Trick's Tales

I finally finished the 4th book of the Neapolitan Novels series by Elena Ferrante (otherwise known as the My Brilliant Friend series). To transform my impressions and emotions about that series into cold hard words on a page almost feels obscene, but she so accurately captures those fleeting vividnesses into the written form that I feel I should endeavor to do the same. Unfortunately she's significantly better at that whole thing than me, so just bear with me lol.

“No hay tierra para los ancianos”, dijo la voz que resonó desde la boca oscura de la puerta grande. El viejo se encogió de hombros y se alejó de la puerta, escuchando como se cerraba detrás de él. No esperaba nada de esta comunidad. Ser viejo en esta época era un pecado – el robo del aire y agua de los niños que no tenían culpa por el estado del mundo. En el pasado, él gritaba y maldecía las pisadas de los que lo rechazaban. “Yo no hice nada!” él pisaba y gritaba. El suelo debajo temblaba mientras la ira corría por sus piernas y pies. Las puertas nunca se afectaban por la furia del hombre, y con el tiempo y el viaje, él se convirtió en un viejo y comprendió sus defectos. Su existencia en las épocas anteriores era bastante. Sus años finales en este estado fueron apropiados. Los escombros en el suelo en esta área eran llanos por los pies de miles de viajeros que pasaban por ellos. El polvo se asentó alrededor de sus dedos de pie, y las espirales y las arrugas estaban negras de la mugre. ...

 In the old days, when they told you not to run, you sure as hell didn't. If you ran, your fate would be far worse. They would hoist you up like a feather-light thing, beat you til the word "mama" couldn't cross your swollen lips. I hate violence. Harm inflicted and for what? Not a new opinion, I know. In the old days, we were violent back. We harmed their weaker, more innocent associates. Like dog eat cat eat bird. Or big fish eat smaller fish eat smallest fish. Or like lifting Johnny up by his collar, the crippled one, and slamming him onto the road until he crunched, or at least his feet did. They got us back for that one, but we couldn't resist. They gave us the anger so we had to give it back. I hated that part of my life. And the people too. Red nosed cowards, all of them. Boys that the present forgets existed. I ain't complaining. To be honest, I wouldn't mind forgetting it all myself. Now is a dream, an unreality that's nearly, but isn't. O...

This is me using the bones of a short story to actually do fashion design. I'm more adept with words than pictures. Originally written for a competition on the Exilian blog.

It was not every night, but it was enough nights.

 There once was an unlucky Lenian boy named Risa. Risa was born into a notorious crime family in Len. His mother had a gift for stoneworking and used it as a front for the rest of the family's crimes. His father broke in and out of Talis Jail not once, not twice, but three times. His older brother was the best poisonmaker in Len, and his twin sister was such a talker, a man with rubies for eyes gave her the rubies so that she would shut up.

The 10 foot were dangerous. They were feared. Some of them liked human women. Some human women liked them. Not many.

Collage by me. Anthropocene (2024) Lucien had no sense of temporality. It was beyond him. He was 5’5 and overweight, and that was what mattered.