...stoRYLine... +ENG+

With steps so light much alike one of a cat, the mist entered through the bars that laced the tall windows, through the fissures, it galloped in ripples across the floor that resembled a chessboard from the throne room. It engulfed all, deliberated movement, muffled the voices, stabbed here and there, proudly by the light of the moon.

The little Prince sat curled up on the stairs, following it, with eyes wide open; the nocturnal ritual of the haze. Along with the fog, with eyes so playful and mean alike a rat’s, Terror made its way through the palace. The little Prince shivered, not due to fear, and definitely not because of the cold. The shivers simply were ignited by the pure anxiousness of the contemplation of horror, on a misty night, with a majestic hideous moon hung on the mercilessly untainted sky.

Deafening silence ruled the throne room, interrupted from time to time by the kings’ snores. The fog settled in, slyly, upon the décor, and fear sauntered, cautiously towards the bedrooms.

The little Prince could only make out vague contours, completed by his own imagination. First of all, the massive table made of oak, situated in the middle of the hall covered in leftovers from that night’s copious dinner. In the middle of the table, the remaining half of the wild boar moved only when the Prince blinked, crushing the apple between its tusks, waiting for one moment of lack of attention. A few rats waltzed carelessly through the tipped goblets, alongside the platters doused with meat, with fruits and condiments with such a strong aroma it generated fumes of nausea within one’s body.

On the other end of the great chamber hunched, was an immense toy clown, dirty from all the touches, with his head fallen to the side. His scalp was bald and surrounded, on the sides, by smocks of tangled thick hair, his lips grotesque, and horse like teeth; eyes malevolently sweet. His belly was exaggerated, legs short and crooked. His fingers could be distinguished; stubby with black dirty nails, clothes coloured in a multitude of screaming nuances, odd, scandalous… Some places hosted holes that allowed the insides of this sodden rag doll to overflow, much like the thick vomit of hidden creatures of the dark…

Across the room, far from the clown, asleep on the floor, the king’s joker was dousing the floor with a puddle of anemic saliva. The moonlight dribbled graciously down his cheek, covering the rare and rough hairs of his beard in shadow. One of his shoes, initially desired hilarious but were now full of soot and unraveling, lingered towards the entrance, and his shoeless foot now simply showed a striped, inert, sock, that looked like a dead carcass.

On the throne, the King had fallen asleep as well, with his beard reeking of all the mixtures of the feast, head decorated by his crown tipped to the side, and his left hand losing its grip of the scepter. His right hand, quenched in the cold light of the moon, seemed old and awfully pale, adorned uselessly by baroque jewelry.

Beside him, the Queen, with her belly full, contracted her fingers, overwhelmed by some sort of disturbing dream. Her hair fell heavily upon her silhouette, reaching the ground, hiding her body away from the outside world in what seemed to be a thick spider web.

Somewhere, near the window, the little Prince’s wooden horse started rocking back and forth, creaking morbidly into the night; simultaneously his eyes were wickedly glittering in the light of the moon rhythmically to its every moment.

Seemingly called for, Terror announced it’s presence. The Queen moaned still deep in her slumber and the King dropped his scepter of ivory on the marble flooring that echoed a broken, infernal clamor.

The little Prince hastily ran, crossing with his light boots, of deerskin the entire throne room.

The Harlequin snorted in his sleep and spread the pool of saliva, and the rats darted ungraciously off the table, hitting their bellies to the floor.

The Prince didn’t stop running until he reached the garden. He felt watched and Terror had probably followed him, now sniffing his scents; starved it paced. He sat down near a fountain, gasping for air. A multitude of colored stars prevented him from seeing clearly and a sense of weakness clawed at his feet.

He threw his crown delicately woven from gold and his crimson mantle as far as he could, and retreated into his own sanctuary.

The little Prince felt somewhat safe here. The Horror missed him, by merely an inch or two, and lost itself into the negritude behind the fountain, causing the grass to mutter, and muffled the crickets into a deathly muteness. Later the horrifying entity’s return was betrayed by the horses’ frightened neighs as it traversed the royal stables.

From his shelter the Prince no longer felt threatened.

He lifted his eyes towards the sky and the frozen stare of the moon relieved him of his senses. He curled back into a corner.

The Moon, it was her…

Why did she grin so?





[Thanks...? to whom? To myself. I thought that I should write from time to time, not only dawdle all the time and rot about, dreaming at non-existing colors and listening the music of the spheres. I wrote it one night... I didn't have anything better to do, anyway. I always wanted to be able to say something like :"I had a lotta fun with it." Well, I did. I really did.]
[Thanks to my brother Cro, god bless you son. Donno exactly why thanks to him, just like that, cause he exists, and he carefully listens what I read, when I finish a piece of work, and that when he finds a mistake, he tells me, and when I finish reading, he says: "Cool" or stuff like that ]
[Thanks to you all, and to the images in my head. Whatever... ]