A Ghost story

a ghost story…..

The woman passed her hand through her gray hair, her fingers sliding down the strands until they reached a knot. Her head bended slightly to the right, under the weight of her thin and wrinkled arm. She fixed her eyes on a spot on the wall, the inert covering of the dark room. Small points of light were dancing there, like the eyes of a wolf – a dark hunter, captured by the moon, an unfaithful lover. And she could see those eyes laughing at her old and crippled body, at her loneliness made even more depressing by the creaking sound of the rocking chair. Sometimes, she put her hand to her throat, stifled and astonished, unable to hear her own voice, begging the persistent fever to grant her just a few more days of life. And her soul descended into a deep pit of echoes, her long dress of thick black material was caught under the legs of the chair, muffling the only sound that kept her in the world of the living, as though that old house, with many sparsely furnished rooms, could be associated with the living. For her it was a mortuary chamber without luxury, jewels or eyes of precious stones reflecting the twilight, idol of the dead. But the wolf that was staring at her, bodiless and featureless, hid, in its entrails of imaginary animal, a young lover. A man who people said had never existed but whose touch she still kept in her bosom. That was when she placed her fingers between her breasts and felt a palpitation, the thin skin covering her bones, exuding bitterness, the taste of pain. And the beads of sweat continued to moisten her body, making it tremble when they were touched by the cold wind blewing in from the garden as though they knew they had not much time left. But, for her, the seconds were counted by the creak of the floorboards, laments for the old and bitter company with so gloomy instincts that they perturbed even poor Anne sleeping downstairs. The girl complained about her sleeplessness and nightmares, and the old woman could hear her breathing in the night, as loud and frightening as that of an animal. Sometimes she heard that same sound when Anne brought her tea after dusk. She did not need to turn her head, just felt a cold air behind her ear and, when she could finally see Anne approaching, she encountered that youthful figure, a lean face, thin lips and a frail body, standing in the shadow of her bedside candle – a girl with the features of a child. But during those days when the past filled Jane’s veins with such guilt, that she could not even move, the girl had the shape of a nun, carrying close to her breast a shadowy rosary that the old woman could never touch to ask for absolution. 

And, then, the face of a wolf came over Anne’s expressionless features and the woman would lose all desire for her company. With trembling hands, Jane pushed the cup away, her large dress wrapping her body that withered day after day, as if to still keep some warmth in that skeleton. But she felt no warm and, on this night, she did not need to stir herself since Anne had not yet opened the door. She threw her hands back, imagining a silvery brilliance on the window sill, an absurd desire on a moonless night. And a chill compressed her joints, the frozen hands of a man intent on seducing her again. 

Jane gazed into the surrounding emptiness, her life after death. She searched for him, but no one was there. 

  Anne passed her hand across her bony knee, raised her dress, revealing a paler skin where the candlelight could not reach, a colour of flower petals that threatened to fall in the despair of autumn. It was when skins lost the sun colour, the warmth absorbed by the cold earth. Her bare, white feet showed the veins and purple nails. She believed that the hands of the dead could touch the floor, begging for warmth, looking for the dim light from the eyes of the living. And she was afraid that they could see her frail figure, suck her from that world, tearing her skin. She was still searching for some flesh on her limbs, imagining them already crystallized on the hard bedstead. The bed was placed in a corner of the room, reached by neither sun nor moonlight. And, in the morning, if someone opened the door would find her rolled up in her sheets, a misshapen mummy waiting in vain for a golden ray, a touch of colour on the sealed tomb of a poor queen, the brazen objects waiting for some shine. 

Darkness now enveloped her eyes, reached the door and the ceiling, met the black in Jane’s dress, the old woman living upstairs. Anne knew the chair would rock alone in the night, as if invisible hands controlled it from a distance. She would go to Jane’s room only after dusk, when the wolves came out. And she would make the sign of the cross when she heard that far away cry. The call of the animal that the woman imagined dressed Anne’s fair skin with a golden fur mantle. The lover searching for Jane’s body, a glitter of fire in her eyes. 

to be continued….


			

Night is a woman dancing in the dark

The fisherman felt his feet sink into the sand, the marks faded away when touched by the wind. He looked at the sea. He did not see any color, only darkness. He felt the waves on his feet. The sound of salt water. The smell of open sky. The feeling of ordinariness.

He looked at the shapeless shore, the curves of nobody. He then turned his eyes to his house, watched his wife through the window pane.

He knew that a few minutes later she would go to bed, the aflame eyes open in the darkness, her half open lips faking a smile. They would stay in bed, their bodies contorted by insane moves of love.

There was the smell of her skin in the air.

Their house was devoid of traces of intimacy between them. For him, the intolerable distance between them seemed more vivid than the eroticism lurking beneath their sheets. For her, everything was trivial, she acted with youthful impetuousness, even when her eyes seemed a bit aloof and endless seconds passed between each blink. Endless seconds of pleasure or fully realization they would never belong to each other.

When morning came, repressing the putative happiness he had felt the night before, he looked at the sheets, still wrinkled. She was not there anymore. She had never been, she was only the mermaid of his dreams.

He laid his head on the pillow where her curls should have slept. He put his face down in it. There was a strange smell of sea.

Prima Donna

a page of my book, hope you like it 

 

The woman passed her hand through her gray hair, her fingers sliding down the strands until they reached a knot. Her head bended slightly to the right, under the weight of her thin and wrinkled arm. She fixed her eyes on a spot on the wall, the inert covering of the dark room. Small points of light were dancing there, like the eyes of a wolf – a dark hunter, captured by the moon, an unfaithful lover. And she could see those eyes laughing at her old and crippled body, at her loneliness made even more depressing by the creaking sound of the rocking chair. Sometimes, she put her hand to her throat, stifled and astonished, unable to hear her own voice, begging the persistent fever to grant her just a few more days of life. And her soul descended into a deep pit of echoes, her long dress of thick black material was caught under the legs of the chair, muffling the only sound that kept her in the world of the living, as though that old house, with many sparsely furnished rooms, could be associated with the living. For her it was a mortuary chamber without luxury, jewels or eyes of precious stones reflecting the twilight, idol of the dead. But the wolf that was staring at her, bodiless and featureless, hid, in its entrails of imaginary animal, a young lover. A man who people said had never existed but whose touch she still kept in her bosom. That was when she placed her fingers between her breasts and felt a palpitation, the thin skin covering her bones, exuding bitterness, the taste of pain. And the beads of sweat continued to moisten her body, making it tremble when they were touched by the cold wind blewing in from the garden as though they knew they had not much time left. …

Pleasure

              He had always been so shy. He was there now, staring at the woman he had always loved, his throat dry, his saliva tasteless. He began to sweat, his hands were chilled. She was watching him as if she was studying every little movement of his muscles, as if they could tell a story in the form of pulsing moments under his skin.  Every fragment of the prelude to their sex was emerging from this moment they took to stare at each other.

            There was silence between them. They could only hear the quiver of the window – panes. And only the light of a candle could save them from the darkness of the room. 

            They had wine,  drops running from the corner of their mouths, a fluid of pleasure. They ran as sensually as the candle wax on the table, melting at the foot of the candlestick. And he undressed that candle with his eyes, he imagined it as his lover with her soft skin, the glimmering flame now brightening her face and hair.

             As the flame of the candle was finally extinguished, their bodies were ready to fulfill  the emptiness of their pleasure.  

character

It was his last day in town, he was now under the crepuscular sky trying to disguise his disappointment towards the silence between him and the city. He thought about silence not as a concept linked to sound, but as the emptiness of expectations, a void. His needs hadn´t been fullfilled the days he had been there.

He was craving for a love affair but everything he could get was falling in love with a character he had met during the reading of a rare book. She was a piece of fiction, she was the dream which we all have about trespassing the boundaries life imposes to us. The character could do whatever she wanted, there were no limits to what she could do, she would repeat her actions everytime a reader would cast a eye on her lines. And then that´s what everyone calls fiction, living and living in those pages while he, who was not a piece of fiction, was there, empty under the crepuscular sky.

 

Love

She crossed the room by a moonlight beam. Her hair was fastened and she was wearing a blue, transparent dress. The red flowers on the cloth gained movement as she walked, almost coming off her slim body. He could imagine, through her dress, the nuances of her skin..

He asked her to dance.  Her eyes were brown and when she closed them,the lashes rested on her face like the soft wings of a butterlfy fluttering there for a fraction of second, her eyelids trembling as if she was dreaming. Her  glossy lips were closed, wordless.

He could feel her sweaty hands against his. He was in love. He only wanted to dance with her and wait until her hair was gray, his hands got feeble around her wrist, and the flowers on her dress faded away against his chest

Dusk

Dusk.  The orange stripe which spread across the sky resembled a languid body. Night was falling slowly. He gazed at the lifeless shapes outside and imagined a woman there, trying to seduce them, lying down with them in the murkiness of the hours. He himself was lost in the shadows, his deliriums and desires taking over his body like a drug. He watched the last sun’s rays beaming down, isolated from the crepuscular sky, creating a veil. He could imagine a movement in that veil as if the woman were an odalisk dancing to him. He stayed looking until this imaginary lover disappeared and night finally fell and, like a mantle, doused that spectacle of pleasure with darkness.

Empty

She was there, on the beach, listening to the sound of the waves which were breaking on the shore like an explosion of erotic sounds on warm summer nights.

Yet the beach was empty of voices.

She was drawing faces on a canvas, colored moves that were  stumbling  on the surface like drunk couples among sheets.

Yet, the beach was empty of lovers.

She was waiting for the dark hours to slowly swallow that landscape, to slowly swallow her sorrows and happy memories, but she had none of them. She was just.empty. Empty like that beach in the evening.  

Scars

She was found by him wandering as a ghost, looking for the man who had hurt her. She carried scars like tracks which could be seen when under the dead light of a streetlamp.

She entered an old and sombre building. He followed her and discovered an entire word there, in front of a half-opened door. A candle laid on a softwood bedside table where the shadow of a dress, hung on a wordrobe door, fell on. From where he was, he couldn´t see the woman but could hear her shuffling, see the candle flame wave when she walked. Then she saw him entering the room. She made such an abrupt movement that the candle went out, the lugubrious smoke flooding in the air.

Only their voices could be heard and when he finally saw her face, he realized there were no scars there, only pain.