ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I was born in Casale Monferrato in province of Alessandria Italy on 03 July 1973 and had lived since 1997 in Mortara (province of Pavia). Since I was a child, I started to gain medals in school sport events and others in painting competitions in a higher education. In 1989 I had started to study Accountancy in the College San Carlo of Borgo San Martino where I discovered other two talents: being a football manager and a poet. As a football manager I helped my teams to win trophies in several football tournaments. I discovered also I could write poetry when I was studying French Symbolists, who gave me a first poetic structure. Afterwards my Italian writing evolved and began to have its own style. Since 1991 I had entered a lot of Italian poetry competitions where I had been recognised with trophies, medals and publications. In 1996 I had published my first collection of Italian poems with proverbs and literacy critics titled “Saranno state le onde del mare d’inverno” (Translation “It will be the waves of the sea in winter”) Edizioni Nuove Proposte U.A.O.C. in Naples. In 1997 I transferred for work in York where I began to write English poems. I attended several writers groups and my writing improved enormously. I entered English poetry competition in England, Switzerland, Italy, Australia and Germany and many poems had been published in Anthologies and magazines in these Countries and in Brazil too. In 2000 I started to write English short stories, which had been published in magazines. In the forthcoming future I am going to publish the following books: my second collection of Italian poetry and maxims with reviews with English translations, my first collection of English poems with reviews and my first collection of short stories. [November 2003]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (4) Angel, A Collection Of Verse (Poetry) A collection of verse. Angel. I was in a internet cafe where we were reading poetry and there were candles everywhere that gave me a great inspiration to write this poem. This poem has been published... [131 words] Autunno, A Collection Of Verse (Poetry) Italian poetry with English translation: Luglio/July, July is the month of the author. It is very dear to Paolo Debernardi Autunno/Autumn, Autumn is a season where everything died Primavera/Spring, T... [924 words] Delta Centauri (Short Stories) The alien abduction of a man who will see life different from this experience. [1,593 words] They Always Come Back (Short Stories) The ghost story of a dead husband who wants to see again his wife. [541 words]
The Waiting Paolo Debernardi
Gazing out of the window, Martin was expecting the taxi to arrive, his waiting seemed to last an eternity. The room was completely silent, broken by the thrumming of his heart echoing with the ticking clock.
Unexpected anxieties and doubts concerning Joanne emerged lazily in his mind.
"Perhaps Joanne isn’t coming", he murmured.
He was not surprised. She had let him down before on numerous occasions but somehow… somehow he had thought tonight would be different.
As time passed, his doubts increased and his patience weakened. Martin began losing hope. He paced the room, stopping occasionally to absently tap his foot on the bare floorboards, his worried face framed in the dirty glass of upstairs window.
On checking his watch he saw the appointed time was definitely up. Half past seven they had agreed to meet and now it was almost eight.
"She’s not coming", he mumbled, "unless she’s caught in traffic?" He added as an afterthought, the possibility momentarily raising his spirits. But outside he could see the traffic was light. Rush hour had come and gone. He had to face it; she had let him down again. Would he ever learn?
Staring at his feet depressed, he felt he was dying, then a taxi pulled to a halt across the street. "Hallelujah!" Martin piped. He jumped like a fawn full of life. His heart was full of joy.
Without hesitation he raced out onto the landing and ran downstairs, taking the steps three a time heedless of the danger of his breakneck pace.
"Joanne! Joanne, I knew you’d come this time I knew you wouldn’t let me down." But as he drew closer he could see it wasn’t his Joanne at all.
"Sorry, love. I’m not Joanne"; the woman said paying off the taxi driver.
"She isn’t" "She is forty years old. My Joanne is twenty", he thought.
"Sorry", he said, between gasping breaths. "I have you confused."
"Don’t worry, love. She’ll be soon here. If I were twenty years younger, I would love to be your darling. You seem a nice guy"
"Thanks" "I think she will never come tonight", he thought.
"Sorry, love, but I have to go, my family is waiting for me." "Bye-bye, love"
"Bye." She was walking away on the opposite direction carrying overfilled shopping bags. She climbed the stairs and entered her house. She was gone like everybody else in his life.
"She is very lucky. She is surrounded by people who will always be there for her!"
"I’m alone", Martin thought.
Martin glanced down the street and saw the taxi was gone. No cars were driving in the street. No one to meet or speak to. Filled with dismay and disappointment he returned to his room. On the way upstairs, one dogged step at a time as if the entire world was on his shoulders, he reflected that he was truly alone and with a broken heart.
Joanne, the only person he had ever loved, was not coming. He realised she would never come to this house, ever again. He did not blame her though, be blamed himself. He was the one who had been unfaithful and Joanne had discovered the truth, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. The one-night-stand had just happened and he had wanted to explain this to Joanne. Wanted to tell her how stupid he had been and how sorry, but it was too late.
At the memory of the first day when they bumped into each other Martin sighed deeply. He was wandering carelessly through a narrow street when his eyes met hers.
It was love at first sight. He was almost certain it would last and now he lost her forever.
The thought of growing old and alone it was unbearable. He could not cope with it. After jotting few verses on a piece of paper. He opened a drawer where his gun had been placed. The touch of the cold revolver sent shivers down his spine, but he was determined. He held it tight and pulled the trigger.
Beside his body, there was a poem titled Joanne.
O Joanne, I miss you so much
Your long blonde hair are sunshine
Breaking through a cloudy sky
You always made me smile.
I miss your blue eyes
Mirror of your love and soul for me
But I lost them for one foolish night.
Goodbye to my only beloved.
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