The Silent Man


He threw his sword and his shield on the snow. The dry sound of metal made everything easier. The battlefield lost it’s colors. The roaring of the soldiers flew with the wind that carried nothing to nowhere. There was no reason to stay there. His presence was useless like all the others. Useless, like the bodies spreaded for all sides.

He walked over the cold blood of his old friends and of hundreds of enemies whose names he would never know. He looked for the empty face of a dead child. No metal on that war could make such a damage in his soul. No sword could break his guts like the emptiness of those gray eyes on the snow.

What He lost on that day, no Emperor, no war and no God could bring back. Not even the silently hours could soft the fragments of his remaining days.

Rafael L. Toscano


Creative Voice

  A lot of men, on a desperate pursuit for originality, suppress their creative voice. Originality itself – of style, narration or of any kind – comes silently, side by side with honest work. What I mean by honest work is the honesty with the Self, the relation between someones acts and what he believes, […]

Autor Ernest Hemingway escrevendo

Ernest Hemingway About His Daily Routine

On the number 21 of the Paris Review,  the american writer Ernest Hemingway was  interviewed by George Plimpton and, at some point of the interview, George asks him about his daily process on writing.   Interviewer: Could you say something of this process? When do you work? Do you keep to a strict schedule? Hemingway: When I am working on a book […]