Tag: short stories

46

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Mother

“Víctor.”

“Yes?” he answered mechanically as he tensed; delicate topics could only grow in crescendo.

“If you ever have babies, and one of them is a boy, would you name it Blue?”

“Blue?”

“As a name.”

“But Blue is not a name for a person,” he repeated, feeling himself at the beginning of the conversation again.

“But I like it,” she argued, tenacious, like every time she made a decision she was fully convinced of.

“You like very weird things.”

“Ana is weird and you like her.”

“Ana is weird?” Víctor was surprised, he did not thought his girlfriend had any particular weirdness at all; the fact was that he actually considered her to be excessively ordinary.

“Yes.”

“Wow…” he did not want to ask the nature of such an assertion.

“So, are you going to name your baby Blue?”

“I’ll have to ask Ana.”

“Why?” the girl’s utter surprise tone pleased Víctor.

“The baby’s mother should have an opinion, shouldn’t she?”

“But I don’t want you to have babies with Ana,” Cristina was horrified, she did not know his brother’s girlfriend but she was sure she would not like her, she was not appropriate for him, her brother, her constant and pillar, who deserved more, so much more, someone unique, exceptional, like him; someone absolute.

“Why?”

“I don’t like Ana.”

“You don’t know her. Also, I’m the one who has to like her.”

“Do you love her?”

“I don’t know,” that he had asked himself more than once, but he also did not sense from her any specially stirring behaviour.

“But she’s your girlfriend.”

“Yeah. But that comes with time. Would your rather she wasn’t?”

“Yes. I want you to have a boyfriend named Blue.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” he repeated once more.

“Because you like girls.”

“Yes…”

“You’re weird too,” sentenced the girl with a firmer tone than him.

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she articulated while smiling with her mouth full of bread and cheese, not even waiting for the last chunks Víctor had just removed from the fire to cool down.

33

  By

ELS DISSABTES, LES PROSTITUTES MATINEN MOLT PER A ESTAR DISPOSADES.

 

Enfront de ma casa viu una puta. És una dona jove i mulata, de carns lluentes i rodones, que viu a soles i rep als clients en sa pròpia casa. Li agrada matinar –a la manera en què matinen les putes, és a dir, a les 11 o 12 del matí els dies que més prompte- i obrir les cortines per a que la llum indirecta del dia que arriba als finestrals del segon pis d’un carreró de barri pobre inunde la seua sala d’estar, tan llunyana de aquelles sales mal pintades de la casa de poble on tota la seua família s’arremolinava per fer-se amb un tros de iuca que la iaia fregia de bon matí.

La veig estirar-se, ensenyant les cuixes desgastades, entre el seu pijama blanc i lleuger que deixa els pits lliures i les cames mostrant la pròpia lluentor primària, un parell de pisos baix del meu, davant la finestra que deixa oberta com a reclam de clients. Sempre el mateix: s’arreplega els rínxols en una cua, dalt del cap, neteja tot allò que ha quedat escampat de la nit anterior i, mentre es cou l’arròs i es fregeix el plàtan que acostuma a desdejunar, trau la caixa dels retrats i els neteja, un a un, la pols amb un drap que després subjecta amb les cuixes –les rodones i cotitzades cames- amb tal de tindre les mans lliures per a col·locar-los, amb un curós ordre genealògic, en la tauleta que hi ha baix de la finestra, on romandran fins que a això de mitja vesprada, quan els homes casats logren escapar-se i els solters s’avorrisquen de buscar sense èxit alguna cosa interessant a la tele, comencen a vindre a veure-la ballar les mateixes mans que ara col·loquen a la iaia al centre, al tiet José Antonio, a la cosina Altagracia, als bessons Julio César i Ramona, i a la senyora Francisca, una dona que s’està construint amb els diners que li envia una preciosa caseta vora el mar per a retirar-se a la jubilació amb la seua filla, periodista en Espanya, figure’s vosté quin orgull per a una mare.

33

  By

Flowers

 “I would love to fuck you, will you let me?” he whispers in my ear, caressing me with his broken and fluid voice from which I drink like a hungry baby.

But it is not a question. It is in its origin: he is asking me, but when it reaches me it is not anymore; I only hear a desire, a longing that I know not if it is his or mine anymore. And he does not wait for an answer, why would he?, he already knows it, of course he knows it, it cannot be more obvious. Every single fibre in me, every pore from my skin writhes, impulses me against him and screams yes, of course yes, fuck me, disappear inside me and make me disappear with you.

He undoes the only button in his excessively antiquated underwear and he does not need his hands to get rid of it. No, he just gently swings his hips, slowly, like all of his movements, as if elegance fought with languor and made him into a simple continuum of seduction. He moves his hips while he moves his hands all over me and the fabric slides along his perfectly sculpted legs.

I know I am going to lose control, I feel it escaping from me like a handful of sand between my fingers, and I try to fight against it, to resist, because when the moment comes I will no longer be responsible of my actions and I will submit myself to his desires because they are the same as mine. I do not want to be a puppet, I need not to lose control. Once I have lost it I will be completely his, but he will not be mine, not fully. I barely know if he is it even a little.

His tongue tangles over my body opening trails of fire on its way; I melt and I feel myself starting to disappear when he glides it along my penis. I cannot help moaning, and with every moan it escapes from me a shred of my limited self-control. I get tense, or loose. Or…

I want to be able to think with clarity, but I palpitate inside his mouth and his moans blend with mine like a chorus that rises on the same rhythm and the echo of which jumps on the high ceilings of the room. But he retires in the middle of the way, not having gotten close to letting me finish, and I am thankful for it because I want to make this moment last, shape it in my hands and savour it.

The Prince separates my legs and places himself between them, he bends over me and licks my lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Yes…”

25

  By

Mother

 “We’re alone again and it’s dinner time. What do we cook tonight?”

Both walked into the kitchen, Victor trying to shake off the unpleasant sensation his mother had left him with, and the kid trotting by his side.

“I want cheese.”

“You always want cheese.”

“Mum says it’s good.”

“Mum…” he bit his tongue not to make the mistake of saying something bad about their mother in front of his sister. “OK.”

His mother’s sudden and completely indifferent attitude was totally incomprehensible for him. Only until a few months ago he had always found her excessively sweet and curious. When Victor thought about his mother, the first image that came to his mind, the most powerful, was her head appearing, cheerfully, at his door when she came from work and asking him about his day. His everlastingly patient mother, who used to give him advice, usually too indiscrete, about the girl he was going out with. The woman who, more than once, he and his sister had emotionally blackmailed so she went out with her friends to have some fun, even for a few hours, for them to be able to enjoy throwing themselves at the sofa, watching some films and eating popcorn until feeling ill. But now…

Victor felt the intense look of his sister on his back while he took out every kind of cheese he could find in the fridge and started to fear any of her too elaborated questions judging by the silence of the kid. He chose the easy way and looked for some bread too.

“You told mum you’re going out tonight. Are you seeing Ana?”

“Yes, I am. Do you want me to tell her something?” although the kid had not shown any interest for the girl he was going out with, for some reason, he always tried for some kind of friendship to arise between the women in his life.

“No. I don’t like it,” not in the form of a question, but the girl, indeed, let the issue drop.

“You don’t like Ana?”

“No. It’s a too common name.”

“Well, it’s the one she’s got.”

“I’d rather you go out with someone with a prettier name.”

Victor could not help but laugh. Maybe his sister thought he had chosen the girl because of her name. Maybe her looks. Why not? How else, he thought, would kids choose the things they like. Some reflection about that idea emerged on the depths of his mind, but he opted for dismissing it.

“Prettier? Like what?”

“Blue.”

21

  By

Body

Verlässt die Seele den Körper , wenn man stirbt?
Wohin geht sie ?

Diese ganze Denkweise – dass da etwas zurückbleibt und etwas verschwindet – ist irreführend. Der grobe Körper, den wir kennen, ist nur ein Saatkorn, eine äußere Schale. Es gibt auch feinere Körper, sie hüllen die Seele weiter ein, selbst wenn sie den Körper verlässt. Diese Körper sind ebenfalls Teil von dir. Der Körper, der jetzt mit mir ist, ist Teil des Universums, aber weil wir unser Selbst für das unsrige halten, entsteht das Problem: wo hört mein Körper auf? Wenn du tief in diese Frage hineingehst, erkennst du, dass das ganze Universum Teil von dir ist, Teil von deinem Körper

14

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As he begins to prepare the room, tools clatter to the floor. Leaning towers of paper, sagging forlornly on desks and chairs, tumble. Among the medical paperwork empty tins of takeaway food rations, fliers and copies of local newspapers are revealed in the sudden whirlwind of activity.

 

 

 

 

traveltravel2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sarifindustries

Image via Kotaku

 

 

 

Image via ReCode

Image via <Re/Code>

 

 

 

 

A small tablet falls from his pocket. It is set to Historical Popular Culture, subsections Medical and/or Technology.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DISCLAIMER

Some images here are not mine or I have altered images to suit the story. All credit to the original owners are provided through links under the respective image. The First cartoon image I created with ToonDoo: http://www.toondoo.com/

 

 

 

9

  By

Kepa put his hands in the air.

“Just a wandering minstrel. Sorry boss, didn’t realise this area was out of bounds. Didn’t see any signs. Just thought it was abandoned ruins. They’re always good for a song!”

–          This area is quarantined. All occupants have been evacuated. No personnel are permitted within the boundaries of the city until the area until further notice. You must vacate this area immediately.

“Sorry boss, I’ll leave.”  The minstrel went to pick up the case and then stopped to look up at the guard. “Tell me boss, is the beach off-limits too? I hear the sunset down there is not to be missed, well, that’s what a poet told me, anyway. Tho, to be honest, his information’s not been the most reliable of late. Told me there’d be lots of people to play to on the way here! Not a sinner! Almost glad there isn’t anyone here, ‘cos I couldn’t afford a hunk of bread.”

–          The city has been quarantined. You must exit the area.

 “All right, boss. I’m on my way.”

As he passed the guard, he looked up into the visor and said “Nice windows, looks familiar. Maybe I’ll add it to my song.”

He felt a sudden burning sensation before the world went dark.

 

——————————————————————————————————–

Regulations for Item Disposal:

Identify item for disposal. Personnel must be provided with requisite data as to the composition of item for disposal. The correct method of disposal may then be ascertained and carried out.

Any chemical substances that require special collection must be declared before personnel are sent to retrieve any item. Failure to do so will result in delay and possible fines to the relevant department. Loss of life claims will be directed to the same department.

Personnel may be identified by their distinctive uniform:

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