Monday, December 31, 2007

Happy New Year!

In December, I feel safe. It doesn’t matter that “the storm of the century” blows outside and that a fierce Snow Queen dabs the world in frost, in December I feel warm and cosy. December is a closed room, lighted by a lively fire that brings a glow of contentment on people’s faces. Nothing bad can touch me in there. December is gifts, and good food, and good wine (hot wine with sugar and cinnamon!), and snowmen, and sleighing. The year’s still here. There is still time.

In January, I feel vulnerable. January looks to me like a wide open space, a field of endless snow under a brilliant sun. I am afraid of January. It feels like uncharted territory. Who knows what I will have to face in there?

But enough of my New Year’s blues. The New Year is indeed here. I wish all of you that it is your best yet, I wish it full of hopes and dreams fulfilled, of love, and laughter, and loved ones, of good health and good cheer, of courage. Happy New Year!

What better time to listen to ABBA’s bittersweet song…

Happy New Year!

A Song For The New Year

By Barry Cornwall

(from “English Songs and Other Small Poems", 1844)

The Old Year is gone!
And the young New Year is coming!
Through minutes, and days, and unknown skies,
My soul on her forward journey flies;
Over the regions of rain and snow;
And beyond where the wild March-trumpets blow:
And I see the meadows, all cowslip-strewn;
And I dream of the dove in the greenwood lone:
And the wild bee humming:-
And all because the New Year is coming!

The Winter is cold, the Winter is gray,
But he hath not a sound on his tongue to-day:
The son of the stormy Autumn, he
Totters about on a palsied knee,
With a frozen heart and a feeble head:
Let us pierce a barrel and drink him dead!
The fresh New Year is almost here;
Let us warm him with mistletoe boughs, my dear!
Let us welcome him hither, with songs and wine,
Who holdeth such joys in his arms divine!

What is the Past, - to you, or me,
But a thing that was, and was to be?
And now it is gone to a world unknown:
Its deeds are done; its flight is flown!

Hark to The Past! In a bitter tone,
It crieth “The good Old Year is flown,”-
The sire of a thousand thoughtful hours,
Of a thousand songs, of a thousand flowers!
Ah! why, thou ungrateful child of rhyme,
Rail’st thou at the deeds of our father Time?
Hath he not fed thee, day by day,
With fancies that soothe thy soul away?
Hath he not ‘wakened, with pleasant pain,
The Muse that slept in thy teeming brain?
Hath he not – ah! Dost thou forget
All the amount of the mighty debt?

Hush, hush! – The little I owe to Time
I’ll pay him, some day, with a moody rhyme, -
Full of phantasmas, dark and drear,
As the shadows thrown down by the old Old year,-
Dim as the echoes that lately fell
From the deep Night’s funereal bell,
Sounding hollow o’er hill and vale,
Like the close of a mournful tale!

.... In the meantime, - speak, trump and drum!
The Year is gone! The Year is come!
The fresh New Year, the bright New Year,
That telleth of hope and joy, my dear!
Let us model our spirit to chance and change,
Let us lesson our spirit to hope, and range
Through pleasures to come, - through years unknown;
But never forget the time that’s flown!

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Happy Holidays!

Merry Christmas to you all, my darlings! And if for you there's another holiday at this time of the year, then I wish that to be happy too.
May you find pleasure in the little things, good food, good wine, good music, the mistletoe, and above all enjoy your loved ones, and share the love and the cheer!

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

On Novels and Short Stories

I deeply admire those who can write novels. Who can weave a complex tapestry of destinies and happenings, of loves and adventures, of feelings and action, of ideas.

I used to try doing just that.

Since I was – maybe – twelve and until a few years ago, I have always been writing novels… I would always enthusiastically start a new one and then a while later abandon it only to start work on another. I couldn’t conceive writing anything but novels. Short stories seemed insignificant to me, compared to the scope of a novel. But then I realised that I was never finishing anything and that, no matter how deeply I was living in those novels, it would have been nice to actually finish something at some point. That plus the realisation of how cruel time is.

So I started working on short stories. Those gave me at least the illusion of a much closer (in time) ending and thus of a chance at publication.

Yet, it didn’t take me less to write them. I suppose that is the effect of several factors. In no particular order, among them I would place the lack of time dedicated to writing, the absence of will power leading to procrastination, a tendency to perfectionism leading to profound research and endless plot tweaking even for the shortest of stories, maybe even the fear that once finished I will have to leave this world I’m building. I also noticed that the more detached I am from the characters, the easier it is for me to write their story. The more involved I am with them, including making myself a character, the more difficult it is to complete a work.

This (again) extended time frame, led me to a somehow bad experience with one of my most beloved stories. The idea for it came to me in ’97 (I know because I always put a date on the notes I scribble down) and, on and off, it took me till 2005 to put the magical words ‘the end’ at the bottom of the last page. At about 22,000 words, it’s more of a novella size story. I was very proud of it and ready to start sending it out, although magazines hardly accept works of such a size. And then I bought Orson Scott Card’s excellent book “How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy” and in there, in a chapter where he enumerates various means of time travel, I found my idea listed under a famous author’s name who, obviously, had already published a (different) story based on the same idea, in ’99 I believe. What a dreadful coincidence! I was so terribly, awfully, hopelessly depressed.

But, hey, that’s life! The onus is on me to work harder, to work faster. To remind myself that I couldn’t live without writing and that, regardless of whether or not I will ever be a published writer, I will always be a writer. And, to thicken my skin.

I am now more afraid than ever to even consider working again on a novel. There is a harsh world out there. Moonrat’s wonderfully insightful posts about the world of publishing confirm something that I half-knew and fully suspected.

As the New Year approaches, I wonder if I should make a resolution…

Tuesday, December 18, 2007


The perfect concert
to lie here
in your arms
and listen
to the song
of your blood

Saturday, December 15, 2007

In a Tree

a swan
from Tchaikovsky's lake
is hiding
in the tree

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

A Weirdly Contest

No, it is not a misuse of an adverb, but the name of the collection of short stories, “Weirdly – A Collection of Strange Tales”, which includes Bernita Harris’s “Stone Child”.

Bernita had the wonderful idea of organising a short-fiction contest, where the winner gets a copy of her book (never fondled and even autographed!). All you have to do to enter is write a piece of fiction, 250 words or less, using the image below for inspiration. The deadline to send in your story is Friday, December 14th, at midnight. For details, please read the official rules.

And this is what those trees told me:

The Right Package

“That was no lightning strike.”

“This was Lugh again, toying with the natives.”

The Commander was annoyed. Each of their planetary vehicles was unique, tailored for their owner’s chemistry, the exhaust trail a sure signature. But even without the spectral analysis, everything was telltale. The absence of leaves, the subtle carbonisation, the twigs twisted at a specific angle, the grass in the clearing almost imperceptibly shorter.

“The Controller’s arriving in three days. We’ll all be kicked off this quiet little planet if we don’t cover this. Lugh was my responsibility. Unless…”

“Could we use the man from yesterday? What did he call himself?”

“A …druwid.”

“Funny little fellow. Was he speaking to the oaks in the grove, or was he trying to contact us?”

“Do you think he knew of us?”

“Certain details might have leaked from Egypt, lately. Horus was discontent last time I saw him…”

“I wonder… This area only has some animistic attempts at explaining the reality. If we could persuade them to take up some human sacrifices… Any sacrifices at all. A belief in the reincarnation of the soul, at least. We’re in dire need of some fresh soul energy. And we can’t fool the Controller. We could sell them a good kit, complete with a resident god to start with.”

“Do you fancy becoming their own little god?”

“No, I’ll leave it to Lugh. That’ll teach him to behave – to be bound to this place forever, or at least till ‘they’ grow bored with him…”

Another Roar

Lovely and talented Szélsöfa has honoured me with another roar from the Shameless Lions Writing Circle. Thank you so much! I feel proud and humbled at the same time, that at least some of those who read my words think of them as powerful.

Seamus’s idea is rocking the blogosphere and he can tell you more about it, including the extent of this “tidal” wave.

I’m using this opportunity to bestow this award upon some great writers who fully deserve to be “heard” by the world:

Akasha Savage of Aspirations from the Dark Side - good luck with your novel, Debi!

Jeff Neale of The Write Thing - you have to send out your stories!

Red Dirt Girl of Red Dirt Scribbles - your poetry is superb.

Taffiny of To Taste a Peach - I’ve only seen one sample of her fiction yet, but what she writes in her blog is simply beautiful.

The rules and the award images can be found at Shameless Words.

Saturday, December 08, 2007

Dance of Love

Into this wild abyss
of bliss
we fall

Some say it’s love
we call it

Onto this blade of trust
we walk
we dance

You hold me tight
as we abide
by this game’s

Sweet avalanche
of blood
we seek

We fight
harsh tango of
the hearts

While in a wild abyss
of bliss
we hide

We kiss

Copyright © 2007 Vesper L. All rights reserved.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Harsh Mistress

When I got out of the house this morning, at six o’clock, in the crisp darkness, at -14ºC or 6.8ºF, the first thing I saw was the Moon. A luminous sharp crescent, a narrow tilted sickle on the blue-black sky, but with the remainder of its body perfectly visible, its roundness noticeable in a dark matte grey. It stunned me. I don’t recall ever seeing it like that before.

Frigid winter nights like this, especially the “open” ones, when the sky is not lined in the snugly cotton of clouds, when the Moon casts its cold brilliant light and the stars are myriad, invariably make me think with longing of the Cosmos. I try to imagine what it would be like to be “up” there, among my beloved stars, and my heart aches because of their immense beauty and because of their utter intangibility.

I dream of the extremes in temperature and distances, of huge chemical reactions, of the tremendous poetry of astrophysics. Blue giants, and white dwarfs, and comets, and gas planets, and the asteroids in the trans-Neptunian region, all these almost unimaginable exotic things fascinate me. Speak to me knowledgeably of event horizons, of intergalactic space, of supernovae, of dark matter, of Messier objects, and I will fall for you, hard indeed.

Like all children, I think, when they were very very very young, my daughters were fascinated by the Moon. I had taught my youngest to answer, when asked where the Moon was, “In the Cosmos.” Most of the times she would get it right, pronouncing it in a hyphenated way “Cos-mos” but some other times she would invert the two syllables and would say “Mos-cos”, much to our delight. She laughs out heartily now when I remind her of that – she’s a big girl now, she’s four, not a baby anymore…

I hope to instil in them my love for astronomy. I hope they will be among those who lift their eyes, often, and contemplate the sky. And wonder. All things technical are evolving fast these days. Who knows, maybe one day they will walk in Mare Imbrium, the Sea of Showers…

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Only In My Heart

I have a memory of winds and grass. And bitter tears.

I think I was ten or maybe twelve. I had travelled with my Grandmother, Mother’s mom, to the countryside, to the village where she was born, and where her younger brother and his family still live. We used to do that almost every other year, during the summer holidays.

One day we took a walk, my Grandmother, her brother and I, through my great-uncle’s vineyard and then past it, climbing the hill on which the vineyard extended. The grass was tall on that hill, maybe knee-high, and the strong winds laid it down, revealing fallen tombstones. An old cemetery, abandoned, forgotten. I stopped - they went a little further. I watched them, brother and sister, holding each other, crying silently before the graves of their parents. I remained at a distance, shy, reluctant to intrude upon their shared sorrow. I don’t know if I realised the meaning of this at the time, but that desolate scene and that moment remain forever imprinted upon my mind’s eye.

My Grandmother died this day unbelievably twenty-one years ago, at 72. The meaning of the verb “to die” is still absurd to me. I cannot grasp it, be it others or myself that I think about. I cannot conjugate it.

This is not an homage. No poetry is needed nor sought. I will not polish this text – I have no metaphors, no nicely arranged words. It’s hard enough for me to write these simple words, plain as they are.

I still miss her immensely although I don’t think of her everyday anymore. Time numbs pains – so they say. She was the most kind-hearted and open-minded woman that I have ever met, even more so than Mother. She gave everything she had, and more, to others. She was a strong, courageous woman. A widow at twenty, she has never remarried and raised her daughter alone. I wish I did more when she was with us, but childhood is selfish and immortal. Many of these thoughts came to me much later – too late. Sometimes I dream of her and, when she comes to me in my sleep, I wake up happy in the morning, as if I could really touch her, physically, again.

So on this day, of Saint-Nicholas, among the gifts for children, when the pain resurfaces whole, I allow it to tear at my soul. And even though I lost them at other times, I think of my other grandparents too. My paternal Grandmother, who I knew much less but admired greatly for her strength – she lived alone running a household till she died at 87, in 1987. And my Grandfathers, who I never met, both disappeared before I was born, one at twenty-four in 1934, and the other at sixty-five in 1965. They are all mine and I love them.

Life is weird at times, unmerciful. Those were their lives. How strange it feels to use the past tense. And what remains? Some old pictures, some beautiful greatgrandchildren, and the love in my heart…

Tuesday, December 04, 2007


Last Saturday morning we took our daughters to the Christmas Family Day, which my employer organises annually around this time of the year. They rent a sports complex for this event and transform two hockey arenas into a winter wonderland, complete with Santa Claus waiting for the kiddies in his realm run by elves and fairies. Among the attractions are huge inflatable slides and other games, a little train, a carousel, clowns making balloon sculptures, a seasonal theatre play, popcorn and candyfloss (or cotton candy, if you prefer), and of course gifts for each child. Not too bad. Quite enjoyable, in fact, if only for the happiness in the children’s eyes.

The carousel is big and beautiful, with flowers painted on it and many lights. This year, when riding it, round, and round, and round, and round, I suddenly thought of Cornelia Funke’s “The Thief Lord”. I read the book a few years ago and thoroughly took pleasure in it. It’s a beautiful children’s book - 9 to 12 years old as the publisher says, but perfectly fit for me - moving and exciting, the story of two orphan brothers in Venice, running of an evil aunt who wants to separate them, and joining the street gang of this boy called The Thief Lord. I remembered the book because of the carousel. There is one in there that can do magical things.

”Magical things?” Riccio looked at Ida Spavento wide-eyed, just the way he looked at Hornet when she read to them…

Ida nodded. “Yes, very strange things. People said that a few turns on the merry-go-round of the Merciful Sisters made adults out of children and children out of adults.”

For a few moments there was complete silence. Then Mosca laughed out loud. “And how’s that supposed to work?”

Ida shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

Children want to grow up faster, adults dream of going back to the idealised bliss of younger ages. And I wonder, would you risk a ride in it? Would you know which way to spin it and when to jump off?

Monday, December 03, 2007

No Doubt

I look at Poetry in reverence
as it flows to me
on this December morn.
Gods’ frozen whispers
are lashing at the world.

Are these my everlasting doubts,
I wonder.
They come to me in the shape
of a Gorgon.
Snakes of snow,
adorning its head of fears,
threaten to turn
my heart into stone,
my very soul into
if only I glanced
at its might.

It is your love, my darling,
my beloved,
my lover,
it is your fire
that quells
these illusions
of blizzard.

It is your hand
that holds mine
on this path
of ices.

And we dance
and we kiss
and we float in the snow.

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

The Glass Wing Fairies

Somebody has sent me these images today and, when I saw them, I felt instantly transported from the dull winter that greys this end of November day to a magical world of fairytales. I imagined the vast grounds of an immense castle, all blanketed in thick snow. No colour anywhere but the over encompassing lack of colour of a perfect white. A frozen realm, inhabited by frozen souls. But wait, lost in the middle of this park, there is a point, a speck of brilliant green. As I approach it, fearfully and eagerly, gliding on my white fluffy wings of a bird-princess, I notice it’s a tiny glasshouse, itself shaped like a castle. Inside it, there resides an entire world of flowers, their petals the most luminous reds, and yellows, and blues; and each of these flowers has its minuscule fairy, a glass fairy, of infinite beauty and grace - I watch it for hours, while the ice of my heart melts away with the happiness given me by the delicate flutter of their glass wings.

The glass wing butterfly lives in South America. It seems that its presence is used by rain forest ecologists as an indication of high habitat quality while its demise alerts them of ecological change.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007


I believe there comes a moment in life when you realise that “that’s it!” These are the cards you were dealt. You did your best with them, or your worst, but there’s no reshuffling of the deck, no second chance at a better hand. Nothing will fundamentally change. None of the great deeds you were going to accomplish will happen. The miracle you’ve always thought to be just around that next corner has never come and will forever elude you.

Certainly, you continue to fight, and dream, and build, and cry, and hope, and create, and love, and dream some more, but somewhere deep inside you, where the harshest of truths are held, sometimes unrecognisable even to yourself, lurks this cold fact. Maybe you’re living your perfect life, you’re happy, you have a great family, a good job, maybe you’re a published writer or whatever else meets your fancy. It doesn’t mean you have to be sad – you could be perfectly content - it’s just a fact.

Look around you. Look inside you. That is the place where you were born and this is your family; these are the choices you’ve made; this is the person you’ve married and not somebody else, this is where you live, in this house, in this town and not in another, this is what you do, these are your children, or maybe you don’t have any, by your choice or nature’s. I’m not saying that you’re not happy with your spouse or that you’re not content with your life. But, could you have done everything – or at least some things - differently? How would your life have been had you taken another decision at some crossroads? Do you wonder?

It’s not true discontent that I’m voicing, but a nostalgia coming from the idea of closed (or drastically narrowing, to be more optimistic) possibilities. Others are eighteen now, not you, others are starting their lives.

But when you have a relatively “normal” life, all this sounds trivial in the end compared to the tragedies that devastate other people’s lives. Just an example from yesterday’s newspaper: In 2006, after being forced to squat on the floor for three hours, 19-year old Private Andrei Sychyov, from the Russian army, developed gangrene and the doctors had to amputate his legs and genitals. And his future, of course. Talk about a bad hand…

And another pespective: On the drive home to my older daughter’s school, I sometimes catch a glimpse of a man or a woman; I see them because there is an old people’s home there and they get out for a stroll or just a breath of air when the weather’s permitting. Not together. He is thin, frail, wears huge round glasses, and has a walking cane. She is diminutive and needs a four-legged metal support, just to stand. I’ve rarely seen them move. And I think of them that they just exist, enduring each day, or maybe enjoying it and hoping for the next one. Yesterday, I saw the man and thought, what about this man, how was this life of his that brought him here, how good, how bad? Does all this existential angst mean anything to him?

* * *

That’s probably one of the reasons why writing means so much to me. When I plunge into it, everything else is erased. I have a clean slate. I can start a new life every time, without discarding my “real” one. I have myriad possibilities, all waiting for me. I can open a new deck of cards and even cheat…

Thursday, November 22, 2007

First Snow

Edward J. Bierly - Early Snow

Unseen hands of giants
have started shearing
these grand sheep of the sky.
Their wool
dances in the wind’s skirts,
flows gently over my face,
drops melting pennies
in my upturned palms,
just before
weaving a quilt
of green and white
with the bold parsley.

In the bedecked garden,
I lie,
eavesdroppping to the
quiet lullaby that
the bulbs of garlic
hum to themselves
while awaiting for spring,
tucked away
in Mother Earth’s bed.

On it I lie,
in the form of a snow angel
for the squirrels’ intrigued curiosity
and the children’s sweet delight.

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

And a very Happy Thanksgiving holiday to all my American blog-friends!!!

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Seven (Random?) Things About Me

John Eaton was very kind (or not?!) to think of me for this meme. These are the rules, copied from his blog:

1.Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself.
4. Tag seven random [?] people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

Hmmm, suddenly I find it very difficult to come up with one let alone seven things about me. But here we go:

1. When I was about four years old and had just learned how to write in capitals, I heard on the radio about a woman who spoke thirty languages. How wonderful that seemed to me. I immediately started making a list - in my huge, clumsy letters - of all the languages I wanted to learn. Regrettably, I’m very far from getting anywhere on it, beyond the first (very) few.

2. Another scene that stuck to my mind happened at a party. I don’t think I was older than five or six and we used to have these family parties, for various occasions, with relatives gathered around a bountiful table. Oh, I liked them so much, I was all eyes, and ears, and taste buds! There was this uncle by marriage who had a beautiful voice and used to sing these beautiful songs, but they were all very sad, very melancholic. I remember listening to him while huge tears were rolling down on my cheeks. Well, years have gone by, he’s moved to Germany, and – for no particular reason, just life - I haven’t seen him or talked to him in more than twenty years. But just a few weeks ago, an acquaintance of mine has met him in Europe, at a baptism, and he wanted her to give me this message; he said he was still sorry for having made me cry with his song at that party of such a long time ago…

3. One of my earliest memories is the following: I was probably three or four years old and my grandmother was taking me to a lady who ran a sort of morning German day care/school in her home. Auntie Flora, I was calling her. I was walking with my grannie on the street and, as always, I had my head full of the stories and the fairy tales that she was telling me. At some point I said, “What if I were a white peahen…” The gentleman who was walking in front of us turned and looked at me. I was so embarrassed, I guess, that this moment forever remains imprinted upon my mind.

4. I much prefer salted or sour things to sweet things, when it comes to food.

5. I like to cook and I’m good at it – no false modesty here. I like to experiment and I’m not afraid to try new exotic ingredients. Unfortunately my family is rather conservative as far as food is concerned, so I’ll just keep the octopus salad for myself.

6. One of my favourite painters is Hieronymus Bosch. His bizarre infernal visions go intriguingly well with the labyrinths of my mind.

7. I love perfumes. I wear them according to my mood, my colours, and the colours of weather. My favourites, right now and in no particular order, are Bvlgari by Bvlgari, Rock’n’Rose by Valentino, Pure Poison by Christian Dior, and Sicily by Dolce & Gabbana. I was shocked to find out that they’re not making Sicily anymore. I have one unopened bottle and probably will be very reluctant to open it when its time comes.

Now it’s my turn to tag a few people:

1. Bernita
2. Colleen
3. Jeff
4. Minx
5. Pearl
6. Shameless
7. Taffiny (when you have the time)

I have to run and hide now...

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Bag of Chemicals

There is this guy at work, this very funny, kind-hearted, obliging guy, who, sometimes – at least once a month – when asked how his weekend was, laughs and says, “I survived my wife’s PMS!” It’s a guys’ thing, a rough conversation to which I only eavesdrop occasionally, when their loud voices draw my attention. The first time I heard this I was outraged, pissed off, upset, barely able to keep my mouth shut.

Then, I thought more about it.

What are we, in fact? I know the tendency is to give all kind of noble definitions, good to tickle our endless self-pride. But, inside us, neurons work with electrical signals through chemical and electrical synapses; chemical messengers called hormones regulate physiological activities including growth, mood, metabolism, and preparation for a new activity or for a new phase of life; glands secrete all kind of other chemicals… Nothing like some endorphin to give you a sense of well being. And serotonin regulates anger, aggression, body temperature, mood, sleep, vomiting, sexuality, and appetite! And how about those nice sex pheromones? Forget the notions of romantic love. My darling, your chemicals and mine seem to be attracted to each other. Often, a little sunshine can work miracles on your mood.

So, is that what we are, a bunch of chemical and electrical reactions? How outrageous a thought, some might say. We, the mighty human beings, (almost) slaves to this?! Unconsciously, women tend to dress better when they’re ovulating. Is that humiliating enough?

And that little something that’s called soul or ka or thymos, what is it? We’re proud of it, we put our hopes in it, and maybe, just maybe, it is what makes us different from the rest. Is it also the product of these reactions or is it a true link to transcendence? I couldn’t tell. There are days when I feel my “spirit” soaring to the skies and others when I’m just a bag of chemicals…

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Nothing Like a Roar...

Nothing like a roaring lion to shake me and wake me up from the darkest of melancholies. I have Vanilla to thank for this! She always has the right words, so beautiful, so powerful, so considerate, so soothing. The words she wrote about me, humble me. Oh, how I wish they were reflecting the (harsh) reality. But, I’ll tell you what I can do – I can try to live up to them, I can do my best to give a good purpose to this roaring lion…

The Roar was initiated by the tamer of the literary lions of Lyon, who writes (at) Shameless Words. He’s launched this project aiming to celebrate good and powerful writing in the blogosphere, which is often very good despite what some say in the mainstream media. The recipients have to list three things they believe are necessary for good, powerful writing, and pass the award on to five blogs they want to honour.

Shameless says:

“Let's send a roar through the blogosphere!”

So, here we go…

1. Talent – Not everybody can write, just as not everybody can paint, or compose music, or take wondrous photographs. You have to be blessed (or rather cursed?) with this gift, together with a consuming fire that will not allow you to relent from spilling your soul, in black marks on screen or paper, again, and again, and again. Craft can be learned through diligent exercise, but no one can “teach” you the talent.
2. Imagination - A vivid imagination is what allows you to live and write about lives that you couldn’t possibly reach otherwise, due to obvious limitations. In your imagination, you could go anywhere, be anything, and experience everything.
3. A love for the language - You have to read, read, and read. Drink from the fountain of others’ phrases. Revel in the discovery of beautiful words, taste their fullness on your tongue, listen to their songs in your head. Play with the words, break grammar rules, use the Thesaurus, do not go for the laziest choice, for the commonplace option. (Of course, plenty of exercise is needed for that too.)

And now, in alphabetical order, the roaring lion goes to:

Canterbury Soul at Doors Left Open
David at Witnessing Am I
Ello at Random Acts of Unkindness
Jason Evans at Clarity of Night
Jon M. at Writing in a Vacuum

Your words enthral me, move me, amaze me, and make me think. You definitely “roar”!
(You can choose your Roar Award image here.)

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Dark, Late

The overwhelming sadness
snows over my eyelids.
Its tiny kisses of death
chill my heart
to a lasting winter.
The grains of sand
scrape my soul
as they fill the hourglass,
Nothing can console me
for the lost gold of my youth.
Time is a cheetah,
a cheater,
a mischievous lord of naught.

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

A Few Good Films

I don’t particularly seek horror movies, nor do I reject them unconditionally as I’ve heard other people doing. What I like is a good movie, well directed and well acted, with “something” to interest me. What is that little something? A twist, an intriguing idea, an unusual story or character, an element of atmosphere, etc., etc. It could be any genre. Give me a good horror movie and I’ll go for it anytime.

Probably the ultimate test for a movie is that of Time. How well does it age? Does it still ring true after its context has dissolved in the corresponding ‘ties? That is the fifties, the seventies, etc… There are some that do and some that don’t. Those that do can be seen and seen again for they will not loose their freshness; they will maintain their capacity to make us feel, be it joy, fear, sadness…

Moreover, what matters most is not what various reviewers have said about a movie, but how it appeals to you, what chord of your soul it strikes.

The images I’ve shown over the last four posts come from three movies and a TV-series made just for my heart…

Gliding along the wall in the dark, this is Cesare, the somnambulist, obeying again his master’s orders in “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” (1919) a masterpiece of German expressionism, by Robert Wiene. Here’s a closer look at Cesare…

And this is Mina Harker (or Ellen Hutter as she was called in this movie) awaiting her husband’s return (or does she sense another’s call?…) in “Nosferatu – A Symphony of Horror” from 1922, another masterpiece of German expressionism, by F. W. Murnau. Count Orlock (played by Max Schreck – what a perfect name! – Schreck means fear in German) remains, in my opinion, one of the best vampire figures in the history of cinema.

In “The Host,” episode 2x02 (the second episode of the second season of The X-Files) which aired on September 25th, 1994, Mulder and Scully are chasing the Flukeman through the sewers of New Jersey. A classic! And this is who they’re up against:

Finally, “Sleepy Hollow,” the 1999 film directed by Tim Burton and starring Johnny Depp and Christina Ricci, is another one very much to my liking. A bit gory at times, with all those heads chopped off and all the blood that keeps spurting into Ichabod Crane’s face, but with plenty of the right “ingredients”. I simply like it! And I was watching it again, late on Halloween’s night… Delightful!

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Little Halloween Triptych, Part III

A Mother’s Gift

A long dagger of lightning split the sky somewhere beyond the forest.

Christopher cringed and stopped; with eyes squeezed shut and tight fists, he counted aloud. … 15 …16 …17 … Then the thunder broke – a rolling sound of anger cast upon Earth from the unforgiving heavens. Still at a safe distance, he thought. Not for long.

He hurried along the road, laboriously, clutching the leather briefcase to his chest, cursing the weather and his own weakness. Again, he hasn’t had the courage to stand his ground in front of Mr. Heath, the notary, his employer. What document could have been so important for its dispatch to suffer no delay on a night as wretched as this one?

Old Lord Harrington, gouty and frail, with one foot in the grave, had visited Mr. Heath two days before. The rumour was he’d changed his last will and testament again, this time in favour of his nephew, the young Viscount, who was leading a life of debauchery in London. Christopher didn’t care. He’d been told to reach Lord Harrington’s castle that very night and he was doing it.

Another spear of lightning made him stop and count. The thunder roared, with painful intensity, as if up there God was rolling some monstrous barrels.

When the rumble subsided, from the darkness behind him, Christopher heard the tinkling of a bell and a muffled clacking of hooves. He threw a scared glance over his shoulder, was met only by the darkness, and walked faster, ready to dive for a useless shelter among the low bushes that lined the road. A coach, it sounded like a coach.

All the old superstitions about the phantom coaches, all the stories he’d listened by the fire and secretly dreaded in the long dreary nights of winter, surged to his mind like unleashed demons. Death-coaches, his grandmother was calling them, the black wagons pulled by six headless horses and driven by a headless coachman, whose purpose was to gather the souls of the dead. Has this one come for him?

The first drops of rain splattered against his face.

Behind him, in the thick moving shadows, Christopher glimpsed a light’s dance. The next lightning revealed a huge carriage, moving swiftly. He began running.

The coach passed him in a moment then halted. Was it waiting for him? Its door opened slowly.

At least the coachman had a head. He did not speak, did not stir, but his head was there on his shoulders – a poorly reassuring find for Christopher.

Despite his terror, Christopher peered inside. In the farthest corner, he thought he could distinguish a shape, darker than the night.

“Who are you?” Christopher said, his voice faltering miserably.

The shape lifted an arm and beckoned to him, as if inviting him to get in.

“Are you going to Harrington Manor?”

His voice’s strange echo inside the carriage was his only answer. Yet, he was already holding the handle, he already had a foot on the first step.

He felt he should protest, but could not disobey. He knew he had to run away, but his legs were leaden. If only he had some gold on him – he remembered his grandmother had told him that gold could repel the dullahans, though little good did the gold crucifix do to her when her time came.

Shaking, he climbed inside, let himself fall clumsily on the seat; the coach set going immediately.

He dared not speak another word, he barely dared to breathe. The interior of the coach was giving out a smell of dust and earth. He squeezed himself in a corner and waited.

Where was he taken? The coach outstripped the wind and Christopher wondered if they were still on Earth, for the ride was smooth as if on air and he could not feel the road in his bones anymore.

Before he knew it, the coach had stopped again. Was it collecting another soul? Were they in Hell already? He peered outside through the velvet curtains and saw lights of windows, many lovely lighted windows. An inn. Thank God, he had reached civilisation again, he was back among humans.

He descended on wobbling legs, incapable of running as he thought he should. The storm was still gathering strength, with lighting bolts dancing their cruel criss-cross above the forest, but the clouds had poor tears.

A man with a friendly figure, pot-bellied, carrying a lantern, came out to greet him with open arms.

“Hunter’s Inn” was the place’s name and its appearance was warmly inviting.

“I cannot stay,” Christopher said quickly, thinking of his empty pockets and of his urgent errand. “Pray you, is this the road to Harrington Manor?”

“Just come and rest for a while, my young sir,” the innkeeper said with a gentle smile, “and wait the storm away. It should be gone in an hour or two. You’re not far from the castle. You’ll be there in no time…”

“I have to get there tonight,” Christopher protested, but weaklier now, peeking at the enticing lights in the windows.

“And so you shall, my young sir, and so you shall…”

Against his resolve, his heart was lulled into acceptance by a strange torpor. Yes, he thought, just for a little while. Anything was better than the black coach and the storm.

Another lightning lighted the forest and the sky’s fury rumbled in thunder. As if at a signal, the deluge started.

“Just for a little while,” he mumbled. He turned to the coach – maybe to offer thanks – but it was gone and behind him stood only the forest with its dark shadows.

He ran inside, following the innkeeper.

The room was large but almost empty, and lighted only by a lively fire.

A lady was seated at a table next to the hearth and beyond her there was a woman, holding a baby on her lap. The baby was playing and cooing in the content carefree way that childhood only still retains.

The lady was young, yet her eyes had an air of melancholy and her gestures a mellowness that added much age to her fresh features. She smiled to Christopher as he came in, watching him with great benevolence. Her smile soothed and reassured him, like only his grandmother’s did when she was still alive.

“How you resemble my long lost son,” she said, the gentleness in her voice tinged with an overwhelming sadness. “Come, sit with me.”

He obeyed willingly, laying his briefcase on the table in between them.

“Where are you travelling on such a pitiless night?” the woman asked.

Christopher told her eagerly about his errand.

She went on questioning him about his early life, and Christopher obliged her gladly, feeling as if he’d known her for a long time. And every time he mentioned his grandmother, the lady’s eyes glistened with tears, and for every hardship he recalled for her, her face shadowed with a deep compassion.

He spoke with an ease of which he wouldn’t have imagined himself capable, after all these years when – except for his poor grandmother – he’d only encountered mean and petty people.

She ordered food for him and wine, and when they arrived and Christopher started eating without hiding his hunger, she said,

“This Lord Harrington – have you met him?”

“No, madam.”

She seemed to be immensely relieved.

“My darling boy,” she said. “Lord Harrington used to be an old friend of mine. Oh, don’t be surprised. Indeed, we have been lovers when I was very young. From this unlucky union two children were born, two twin boys. He wanted to know nothing of us and later he thought of us as a danger to his good name and fortune. Twenty-three years ago, when you were only eight month old…

Christopher’s eyes widened in disbelief. How could she know his age?

“No, my child,” the lady said, as if to soothe his unease, then smiled. Over the table she reached and took his hand (how cold her small hand was despite the fire) and said, “Do you have a ring, Christopher? A ring with a blue lapis lazuli stone, cut at an odd angle, as if something was missing from it?”

He gasped in surprise. Indeed, he had it – it was hanging on a tiny string at his neck – his dearest and most mysterious possession. How could this woman know about it? Without a word, he took it out of his shirt.

The lady nodded and showed him her hand. On the ring finger she wore the stone cut to match the one Christopher had, to form a perfect circle if brought together.

“Twenty-three years ago,” she continued, her voice so low that Christopher had to strain his hearing to distinguish her words, “Lord Harrington called upon us to join him at his manor, pretending his intentions were to repair his mistake and make me his wife. We were commanded to stop at this inn and wait for his instructions. Twenty-three years ago, on this very night, he came here in bad faith and with the worst of intentions.”

She paused, as if to draw her breath and strengthen herself for what was to follow.

“His behaviour was of an indescribable violence. He came alone, and he, alone, with his bare hands, murdered your brother.”

Christopher winced. He looked at the nurse and the happily cooing baby, wondering why he had assumed that it was the lady’s child.

“I could not do anything,” she continued, a deep sadness hardening her features. “Your grandmother escaped with you, and hid you from the guilty fear with which he must’ve looked for you for years to come.”

Her voice faded and for a long while she sat in a strange reverie. Christopher respected her silence despite the tumult his mind struggling to escape in innumerable questions.

“You must have this ring, my son,” she said finally. “It is yours now. Guard it well. You’ll have a use for it very soon. Now rest, my child, you can accomplish your errand tomorrow…”

His heart fluttered, almost painfully. What was he to understand of this? This young heartbroken woman, how could she be the mother he’d never known? His mind was spinning, he could hardly concentrate. He’d have to speak more to her. In the morning, yes. He took another sip of the strong wine. Yes, she was right, he didn’t have to get there that night; he could do it the next day. No one could blame him for a little delay on a night like that. How well he was there, how warm, his stomach quieted for once. He rested his head on the table, in the cradle of his forearms, and closed his eyes. A small hand came to stroke his hair, the fire crackled, the baby cooed. He abandoned himself to sleep.

A bird, cooing its morning song, awoke Christopher. He opened his eyes and looked around, his mind struggling to understand the discrepancy between what he remembered and what he saw. He was in an odd clearing, all darkened, and had slept on a tree trunk. No wonder he was so stiff. He rubbed his eyes. Where was the welcoming inn where he had spent the evening with the kind lady? He stood up, walked a few steps, went to touch with a shaking hand a darkened wall – a few charred beams were all that remained from the building that had stood there the night before. Dazed, he turned, his eyes wandering aimlessly. Had it all burned down in a night? Hit by the lightning, maybe? Could he have dreamt everything? He saw the hearth then, by which they had talked, its shell of soot covered stones still standing whole. Inside it, the remnants of the fire still flickered, and on the incandescent coals he noticed his burnt briefcase. With a cry, he jumped to its rescue but it was too late; little remained of it and nothing of Lord Harrington’s new will, only a charred paper that crumbled under his fingers. Surrendering to despair, he dropped to his knees in front of the hearth. What was he to do now?

After a moment’s hesitation, he started looking around him, searching for the littlest of signs to show him that he hadn’t gone completely mad. What was there to find among those desolate ruins? Yet, something caught his attention, a whiter shade amidst the soot. With blood pounding deafeningly in his ears, he started rummaging through fallen leaves, digging the soil with his nails. When he removed enough earth, he stopped and fell back, dazed. The criminal had left them there to burn. No fear came to grip his heart, only a devastating outrage and, when its waves died, an overwhelming peace.

Three skeletons lay there, one of which was a child’s. He reached out with a trembling hand and gently stroked their dried bones. One hand was coming out of the earth and on it, there was ring with a blue stone strikingly similar to the one hanging around his neck. He took the skeletal hand in his, very lightly, as to not shatter it to pieces, and waited, longing to feel it caressing his head one more time. Then he took the ring from his mother’s finger and put it on the string next to the other half.

Old “Hunter’s Inn” in the Norwood forest had burned down twenty-three years before the very night Christopher spent there as a guest. From it, only a few ruins remained, which nobody dared to touch, nor even come close, especially at night. Voices were heard from there and, sometimes, lights were seen, dancing in ghostly windows, but no peasants approached the place for fear of its ethereal inhabitants.

Lord Harrington died the same morning. For him, the hell wain has come after all. In his will – the one he had meant to destroy – tormented by guilt, he was admitting to his triple crime; he was recognising Christopher as his son and sole heir and was leaving to him – if he were still alive - all his fortune, but only under the condition that Christopher would produce his mother’s ring as a proof of his identity.

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Little Halloween Triptych, Part II


Bizarre things started happening in our building after Mr. Glick moved in at 2C, a few month ago. He was a tiny balding man, in his fifties, with a furtive gaze and neat little restless hands. He barely exchanged a few words with the neighbours upon his arrival, then disappeared inside his apartment, never to be seen again.

No later than the next day, a parade of masons, carpenters, plumbers, interior decorators and other craftsmen started wearing out the marble steps and hallways of our building in a messy coming and going. Mr. Glick was fully remodelling his condo, we extracted from a chatty electrician.

For a week, we endured the continuous hammering, whirring, and clanking, which died out only late at night. Then, the noises ceased, but our building never regained the insulated silence it enjoyed before. At night especially, there were creaks, and clangs, and loud prolonged gurgling noises coming from the plumbing. It was as if the building was settling down again, after some major surgery that it had suffered.
Before long, people began complaining, with nosy Mrs. Dean, from 1B, as a focal point of their growing animosity towards him.

Mr. Glick never got out of the house, never answered the neighbours’ phone calls, or their knockings on his door.

“He’s a recluse,” I was arguing to an overly excited Mrs. Dean. “So what?”

No one could deny that foul smells had invaded the building, and there occurred many incidents of malfunctioning garbage compactors and ebbing toilets. Repairmen proved helpless confronted with ever occurring blocked drainages.

People’s complaints were met by the firm wall of Mr. Glick’s (or Mrs. Glick’s?) dismissals over the interphone. What arose my curiosity was that all men who had tried to contact him were talked out of their intention by a woman’s sultry voice, while the women spoke to a man, whose baritone didn’t resemble at all Mr. Glick’s. I heard it myself, under a poor excuse, and must admit it stirred something deep inside me – I wouldn’t have minded meeting that man, who could not have been the same Mr. Glick, under more romantic circumstances.

Mrs. Dean took upon her to give me updates every time she caught me passing in front of the door. She somehow invested me with a special statute, since I lived in 2B, and my condo shared one long living room wall with his.

That’s how I found out about Mr. Newman’s poodle that went missing inexplicably. And that Mr. Glick had food delivered to his door everyday. When questioned, a delivery boy, pissed off at the perpetual non-existence of a tip, admitted never having seen him.

And when one day there was a new face delivering pizza and whatnot, Mrs. Dean could’ve sworn she’d seen the predecessor entering the building but never leaving it again. She even called the police, and then swore that the policeman who had come to investigate also never left the building.

I couldn’t believe this. She’d probably missed him, because despite her qualities as a spy, Mrs. Dean was also a human being who occasionally had to use the toilet. She somehow bullied me into going to the police, where I was humiliated to find out that the said policeman had resigned the very day in question, leaving a quitting note on his desk.

Enough was enough. This was no longer a fun diversion. I started using earplugs, turned my music a little louder, bought some air fresheners, and tiptoed in front of Mrs. Dean’s apartment.

What finally did it for me was the following: One day, as I returned from work, I noticed a pale liquid coming out from under Mr. Glick’s door. It had extended to form a small pool, which was slowly crawling bigger, streaked with yellow and white bits of something I couldn’t recognise. It smelled terribly and, as I stepped nearer to get a better look, I realised it had the acrid reek of vomit. For a few moments I stood dumbfounded, my stomach convulsing, the urge to run away fighting inside me with the compulsion to get closer.

Then the door opened and I saw Mr. Glick, ankle deep in this liquid, manoeuvering a mop with not much efficiency. When he noticed me, he retreated quickly and I only got a glimpse of his entrance hall, which was draped in some glistening beige velour.
Shaking, with my heart high up in my throat, I stumbled to my door and managed to get inside after dropping my keys only twice. Only when I slammed the door behind me, I regained some sense of security, but it was a feeble one.

I had no one to turn to except my old friend Fox, Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI, and I called him immediately. To my relief, he was home.

“Sounds just like an X-file,” he said, in his soothing smooth voice, after listening to my story.

He didn’t need more than that. He drove from Virginia the same evening, and in three hours was at my doorsteps.

“Eek,” he said, making a funny grimace, after releasing me from his embrace.

“Shh,” I said, afraid our guffaws would stir Mrs. Dean. But she didn’t open her door as usual, which proved quite convenient and very odd.

The whole staircase reeked of vomit. We climbed the steps by twos and rushed inside my apartment.

Soon a long thundering reverberated through the building.

“So, have you had beans for lunch?”

He looked at me and smiled.

“Are you crazy?” I said in mock anger at his obvious hint.

He shrugged, miming innocence.

“Somebody just farted.”

We laughed, but somehow his remark seemed more reasonable than I would have liked to admit. It truly sounded like a giant’s flatulence.

We agreed to wait till the morning to do anything more.

It was midnight when a loud gurgling noise woke me up, a prolonged dance of air and water, somewhere deep in the pipes of the building. Mulder was sitting on the couch, in the living-room, awake in the speckled darkness.

“Did you hear it?” I whispered.

“Borborygmus,” Mulder said.


“A growling stomach…”


He rose and walked to the infamous wall my apartment shared with Mr. Glick’s. He put an ear to it, but retreated immediately, wiping his face where it had touched the wall.

“It’s warm,” he said. “And moist. Turn on the lights, would you?”

I saw it then – the whole wall was covered in beads of moisture, as if the painting itself had perspired. Could I believe it was a monstrous sweat, as Mulder suggested, without going completely mad?

It was by chance that the next morning I caught a glimpse of Mr. Glick leaving the building. I couldn’t believe it.

“That’s our chance,” Mulder said.

I stood behind him as he worked on the lock, scared we were turning into common burglars. In a moment, the door opened smoothly into a large corridor.

“Ohhh!” Mulder groaned, swiftly taking a handkerchief to his nose. The stench was odious, and made me gag instantly; desperate I couldn’t find anything inside my jeans’ pockets, I just lifted my blouse and covered my nose with it.

The walls were glistening under Mulder’s flashlight, but I realised it wasn’t velvet at all that covered them. They had folds and crevices, and looked moist, covered in some sort of mucus. Mulder stepped inside and I followed, still holding onto the back of his jacket. The floor was sticky and the soles of our shoes made a popping sound every time we took another step.

It was unlike anything we’ve ever seen, and I imagined that’s how the inside of an organ would look under a laparoscope.

A sudden gush of fetid air, accompanying the same gurgling sound we’ve heard before, almost knocked us down.

“What the hell!”

At the same time a splash of liquid hit Mulder’s shoulder, and at the spot a burnt hole appeared, its edges fuming. The smell was telltale – chlorine.

“I bet it’s hydrochloric acid,” Mulder said. “Even better – gastric acid. Let’s get out of here.”

In front of a cup of coffee in my kitchen, his ruined jacket on a chair, Mulder said,

“We’ve got to get a better look. Looks like a giant stomach…”

I only was half outraged.

“What if it’ll chew us?”

“I don’t think it will. It relies on hydrochloric acid and enzymes. Watch for Mr. Glick. I’ll get us some supplies.”

He returned an hour later, carrying a big package and a canister. I hadn’t seen Mr. Glick coming back.

The package contained two rubber suits, complete with oxygen masks.

“Our own enteric coating,” Mulder said, his eyes gleaming, while he helped me put on mine.

“What’s in the canister?” I said.

“Our exit ticket, just in case something goes wrong - castor oil, a very nice laxative.”

We entered the apartment for the second time. Yes, he had to be right, despite the huge absurdity of this; I could see so much more now with a well-advised eye. It looked disgustingly organic, and even without the smell – blocked now by the mask – it was a nauseating sight.

“The oesophageal sphincter,” Mulder said, pointing the light at a muscular structure that surrounded the entrance to the hallway. Whatever its purpose was, it looked lax now, possibly sick.

We took several steps inside. The floor was soft and elastic, covered in the same material as the walls. It all formed a continuous lining, loosely following the contours of the room.

The “hallway” opened to a “room” which seemed to occupy now the whole apartment. Nothing had been kept of the original configuration – all interior dividing walls had disappeared to leave space for this… stomach, I reluctantly had to agree with Mulder. What else could it be?

We continued slowly, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to advance now, with the pits of what surely was an epithelium increasing in depth, and the mucus tugging at our feet, and what had proven to be gastric acid being secreted at an alarming rate.

“What’s that?”

I thought I saw something glinting but whatever it was, it slipped inside a fold. Mulder rummaged inside and brought out a pair of glasses. They were all gooey and the exposure to acid had pitted them badly, but I could instantly recognise them as Mrs. Dean’s.

“Mulder, it’s eaten her!”

“Yes, as it’s probably eaten the dog and all the others.”

A small continuous earthquake started just then, making it suddenly impossible for us to hold our footing.

“What’s happening?” I shouted.

My left leg slipped in a fold and I fell inelegantly, my arms flailing.


“I think it’s trying to churn its food. And we’re it! Come on! Let’s go!”

As he turned toward the door, Mulder tried to grab my hand but failed, almost falling over, unbalanced by the weight of the canister. My feet kept sliding between the moving folds, but my struggle to climb back only made it worse. The claws of panic had my heart in a cold embrace. The pressure was enormous – I was afraid it would soon break all my bones.

“Mulder, the oil!”

He managed to uncork the canister and clumsily tried emptying its contents. But it was impossible to stand straight, and the movement threw him instantly again on his back. He lost the canister, which rolled over, carried by the solid waves moving through this monstrous epithelium.


He dove after it, unsuccessfully, only to be caught again by the grinding flesh.

The entrance was unreachable, the exit nowhere in sight.

That’s it, I thought. What a pathetic way to die, inglorious, ridiculous even – broken down into nutrients by a gigantic stomach. My whole body was a hurting mass, and I was sure not one of my bones was still intact.

“At least we’re getting the massage of our lives,” Mulder roared in mad laughter.

He was still holding the flashlight and I saw him, covered in gunk just as I must’ve been, his face barely distinguishable under the slimy mask, and the absurdity of it hit me with its whole force of relief, and I too fell about laughing, still struggling, still swimming in this impossible solid sea.

Then something changed. A deep shudder passed through the muscular mass, the churning halted abruptly, and heavy convulsions replaced it. A growling sound gathered strength, rising from the deepest crevices.

“We just caused it a massive indigestion, I’m afraid,” Mulder shouted, to cover it.

I played along.

“What’s it gonna be? Vomit or diarrhoea?”

All delusion of control was lost for us as now we were being pushed, not just tossed around, in a precise direction. And it wasn’t the entrance door, that was certain. Its faint reassuring light disappeared quickly. Our forced voyage lasted probably a few seconds but had the feel of an eternity, lost in an uncontrollable whirlwind, then we were spurted out with tremendous force in a gush of liquid and debris.
A soft mattress took my fall, and for a few moments I didn’t even try moving, flabbergasted by the sudden stillness. Then I stood up awkwardly, and wiped my faceplate as well I could. Mulder was standing next to me, a stunned statue covered in yellow faeces, in a garbage and gunk filled courtyard I didn’t even know existed behind our building.

I sat quietly in the car while Mulder loaded my luggage in the trunk. To live for a while in his apartment, in Virginia, was suddenly a sweet perspective.

The headlines in the newspaper read “Man without stomach found dead in Washington Square – biological anomaly or organ theft?”

I read it to him, while Mulder drove. The cause of death was unknown, although the question was how anyone could live without a stomach. The victim had been identified as a certain Mr. Glick, from Manhattan. They had yet to make the proper connection with the giant “organ” found in his apartment.

“He’s not the only one,” Mulder said when I finished. “There are two such bodies reported in the X-files, but only now we have the answer.”

He was the lure, I thought, watching the endless string of lights on the highway. What becomes of life when one has to satisfy huge appetites, be them physical or of any other nature? Does it, at some significant point, drift away from pleasure to become a burden? In the end, it was too much for Mr. Glick; he chose to ran away from his cumbersome duty even it meant suicide.

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

(Of course, this is not a real Halloween story. However, it involves something monstrous, so I thought I could give it a place here, more easily than someplace else.
The X-Files was/is my favourite TV series. This is a modest homage to Fox Mulder, a character who belongs to Fox and upon whom no copyright infringements are intended. But I loved him then, when I watched the series, and I love him now. For obvious reasons, Scully’s on vacation for this story.)

Can you tell out of which episode of The X-Files was this picture taken? Get the answer on November 1st.

Little Halloween Triptych, Part I

The Flying Dutchman Redivivus?


What whisper summons me?
Is it the wind
in drying leaves?
Come to me…
Whispers of doom,
or hoot of owls
or howls of wolves?
I am coming, yes…
The whispers grow,
and whirl, and growl…
In their cold embrace,
I glide
on the dark shore,
in noctambulic walk.
The sea - a lake of tar -
sends rumbling surf,
torn veils
of phantom brides,
onto the sand.
Come to me…
From far, from near,
a song of death
and love
I am here…
I see the ghostly ship,
its masts, and spars, and sails
bleak statues of decay,
no living soul on it
yet full of empty souls.
My home,
to make of thee?
A stir in me…
Run, I could
still run away!
Too late,
the boat slides
My bride… Come…
ply the oars.
And at its bow
I see your eyes of fire
bear down on me
with sweet
Like in a dream,
I step into the waves.
I’m coming…
My robes are heavy
chains held by Okeanos.
Unearthly arms of fog
extend to help me.
How proud you are,
tall at the prow,
your gaze of embers
lights your
handsome face -
a beacon
in my night.
Come quicker… Hurry…
But what is this?
I falter,
my eyes still
in your hypnotic grasp.
Shouts, vile barks,
thunder of guns
awaken me, while
torches light the sand.
The sea’s aflame.
The spectral boat
is fading,
multitudes close in.
A step
and then another,
The sea embraces me.
I almost touch your hand.
Strong voices call my name,
voices alive,
not undead…
My struggle’s vain
I’m dragged away
pulled from your ghostly grip
by warm live arms of men.
I know, my darling,
all is lost,
till next time…
And as I close my eyes
against the burning night,
carried afar,
your waning whisper echoes
on my face,
Next time…

Copyright © Vesper L. All rights reserved.

(The legend of the Flying Dutchman has several versions. In one of them, Vanderdecken, a Dutch shipmaster of the 17th century, while rounding the Cape of Good Hope in a gale, swore before God he would enter Table Bay or be damned. His blasphemy condemned him to sail those waters forever. In Wagner’s homonymous opera, the Captain is allowed ashore once every seven years, to seek the love of a woman and thus redeem himself.)

Can you tell out of which movie the above picture was taken? Get the answer on November 1st.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

It's Coming

You’re walking in the dark on a deserted street.

The street lamps are rare. Their cones of feeble brightness are only islands of illusory safety in an ever thickening fog.

Every now and then you stop and listen, holding your breath. Those footsteps you heard, were they yours? The feathery touch on the nape of your neck, is it the wind?

You want to run but you’re afraid. Where could you run?

An evil is creeping inside you through the cracks of your heart.

Halloween is coming… Look for more signs of it on October 29th…

Can you tell out of which movies were these pictures taken? Get the answer on November 1st.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


Sweet Vanilla thinks I’m sweet so she gave me this award of sweetness… Vanilla, I thank you from my sweetest of hearts!

What I like about this picture is that apples have been chosen. That’s a good thing because apples could be a little sour so the results won’t be sickly sweet but pleasantly sweet – sweet-and-sour, hmmm, that I can deal with easily…

And here's a picture to bring some sweetness to your heart - a bunch of funny decorated pumpkins (just imagine the little hands working on them) in the schoolyard, at the Pumpkin Ball, on a beautifully warm Sunday afternoon...

Sunday, October 21, 2007


The other day, I stumbled upon two postcards bought in Italy, in Florence, a few years ago.

The first from the famous Uffizzi gallery.

I remember quite well. After waiting for almost four hours in a thick snail-slowly moving line of people, exasperated at the groups of tourists who were always given priority, despairing at the rumours of certain areas being closed, and pissed off (excuse the language) at not having where to piss (I apologise again), we finally got inside the gallery.

Having to move with a crowd, with little freedom inside it, takes away half of the pleasure. Combine that with some poorly exposed paintings, at which you were forced to look from too close, not finding the bust of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, the philosopher, my favourite emperor, when all the other Roman emperors were there, and indeed finding some of the rooms closed for (maybe) renovation – and you can paint a good picture of my state of mind.

I always envied and scoffed at those film characters who sometimes meet in an important museum, like this one, and there’s no one else there to hinder their contemplation – they can sit endlessly on a bench and admire the Raphaels and the Botticellis and have meaningful conversations…

When we got out, I bought this postcard of the portrait of Lorenzo di Medici. It makes up for the mundane troubles endured.

It’s a posthumous portrait, by Giorgio Vasari, painted in 1533, forty-one years after the death of the Magnificent. I find it has an incredible force, and tells a hundred stories in its sombre composition. It makes me think, more than all the others, of the Golden Age of Florence, of the height of the early Italian Renaissance, when Lorenzo’s court included artists such as Leonardo da Vinci, Sandro Botticelli, and Michelangelo Buonarotti, but also of what politics meant in Italy of that time, of Savonarola, of the Borgias, of the Sforzas, of the popes (two of Lorenzo’s sons became powerful popes), of poetry and crime…

However, my true moment of ecstasy came soon after.

I don’t remember if it was the same day or the next. We crossed the river Arno on Ponte Vecchio, and walked to Palazzo Pitti, the austere Renaissance palace of the Pittis, the rivals of the Medici family. No crowds there to disturb our voyage through art just as beautiful as the Uffizi’s.

At some point, in Galleria Palatina, we entered a room, whose walls were red if I remember well - even if they weren’t I prefer to think of them as red, a vivid red of satin. And there he was, next to the door, on the left.

Portrait of a Man (“The grey-eyed man” or “The Englishman”) by Tiziano Vecellio, circa 1545.

He was alive. I fell in love with him. It never happened to me before, to fall in love with a man in a painting, and this hit me with an incredible force. Look at his eyes, look at his hands… He is alive; he’s real, watching me, about to speak, though his eyes speak even more.

Scanned postcards are not significant enough to show the real force of these two paintings, nor are my words. But the feeling stays and stands out exquisitely among other memories from this trip to Italy….

Monday, October 15, 2007

A Sparrow's Life

I have a birdhouse in my garden, a nice little house at the top of a pole, with twelve tiny flats, perfect for the families of house sparrows who used to nest there every year. In winter, they used them as shelters and there were many of them sharing the grains with pigeons.

"Used" is the word, because they’ve all disappeared two or three years ago. And not just in my back yard but in those of my neighbours’ too. The hedges were teeming with these cute noisy birds, and now they’re silent. I haven’t realised there was something going on at first; when I had the sudden revelation of this silence, I was intrigued and saddened.

Then I came across some articles on the Internet. I was surprised to see that the disappearance of the house sparrows was perceived as a growing phenomenon in Europe and that some people have started studying it. Among possible explanations are: predators, pesticides that have destroyed the insects upon which the chicks need to feed during their first week if life, mobile telephony, and harmful by-products of unleaded petrol. Researchers are still working on this.

I don’t know what the cause is. I’m tempted to say that it’s something we humans are doing, some uncaring selfish act that will increase our “comfort” and momentarily appease our greed at the expense of fellow dwellers of this planet. But maybe it isn’t, maybe it’s just nature, rearranging itself. After all, there were many sparrows in Cuba…

After they cut the forest not far behind my house to build those half a million dollar homes that make our "nice" neighbourhood, there was a little red fox I could sometimes see at night, on the street, probably visiting the dustbins. I’ve seen it for a couple of years, maybe, and then, it too, was gone. And one year, there was a hare in my garden, and the next spring I spotted it in my front yard with three (!) babies. They, too, have vanished now. What is a fox’s life, or a hare’s, or a sparrow’s, compared to our "needs" as "masters" of this planet? Nothing… How ironical…

So, are we entirely guilty? I really don’t know.

What is certain though is that my little birdhouse is empty…