pointed the spokesghost. 'Could one of you guys ask it this time? I'm sick of doing this'
'But you're our spokesman' said another 'or sposkesghost, spokesdead, whatever'
'We could choose other ghost to do it, instead of me' it replied, hopefully.
'Ok, I can do it, for now' said the newcomer.
They went silent again and inside the chamber the screams started once more.

'Wow, this one was fast' commented the little it when the yells stopped.
'Indeed. Newcomer, it'll be coming in a few moments' warned the ex-spokesghost.
A hazy silhouette came through the wooden door. 'Here we go' murmured the new spokesghost and said, loud and clear 'Was there much pain?'

P. 2

A waitress steps behind him and touches his shoulder. She says 'Senhor, o toalete está interditado'. He looks at her, with a confused glance. To him, the girl've just said a flow of dragged consonants. 'I'm sorr...' he starts, but she pushes the door closed and shows him a sticked paper on the door's wood, which said: 'Toalete em desuso' and below, in a tinier letter 'Toilet out of use'. He looks puzzled, turns around and sits on his chair. He eats some other candies. Has the man gone there? Eddie's fake's dying for a fix, and he got acid before. He seems to consider asking the waitress whether his partner has entered the shop, but it wouldn't be sane. Were the man a illusion? The wine shop is almost empty, except by a couple of young parents with a very curious daughter. The parents hasn't noticed him (they're too focused on themselves), but the little one stares him with big and interested eyes.
He seems to mutter something like 'Ok, that wasn't real'. He drinks the unfinished glasses, stands up, pays the bill and goes out to the mist, to the rain, to the river. And, if he is lucky, to the hotel.

Porto.

There is a man sitting at the other table of the little wine shop. He seems much alike Eddie Dean; the awkward black hair, the pale skin, the hooked looking and a pair of eyes whose colour is difficult to distinguish. Green, amber, blue, grey... could be one, some of those or might all of them together, it wouldn't make him more or less odd. He has some half emptied glasses of Porto wine on the table, his candies are almost all gone. He looks through the dull window, waiting for another man who went to the bathroom. The mist coming from the river gives a gloomy appearance to the city. He probably needs a fix; the bags under his eyes seems to be weighting a ton and he patters the table with his long fingers.
Tick-tock, says the shop's clock. He apparently cannot keep on waiting. Dean's clone puts himself on his feet and walks to the bathroom door. There he knocks. And nothing.
He calls the man's name. And nothing.
He tries to open it. It wasn't locked, so the door opens quietly. He stares the toilet, the water gently moving a large piece of shit. The smell spreads through the shop.

Composition #5

__'Come in' he said as he heard a knock on the door.
__A shy woman walked cautiously through the room, after closing the door. It was her second session, the doctor thought.
__'Good morning, doctor Hollow' she murmured.
__'Good morning, Miss Dunaway, please take a seat' he waited her to do it, and continued 'Today I'll ask you to talk about your childhood, is that ok?'
__She made an affirmative and her shoulder had a violent spasm. Oh God, he thought, this is sadly creepy.
__'Ok... when I was, like, seven years old we moved to a rural place. I had a twin, I've already told you, Susette, who was a few minutes younger than me. We used to play in the garden behind the house, specially hide-and-seek. My mom was always working until the late afternoon, so we had only our stepfather working at home, locked in his office. We used to feel very lonely, so we created imaginary friends. Kids always do that, I think... anyway, there were two: Louis and Jack. Louis was a little centaur and was very kind; Jack was a boy with wings on his heels, which made him much faster than us; he was audacious, stubborn and bad tempered sometimes... but we loved them.' She took a pause, breathing deeply.
__'Behind our garden there was a farm. In spring, that year, the wheat was very tall, much bigger than us. We used to race there, but Louis and Jack were very fast, we oftenly lost sight of them. One day, when the sun was high in the sky we made a bet: the last to arrive at home would eat the cat's food for lunch. As soon as we started Jack and Louis disappeared through the wheat. I got lost and just found the way home a long time after. Suse was not there and our stepfather was furious' She did the spasm once again.
__'He slapped me to make me explain what happened. I told him everything about Louis, Jack and the bet. He got crazy and we went to look for her. Suse was nowhere. We contacted the farmer, the police and all... but she was never found.' She went silent and started to weep.
__After a while, Miss Dunaway completed, sobbing 'our family was never the same after that.'

Clap-ton

Clap. Clap. Clap.
A shy noise came from the gate, sounds of hands clapping, anxiously waiting. He looked through the window. The house was dark, although she knew he was standing there, peering at her with his distant eyes.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The rain pattered the glass, smothering those stubborn clapping hands. They weren’t stubborn, actually, he thought, almost desperate, afflicted, but not stubborn at all. They could be stubborn in other subjects, fleshy ones.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
She wasn’t like that, he considered, and, thinking deeply, she had never been like that. What was she doing, soaked and trembling and clapping?
He stayed, she remained.
Clap. Clap.
Clap.
And then she stopped. Suddenly. Utterly. She stopped as she never clapped there; as a stranger; as someone else. She took her huge bag from her back and dug around it until she found a little white stick. She peeped discreetly and went to the other side of the street. There lay a stately bricked wall, wet by those endless teardrops. She threw her bag away at the sidewalk and began to write something.
Oh, that’s a chalk, he concluded.
The rain cleaned her writing in a few moments, but he could see her strong handwriting fading away with two verses. And then she clapped again, at the other side of the street.
‘And will we cry in passion or will we cry in pain?’
Clap. Clap.
‘And will our lonely teardrops fill the world with rain?’
And then he understood. He looked his dark house, and heard the other Her snoring in the room. He sighed, and went to the window. He didn’t looked at her face, just breathed near the glass, making blurry stains and writing a slow ‘in pain’, backwards.
He left the window and went to bed.

Composition #4

Once there was no America, no Italy and no Pope, only the huge roman empire ruled by Vespasianus. In that time, christianism was a forbidden creed, so their believers were hunted down and tortured. Some of them, due to these violent treatments, became mentally affected.
And that was the case of Alexius, a joyful young man, who had lost his right thumb when attacked by two drunk legionaries in the last villagge. He had wan away bleeding, in the middle of the night, mumbling beetween his sudden hysteric laughs. However, this incident had been more than ten days before, so he was almost healed.
Alexius finally found another city, which was located at the foot of an enourmous mountain. It was night, and the breathing was as difficult as if the air was magma. He straightened his ragged cloak and stepped in, doing the cross.
Not even two hours had passed when he was found by a violent legionary. Alexius began to run away, closely followed by the berserk. He tripped and fell. The man rose his spear. And petrified. Alexius too, and the entire city, as well.
The mountain wasn't a mountain, as Alexius had thought. It was a vulcan; the city was Pompey, and the year was 79 a.D. .

Kitty, kitty...

__Já estava tarde. Era a luz do poste que fraquejava diante da madrugada em potencial, ou eram os olhos obnubilados de Ray que pestanejavam como se arfassem dolorosamente. Ele se recostou na porta corrida de uma loja, fazendo um ruído de sofrimento metálico. Fez uma careta de insatisfação com o barulho e escorregou pela porta pichada até sentar-se. Ainda segurava uma garrafa semi-vazia de uísque, que levara embora ao sair aos uivos da casa da namorada.
__Seu estômago revirava-se, sua garganta ardia. Mesmo assim, aproximou o bocal e sorveu o líquido. Em seguida, arrotou. Suas pernas estavam trôpegas, e ele resolveu não tentar se levantar. Já não havia ninguém na rua, nem mesmo os costumeiros sem-teto. Ray suspirou e olhou para cima. O céu parecia veludo negro, não havia nenhuma estrela à vista; nem mesmo a lua sorria. Fechou os olhos e apoiou a cabeça na porta, que gemeu mais um pouco.

__Alguém que passasse por ali veria um jovem na faixa dos dezenove anos, vestindo jeans surrados, tênis imundos, com cabelos desgrenhados confundindo-se com a camiseta preta. Em sua mão jazia uma garrafa quase vazia.

__“Hello, Ray.”
__Ele abriu os olhos. Sua visão estava embaçada, então pestanejou algumas vezes, concentrando-se em discernir quem lhe falara. Defronte de si não havia ninguém, nem dos seus lados. Pela rua vinha vindo um pequeno vulto, andando sem pressa. Ray franziu a testa. It was a cat.
__ Ele bufou enquanto passava a mão pela testa, afastando os cabelos acortinados do hematoma que se alastrara pela maçã do seu rosto.
__“Are you trying to avoid me? What a silly boy…” The voice was closer, although nobody was there. E por que raios alguém estaria falando inglês, em plena Francisco Glicério, de madrugada?
__Ray tentou levantar-se, apoiando na indignada porta comercial. Ela guinchou. Seu cérebro registrou uma considerável mudança na viscosidade do chão, traiçoeiramente balouçante.

(...)

All is quiet, on new year's day...

__He whispers in my ears with softly kindness. The rain shuts up the fireworks's booms, and a low sound of an harmonica echoes, smoothly. No one stayed in the flats, all of them had rather go to the beach, jump seven (in the case of Laerte's God, only six, 'cause He rests in the seventh) waves.
__The world began, again. And I'm just here, quite reckless about the blow of events, just having tickles in my ears, wondering about something rather inconceivable.
__This almost emptyness of thoughts, this sensation of floating in something warm and velvet is quite pleasant, even with a touch of gloom.

Composition #3 Inquisitor's Guide

In these last months, I've been receiving a lot of letters from my old colleagues from Rome, asking for help to tame a bunch of young priests, who don't seem to know how to deal with heretics. I've been retired since 1658, but my old friend Giuseppe Medici compelled me to write this short article of how to be a competent inquisitor.

At first, a good inquisitor must be cruel and be proud of it. This priest should let the heretic one or two days without eating properly (just some water and moldy breads) and sleep. It would be good if the psychological torture, which come before the physical one, were based in some research. About the last one, inquisitors have to be used to a lot of blood and gore; and it's interesting to be a litttle deaf: the cries aren't lovely at all.

Newcomers are used to making unbelievable mistakes. For example, inquisitor must not show mercy, and can't be easily frightened as well. It's not wise to stay close to the heretics, even if they're chained. And, finally, in any case the inquisitor should talk about yourself, these devils are very keen.

So, here we have some basic advice of how be a satisfying inquisitor. If you, newcomers, follow this humble guide, you shall be successful on your mission, given by God

God bless all of you.

by Francesco Michiavello

Somewhat.

I saw you, sitting in a dead-tree
Listening the wind flow beneath us
Waiting for something about something

So I remembered that afternoon on the campus
When we're stretched on the grass, whispering
anything about an ulgy bee.

I wish I could see the better path
as clearly as I solve some math equations
that I know, we both like.

But actually, my dear
live the day you'll strike back
all the stupid things that I did to you
is something that I really fear.

So... hey folk, here I am!
Wheeling in the middle of the wall
Trying to skip this fool jam.

Composition #2

Many years have been gone since that fatidic afternoon. At first, I wasn't dead yet. I lived in Mosoonee those days, in a comfortable house at the suburbs, next to a national park. I was 13 years old and still had lessons at elementary school. Mosoonee, as everybody knows, is a tiny country city, so I used to walk by myself to school, every single day, even if it was snowing (of course, if the day wouldn't have been canceled).

It was the beginning of the spring; the snow had melted recently and I was coming back from school with some friends; it was sunset. I was laughing about some stupid joke that Mike told us when we turned the block and saw a skinny wolf sniffing the air. I stopped my laugh suddenly, but that sound echoed through the space. The wolf looked at us, the mouth half-opened revealing his teeth. It began to walk in our direction. My friends and I were terribly frightened, so when it roared we run away, each one to a random direction. I had so much despair that I couldn't think about where I was going. The starving wolf, for fate or something like that, followed me. When I realized this fact, I shouted between the gaps of my breath "Woooolf!... Wooolf!...". My feet took me to my favorite place: the surrounds of the national park. I was getting more and more slowly, the straps of my heavy bag were cutting my shoulders. Suddenly something (probably my hunter) pushed my back, making me fall and making the bag rip. From inside of it jumped a Tupperware with a half-eat sandwich. I tried to crawl away from the wolf, but my muscles refused to obey me. My hunter sniffed the food and decided to eat it, swallowing all at once. Then it turned to face me, with a tomato between the open teeth. I was paralyzed and couldn't do anything but follow that corpse with the eyes (yes, it seemed more a corpse than a living animal) surrounding me. I could hear noises of a far place, but beside that the scene was silent – I stopped yelling when I fell.

We stayed on that almost static moment until it decided to act. It jumped, aiming my neck, but I put my right arm in front of me. The wolf dilacerated from elbow to wrist; bit my hand and didn't release it. I cried as loud as I could, and saw an elder (neighbor of my uncle) with a rifle. He was trembling, but aimed at the wolf and shot. Lower than my cries, I heard the crash, but the wolf wasn't hurt. The blood flowing down was only mine. The bullet reached the floor, next to the wolf's tail. The monster felt threatened, but it wasn't going away without an award, so it did a hard pull in my hand and began to run away. The pain that I felt that day is something that I remember until today, in my dead-life. In the moment, I didn't realize that two fingers of my right hand had gone with the wolf; just when I saw (with wet eyes) my bloody mutilated hand without the forth and fifth fingers that I understood why it was aching so hardly. I heard another shot while my vision was getting blurred. I fainted.

After, someone told me that the elder killed the wolf with the second bullet. My parents took me to Montreal to visit doctors, but no one could help me. The wound had cured, but I had to became left-handed; I lost friends because of my appearance; I lost my childhood. It complicated my life and continue even now, in my dead.

Meio melô, confesso.

Reasons

I was opening the gate when the first raindrop fell. And then another, and another, and another.
The clouds were crying so loud that I couldn't listen my-self-pain. The arms of the drunk trees were whipping the air, seeking the highest clouds. It was a Cyclops battle and I wouldn't complain staying at home, listening my mood amplified outside. I turned and went back.
As soon as I opened the door, a wild wind passed by me and made papers on the piano madly dance until touch the floor.
"Oh my fuckin' sheets!" I bawled, pulling my bike in and closing the door.




"The word is 'now'
I'm ready to make my sacrifice
Pray - imagine all the things
That I never talked about" - Qui c'è un bisticcio, può capirlo? Ancora vorresti ascoltarmi ad ogni modo? *sospira* Allora così sia, non si può fare niente.

Composition #1 (Dear Lucy...)

I'm sending you this email to explain what happened a few minutes ago (I'm sorry I didn't write a letter, but I found out just now that I don't even have a piece of paper).
As you know, I've got Merry, the hamster, which has the bad habit of running away from the cage. Well, when I woke up today, I realized my milk was over, so I had to go out to buy some for the breakfast before your arrival.
I opened the door but returned to get my wallet; I was locking the door when suddenly I saw Merry on the corridor, next my neighbour's (Marie Dalloway) door. I tried to catch it, but it slipped away and I dumped Marie's door. At that moment, I didn't notice I accidentally opened the door. I began to talk in a low voice "Merry, come on, come with me" but it ran beetween my feet, and it entered in the gap of the half-opened door. I lost my patince and cried, angry "Merry, c'mon, you're driving me crazy!". I put my hand on the gap and definetely opened the door. I entered the room crawling, trying to catch Merry and saying, bored "You aren't allowed to move! Merry, stop!" I finally caught the hamster and stood up, when I saw Marie half-naked looking at me with horror on her face. We stayed a second analysing the situation and then she began to shout "Pervert! Get out of here, now!" I don't know when you arrived and what you saw, but trust me, it wasn't intentional. Sorry about this.
With love,
Stuart.
P.S. I didn't run after you because I had to explain to Marie what happened.