O homem do Acabamento
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About this ebook
O homem do acabamento, reuno aqui alguns contos curtos e fortes, alguns desmedidos, outros sutis e alegres. Retirei as formatações arrumadas da gramática para melhor impacto, deixei alguns azulejos na parede da cozinha, ajustei o dedal de coração ferido, a fotografia de um momento esquecível, o acabamento indesejado, as moralidades dos acontecimentos em um já doloroso, as falsas verdades bem pronunciadas também pus fora, levei ao forno a pizza, conversei com o gato, vi o cara partir, deixei um recado para que saibam que não é fácil esquecer, e que quanto mais se mexe no sofrimento mais ele se renova, atinge alguém que passa desprevenido, um dia acontece, como está aqui que se perde a paz e se executa com força o direito a viver. E acertei o que se mescla em tantas cores vermelhas de sangue, a vida de um pai que alguém chora, em tudo essa conexão entre alegria, dor, paz e mais que tudo, amor.
Adoro pizza
Fotografia
O homem do acabamento
Deitado na cozinha
Conexão com Alonso
Vai o cara embora
Recado
A força de Daniel
Pai Mortinho
Já
Mezclese
Dedal
Pedro Moreira Nt
Who I amPedro Moreira NtI have been a writer since infancy; my father influenced me with reasonable asks to do that the best possible, and my mother, too, read to me, I have been a writer since infancy; my father influenced me with reasonable asks to do that the best possible, and my mother, too, read to me, and at both comes a song walking my mind, sweetness and lovely goodness. I am critical of that; I desire to create a mist of essay, but my preference for poem structure and sensibility do not long of art. So, I seek romanticizing concepts and developing a new sense of literature that happens in its movement. I leave it to the reader to do part of that; they create a truthful text and can do a good book. It is the interpretation, the way, a leap beyond what a word says, transforming our lives when they share.My first writings, chronic stories, participated in my soul. It was extremely critical and sarcastic about what I saw from reality.I am talking of a fifties age period behind. In a position about what I developed, my evolution was more toward apparent expressionism and realism with wave poetical intermain. I do not know, and I am a writer by chance by life.I wait to create something more dense and fragile so that a reader can discover more insight and make the story.I write all day. I threw out many texts, books, and theatre, left at home friends, gave up on other works, abandoned along the path, and presented in different ways when it was impossible.I have not had a time in which I did not have difficulties showing my art, or I was, for some reason, prohibited from showing, or people made oyster faces and bodies, seeing down shoes, putting me out because, beyond writing, I talk. And when I speak, I create conflict with conceptualistic people. I am intervenient into the academy and ideological corpus, into radicalism free. I am more definitive when I believe in what I say and highly flexible when people do not know what I am saying.My themes are variant, and many circumstances bring me a gift, a motive to write. I wrote in Portuguese two books that I like, "Lirio" - Lille, and "O Peixinho do Pantanal" - The Little Fish from Pantanal (Wetlands), and both meant creation, jump to beyond, overcome, transformation social and personal release.From that, I wrote other books seeking to show different meanings throughout of phantasy necessary, and it to parents and children a fantastic universe of possibilities for a personal construction, making life an adventure.I create a pedagogical process to write and design tangled images where it is possible to seek the theme of a short story. "Lippi and Semma Friendship" talks about that, and I wrote that short story through it. They led me to social problems, injuries, differences, the orthodoxy of community rules, cultural values, the barriers around democracy and its meaning, and the gratitude for a true friendship."Letter to the Moon" is a short love story, but love yourself, and send a letter to the Moon through a pebble launched for.Books about freedom, encountering people, loss, and gains, and becoming someone.Book for radicality of right in that it does not see your bottom."Bakery," for example, talks about that.I finished a short story made of challenges and adventures: "Memories of the Air." - from you start reading until the end, the thing is in action, in movement, an eternal fugue or secrets, and does not reveal its net. The reader will discover.
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O homem do Acabamento - Pedro Moreira Nt
O homem do acabamento
Contos curtos
Publicado por
Pedro Moreira Nt
Copyright, 2021
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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This book was produced by Pedro Moreira Nt, 2021.
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O homem do acabamento
Pedro Moreira Nt
Doze contos curtos
Copyright, 2021
*******
This book was produced by Pedro Moreira Nt, 2021.
*******
Contos curtos:
Adoro pizza
Fotografia
O homem do acabamento
Deitado na cozinha
Conexão com Alonso
Vai o cara embora
Recado
A força de Daniel
Pai Mortinho
Já
Mezclese
Dedal
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Adoro pizza
Hoje estou feliz, tão feliz que ando me afogando. É tão grande o meu estado de alegria que fico cheio de Deus, que estou em completo entusiasmo. Para ser sincero, esse bem estar imenso - não conte para ninguém, nem para Ele - é insuportável. É tanto bem-estar, mas tanto que nem consigo compartilhar meu ânimo. Mal falo com as pessoas, mal expresso um sentimento que não seja tolo, absurdo, exacerbado, parece que voltei de uma lucidez imensa, fora do comum que surge em meio a todos como um louco profeta a dizer: Ele existe, Ele existe. E me olham com traves na boca, olham para mim como que recém saísse do último ovni que pousou na pedreira, e atentam a alguma falha, e assustados distanciam-se, eu digo, digo a todos, não se importe, não fique magoado, não sofra por eu estar assim, não me julgue, nem diga nada. E olham com seus olhos cansados, arrependidos de prestarem a atenção: bipolar, esquizofrênico, louco, tarado, doente, até de ator, artista, - imagina! -, me chamaram.
Quisesse não ter uma alma frágil, uma que o vento leva para todos os cantos para confortar com a sua força de vendaval o que sinto. Um sentimento além do comum, de fato, um sentimento de paixão, de glória por toda essa vida, de gratidão profunda e arrebatadora, de uma fé que incendeia. Por favor, não corra, leia até o final, acredite, é nada demais. Pura alegria, e alegria é uma felicidade completa, comprimida, de uma força divina, de um amor entregue, doado. Perdoar por amar, perdoa por ser tão desesperado, de dizer tanto o quanto você é importante para mim: Teófilo! Ouvi uma voz. Quieto e sombrio silêncio. O abandono do pensamento a fazia repetir. Teófilo, Teófilo - seguiu a voz impertinente. Até que em dado momento, tive a impressão de que haveria dor, medo e tristeza: Ouvi risos, ouvi gargalhadas.
E quando desci do meu escritório no início da noite, estavam lá, estavam meus amigos, as pessoas que amei, as que odiei, estava o vizinho que matou o cachorro, o que atirou no gato, o que feriu meus filhos, os que rasgaram os livros em pedacinhos na minha frente, os que vomitaram na minha roupa, os que esconderam na mesa a minha ascensão profissional, os que esconderam a senha de entrada, os que murcharam o pneu do carro, os que me queriam muito, muito morto em cinzas, os que me amaram verdadeiramente também. Eles reunidos na sala a tomar limonada.
- Olá gente. E riram da minha satisfação em vê-los, eram aqueles meneios de assombro. Estavam todos segurando um riso. A vontade de explodir a alegria, de levá-la a todas as faces do planeta, ela veio com as pontas dos pés: Querido, meu bem, eles querem saber se você vai se matar, se você for eles querem partir porque não querem testemunhar. Um entre todos levantou-se, segurava o copo de limonada, olhava cabisbaixo, deslizava o dedo na borda do copo, e pronunciou sem nenhuma arrogância: a gente vai sentir a sua falta. E foi uma festa. Uma festa incomensurável, algo fora de questão. Eu mesmo ri, ri tanto que morri. Não sei se foi a semente do limão, se foi uma cuspida ácida, se tropecei, se o coração não aguentou.
Depois de morto as coisas continuam em um estado de crescimento vertiginoso. Alegro-me com a morte. Mas é morte, podem pensar. Ao contrário, sinto-me bem. Ando por aí, sem corpo, canto músicas desafinadas, sem corpo, corro, sem corpo, caminho horas e vejo as pessoas a lembrarem de