Antonio Cappiello - Where Feathers Fall (First 2 Chapters)
"I thank Christine Noels for the wonderful love she gave during the translation of
this book, and for her unlimited strength and passion as she walked next to me
along this path.
I thank my family, who respect and support me with all the love that any son could
wish for from his parents.
And I am thankful for love and hope and the inspiration that allows me to feel magic
in every hour, every minute and every second of my life."
WHERE FEATHERS FALL
by Antonio Cappiello
The fresh morning grass declares a day of peace and serenity. Between the branches
overhead, the wind blows the spring leaves, lush with anticipation... Through these
images I see only her... nightmares at night, daydreams when I wake...
About three years ago I moved with my family to a small village called Soul River.
It's not exactly the kind of place where anyone wants to live. It's slow and boring with
nothing much to capture your attention...but then again, sometimes boredom kindles
magic, sparking it to life...
Our house is pretty big - the kind of house that draws your attention when you walk
down the street. It's built like something out of a painting from the '40s - proud and
strong. The floor of the wooden porch creaks when I walk on it. At first it was rather
disturbing - as if someone was mimicking my every movement or was watching me
from the shadows, but after years of living with it, it's become almost reassuring. When
I lose myself in my thoughts, the familiar creaks remind me that I am home...even if
that doesn't necessarily mean I feel safe.
A huge wild meadow surrounds the house and along its perimeter are occasional tufts
of grass. From the outside, the house looks abandoned - mostly because the garden is
no longer tended like it was a few years ago. My father used to take care of it but since
he divorced my mother, he just immerses himself in work and projects that he'll never
finish. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows where he is or what he's doing anymore...
I think the thing I like most about the property is the small wooden pier that juts out
into the waters of Lake Grey. I love to walk to its edge, then sit and wait for the sun to
set so I can watch each day's light paint a different picture in nature's immensity.
Next to the pier is a very dear friend, who in these last three years has been a
faithful companion. It's a small rowboat constructed of beechwood, that has been
consumed by time and the continuous pounding of water against its sides. I keep it
anchored to its home - always tied to the sturdiest part of the dock, safe from the fury
of the lake on stormy days. The first day I arrived in Soul River it caught my attention;
sitting down in it was the the first thing I did. It's as if we forged a special bond that's
hard to describe - like when you meet a person for the first time and inexplicably start
talking and talking, continuing unabated as if you've known each other for years and
years. The more you talk, the more there is to say. With her, it's the same.
On the nights when my parents fought, I'd run through the garden to reach the dock
as quickly as possible. Driven by the pale wake of the moon, I'd row off into the silence
of the water, following the trembling, almost fearful reflection on the lake's surface. It
would guide me to a calmer, safer place where no one could find me - where I could
Often I'd find three or four feathers stowed away on-board, as if they too wanted to
escape, wanted to feel freedom by not only taking flight but by navigating through
waters rippled by memories.
BEHIND THE LEAVES
"Devon, come to the table now!" His mother yelled again. He knew it drove her
crazy that for some absurd reason he always wanted to do something else at the precise
moment dinner was ready. She couldn't figure him out and it made her angry every
"Okay! I'll be right there." Devon answered. He reluctantly put down his journal and
headed downstairs. He didn't like being interrupted while writing his most intimate
thoughts on those pages, known only to his own eyes and heart.
Tension hovered in the house because of the complicated relationship between his
parents. For months it hung in the air and as it increased so did Devon's introversion.
He shut himself in his room more often, hiding between his thoughts to fantasize,
dreaming of different places... Tortures were an essential part of his personality and he
felt very different from other 19 year olds. His intellect and manner stood him apart
and he could feel it in how people reacted to him; people fear and doubt what they
don't understand. He had charisma though, and despite his rather odd bearing, people
were drawn to him.
TO PURCHASE THE REMAINDER OF "WHERE FEATHERS FALL" AND RECEIVE
A BONUS FREE SONG DOWNLOAD, CLICK HERE!!!
Antonio Cappiello - The Nightmare of Myself
It is not unusual for me to turn inward, to contemplate the things that pass through my head, searching... my soul? my conscience? that internal part of myself that I haven't named yet? I don't have any idea what it is.
What frightens me are the accursedly serious answers.. from who? from myself? from another me?... I don't even know this.
Sometimes I wonder if fears are created by our imaginations, linked to one determined experience that has struck us during a particular moment in our lives... or if they originate from a place more sinister and more mysterious than a forest when darkness lowers onto every branch and every leaf.
I don't know how to explain what happened that day... it was so sudden, like a small ardent spark that instigates a blaze strong enough to destroy everything in an instant. I felt a strange sharp pain press on my temples and strangle my stomach.. often I wonder if I am extraordinarily insane, only splinters of confused and twisted thoughts as cold and prickly as winter's first snowflakes on warm, dry skin.
It was a day like other days; the sun was pale and tired, hardly succeeding in reaching the tallest point in the sky.. I had never seen it so delicate and defenseless before. It seemed like a small baby who was lost in a crowd, trying to grab onto the first friendly hand that would hold him and whisper in his ear that he was safe now, trying clumsily to stay standing, timid and defenseless, wanting to discover who had saved him from the traps of the world..
The whole country seemed to be darker than usual, as if the houses were locked against the people in the street, weak with a melancholy breath of hope to melt in the wind shortly after.
I walked along the tree-lined avenue behind my house, that avenue so sure to my eyes yet so dark and spine-chilling to that naive part of myself. The pale light of the sun painted the branches of the trees with a color so empty it reflected the resin of the light-grey sky above my head... CONTINUE...
Antonio Cappiello - The Voice Of The Lake
This story is an introduction to my soul. It might not be logical, there might not even be a moral to this story... it speaks only of feelings, feelings that through the help of words I have tried to make visible and palpable. It's a story about love - love so sweet and so suffering that it will live forever in the deep abyss of the calm and deadly waters of a lake.
The blue depths were still as I listened to the earth's movements and murmurings that have now become a part of me. Any voice, any chirruping of a small fluttering bird in its fireside of leaves along the shore echoed among the shadows of green, so pleasant and dismal and dark. Autumn's flowers turned toward the lake, as if for a last farewell, a last look before hope vanished into the depths.
As the sounds of nature silenced the noise in my head, I observed .. I heard. I waited.
Loneliness, the only companion of twilight, wound around my extended soul,
becoming immovable and rigid...the only witness in the growing darkness.
The sun behind the mountains lingered to keep me company for the evening, like a friend who'd been away too long. It was as bright and intense as a blazing fire in the sky, painting with red and violet flashes, whipped by the wind. The flames pierced through the desirous restless clouds to return from that place from which they had been forcibly dragged without knowing the motive for such cruelty.
The light was intense and pale in the same instant, as it reached, stretching itself over every point of the mountains... in vain.
On one mountaintop there was a small bell tower that guarded the lake on which my boat and I drifted. We were cradled by calm waves, much too calm to be genuine. They seemed to be a charade, as if they plotted something in their silence. Every soft splash against the dock masqueraded as calm, trying not to betray that my presence was not wanted.
The wind flowed through the cracks that had been etched by time into the soul of the boat, it�s soft vibrations pulsing through the veins of the wood in which I put my trust... I knew it would sustain me, that any wave, however dark and restless couldn't demolish the ancient and perfect construction that floated brave once more.
Antonio Cappiello - Not me, not me
Who is that face in the mirror?
I don't understand... do I know him?
I definitely don't recognize who he is.
Could it be me?
I smile. I laugh. I cry.
I don't understand who that face is in the reflection.
He looks at me with intensity - eyes without a soul
Nobody has looked at me in that way until now
I lift my hand and I touch my profile
I can feel its shape but I can't feel it's essence
No...it can't be me!
What's "ME"? Why does that image mimic my movements?
He's writing. What is he writing?!
He looks at me and then turns his head
It's fucking frustrating!