Fears

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Poetry
He stands awake.
A foxlike figure
ventures into the woods.

Voluptuous fears.
His only chance
To speak half-truths.

He steps away,
The river dries out.
He does not know
How to swim.

He falls asleep,
dreaming of broken windows,
blue-tinted grass
And old-fashioned toys.
A tiny merry-go-round
running out of battery.

Voluptuous fears.
His only chance
To speak half-truths.

Black Magic

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Poetry
Stepping aside,
And mending steps,
And working two jobs,
And renewing her magic.
 
Like the black magic
That comes and goes.
Like the black magic
That comes and goes. 
 
Silent wishes,
Dreading fun,
Founding fathers
Of fear and dust.
 
Feeling lonely, 
Stomping feet,
Crafting stitches,
and black crows.
Like black magic
That comes and goes. 
 
Dream and hide
Her feet deep
In the sand. 
Her troubles diluted
With sips of bitter pleasure.
Her wildest dreams.

Like black magic
That comes and goes. 

Bells

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Random / Poetry
Stepping stone,
Wonderful ears
They hear the music
While I swing along.

Back and forth,
Like a little child
That sleeps
And does not want
To get woken.

Like a song
That does not end
In innuendo.

Wonderful years
They go away
Like a sad song,
Like the slipping rain.
Stupid fears,
Those hectic lives,
The bells go wild.

Silent Song

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Random
Singing silently
Solving riddles
Welcoming the intense pleasure
Of dipping my toes in the sea.

The water is warm
And all I want
Is to spend my future
Trying to decipher where to swim.

Strepitously silent song,
It breaks my voice
And produces
Luminous
And distilled sediments
Of fear.

I am helpless,
Like a river
That heads
Towards the unknown immensity.

Only to die in the sea.

Intense pleasure
That invokes fear
And truly starts
Like a silent song.

Singing silently
Solving riddles
Welcoming the intense pleasure
Of dipping my toes in the sea.

Days Rained

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Random
 Toss a coin.
What will be, will be.
Forever unknown.

If I ever wanted to go and fly
I'd give it a chance
To my dying habits
Of swelling wet rain
Speaking half-truths
And venturing into the abyss.

All I want
Is to give away the fears
Precious as they are,
And to welcome
The uncertainty of days gone,
Days rained
And far apart,
Like a tiny figment
Of my imagination.

The one that dries out
Every time I think
About saluting the new world.

Birdsong

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Fiction

He entered the pale wooden café on the far corner of the shopping mall, the one facing the cylindric office tower. It was a pale day in November, and all he wanted was to sniff away his fears, which at that very moment were taking shape as the extra weight he’d need to lose before his upcoming race.

Slowly but surely, he approached the waitress, who was chewing gum and inspecting her gel nails before his very eyes. He proceeded to order his staple meal of red quinoa salad, sauce always on the side, and beetroot hummus with raw vegetables (no cauliflower, thank you very much). The fact he’d ordered such a carb-loaded meal felt extremely overindulgent right now.

He was a runner living in a city he hadn’t yet explored but which he already hated with all his guts. It was not as peaceful as his Swedish mistress land, not as green and welcoming to birdsong as his hometown. They killed pigeons over here, or so he’d read in the newspapers a few months back. No wakeup birdsong for him either, no window sill visitors, no shitting on his outdoor Ikea-bought plants.

It was a lackluster city, a parkless sleeper town. Or so Joni’d told him. He hadn’t dared explore his immediate surroundings, just keeping to himself and indoors on weekends, planning the next moves for his long-term marketing project and browsing through Etsy in search of his new set of Skandi home appliances.

The only time he’d ventured into the center had been to purchase some wildly Instagram-ready and aggressively unaesthetic toe shoes.

Are they comfy, those shoes? Dora had asked one morning while sipping on her first black americano of the day.

Not especially. The sole is terribly thin, so I can feel the pavement as I walk. It can get quite bad in the middle of the summer, as they are not properly insulated. Anyhow, it is better these days, as it is November. Which is milder, the runner thought, and feels a lot less like autumn than all the Novembers elsewhere, either home or back at Joni’s place.

Into the café came Dora. Earlier that morning, he was feeling cheerful so he had asked her out for lunch. He expected another meal of open relationship prospecting, yet all he could do was listen to her talk, to his surprise, about how boring she was finding her current job.

He couldn’t believe his ears, getting that job had meant something to him, he considered it a stepping stone to his new me. The one that would build up a new marketing emporium in this grey and birdless city. The one that would race the world in toe shoes.

So while sipping on a glass of white, he said:

Why don’t you go to therapy, Dora? Here, I will send you my therapist’s phone number, she is great, fully covered by health insurance.

No shrinks for me, thanks very much. Dora said quite self-assuredly. They never ever helped me. If anything, I’ve always felt judged by them. The one I had a few years ago, would arch her eyebrow in eager anticipation of what I was about to tell her. She took a sip of her red wine and looked at her own fingernails, painted a grainy blue.

The runner arched his eyebrow and scratched his hairless shin. Thunder solemnly stroke, announcing some doomed and wet afternoon ahead. He turned around in his seat, contorting his neck, trying to get closer to the window, attuning his ear to what the city was about to tell him. Still no birdsong. He wondered how he’d run back to the office in those toe shoes.

Tightrope

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Poetry
I wish I'd told you earlier
How much I like
Walking over thin ice. 

I feel the thrill to open up pandora’s box, 
the one holding the key to your desires. 
 
I just want to carry on walking,
Feeling the sun on my back,
Stepping over the edge.
Just. 
 
I wish I’d put on better shoes,
Since the edge is long and slippery
And I keep looking down the abyss. 
 
And while I stay still,
A fly sits on the tightrope.
Suddenly I start sneezing
And lose my balance.
 
I wish I’d told you earlier
How much I like
Walking over thin ice. 
 
I just want to carry on walking,
Feeling the sun on my back. 
Stepping over the edge.
Just. 

Storymaster Leaves

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Poetry
Hop on, story master, 
The one that would not let
Her fears run away
Through the back door.

Unrelenting stride
Gets near
And gets catapulted
Towards the crying tree
The willow
That my dad pruned.

It had to die
And with one last cry
It got swallowed up by the earth.

Rest in peace majestic willow
The one beautiful backdrop
Of my endless summer holidays.

When I was a child
And then you die
With your unrelenting stride.
Story master leaves.

Acerbic Love

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Poetry
Apocalyptic fears
That come and go,
Marvelous weather
That gives me solace.

I feel slightly thirsty.
The housecleaner is gone
And the floors are wet,
Ready for my indoor skating.

Dying habits
And freckled skin,
The dog approaches
And wets my knee
With his muzzle.

Acerbic love.
I take a sip
Of my wine.
I call a truce,
She leaves an open door.

The wooden panel creaks,
I get flustered
And my cheeks redden
When I imagine myself
Writing this.

The White Seahorse

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Random / Stories

The swimming costume sticks to her ribs and rubs her skin the wrong way, as she advances on her chlorinated walk to hell. Mum has sewn a plastic white seahorse on the lower right, close to the suit’s seams. She keeps feeling its rough surface as she slowly takes the stairs up to the pool.

Do you want to get back to the white seahorse?

Not really, says the child.

Stupid kid. Off you go to the yellow seahorse queue then.

Dora closes her eyes. She wants to imagine a life where the is no trip back from the countryside on Sunday night. When there is no stop on the highway rest area either. And of course no need to rush out of the car and throw up her half-digested snack.

But she can’t control the car motion and here we have yet another Sunday night commute to the city. The football radio show keeps blasting away. The car smells of old cigar and dad is sipping on a beer. While he is on the wheel, indeed. These are the eighties, mind you.

Pull the windows down. I need some fresh air. I want to levitate over the highway, catch my breath and fly back to the country house.

Anything to escape Monday´s swimming lessons, 10 am sharp.

To this day I still remember the white seahorse.

I ended up with two of them by the age of five.