I AM MY NIGHTMARE MIRROR

     It was as cold inside the café as it was outside. The coffee wasn’t warming me up, and the barista was very clearly uncomfortable to have to work in that state, seemingly wearing every coat she could find in her closet. People weren’t passing by outside the window, nor did cars; the town was a desolate land that morning.     When the bell rang, she brushed the snow off her cap and shoulders, but didn’t take off the coat, seeing how the barista and I were dressed and realizing she marked our date to be in an icebox, on the very first snow day of the year. The woman  at the counter got up from her stool, but her eyes asserted that she was not going to move further to serve any tables, even more the one I picked, at the very far side of the café.     There were yellow smiles all around. From me, from her, from the barista. What were any of us doing there, after all?     — Sorry for not calling out the date. — She said.     — ...

     It’s a warm night, late night. Half-empty bottle of chardonnay, two mugs, a blanket. There’s a plastic table and the metal skeleton of a parasol; two plastic chairs are bolted to the ground, at a cheap-looking rooftop, adorned by dead plants. We’re not sitting on the chairs, but at the edge of the roof, watching the movement down there at the empty street, devoid of life.    It’s one of those nights. I don’t know why I’m here, just am; the wine doesn’t give resolution. Wishing my head was full of thoughts I sip again from the mug, think about this situation, think about my situation. Where’s the poetry in all of this? Drowsy life in shades of gray can’t become art.     “Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémeres où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation,” she says, then sips from the mug too. Down there is a hooker, beside her is a drunk man. They get in the car and vanish, the only car in that street where parking is prohibited. “E lle-même prépa...

   A stray dog, a homeless grandma    A naked deviant, a sad crippled    Family members and fellow cultists    Gays and straights    The lesbians kiss on the pool    The middle-age couples spoon on the dance floor    All drinking the same alcohol    All peeing in the same toilets    Mingling, feasting    Eating all meats, mixing all liquids    Happiness — as in itself — in the air    Tiny pink baby angels guide this moment to success    Such beauty to see, so colorful    So many great minds, so many great bodies    Diversity in essence    No prejudice in access      Jesus hits on the bimbo    The bimbo rejects Jesus    Jesus hits on the old biker    The old biker rejects Jesus    Jesus then drunkenly rambles    About the sad situation of this country’s economy ...

[PT only]      Estes são alguns experimentos em improviso e crônica, inspirado nos trabalhos de Rogério Menezes para o Correio Braziliense. ***    Rogério, 37, é morador de bairro pobre nos confins da cidade. Pega ônibus todo dia para trabalhar no quiosque que a prefeita deu. De noite trabalha como guarda noturno. Toda quarta se senta num boteco qualquer e bebe até apagar; dia de folga, mas teme parar em casa. Teme ver o filho doente sobre a cama, e a esposa de rosto como que congelado numa única expressão de angústia —sofredora estátua de sal do dedicado Lot—, assentada assim todos os dias ao lado do menino rosa, em carne viva.    Rogério não sabe do futuro, não quer saber do futuro, e afoga as mágoas em infindáveis horas de trabalho para se sentir útil, sentir-se capaz de influenciar a vida de qualquer um, mesmo que da menor forma possível[...] ***      O aniversário de Lúcia, 33, é em uma semana. Os colegas de trabalho ...

   Larissa, 24, spends her paid hours trying to draw the attention of any living being to this sex shop hidden inside a busy gallery. The common sense everywhere, though, is that sex shops are simply not worth it: Pink rubber dildo 20$, shiny black cheap-plastic butt plug 50$, et cetera. Nobody stops to hear about the many advantages she is supposed to list, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to convince anyone to donate a few minutes of their time.    The sex shop business these days is the least profitable it has ever been, a “sex rental”, niche thing and one that escapes the comfortable popular taste — with the advent of all the se   recent technological advances coming into the hands of a sick and ignorant populace. Streaming is the meat substitute for video rental, and discount coupons and free shipping have finally killed the desperate search for sex toys in the dead of night. With life this much easier, with huge catalogues and discrete packages, nobod...

     Bright day turned somber, anxiety levels on the high. Can’t handle the fast beat of this heart, the sudden rushes of emotions, of intense emotions, the intrusive thoughts. The devil knocking on my door, ringing my bell. The switch, like the sudden flick of a switch, my mood turned upside down, the brightness, of the day, turned somber. Dark times these times of waiting. With blood coming out from the tip of my fingers, nails all on the tile, no hair to pull out, crisis, madness. I’m shaking. Wish I could shake out of this body, wish I could run downstairs, trip over, have something else to feel, to care for, to talk about. Can’t keep the words above the straight lines, can’t understand what it is I’m feeling, there’s so much to understand, so much to rip off of me. Dark tone of today, that was bright before. Today was bright, much bright, much happy, I felt that happiness, went after that happiness, tasted it, it tastes great. Oh, my, what’s wrong with me, am I ...

   Dog gang comes to us, friendly. Our friend out of breath, asthma attack, desperately digging around the backpack for a bottle of water. They lick our hands asking for pets, the tails moving around frantically. One of them jumps on her, sat at the sidewalk recovering, licks her face. That terrible moment of despairturns heartwarming with the playful spirit of the stray dogs.    We still need to walk a few blocks to get her somewhere more comfortable and, to our surprise, they wouldn’t stay put as we asked or stray away to their business, despite understanding we could not give them anymore attention. So they begin to silently escort us.    There were five dogs in formation around us. The small caramel one stayed back, while the two white ones protected the left and the right. The black one was surely the leader, staying up front, always keeping the chin up and looking straight forward, sometimes over the shoulder to make sure we were still walking — besid...

 beautiful man playing the harmonica    Strolling around in the after hours, I decide to sit down at the first comfortable looking porch on sight, to write a letter. Old apartment building, windows all black, has a nice little lamp that turns on as I sit down, like for me only.     “Thank you, little lamp”    Scribbling around at the paper, not really making sense of my words, I begin to notice the distant sound of a harmonica. Figured I was finally getting paranoid, for the sound would become louder and louder, getting closer and closer — soothing, in a way, but also piercing and loud and the most somber. The context of it all also didn’t help: a girl alone in the night; it was a dangerous neighborhood; I was running away from home. But as the source of the sound comes on sight, slurring down the lane, my heart stops shivering.    A beautiful bard he was, lost in the blues like Little Walter, playing to none but himself. Noticed me look...

   Light speed rockets flying to new moons, and in the mean time she’s living a mean time. Not dark, or gray, just red. Kind of too red, maybe. Sacking grocery stores, picking pockets, copping houses. She’s the face of danger sometimes, and most of the time just looks as average as the next person; a disguise, not intentional, but effective.     “(pretty) Little girl got the blues”, thinks the mom to herself, watching her barely touch the food at the dinner table. Little does she know her daughter is the scum of society, punk freak with no boundaries, and wouldn’t hesitate in killing a cat to win a dare.    Twenty years of age——basement a bunker——collects bones dug up from old graves——misanthropic ritual——fueled on hatred——cuts her mouth on the inside so the pain lasts longer——masturbates with a toilet brush——has a date rape planned for tonight with the first male that talks to her at the bar.     “Hey there!, what’s up?” says he, sitting at the t...

     Once I met this girl that never hid her scars. Never wore long sleeves or jackets, and only sometimes pants: skirts and shorts were the regular attire doesn’t matter the weather, along with a black tee of whatever band you’ve never heard of. She never hid her scars because she took them as achievements; they were spoils of a war fought from within that, despite being over, wasn’t necessarily won; or at least wasn’t as much a victory as she made it up to be. Self-harm never stopped being a thing when the weapons were down, and every day a new white spot of bandages would pop up, sometimes one of those big band-aids. Her — only — friend and her family knew very well she was a mistake too hard to fix, and gave up on her, only watching as she went deeper and deeper into an insane rabbit hole of self-satisfaction. She would say, to whoever asked why, that the pain wasn’t to remediate the suffering, but to create a comfortable happy place through raw carnal pleasure. ...

     Today I bumped shoulders with this girl on the street. She had nothing of muse, nothing ethereal, just a little something here and there of alternative. My eyes were quickly drawn to the turtleneck under a short but beautiful string of pearls. There was also a pair Ray-Ban Caravans laying on top of her head, like the one I had once gifted a dear friend many years ago. Her clothes were all pristine black, and her face carried a kind of smuggish decisiveness not necessarily unlikable, but deeply respectable. Something not even her short stature, or the way she walked wobbly, like a penguin, could take away. In fact, her presence was of a giant’s, and the mere sight of her was enough to take my breath away. That’s why we bumped shoulders; I got lost in her; though none of us seemed to mind.     “Sorry”     “No problem”     “Have a good day”    She smiled then, but more than cordially. She smiled like when you meet an old frie...

    She nudges me with her elbow, we both sat at a sidewalk bench, watching the cars pass by,    “Did you check out those sideboobs?”     “Of course I did, huge milkers,” I respond.     “I wonder if they’re real milkers. Bet she’s pretty proud of them.”     “Yeah, look there,” I point at the huge milkers lady across the street, that is now talking with a group of other women, holding the baby picked up from a stroller.     “Oh, so she really is a mom,” says she, realizing the obvious. “Those do look very milkful.”     “Though not milkful enough.”     “And how much is enough?”     “Enough to cover the whole kitchen floor, in flood.”     “Oh,” she chuckles, “I got that. Like that movie, right?”     “Yeah. Miike. Did you know he also directed ‘Audition’?”     “That one with the piano wire? Got you. The Japanese really do know how to make their horror entertaining.”  ...

  [This is a translation for a short story written originally in Portuguese on September of 2021.]    For a week now I’ve been having this same dream, in which I wake up, have a cup of coffee and walk to this certain street. Through this street I only went once in my entire life, and doing so did not precede any momentous occasion, though I can accurately describe every building, the state of the asphalt, and the parked cars in that morning I experienced them more than a decade ago. The appearance of the exact four people that passed by me, I could put on paper right now, and in the dreams I can feel their presence just as I did in the past. At no other time within this past decade has such a vivid memory occurred to me, but now I am bound to it like a curse.    At this moment it is impossible to tell if I’m dreaming or awake, for the taste of the bitter coffee still resides on my tongue, I can feel the wind cooling my face and the sweat inside the co...

   Back again at this cursed place. This time there’s company to at least try and hug away my pain, but not a single other living soul is to be seen. The waiting room is empty aside from the always present (soulless) receptionist; wearing white as always, skin white as always — in twenty years, the hair will also be white.    Surprisingly enough, the situation is not as depressing or haunting as it once was. This time I know that whatever pain is it I’m feeling, will go away after a few minutes of torture, and I got plenty of pain at the moment.      Late three hours for no reason, my aunt finally decides to show up. Starbucks iced tea in one hand and a pink donut in the other, like she doesn’t know the dangers of sugar.     “Anastasia!” She happily exclaims, ignoring my face of distress. “What in tarnation are you doing here? Don’t tell me you got a boo boo again...”     “Dear aunt, I sure hope you checked the voice mail I lef...

   Ming Kee used to be the best restaurant in town    Home of the marginalia, basket cases of society    In there I’ve seen cybergoths, suicidal vampires, elderly cross-dressers    Monogamist drag queens and child-bearing fetishists    Transsexuals to both sides; gays to both sides too    In there I saw a gun for the first time: in the hands of a black man killed by the police on that same night     — he taught me how to shoot a revolver, told stories of previous robberies, and later on shot and killed an innocent couple —    In there I met a guy who found pleasure in burning himself    His arms were hibiscus-pink inside the coat, but he smiled all the time    In there I met an Indian guy that came to Brasil knowing only very little english besides hindi    An absolute expert in cellphones; could diagnose one in less than 10 seconds    In there I met a Chinese girl, ar...