Short Story
by Liliana Isella.

I see you, from the consumed sheets of the hotel room, through the black glass of another sin scene, beyond the reflection of too many rays of lies.

I see you, on your way back to Los Angeles, driving away from our endless night of melting candies, milky stars and wide-open kisses.

I sense your fear, as it goes down on the brake of the emergency lane.
I walk behind you in the wind, toward the edge of the freeway bridge, as its sandy roughness defeats your half closed eyes, traps the running tears in your fine hair and enters a tremor in your flawless fingers.

And I am there to hold your body, when the dawn sends back to you the red rose you’re trying to thrash away.
Just before you left us, I hid that evidence of our disembarrassed pleasure and shameless devotion in the metal strings of your guitar.
As this air of fire entangles the petals of our obsession in my long, ruffled hair, my lips gently die on your neck and my eyes stop dreaming on your shoulder.

You sit back in your car; your guilty hands pull your hair back with your Ray-Bans and turn on the last segment of your run home… Exit light, enter night….*

And it’s your wife, who opens the door.
Her coarse laugh is an ashtray of reassuring misery, good to tell the kids the merry lies they pray to hear.

Your little daughter is waiting under the presents tree.
She comes and takes my hand, up to her room.

I smile at my fate, wrapped as a gift on her soft bed.
She locks the door and seats my dreamless childhood in her reign of magic snowflakes, Nordic fairies and smiley elfins.

I let her delicate smell of dusting powder close my eyelids down.
Slowly, she lays a grain of sand into my right hand and moves my head on the border wall of all her nightmares.
“Can you hear her too? Can you hear my mom crying alone in their bedroom?”

In the crumpling of the paper tissue, my blindness starts counting the last seconds of its eternity.
Right before her white hands lose their innocence into the same bloody reddishness of this Vegas sunrise, we both can’t think of anything but you.

There will never be, for us, another night to sink the bitterness of our loveless memories in the warm ocean of your redeeming arms.

Story by Liliana Isella.

_____________________________________________________

* Enter Sandman by Metallica

Storia di Liliana Isella.

Painting by Cindy Moore

And now my bitter hands
cradle broken glass
of what was everything.
Pearl Jam, Black

Il tuo cuore suda schegge di diamanti e una a una addormenta le tue vene, al buio del tuo ultimo respiro.

Il telefono squilla e corro verso la porta—a chiudere a chiave il peggiore dei nostri sacrilegi, a sbarrare il passaggio alla piú irrimediabile delle illusioni, a sprangare l’entrata ad un diavolo che tanto con noi piú nulla ha da spartire.

La segreteria. Un messaggio. Mani tremolanti di una voce socchiusa che gioca a mosca cieca con la tua vita stesa a terra.
Tua madre. No, non puó essere oggi. Che giorno é oggi. Le pulizie. No, non puó arrivare proprio adesso. No no no no.

Corro in cucina.
Sul tavolo c’é il laccio con cui hai legato la tua ora intorno al polso.
“Una siringa sul tavolo”—giá vedo quello che scriveranno i giornali.
L’hai lasciata nel cartone della pizza.
Mi chiedo se la fetta fredda che hai avanzato é quello che mi serve ora.

No, dev’essere nella stanza delle chitarre.
Per entrare ti scavalco come una libellula senz’ali attraversa un fiume senza sponde.
Mi fermo a fissare il computer, quel vetro spento su cui tre anni fá mi insegnasti a usare internet.
Tre ore fá, in quel riflesso mi hai fornito la mappa, la via, il raccordo esatto delle due nostre vite a perdersi per sempre.

Nella fretta di lasciare la fine del tuo regno inciampo sul tuo silenzio.
Cado in ginocchio e nella quiete del tuo costato cerco di soffocare il mio affanno.
Appoggio le mie labbra sul tuo petto—questa volta, solo per assicurarmi che abbia smesso di battere.

Il telefono. Un’altra volta. La segreteria. Tua madre. Ancora lei. Ancora no.

Me ne devo andare—prima che sia troppo tardi.
In questi casi la veritá non é poi cosí importante, se sei l’unica a saperla.
Nessuno sa che sono qui; nessuno sa che é stato il tuo sorriso, a convincermi a maledirti; nessuno sa che sono state le mie mani, a percorrere il sentiero verso la dimora del tuo boia; nessuno sa che é stato il piú fedele dei tuoi amici, a consegnarmi la tua fine.

Le chiavi. Eccole. Finalmente. Te le trovo addosso e d’addosso te le sfilo.
Io, qui a rubare dalle tasche dei tuoi jeans, dentro a cui avrei infilato la mia vita. Non c’é nemmeno piú dolore, quando poi é cosí tanto.

Se mi sbrigo sono ancora in tempo. A uscire da questa malattia, a voltare le spalle all’errore che non c’é modo di pagare, a lavar via la colpa dal favore che a questo amore é costato la tua vita.

Andare. Andare via. Ma andare dove—con gli occhi bendati di gesso, le mani fasciate di sangue, le lacrime incastrate nel rimorso come vipere in rotoli di paglia.

Non mi volto a guardare quello che di te rimane—sul pavimento, a mezz’aria, nell’alto dei cieli.
Ti accendo la televisione, spengo l’ultima luce e, una volta per sempre, pulisco le mie impronte dal tuo ingresso principale.

Le scale corrono in discesa contro una vita che scappa verso l’alto, lontano dal tuo nome che ieri—e oggi piú di ieri – nel mio seno batte ancor piú forte:  “Massimo, in un cielo di diamanti, tu al sole hai detto no.”

Story by Liliana Isella.

Painting by Cindy Moore.

Short story by Liliana Isella.

“Fredda. Come la sua tomba.”
For the last ten minutes. Over and over. Sexier and sexier.
Cold. As his tomb. That’s what it means.

Really?!? Who’s the idiot who wrote this line? Who’s the marketing big shot who bought this shit? Who’s the dummy who’s gonna drink it?

I was picked for the Italian version of this commercial. It’s a new beer. A light one. She is cheering on the tomb of her ex. Cheating ex? I suppose so. Don’t really know.
Well, there’s not much to know anyways. It’s just the beer, the tomb and me.
High heels, red lips and allusive nonsense.

Thank God, it’s done. The hipster teddy bears on the other side of the cameras give me the thumbs up.
As I close the door behind, Melanie reminds me that we’ll be finished in six days. Five after Halloween.

9000 Sunset Boulevard. Los Angeles from the top floor.
I wait for the elevator and can’t wait for the rest to come.
You get this two star town, you get the five star world.

The sliding doors ring. I stare into the hollow they disclose for me.
Him. Him. Him him him.
James. The million dollar pen. The million dollar liar.
The hero. The coward. The father.
The addict. The husband. The Husband.

I drive a few blocks down. Up and down this boulevard of the moon sun. This kingdom of the rock’n’roll nights. This skyless freedom each day harder to dream about.

I turn left into the Starbucks little lot. So little there’s no space.
Well, I’ll park in one of the Hollywood TV’s. I’m Hollywood enough to not be towed, after all.

I sit outside with my latte. The little patio is right across from James’ hotel.
Room 505.
He tried to convince me. On the phone. Last night.
Should I. Should I not. Should I. Should I not.

I was never able to forget her.
Lilly. Lilly. Lilly Lilly Lilly.
James’ muse, his violated Juliet, his million dollar angel.
I desperately fell in love with her in his first book. I missed her to death in the second. Ever after, she’s been following me around.

I take a sip and wonder if she approves James’ wife. His kids. His Manhattan installation.
Probably not. Not really. Schools, meetings, travels, The Hamptons, family, reunions. She chose not to choose those words.
She chose badass. She chose love. She chose sweet boy.
She chose bye.
Her wrists. A cut. Bye.
Bye sweet boy, bye….

Here. Now. She is.
Lilly.
Long black hair, pale soft skin, big blue eyes.
Full red lips. Immaculate heart. Invincible will.

Second, third, fifth floor.
The Sunset Tower.
The golden doors. The ancient walls. The seductive palms.
James. There, he is.

I just look. Look and hold. My latte.
Look and don’t turn.
Don’t. Turn. To her.

I whisper I want to love him.
I want to love him the way she couldn’t.
Love him. Hold him. Heal him.

She grabs my wrist. Empties my hands. Takes my life.
Red. My beats. Into her soul.
Big. Blue. Soul.

-Liliana. Lilly. Lillian… whatever.
I choke. The guy laughs.
-What a sublime, unique name.
-Well… it’s not that unique, around here. Believe me….
-Oh, in Hollywood, you can never be.
Tattoos all over, black nails and a brand new BMW by the patio’s fence.
-Is this your latte, Liliana?
-Ha… sorry. I don’t know how it got that far.
He places it back on my table and sits down.
-Do you often talk by yourself, Lillian?
Laugh. I do.
-I was just… rehearsing. Let’s say.
-Oh, another actress….
-Kind of. Not really. I mean… commercials, so far. Beers, tombs… stuff like that.
Laugh. He does.
Stand up. I do.
-Ok… gotta go…. Happy Halloween, ok?
Three steps.
To James’ tower.
To the other side.
-Lilly….
Stop. Turn. My latte.
-Please don’t leave your lips behind….
His black nails.The white lid. My red lipstick.
-Oh, thank y….
The cup to his chest. He pulls it.
-Don’t leave your reason behind either, Liliana. An unreasonably haunting smile sublimed by an unreasonably beautiful name – too much, to become just unreasonable.

I slowly reach my hand out.
His tattoo jungle, the hot paper, our mirroring Ray-Bans.

Full red lips. Immaculate heart. Invincible will.

Story by Liliana Isella.

Photo by Unknown.

Short story by Sue Callender.

The nape of her neck expended tears of anxieties and fears.
Recalling love had and love lost – not so appealing, and yet so enticing.
Dalliances craved to the core of pleasure – few and far between.

Her pensamiento turned to him – the boy next door. She once had a dream in which he beguiled her out of her clothes, and she came (in actuality).
Nothing really happened, ‘twas solely the act of perhaps, the chance of maybe, the mere sound of yes.

He had come over to work on their yard a few times; her flat mates said they knew him from school. And every time he would pull out his grandeur shears – skin so smooth, hair so fine, a countenance of soiled dreams entrapped in perfection.
All she could do was grasp her notebook and coffee whilst she sat on the big beautiful cyclical bay window, her foot dangling.

Her corazon went a flame, when her pensamiento turned to him.
Her sentimiento could only be conveyed as the time of the butterflies.
But, their rustling flaps angered her.
Love did not reside within her, anymore.

All too real – imprecations of past existences have brought her here. To this place of sullied Nirvana. Cobain-ing through life, the misery felt so right. The happiness felt so raw, so transient, so self-important.
She hated that happiness. And it was more clear than the crystal that resides in the tomb of Great Love:  Happiness hated her as well.
And this actualization paralyzed her, breath heavy and oscillating against the big beautiful bay window.
A dream deferred.

Story by Sue Callender.

Photo: Girl and Butterfly.