Impressionisms (Season III*) Ep. 1

Who lit up the candle under the fakir’s bed?
2118, New Delhi. Cars levitate crazily around the city, just like when there were streets for cars on the ground. Horns sound like dog whistles, annoying everyone’s ears with no noise.
There are people on every level of society, first floor, second floor, third floor and the moon.
The fakir seems a corpse with his hands crossed above his heart, lined over the rusty and sharp nails.
He is so white and tall that no one would ever recognize him as a native. And he is not indeed. He came all the way from Cambridge, Massachusetts, bringing with him all his PhD knowledge unpacked. Everyone profited from him, and now this is so old fashioned.
He tried to figure out a place in this society, but he has no caste. An affirmative policy allowed him to enjoy India on the floor.
He defied the system and now he lies on the nails during the night time. Everyone, from the ground and above, can see him on this resting outrageous condition. People get appalled by looking at him, they believe in secularity rather than science faith.

B, 04.09.2018

Listen to: The silence

*Spring, seriously? It is still snowing.

Impressionism (Season II*) Ep. 5

The city follows the Major warning. There comes another Winter Storm, except that Spring started some days ago. The Weather Service alerts: The warning is in effect from 2 p.m. on Wednesday to 9 p.m. on Thursday. The heaviest snowfall is expected to occur during rush hour on Wednesday and into Thursday morning.
She is coming home from work, snow shower has started. Traffic is heavy and landscape is confuse. She walks rapidly on the sidewalk, hearing the birds screaming hysterically while flying crazy to find somewhere to protect themselves from the extreme weather. She realizes how useless can trees be at this time of year, an obstacle on the way, just remaining shadows with no leaves.
She takes off her boots before getting in the house and shakes her heavy black waterproof coat before hanging it on the rack. She can’t stand wearing that everyday layer of clothe anymore.
She switches on the stove and puts some water to warm up, gets closer to the window and watches the horizon burst into popcorn made of water.
Nothing is magical when things are ordinary. Storms oblige you to remain at home by authorities alerts. She swallows her anxieties for warmer days and, just like a day in which loneliness takes place, she expects time to run off fast. Perhaps it heals.
She wishes Spring so hard that headaches sprout from imagined flowers. From snow clouds, she figures her own daisies and lilies, and then disperses winds of imaginary white bees with her hands.
Let it go. She is tired to contemplate that white freezing mess. The kettle whistle. She makes herself a tea and puts the TV on, hoping for some news of a better weather condition.

B, 03.23.18

*The author reserves the right to refuse accepting the beginning of Season III while no flower is seen.


A próxima novela das nove


Nasceram unidas, unha, carne, costela, dois corações e duas cabeças idênticas. Enquanto uma dormia, a outra acordada pensava em planos para se desmembrar. As lindas e loiras irmãs siamesas jamais se toleraram.
No espelho, a moça à esquerda encarava a face gêmea com ódio recolhido, desejando-lhe a morte. Como seria bom ter o corpo tão belo só para si. A outra tinha pensamentos semelhantes e tramava um jeito de se desvencilhar.
Quando nervosas se estapeavam ou puxavam os cabelos uma da outra e se acalmavam apenas quando a mãe, em tristeza e desgosto profundos, injetava no braço comum um sonífero nas filhas. O que seria de suas meninas, quando se fosse para sempre.
Ainda jovens, os quatros olhos das duas garotas se apaixonaram pelo mesmo rapaz. O homem de sensibilidade ímpar conseguia agradar a personalidade forte das duas irmãs. Aurora e Aurélia se apaixonaram perdidamente, e sentiram um ciúme maligno e dilacerante num mesmo peito.
Rômulo, além de bom homem, belo e abastado, propôs uma solução. O sonho da separação poderia agora se tornar realidade, com uma cirurgia que daria a cada uma a metade do corpo que lhes cabia.
Aurora e Aurélia não mais dormiam, pensando na hora em que não mais precisariam dividir a própria cama e a atenção de seu grande amor.
Como era doce o seu namorado, pensava Aurora, certa de que Rômulo a preferia. Como eram quentes os seus beijos, pensava Aurélia, segura de que logo se casariam.
Chegara a hora da operação. Seria em um país estrangeiro, e Rômulo não poderia acompanhá-las. A mãe rogava por uma conciliação entre as irmãs, temendo que a separação dos órgãos não garantisse a sobrevivência de nenhuma das duas. Aurora e Aurélia continuavam brigando antes mesmo da intervenção, para saber com quem ficariam as partes mais belas do corpo perfeito.
Ambas receberam flores, com palavras quentes e apaixonadas de Rômulo.
Em todos os jornais o único assunto fora a cirurgia, e depois o sucesso do desmembramento. Passaram-se meses de tratamento. Aurora e Aurélia tornaram-se duas mulheres perfeitas, e qual foi a surpresa ao se encontrarem pela primeira vez frente a frente. Abraçaram-se com amor e ternura, como sentissem falta de suas metades.
Ao voltar para o país, os dois corações agora palpitavam em dobro de emoção. Rômulo, acompanhado de Remo, foram receber as irmãs no aeroporto. As duas olharam encantadas o amigo de Rômulo. Remo parecia competir com os tantos atributos do companheiro, tão charmoso e atraente quanto. Ali estava o final feliz, dois belos rapazes para duas lindas moças!
Mas a vida tem seus mistérios. Rômulo não trazia flores, Remo tampouco mostrava-se expressivo.
De mãos dadas as irmãs se preparavam cúmplices pelo que perceberam não ser boa notícia. Os rapazes estavam também de mãos dadas, mas não eram irmãos. Rômulo tinha se apaixonado.

B, 03.03.2018


(Número 1, da série “Entre estações”)

Impressionism (Season II) Ep. 4

(Season II)
Ep. 4

The beautiful lady faces the wind. She has not prepared herself for the storm. Yet, she raises her head and her purple umbrella and tries to ignore the authorities’ warning to stay home.
But honey, said her husband before she run out to the street. She did not answer, just made a stop sign with her hand, opened the door and got out.
She wears raining boots and a raincoat. But her loose hair is suddenly wet and sticky. The wind blows chasing after her and she tries to hold her legs still. The umbrella is suddenly blown to the inverse side but her fist proudly holds it tight. There is not any other single soul in the empty streets and she herself is not enough conscious of her own life.
The parked cars are trembling. Sirens are heard from somewhere near. Things started dancing in a circle, foreseeing the birth of a baby cyclone. The woman is not afraid and keep walking, moving as if she was learning how to walk, hardly equilibrating one foot after another.
It is her day, come on. She takes her hair of her face, yet not intimidated. It is nature versus nature, or surrealism (since gravity is being questioned). The wind gives her a creep and she falls dramatically on the asphalt. Her ass gets all wet and her left hand dirty and grated. The currents blow now against her way and pushes her skin back, making her having a forced smile in her face. Her right hand releases the umbrella. Forget it, she gives up and let her protection fly away spiraling purple through the air. She puts her head down between her hands, her hair goes crazy up and down. It is kind of fun but she is feeling hurt and sinked. She did not go out to buy cigarettes.

B, 03.03.18

Listen to:


Impressionisms (Season II) Ep. 3

(Season II)
Ep. 3

B4F7F582-66B7-44E0-B6D8-40B57AF4D9EBI wake up after some exams in the hospital, dizzy as I am always dizzy when I wake up. They took my blood and my internal images by a cat scan, after I’ve drunk a bottle of bluebarry contrast liquid. It happens that I am ok. My heart is beating crazy normal and I can return to the city’s dance floor.
I put myself dressed with layers of clothes. I have some small pieces of cotton in my arm to stunk the blood and my shirt doesn’t really fits me. I have some dark circles under my eyes but I am so relief with the fact that I can go home that this puts an extra glow in my face.
It is quite dark outside the hospital and I see the city alive. I have the sensation that I am staring at a bedside monitor. I cannot understand all the colorful lights curves in the screen of the night, the gaps beteewn high and small buildings, the rush of cabs and family cars, the presence of an alien planet or a satellite among the stars, but I am sure everything is ok. I breath deeply and look at the city sky. It is just like I met a buddy and he says: let’s go!

B, 02.10.18

Listen to:

Boas vindas aos leitores.

Apresento este blog literário, como espaço para publicação de meus textos inéditos. Aqui se escreve ficção com base na realidade ou excertos de realidade recortados de uma ficção. Talvez apenas pedaços de absurdo contidos nas infinitas imagens cotidianas. Por isso, as mãos de Escher retratadas no cabeçário do site. Espero agradá-los. Boas vindas sempre.

I present my literary blog, a space for my unpublished compositions. Here I write fiction based in real episodes or pieces of reality cut out from fiction. Perhaps, just some pieces of nonsense from everyday images of life. That is the reason why the picture of Escher’s hand is at the header of the page. I hope I can please you. You are always welcomed.