tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46624107310808156322023-07-17T22:06:38.440-07:00CHRYSALISanother TAG NOVEL by NEOCRONICA.ORGSérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-46218656546264873182009-04-19T12:18:00.000-07:002009-04-19T12:28:10.342-07:00The ProfessorThe butterfly collector had over 2000 specimen in his greenhouse. The sun would go in through the glass walls and ceiling and the plants could fill the atmosphere with oxygen - that was how the old professor would spend his afternoons and grip one at a time the butterflies wandering around the air. Carefully he would put them over the board, prick it with a pin and classify it with the proper labels. He would do that passionately, careless about the other living moths flying around the flora. Then he would go to the kitchen and have a coffee or a tea, and walk along with the sunset on the yard. The sun would die out behind a hill nearby, and when the smell of fresh grass would rise, it was time for him to go to the house again.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-35822984245319148482009-04-19T12:04:00.000-07:002009-04-24T06:20:36.742-07:00 One <div style="text-align: justify;">He was leaving the afternoon lecture as he would do every tuesday. Tuesdays are days where nothing special usually happens, but as it is still a fresh begining of the week, it always seemed to him like a good day. The car tyres scratched the asphalt producing the usual SKREEEECH. And mom and dad were outside the window as he was laying at the bed, between waking and sleeping.<br /></div>Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-48778156493233412392009-04-15T12:44:00.000-07:002009-04-24T05:59:49.424-07:00The Collector TenureThe professor, at that day, was merely handling the young man the necessary tools to collect: the pin, the immaculated white cloth, tightly streched out over the wooden frame. The warmth of the greenhouse was gentle, and the air around was freshened by the vivid green life all around, and the dust of the butterflies' wings could be seen through the sunrays: the young man was concentrated on the task, as if some degree of pride and importance on accomplishing it was on stake. The old man professed important thoughts that were not regarded as they should be: the collector is the first one to get killed: the collector is already dead, you must know.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-80018680333017676482009-04-14T12:46:00.000-07:002009-04-24T06:00:47.087-07:00EmpaledA refugee over the professor's intelectual realm: the warmth of the greenhouse could give the young man time to think until --Manu crashed with the car, invading the greenhouse, destroying walls of glass and metal structure, plants and flowers and leaves rolling over floor and air, and the butterflies on a shifting flow disappeared on the horizon line. The professor calmly opened a chlorophormium vessel and put her to sleep, as the young man tied her to a chair. Not only was the day exausting, Julie came by to break the newly gained rest: screaming for him to make a decision. Manu was awake and the baffled screams started: a giant pin was at the door, and firmly he empaled Julie on the wall: her feet a few inches up the floor, only the tip of the toes touching the ground. The professor, again calmly, started the embalming process.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-83395791130076023912009-04-13T12:53:00.000-07:002009-04-24T06:01:29.175-07:00on the wallJulie was losing her peel and the dust of her wings was sprinkled all aroung the greenhouse. Manu watched it calmly, not even the scratches from the carwreck, stinging, could have her attention: she felt a bit moved by the pain Julie was feeling --obliterated by the giant pin crossing her body. A part of Manu felt that, too.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-87473904521158900202009-03-19T12:54:00.000-07:002009-04-24T05:59:00.114-07:00The Greenhouse's Idillic EndThe dust of all those wings was hovering on the greenhouse. The professor sat calmly on a chair, and nor the young man or Manu could be seen anymore: only the shadows projected by the sun were slowly moving. One by one, the butterflies started twitching --wings, the little legs pushed the pins out of the wall and in a while all the moths were moving around, till a window was found to release that flux of colorful insects. The professor remained sit: only the exoeskeleton left; light, and translucid as the sun beams traversed it; the chitin cavities only fueled by the dusty and warm air of the greehouse.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-24673209776943092332009-03-19T12:51:00.000-07:002009-04-24T06:14:39.645-07:00MeanwhileAnd the Doctor replied: Look, he's stable. See? He probably will experience post-traumatic stress, which is natural. The nurse said he was calling you, last night. But he's still most of the time uncounscious, which is also a natural part of the processes. It's been just a few hours since the incident, so he might stay between awake and sleeping for a while. But don't worry. We'll take care of him.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-71475900226407727382008-04-19T12:09:00.000-07:002009-04-24T05:54:12.708-07:00Manu<div style="text-align: justify;">Manoela was finishing her PhD at the age of 25 and he always thought that was utterly impressive. She was the kind of woman that could not stand still for a couple of hours without noting down something to do on the next block of hours. Her timesheet was always filled with proficiency, from laundry books to library returns to her idea of a new article on space and time on the transition from classic to modern narratives. Her kitchen had a backdoor to a yard, and they would spend time there in the morning, after sex and before the early orange juice. That was the space she cared for the most, and he knew that even a framed pictured given to her as a birthday needed her thoughts to be hanging on the wall.<br /></div>Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-68171334188886747022007-04-19T12:14:00.000-07:002009-04-24T06:15:13.703-07:00Julie<div style="text-align: justify;">Julie, on the other hand, was more than he could expect from a young new University student - the careless looks of her was constituted in detail; the over-the-shoulders haircut, the old coat and the worn-out trousers used to set the perfect combination of a destination-anywhere daydream kind of girl, who seemed to be seeking for something she didn't precisely know what was, although she had in her mind a solid idea of what she was: and that makes any sketch of a plan a straight line.<br /></div>Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-52957165237879408652006-04-19T12:28:00.000-07:002009-04-24T05:55:30.426-07:00The Baroque Bedroom<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was like a morning of one thousand mild suns: </span>pale rays entered through the magnificent window, which was painted in undertones of gold. The paper walls were covered in a silky rosea pattern of colors, contrasting with the bluish-green extravagant curtains pending down from top to floor. <span style="font-weight: bold;">He rose up from the bed </span>and a slight perfume of musk was up on the air; the polished wood of the floor didn't produce any sound as he tiptoed towards the window: endless hills under a balmy summer, from the perspective of this ancient castle made of red bricks; at the bed, sleeping as <span style="font-weight: bold;">a pair of nymphs, Manu and Julie, </span>one at each side of the bed, only the gap with the size of a sole body between them, and their hair would crossover on an intersection he'd never imagine before.<br /></div>Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-22733223176957379062005-04-19T12:44:00.000-07:002009-11-17T17:24:05.645-08:00CorridorsHowever a triangle is never very stable, and as soon as they woke up a silent doubt drifted around. Manuela knew that the only way of having him back was getting rid of Julie, and Julie thought the same, and they even thought how would it be if they got rid of the cause of such poignant pain: getting rid of him, as quick as a car running over someone.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-37603188288458197532004-05-17T12:52:00.000-07:002009-04-24T06:18:44.611-07:00The Picture on the WallAt Manu's house, even the picture he gave her on the wall had to be approved by her: that was her space, the lair of a single woman --he panicked when realized that the butterfly of the wall was, in reality, Julie --precisely, Julie, empaled at her wall with the wooden branch. He couldn't hide that, stash her under the bed; it was impossible: the only hope was if Manu didn't pass by the corridor before he took care of Julie.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-85333013321233765562004-04-19T12:45:00.000-07:002009-04-24T06:23:25.301-07:00AtticHe left the bedroom, without any further explanation: needed the air of outside, at that time the grass had a pleasant dew and he left Manu sleeping, he left Julie as well at that morning.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-55195307198225281042003-04-19T12:54:00.000-07:002009-04-24T05:58:10.286-07:00On the white sheetsHis parents were around him when he was about to wake up: they said he would be fine and they wanted him to eat a warm piece of cake. He was feeling awkwardly mirthful, maybe that was the reason the doctor simply didn't show up --ever again. Was it Manu's car?, he thought only to himself.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4662410731080815632.post-81373277786058003581990-04-19T12:56:00.000-07:002009-04-24T05:52:39.392-07:00EpilogueManuela opened the porch door; as she was making juice for the breakfast, a butterfly passed by the window in front of the sun, projecting shadows across the kitchen. He would be downstairs in a minute, she knew. Would she keep the picture on the wall?, she thought. Maybe someday it would only mean a butterfly. It has always been just a butterfly, she heard an echo of the professor's voice.Sérgio St. Tavareshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14885356243522417673noreply@blogger.com0