8 Nasty French Kisses

By Furious Short Texts

"It was on a Sunday night and it was raining. I was sitting at the bar, on this very stool, drinking my beer (Aflligem Triple Picon) and watching the match on tv. If you ask me, bleach-haired guys who run behind a ball just suck but what else is there to watch on a rainy Sunday night?"

Come in the bar. Every Furious issue selects the best crop, the purest drugs, the most unusual precious words. Also, 8 Nasty French Kisses introduces 8 short and corrosive texts by 8 authors from the new literary French scene translated exclusively for you, into such frenchy English;

Inside :

Barefoot by Marlène Tissot
Lousy Tania by Clélie Vian
Over the rainbow by Xavier Bonnin
War Memoirs by Laurent Vo Ahn
My exotic toy by Céline Mayeur
Fast-holding sighs by Joëlle Petillot
To die writing as many texts as possible by Christophe Siebert
Savior sex by Antonella Fiori

• Language: English
• Publisher: Furious Short Texts
• Release date: Oct 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9791092316070

Furious Short Texts

Furious provides the finest selection of the next gen' french writers. Exclusive content, fresh literature, smart and dirty words : here come 100 % angry letters certified from the strikes. Take a look at our books, new talents are burning for you !

Book preview

8 nasty French kisses

By Furious Short texts

Published by Furious Short texts at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Furious Short texts

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 and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Short texts

8 nasty French kisses with:

• Marlène Tissot ~ Clélie Vian ~ Xavier Bonnin ~ Laurent Vo Anh ~ Céline Mayeur ~ Joëlle Pétillot ~ Christophe Siébert ~ Antonella Fiori •

• Translated from the French by Stephane Normand •

FURIOUS Edition

http://www.furiousedition.com

BAREFOOT

Marlène TISSOT

---

London 2010, June 25th. 1 p.m. The orange palisades of the Hard Rock Calling Festival. Hyde Park under the sun. People planted in the grass like flowers studding multicolored clothes. They are all waiting for the gates to open. The air is filled with a sweet restlessness and the mingled scent of offered spliffs, beer and sweat. The place smells of quiet happiness, a still fragile summer and time taking its time.

There's this guy standing not very far from me and for a second, my eyes fasten on his feet, his bare feet, the dropped cigarette butt he squashes with his heel, the naked, pulpy curve of his heel slowly grinding the small embers of light tobacco. I wonder if he's felt the burn. I look up and he gives me a smile. He is smiling at me or maybe at someone else. It's hard to tell. He's hiding his eyes behind sunglasses.

Loudspeakers crackle with an announcement I can't make head or tail of. Probably something about the opening of the gates. The barefoot guy leans closer to me. What did he say?* he asks me. But I didn't get it either. Sorry, I'm French*, I answer apologetically.

And then, it's not quite clear in my mind. It's a bit strange. Time goes by like the trickle of some leaky faucet. There's this guy and I. We talk and talk and talk. We've barely met and it's a bit as if we'd known each other since the beginning of time. We chat with delightful ease. The weather is warm on our shoulders. Skins are shimmering with perspiration. People are gently squeezing up against one another. When the gates open at last, the guy asks me 'Are you staying with me for the concerts?' He is smiling. His name is Shaun. I nod in agreement.

Still one full hour of waiting before the music starts, so we veer off towards the refreshment stalls to have our refill of beers then sit down on the grass, not very far from the stage. Our malted lagers fizz down our throats and words flow out in cascades. We weave an accelerated friendship – small confessions, big existential questions. We end up discovering we were born on the same day. True, with a few years' difference. We compare our ID cards, laugh at the photographs. We're children again, then teens. We're not grown-ups, not yet, that is too boring. We tell each other things and chance meetings sometimes are amazing*. They're not chance meetings, everything is written*, Shaun claims. We were meant to meet each other, he adds with a serious look on his face. And we laugh like fools. Happy fools.

By the time the first concert starts, we've already knocked back quite a lot of beers. Sprawling on the grass, we listen to the music and gaze at the sky. A blue immensity across which a few birds are flirting with paradise. Around us, the crowd is peaceful, people are sitting cross-legged or lying. They're a little bit high, like us. A little bit high*, like the birds above.

When the Hives walk on stage, the atmosphere becomes electric. People are crowding. We have to get up so as not to be trampled. Shaun offers me his hand and helps me get back on my feet again. He doesn't let go of my hand but holds it tight instead. We don't look at each other. Our eyes are set on the musicians. A lingering taste of childhood timidity. I try to think but only sunny thoughts cross my mind. I can feel our entwined fingers. The sensation is both delicious and disturbing. I try to convince myself that he's young, that I'm a married woman and that we've had too many beers. My mind is fuzzy. Something is brewing and I'm losing control. I've got to act fast, find a way of breaking the spell, I've got to do something real fast! Find an excuse, go to the toilet. I'll be waiting here*, Shaun says to me, still holding my hand for a few seconds. His smile, goddammit, his smile. And his eyes still hiding behind sunglasses.

People are waiting in line along the plastic booths. The expected smell of piss. Once inside, I try not to touch anything. The floor is sticky under the soles of my shoes. The chemical flush is out of order. Walking back out, I make a detour via refreshment stalls. I need a little bit more alcohol. To kill bacteria. To smoke out the black beasts that start crawling through my brain. To pluck the blue bird fluttering in my rib cage. I shouldn't go back to Shaun, I know I