The Scribbler

Welcome to the home of literature teleportation, mindless ramblings and all kinds of other stuff my head spits out from time to time.

NaNoWriMo intro — November 3, 2017

NaNoWriMo intro

There was a naked man in the river with clumps of black mud gently slithering along his bony torso. He was perfectly still under the clean summer night sky.

The man had an empty blank stare on his face. Like a paused simulation, although a simulation he was not. Inside his bony chest a small red heart pumped away spurred on by a hungry pair of lungs…or at least it did before it happened, now it was for anyone to guess.

You see… In the short moment, just between the cicada’s cry and the crow’s death, the silver silhouette of his body suddenly dragged itself inwards with a crack.

All his bones broke in unison and his eyes rolled off.

Entrails and pale skin revolved within the shallow waters of the river for a while. It was a like a thoughtful confirmation, but then, just like the night, so did they disappear. It was almost like the planet itself had sucked him in. Cleaning. Rearranging. Taking control.

All the while he didn’t make a single sound and neither did I.

Manhã atravancada à noite anterior apegada — October 25, 2017

Manhã atravancada à noite anterior apegada

Desfiadas, esfarrapadas frases.

Torcido, contorces logicamente,

Tudo o que te vai na mente,

Amarela a confusão, implosão

De nós roxos enviesados, apertados



De manhã, à janela, neblina

No peito branco colada

Chávena de chá, boca de vidro

Num nascer do sol recortada.

— October 14, 2017
Alentejo — November 22, 2015


– I will have been leaning against that olive tree for five days come next Monday.- Arthur said pointing at the window. – The bark will have dug a red hole into my back and my hair will be riddled with thin leaves and a couple of rotten olives.- He touched his hair, eyes wide open.- I will have witnessed the death of a small rabbit and ten thousand litters of water run through the clear stream behind the house. In five days I will have watched the withering of approximately four sun-burnt flowers as well as the blossoming of three healthy looking thistles.- Arthur pulled the blanket up against his face- Today I just guess. I lay at home with my brains spilled across the carpet, ideas splattered along the walls… Today my head spins, eyes rolled all the way back, tiny green dots frantically searching the insides of an empty skull.




— June 30, 2015

There’s a bottle of whiskey standing in my porch. It isn’t mine because it isn’t empty, that much I know but not much else. After making it mine my eyes stray to the top of the hills and my mind enters this state of deep dormancy as the cold wind burns my skin to red. I like to attribute this dormant state of mine to artistic sensibility or some kind of profound connection with nature even though I am fully aware of the now empty bottle of whiskey, or vodka, sometimes both, usually standing at arm’s reach.

As a wake up three hours later, head pounding, I can hear the gentle dripping that sets the mood for a thunderstorm. The hills are now covered in thick mist.

The thing is I’m FEELING quite sober right now so if you want metaphors or beautifully crafted allegories, maybe even a pretentious synesthesia, write them yourselves! Here, hear the thunder. Can you hear it rumbling after the climatic flashes of light that fill up the now darkening skies with mumbled energy? Can you? Then do it yourselves because I’m nothing but a drunken old fool, 18 years old as of now, which has nothing to offer but illusionary sensibility and a superficial knowledge of simple words. I’m done.

Not my picture
There are bodies in the shower — June 25, 2015
To see. —

To see.

The air at dawn has no oxygen in it. Here in the city streets, before people, before life, I smell a mixture of beetroot, eucalyptus and wet dirt. That’s all. No oxygen molecules to taint the freshness, the absence of life or to feed my brain. I’m feeling numb and can’t move my legs anymore; I’m switching off but as I sniff the immaculate masterpiece that is nature without us I think of what he once wrote: “To think is to be sick in the eyes.”

The girl and the half empty bottle — May 27, 2015

The girl and the half empty bottle

I started to squeeze my head into the half empty beer bottle. Slimy mass of lost friends and sad songs dripping from my ears and nose as the thick smoke filled my eyes.

  • Hey? – At the sound of the voice I looked to the side. Crushed and crooked, left eye hanging loose.
  • Hi – The girl was pretty. Short hair, short dress, short sentence. Her smile was huge against the background of fuzzy things that were meant to be fuzzy, and her eyes were of sharp blue and movements, too reactive for a drunkard’s lair.
  • Why are you juicing your head into that half empty beer bottle?
  • Because… you know… The squeezing into paper sheets didn’t really work for me. People said it was rambling and mumbling and… it’s my head you know? Maybe the beer bottle will like it, plus the leftover booze will probably round the edges of my pointy thoughts. That’s why things sound better when you’re drunk… ‘cos they’re rounded, you see?
  • Yea? I see what you mean. Do you want a kiss?
  • Are you sure? You need one.
  • No I don’t.
  • – She crossed her arms and looked stealthily at the beer bottle of thoughts and warm liquid.
  • What?- Like a cat she jumped of her chair, grabbed the bottle and drank it all to the last drop. Then she turned her back to me and left through the front door, tailed by a shroud of smoky substances.

I saw this girl again later, three months later to be precise. She was writing, squeezing herself onto that old napkin through a plastic pen with a name of some bedbug infested 1 star piece of shit yellow walled hotel on it. She had a half empty beer bottle next to her and was wearing an even shorter dress than the first time. I know what you’re thinking…. I talked to her, I did, and yes I most certainly read it. You know what I realized? I realized that we, humans, as a selfish, storytelling, rights demanding, comfort and pleasure searching, little species are all, and always will be, some really shitty fucking writers.

“And left her with an invitation to the blues”

The death of the wondrous unreality — May 26, 2015

The death of the wondrous unreality

The first wave of dawn is never of great, majestic or wondrous beauty. I thought while I sat there, naked butt cheeks on the wet sand, crooked head and pitiful look as I followed with my eyes the shy little thing, rolling through the scarce meters that separated me from the water’s edge. When the smooth white sheet of salt water silently approached my eager toes I started to believe that maybe, just maybe… but, deserving my initial disbelief and abandoning this hopeful new set of metaphorical balls, the first wave of dawn retreated to hide among its mother’s depths. With this truth, bare legged reality, sadness and shivering morning cold the hyperbolic poet inside of me shriveled into a ball of snot which I urgently spat in fiery despise.

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