metamorfema

[metamorfema]

Untitled #1

After settling him on the back seat —him barely managing to sit or lie down properly— I went to the driver's seat.

I noticed my hand was shaking.

Through the mirror I could see the stains of red dripping from his chin onto his white shirt. He was hugging his ribs awkwardly with his left arm. A grimace of pain fixed on his face.

"Hold on I'll get you to a hospital.”

"Nah, let's stay here for a second.”

"Wha...?”

"You know I can't go to a hospital," he said absently. Why did it seem like he was having fun with that situation?

"Are you sure?”

"I've been worse than that.” He’d be shrugging, I’m sure, were it not a very painful task to move his shoulders at that moment. It could be sensed in his voice, though, the shrugging.

"Isn't there anywhere I could take you instead?”

Again the absence… Staring out the car window into the sea waves.

"You should put some music on.”

I blinked.

"These wave are nice.”

I looked out the window. They were.

"Hey.”

He didn't respond. For a while. Then, "Huh."

"If I let you stare at the waves for a while…”

"Hm…" he was listening.

"Will you let me take you to the loft and take care of you?"

Absence yet again. But this time it felt contemplative somehow..

Finally a consenting "Hm." came, never breaking the gaze from the waves.

I watched his fingers tremble as they tried to shield the damaged rib cage beneath. I wondered whether touching them would make them steadier.

"Why?” He had genuine puzzlement on the face.

I started out the window again. It was my turn to be absent. "I don't know."

"I don't know what else I could do.

"You could leave me here.”

"Would you want that?”

"I don't know.” Again the shrug. “I don’t think so.”

“Took you some thinking.”

“I just never knew there was another option.”

--Iguer [05/SEP/2023]

#amateur writing #writing #light angst #blood #oneshot #short story #scene #gay #lgbt #lgbtq #queer #Spotify

[metamorfema]

Uma Amiga, uma Ponte, em uma Paisagem

Foto que tirei em Pantanal-MT, Brasil

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Do álbum:

—Igor A. Silva [21/JUN/2017]

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Ler esta publicação em: esperanto

#foto #fotografia #photo #photography #pantanal #pantanal mt

[metamorfema]

Revés

Read this work in: Portuguese (original) | Esperanto

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It didn’t matter where he looked, everything he saw was the same scene repeated over and over with multiple variations.

The couple was still the same, with the hands together, the groups were the same, the individuals, whose companies didn't exist, were the same and, in the same position, everyone stood.

The expressions almost were explicit to me even if there was all that filthiness, even if there was all that blood that ran off incessantly from the wounds and gaps of the most varied types. Even if there were heads out of each of their appropriate places as well as other limbs of the bodies called, by themselves, humans.

The mess was such and yet everything was, undeniably, in its right place. The benches, the chairs, the board, the teacher, and the people.

I stood at last. I, a poor and little boy, stood and passed by all that monochromatic chaos and left. I left to find an exterior world organized such as the interior one.

Walking, I went on. Many were the things that lay forgotten in the street, on the sidewalk. Some over the others and others over the last ones. Piles and piles of indispensable things as well as dispensable; useful as well as useless; mine as well as others’; among which were photos.

One, that lay a few centimeters away from my non-left foot, had fallen in such a way that the white, empty, null, not filled in part was visible. Unfilled except for a small description of the content found on its other side. “Family” was what it said because family was what it showed. But not on that empty side, not on that side in which no one took interest, upon which no one looked when consulting a photo album, but rather on the other side, on the interesting side, on which things were displayed, messages transmitted, memories relived, on the side in which people showed interest.

I flipped, without further ado, the thick paper, to find a frozen group of six people, among whom there was a little boy. That little boy, the one; yes, him. And his family, brethren, cousins. His.

At first I didn’t pay much attention to the scene, what would there be of interest in such a banal scene, so aloof to me? But, looking again, more attentively, it wasn’t totally aloof to me, it was actually a bit close, I’d say.

The people on it represented were not so distant anymore from the ones that would be there were that to be a representation of my family instead of the little boy’s. In fact, they were very alike, even identical. But, by the third time observing the scene even more attentively, I was sure that, yes, they were identical. They were the same people. Then, lastly, there was no little boy’s family anymore; there was my family. There was no boy anymore, but there was me.

The little boy, not in the photo anymore, was now approaching from the side, some ten meters away from me, and ever nearing. My first instinct was to repudiate him, be it attacking him or running away, whatever worked. What mattered at the moment was my survival. After all, that little boy had nothing to do with my person, and was neither equal nor of equitable importance.

But I couldn’t; couldn’t follow my instincts, couldn’t attack or repudiate that figure of the little boy that was, in reality, nothing more than my own image. I couldn’t attack that being who nothing had related to me because he was nothing if not me.

Given the situation, the other option to which I concluded was flight from the spot and from the imponent presence of the little boy. I tried, but, as I turned back I bumped into the figure of the little boy that so anxiously asked for my mercy. It didn’t matter where I turned for, there he was, looking at me, until I saw myself surrounded by little boys. They stared at me, each one with a unique expression. Anger, hate, pity, mercy, happiness, sadness; all those faces looking at me fixedly and only at me.

Then I woke up.

In the same hospital bed, in the same room, which was organized the same way it was when I fell asleep the night before. I looked to the side and there it was, in the armchair by the bedside, sitting, quiet, the figure of the little boy.

And I had never been so happy to see him.

���Igor A. Silva

[2016]

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Aknoledgments

Originally published in: online magazine The Quibbler Edition of: Fall 2021 Produced by: r/TheQuibbler Art by: SinsationalDoom

#en #esnglish #write #writing #amateur writer #amateur writing #chronicle #tale #short story #terror #horror #thriller

[metamorfema]

Voyage au Centre de la Terre - Recension

Pour m’entraîner dans la langue française, je prouverai faire des recensions des livres que je lis en français. Je viens de finir le livre Voyage au Centre de la Terre, par Jules Verne, alors j’en ferai une petite recension.

J’ai beaucoup aimé le livre, ceci a été le premier livre de Jules Verne que j’ai lu et je crois que ça a été un bon commencement – je veux lire d'autres livres par cet auteur. « L’Île Mystérieuse », « De la Terre à la Lune » et « Autour de la Lune » sont quelques-uns des autres titres par cet auteur que je veux lire, d’entre autres livres en français ; j’espère faire une recension pour tous eux.

Voyage au Centre de la Terre est très drôle ; les personnages principaux sont Axel (le narrateur), le professeur Otto Lidenbrock (l’oncle d’Axel) et Hans (le guide islandais qui aide les deux allemands à arriver au monte Sneffels, où se trouve l’entrée du tunnel qui donne au centre de la terre, selon Arne Saknussem, un ancien savant islandais que le professeur Lidenbrock aime et admire beaucoup.

Le professeur est une personne très particulière, il est super sec, brusque et peu gentil, alors il a beaucoup des lignes qui sonnent très impoli vers son neveu, mais le neveu, on aperçoit, est déjà, naturellement, accoutumé à les manières de son oncle et n’est pas offensé par ses secs paroles.

Le professeur, d’ailleurs, ne perd jamais l’espérance que Arne Saknussem ne leur ait pas menti et que le centre de la terre est vraiment comme l’a dit il et qu’ils réussiront dans son bout de le trouver. Axel y doute beaucoup, mais l’oncle a toujours une explication pour toutes les questions posées par le neveu.

Tu vois qu'il n'en est rien et que les faits, suivant leur habitude, viennent démentir les théories. (Chapitre XXV)

La détermination du professeur est, à des fois, amusante, parce qu’il arrive à être imprudent.

« Eh bien, Axel, me dit mon oncle, cela va, et le plus difficile est fait. —Comment, le plus difficile? m'écriai-je. —Sans doute, nous n'avons plus qu'à descendre !  —Si vous le prenez ainsi, vous avez raison ; mais enfin, après avoir descendu, il faudra remonter, j'imagine ? —Oh! cela ne m'inquiète guère! (…) » (Chapitre IX)

Il t'est permis de te taire, Axel, quand tu voudras déraisonner de la sorte. (Chapitre XXV)

Le professeur aussi semble se valer très beaucoup de la sorte et du hasard. Il semble, à des fois, qu’il n’a pas peur de mourir dans la voyage, autant qu’il arrive à son bout de trouver le centre de la terre. « Et quacunque viam dederit fortuna sequamur. » (Chapitre XI)¹

¹Traduction nôtre: « Et quel que soit le chemin que la fortune nous jette, il doit être suivi. »

Le livre nous présente aussi de belles descriptions de ce que les trois voyageurs trouvent dans les terrains souterrains, comme Axel l’appelle à des fois.

Les ondulations de ces montagnes infinies, que leurs couches de neige semblaient rendre écumantes, rappelaient à mon souvenir la surface d’une mer agitée. (Chapitre XVI)

Où finissait la terre, où commençaient les flots, mon œil le distinguait à peine. (Chapitre XVI)

Et d’autres citations que je trouve très belles.

Je ne pensais guère au soleil, aux étoiles, à la lune, aux arbres, aux maisons, aux villes, à toutes ces superfluités terrestres dont l'être sublunaire s'est fait une nécessité. En notre qualité de fossiles, nous faisions fi de ces inutiles merveilles. (Chapitre XXV)

La science, mon garçon, est faite d'erreurs, mais d'erreurs qu'il est bon de commettre, car elles mènent peu à peu à la vérité. (Chapitre XXXI)

Si à chaque instant nous pouvons périr, à chaque instant aussi nous pouvons être sauvés. (Chapitre XLII)

—Igor A. Silva 26/MAI/2022

#recension de livre #citations de livres #voyage au centre de la terre #jules verne #fr #français

[metamorfema]

The Death Cure - Daily Quotes

As I did with TST, I'll go on posting daily quotes, now taken from TDC, because I already posted all of the ones from TST.

As usual:

Sometimes my comment is bigger, sometimes it's just a small sentence; either way, you're always welcome and encouraged to share what your thoughts on that excerpt are! :D

I'll go reblogging this original post with each quote so it becomes one big thread with all of them.

<< The Scorch Trials Daily Quote thead-post

#quotes commentary #quotes #quotarion

[metamorfema]

The Scorch Trials - Daily Quotes

Hey, guys! This is something that began in the Maze Runner Wiki's Discord server, that I then brought to r/MazeRunner, and now I thought, why not take this to Tumblr also?

I was re-reading The Scorch Trials and I was taking notes of passages that I thought were cool, or interesting, or very poetic, or had some special weight for the characters involved etc.

So I decided to post/send one every day with a little commentary about why that excerpt caught my eye, in the hopes of sparkling some small discussions about Maze Runner, that aren't necessarily related to the main plot points that always gets discussed.

Sometimes my comment is bigger, sometimes it's just a small sentence; either way, you're always welcome and encouraged to share what your thoughts on that excerpt are! :D

I'll go reblogging this original post with each quote so it becomes one big thread with all of them.

#quote commentary #quotes #quotarions

[metamorfema]

Metrô

Ler esta publicação em: esperanto

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Ele entrou no metrô. No último vagão como sempre, porque era no fundo da estação que ele esperara o metrô chegar, como sempre. Do fundo da estação – onde ele sempre esperava o metrô chegar – dava para ver o trilho seguindo em direção ao além. Um trilho de cada lado, um vai ao além, o outro volta do além, no meio deles há grama. Todo dia a grama tá diferente: há dias que estão agitadas com o vento, há dias que estão sólidas tal qual pedra, tem dias que balançam levemente como se dançassem.

Chegou.

Ele entrou no metrô. No último vagão como sempre. Sentou-se em um assento junto à janela onde ele sentava sempre que disponível encontrava-o, normalmente encontrava-o livre. Sentou-se à janela, como de costume. No fone tocava alguma de suas músicas tristes que ele gostava tanto de ouvir. Essa música havia acabado quando ainda estava na estação, mas ele pôs do início porque ela é ideal para ouvir vendo a paisagem escura da cidade à noite.

Era noite e a cidade estava deserta, o metrô era velho e a luz falhava, quando ela apagava ele podia ver melhor a paisagem porque não tinha reflexo no vidro, mas a luz não ficava mais que 10 segundos apagada. É melhor 10 segundos do que 0.

Era noite e a cidade estava parada. Ninguém andava pelas ruas da favela. Ele ama essa calmaria. A cidade é melhor quando tá assim, calma. Ele imagina como deve ser ruim morar naquelas casas, à noite os moradores olham pelas janelas e veem a rua deserta e sentem-se presos em casa.

Era noite e logo o metrô passaria pelo seu lugar favorito. Ele amava quando o metrô passava pela parte que não tinha casa, só o que se via eram os prédios lá longe. Eles eram muitos. Uma faixa enorme, um panorama enorme, largo, e entre 2 prédios dava para ver que havia mais prédios atrás.

Era noite e é por isso que era tão incrível. Todos os prédios acendiam suas luzes prateada, em uníssono luminoso, não havia uma janela com a luz amarela, todas pratas. E todo aquele vasto panorama de retângulos em pé um ao lado do outro, um atrás do outro, brilhava. Parecia uma maquete sobre a qual alguém jogara glitter. A cena reluzia.

Nesses momentos ele entendia o que aquele personagem daquele livro quis dizer quando disse que era infinito. Havia outras situações em que ele entendia, ele aprendeu a entender em várias situações da vida, mas aquele era um dos favoritos dele.

A música acabou. A estação chegou. Ele desceu. Agora era hora de pegar um ônibus para chegar em casa. Do ônibus não tinha vista.

—Igor A. Silva [2018]

#cronica #prosa #texto #escrever #escrito #escritor #escritos #escritor independente #escritor amador #escrita #crônica #crônicas #cronicas

[metamorfema]

지금, 당신이 어디애 있든

우울한 소년을 위해서

Now, wherever you are Be in the present Don't let the ghost of the past Or the memories of your past mistakes Haunt you And spoil the moments you have yet to live

Now, wherever you are Be present With yourself Don't let your mind wander unaccompanied Our minds are like our inner child They can easily get lost if left alone Take its hand Keep it in a safe place

Now, wherever you are Mourn the lost ones Feel the grief, feel the pain Feel the sadness Feel the longing For it is in those moments Feeling those feelings That we cherish their stay in our life

It is unfortunate that their stay Was so brief and is already over But for as long as we remember them And hold them dearly next to our hearts They'll live

Now, wherever you are I hope you are not feeling alone Or maybe feeling alone is part of the longing, the sadness, the pain and the grief In that case, feel it, for as long as you don't believe it

Whenever you are Be it in a good place, or in a bad place Or in an uncertain place, when you don't know yourself where you are and what's going on When your mind is playing tricks on you Know that I'm with you, and I'll always be with you

Your pain will be my pain, your sadness will be my sadness I'll help you carry it So the weight won't be too heavy Because no matter what, I'll always be with you Now, wherever you are

—너의 산녕

—Igor A. Silva [15/FEB/2022]

_________________________________________ Note: This is part of a 지금, 우리학교는 (All of Us Are Dead) fanfiction; you can find it entirely here

#poem #poetry #writing #write #all of us are dead #aouad #aouad imagines #lee cheong san #cheong san #aouad cheongsan #lee su hyeok #su hyeok #aouad suhyeok

[metamorfema]

Crônicas do Meu Alguém #5

Crônicas do Meu Alguém << #1 | #5 _________________________________________

Passei rapidamente pela porta que dava para a coxia.

– Ei. – Fiz sinal para que ele parasse e me esperasse ali. Era engraçado como naquelas situações, naquele calor de buscar um lugar escondido ali naquele prédio quase vazio –não fosse por este ou aquele funcionário que ficou até mais tarde limpando– eu sentia uma urgência de investigar cada pequena coisa que surgia no caminho.

Ao passar pela porta dos fundos do palco ouvi algo, ainda havia alguém ali. Pedi para que ele esperasse ali e entrei pela porta para descobrir meu diretor e colega de cena conversando só, pensando alto, passeando para lá e para cá pelo palco.

– Ainda tá aqui? – Ele vira rapidamente um tanto desconcertado, quase como se não me reconhecesse. Ele olha com um olhar que diz: “E daí?” – Quantos dias até termos que entregar o roteiro pronto?

– Quatro – ele fala como se aquela informação fosse bombástica.

Sobre sua escrivaninha há uma xícara, uma garrafa térmica aberta, vazia aparentemente, outra garrafa, essa fechada. O cheiro de café está por todo o palco.

– E… você está aqui desde quando? – Pergunto lentamente.

Ele me olha com a mesma cara de “e daí?” quando responde:

– Não sei. – Isso soa quase como uma pergunta. – Depois do ensaio eu fiquei até tarde… virei a noite aqui, aí depois…de manhã… mais tarde, aí eu… – Ele parou de falar, parecendo meio confuso.

– O último ensaio foi na quinta… – Falei. – Hoje é sexta… Na verdade, já são 2h então tecnicamente hoje é sábado. Você tá aqui esse todo tempo sem sair?

– Eu saí… eu fui…

– Por quanto tempo?

– Fui comer… almoçar…

– Você está aqui nesse teatro há dois dias.

Ele me olhou confuso. – E você? Tá fazendo o que aqui?

– Eu… tô com um amigo…

– Ah… – Praticamente som nenhum saiu da boca dele, ele mais falou com a expressão facial, as sobrancelhas arqueadas. Pausa. – Bom... – Ele começou, mas não disse mais nada. Pegou a bolsa da escrivaninha e saiu, deixou a xícara e as garrafas térmicas com ou sem café para trás.

Voltei por onde entrei, ele estava ainda ali esperando-me.

– Desculpa a demora.

Por sorte um dos camarins menores que não eram usados estava com a chave na fechadura. Entramos, tranquei a porta por dentro.

—Igor A. Silva

[31/JAN/2019]

_________________________________________ Crônicas do Meu Alguém << #1 | #5

#escritos #escrever #conto #cronicas #crônicas #crônica #cronica

[metamorfema]

Crônicas do Meu Alguém #1

Crônicas do Meu Alguém #1 | #5 >> _________________________________________

Antes eu gostava. No início era bom. Adorava a sensação. A cegueira e a ampla visão de tudo que ocorria no mundo. A escuridão e a luz forte no meu rosto. Ajeitei o travesseiro. Mudei a posição do corpo. As horas passavam rápido, eu nem percebia. Os intervalos eram do tempo de apenas levantar, não sem ficar levemente tonto, ir até a cozinha, não sem a luz forte incomodar os olhos acostumado com baixa luminosidade, beber água, comer algo, ir ao banheiro, essas coisas, e logo voltar. Twitter, Netflix, e logo já se passaram das quatro horas, algumas pesquisas inúteis sobre assuntos aleatórios, e logo já passaram mais quatro horas. No início era bom, eu gostava da sensação, afinal era o único meio de fuga da realidade entediosa e deprimente. Os dias iam passando e a rotina se fixando. Sempre a mesma coisa até dar 2 da manhã e eu ir dormir. Aí um dia olhei o relógio e eram 18h, meia hora mais com aquela mesma luz no meu rosto, a pequena tela do celular, metade ocupado quase sempre de um teclado, olhei o relógio e eram 20h. Roboticamente voltei a atenção à tela. Teve um dia que eu tentei, eu juro. Quando olhei pro relógio e os números eram incompatíveis com a sensação de quanto tempo havia passado tentei levantar, tentei sair, ir até a cozinha, sentir a luz na pele, ainda que artificial, muitas coisas tinham sido artificiais naqueles tempos. Eu tentei levantar, eu juro. Foi mais forte que eu. Ela me chamava, me dominava, me persuadia. Fiquei, olhei para a tela de 6 polegadas tudo voltou a se repetir. Quanto mais o tempo passava mais eu tentava sair, tentava mais, tentava de novo, algumas vezes até cheguei a conseguir, venci, levantei, fui até a cozinha, e aí? Não tinha nada. Nenhum prêmio. Só restava voltar pro pequeno quarto no fundo da casa abatido sabendo que, apesar da vitória recente, havia perdido. E ela estava lá, esperando, rindo esnobe. Deitei na velha cama, olhei para a porta que dava para a cozinha e por onde entrava alguma luz da lâmpada ainda acesa. O celular apagou, a luz da cozinha cedeu, lembro de ainda estender o braço antes de os olhos cerrarem.

—Igor A. Silva [AGO/2016] _________________________________________ Crônicas do Meu Alguém #1 | #5 >>

#escritos #escrever #terror #conto #crônica #suspense

[metamorfema]

Revés

Leia esta publicação em: inglês | esperanto

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Não importava para onde olhasse, tudo que via era a mesma cena repetida várias vezes com inúmeras variações.

O casal continuava o mesmo, com as mãos juntas, os grupos eram os mesmos, os indivíduos cujas companhias não eram existentes eram os mesmos e na mesma posição permaneciam todos.

As expressões quase me eram explícitas ainda que houvesse toda aquela sujeira, ainda que houvesse todo aquele sangue que escorria incessantemente dos ferimentos e lacunas dos mais variados tipos, ainda que houvessem cabeças fora dos devidos lugares assim como outros membros do corpo chamado, por si próprios, de humanos.

A bagunça era tal, todavia tudo estava, inegavelmente, em seu devido lugar. As bancas, as cadeiras, o quadro, a professora, as pessoas.

Levantei-me enfim. Eu, um pobre e pequeno garoto, levantei-me. Passei por todo aquele caos monocromático e saí. Saí para encontrar um mundo externo organizado tal qual o interno.

Andando segui, muitas eram as coisas que jaziam esquecidas na rua, nas calçadas, umas sobre as outras, outras sobre estas últimas. Pilhas e pilhas de coisas indispensáveis assim como dispensáveis, úteis assim como inúteis, coisas minhas assim como de outros, dentre as quais, fotos.

Uma, que jazia a poucos centímetros do meu pé não esquerdo, estava caída de modo que, para cima, visível, estava a parte branca, vazia, nula, não preenchida, a não ser por uma pequena discriminação do conteúdo encontrado em seu verso. “Família” era o que dizia porque família era o que mostrava, não naquele lado vazio e sem graça, cuja única função era descrever o que encontrar-se-ia no outro lado, não naquele lado ao qual ninguém interessava, ao qual ninguém procurava quando a um álbum de fotos iam consultar, mas sim do outro lado, do lado interessante, no qual coisa eram mostradas, mensagens passadas, memórias revividas, no lado ao qual, esse sim, pessoas mostravam interesse.

Virei, sem mais cerimônias, o grosso papel, para encontrar um agrupamento congelado de seis pessoas, dentre as quais um garotinho,o garotinho, o dito cujo, sim, ele. E sua família, seus pais, irmãos e primo. Seus.

De início não dei atenção demasiada à cena, o que teria de interessante uma cena tão banal como esta, tão à parte de mim? Mas, olhando novamente, mais atentamente, não era de todo a parte de mim, era até um pouco próxima, diria.

As pessoas nela representadas não eram tão distantes das que estariam lá se fosse a minha família representada no lugar da do garotinho. Na verdade, eram muito parecidas, até mesmo iguais. Mas, numa terceira vez observando mais atentamente ainda a cena, tive certeza de que, sim, eram iguais, eram as mesmas pessoas. Até que por último, não havia mais família do garotinho, havia a minha família, havia não mais garoto algum, mas havia minha imagem lá.

O garotinho, não mais na foto, estava agora aproximando-se de mim pela lateral, a uns dez metros estava, e aproximando-se sempre mais. Meu primeiro instinto foi repudiá-lo, fosse agredindo-o, fosse fugindo, fosse o que fosse, o que valia no momento era a minha sobrevivência, afinal, aquele garotinho não tinha nada a ver com minha pessoa, nem tinha igual ou equiparável importância.

Mas não podia, não podia seguir meus instintos, não podia agredir nem repudiar aquela figura do garotinho que era, na verdade, nada mais que minha própria imagem. Não podia agredir aquele ser que nada comigo tinha de relação porque ele era nada se não eu.

Dada a situação, a outra opção que me achei ao alcance foi a de fugir do lugar e da presença imponente do garotinho. Tentei, mas, ao virar-me esbarrei na figura do garotinho que tão ansiosa pedia minha misericórdia. Não importava para onde virasse, lá estava ele, olhando-me, até que me vi rodeado de garotinhos fitando-me, cada qual com uma expressão única. Raiva, ódio, piedade, misericórdia, felicidade, tristeza, todas essas caras olhavam-me fixamente e apenas a mim.

Até que acordei.

Na mesma cama de hospital, no mesmo quarto, o qual permanecia igualmente organizado quando me adormeci na noite anterior. Olhei para o lado e lá estava, na poltrona ao lado da cama, sentada, quieta, a figura do garotinho.

E nunca estive tão feliz por vê-lo.

—Igor A. Silva

[2016]

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Reconhecimentos

Publicado em (tradução inglesa): revista virtual The Quibbler Edição: Outono 2021 Produzida por: r/TheQuibbler Arte de: SinsationalDoom

#escrita #escrever #terror #conto #terror psicológico

[metamorfema]

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Alt blogs | Blogues alternativos: . Metamorfemo [EO] - [Original writing | Escrita original] . Ikvero [EN | PT] - [Fanfiction | Ficção de fã] . Flicker [Photography | Fotografia]

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Ii The In Between

Uu Untitled #1

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Crystal Castles #2 (Crystal Castles' Chronicles)

[CC #1 - Kept #1 | Kept #2] | CC #2 _________________________________________

They were seated on a couch. More precisely, he was seated and she and he were laid leaning on him, the three of them forming a typical after party scene, anyone who saw them would easily guess they were so drunk they weren’t even able to sit properly. He wasn’t drunk, he hadn’t drunk anything, he just took advantage of the situation to lean on him and feel the contact of their bodies. He wished they were alone, but she was there between his legs, but he couldn’t complain, she had arrived before, she was already there talking to him when he arrived.

She was all-quiet, though. He even though she had fallen asleep, he raised his head unsettled to see her, no, her eyes were open, she was thinking, or maybe just not thinking about anything, just tired. Meanwhile he remained there seated, not even realizing she had stopped talking. He doesn’t know how they got to that topic but suddenly the two of them were talking about them.

– You know you’re my bro – he said, always seated there calmly. With his strongly straight manners – You’re my bro, you know it, don’t you? I mean you aremy bro. Every time I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I know it’s my bro, I know it’s you, and I turn and then it’s you. You know, I really love you. You’re my bro, you’re here in my heart.

As he was being showered with these words, all he could do was keep looking at him, timidly smiling, feeling the bliss it was to be hearing that. For some time he though he hated him. I love you too, but just not the way you say you love me, I’m your bro, you’re so much more to me.

– You’re in my heart. – You’re in mine too. – I love you, bro. – Just not in the way I love you. That’s ok, I get it. He got it. He truly understood, and he was fine with it, he has worked this out long ago and it was alright. He knew he just couldn’t have him, and it was actually no one’s fault, they were… incompatible. They talked more, he doesn’t remember about what. After a while they went silent, neither of them had anything more to say as if their voices had been suppressed by the noise and movement that grew in the room. People passed by, greeted them, mostly him, who didn’t move a finger, just remained seated; they called him to do something, he declined, said he was chilling, someone called her to do something, she got up and went away.

– We should talk more about these things – he said, starting to move a bit from his seated position, leaning on the arm of the couch. – Anytime.

– Yeah, somewhere with not that much noise. Somewhere quieter. – Silence. – Do you want to go out there for a while, we could just keep the talk right now, I believe there is not much noise out there, I mean, it is not like in here, if you don’t want that’s ok…

– Let’s go. – He interrupted me just when I was starting to lose control and speak uncontrollably out of nervousness. Thanks.

We were in the living room, we stood up and went to the terrace, there was another couch there, we seated. This time both of us were seated. Legs crossed, one staring at the other.

– I know you say you don’t lend your hoddie to anyone, but please can I borrow it? I’m really cold and mine’s all wet. – He hesitated, and then said a quick “okay”, took off his hoddie and handed it to me. I wore it. It was so warm, so soft, and smelled like him.

– Thanks… – I started. – And thanks, by the way, for everything, you know? Like, for everything, for being so understanding when I was the most fragile.

He then put his arm around my neck and led me to lie between his legs, with my head resting on his chest.

– And not reacting negatively when we had… you know, thatconversation. – I smiled a bit. – You know what’s funny? You told me “not to try anything”, but of course I wouldn’t, I was shaking just because I was talking to you, imagine trying, I don’t know, to… kisss… you.

– I can imagine that. – He said firmly. I immediately raised my body, not lying on him any longer, once again seated, looking confused, and a bit angry deep inside. It made me feel bad, was he expecting the worst from me? – Because I wish you did. – I looked even more confused, my heart started to beat fast, fast, faster. He leaned towards me, I stayed freezed, his face got close to mine, I felt his nose touching mine. I felt his breath. I felt his lips touching mine. I felt his lips touching mine. I felt his lips touching mine.

– Is that…? Is he kissing…? I thought he was… – I heard someone saying, some drunk person walking around the house looking for more alcohol.

I felt him all over me in the hoddie, I smelled his scent, I smelled the scent of his breath, I touched him on the lips. I couldn’t believe that was actually happening.

– Were you going to say something? – He asked me after he drew away from me.

– Y-Yes… I was going to say… I don’t know. – He laughed. I laughed. – I was going to say that this is the last time we meet. – I wasn’t going to say that, that is just something I had just thought. – Tomorrow we’ll be going back to our homes in our states, and that’s it. Bye forever. – He laughed.

– There is no such thing as bye forever.

I needed to go to the bathroom. When I got back he was in a cicle of friends. Little after that I went to sleep. The next day we were hugging by the front door.

– Bye. – I said.

– See you later. – He said.

—Igor A. Silva [25/JAN/2019]

_________________________________________ [CC #1 - Kept #1 | Kept #2] | CC #2

#crystal castles' chronicles