Category Archives: Stories & fanfics

“Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart” Haruki Murakami

<Do you remember when I bought that watermelon chap stick without realizing that it was a tinted lip balm, so I applied it totally random on my mouth? And that when we crossed Stamford Bridge it was a very windy day, so you looked at my messy hair and my smeared red mouth and told me:

-You look like that fat dude with lipstick you love. That singer from that band of grave diggers.

You have to thank your irresistible smile and the way you helped me to wear the lip balm off if I didn’t kill you.>

Reading Proust taught us that the taste of something can evoke lost or hidden memories; those can be triggered by a music, a smell or an object, like a stupid lip balm found in the bathroom drawer. So, before memories start tearing me apart, better move to another part of Fullham and start illustrating something nice you can visit in London if you love football as I do.

My best friend is a huge supporter of Chelsea, so I promised him to take many pics of the Stamford Bridge stadium. To get there you have to hop off at Fullham Broadway station and go ahead on Fullham Road. After a few minutes walking, on the left, within the Moore Park Estate also known as “The Brigde”, you will see the home ground of Chelsea FC.


It was opened in 1877 and has been the venue of many football matches and has also hosted a variety of other sporting events including greyhounds races.

The North stand is named after former Chelsea director Matthew Harding, while the West stand is the first thing you see entering by the gate in Fullham Road since it’s the main external face of the stadium.


There’s a Hall of fame and the statue of Peter Osgood sculpted by Philip Jackson and unveiled in 2010 by his widow Lynn in the presence of his friends and colleagues. He was a very important player and scored more than 150 goals. The inscription says:

Ossie King of Stamford Bridge
Stamford Bridge has many heroes but only one king. Graceful technician nerveless striker. Icon of the swinging sixties. Adored by fans, scorer of immortal cup final goals.
A big man for a golden age.

If you want to have an incredible experience you can book the one hour long tour that will take you behind the scenes of the Blues, giving you access to areas normally reserved for players and officials, like the press room, the home and away dressing rooms, the tunnel and the dug-out areas.

The tour include the entry to the Museum (that can be visited also without taking the tour), giving you the chance to see how Chelsea has evolved on and off the pitch over the years and to see memorabilia and get to know the most representative players.

Don’t forget to visit the shop!

TRACK OF THE DAY: Blue is the colour – Chelsea FC Anthem



“But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself” Albert Camus

I’ve been thinking a lot about suicide lately and that’s positive because the people who can think about it in a lucid and analytic way, are those who will never commit. I made a couple of attempt when I was younger, for problems that, in the end, had a solution, not like now where I’m struggling against an invisible enemy. I’m without a clear diagnosis and a working cure, alone with a new pain or disease everyday. I’m ready to fight, I’m a tough warrior, but I’d like to know what I’m fighting against.

I try to focus on the positive things left in my life (honestly thinking to those who have a worse situation doesn’t work and it also makes me feel guilty), but sometimes pain and deception wins. So I feel tired to ask myself if tomorrow will be a good or a bad day, to cancel plans, can’t be sure of anything, of being called lazy or that it’s everything in my head. Then the dark cloud approaches and I can’t help thinking that my family will be better without me. I feel useful and a waste of time and even if I struggle not to let my disease to define who I am, there’s no doubt it’s silently deleting my life, my positive thoughts, the goals I want to set.

I read an Italian book “La Casa Blu” about the will to find a more decent way to pass over than let people finding you hung somewhere or crashed downstairs. I found this sentence I related to “today I’m too tired to live and to live, hope tomorrow is a better day”

Hope. There’s still hope, even in the darkest situation and I’m going to use it as a rope to escape this well of pain. So, come on girl, put some music on, wear your invisible superhero cape and kick this day in the ass. Remember to turn the pain into power and that tomorrow is JD’s birthday.

Ps. I wrote  a fanfic about love and suicide: its title is “The Reasons Why”, maybe one of my best piece of writing.

TRACK OF THE DAY: The Reasons why- The Cure


“I move the stars for no one” Jareth the Goblin King

Ops I did it again. I won another 1000 characters contest.

I’m really sure that writing music and stories follows the same healing process, that those two arts are complementary and inseparable. I can’t write without music, I can’t listen to a song I love, without imagining a story.

The theme was “Labyrinth” and the first  thing that came on my mind was the movie with David Bowie; creating an omage to the White Duke was inevitable.

Here is my story, in Italian first, in English then.


Ziggy amava le canzoni di Bowie: se ne sentiva una si attaccava alle sbarre della gabbia muovendosi a tempo. Era sveglio, ogni volta che lo mettevo in un labirinto, non si appiattiva atterrito come gli altri, ma si ingegnava a venirne fuori, trovando l’uscita o l’esca in pochi minuti, quindi scelsi lui per affrontare il dedalo acquatico. Lo immersi nel liquido lattiginoso con delicatezza, dalla coda, facendogli guardare il bordo per non influenzarlo sulla direzione da prendere. In breve tempo riuscì a individuare la piattaforma di uscita che era nascosta pochi millimetri sotto il pelo dell’acqua.

Corsi a comunicare i risultati al Dottor Hog.

-Ziggy ha completato il labirinto di Morris in 15 secondi!

-Ziggy? N°9! Ci siamo messi a dare i nomi ai topi da laboratorio, adesso?

Fu allora che capii che la scienza non faceva per me: appesi il camice al chiodo e portai via Ziggy.

Ci trovate a Leicester Square, basta seguire la musica. Danzeremo per voi per qualche moneta o anche solo per un sorriso.

Ziggy loved Bowie songs: when he listened to one, he clung to the bars of the cage and moved in time. He was smart, every time I put him in a maze, he didn’t flattened terrified as the others, but he did his best to get out, finding the exit or the bait in a few minutes, so I chose him to face the water maze. I immersed him gently in the milky liquid, from the tail, making him look at the border for no influencing him on the direction to take. In a short time he managed to locate the exit platform that was hidden a few millimeters below the water surface.
I ran to communicate the results to Dr. Hog.
-Ziggy completed the Morris’ maze in 15 seconds!
-Ziggy? Number 9! Have we started giving lab rats names, now?
It was then that I realized that science was not for me: I hung the lab coat to a nail and took away Ziggy.
You will find us in Leicester Square, just follow the music. We will dance for you for a few coins or just for a smile.

“Every girl pretends she is a Princess at one point, no matter how little her life is like that”Alex Flinn

So, finally I got to win one of those 1000 characters contests and I was really proud of myself because the attendants are experienced people who publish books or work in the editorial sphere.

What’s ironical is that the theme was “Moments of happiness” and since I don’t believe in happiness, I wrote a sad short story.

Here it is, first in Italian, then in its English translation.


Alzo il volume della musica per non sentire le offese e abbasso lo sguardo per non vedere chi mi insulta; in classe qualcuno lancia sul mio banco un bigliettino con scritto “stramboide”, mi raggomitolo nella felpa oversize sperando che almeno i professori mi lascino in pace.

Una volta a casa, l’appartamento risponde col silenzio ad un buongiorno non dato: è tutto buio, c’è odore di chiuso, fumo e piatti sporchi; mio padre forse dorme sempre o magari è già al bar.

Mi chiudo in camera, faccio sciogliere la pasticca sotto la lingua e aspetto che la luce torni ad illuminare le stanze. Posso sentire di nuovo il profumo del minestrone della mamma e la risata del piccolo Mattia; papà adesso ha un buon odore di colonia e indossa la cravatta con i ferri di cavallo che gli ho regalato a Natale. Gli mostro la pagella e lui esclama orgoglioso:

“Brava, principessa!”

Poi mi accarezza il viso, io sorrido e continuo a farlo finché l’oscurità non si prende anche quegli attimi di felicità artificiale.


I turn up the volume of the music to not hear the insults and I look down to avoid seeing who’s sending them against me; in class someone throws on my desk a note that says “weirdo”, I curl up in my oversized sweatshirt hoping that at least the teachers will leave me alone.
Once home, the apartment responds with silence to an ungiven good morning: it’s dark, it smells of musty, smoke and dirty dishes; my father is sleeping as usual or perhaps he is already in the bar.
I lock myself in the room, I dissolve the tablet under the tongue and wait for the light to return to illuminate the rooms. I can feel again the smell of my mother soup and little Mattia’s laughter; dad now smells nicely of cologne and he wears the tie with the horseshoes I gave him for Christmas. I show him the report card and he exclaims proudly:
“Brava, Princess!”
Then he caresses my face, I smile and I continue to do it until darkness steals even those moments of artificial happiness.

TRACK OF THE DAY: Ordinary Day- Dolores O’Riordan


“Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy Anne Frank”

Writing has always saved me, it’s the bubble in which I hide from the world, the way I express what I cannot or don’t want to say, the way I get distracted. This time for the literary contest of 1000 characters, we had to write a story inspired by a painting by Edward Hopper that depicted a staircase and a door. The first thing that came to my mind was the secret hideout of Anne Frank, and for the first time I went out of my comfort zone and I wrote something absolutely foreign to my experience, although Anne was my model when I was a teenager, as Jo March was when I was a child.

I didn’t win by one vote, but the satisfaction of seeing my work on the top of the list, among the three that I liked more, it was gratifying. Enjoy it, in English first, then in Italian.

Prinsengracht 263
Miep had not been to Prinsengracht since the soldiers had unhinged the movable bookcase discovering the series of steps leading to the upper floor.
She looked at the staircase frightened: it seemed gloomy and hostile, yet it was the same one she had used many times to bring her friends some news, food, once even red shoes for the young Anne who with her
“It’s Miep”, was always the first to break the tense silence that created when someone opened the plain wooden door.
She began to climb, she trembled, and she had to hold on to the wooden handrail for support. She reached the top, she turned the gold knob and went in: no joyful voice announced it, no one came up to greet her.
She picked up a book from the floor and stood in the doorway staring at the messy room, the overturned chairs, the plates shattered as the hopes of Anne who despite living as a recluse, was able to think of the beauty that still remained in the world .

Prinsengracht 263
Miep non era più stata a Prinsengracht da quando i soldati avevano scardinato la libreria girevole scoprendo la serie di gradini che conduceva al piano superiore.
Guardò intimorita la scala: le sembrò tetra e ostile, eppure era la stessa che aveva usato molte volte per portare agli amici notizie, viveri, una volta persino delle scarpe rosse per la giovane Anne che con il suo
“È Miep”, era sempre la prima a rompere il silenzio carico di tensione che si creava quando qualcuno apriva quella porta di legno chiaro.
Iniziò a salire, tremava, tanto che dovette reggersi al corrimano di legno per non cadere. Arrivò in cima, girò il pomello dorato ed entrò: nessuna voce festosa l’annunciò, nessuno le venne incontro per salutarla.
Raccolse un quaderno da terra e rimase sulla soglia a fissare la stanza in disordine, le sedie rovesciate, i piatti andati in frantumi come le speranze di Anne che, nonostante la vita da reclusa, riusciva a pensare alla bellezza che ancora rimaneva nel mondo.



“Never love anybody who treats you like you’re ordinary” Oscar Wilde

The topic of the literary context of this week was Speaking in music” and what better way to explain that than the story of a musicianwriter’s encounter? Because as I’ve already written, I find extraordinary that love could be immortalized, just by putting it into a story or a song. The feeling will eventually end, people will broke up or die, but what they had for each other will be eternal.
Unfortunately I’m a not very good writer, due either to the limit of a thousand characters, or to the fact that, given to so much reading and writing fan fiction, I just have a lot of theory, but little practice, the story wasn’t not able to convey everything I wanted.
But I put it here anyway. I titled it Yellow” as Coldplay’s song, the first one that has been played for me.


“-Do you know that if a musician falls for you, you will live forever?
A phrase told as a joke, but it was the key that allowed me to really understand your song. I found in the text of our conversations, the ones that go on until 4 in the morning, the pace is slow as the hugs that we find it hard to dissolve, the melody is as pleasant as those kisses on the cheek approaching dangerously to lips.
We’re in your studio: I scribble in my notebook waiting for the right inspiration, you’re playing the guitar; occasionally you take a break to write down something, or to see what I’m doing, but your cheeks inflames and your eyes lower when they meet mine. I smile: I never thought of being your own Michelle; I look at you one last time, then the pen slides on the paper having fun to make you step into the shoes of the protagonist of this story making you immortal as well because, you know, a writer fell in love with you”


“-Sai che se un musicista si innamora di te, vivrai per sempre?
Una frase detta scherzando, eppure è stata la chiave di lettura che mi ha permesso di capire davvero la tua canzone. Ho ritrovato nel testo le nostre conversazioni, quelle che si protraggono fino alle 4 del mattino, il ritmo è lento come gli abbracci che facciamo fatica a sciogliere, la melodia piacevole quanto quei baci sulla guancia che si avvicinano pericolosamente alle labbra.
Siamo nel tuo studio: scarabocchio sul mio quaderno in attesa della giusta ispirazione, tu stai suonando la chitarra; ogni tanto fai una pausa per annotare qualcosa, oppure per vedere cosa faccio, ma le tue guance s’infiammano e i tuoi occhi si abbassano se incontrano i miei. Sorrido: non avrei mai immaginato di essere la tua Michelle; ti guardo un’ultima volta, poi la penna scorre sul foglio divertendosi a farti indossare i panni del protagonista di questo racconto rendendoti, così, immortale perché, sai, hai fatto innamorare una scrittrice”

TRACK OF THE DAY: Yellow-Coldplay


“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction” Virginia Woolf

Random thoughts …

I’m desperately trying to earn some money with translations because the first point of my 2016 bucket list is quite ambitious: LA.

I’m still looking on the wrong side when I cross the road, I suffer from perpetual jet lag and I’d love to have a decompression chamber to pass unscathed by the vision of JD & friends in the hot tub to the endless controversy about lice, something that leds me gently from a visit the grand Canyon to the schoolyard.

I try to overcome this through reading and writing. I keep myself busy with short essays for contests on Facebook where the greatest pleasure is given by reading other people’s works and a new fanfiction perfectly outlined in my head, but that is hard to come out as if I were afraid of soiling my memories with words, it’s at times like this that I wish I had the inspiration and the creative abilities of my musician friends!

Probably I’ll never be a Michelle or Rosanna and JD doesn’t run the risk of being remembered as the new Mr.Darcy, but I like the idea that if a writer or musician fall in love with you, you will live forever.