Olivia Maciel

Three women survive. One hides in a bedroom of a house, sharpening blades in the bathroom, her night. Another disinfects the cloth her older sister contaminates. The third, more tender and insecure, proud and serene, takes her first steps, surrounded by palm trees, lemon trees, pomegranate trees, bougainvilleas, birds of paradise...

Did you know there were hundreds of little night moths crowded against the window pane to catch a glimmer of light? It was the scent of a strange perfume, from fallen cocoons, sticky sincerity that made them flee. In this world of protected ruins, in this circular world where people tell and re-tell the same stories, in this world where people forgot that the dyke wouldn't be massive enough to hold back the sea swell; in this world where each and every one would flee in panic in the end; even the old lady sold spun silver birds while she whispered... The tiny, translucent and elegant night moths like freshly picked pumpkin seeds crowded in the corner of that half-open window clinging to the cold glass, light eager, while the vapor filled the room reaching the nostrils of colleagues who didn't recognize each other but intertwining their fingers, waited for someone else's words to atone and explain and bestow meaning to words.

The plump lemon, the spoon's metal cuts off the shadow, the bursting overflow of pleasure, the dark night of the shriek, a nameless fire in the street, some blackened breadcrumbs...