Ines and the Storyteller ( unedited prototype version)

  We joined hands and started talking about alliances in the dark... When the day shall shine light upon these lands I shall be gone and now until my departure I have to play with my magical pencil, drawing and denying my own small flash... The milk is cold... the old portuguese houses, the lady Ines listening to my talk on ideologies, on wars and soldiers on what I saw upon my journey, the calm summer night emerging by our sides covering the face of my host with a shadow of mistery. I cannot drink the milk because it is so pure and tasty that my touch might even hurt the whiteness but Ines encourages me with a smile and begins to sing. I like it when she sings for her voice is sweet and calm. I take the milk and wish it were hot so that it might help me sleep early. I want to leave at dawn and maybe all the signs of blood on my body shall be cleared and my fever subsided by then. She keeps on singing and the milk turns suddenly hot in my hand. Stunned I keep on trying to find out what is wrong however Ines transfigures the once calm and sweet notes into something different. The wild tones of her voice take me up to the image of a harsh jungle and as my bones ache in pain and questions the metallic inflections of the song turns Ines into a precious stone of alchemy by a golden dusty light mixture. She cannot stop summoning fire and flames twisting her dress in her dance of illusion. She takes a pair of beautiful wings and hands them over to me as I fly by a song of ancestral reminders holding a small bit of fire in my hands and building up castles with guilded towers. A pegasus strikes midnight with a fabulous wing and from behind the clock, an old man appears with his eternal bag of sleepy sand washing my tears away with a river and throwing me in a hot dense soft pouder wrapped by a fairy on a black restful rose . I am now so small I might as well be detected with a nano camera or some fantastic digital tool on a way to reality... What kind of borring story did I tell Ines so that she turned me to innitial stardust? She told me I could stay at her house if I told her a story and accepted to listen to her singing which was no hard task.... Now she threw an upset eye on the mirror where she could see my whole existence created by her waves of melody.   The wise angel with a shining sword struck three at night and fire came to me once more purifying what I used to be while aching my dehydration with hot softness... Four, five and six the small hours under a big pressure with four kings, five knights and six piano keys subsequently hiding or revealing me till dawn, till the iceman frose her song and kissed my forhead with a cold texture of awakening cries... I run out to the Sun out of the house from which Ines had dissappeared and tasted the sweetness of a portuguese orange. I do not know what that really was but I know that I should not take life that seriously any longer and....... instead of fearing the pain and hostilities of the world I should really understand the impact of a good story. If I happen to come by your house all tired and asking for shelter host me with love and I shall bring the beauty of night as your storyteller......