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Alright. I feel like I really need to explain my whim of the day which consists in posting a short story in English here. It’s not the first time, it probably won’t be the last. But why, why AGAIN, you tell yourself, does the girl publish a short story about two inventors? Let me explain the context. You have to imagine a Christmas party with very much noise. Between lunch and diner, the noise is still there, but people are playing games. Instead of listening to them, I take a moment for myself, a pen and my faithful notebook. And I write. I like the little thing I wrote that day, and I thought it would be nice to share it. I think this story could be a good beginning for something longer. But let’s be honest: it’s been five years since I published my first novel, and it seems I’m only interested in writing articles and plays now. And other texts involving lots of dialogues. (That probably explains why the following story is mostly… a dialogue. Well.) I don’t think there ever will be a sequel to this.

Let me introduce you a lady – who is also an inventor -, and a gentleman – who is also an inventor. This is their first meeting, and it probably won’t be the last. This is not a romance. And yes, there is a picture of Sir Thomas Sharpe illustrating this because why not? He’s an inventor too. He goes to parties too.

thomas sharpe

“Alright lady, the night is almost done and our invention is going to change the world. Good work.”

The lady in a green dress put one hand on the door handle, the other on her waist. She couldn’t stay any longer amongst the crowd in the room. Too many guests, far too much noise. She needed an instant for herself before being forced to come back. She went out and found herself alone in the hall.

“Is there something wrong, miss?”

The gentleman behind her apparently had the same idea as her. She looked at him: elegant, but not excessively, with a pretty face strange enough to remain interesting.

“Terribly wrong”, she answered. She was almost irritated.

At first he chose to be gentle.

“I’m sorry. I cannot let a lady alone anyway, if you don’t mind a conversation.”

“If you think you’re qualified for this, then yes.”

Then he decided to be himself. A crooked smile appeared on his face:

“You’re bored.”

“Just as bored as you.”

“What would you like to do?”

“To learn. To produce. To invent. To get some help. Not being forced to return in this room, ever.”

“I’m an inventor. I’m the very reason why all this respectable people assembled.”

“ But you don’t party with them.”

“Too many people, too much noise. But you.”

“But me?”

“You are very interesting. Show me what’s in your purse, if you please.”

She smiled and plunged her hand in the little purse she was carrying. It was a little piece of paper and she handed it to the gentleman. He opened it. His eyes narrowed.

“This is truly beautiful.”

“I know. But I don’t have any mean to…”

“It can be perfected. Follow me.”

He crossed the hall and entered a room in front of the one they had left. Inside were a desk, maps, paper and ink.

“I don’t think the guests will mind if we borrow this place tonight.”

He looked at her.

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

“We need more light.”

He lit two more lamps and shut the door behind the lady and him.

“And now. If you’re not worried about the fact that every single one guest present in the ballroom will think we’re lovers at this exact moment, I’ll be glad to help you perfecting your invention tonight. And to make it real. What do you say, miss?”

“I say the pleasure is all mine.”

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Maître de Philippe de Gueldre,

Maître de Philippe de Gueldre, “Un transi entraînant la femme du chevalier”

“I fell in love with a zombie, I fell in love with a zombie, I fell (oooh) in love with a zombie last night!”

The goth kid finished his song and rushed off stage. Some undead people in the crowd said they saw tears in his eyes. The following band was three ghost girls singing, but they were soon kicked out by another band consisting in two human beings alive and (un)well.

“This song is for the boy who fell in love with a zombie”, said one of the members – a girl – with a smirk on her face. The boy lifted his head but tears were shining on his cheeks.

The song was good – at least that’s what the undead people in the crowd said. The boy was busy crying and drinking something weird, and green, that tasted like… what? It didn’t matter. He was in love. With a zombie.

Later that night he was cornered by the girl who dedicated her song to him. When she bit his neck he understood that she was not so alive after all. But (un)well, she was indeed. “I’m not unwell”, she said. “You are. This will ease your pain, darling boy. I’m going to drink your sadness.”

God, he was the unluckiest boy in the world when it came to girls. She drank a bit of blood from him and left him to talk with the three ghost girls. He was not sad anymore, for the moment. Just completely tired. He decided to go back home. Tears were dried on his cheeks. And he was still in love with a zombie.

*The verses of the goth kid’s song were inspired by Last Night performed by Subvision.

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“Do you like horror movies?”, she asked.

He smiled.

“Sure.” He took a sip of his drink. “Especially the old ones.”

“What a surprise.”

“Don’t get me wrong. The black and white ones are great but those from the seventies – I have a blast with them.” He seemed to think. “Even with those from the early 80’s.”

“Blood everywhere.”

“Not everywhere. Think about Halloween. Everything is suggested. Nothing is ever shown.”

“Except in Rob Zombie’s versions.” Playfully argumentative.

“The recent ones, yes. You are young. (He looked at her.) You have that… hunger for blood. Time will pass and you’ll learn that the most terrifying and violent things are often hidden.”

“I’m not that young anymore. It’s been seven years – since we first met.”

“That much?” He drank, hiding a grin.

“You know it’s been that much. Sometimes I surprise myself saying things and I discover after you said them too.”

He didn’t answer.

“Come on! You made me.”

“I’m not responsible for your white skin and your hair.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe?”

“Destiny I guess. You took the look-alike, made her your apprentice and threw her into the world.”

“And still we’re here talking about horror movies.”

“And still we’re meeting again, sitting here and talking about horror movies.”

The song in the jukebox changed.

“Rob Zombie”, he pointed out. “Did you cast a spell?”

“You haven’t taught me that yet.”

“That’s right.” His glass was empty now and he left it on the bar. “Would you like to chase some ghosts in the streets?”

“I’d like to.” She stood up and shook her hair – very similar to his own. “Very much.”

“Alright then.” He stood up. “But I warn you: the ghosts you can’t see are the most frightening.”

“Who said I was scared?”

They arrived at the door of the establishment.

“Do you know a haunted house?”

He had a devilish smile.

“Plenty.”

And they went out, dressed in old elegant clothes, their necks or hands covered with symbolic jewels, and their pale faces ready for ghosts.

The end

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NGC 300 galaxy, a spiral galaxy like the Milky Way located about seven million light-years from Earth. – Photograph courtesy NASA/JPL/Caltech/R. Hurt (SSC) –

“When you separate an entwined particle, and you move both parts away from the other, even on opposite ends of the universe if you alter or affect one, the other will be identically altered or affected.” Einstein’s theory of entanglement

“Even though we sometimes fight
We both know we’ll be alright
Slumber parties late at night
Me and You

We are machines of loving grace
So take my hand lets fly through space
We can save the human race
Me and You

Through the darkness sparks of light
Speeding asteroids hold on tight
In our spaceship late at night
I Love You” Princess Chelsea – Machines of Loving Grace

Einstein in space. That would be a beautiful idea wouldn’t it? As beautiful as the title of a song. This could be the title of a book. As I’m writing this – hearing the sound of the old computer’s keys – a few ideas come to my mind.

1) If we send Einstein in space I would like it to be actually a book of Einstein’s thoughts locked in a tiny little box. It would travel between stars, waiting for another soul to find it, open it, understand it. Or not: that person would consider all those theories like a fairy tale from another planet. Which they would be actually.

2) Or just send the Tenth Doctor with his Tardis and bring him and Einstein through space and time. But this is way too easy to imagine.

3) Einstein in space. Just imagine a girl who invents a machine with something new and beautiful inside that she would have imagined after reading everything by and about Einstein. She lets her machine fly through space, sailing on the Milky Way and travel until it arrives to her sweetheart.

4) It wouldn’t be her sweetheart after all, but an inventor. A man who taught the girl everything she knows about science and inventions – and a bit of poetry. He’s far away now. He’s on the other side of Earth. The girl creates her little machine and sends it to her Master to thank him for everything he has done for her. She sings while she creates it.

5) She finds every little piece she needs for her machine. One of them is the fragment of a superhero’s armor. He flew above her the other day and let it fall. She took it. Inside the machine is a gift. It’s a very, very old picture in black and white from the earliest years of the twentieth century.

6) The picture is very old but the silhouette of the man on it looks like her Master. The girl finds it funny. She wrote three lines of a song on the back of the picture.

7) And now the machine flies in the dark blue sky. It sails on the Milky Way. The girl doesn’t see it anymore, but she sent it in space and watched go until it disappeared from her eyes. The machine is working, she thinks. She goes back home and closes her bedroom door. There are still pieces on the floor and many things to do. She’s got three inventions left to make tonight.

8) Now the machine arrives before the inventor’s eyes. It flew a long way through space to him, he thinks. He opens it and sees the picture. The man in black and white looks like him. It’s a joke only her could do. He goes back to his laboratory.

9) There are still pieces everywhere and many things to do. He’s got nine inventions left to make tonight.

 

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(Because sometimes you have to occupy yourself during English class.)

When you go
Can I only breathe again?
Demons come to harm
Tasseomancy

She hadn’t sung for a long time and her voice was resonating in the corridors of the palace. Floating, dancing when she thought she couldn’t be seen, but ardently wishing to be discovered.
The song was creating itself as she was singing it.

I’m a little ghost haunting a castle, she thought with delight. I’m dead for centuries. And it’s not boring at all.
Still singing and dancing, she crossed the corridors, went along the windows, caught a glimpse of moonlight, and…

What are you doing?”

The deep voice stopped her suddenly. Turning over the man – an inhabitant of the castle she believed –, she went towards him and declared calmly:

I’m here to haunt you and take your soul.”

Oh, really?” asked the man with a smirk. “I thought I heard a song. A romance I think. Surely you’re not very… frightening.”

He touched her arm.

Not a scream. Not a word of protest. I’m sorry my dear, but as a phantom you just fail.”

You nasty, awful man. Ruining all my effects.”

The girl – or the ghost? – frowned.

Don’t think I’m going to stay with you tonight because I’m not.”

The man laughed.

Ruining all your effects. That’s interesting. Very. You fail at playing dead but at haunting… You have some skills, I admit it.”

Turning back, he started to walk away.

What a charming song that was.”

The girl stood unmoving for a while.

Holy hell”, she muttered.

Maybe she was going to follow him after all.

The end

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Voici la même histoire écrite en français et en anglais. J’espère que vous l’apprécierez ! Je dois avouer que j’aime beaucoup le personnage de Domitien, l’esthète meurtrier…

The same story written both in french and english… I hope you will appreciate it. I tried to do my best: english is not my native language. I must confess that I have a fondness for the character of Domitian, the criminal aesthete…

L’Héritier

Adeline Arénas

Bien sûr, il avait ses maîtres. Alex DeLarge. Le Joker. Billy Loomis. Jack the Ripper. Cependant, il y avait un problème : ils étaient tous fictionnels, échappés de l’imagination de quelque créateur génial. Excepté l’Éventreur, bien sûr, mais son identité n’avait jamais été découverte, ce qui naturellement le faisait passer au grade d’idéal magnifique et inatteignable, presque légendaire, une merveilleuse rêverie…

Quant aux autres, ils étaient des esthètes du crime, dont l’indifférence au monde touchait au sublime : ils étaient entièrement dévoués à leur Art. Domitien déplorait l’absence de si flamboyants êtres dans la vie réelle.

C’est précisément la raison pour laquelle il avait résolu d’en devenir un. La révélation lui était venue alors qu’il parcourait une galerie de peintures italiennes. Frappé par la beauté des jeunes hommes de haut rang et des musiciens adolescents au regard ambigu, il avait eu la vision idyllique d’un criminel d’un nouveau genre. Et qui aurait pu l’incarner, si ce n’était lui-même ? Il avait la jeunesse, la beauté, l’argent et… le nom. Car le nom fait tout, l’adage est connu. Domitien lui avait semblé parfait, merveilleux par son évocation et exemplaire pour sa concision.

Dès le début, un plan s’était dessiné, avait pris forme dans son esprit. Il avait son intrigue et son décor. Et une fin, une fin en apothéose.
Nul besoin de notes ou de manuscrits. Rien ! Il avait tout cadenassé dans son esprit et allait offrir au monde une nouvelle œuvre d’art.

Tout d’abord, Domitien se mit en tête de parachever son personnage. Il acheta des reproductions de tableaux et de la soie. Il trouva des chemises de dentelles et des pierres précieuses à passer à ses doigts ou accrocher au velours de ses habits. Il se procura des livres qu’il dévora jusqu’à n’en plus pouvoir et s’employa à séduire. Il devint littéralement un digne modèle de la peinture qu’il admirait tant. Il surpassa même cela, car Domitien était devenu un idéal réalisé, devant lequel n’importe quel peintre du Quattrocento serait tombé en pâmoison.
Domitien y pensait avec un sourire, et se disait que ce n’était que le début…

Avec la maestria qui devait le caractériser, Domitien ne réalisa aucun brouillon avant de se faire connaître : son premier meurtre connut directement les honneurs de la presse et de la télévision. Certes, la victime avait été bien choisie : jeune, belle, innocente, riche, prometteuse. Le modèle parfait d’une peinture florentine – il l’avait parée de la robe et des bijoux nécessaires. Et comme signer un crime par des cartes, sonnets et autres citations bibliques s’était vu cent fois et plus, Domitien opta pour quelque chose d’élégant et sonore : Lost Art of Murder de Peter Doherty. Délicieux contraste.

Rapidement, il poussa le caprice un peu plus loin : deux jeunes gens croisèrent sa route et il donna au public une reproduction assez réussie du Vénus et Mars de Botticelli. Hommage à l’artiste, etc. Il s’attela ensuite à des œuvres plus personnelles. Il réalisa sa propre version de la Crucifixion – avec Saint Jean et Marie-Madeleine – dont il ne fut pas entièrement satisfait, puis de la mort de Narcisse. Cette dernière le ravit littéralement.
Mais le temps passait, et les représentants de la si juste Loi allaient bientôt le rattraper…

Usant de sa notoriété, Domitien s’arrangea pour que soit diffusée une vidéo de lui. En un seul plan fixe, le spectateur pouvait le voir, un verre d’absinthe à la main, vêtu de velours et de dentelles, une émeraude ornant sa main et éclatant de beauté, réciter négligemment un poème de Pétrarque.
Et c’était tout.

Ce qui n’empêcha pas son message d’être repris par les radios et les journaux. Si bien que Domitien fut enchanté de sa notoriété, tandis que les autorités, surexcitées, étaient obsédées par sa capture. Après deux coups d’éclats remarquables pour leur qualité esthétique – absolument atroces selon d’autres en raison du nombre de cadavres nécessité –, Domitien se vit attribuer l’honorable distinction d’ennemi public numéro un.

Il sentit avec jubilation que le dénouement était proche. Bien entendu, il ne se laisserait pas attraper et scellerait à jamais son œuvre du sceau de la jeunesse. Il avait prévu de mourir en Saint Sébastien – littéralement. Un magnifique et ultime tableau dont il serait le sujet…

Au même moment, à travers la ville, la rumeur enfla, se répercutant dans les rues et les journaux du soir : un Justicier était à l’œuvre. C’est ainsi qu’ils l’appelaient, car tous ignoraient son nom, et lui-même ne s’était pas donné la peine de leur en fournir un.
Domitien avait froncé les sourcils un court instant, puis avait jeté son journal d’un air désinvolte à travers la pièce. Rien de préoccupant. Un noble chevalier n’allait pas l’arrêter en si bon chemin. Il débutait juste, quand Domitien était déjà au faîte de sa trajectoire. En sifflotant un air d’opéra, Domitien alla s’atteler aux préparatifs de son dernier tableau.
Ceux-ci avaient lieu dans une grande salle au cœur de la maison qu’il avait coutume d’appeler avec tendresse « l’Atelier ». Il y concevait d’ordinaire ses plans et imaginait ses futures œuvres en dessinant sur un carnet. Cette nuit-là, Domitien constata avec satisfaction que l’arbre qu’il avait commandé occupait majestueusement le centre de la pièce. En effet, qu’était donc un martyr de Saint Sébastien sans un arbre ? C’était un détail crucial…

Un fracas épouvantable retentit dans la maison – un bruit de verre brisé et de chute.
La police, déjà ? Mais il ne pouvait pas échouer ! C’était impensable. Domitien vérifia instinctivement qu’il avait toujours ses dagues sur lui, posant le bout des doigts sur ses vêtements. Il avait laissé ses fioles de poison dans une autre pièce, mais peu importait.

Quelqu’un entra dans la pièce. Le Justicier. Oh, parfait. Cela aurait pu être pire. Domitien saisit sa dague. La lutte serait ardue. Probablement. Cependant, le Justicier ne faisait que débuter, et Domitien savait qu’il lui échapperait.
Il comprit alors que ce qu’il avait pris pour un parcours bref, éclatant, défini n’était en réalité que le commencement d’un itinéraire infiniment vaste. Il allait devoir rivaliser d’imagination et de virtuosité. D’esthétisme meurtrier et de raffinement dans les actions les plus dangereuses.

Tout Justicier a son Ennemi, son double de l’autre côté. Domitien, brusquement conscient de son rôle, se précipita vers lui.

Fin

***

The Heir

Adeline Arénas

Of course, he had his masters. Alex DeLarge. The Joker. Billy Loomis. Jack the Ripper. However, there was a problem: all of them were invented, escaped from the imagination of some brilliant creator. Except the Ripper, of course, but his identity had never been discovered, which naturally made him pass in the rank of magnificent and unattainable ideal, almost legendary, a wonderful reverie…
As for the others, they were aesthetes of crime, whose indifference to the world reached the sublime: they were entirely devoted to their Art. Domitian deplored the lack of so flamboyant beings in real life.

That was precisely the reason why he had resolved to become one. The revelation came to him while he was crossing a gallery of Italian paintings. Struck by the beauty of highborn young men and juvenile musicians with ambiguous glazes, he had the idyllic vision of a criminal of a new kind. And who could have been able to embody him, if it wasn’t himself? He had youth, beauty, money and… a name. For the name is all, the adage is known. Domitian seemed perfect to him, marvelous because of its evocation and exemplary by its conciseness.

From the beginning, a plan was drawn up, had taken shape in his mind. He had his plot and his decor. And an ending, a supreme achievement.
No need of notes or manuscripts. Nothing! He had locked up everything in his mind and was going to give to the world a new piece of art.

First of all, Domitian took it into his head to put the finishing touches to his character. He bought copies of paintings and he bought silk. He found lace shirts and precious stones to put to his fingers or to hook to the velvet of his clothes. He obtained books that he devoured until he couldn’t take it anymore and applied himself to seduce. He literally became a worthy model of the painting he admired so much. He even surpassed that, for Domitian has become an accomplished ideal, in front of whom any Quattrocento painter would have swoon.
Domitian thought about that with a smile, and told himself this was just the beginning…

And, with the mastery which had to characterize him, Domitian didn’t make any draft before making himself known: his first murder directly knew the honors of press and television. Certainly, the victim had been well-chosen: young, pretty, innocent, rich, promising. The perfect model for a florentin painting – he adorned her with the necessary dress and jewelry. And as signing a crime with cards, sonnets or biblical quotations had already been seen a hundred times and more, Domitian opted for something elegant and sonorous: Lost Art of Murder by Peter Doherty. Exquisite contrast.

Quickly, he pushed the whim a little farther: two young people crossed his path and he gave to the public a quite successful reproduction of Botticelli’s Venus and Mars. Homage to the artist, etc. He then tackled more personal works. He made his own version of the Crucifixion – with Saint John and Mary Magdalene – of which he wasn’t completely satisfied, then his version of the death of Narcissus. The latter literally delighted him.

But time flew, and men of the so fair Law would soon catch him…

Having the use of his fame, Domitian managed to have a video of him broadcast on television. In only one static shot, the viewers could see him holding a glass of absinth, dressed with velvet and laces, an emerald adorning his hand and radiant with beauty, carelessly reciting a Petrarch’s poem. And that was all.

That didn’t prevented his message from being taken up by radio stations and newspapers. So much so that Domitian was entranced by his fame, whereas authorities, overexcited, were obsessed by his capture. After two remarkable feats noteworthy by their aesthetic qualities – absolutely atrocious according to others owing to the number of corpses required –, Domitian was awarded with the honorable distinction of public enemy number one.

Then he felt with jubilation that the outcome was near. Of course, he wouldn’t let himself be caught and he would seal forever his work with the mark of youth. He had planned to die as Saint Sebastian – literally. A splendid and ultimate picture of which he would be the subject…

At the same time, across the city, a rumor increased, echoing the streets and evening newspapers: a Righter of Wrongs was at work. That’s how they called him, for all ignored his name, and himself didn’t bother about giving them one.
Domitian briefly frowned, then threw his newspaper through the room in an offhand manner. Nothing to worry about. A noble knight wasn’t going to stop him there. He was just starting out, when Domitian was already at the pinnacle of his trajectory. Whistling an aria to himself, Domitian went to tackle the preparations for his last work.
They took place in a big room at the heart of the house that he usually called with tenderness “the Studio”. He ordinarily designed his plans there and imagined his future pictures on a notebook. That night, Domitian noticed with satisfaction that the tree he had ordered occupied majestically the center of the room. Indeed, what would be a martyrdom of Saint Sebastian without a tree? It was a crucial detail…

A dreadful clamor blasted in the house – a sound of broken glass and a fall.
Police, already? But he couldn’t fail! It was unthinkable. Domitian instinctively verified he still had his daggers on him, putting his fingertips on his clothes. He had let his poison phials in another room, but it didn’t matter.

Someone entered the room. The Righter of Wrongs. Oh, perfect. It could have been worse. Domitian grabbed his dagger. The fight would be arduous. Probably. However, the Righter of Wrongs was just a beginner, and Domitian knew that he would get away from him.
Then he understood that what he had taken for a short, brilliant, clearly defined route was in reality the start of an immensely vast journey. He would have to vie in imagination and virtuosity. In murderous aestheticism and refinement in the most dangerous actions.

Every Righter of Wrongs has his Enemy, his double on the other side. Domitian, suddenly aware of his role, rushed towards him.

The end

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A Beautiful Nightmare

By Adeline Arénas

And in the arms of the beloved night I go…

There were no lights in the city anymore. No cars driving. Just the sound of my feet echoing in the streets. I was walking on my way home. I didn’t want to come back. I was in love with the beauty of the dark streets. I could have walked for hours. I didn’t feel the danger and maybe there wasn’t any danger at all. People are afraid of the night because they don’t know it. The darkness scares them. They’re locked in their houses, terrified by the devil and the ghosts outside.

And I was walking, bewitched by the night. My sweet, beloved night. Hands in my pockets, the breeze pushing my hair in front of my face, I was enamored of too much beauty. Once I’d be back home I wouldn’t sleep and I knew it. It was that sort of night where my mind was full of dizziness, of thoughts and things that can’t be said or written.

I wasn’t walking fast and I started to sing. I sang softly, carefully because I didn’t want to be heard. At least by people in their locked houses. I searched for the right song in my head… And a few seconds later, I found it. It was a ballad, a romantic song I guess… Quite dark too.

And the moment was perfect. I was seeing the old houses, the alleyways in some places and I was singing all the feelings I had and I couldn’t tell. How I was bewitched…

I was so bewitched that I thought anything could happen. The devil could appear in front of me and I wouldn’t be scared. I would be seduced. Seduced by the night and all its tricks. I wanted to be seduced. And dragged into it.

“You shouldn’t walk alone, girl.”

I stopped and saw the shadow in front of me. I pushed the hair from my face and smiled. So here we were. He was tall, and there was something, maybe the way he was partly standing in the shadow of a wall, or the way he seemed to look at me, that kept the fear from taking me.

“You’re not scared?”

I heard the grin in his voice.

“I’m not.”

He went out of the shadow and made one step, then two, towards me. Most people would have run I suppose. His presence was disturbing in the streets. In the night. Most people would have said that he was dangerous. I didn’t care. He could have been a killer, a demon, whatever. I wasn’t frightened of him.

“So is it a charm?” I asked. “A diabolic thing?”

I felt his gaze heavily fixed on me as he stepped closer. I didn’t move.

“Do you think I’m evil?” he said.

He was far too close than any other girl would have allowed – and they would have run away.

“I don’t mind. I just think…”

“What?”

“That this might be too splendid to be true. Maybe I’m trapped by the night at last. Maybe this is just a night trick.”

“And maybe you’re my night trick, too. Did you think about it?”

I felt his hand lightly caressing my cheek. Maybe he had blood on his hands I couldn’t see in the dark. Maybe he was the Devil in person. But I heard his voice. I felt his eyes on me.

“In the middle of nowhere…” he whispered.

I was wrapped in his eyes. In the night…

“It’s like a beautiful nightmare.”, I murmured.

“It is.”, he said.

His face came closer and soon I felt his lips on mine. No matter who he was. I kissed him back with all the feelings I couldn’t tell.
When he moved away from me I realized I still had my arms around him.

“Don’t.”

“I have to go. You too.” he said, taking my hand and making it gently slipping from him.

He watched me and then I saw it again. The subtle grin, like a dark spell cast by the night.

“It’s like a nightmare… They never have the end we want them to have.” he said.

He walked next to me and I just had the time to hear “And it was beautiful.” quickly whispered in my ear before he disappeared behind me. The street was empty. I started to walk, knowing that I wouldn’t sleep. I had been trapped by the night. I had desired it. And then I felt it. The last caress of the night before going home. A fine breeze, or maybe just a perfume. Like an invitation.

22/01/2012.

23h49.

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