Song Shorts | Cassandra Voices

Song Shorts


“Iggy‘s not coming for lunch?” asked Ron.

He tasted his breathe while talking, it smelt surprisingly of milk.

“Need to get a shower,” he said.

A television was blinking upstairs. The automatic shutdown announced the television will be black in few minutes. Iggy was lying on the floor looking at the ceiling.

He started figuring out what happened. Once again he put his dreams against reality. His stupid nature against facts. He thought about her as just a woman now. She could not have been a real woman. She was a symbol. She was definitely a sign of a possible redemption. My little China girl, you wore a beautiful uniform sitting straight on your back at the restaurant. Cheering discreetly. But redemption never arrives by chance. You have to work on it and even then there are people who will never find a proper one. There are simply people who needs to be against the wind at 300 km/h. I gave you a different room every night, so you would have never felt bored. I gave you the best wines with the most complicated aromas. I gave you the biggest television ever. But you see, the redemption I’m used to tends to collapse easily. And so it did. I need to be against the wind at 300 km/h. And I ruined everything you are. We’re people used to chewing other people, you know.

The table is broken in the middle and unfortunately it’s my fault. When you cannot control your feelings and – more than everything – your fucking movements, those kind of things happen.

Iggy stood up. Then he jumped twice as if there was an imaginary rope                           “No headache,” he said to himself.

“ There is no point in telling the whole story…,” he said “it’s quite intellectual.”             “ What do you mean?” Ron asked.                                                                                                       “ I mean, not good things for us. Kind of painful.”



It’s freezing and the rain is coming through my shoes. I’m standing at the corner in Lexington and I need to shit. I wait here like a street lamp with money clutched in my hand. He will be here in few minutes, sick as dawn. Then I will shit somewhere. I need to control the needs of my body and establish an order. But it’s going to be hard. Because everything makes me want to shit. Bricks are reflecting rain. Grey is everywhere. There is a prostitute on the other side of the street. I suppose she’s a prostitute. I hope, otherwise I can’t imagine why is she standing there. She’s young, she could be seventeen or eighteen. She doesn’t look particularly sick: she’s just waiting for something, trying to follow the right order of things. I need to shit.

I start to think about God. I need a real God that fixes things, a fat reliable God living on my shoulders. It’s incredible how humans can build totally depressing spots. It’s fucking bad to be here. Your life is a guinea pig life without a wheel or anything like it. I need to shit. And a God, for fuck’s sake. I want to feel his dry breath behind me.

No way. This idiot is never on time. Who is he? I don’t mind, I just have to be on time for him. But he shows no respect, no fucking respect. Twenty-six wet dollars clutched in my hand. Yes, we really have the worst Gods ever in this place. Never on time. Then the prostitute crosses the road. She’s coming towards me, slowly. Despite the rain her make up is really solid. It seems that you need to shit, she says. And she stares at me. Then her hands go through her bag and she shows me a small paper box. It’s brownish and dry. She reminds me of someone I met in school. Remember that you need to shit, she says. Luanne? I ask. She nods her head. I give her twenty-six dollars, it seems the most obvious thing. I open my hand with my crumpled twenty-six dollars. She takes them and puts them in a bag without even looking . I’m sure I have already seen her. She looks younger than seventeen or eighteen. But she could easily be in her thirties as well. And she’s so fucking dry.

Are you waterproof? I ask. Sure, she answers.


About Author

Walter Comoglio is an italian writer, currently based in Dublin. His short stories has been published in different literary magazines and anthologies. With his first book La sera che ho deciso di bloccare la strada he won the 2017 POP prize Italy for best debut of the year. Since then he’s always working on a new project. To reach the complete awareness, he does things like keeping odd position and being very kind to the oldies on the bus.

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