Humberto Da Silva
Bio
Worker. Warrior. Witness. Prosaically Poetic.
Stories (4/0)
Oceanside Suite
Perfect ocean side suite: a walkout to the beach. Nice patch of manicured grass for my morning sun salutations, then an epic keto buffet breakfast. The view of the sea when I throw open the night blinds a pristine panorama of literal aquamarine. Distant container ships the only reminder of the world out there, but other than kite surfers overflying the beach and hot shot lifeguard on a jet ski, there is nothing jarring to derail my asana(e). Doves, sparrows, and surf the only complements to my playlist of yoga friendly acid jazz blue-toothed to my B&O speaker. It was worth every hour spent online lining this shit up.
By Humberto Da Silva2 years ago in Fiction
Factory Planet
“They’ll stop, right Daddy ? They won’t come to Corvo or to our house, right Daddy?” I cycled though all the lies I might tell Nelson, my seven year old son, hoping I still might find something believable and comforting. We could see the gargantuan excavation machines, each bigger than the supertankers that used to pass carrying oil across oceans. We stood on the edge of Caldeirão and saw them on neighbouring Flores island not twenty five kilometres across Atlantic. We heard them now too, over the Atlantic roar.
By Humberto Da Silva3 years ago in Futurism
In Vino Verisimilitude
“Savannah !” I called as I saw her enter the patio from the street. I made an effort to say her name in the perfect timbre; happy recognition, a little bit excited, but not overly so. I recognized her from the dress. She’d said she would be wearing a summer dress with big red flowers on a black background. She also wore a floppy brimmed summer hat with a ribbon that matched her dress. I couldn’t immediately make her out from pure facial recognition because of the hat, but i couldn’t miss her chosen semiotic; dark and exotic. For a moment I worried that the hat might conceal that she was much older than her profile pictures, a common sleight in modern romance known as 'catfishing'. But when she was closer I saw that she more than did her pix justice. And I liked that she had dressed up. The beauty of going around a second time in your forties is that you know what you like. I myself had spent hours considering the raw silk trousers, pale blue linen shirt, and brown suede driving loafers I wore. I had agonized about a sport jacket, but finally decided against it because of the heat. It might be too much and I might sweat too much.
By Humberto Da Silva3 years ago in Confessions
The Germinator
I preferred working the back of the aircraft. At flight’s end I didn’t have to buh-bye 250 times and could just walk up the aisle looking for magazines and stuff. A lost and found check before the cleaners came on was part of the flight attendant job. But mostly I just did it for magazines.
By Humberto Da Silva3 years ago in Futurism