The king is dead: Fiction/Short Stories(single author)

By Cristina Origone

The king is dead by Cristina Origone

Towards what does insicurity inherent in the human existence and the fear of judgement of others push?

Giovanni is fifty-eight years old, a simple man who lives in a small town from the Ligurian hinterland.When a morning he wakes up and doesn't find Alina, he's not worried; it's not the first time that, after a fight, she wakes up early to buy bread and warm buns to be forgiven. But, as soon as he finds out she disappeared with their savings, he's hit by vertigo: Alina has gone back to Russia and has left him? At first he hardly believes it but when he takes notice of the situation, he feels betrayed on his pride and tried to lie to everyone. But that lie will pull him into a vortex, where doubts start tormenting him: what has happened to Alina?

From this moment his life changes, the paranoia of being judged by the townsfolk will make him doubt everyone, even his most close friends, and will drive him to hear things that don't exist. Until the truth will be revealed.

Will Giovanni be able to accept it?

The king is dead is a drammatic story that narrates the tale of a man that feels like the absolute owner of his woman and the disappearance of his companion will surface his limits and sterness which, since always, block his relationships, forcing him to deal with himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jan 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547564811

Book preview

The king is dead

Cristina Origone

When checkmate is inevitable,

the player voluntarily tips over their own King.

This is a work of fantasy. Names and characters, and facts are the result of the author's imagination and are not to be considered real. Any resemblance is completely random.

Chapter 1

He felt exhausted, the migraine pulsed in his temple and sleep was but a distant memory. The nail bent and Giovanni straightened it with the hammer whilst the basement door slammed for the umpteenth time.

He awoke at dawn and Alina wasn’t in bed. He went to the kitchen, thinking that he’ll find her intent on preparing breakfast but, the kitchen was empty. No coffee on the stove, no buttered toast on the table nor Alina’s smile that greeted him. She didn’t even open the blinds; Giovani stood still in the room for a second listening to the rain’s sounds that fell for a few hours. There’s lemon-scented dish soap smell mixed with vanilla perfume which Alina used. It wasn’t the first time that, in the morning after a confrontation, she woke up early and went to the town bakery to buy bread and warm buns to be forgiven.

He chose some nails from one of the cluttered containers from the counter, then he took a wooden crowbar and nailed the door. It was months since he had to adjust the lock and he was fed up of hearing it bang.

The apartment in which Giovanni lived was obtained from his father’s grand craft warehouse, who’s profession was a carpenter; he was on the first floor and Giovanni had never left that isolated house a bit far from a small Ligurian hinterland town, half an hour from the sea. He had always lived with his parents and looked after them until they passed. His father had suddenly died several years ago, after a cardiac arrest whilst his mother’s illness had lasted for a long time; because of this Giovanni had hired Alina, so that she’d take care of the housework.

He took a photograph and placed it in the frame that he had created for her. Then, he stopped to look at it: they were at the beach, Alina embraced him