New drawings

Horus (my fave)

Little girl

Old woman statue

invierno

Horse ... not too good, I guess :/

:)

Clowns

antique statue - woman and child

Some of my drawings..

my sister

2004.

2004.

2004.

:))))))))))))))

"Masquerade by Rica L. Kalocsay
Mark DiAngelo, the immensely rich Italian playboy lives just like a king. He has everything a man could wish. Although many girls and women are anxious to get into favor with him, he doesn't want to settle down to family life ... until the true love appears in his life in the person of a beautiful American playwright. At least this is what Rebecca tells about herself. The young lady not only steals Mark's heart, but her sudden appearance turns his whole life upside down. He has to realize he has lived in a dream world and no one is who he has thought to be. Slowly every mask falls down but the dance has just begun. Lie, betrayal, love, passion, vengefulness, hate, hunt and escape from criminal investigation, headhunters and the Mob. This is more than a love story, more than a crime story, more than a mob story - this is a thrilling mixture of them."

My baby!! :D The first book of my DiAngelo-series....

Buy the book

"Daydreamer by Rica L. Kalocsay
"... Your smile when in the mornings, with your eyes not opened yet, I am your first thought. As you turn towards me still in light sleep, and you press close to me to feel the warmth of my body. That gives you strength for the new day. As my closeness slakes your thirst, as I nestle close to you unconsciously, as my hair caresses your face, the silence, the perfection of the unsaid but eternal inherence, the momentary, motionless harmony draw a faint smile onto your face. And I see that. Although I'm still sleeping. But you are with me behind my closed eyelids. ..."
This is a collection. Ten of the author's short stories with which she has already won some prizes in competitions. Rica L. Kalocsay rarely writes short stories; she wrote these ones in her really tough times. She found the way to survive the lots of tragedies that had hit her family during a year in writing. Yet, this is not a gloomy collection but one that makes the reader stop and think about nature, love, hate and some other things."

Yeah, my "diamond-tears"...

Buy the book

Another book :)

Daydreamer is now available for purchase:

Click!

My baby :P

My book is now available for purchase...

Masquerade

Another prize winner work...

Daydreamer

The old man stepped in the workroom with a mug of coffee in his hand. The sun shone glaringly outside, but behind the curtains drawn together, there was pleasant half-light in the room. Deep shelves ran along the walls and books were set in order on them. Thin, thick, old and new ones … treasures. He knew their worth. And he knew their secrets. In the middle, a huge beech-wood writing table sprawled comfortably, proudly dominating the room. There were books, papers, pens, notes on the table and a worn, old typewriter was waiting for him patiently, to take up work under his sprightly fingers again. He slowly walked round the table, pushing aside a few papers put down his mug, then sat down on the comfortable old chair and looked around in his small empire before getting to work. Countless books. This was his world. A strange universe with labyrinths, secrets and mysteries. Strange place but more comprehensible and easier to understand than the real world outside. Than the crazy world outside which stigmatized him. Just because they didn’t understand him. But how could they understand? They talked secretly, laughing behind his back, pointing a finger of scorn at him: “Look, the old fool!”

Yet how they absorbed his every word, how their eyes devoured the lines! They desired him eagerly, desperately to make them fly to different places, amongst excitements, adventures, far away from their own cares. But they didn’t understand that these wonders weren’t born by themselves. They wanted books but didn’t understand that the books must be written by men.

He began to smile faintly under his gray moustache and shrugged his shoulder. Still, he would write! For them, but because of himself. Because he had to write! How could they understand this … anyone who had no stories to tell? How could anyone understand this … who wasn’t like him … who wasn’t a daydreamer?

He slipped in an empty, white paper and closed his eyes for a moment then began to work. The tapping of the typewriter filled the room; quicker and quicker, more and more excited tapping. Letters appeared on the white paper then words and sentences. The lines just congregated, the story was forming. He played with the words, creating atmosphere, feelings, colors, fragrances … creating an entire world. Building up the marvel letter by letter. He sipped from the coffee reflecting then slipped another paper in the old typewriter. The room around him vanished; old, huge trees stood in the places of the walls and bookshelves, growing green grass lay in the place of the worn deal floor, birds’ twittering was heard for him instead of the tapping of the typewriter, butterflies flittered, everything was colorful all around and glaring sunbeams sneaked through the giant trees’ leaves joyfully. Blond curly-haired, flushed-faced little girl’s merry laughter echoed amongst the knotty stems. Wearing a flounced skirt, she ran skipping after a butterfly; her opened wide blue eyes watched shining every quiver of the colorful wings.

“Fly, fly, little butterfly” she laughed and skipped and ran onwards as the featherweight little animal flew on with its fairy wings. Sometimes a few twigs cracked and early fallen down and already dried, orphaned leaves crackled under her little feet. Fragrance of flowers flew in the air and, from the apple trees, the sweetish scent of the fruits. She ran that way until she stumbled over an excurrent root of a tree and falling on her knees, she scraped off her soft skin.

“Ouch!” she sighed in pain and plopped on the grass to have a look at the wound.

“Enough! When will you deal with me, old man?” was heard from the corner of the room. He looked up from the paper. The young kid started walking here and there in front of him, impatiently; he crossed his arms angrily and sulkily blew away a naughty black ringlet which had fallen before his eyes.

“Wait till your turn comes … like everyone else” the old man chided him gently. The boy stepped to the table, before him. The jeans and the expensive shirt looked great on his slender shape. His lips stretched into a cheeky smile as he leaned on the top of the table with his hands. Then he leaned quite close to him and looked at him with his flashing green eyes.

“I’m not like anyone else!”

“I know! Oh, I know. You’re the Sicilian … just a stubborn youngster” he grumbled, shaking his head but such tenderness was blended with his voice as if he had been scolding his own son.

“It hurts” the thin, sweet voice was heard and the old man looked beside him, at the little blond girl cowering on the floor, beside the table. The girlie knitted her brows painfully, tears gathered in her eyes and she blew sadly the wound on her knee to allay the burning pain.

“Oh, darling, I’ll heal you. Just a minute!” he smiled at her gently. The boy stepped to one of the selves, rolling his eyes, took down a book grumbling and began to turn the pages angrily. The typewriter started tapping again and the little girl was already there; on the edge of the woods, under an apple tree. Blowing the wound and looking at the trickling red drop of blood with scared eyes. Suddenly something plopped on the ground beside her and she looked there. There was no trace of fright in her eyes anymore, only excited interest. An apple lay in the grass and she already reached her hand for it. Rubbing it on her skirt, she polished up the treasure then bit into it eagerly with her eyes shining. As the sour-sweet taste spread on her tongue, she hummed contentedly and the pain slipped away immediately.

“Who cares about this?” the boy shut the book with a bang and slipped it back to its place grumbling. “People want the gripping stories of the Sicilian, not fairy tales. No one will remember her. If you want to be immortal, write my story!”

“You’re nasty” the little girl sighed, cowering beside the table again, with the apple in her hand. The boy ignored her.

“Don’t care about him” the old man smiled at the owner of the blond locks. “He cannot bear it when he’s not in the focus.”

“Aha!” the Sicilian stepped closer again and sat on the edge of the table. “I have it straight now! So you like feeling god, huh? You can’t direct me, you’re just my speaker. You write down what I tell. You like more characters like her, don’t you?” he waved at the little girl. “Because you have absolute power over them.”

“Ah, you kid …” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Just confess it, I’m right. You create them; you decide about their fate, you write their personality, their look, you form their life as it pleases you. You play god. But you can’t direct me” he said again arrogantly.

“You were created by me too … but then you became unmanageable” the old man grumbled. He sipped from the coffee again then continued working. Leading the little girl home; from the edge of the woods to the small but friendly house, in the kitchen where her mother had just finished making the dinner ready. He put thousand of colors, sounds and scents on the paper by magic, merry laughter of the little girl, peace and loving kindness. This was how the day passed in the workroom and in the other world; writing a lovely story carefully. Putting a few butterflies there, placing the shine of the setting sun here, warm tea on the table after dinner, then bathwater and sweet-smelling foam in that. Child’s little bed and thick, soft blanket. And, before taking leave, he wrote sweet dreams to her.

Then he went to sleep, too. Though the tapping of the typewriter stopped, yet wonders came into the world one after the other – now only inside him. Possible characters appeared around him; some of them vaguely and others clearly. Gestures, voices, sentences suggested him fresh ideas from which would be whole stories some day. He stored away in his memory every crumb of inspire and let them mature. He almost stepped in the world of dream when that well-known voice was heard from beside his bed.

“Do you really think that that’s all? That you finished working for today? Just because you wrote some silly story about a blond, curly-haired girlie?”

“Leave me alone! I need some sleep” he turned towards the Sicilian boy who was walking up and down beside his bed impatiently, his green eyes were flashing and the black ringlets just flittered as the kid shook his head, protesting.

“No way, old man! What if we leave out something important from my story? You don’t want it, do you?”

“Maybe it’s surprising to you, but I have to sleep sometimes” he said and turned in, towards the wall. He pulled the blanket on his head, but the kid didn’t leave him alone.

“Now you could sleep, if you hadn’t spent the whole day with that girl. Come on! Out of the bed! I have a lot to tell!”

“Do you think I’ll write your stories to the end of my life?” he grumbled from under the blanket.

“It’s possible. I haven’t told you yet what happened when they forced my father to leave Palermo. I was only six. My father hid somewhere in Rome and the don of the N’drangheta himself hid me. He was a strange guy, he had all kinds of bugs …”

“Enough!” the old man pushed down the blanket. “You won’t leave me alone …”

He knew the boy. No matter how tired he was, this kid wouldn’t let him sleep until he wrote down the story he wanted to tell. So he rose from the bed, got into his gown then his slippers and shuffled to the workroom. He switched on the reading lamp, slipped a paper in the old typewriter and started working again. The typewriter just clapped under his fingers in the silence of the night, the boy just told and told his story … He filled the white papers one after the other though his articulations shot with every letter he wrote, his back also hurt and his eyes were burning … But he just wrote, wrote and wrote, this was how the daybreak found him. Bending over the table, tapping his typewriter – though his tired body in the workroom, but his soaring soul on the island of Sicily … where actually he had never been. Yet he wrote about it, he painted it as if he had lived the half of his life there, as if he had known in which street he had to go if he wanted to get here or there. He painted it, like a picture – when the readers’ eyes would devour the lines, the island would come to life around them, no matter in which part of the earth they would be. His every word like a stroke of the brush. This was how he made his readers fly away from their homes to mythical lands, from the boring weekdays amongst adventures.

He just wrote, wrote and wrote and he was there too; he felt the warmth of the sun, the scent of the sea and that immense pain which the kid felt, falling onto the grave of his adored mother.

“Oh, god, how I miss her! It hurts so much!” the boy sobbed beside the table.

“I know. I feel it” the old man whimpered, wiped away his tears and continued writing. With aching hands, shooting back and smarting heart. He felt the same pain like the boy; his heart was broken.

It was early in the afternoon when he filled only the half of the next paper then tapped there the magic words: THE END. He took the paper out of the typewriter and put it in a folder together with the other ones. Another typescript. Another book. Another story which had come to an end. It was elevating and crushing at the same time. The story in which he had lived for months, sometimes day and night, there wasn’t any more. And the void behind it … Of course, this stubborn Sicilian kid would tell him a few more stories, but then he would go away too, like the others. How he missed all of them! As if they had been his children who he had raised carefully then had let them go one after the other. Every time when he finished a book, he died of it. Taking his finished works in his hands he was proud but felt as if he had stood beside the grave of his own child. When he put the books on the shelves it felt as if he had let their coffins down, in the depth of the earth. And he died with them. Each and every one of them was a piece of him; a part of his soul.

“If they knew …” he muttered to himself. “If they knew that how much work, how many sleepless nights and how much suffering produced that they hold in their hands … maybe they would appreciate and respect more the books.”

The city

This city teems, swarms, turns, whirls, lights, vibrates, lives and throbs. With her sounds and lights, she breathes you in; you can never flee. Her thousand-eyed concrete-giants stretch above you, settle on you: she gulps you down, entombs and fuses you with herself. This city shows you how small you are. Only a little cell. But within her. You’re a part of her body. Your heart beats together with her throbbing and you spin and vibrate and live like never before. In the daytime with unconcerned face, running, existing almost automatically, monotonously. Melted into the crowd and vanished. At night crazily, just letting her sweep you away and lead you, no matter where. You let her awake that person inside who you have never known about. She disturbs your mind, but you don’t resist … it doesn’t matter. Because you live, like never before. And you don’t sleep. Because neither this city does.
You’re not a stranger here, wherever you have come from; it takes you to her breast like her own child, and, as a good mother, she already feeds you. And she feeds on, breathes, sings songs and dances. She destroys then resuscitates you. She’s strong and proud. She can rise again even from her ashes. She has thousand faces, million colors and melody. She has her own voice and she calls to you, doesn’t let you go anymore. Your thoughts come back over and over again from anywhere, and in your dreams you’re here again. You wish her loud noise in the silence, you seek for her whirling in a desolate place, you desire her lights in the darkness and the calmness is too empty. Nothing is the same without her. If she has touched you, you will be a slave to her for ever and a day.
Her crazy rhythm disturbs your day’s usual tempo. You fall into deep thought with fixed stare – actually you’re not there any more. You’re here and never will escape. She’s a special world, like another planet. Gigantic and energetic. Hearing her name your heart beats like mad, your eyes start shining – you would like to start back right away. You’re afraid of her, but desire her at the same time. And in a low voice, maybe without noticing, you sing softly an old song to yourself: New York, New York ...

Your palm

The secret lines in your palm, burnt in, engraved carefully – the messengers of your destiny. You believe it, or not; everything is there. Maybe you don’t understand the secret signs, but you are like an open book for me. I can read in you as if an unconscious voice of yours talked to me voluntarily. The signs, mounts and wrinkles in your palms tell me your destiny and your secrets. Your future as well. Your secret longings and fears are also there, written down one after the other. The lines of the not decided things, like a map; you can go both this way and that … and the immovable statues of the unalterable ones.

There’s a whole world in your hand, you, yourself is in your palm; drawn into the soft skin you carry your fate on you. The chronicle and prediction march from your fingertips to your wrist. The heart line and the course of your life are there, and that how many years are before you. Things hidden in the depth of your body suddenly come to light as you open your hand. I can tell from only one look that who you are and what the purpose of your life is. That what hurts you, what tortures you and what lies ahead of you. I know even those things which you don’t know yourself. I know you, understand you, I read you from your palm.

Your past, future and present; everything is there, in one palm. Colossal powers, almighty artists sketched their masterpiece into your skin, and the work of art is you, coming to life from your own palm. Still taking a shape, walking on your written way on the basis of the sketch. Not complete, not finished yet, but individual, an unsurpassable masterwork.