Anha

Australia

dreaming of goddesses, sunflowers and italian sunshine.
yet, every heaven has a hell under its surface.

we long for those we left behind:
SomeFormOfWriting
LackingASocialLife
aryelee

Message to Readers

thinking of writing a follow-up piece for this one; i don't think i'm quite done with dante and antonio yet.

if you enjoyed this piece, comment!! likes tell writers nothing without feedback
reviews very much appreciated

dante's inferno

September 21, 2019

he flourished on a signature capability, the ease of his smile and the twinkle in his eye.

his abuela would pinch his cheeks when he came to visit, strong arms cradling peaches from the gringo's tree; he'd never tell her where he had plucked them, but she savoured the flavour with such open ecstasy that he never considered it a crime. besides, the gringo was old, and the peach tree was hidden from view. how it produced fruit, he had no idea; he barely saw the man leave the house, and never saw him watering the tree however often he peered through his second-story shutters, open newspaper lying abandoned on the fading wooden table.

his nephew delivered the newspaper to his doorstep every day, with his dirt-encrusted fingernails and gap-toothed grin. his eyes creased like a summer breeze, and as soon as he was given his coin and orange juice, he would hop back on his rusting bicycle to continue his rounds. the man would retreat inside his home, with its flaking plaster and creaking beams, and read. his nephew carried less papers in the basket of his bicycle now. less people needed to read to know who had died, who had visited foreign countries, who the next official delegate was. they saw it all on their flickering boxes. crackling waves becoming coherent as the country's new presenters babbled about taxes and the economy and the state of america and--

the doorbell rings and he is flung from his thoughts. he had been staring at the print without seeing it, but the doorbell rang again, insistent, paired with a loud rap of knuckles on his splintering door. he answers it, reading glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt.

it's a gringo.

not the one from next door. younger. he speaks spanish as if it were his mother tongue. perhaps it is. the man nods as the young gringo introduces himself as "antonio". they shake hands and he says, "dante."

antonio is the gringo's nephew, he is told. here to help him since he took a fall in january.

dante didn't know the gringo had a fall.

he didn't know that the gringo's name was carlos.

looking more closely at antonio, he doesn't look like such a gringo after all. he's pale, yes, but not american or scandinavian. maybe a long time ago, but not now. sun-kissed is a cliche term, but the spots tracing his arms and up his neck tell dante that the sun loves him. maybe a little too much.

dante invites him in for coffee. antonio agrees.

they drink and talk and laugh, and a week later, dante realises antonio has a twinkle in his eye too.

the stars always shine above dante's crumbling abode.
the title's a play on words; no, this isn't secretly purgatory. i wouldn't do that to my boys.

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2 Comments
  • rainandsonder

    lovely story, and lovely descriptions. i agree with juliana that in certain places it's a bit confusing, but for the most part that didn't interrupt the flow of the story. your writing style is so enjoyable to read; i don't know how to explain it, but it feels like something you should savor as you're reading it, not something passive or hard to get through.


    6 months ago
  • Juliana

    Nice job! I’d love to write a review if I can find the time, but I’m in the middle of planning my sister’s wedding so we’ll see. I just wanted to say that sometimes it can be confusing as to who is talking. If I can get a review done, I’ll point out exactly where.


    6 months ago