Christian P. Benotto
Stories (8/0)
Birds Do Not Sing In Caves
Birds Do Not Sing in Caves By Christian P. Benotto I The sun bathed the curved heather in a sort of golden gleam, the mauve heathers shone beautifully under the lovingly warmth of the scorching luminal, their ravishing pallor of violet that gave the stooped land a certain amiable countenance. The heather extended in such a way that it stretched over the rocky alps like a young woman whose nude body gleamed golden, washed in perspiration and the splendor of such a magnificent ardent beast. The sea washed against the high mountainous cliffs that stood before the littoral, the holler of the ocean as it crashed against the latter, her wallowing waves curving and melting into one another in a single aphrodisiac motion. The plains followed the cliff until these led to a steep fall into a lonely abyss of sea and land, these plains also followed the mountainous range that extended in such a way that their feeble body met with the megalithic mount that stood before them. The mount, was truly a behemoth, a beauteous woman of such a height that her edged peaks were shrouded from the eyes of people by the clouds, of such stout limbs that they crashed into the earth and the skies in a single stretch of land, of such caramel skin that her gleaming sides were engulfed in that same golden veil that covered all of the land. She was dressed in a white cloak that opened at the front, leaving her verdant skin from the navel to the breasts visible to the watchful eye of the mortals that could not even touch the reflection of her silhouetted skin. Her vigil peaks penetrated through the clouds and went past them, standing as if it were a stagnant goddess, asleep. She was covered in the flora and snow that had accumulated over the many millennia that she had been asleep. Her shrouded peaks never had storms and she was basked in a cloudless ether that housed the Gods. She was created from the ardent fires that once engulfed the earth and now engulfed Hades, she was forged from the blood of the Titans that had fallen lower than the Olympic Gods themselves, for they had fallen onto the arid land that would later become the land of men.
By Christian P. Benotto4 days ago in Fiction
At Midnight We Meet
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. It was the most picturesque view; they would linger as if unaffected by inertia through the seemingly endless space that were the skies. They appeared suddenly and with them they brought an explosion of colors, which were deep magenta, pink, and even reddish tints of color that came out and expanded into the night sky, leaving a lonely trail behind. With their presence, the woods looked so lonesome, it was like a village in the middle of a firework show, it was lonely. The smell of pine trees which would be escorted by a cold humidity that arrived with every soft blow of the wind, a blow which produced the loneliest sound as it swiftly passed by, it was a whisper. The pines gently swaying, as if dancing a waltz with the wind, and the caressing music it caused. The ground was covered in dead leaves, sticks, and all the forgotten fauna that was left behind. One could step on it and sink, but the creatures that roamed those woods knew where and how to step. The roots that sprouted out of the pines almost as if it were in an involuntary motion were stout, long veins that gave life to the pines. There were deer wandering around, rising their heads, and their tails jerking up and down at the sound of any anomaly. The rabbits that would swiftly move around with their tiny puffy tails, and quick large ears. The foxes would scurry around, hiding in between the remains of the dead fauna, and sticking their heads out, and all other creatures that would every night at midnight come out of their hidden caves just to watch the spectacle. And there they were, all in communion, and in their eyes was the reflection of that beautiful enigmatic outburst of colors that painted the night sky, and made the night seem day.
By Christian P. Benottoabout a year ago in Fiction
The Death of a Caesar
It was a dark night, the stars shone ever so brightly in the night sky with this ray of light, almost as if a path had been painted by a long brush, one that displayed the purplish intergalactic matter that existed beyond that world. He looked at it with great awe from the small window that was half covered by some red drapes that fell on the window and whose bottom even touched the floor, but he could see the outside, and it looked so picturesque, so beautiful. He could see the tiny houses, and even the coliseum in the far end of his view, and it all looked melodic. The houses each managed to cause the rebellion of their light as they slipped through their seemingly small atria and doorways. He had never seen it so close to him, he had at some point, or another seen it in books, and even in very realistic representations but never had he imagined it to be such a magnificent view. He felt confined in his clothes, well, he had not yet been accustomed to them. He was dressed in a silver chest plate that weighed tons upon him, below it he had a short-sleeved, woolen tunicle, one which fell quite softly right above his knee, and below all of that, he had this somewhat rough linen undergarment that fit him tightly. He had his sword sheathed next to his hip, one which he looked at every once in a while, just to see if it was real. “Oh god, what would I do if anyone really tries to attack me, I hadn’t gotten enough time to train with these, and who knows if they are the same I trained with.” He said to himself as perspiration formed on his forehead. There were some other men dressed exactly like him, with their chins facing the ceiling, and he looked at them with great awe, wondering how they managed to keep that pose for so long without breaking their necks or simply going crazy, but he followed them, well he had to follow them, because if not, well if he did not, this story was bound to be repeated but with different characters and perhaps a different sky.
By Christian P. Benottoabout a year ago in Fiction
If Walls Could Talk
“If walls could talk” she muttered to herself as she paced nonplussed around the room, and there stood I. Just staring at her. Only God knows how long I’ve stood here, and only he knows how long I’ve seen her pace around the room. I was of a white color with a slight tint of yellow, I had been painted many times and it always served me well, it was refreshing if one could say so. But now, the abiding paint had long dried out, and what was left of it was reminiscent of that era. I had scrapes and dust, and at places, one could see what remained of the long-forgotten color I had once been painted, I was an old wall indeed. She had lived here for only a few years, and never had she displayed any sort of love for me. She was a beautiful lady, a fine woman. With her brown curls that would fall ever so softly, in such a spectacular manner over her shoulders, she had green eyes, the most beautiful green eyes anyone could have had the pleasure to see. She would’ve taken my breath away, if only I could breathe. Oh, how badly did I want to hug her at times, to whisper something in her ear, but I was just a wall, and if I did manage to sneak a word by, she would’ve not understood it. There was something about her, and her long fingers and perfect skin. But I knew, she was only sojourn here. After prowling around for quite some time, she grew tired of it, and lay on her bed. And there I could see her, she was closer, but I could not utter a word. Her face was filled with melancholy and deception, and there was nothing I could do, but painfully look at her. There were paintings and posters all over her room. Fortunately, I did not have any on me. I would see her at times hiding papers behind the posters, papers which at occasions would bring a smile to her face and would fill my concrete entrails will joy. Her smile was a delightful one too, in those special times I had the opportunity to see her smile slip through her lips, I would wish for me to have been human too. Those papers would be folded so carefully and put with the outer most delicacy behind the posters. And every time her dad would come in, with his prevalent brown moustache, and slicked back hair, always prowling around the room, as if looking for something, she would laugh, his eyes would move to look at her briefly and the turn back as he left, and I would laugh too, even if she couldn’t hear it. In those times the air smelled of fresh wood, and the current of air that would slip through an ajar window would bring this strong smell of mangos, oh the mangos, how much did she love them. From her window I could see the small mango trees they had; I remember when they weren’t there. I remember when all of what there was, was only grass with a few ferns and weeds growing around. The moonlight would accompany me then, before people came, I mean, she was ravishing, and when I got a chance to see her ray of light fall from the skies and balance itself on the corner of the window, I would feel accompanied, though I was always lonesome, her ray of light would make this loneliness of mine a shared one. That was back when the house was being built, and somehow in that very specific turn of events, I appeared, and I’ve been lonely ever since. I remember the first guests, oh they were the most wonderful couple, I still hold them very dear to me. It was an old couple, a man with a long white beard and short hair, his eyebrows were also white, and his eyes were of this deep blue sea color, even though I have never seen the sea, only through descriptions have I been able to think of it as this marvelous, blue, infinite beast, but not in a malicious manner, oh no, the sea is as beautiful as the moon if not more. The man was dressed very elegantly, with a white button up shirt, and black suit pants. He even had a hat on, it was a white hat with a black line crossing right through it. His wife was also very beautiful, she had brown eyes, this deep, almost black brownish color, but when the light would hit her just in the right side, they would turn to this sweet honey color, it was delightful. They came into the room, I remember, they came in holding hands, it was this fierce, feverish, aphrodisiac emotion they both felt, they would look into the eyes of the other with this passion, and sentiment, and they would both smile, though the old man would give in first. They looked at the house with awe, and that was when, for the first time, I felt a warm touch. She had placed her hand on me, it was so warm, it felt so human, it was unlike any other feeling I had once felt. And perhaps she felt it too because after she let go, and stepped back, she said. “This is going to be our home.” To which the old man smiled, and soon after, they left…
By Christian P. Benottoabout a year ago in Families
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