Farewell, Old Man*

My childhood, boy? I am not sure I have been a child, boy. Have I? Who told you I have? You boy are too smart, you see a boy in me, hein? I must have been, let me think, boy. My childhood...
Is that the time when I've learned how to walk, boy? Let me tell you what they told me, boy.
I did not learn how to walk, I walked, but they tell me I learned how to swim first, or I was born swimming.
I had no teacher, boy, I did not learn, I knew how to swim, the other fishermen told me. They also told me my mother was a mermaid. This beautiful mermaid was under a spell, and she could not nurture me in land, so I always swam to find her and ask her for food, but I disliked breast milk, the fishermen told me, they told me I only kissed the fishes and licked their salt and the mermaid would cry sad tears of salt to be able to feed me and not lose me to the fish. She was  very slippery and she could not hold me, the spell was a strong one and did not allow her to touch me for long.
Is that a childhood, boy? They tell me it was, but I am not sure I was a child, all I remember is the ocean, and the lighthouse, and the taste of salt in my lips.
Those old fishermen, they were silly, they told me stories, you know? Maybe those are true, boy.
I still dream of a mermaid and I feel her sleeping next to me, she is not ocean wet, and she is not salty. She is warm and smells like milk and strawberries. I've never eaten strawberries, boy.

O velho pescador monologa em resposta ao rapaz. Até à próxima, Senhor Hemingway. Gostámos de estudar consigo.

Please allow me, Old Man*

(...)
 There is no sense in being anything but practical though, he thought. I wish I had some salt. And I do not know whether the sun will rot or dry what is left from it, so I had better eat it all although I am not hungry. The fish is calm and steady. I will commit a crime if I disturb him, him, my brother, my saviour, and yet... he can save me. Do I need to be saved? Let me sleep on it, the old man said to himself, in silence, of course.

The old man moved his exhausted body to try and rest in an old piece of rags on the floor of the rack, but noticed he was closer to land than he thought. Had he got lost? He was not supposed to reach land in another 2 days. The land he wanted to reach was not there. Maybe his fatigue and lack of meals for three days made him hallucinate. No, the sea was his domain, he was sure of what he saw. He smiled though; he was near the Old Lady's shore, yes, hers. He felt no longer in need of salt, or fish or food. He would be happy to see her again, even if he would not dare entering her place of business, even if he would not read any of the books; yet he was happy, he would stare at the window, and he knew she would respect him, and talk to him, and remind him that for her he was still the young swimmer she once ventured with. There would be other fishermen there, and he would remind them he met his sea first, and they would learn that in land. Her land.

Exercício de Escrita Criativa sobre "O Velho e o Mar". Ver publicação anterior.

Please allow me, Mr Hemingway*

The Old Lady who owned the Shore Library was feeling less agile than usual, and she found herself longing for the fishermen to arrive. She missed chatting with them and feeling alive, needed, and knowledgeable. They, on their end, missed the feminine voice, and the stories she sold them, lent them, or pretended to sell them when they were penniless. She loved to hear about their adventures, and sometimes even question their superstitions. Her favourite fisherman was not the one who scared her with sea monsters, or who brought her fresh octopi from the ocean, but the fisherman that had never entered her library shop. She still remembered him from when he was a young swimmer, she still remembered him as a storyteller; he was the first one to tell her "Once upon a time" after all, and to mesmerise her with mermaid tales, and stories of the beyond. All through the years she heard he had lost a house, a family, some of his past income and fell behind in some social connections she regretted not having insisted upon. He ended up attaining Freedom, he insisted. She believed he needed a friend, he denied her friendship to go far beyond the stories and the myths, but she still kept an eye on him. He deserved to be watched and cared about. Maybe that boy she had seen the other day? She awaited at the bay, she could picture him alone at sea, she could smell the fish, she could feel the silence in the dark of the night, and she could easily see that "in the dark the old man could feel the morning coming and as he rowed he heard the trembling sound as flying fish left the water and the hissing that their stiff set wings made as they soared away in the darkness. He was very fond of flying fish as they were his principal friends on the ocean."

* Aulas e Exercício de escrita criativa, sobre excerto de O Velho e o Mar.

Serra Elétrica *

Arrastou-se entre caïmbras e dormências. Seria menos doloroso lavar o rosto no bidé, pensou, pois ainda não transbordava de embalagens vazias, carteiras de medicamentos e roupa por lavar.
Denunciar-se-ia menos aos vizinhos se alguma torneira desse sinal às 04h38m de todos os dias.
Fez questão disso. Faltavam 2h45m de transportes e enfrentá-los-ia de cara desfeita.
Limpou o espelho com a estridência de uma otite e feriu a pele com a ferrugem da lâmina de barbear que há muito devia uma visita ao caixote de lixo.  Sem cheirar a suor não haveria olhares para os ombros caídos, não haveria uma palavra.

*Resposta ao desafio EACWP 2026.
Resultados aqui.

Pau de carmim, sem sim.*

 Revezavam-se na esquina mais suja da cidade. Apenas ali os seus lábios vermelhos mascaravam por contraste rugas, dores, gravidezes sem conta, flácidos clientes e identidades já perdidas. Mas naquele dia, vi-A à mesa. Conversava com o turista, não cliente, e com ele bebia num justiceiro sumo de laranja a dignidade.

Microconto. Em resposta ao desafio da Editora Palavra Ferida.*

Sede...*

There we were.

Contemplanting the silence with both our heads experimentating a not so "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings".
We both needed it.
We were pouring ideas from & to each other's minds...
If only telepathic and mutual wishes could source from the same fountain of will. Fools!
I drank the contemplation of your skin.
You drank the contemplation of whatever myriad of mystery is my astonishment of your thirst.
Here we are.

Laura Rocha, a nom de plume.

* A culpa é da poesia do botão que nos desafia.

Sugestões de viagens e apeadeiros mentais

1- Adília Lopes, Dias e dias.

2- Maria Martínez, O que a neve sussurra ao cair. 

3- Adília Lopes, Choupos.

4- José Raúl de Oliveira Rodrigues, Enxertia de Árvores de Fruto. 

5- Stig Dagerman, A nossa necessidade de consolo é impossível de satisfazer. Versão portuguesa de Paula Castro e José Daniel Ribeiro.

6- José Cardoso Pires, República dos Corvos.

7- Balli Kaur Jaswal, Le Club des Veuves qui aimaient la Littérature Erotique.

8- Uma longa viagem com Maria Filomena Mónica, João Céu e Silva.

9- Haja Paciência, Gonçalo Viana.

10- Balbúrdia, Teresa Cortez.

11- E deixei de te chamar papá, Caroline Darian.

12- Jesus em Más Companhias, Adolf Holl.

13- Maria não me mates que sou tua mãe, Camilo Castelo Branco.

14- Fox in Socks, Dr Seuss. (Theodor Seuss Geisel)

15- A Cor das emoções "Alegria", Izabelle Filliozat.

16- A Cor das emoções "Medo". Idem.

17- A Beleza da erva por cortar, Trevor Noah. Ilustrações de Sabina Hahn.

18- O Menino no Sapatinho, Mia Couto.

19- Os Filhos do Diabo. Chloé Wallerand.

20- 1Q84, Volume III, Harumi Murakami.

21- Dossier Tarrafal, Avante.

22- Odeio Tudo, tudinho. Texto e ilustrações de Sophy Henn. Tradução de Helena Cruz V.

23- O Livro das Coisas sem nome, Armando Gonçalves Pereira.

24- Segunda Vez, Mary Higgins Clark.

25- Bandolim, Adília Lopes.

26- A Desobediente, biografia de Maria Teresa Horta por Patrícia Reis.

27- Dame Talkative's Old Sayings: New Revived for the Amusement of Young People, E.Wallis, London, 1824.

28- Contribuição para o Estudo da Questão Agrária, Volume I. Álvaro Cunhal.

29- idem, Volume II.

30- Fui lá e Venci.Vários autores.

31- Os Crimes Patrióticos, Agatha Christie.

32- Um Azul para Marte, José Saramago. Ilustrações de Claudia Legnazzi.

33- As Férias de Poirot, Agatha Christie.

34- Eva Luna, Isabel Allende.

35- Lisboa Noir, o ano negro de 1929. Luís Corte Real.

36- A Minha Mãe é a Minha Filha, Valter Hugo Mãe.

37- A Hora do Mocho, Mary Higgins Clark.

38- A Terra que um Homem precisa, Lev Tolstói.

39- A Vida Oculta de Fernando Pessoa, André F. Morgado e Alexandre Leoni.

40- L'empereur du Portugal, Selma Lagerlöf.