General information:
Vultures in the Living Room is now available internationally
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1087881447
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1087881447
For a copy, please email:
Digital copies:
Or Kindle/Amazon: Please leave a review
ISBN #9781087881447


PRESS RELEASE: Daniel Osieck interviews Lula Falcão live May 5 2021

Falcão spoke with Brazilian literary critic Daniel Osiecki during his weekly Viva Literatura program about the very moment he thought he’d become a writer: it was in 1964, when news arrived of the military coup, which forced his father to immediately strike a match and set the entire family library on fire. Book-lovers, intellectuals, artists, students, became enemies of the state.

“From Lenin to (Pope) John XXII, we burned everything,” said Falcão, describing his father’s attempt to save his own neck in the days following the coup. “My father was an Atheist but he loved John XXIII,” he added. A Communist and intellectual, Falcão said his father was a voracious reader of Russian literature, sharing his devotion early on with his son.

Disappearing for six months into the mythical Sertão, the semi-arid Brazilian outback, his father later re-emerged to a country ravaged by the ultra-nationalist, U.S.-backed regime. The “Lead Years” ensued, and echoes of the torture chambers resonated through every corner, a dark, overhanging cloud of horror became stationary for many years to come. That eeriness, against a backdrop of our paradisiacal tropics, has given birth to this very contemporary narrative we associate with Falcão.

Lula is a newspaperman, a product of clacking and chaos of the Diario de Pernambuco newsroom, as he told his host. Having been there, I can attest it was like stepping into a film noir classic, where most of the editorial decisions were negotiated at the seedy downstairs bar. He opened up about his circadian, extra-curricular activities during the military dictatorship: “In the daytime I was a newspaperman, but I was also working for the “movement” clandestinely.”

Here are some translated quotes from the interview:

“I place my characters in completely absurd situations from the standpoint of physics, they traffic through a disturbed natural landscape.”

“I have no ritual and I try to have an undisciplined approach. In the old days, I used to think that I could only write if I heard newsroom noises, those newsroom noises were something phenomenal, I began noticing that I was distancing myself from journalism when those noises began disappearing. And as I left the noise of the newsrooms, the noise also left the newsrooms. Today newsrooms sound like intensive care units, incredibly quiet… in the old days we would shout, smoke… even when computers arrived, but suddenly, newsrooms became smaller, more quiet…”

“ I don’t try to be fantastical in my stories. They are stories sometimes set in a dystopian environment, sometimes in a distorted in environment, sometimes in an environment that seems apparently normal…our reality now shows that anything could happen, may happen, could have happened.”

Please contact for review copies

Lula Falcão


Urubus na Sala


Translated by Helena Cavendish de Moura and Edited by Matt Miller

For more information and review copies:

Casa Forte Press is delighted to announce its first translation of Lula Falcão’s Vultures in the Living Room, available in all bookstores worldwide and on Kindle in February 2021.

Lula Falcão is a recognized name in the world of culture, journalism, and political activism in Brazil.

Falcão’s writing is unmistakably original. He balances the impossible in storytelling: his prose is atemporal but deeply rooted in Brazil’s recent dark history. It is fiction rooted in physics, Big Bang theory, and the geophysical apocalypse of the Anthropocene era. It is funny at times, slightly absurdist, suffused with irony and biting criticism. Falcão’s Vultures in the Living Room, like Ionesco’s post-war Rhinoceros, is an important reflection on human vulnerability during times of political and social uncertainty.
Facebook:Casa Forte Press


About a Friend, By Fiona Padfield

About a Friend  ©. copyright Fiona Padfield ‘92


There was never a moment when we met or introduced ourselves; we just knew each other and treated each other with respect.  I was, after all, his future wife; well, I presumed I was.  He would interrupt our conversations each evening to discuss the type of door knobs and window frames he had ordered for our house – once we were married.  I always agreed with his choice.  He favoured round, brass door knobs and simple window frames.

His hair was shaggy and grey and curly like a Dulux Paint dog on top, falling into heavy dreadlocks at the back.  His skin was covered in grime and his finger nails black, so I didn’t like to get too close, but he didn’t smell.  He wore a deep blue velvet jacket, sometimes a shirt beneath it, and jeans.  He had large, doll-like eyes with long lashes.  With his eyes and his lithe movements, he reminded me of a gazelle.   I don’t think I ever knew his name, nor he mine.   

He started leaving an apple or a crunchy bar on the bonnet of my car; he never admitted to it, but I caught him at it once or twice and like an animal about to be trapped, he disappeared.  Sometimes, if he’d left his offerings without being seen, he’d feel safe enough to pop out from behind a wall or parked van and watch me find my gifts.

He invited me to lots of parties.  The first was at midnight on the corner of New Bond Street.  I arrived on time.  He was delving into a cardboard box he’d placed on the window sill of a shop.  ‘Welcome to the feast!’ he said as he saw me and started to take crunchy bars and tins of ‘coke’ out of the box and line them along the pavement for me.  Eventually I tried to avoid his parties because they took a little too long and I was often late for my next performance.  But he didn’t stop giving me presents.

He started to leave odd pieces of material across the car – beautiful Indian cloth with golden thread woven into it, and lengths of rich black velvet, then clothes – new clothes, designer clothes complete with labels and price tags, and later, Victorian costumes.  Some were unfinished.  I’d turn a corner and catch his large eyes peering at me, then he’d vanish.   I wondered whether he’d raided a theatrical warehouse.  One night the pavement was lined with red velvet and my whole car, bonnet, windscreen and roof was draped in finery.  I removed it as quickly as I could, trying not to look conspicuous, and stowed it away in the boot.  When I tried the clothes on at home they didn’t fit; they were much too large.  I wanted to find out where he came from, but if I broached the topic we’d be off touring through the passages of our future house.  He was eloquent and, I suspect, highly educated.  

I noticed another couple of strippers becoming friendly with him, and felt a little jealous, but I knew I was his chosen one – he didn’t bombard them with presents.

I never said goodbye to him.  He just disappeared from my life as he had entered it.  I couldn’t trap him or catch him or help him or know him.  I could only, I suppose, love him a little.  He made me feel safe.  I had my own private bodyguard who followed me around the streets of Soho till three in the morning, and I was grateful.

A true story (700 words)