Short short stories
don't look
She was tall, thin, and strong – her muscles incredibly defined. But something about her wasn’t right. Her veins were small, blue, and branched out into thousands of lines, forming endless pathways all over her body. She covered most of those in human clothes, which were always black. She was always the first to arrive in class and would sit in the back, taking notes in her language. You could tell she was not from around Earth by how she spoke words with ‘s’, the sound never came out. One day, she caught me spying on her from my seat. It was the first time I looked into her eyes. They were black and glossy, and they penetrated mine. I was suddenly wrapped in horror, unable to move or breathe. It lasted only a second. She averted her gaze and the feeling vanished, but the message was clear.
passing wind
It came out of him with uncontrollable strength. A loud, thick gush of air which cut through the silent room like a jet flying overhead. The others shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs in an awkward attempt to muffle the lingering sound. But then, as if resolute in making its statement, the fart turned putrid, letting its sour smell burn irrevocably through the room. Nothing could contain it.
one strike
She struck me like lightning with her pink hair. Exiting the train in thunderous strides. Her eyes clouded, lost in thought. She didn't see me. She walked straight into me.
I caught her scent, charred roses, and we locked eyes. There was a sharp current of electricity. It zipped back and forth between us, deafening. It made me lose my breath.
Then, just as she came, she went. Like smoke, her scent her only trace. I didn't chase her. She was a chance meeting. A rare event that would never strike the same place twice. Pink lightning in my sky.
Ah, a famosa colada. Um café forte - realmente bem mais intenso do que qualquer espresso - tipicamente preparado com largas colheradas de açúcar e servido em pequenos copinhos pra ser tomado de uma só vez. Em shots mesmo.
Nos meus sete anos vivendo em Miami, tomei várias coladas, apesar de, honestamente, odiar o gosto doce do açúcar misturado com o amargo do café passado. Tomei com os meus chefes cubanos da agência onde estagiei, com colegas colombianos da escola de publicidade, e até com próprios americanos antes de ir pra festa (sim, that's a thing).
sweet and sour. 🇧🇷
Fui na padaria e pedi um espresso quadruplo.
A mulher atrás do balcão arregalou os olhos para mim, por um segundo sem saber se levava a sério a menina de meias três-quartos com estampa de gato e Vans quadriculados.
Eu sorri pra ela como quem fala, não tô de brincadeira. Ela assentiu e foi falar com o barista, que veio até mim, sorriso grande no rosto: "Você já provou uma colada? Se é cafeína que você precisa, vai ser melhor do que o espresso.”
Foi, então, talvez por pura nostalgia, que eu aceitei a sugestão do barista da padaria de São Paulo. Pedi sem açúcar e saí de lá com um pote venti de cafeína e um certo aperto no peito. O sweet and sour de lembranças de tempos melhores que não voltam mais, mas podem, de certa forma, ser replicados.
heartbreak ballad
You broke me to pieces. But your fragrance lingered. Sweet vanilla smoke.
I close my eyes and you’re still staring at my soul. Standing on your lies. Your knives sharp but hidden. Tearing at me from the distance.
You told me no, softly. But I never know if I believe you. Your reasons, your laughter, your kisses. The way you talk and how you listen. The warmth of your body close to mine.
All fragments of history.
Three nights, two chances, one time. And all that’s left is the idea of you. Memories I can only replay. Fantasize. Retrace.
No longer real.
I can’t wait, because that would be cheating. Not just myself, but also my dignity. Call it bad timing. But give it time to stop the bleeding. Then turn the page. You are not worth my grieving.
Shorter stories
careful, darling
Five hundred words tell the short love story between Dave and Darling, reminisced through her eyes.