Im Not Pregnant But My Cervix Is Hard And Low

A Christmas

Cara maestra ,

fuori nevica, è tutto bianco. I tetti delle case, i prati dei giardini, i marciapiedi, i lampioni, tutto è coperto dalla neve. Ti svelo un segreto, cara maestra, la neve non sa di niente. L’ho mangiata, sai, poco fa, mentre la guardavo scendere dal cielo con il naso all’insù. Tra un po’ di giorni è Natale e dappertutto ci sono luci accese e alberi decorati. Davanti a casa mia c'è un Babbo Natale che si arrampica su un albergo, con il vento si sposta sempre, sulle spalle ha un sacco grande, tutto coperto dalla neve anche quello. La mamma mi ha detto che quest’anno il regalo per te lo faccio io. Non serve niente, mi ha detto, solo la mia fantasia. Così ora sono qui, cara maestra, fingers smeared with color, glitter and glue on my pants stuck to the sleeves of the shirt to make my gift to you. I'm not so good, but I like the same. The golden thread that gave me my mother, I've attached a bit 'wrong. Do not get angry, right? I like it to be the best gift, that's what I'm doing. You are good to me, and patient. You know, dear master, my mom tells me often when she was a child, tells me that his teacher was the most delicious of all, always kind and gentle with her. I smile at her, dear teacher, because I see her happy. The eyes light up when I talk about school, I mean it. Do not you ever say that, for me, the most delicious of all sei tu, che un’altra maestra come la mia non c’è mica nel resto del mondo. Lo tengo dentro, questo mio piccolo pensiero. Così adesso mi impegno un po’ di più, cerco di non fare pasticci, coloro bene dentro ai bordi e ti regalo la mia pallina. Spero che ti piaccia, che tu la metta sul tuo albero, in un angolino speciale. Non davanti, dove tutti la vedono, ma un po’ nascosta, dove solo tu la guardi e sai che te l’ho regalata io. Sai, cara maestra, la mamma mi ha detto che la mamma di un mio compagno ha fatto il panettone, lo ha cucinato lei, sai. E’ brava, quella mamma, li fa buoni i dolci. Te lo dico perché al compleanno del mio amico la sua mamma ha fatto la torta al cioccolato, ed era proprio good, I like it.

Now I greet you, dear teacher, and I say Merry Christmas!

One of your children in second grade.

Barbara Greggio

V Ideos De Quinseaneras

"The lights in the houses of others," Clare Gamberale

This review was written for "The Novel" and there has already been published.

The lights in the houses of others are family secrets, forbidden actions, words unsaid. The shadow that envelops the individual lights of a look unusual, strange and yet close. We all live in the dark about something that concerns us. The evocative title and soft cover affect the first approach I have with this novel. Follow your instincts, I let myself be guided by the positive feelings that keep it in my hands gives me. The expectation is high. The first pages run a bit 'slow, the rest need to know the players, understand their habits, peek into their past. Words walking down the stairs of a building of five floors, plus an ex-wash the sixth. Five families, more or less traditional, mixed moods and squabbles in endless meetings, discussed with deep feeling. A little girl, lost his mother and unaware of his father, slips in the homes of others, including the availability of their lives. Almond, this is its name, is the daughter of Mary, the administrator of the condominium Poggio Ameno, via Perfect Cave 315. His mother died riding his scooter in a road accident. The little passes like that, two years in two years, from one floor to another, from one family to another. It is at this point, at the exact moment in which the endless meetings in the former laundry decreed the fate of almonds, which I have the feeling of reading a fairy tale. Modern but not too much. As every fairy tale there are stereotypes that you respect the narration, predictable and clean. The old teacher, unmarried and without suffering. The wife in his career, lawyer, dreamer and her husband, film director and a little unspoken 'failed. A gay couple who, of course, takes part in gay pride parade and attended Candy Candy's friend Trans whose name is Alfred. An engaged couple, Lydia and Lorenzo, her radio host talkative and misunderstood, he famous author, abstract, detached and cynical. And finally, the model family, father, mother, two children - male and female. The Barilla, Mulino Bianco type. The writing is markedly adolescent with a slang that often turns into acronyms, an all ADME (More of my age). The vicissitudes are classic. Almond madly in love Matthew (Barilla), he loves Eva (the most beautiful of the class), Almond then gets engaged to Palomo (as Eduardo, the star of "Wild at Heart") and drags her into a vortex of emotional and misadventures materials. The idea, however, is very good. A child who is adopted by an entire apartment building because none of the possible fathers have the courage to come forward. I wish your daddy was an astronaut walking on the moon, but always thinks of us, and not a man who lives on a Perfect Cave 315 and one evening in March, perhaps out of boredom, perhaps out of curiosity, in the former laundry of the sixth floor he made love to me. Maria writes to her little almond newborn. So begins a tale, with the rules and trappings that every story must have. Two or three inconsistencies, although noticeable, they pass away to read. The final Porcomondo! , leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Because everyone loved Mary, but she loved one. And then, one evening in March, there were no boredom and curiosity. It all began with a letter, pin focal entire narrative, and only the last page to find out that in reality - maybe - this letter was a little tricky to weave the plot later.

Barbara Greggio.

Bump Below Lip Piercing

And now the silence.

mourn the death of a daughter, not even knowing how she died. If you really died. The newspapers of static

crystallize the hours spent combing the fields, woods, the foundations of a ferruginous damn yard. Dogs sniff pieces of grass, the rain alternating with snow a season cold and wet.

investigations revolve around a Moroccan in his early twenties, first intercepted and arrested later. The prosecution is the most serious murder and concealment of a corpse.

The young gymnast from the physical dry and sincere smile, is now just a corpse to look nell'andro dark of a forest, or in the fresh shoots of a heavy concrete.

The girl who left behind a vacuum, an absence that weighs more edgy as the boulder on the hearts of his parents, has vanished into the pixels of a photo. The

seek and do not find it, seek it too much - too much respect to the blond girl who passed away in the warmth of a family frozen unknown. They had names assonant, someone writes, they were similar in age, now they share the same, sad, doom.

They were not the same person, yet we must necessarily find things in common, to increase the pathos of the audience and drag the line to high mountain peaks and flattering. Which may be flattering

chop in the pain of a family and cough him back stuffed with unnecessary assumptions and conspiracy? What spirit animates commentators, journalists, lawyers, criminologists and experts, sitting comfortably on chairs in leather, ready to take accusations and defenses?

Two girls were killed. One for sure, the other is supposed to but they do not have certainty.

Two mothers and two fathers cry on childhood and adolescence when stored in flower two daughters too young to be broken, too fragile to be destroyed.

we never hear about them. Their young lives are built on television programs, newspaper columns, torchlight and fundraisers. She rubs the intimacy of their thoughts, we publish the contents of their diaries, they fill the streets for their smiling faces.

If the first had been found immediately, he could enjoy the last caress of his mother. If the second is now, perhaps it would be still alive, or maybe not. Sure, she would have that last hug that would allow it to be untied dall'angheria outrage done to her, perhaps would again be a child crying, looking for her mother, who is afraid and no longer wants to sleep in the dark end of some bare land alone in the cold.

It's easy to write about this or that, to take the side of a murderess murderess who perhaps is not, or perhaps of an innocent killed.

Why no one takes the side of victims? Why not be silent, and she feels the need to scream his own reasons, reasons that are not?

You do rankings based on research on the deployment of volunteers, morbidity of the media.

No, they are not the same person. Assonant not have names. They are not interchangeable.

Sono due ragazze strappate alla vita. Altro non si può aggiungere.

La prima ha fatto in modo che la seconda ricevesse maggiore attenzione, che l'ignavia che spesso circonda l'esistenza umana si sciogliesse nel desiderio di non veder più nessuna vita oltraggiata e calpestata.

Piangere ora, però, che la certezza ancora non c'è, che si fanno i conti con un indagato che non confessa, con un corpo che non si trova, è irrispettoso. Perché nessuno di noi conosceva quella ragazza, nessuno di quelli che ora condividono foto e parole su angeli e cieli amava quella ragazza, nessuno di chi scrive - me compresa - ha il diritto di piangerla. Il dolore della sua famiglia non può essere condiviso su una piazza virtual, or on a sheet of canvas daubed with spray from a can.

For once, at least, we try to keep quiet.

Barbara Greggio.