#35: The minotaurs in blue
Your monthly microfiction and Fernando Pessoa art :)
It’s the last day of the month, so you know what that means: bite-sized fiction and art! This month is all about Fernando Pessoa, our resident weirdo who I’m maybe a little too invested in these days.
Today we’ll…
💌 reveal the voting results for this month’s prompt and next month’s historical topic,
💌 read some bite-sized fiction,
💌 peep the art I made my paid subscribers/patrons this month,
💌 and dish about monthly creative news.
🗳 The votes are in
Patrons and subscribers voted for this month’s postcard-fiction prompt:
Action: hemming and hawing
Word: minotaur
Inspiration: the heteronyms of Fernando Pessoa
Like always, the story pairs with this month’s article, so read this first (if you haven’t) to get the full context:
🥃 The story - The minotaurs in blue
Here’s the postcard I wrote on:
Here’s the back:
Aaaaand here’s the transcription:
Fernando sits at his desk overlooking Rua Coelho da Rocha, throat the kind of dry that only a glass of port can cure. A Brasileira is thirty minutes away, a nice stroll for a May afternoon. The words of Alvaro de Campos already flutter against Fernando’s skull, searching for an exit. A Brasileira’s mahogany quiet – and their booze – always help the words find their way out. But besides his fingers twisting the leather string closure of his folio, Fernando hasn’t moved.
Moments ago, the city below was humming with shoppers and couples reveling in the sun. But as abruptly as a cloud sweeping over the sky and plunging the street into shadow, they all disappeared into homes and shops along the rua, leaving the cobblestone sidewalks standing empty.
The military is coming.
But Fernando is thirsty. He drums his hand against his folio, deliberating. His heart and brain are plump with the brooding of Alvaro de Campos, and if he doesn’t get the writing out, some part of him will burst, he’s sure. Fernando half stands, as if he’ll head to the bar after all and brave the stillness gripping the street. But he stays poised above his chair, not quite rising. The silence below, Fernando knows by now, means fascist boots stomping past any minute, like a procession of minotaurs crashing through Lisbon to rip apart passerby in a sacrifice to the cause.
A crack sounds on the street, distant. A car backfiring, perhaps.
Fernando sinks back into the chair, drumming his fingers on his folio. Not that he cares for politics one way or another, but maybe A Brasileira can wait.
But God, his throat – the port at home is too sweet, and a half hour walk surely never killed anyone…
Another pop, closer now. Not a car, then. A man across the way creeps out of the baker’s, clutching a loaf of bread to his chest. Fernando keeps tap, tap, tapping against his folio. It’s cool to the touch. Campos, Fernando knows now, will pen a letter to Mr. Ricardo Reis.
Outside, someone shouts. Fernando shoots up and leans across his desk, pressing his cheek against the window pane to peer down the far end of the street. He grips his folio so tight a leather edge furls. Soldiers round the corner in lockstep, the sun on their polished boots blinding. The man holding the bread scuttles back into the bakery. A soldier shoots his gun into the sky because he can and Fernando winces back against his curtains. As the soldiers pass beneath his window, even the wind seems to hold its breath. Fernando relinquishes his grip on his folio, stepping away from the desk.
No, he doesn’t need the bar today; the port in his kitchen will suffice.
✒️ Your turn!
Now’s my favorite part: you write a short story yourself (500 words or less) using the prompts above, then share it with me when you’re done. You can reply to this email, post it in the comments, or call me on video chat and sing me the whole thing.
(As always, if you’re feeling stuck getting started, here’s an article I wrote on microfiction fundamentals.)
😈 Next month’s theme
Fernando Pessoa was such a character, choosing one topic for him was impossible. For the first time ~ever~, we’re doing a round two on the same person. In April I’ll tell you all about…
😈 The time Fernando Pessoa helped Aleister Crowley fake his own dang death 😈
This is going to be a fun one, so buckle the frick up.
🥸 A month in postcard art
In keeping with the theme, this month I made seven different versions of Pessoa himself, using lines from The Book of Disquiet to draw his face :).
Each one is a little different and has vintage stamps and snippings from a 1980s French/English dictionary that I found in a Boîte à Lire here.
🌍 Updates in my creative world
I'm in the querying trenches with my novel! Wish me luck. So far I’ve only written to six agents, a number I hope to double next week. I’m focusing on drafting good and tailored query letters, since you just get the one shot.
Rhody and I are playing a show next month! It is so exciting to get on that horse and go for a ride in France. We’re getting a cool-ass loop pedal soon so our live songs can have all the fun weird sounds as our recorded versions.
I’ve been obsessed with home design as art. Obsessed. Here’s a mirror frame I sculpted out of plaster:
That’s all, folks. If you had a hoot (can fiction about fascism be a hoot?) this month, refer some friendos so you can vote for free on next month’s prompts!
All my love and stamps into oblivion,
Nikita, your Snail Mail Sweetheart