Have a listen at my second attempt at narrating a short and please share some feedback. The ultimate medium for this story is an animated short film, but…baby steps.
I. The Second Barefoot Diva
It was a night as regular as any night on the island, with the stars and galaxies playing out their dramas for all to see. Our girl, Lua, found herself on the verge of losing consciousness. Her shell of a body salted by ocean curls, sweat trailing her tan lines and the tides inching to their final crescendo…begging to take her home. Try as we might, there are some sirens we cannot ignore. The song of the warbler calls of destiny and Lua was bound to a prophecy declared from the old world. Tragically inescapable. But with a name like that…what else could we expect?
It means moon in Portuguesa. And when has folklore about the moon ever disappointed us with mystery, intrigue and elusiveness? Ask the town drunk in Praia and he’ll tell you some bullshit like this.
Legend has it our girl was born during the rebellion. Her mother, hiding from the heat of war, labored for five minutes suspended on a branch of some tamarind tree. How? I don’t know. Why didn’t the Portuguese motherfuckers look up? I don’t know. All we know is her smile lighted up the whole island. From North to South.
Now, you give this bêbado another shot of rum, and he’ll tell you the newborn’s smile was used to win the war. Something about blinding beauty…rays of hope casting colonialists back to the seas. Again, he probably doesn't know. Hell, nobody really knows but that’s why I love us. We can spin the finest silk from the thinnest web of lies.
Our new moon shot in with all the youth of the 70’s. The hope of a new generation. Like the rest of the island’s children, she was a bastard child with too many uncles to count. Our Lua took after Cesária Évora. The neighborhood called her the second barefoot diva. With a whisper of her dulcet voice, she could call a sailor’s tavern to attention. After a year of private lessons, she could command the seas with an arpeggio. Her mother would lose her for days on end only to find her in her true home. Beached with the turtles. Moving the tides with each syncopated melody. By the time our girl was 9, mamãe stopped looking. She didn’t need ancient wisdom to know she could never stop a child from turning to her nature. “Essa menina não pertence aqui,” she would say. Lua’s full light was always in the heavens. And far as she could tell, there would only be one way to get to that resting place.