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I had this illustration (originally made for the a hundred word stories project) printed on canvas today for a friend. It’s amazing how different the illustration works on a 50x50cm format hanging on a wall. I’m very exited about this! Btw. you can order your own if you want here: www.artflakes.com

Storia di Nicolae di Enzo Reale

Bucarest. 1984. Freddo. Fuori. Caseggiato. Alto. Tocca. Il cielo. Quasi. Scala. Lunga. Nicolae. Anni 8. Scende. Veloce. Correndo. Quasi. Piano. Quattordici. Cane. Sdraiato. Puzza. Piano. Otto. Signora. Aggrappata. Ringhiera. Ansimando. Piano. Terra. Nicolae. L’altro. Ritratto. Sul muro. Penzola. Portone. Aperto. Nicolae. Anni 8. Stringe. Tra le mani. Ghiacciate. La neve. Rotonda. Finestra. Un vetro. Sporco. Riflette. Immagine. Luce. Sfuocata. Sera. Quasi. Nicolae. Anni 8. Guarda. Se stesso. Stira. Braccio. Tira. Forte. La neve. Rotonda. Veloce. Correndo. Contro lo specchio. Si rompe. Non la neve. Non il vetro. Nicolae. Anni 8. Inghiottito. Da una palla. Di neve. Rotonda. E’ normale.

Santa’s Wish by Ryan Licata

He alighted upon her roof. Despite the years his descent down her chimney still sent butterflies up inside him. Her house, though changed, remained familiar. He placed his gloves on the mantelpiece where once he’d have found gingerbread beside a picture she’d drawn. Inside her room she no longer needed a nightlight; instead a lamp shone above her, asleep; her eyelashes – quivering – scratched the pages of a novel. A pair of silk stockings hung from the bedpost. She’d believed longer than he’d expected anyone to. But nothing lasted. He came closer, dimmed the light, and reached for her stockings.

Notes

Usually when somebody comes down your chimney it is to steal your valuables not to bring you presents. Actually I’m wondering: “why can’t mr.Santa just ring the doorbell, instead of sneaking into people’s houses?” and “Does he really use the chimney? Or  is that only a fairy tale for children and what he actually does is break windows with a crowbar to get into young women’s bedrooms”

These are of course only the ramblings of my unstable mind and I hope I didn’t completely destroy the subtleness in Ryan’s story.

Well whatever, Merry Christmas! Hope somebody brings you what your heart is longing for, possibly without the use of a crowbar.

“Mamma, la gatta mi guarda.” by Ryan

This skinny girl from uptown clung to her mother’s skirt as they walked each morning down to the fish market. Her mother, a tall woman once an athlete, took long strides and her daughter would be at full stretch, almost running, not to let go. The girl herself held a rag doll by the arm. An arm that one day came off. Her mother chose only the freshest fish and had them cleaned. The girl watched as the heads and innards were tossed into a bucket, but hid her eyes in her mother’s skirt as the dock cats came closer.

Notes

As usual the best part of illustrating these stories is getting to add something of your own imagination to it. What is the girl thinking? Why is she afraid of the cats? I guess Ryan had something completely different in mind when writing this story…

Finalmente abbastanza tempo di Mattia

Tempo. Tutto ciò che mi mancava era tempo. Ero sempre di corsa.
Qualunque cosa facessi, in famiglia, al lavoro, tutti avevano bisogno di tempo, del MIO tempo! Poi, d’un tratto, ho capito, ho agito, e finalmente sono ritornato ad essere padrone del mio tempo. Nessuno ora ne ha più bisogno. Nessuno mi chiede più un’ora, o un minuto, nessuno più si interessa a quello che faccio. Sì, a volte qualcuno mi dice “vieni da questa” o “fermo qui”. Mi dicono quando dormire, quando alzarmi, ma la giornata è tutta mia. Ironico come, per ottenere questo, sia bastato farli sparire. Tutti.

Shaking Monkey by Ryan Licata

So I’ve got this monkey on my back. I’d tell you that I am trying to shake him, but the truth is I reckon he’s the one shaking me. You see I’m no good for what he’s out for. This is the way we are. Owning each other like. Unwanted possessions. You can bury them in the ground or cover them over with good sheets but they rear their ugly selves up again before too long. So I try to get along with this monkey on my back. Sure he’s heavy and scratches some, but without him I’d be lonely.

Sheets by Ryan Licata

When the barn across from the farmhouse began to creak and the owls therein screech, she needn’t have looked to the ominous sky to know, it was coming. The air was electric, her light-cotton dress left her body, and the down on her arms swayed like the wheat in the fields. Abandoning her basket she ran out front, where they flew ghostly, preying on the wind. She snatched onto their tails just as the storm broke, snapping them free from the wooden pegs. They lunged in rage, until, under the eye of the storm, she smothered them against her breast.

Il giuramento di Ippocrate di Andrea Esposito

Concordiamo tutti sul fatto che la visita di un medico possa cambiare la vita di un uomo.
A Franco Delano faceva male una caviglia. A ogni passo si accompagnava un sinistro schiocco secco. Ossessionato da quel rumore, Delano si recò dal medico.
“Niente di preoccupante” disse il medico. “Il suono che crede di sentire è frutto della sua immaginazione. Lei, infatti, è privo di orecchie”. Scoprendo di essere privo di orecchie, Delano scoppiò a piangere. Eppure, dato che, ad ogni modo, la caviglia non aveva alcun problema, si sentì curiosamente sollevato nel ricevere quella notizia. Notizia che, comunque, non sentì.

Notes

With this post I am now officially halfway through with my hundred word stories project!

Melon Colic by Ryan Licata

She had me wait in the parlour while she finished adding some final touches to her dress. She’d put on a record so that I would not feel alone. It turned out to be Mahler - who always made me feel so terribly lonely. I walked around the room, looking for clues. She kept an empty birdcage with a small mirror inside. I decided to mention it later, if the evening should come to that. She came out soon enough, wearing a black scarf in the middle of summer, catching me with the A-Z of existentialism. “T’es mélancolique – c’est très beau!”

Lonely Planet di Hannes Pasqualini

Non aveva creduto che si potessero dimenticare di lui. Aveva sempre pensato di essere la persona più importante su quel pianeta, sommo direttore della miniera, perno dell’impresa, riverito e ossequiato da tutti, o almeno dai più. Ora era solo come un cane su un pianeta inabitabile e freddo e soprattutto privo d’atmosfera. L’avevano fatto apposta, l’avevano fregato! Ma chi? Il suo assistente Johnson? Per prendersi il suo posto? Oppure era stato il presidente della LSOM (lega sindacale operai minerari) Jakobsson? Fatto sta che ora, senza corrente, l’ossigeno in  miniera stava finendo. Si accese l’ultima sigaretta e aprì la bombola del gas.

Notes

I’ve been strangely productive this weekend (like I will nto be again in the next few months I guess), so here I’m back with the double posting of stories.

Bitch by Ryan Licata

They agreed to meet in a new bar across town, a place that was not out of their shared memory’s repertoire. Her bags were in the car; she would be at the airport in an hour. Seated in a far corner, he let it all out, gave it all back: the lies, the late nights waiting up, the black nailpolish stains. She sat there, blowing out smoke, till she felt he’d finished. And then she looked at him, her eyes, her deadliest warheads, telling his eyes to take their last full of her, because she would not be coming back.

Notes

Maybe it’s just me, but reading this story it really made me feel like those moments when inter-human communication just plain fails, after having failed for a long time, maybe right from the start. And you know it, but you are too deep in it, so that the only thing you can do is to dig deeper.
Words become smoke, ghosts they are all around you, but you do your best at keeping them at large. These were, more or less, my ideas while drawing this illustration.

Vera by Angelo Macrì

Da bambino ti amavo perché nessun altro osava farlo.
Perché le tue ginocchia erano sbucciate come le mie. Perché lanciavi le tue bambole sugli alberi e non t’importava se andavo a riprenderle.
Disegnavi giraffe variopinte e ti macchiavi le mani coi pennarelli.
Ridevo quando ridevi, senza mai chiedermi perché. E quando non lo facevi, e mi guardavi come un treno in corsa guarda un cane sui binari, mi veniva da vomitare.
Ma non sapevo niente di tutto ciò e nemmeno tu. Il mio rileggere quei giorni con gli occhi annebbiati è solo una menzogna preziosa. Per questo è così vera.