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Up, Up and Away

10 Sep

Meu projeto de Inglês. A idéia era escrever uma história pessoal, onde a eu teria que descrever um pouco do que eu sentia no momento. Ai vai

“Up, Up and Away”

The calendar marked August 5th. I woke to the dim light that came from outside. The sky was gray and the weather cold; such a beautiful winter day. I looked around and saw both my sisters, still asleep. Their mattresses were good three feet from me, but I could hear their deep breaths. They were the only sound in the place. That empty furniture-less, beige room.

I got up slowly as not to wake them up. Looking at the long hall that separated the living room and the bedrooms, I could see that my parent’s door was still closed. I walked towards the kitchen at the other side. There was still a mahogany table in the center (with some food on it), while the rest had been sold. Funny how I could not remember how big it looked, all empty. I stopped for a moment, my feet touching the cold, white-tiled floor. Someone had opened a door. It was my dad, who had come to wake the house. We had a place to go. A barbecue. Continue reading


Beautiful Mess

20 Aug

I felt so angry. I couldn’t stop myself. She just yelled and complained lately. She had run over my dog, yesterday. My poor dog had never hurt anyone, but she just laughed. Where was the beautiful mess I fell in love with? People don’t change like that; I was just too blind to see the truth. I was written out on her face. She was as though a politician… so many promises. If we were I wouldn’t be so depressed, I would have everything. She was so right. I’m not depressed; she would kill me if I was. I have everything… that would make someone cry.

I demanded an answer from her. Know what she did? She spit on him. “I’m the only thing you need,” she said. A tear fell from my right eye. I would’ve been a dark one if water had any color. My brain couldn’t process the information. I had made the decision before it was over. I saw the hammer, and I looked at my dog. And I hit her. In my head I heard a scream, someone telling me to stop. I did. I looked at her unconscious on the floor. I could control…

“Sir, I get it,” said the lady as I came back. “She was a psycho, harmful. You couldn’t control yourself, which makes more of a crime of passion. But the first blow didn’t kill her, did it? You hit her again. That’s first degree.”

..myself. Then I thought “Wow, I finally have my life back”. And you know what? I had a rush through my system that told me to go on. I hit her again, as hard as I could…

“I can certainly tell you that you won’t ever have your life back, sir. You are under arrest for the murder of Heather Anadarko. I’d get a good lawyer, sir.”

…and her words came back to me. “If we were, if we were…,” such small words, such big questions…

“I don’t need a lawyer,” I answered. “And believe me; I do have my life back.”

…I wrapped her up in an old blanket and put her body close to a sewer drain. Perfect resting place I thought. I kept thinking about the if’s she ever told. How her live was never about being objective. How she was always right, because she was always in doubt. What if we really were? No… I told myself. We finally are. She dead. Me alive. That’s how we are.


23 Jul

Thanks Diogo in his DimEcaverna for the tip.


“Thank you, sir. Your new identification card will arrive soon”. I hang up the phone as I thought of all the other calls and requests that had to be made. 8:24. Must hurry. Job. I got up to take a shower. My boss would know my new identification by now. My badge remade, my desk switched, and all the papers I had ever signed would be replaced. Got out, dressed up, and looked out the window. The gigantic tower of the Republic cast a shadow over the city, and blocked my sun. 8:45. Must hurry. Job.

I walked out, pressing my thumb in the pad beside the door, automatically sealing the house. The car was by the front porch. An 1990 Chevrolet Camaro. It was 32 years old, but to me it worked as though it was new. 8:49. Must hurry. Putting the small black suitcase in the passenger’s seat, I drove. The Republic was not far, and the building – or the torso as I called – was not hard to find. Still, no one ever remembered its street. People never took directions nowadays. It was pointless. They would be relabeled. They always were. 8:56. Finally arrived. Continue reading


18 Jul

Tick tock. The clock stopped at 12. The night in its most frightening hour devoured the sky outside. Time seemed to slow itself. He couldn’t sleep. The pale face of the man hid beneath the darkness. Darkness meant he would be safe, but only for a couple of hours. It would be back. It always came back, and, as long as it wasn’t dark, it would stay. There were no lights around. He was safe. The man kept looking outside, wishing that 6AM never came. Morning would bring It to life, and It would follow the man, It would try to take his life. It had tried before, and It would try again.

It could not bear being only the shadow. It wanted a life of its own, but as long as the man was alive, It – the shadow – would have to follow. It was the order of things. Humans live, shadows follow. Continue reading

The Pedestrian

12 Jul


by Ray Bradbury

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of 2053 A.D., or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.

Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open.

Mr Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.

On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.

‘Hello, in there,’ he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. ‘What’s up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?’

The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in mid-country. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the street, for company.

‘What is it now?’ he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?’

Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not one in all that time.

He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.

A metallic voice called to him:
‘Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t move!’
He halted.
‘Put up your hands!’
‘But-‘ he said.
‘Your hands up! Or we’ll shoot!’
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.
‘Your name?’ said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
‘Leonard Mead,’ he said.
‘Speak up!’
‘Leonard Mead!’
Business or profession?’
‘I guess you’d call me a writer.’
No profession,’ said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
‘You might say that,’ said Mr Mead.
He hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t sell anymore. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multi-colored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
‘No profession,’ said the phonograph voice, hissing. ‘What are you doing out?’
‘Walking,’ said Leonard Mead.
‘Just walking,’ he said simply, but his face felt cold.
‘Walking, just walking, walking?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Walking where? For what?’
‘Walking for air. Walking to see.’
‘Your address!’
‘Eleven South Saint James Street.’
‘And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr Mead?’
‘And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?’
‘No?’ There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
‘Are you married, Mr Mead?’
‘Not married,’ said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
‘Nobody wanted me,’ said Leonard Mead with a smile.
‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!’
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
‘Just walking; Mr Mead?’
But you haven’t explained for what purpose.’
‘I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.’
‘Have you done this often?’
Every night for years.’
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
‘Well, Mr Mead’, it said.
”s that all?’ he asked politely.
‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘Here.’ There was a sigh, a pop. The back doot of the police car sprang wide. ‘Get in.’
‘Wait a minute, 1 haven’t done anything!’
‘Get in.’
‘I protest!’
‘Mr Mead.’
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
‘Get in.’
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
‘Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,’ said the iron voice. ‘But-‘
Where are you taking me?’

The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch- slotted card under electric eyes. ‘To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.’

He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.

They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.

‘That’s my house,’ said Leonard Mead.

No one answered him.

The car moved down the empty riverbed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

The Most Dangerous Game

3 Jul


by Richard Connell

“OFF THERE to the right–somewhere–is a large island,” said Whitney.” It’s rather a mystery–“

“What island is it?” Rainsford asked.

“The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,”‘ Whitney replied.” A suggestive name, isn’t it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don’t know why. Some superstition–“

“Can’t see it,” remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.

“You’ve good eyes,” said Whitney, with a laugh,” and I’ve seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can’t see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night.”

“Nor four yards,” admitted Rainsford. “Ugh! It’s like moist black velvet.”

“It will be light enough in Rio,” promised Whitney. “We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey’s. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting.”

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The Tell-Tale Heart

30 Jun

The Tell-Tale Heart

by Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily –how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees –very gradually –I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it –oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly –very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously –cautiously (for the hinges creaked) –I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights –every night just at midnight –but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

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