Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. An object.

A small object, which may be strange to one person and quite banal to an other, or exotic to both or the most ordinary of items for everyone, is carried all over the world, stopping at cities, stopping at towns, drawing a very peculiar kind of energy at each and every station. Slowly, the object is transformed within its very form, that is to say, its form gains new boundaries of meaning, and in the end it becomes, not a symbol, but the form itself of a mixed feeling: one of belonging, the happiness of homecoming, of embracing the familiar, and the anguish of leaving loved ones and of beginning anew.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. The church.

The façade of the church was too overwhelming. Not for its height, easily surpassed by any other we had seen in the adjoining cities, but for its surface, uninterruptedly covered with detailed bas-reliefs, in such a way that there was no visible empty space anywhere. It was also impossible to discern a clear picture of it all: flower-crowned bulls, men and women with fishtails, dogs fighting over human bones, pillars of salt in seas of reeds, cocks and hens, toads, pearls, from five to nine-pointed stars, geometric and baroque shapes, the eyes of the beholder nervously spiraling all over its makeup, not stopping, too much movement, over-informed brain, collapse after a minute of watching.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Story-seed that'll never blossom...

Two people start professional correspondence, but tidbit by tidbit, they exchange some personal information, until they fall in love with one another, always by correspondence only.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. The son of Kali and Loki.

Caressing were the waves the soft beach boulders as big as hugs. A swift rain of sand woke this shadow god-man up, interrupting a dream, and the crows were no more. 

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Something that was started but will never be finished...

Tall woman, she was, gold-tinted fingertips, whitest teeth you’ve ever seen. A nightful hair cascading down her back to her hips. Always dressed in black. Looked like a pleatless gown. A shadow that followed her everywhere. Lived alone, up there, after the last of the boulders. Folks say her house looks bigger from the inside that what one would guess from the front yard, secluded by berry bushes. One couldn’t tell. And a weird looking place too. Richer. Her house’s door was nothing but a bundle of woodplanks put together, and the walls merely heaps of stones, no mortar in between. What craft was there to held the stones together, however, none could tell, only surprise at. Dovetailed, perhaps faith.
The few women (no, never men) who went inside it told us tales of vastness within, and every time I’d heard that I’d think of the ballrooms of the Mayor’s down at the city. I’ve been there several times. For work, of course, never pleasure. Wood floor covering, mostly. And that’s what I do: polish them. Mine are simpler, at home.
Hugeness within, then, according to the others, with carpets all over the place, carpets that looked like gardens with fountains and all sort of birds and beasts inside, and that made a person think we were looking down at it from the top of the tallest oak. And rows and rows of dusty books would trap the little sunlight that managed to squeeze in, and objects so rare and odd, no one could start to describe them even if they’d been staring at them for hours and then, eyelids intensely closed, the remaining blot in the inner side of the eyelids would hover above the darkness. Carla swore she saw a foxbabe curled inside a jar. Deborah was enticed by what looked like “ a sparrow’s skull with a black pearl in its beak, but it was not a sparrow, it was not a beak, neither was it a pearl”. Si, Farraw and Anah swore all night long having seen a backwards clock, musicstones, and a moving ocean inside the pages of a book (“as I was standing up there waiting for her, it whispered to me from the shelves, and promised I’d be a happy woman, if only I opened it and become his wife”).
Women have troubles of their own. That’s what I say to the younger folks. Only a natural thing. Leave them be. We couldn’t even be in the same pace of life if we wanted to. Stronger, they are. Babe-carrying makes their bones as steel. Our strength is actually feeble. One-time shows. Sweat and brimstone in youth, and then, after only one little snowflake upon us, gone. Grown old, stubborn, wrinkled and dead.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Butterflies

I hate fucking butterflies! What do people see in them anyway? Pretty colours? An interesting collection of insectoid corpses? What makes me go off is that highly irregular, exasperating flight of the fucking critters, the kind going-this-no-that-way. Can’t they fly straight? And why should I like them? Some of them are poisonous, some of them (if in huge floating clusters) can even kill people, you know? I can’t stand them.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Thursday man

No, I’m not kidding! At exactly the same hour, in the exact same spot! I have no idea when he started that. Maybe he was doing it way long before I even noticed it. Who will know now?
You wouldn’t expect a thing like this happening to you. I mean, if you were a movie star, a popular singer or something of that kind, you know what it means to mix up the boundaries of personal and public life, right? But then again, you would still have a right to personal life. Real private moments. Whatever.
Now that I think of it, I guess I had already seen him somewhere before, maybe two or three times, I’m not sure; I guess it’s just one of those familiar faces from the same familiar spaces you cross every day.
A bouquet of flowers arrived May the 5th. A Thursday. No card, no name, no client name, no message. Just a plain, ordinary rose bouquet – actually, extremely ordinary, as if it was possible to make an effort to be ordinary. I remember thinking that the guy who’d sent me this was a cheap and tasteless bastard.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Sand dunes

“Tell me you love me”, said the voice of the boy, in the beach. His lover, the other boy, was not listening.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Suicide lanes

Although built between the 1920s’ and the 30s’, up until the 60s’ you could see around America many roads with three lanes, being the middle one shared by cars going in both directions. The reasons why they were built are slightly obvious, if one goes back in time, but its subsequent danger, amplified by the newer technologies of cars, is blatant. Unsurprisingly enough, these roads were known as “suicide lanes”.
Well, suicide lane was precisely the name bestowed upon these immense ramps that crossed the Southern part of the territory, and that we were overseeing from the plateau Kim brought us to. This was the day of the Race. Suicide Lane would be an appropriate name, and we were told there were enough car wrecks and mayhem in the Race. It took a while for me to realize that it made no sense to call it suicide, in these lands. Still, we were curious. It was just another vista, and we couldn’t get enough from this Country. The Country of the Dead.