Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

I Don't Write

I don't write for anybody. Least for my self. I write because the words are heavy. I won't ever scrible a few verses and I won't keep them in my shue box only when "the wise" will decide that that is the day of pointles writing... Everyday is pointles. Everyday that you aren't a part of...

Saturday, March 7, 2009

The Bus That Went Nowhere

The bus departed from their station. Those two immediately started throwing words around.

- I was thinking - he said, with his silent tone, the same tone that foretold a lengthy conversation.

- When you think, kingdoms fall - she said, with a smile unlike any other on the planet.

The bus was cruising down the streets, never repeating the same path twice.

- You displaced my definition of happiness - he said after the long pause in which he stared into the two pupils that almost drank him dry.

- It was on purpose - she said with her sweetly distorted voice.

He grabbed her hand. The bus was still going somewhere.

- Don't ever get mad at me for the way that I love you. You know that I want you to be mine and only mine. You know that nothing tastes as it use to? Everything is sweetened by the thoughts of you...

- She squeezed his hand harder. The bus was now going nowhere. It didn't exist.

Friday, November 9, 2007

The Storyteller

There’s nothing worse that can happen to a storyteller, than to use up all his stories. That time, when he faces that empty new sheet of paper and says to him self “there’s nothing more”! At that exact time, the storyteller won’t give up that easy. He would amount to some desperate measures. No doubt, he would try and tell his own life story. What he doesn’t know is that during all that time he was telling other people’s stories, he didn’t write his own. There is nothing to tell when you look back at his life. He is nothing more than a mere storyteller.

The crushed storyteller cannot stop being what he is, but having nothing more to say, he will just stop. He will give up! He will rather die than admit that he has no more stories to tell...

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

The shortest short story ever writen

While we are all considering our selfs as the ones that are predetermined for greatness, this short short story has no capacity for greatness - it realized that, as us, it is just too small and insignificant to ever be great....

Thursday, November 1, 2007

The kid

– That kid must have an amazing sex life – they would say. And they were right. You should hear the stories he was telling everyone. He was talking about things people haven’t even seen on TV, sometimes things of which most of us haven’t even heard of!! People were talking, but, I always knew he was a nut-job. I knew I was looking at a lonely soul, a child trapped in a grown-man’s body with an imagination so vivid, that even Stephen King could envy him.

One night, we sneaked into his back yard and took a peak at the window that was illuminated. We saw him, sitting in his chair in front of the TV, watching Star Trek or SG-1 and masturbating. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My “companions” decided it was best to make fun of the poor guy, so they started banging on the window, making strange noises and taking pictures with their phone-cameras.

I went away. I couldn’t stand what was happening, but on the other hand, I never got the wish to stop them either. I have no idea what happened to the kid or what they did to him, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care anymore. They were pigs, and he lied to me. So, I just left and never came back...