Amadeo Battista
Bio
A writer hunting down a unique perspective. Current BFA at York studying Creative Writing and Political Science. Aspiring novelist. Works have been published under various names around the net. Visual Artist. Dog Lover. Underground.
Stories (20/0)
Love Amidst the Darkness of the Sea
I signed up for this getaway when I walked in on my girlfriend Charlie covered in Vaseline on our bed and a ruckus coming from the bathroom of our apartment. I left my life in that place. I figured if someone who loves me is willing to throw it all away for a quick ring in the sheets, then all those things that encompass who I am mustn't be worth much. Or maybe I'm telling myself that because I walked away from thousands of dollars worth of books.
By Amadeo Battistaabout 11 hours ago in Fiction
AuthorGPT
Harold West sipped Chivas from the bottle. The room is dark, save a little moonlight from the master bedroom windows. Before him on the table, a stack of books, a pile of old literary masterpieces, and next to them, a computer with Word opened, that same venom white blank page. The more he stared at that digital screen of death, the more he could feel all his dreams and aspirations get sucked into the nothingness it created.
By Amadeo Battista17 days ago in Fiction
Pawns
We are the greatest unpaid workers in the history of the world. We spit shine greed and smile as we whip ourselves into battered submission. I see it everywhere, people's spines like horseshoes, the kids like drones, and the field workers don't cry anymore; they dance. The world's a stage, and everyone's an agent. We can't go anywhere without being caught in someone's videos. Cameras stuffed into the cracking faces of the homeless. Hold these two musical instruments and clap them together; if I get enough likes, I'll throw a pair of socks and some Wonderbread at you.
By Amadeo Battista20 days ago in Fiction
The Nothingness
The rusted door handle feels soggy beneath the grip of my fingers. I pull the door open, taking a quick sniff at the orange-tinted water that now stains my hand. Deep in my throat, I taste leftover skin, remnants of all these dead souls that walk through here. The room is in its usual condition. Books piled in teetering towers. Carpet salt punched with the past footprints of people who have come and gone. Old maple wood shelves. In the back corner, there is a folding table. On it rests a giant stainless steel coffee maker. Stacks of coffee cups. A bag containing single-serving old yellow Splenda and white sugar packets. I make my way over to the table. I stroll, taking glances towards the others here.
By Amadeo Battista2 months ago in Fiction
That Ancient Wind
A budding Woman perches herself atop a high building, a few hundred stories above the clouds. A building once admired as a god by hundreds of thousands who witnessed it each and every day. The Woman stares out over the horizon where nothing that had not been reclaimed by nature now stood. Only the living trees and flourishing vines that strangled the image of Man could now be seen. Then as she looks upon a sea of endless green, she hears words whisper in the winds.
By Amadeo Battista11 months ago in Fiction
The Transformation of Elizabeth
Elizabeth sits beside the others, who dress in black attire also. Although not paying much attention to what is being said, but instead studies the flock of blackbirds flying in a circuit above the gathering. Squinting her eyes, studying the species, are they crows? Perhaps great-tailed Gackos? No, perplexing even herself, "so far north during this time of year," her little sister Veronica hits her arm as hard as a six-year-old might hit another.
By Amadeo Battista12 months ago in Fiction
Funkers
Drifting serenely in a nebula of unadulterated Ether looking out the ship's cabin window at an immeasurable gaseous expanse that switches from greens, yellows, blues and reds orgasmically pulsating and radiating outwards in stunning eclipses of vaporous mist. While my co-pilot is having an Ether-induced schizophrenic seizure. Right beside me. I try and hold his hands down, but honestly, I am higher than prostitutes on Kepler 186b, and his hands look like octopus tentacles and fill me with the strangest desire to urinate.
By Amadeo Battista12 months ago in Fiction
The Time Line
At the entrance stands a husky woman, half a shaved head with half her hair half tinted purple, the other half is halfway between blue and green. Staring me down as she holds out her hand. The closer I get, the more her body towers over mine, and I stand over six feet tall. She doesn't say anything as she opens and closes her hand impatiently, as if this means to give her something. I place my university transcript in her opening and closing claw, the only thing I have of any value. When I received it in the mail a week ago, it came with a letter from the dean stating that I had to bring the transcript to this building and follow the instructions on what to do from here.
By Amadeo Battista12 months ago in Fiction
CryingOwl
One time, long ago, there was a boy named Eli. They said this boy could fly, fight and howl like a wolf under the watchful eye of the full moon. The boy, Eli, wasn't always this way, though. Before he learned to howl, he would always sport his mother's favourite vest, which she always insisted he wears to school, with a kiss that always left a pink outline of lips on his cheeks. Because of this and his strange features and burnt pale skin, and because of his odd haircuts and his even stranger way of carrying himself, he used to be the victim of many enemies.
By Amadeo Battistaabout a year ago in Fiction
