My Stories

My works in English



The fate of Emily’s family is sealed forever when the woman wakes up suddenly and walks out of her the house, driven by a cry spreading through the darkness of the night as a mysterious and ancient nameless being wanders the streets of an anonymous little city, leaving in his wake a trail of blood and bones in order to satisfy his inextinguishable thirst.

Human beings are nothing but pawns trapped in the cobweb of his games, their appearances nothing more than the masks behind which he hides.

A downward spiral of grotesque violence and blood in a gory paranormal black comedy in which evil could wear your face and the point of view from which you observe the unraveling of the story is the scornful, cynical one of the villain.

 -My  black-comedy mistery novella "Blood and Bones" is available on:





She opened her eyes slowly and raised herself up to seat; everything was shrouded in a deep darkness that engulfed shapes and colors.

She heard it once more, the noise that had awakened her: a feeble cry, a whimper that fought to drown the silence of the night.

A cat. She told herself that it was certainly the meow of a cat.

Yet it seemed… yes, it was more like someone was sobbing.

Emily pushed the covers away, being careful not to wake her husband, and rose from the bed; her mind was still clouded by sleep.

“The little one…” she thought and she ran toward her youngest daughter’s room, but no noise came from there beside the regular rhythm of the little girl’s breathing. She started back toward the master bedroom, but she heard it again, more distinctly. Someone was crying, there was no doubt.

She hastily grabbed the robe flung on the chair and, crossing the dark hall, she reached the window that overlooked the street and gazed downward.

A small figure was standing in the middle of the avenue.

Without thinking, she ran down the stairs and she threw open the door; her mother’s instinct had completely taken over. «Good God» she muttered.

In front of her house stood a little girl not more than five-year old; she was wearing a small, white nightgown, her little feet were bare and the chubby oval of her face was covered in glistening tears.

«I’m scared. Help me!» implored the little one, frantically waving her small arms.

«Oh, you poor dear! Are you lost, honey?», Emily was still halfway through her question when she started to lean forward to gather the child in her arms.

«I want my mommy!»

«Oh, don’t worry! We’ll find her. You must have walked in your sleep…»

«Mommy! I want my mommy!» whined the kiddy.

«I know, dear. We’ll find her. You probably live nearby, don’t you?» 

The little girl nodded and lifted a chunky finger to point at an alley.

«Is your home that way? There, there… don’t cry! I’m going to bring you back to your mommy right away» Emily cooed, closing the door behind her. She clutched her robe to her chest and took the child in her arms, walking toward the indicated direction.

The moment she was beyond the alley’s mouth, she felt the pressure of the kid’s arms around her neck increase.

«Ho-honey, you’re squee… squeezing too much!»

«Oh, I’m sorry!» uttered the child, laughing against Emily’s ear. «Is this better?» she asked,  reinforcing her grip further. One more time a grin curled her tiny lips.

«Ah! Wh-what? Stop…», Emily tried to talk again, but she was out of breath. She strained her arms over the child’s back in an effort to pry her away, but the iron-like vise of those little legs and arms was more unyielding than ever.

«Let… g-go of me! I… can’t… brea…the!» moaned the woman; now the feet of the little girl were jabbing in her hips like sharp thorns. She bent forward, trying to make the child slide off, but there was no way she could tear her from her body.

The little one, shorter than three feet and with the approximate weight of just thirty-three lbs., had subjugated her and now was dragging her in the dark, away from the faint pool of light created by the street lamp.

Emily was too distraught to weep, but an intense stab of pain made her expel a piercing scream; the child had shoved her nails in the woman’s throat that now was dripping blood.

She started to lose consciousness, while her complexion changed from bright red to ashen white. A shove that she didn’t see coming threw her against the cold, dank ground.

«I forgot to introduce myself» apologized the little girl mockingly; an evil glint danced in her glacial eyes, there was nothing human left in them. «My name is Death now, but if you care to know… before everybody knew me as Shelly», she went on, licking her blood-stained fingers.

Emily was horrified as she let out another cry, but the child silenced her with another darting kick.

«Don’t» directed the child, shaking her index. «It’s better if you don’t do that again» she added, bending over her and grabbing her by the shoulders.

«Please…» begged the woman, blood gushing from her trembling mouth.

The child lifted her up with strength that a body as small as hers couldn’t ever have contained in normal circumstances, and opened her mouth wide. Her tiny deciduous teeth had been replaced by two rows of snowy pointed fangs, worthy of a wild beast, they sprung from her lips and shredded face like jagged bear-traps. The hooked overbite, shimmering with drool, had widened the edges of the small mouth making its way through the tattered skin of the cheeks. 

The eyes of the woman were wide open for the fright, her body continued to rebel, refusing to surrender to such an end.

The child’s hands snapped forward grabbing her neck, twisting it to the side with a blunt tug, then what once was a mouth rested near her jugular and Emily felt something cold and wet against her skin.

Her eyes flew open again and in a nebulous picture she saw the little girl’s tongue lap at the droplets of blood that were marking her neck.

The child pulled her head back and then effortlessly sank her sharp fangs in the tender skin, just like razors in a pat of butter; the woman felt like a thousand shards of glass were piercing her throat, she started to fight again, but that Thing’s arms weighted on her shoulders like iron bars, preventing her from freeing herself. She felt all of her strength leaving her body and the beat of her heart, until then so very fast, started to slow down; once more she glanced pleadingly to the child, but what she beheld left her petrified and froze the little blood that was still running through her veins: the little girl’s face was melting into a jumbled mass, like liquefied wax. Her little eyes had begun to stretch, flattening and dilating and were gradually losing their azure coloring, red suffusing them.


“The blood is the life!

Isn’t it?

In which movie did I hear this, Dracula?

Most of the things you hear in movies are crap: this one is not.

 The Blood is truly the life and because of that, it is in the blood that the soul wallows.”

A problem with authority figures, an awful temper and a marked propensity for cursing certainly  are not features that  would push you to give heed to someone, but you are bound to make an exception, there is simply too much at stake.

The mysterious and immortal narrator of this story has all of those flaws  and he has something important to tell you. Will you listen to him?

Will you open to that somebody when, least expected, he comes knocking on your door or will you save your soul?

Is he really sharing the story of his life with you or is he lying to you?

Come sneak a peek  through  the door and choose what to believe.

 -My  black comedy novella "Knocks on your door" is available on:




I am the last one left and if you are thinking of the immortals from the Highlander movie, you’re off the track.

Then you must be asking yourself who am I and why the hell I’m wasting your time.

I don’t want to answer these questions yet, but good for you if you want to keep reading on (and for me, ‘cause that would mean I won’t be an idiot talking to himself!).

I want to tell you my story and… no: I’m not doing it because of some delusional diva complex.

What I want is to help you.

Like I said, I’m the last one standing. Let’s keep it that way, I don’t want anybody’s company in this damn crap.

If you are some mushy wimps,  just forget about this; if you want some cheesy story go place yourself in front of the TV and watch a soap. What I have to tell you, has nothing to do with sweet nothings and stuff like that.

Good… are you still with me?

If that’s the case, I’ll say enough with the preambles: there’s no point in beating about the bush. I’m a very busy man, you can’t begin to imagine how much. When I will finally tell you what is it that I do, you will understand why.

They were the unique -and thankfully long gone- eighties, women went around in mini skirt so short that you could see miles and miles of legs and sported fluffy back-combed hair that looked like multi-storey swallows nests, and I was your average nobody like many others. One of those men you would not have looked at twice in a crowded place. Really, there was nothing special about me.

Mine, was the typical Yankee life that you see in boring movies -at least the part of my life that I knew about-. I had a fifteen years long marriage, lived in a white picket fenced house with a bright green lawn in a sleepy and perpetually sunny neighborhood of Los Angeles. There were the inevitable always smiling hypocritical neighbors that now make me think of defective clones of Ned Flanders -you know?  From “The Simpsons”…-, a large slobbering Saint Bernard dog whom, inexplicably for me, was the love of my then fourteen years old daughter’s life, the Bowling Friday with my friends,  the fucking unbearable fairs and clearance sales at which my wife couldn’t stop to dragging me when I was around, and so on.

In short, I had the whole package, you know what I mean.

Back then, I was a cop and when I had my badge on and my .45 Glock in the holster I wasn’t a nobody anymore.

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