amanecer con climene

I can see the nymph from here in all her glory. Her skin, her clear body, the dawn reflected in her neck. The eternal line of her back, the dimples on her buttocks. The hair loose, flooding the pillow. She, carefree from me and everyone, plays to seem inert in the calm of her rest. She plays to sleep without letting me enter in his dream.

The nymph always turns her back on me. Now, when I try to make love to her; and also when she shows hermetic and unsympathetic to my attempts to drink her lips, or give my eyes to her. She has too many suitors; however, little or much, she ignores them all.

The nymph dawdles on the white canvas of her blankets, draws hills and mountains on the bed and on her body. I look at the bruises on her side. Damn nymph, why don’t you let me love you, why I do not cease to love you, why don’t you keep far of your hips all of those that hurt you, taking your back – your everlasting back now I kiss – and mark on them their gross men fingers, their unconscious kicks. No, nymph, not; can’t you see that they are wearing you out?

In the morning light, the nymph looks incredibly beautiful, mysterious, like a river to plough through or a bunch of stars. Her skin smells like cinnamon and sandalwood; and beyond, like musk and fruit. Like church incense her breasts, which I guess when I crown the top of her neck. And her belly, which smells like bread, as it smells good women bellies.

Perhaps I love the nymph. Only perhaps. Desire is confused with the hatred in such an easy way… How to love her imperturbable back, her unwavering stubbornness, her mysterious coquette woman’s face. How not to love every one of those rays of sun, in order to settle on her skin and penetrate her with sweetness, and warm her heart. How not putting my heart and soul in the attempt to see her smile, determined, in my arms, away from the bruises of all those that should never, never have touched her.


Kepa awoke. He had not realised that he had fallen asleep. Something in the room had changed. He lifted himself up into a sitting position and stretched. Then, cotton mouthed and groggy, he reached for the glass of water. When he had drunk his fill, he kept the glass in his hand, moved the laptop, which was still on the bed, threw back the covers and stood up. He immediately fell over.


The glass fell from his grip and rolled across the floor. Kepa watched it softly rumble away, and heard the gentle clink when it finally reached the far wall. And that was when he saw her. There, a handspan from where the glass had settled, she stood, her ebony body curved and mottled. She looked at him, glowing, and he heard that voice again.

Kepa, you’re home.

Still lying prone on the floor, he grinned in delight.

Bianca? Bianca?!

Pulling himself by his elbows, he made his way to her. Home? Yes, this must be home. He would think about what that meant later. They had been apart so long. What had happened to her? Would she remember him? Would she forgive him for losing her? Surely she knew why, surely. With growing anxiety, he dragged his body to her. When he reached the wall, he drew himself up alongside her and sat up. She did not reach out, but she did not withdraw either. There was hope yet.





vendedores ambulantes

For sale: endings. I have them in all colors: worn, souring, completely wrong. Prejudiced, consistent, decisive. For sale: endings, one by one, and they are sold in a cared Luxury Edition, enclosed in freezer bags and decorated with a red satin ribbon (blood red, for those who doubt about it).

For sale: endings for desperated people, for old flames, for old smiles. For those who never knew to say goodbye, and for the flirty ones with vacuous look. Endings made of false ink, that one reappearing throughout the years. Endings for those who don’t like the endings, for those who have seen too many station kisses, for those who don’t want to run anymore. For those who flee and seek finding themselves.

For sale: clever, clumsy, painful endings. Endings that will persecute your whole life, endings that you don’t know why they arrived, endings that will make you cry when you see them. All of them soft, or steep, or irritating to skin and pupils. To hair. Endings that will eat you nails, endings that remove you the laughter. Endings that aren’t really endings, but things left incomplete. Unexplained endings. Hurting endings. Endings of the own error.

Finally, I have the one euro endings section, those that you don’t mind to carry. They are sold in a gift paper pack; some of them even rolled up in kebap paper (understand it, it’s just an euro…). All handmade by fingers and thumbs. And ladies and gentlemen, here I put my stand, because the weight of all these endings doesn’n let me advance anymore.



MM Inc
Eden Inc

The two global multinational companies present an idyllic front, aided in part by heavy investment in Public Relations and legal counsel.

Current law suits between the two companies stands at over 100. Official company to company suits include copyright, property damage, theft, defamation and corporate espionage. Suits between employees of the companies include theft, property damage, sexual assault, grevious bodily harm, homocide and stalking. Several suits have been filed to secure restraining orders.

Tension between the two companies increased after the release of confidential documents on either side. The documents detailed prototypes and methods of using Stribs similar to contemporary usage. The release was orchestrated by officials within both MM and Eden Inc to encourage cooperation between the corporate giants. When the five scientists involved in the release were found dead, both MM and Eden Inc accused the other of murder and refused any further dealings with the other. No culprit was discovered. The case remains unsolved.

As the main employers of the Seven Districts, a clear division between neighbourhoods were formed, and increasing conflict scarred communities. Government officials made several attempts at local and national level to control the violence. Any attempt had little, if any, impact.

A new group finally emerged. Their origins are unknown though it is believed that their influence was the initial five scientists – to seek advancement through cooperation. Their selection process and training methods are unknown. Their internal structure is unknown.

Although initially unclear, it is understood that they are not a government organisation, nor hold affiliation with either of the two main parties. They police both MM and Eden Inc., broker agreements between them when needed. After the introduction of Gardening, they were granted Freedom of Elysium.


The files that followed were listed sequentially by number. He clicked on a random one:

Redistribution Units

Commonly referred to as Stribs.


Redistribution Units function as locators, collectors and distributors of biological matter. Originally designed by Dr Stellar Huuman for the Brightlight community as a way to safely dispose of toxic material that remained after the ###############.

############ lead to ######### and although ########### to buy the patent, the courts ruled in favour of governmental ownership. This was to ensure its use for civilian safety. #####################

############# sentencing  ############public outcry. ############# ##################################

Commercial enterprises soon began to design and market their own versions of Stribs, with varied success. Two companies in particular became notable during this time. ######################### One caters primarily to the science community, the other to the cosmetic industry.

Conflicting intelligence has been gathered from both companies. It is unclear whether reports of ##################  or whether ################. Surveillance is on going.

Stribs are a constant presence in society. Their access level is universal. As such they are given high surveillance priority. Their vast numbers, however, make constant surveillance problematic. There are ongoing discussions at political level.


It had taken mere seconds to decode the message. The familiar penstrokes and the formula that had been used could only have been from one person: Pedro. It was what they used to do to lock mentors out of certain private messages.

Once the password had been keyed in, he was greeted with a list of files. He read the first, and it left him much to think about. As he clicked through the others, skimming through their content, his mind kept wandering back to that first file:

What did he remember?

What did he forget?

How would he know?

After what seemed like hours, he pushed the tablet aside threw his head back and rubbed his eyes and then reached for the rest of the water. How thirsty he was! He drained most of the tepid liquid and, for the first time since he had woken up, took a good look around at his surroundings.

His bed was pushed against the wall, and besides the bedside table, the only other room furnishings consisted of a multicoloured rug that lay in the centre of the remaining floorspace and a watercolour beach scene, which hung on the wall across from the bed – the sun was just about to set and a couple strolled arm in arm along the seafront, beneath an explosion of reds, oranges, purples, greens and whites. An idyllic scene. Other than that, the room was bare. There was no clock, no communication device other than the table, which appeared to be a static device. The walls were unusually high, and light entered the room through two windows above him, both out of reach.

The fire is warm and he is comfortable where he is, for the moment. He reached for his glass and polished off the water. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he decided to go through some more files before he had to think about food.


In a wood cabin, a fireplace crackles out heat, warming a room where a man stirs from a deep sleep. Next to the bed, which creaks as the man begins to wake, there is a night stand with a glass of water, a hand written note and a computer tablet.

Kepa opens his eyes. Layers of thick blankets weigh down on him. The smell of dust and lavander ease him into the waking world. He turns to take in his surroundings and every muscle in his body complains. Slowly, he pulls himself into a sitting position. The room is warm and he is grateful that someone thought to leave a glass of water for him. He gulps down half and returns the glass to the table. Picking up the tablet, he notices that it is password protected and turns to look at the note:




You have one minute.

The light inched towards him. He stepped back as it crept towards his feet, and tripped back onto the chair behind him. As he stumbled, he reached back and caught sight of more blue out of the corner of his eye; somehow, the light had managed to circle behind him. He was surrounded. Crouching on top of the seat, he looked towards the vendor who stood paused next to the stand, holding the tongs up and still wearing his lopsided grin. When he spoke this time, though, the usual cheeriness was replaced with a hollow monotone: “You have thirty seconds”.

The temperature dropped. Kepa looked down and watched the bronze legs of the park bench beneath him change to blue. As soon as it touched the toe of his boot, a dark fog clouded his vision. He could not see anything and he could not move his feet. There was no more light, not more people and, which bothered him more than the rest, no more Ellie. And it was freezing. Then he saw it, from deep within the gloom, a red light burned. Numb with the cold, he reached out towards it, willing its warm light closer. As it approached, its curves and contours slowly came into focus. He gazed at it curiously as a familiar shape began to form but just before he could make it out, it began to fade, shrinking into the distance and blurring into a glowing red blob. Finally, it faded to nothing, taking its light, its meaning, and his memory. All he knew was that it felt as though he was falling upwards.

“Kepa. Kepa, can you hear me? Kepa, you’re home”.







“Blue? What is Blue to you? Ha, ha! See what I did there? I should have been a poet, I tell ya!” The vendor guffawed, clearly pleased with himself. Kepa ignored him, staring instead at the tower, his forehead furrowed in thought.


“Come on then”, he gestured with a pair of tongs, “you can have one of these, on the house. You look like you need cheering up”.

Blue. Why can’t I remember? The colour means something. Blue for the sky, blue for the sea, blue for sensible corporate business. Blue for loyalty blue for intelligence, blue for memory…

The vendor pulled out a small, concealed drawer and with the tongs delicately removed what looked like a mini burrito. He placed it with care into a cardboard case and trotted the couple of steps over to his frowning companion. The gathering crowd looked only at the billowing steam.

“Here, try this one on for size. New variety. You’ll love it. People are dying for it! hahahaha”


Absently, Kepa palmed the roll, feeling the warmth in his fingers. He was cold, he realised, and popped the roll into his mouth.

Blue for the sea. Blue for memories….

He choked, coughing and spluttering as part of the roll went down his wind pipe. He doubled over with the effort to dislodge the piece of food. When it finally moved, he stood up and looked to the vendor who was looking back at him with a grin.

“What is blue to you?”

Kepa looked at the Elysium, shining brilliantly in the dark of night. Then, he turned to the vendor and his stand. The stand had not been touched since the vendor first opened it yet it still billowed out steam, a steam that enticed almost all, no, Kepa realised, every single person who passed by was drawn to it. He looked around. Every last person stood, staring at the vendor’s stand, some visibly salivating. And yet, it began to dawn on him, looking at the stand properly for the first time, that he could smell nothing. Whatever was drawing them in, was not affecting him. The vendor cocked his head and nodded towards Ellie. To Kepa, it looked as though the tower was beginnning to leak light. Blue seeped at first, then rapidly gathered force, covering the landscape in an icy glow. He watched as it crept nearer and nearer, until it began to touch the gathering crowd, draining them of any hues of pink or red. It did not just make them look frozen, it was, he suddenly realised, literally, freezing them in place. He turned quickly to find the vendor.

With his usual cheerful expression the vendor said: “You have three minutes”.