Tag: short story

46

  By

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.

34

  By

SIRENA

sirena

Sempre es dutxava seguint el mateix ritual. Suaument. Començava pels pits generosos, sostenint-los sobre les seues mans, per dalt, per baix, fent cercles entorn a l’aureola. Primer l’esquerre, després el dret. Sempre, sempre igual. La cara, la panxa, els braços. La difícil i inexpugnable esquena, estirant bé les puntes dels dits per arribar-hi amb les vores de l’esponja. Les cuixes, els genolls, els turmells tatuats, les engonals. Els malucs rodons i perfectes, tan desitjables, tan suavetes. Els voltants del sexe. El dret i dolorós sexe amb el seu cabet, la seua pell, que llavava curosament. Els testicles, tots rasurats. El perineu.

Sempre s’acabava excitant, i solia masturbar-se en eixe punt, mentre deixava actuar el suavitzant en la seua mitja melena pèl-roja. No li agradava, perquè eixa no era la manera en què es masturbava una dona. Aquelles xiques tan morenes i perfectes, convulsionant de plaer al contacte d’un doll d’aigua. Tan pures, tan pures. Tan distintes a eixe híbrid que mai deixaria de ser. Llavors es llavava fortament la palma de les mans, els testicles, el penis, quasi amb violència. Amb ganes d’esborrar el passat. De que per fi fóra un clítoris, i ella puguera tindre fills, i ningú recordara mai que quan era un xiquet, es deia Marc i plorava per les nits somiant amb el seu príncep blau.

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…”

18

  By

Ice

He took one last breath, causing him a deathly stabbing pain in his lungs, and to this air he dedicated the last conscious effort he felt he was capable of. He clung to the nearest rock so he would not slide down the slope as he lost consciousness while asking himself what was the point, if his unavoidable destiny would be marked on the moment he closed his eyes anyway. The air was so cold that he felt his skin chapping, painlessly; and it was so snowy that he could barely glimpse the shadow of his own hands, clasping the outcrop with difficulty.

The exhaustion prevented an outburst of rage and desperation that would have burnt out the little energy he had left. He slightly felt some self-pity. Why? was the only thing he was able to focus on, only this word was floating on his mind intermittently; it was the only one to which he thought he could find some sense, although not an answer.

–

“I have been looking for you for so long.”

It was not the first time that he had heard that voice or that same sentence. It repeated itself on an infinite loop all around him, closer and closer, brought by time and space; and it stuck to his skin like it was the only thing that could rescue him.

“I have been looking for you for so long… Come back to me.”

The voice broke and still exuded a compelling sweetness, the anxiety to be heard. It incessantly caressed him with its worn fingers and, where it lost contact, the twinges of pain caused by the cold emerged with cruelty.

He reacted slowly, strangely; he remembered having abandoned himself to death without even a last flutter of false victory and was surprised to wake up again. He did not want to wonder if he was alive. If he was not, too many questions would ensue for his tired body and exhausted mind to bear. He actually wanted to rest; but the voice, endless and ethereal, pushed him out of his quasi feverish reverie.

“I have been looking for you for so long… Come back to me… Do not leave me now.”

He opened his eyes without knowing if the voice did actually belong to a body, hardly scared though, and before him he only saw blue. Two blue eyes like the sky on a spring morning, shiny and bright, captivating.

17

  By

He looks at his bloodied hands and pauses.

Sighing, he looks up and sees the note on the wall, a note he had left for himself many years before, to remind him why he did these things. Words he had chosen that meant something, though they had lost all value here long ago. Words whose form had to be altered enough so that a casual glance could not find a trace of the original.

He was no linguist so he had borrowed from an alien and little known language. Its script was perfectly suited to his needs. He had attacked the transliteration project as carefully and methodically as he would any other project. When he had finished, he printed the result out onto glossy paper, to make it look like it was part of the marketing campaign of some new sci-fi or fantasy movie. Like the rest of the paperwork in the office, he had made sure that it was crumpled and had at least one coffee stain on it before sticking it up on the wall.

There had been no need to go to such extremes though, not really. The only visitors he had down here were the custodians, and they never stayed long enough to see anything. It was just him and the work. He looked up at the note one more time before proceeding to the next stage.

 

http://www.omniglot.com/images/langsamples/udhr_kryptonian.gif

 

 

16

  By

Kepa is guided to a lift. Restricted Area, an automated voice announces as they rise.

 

A mute scientist prepares his tools. He does not have much time. He presses his thumb and middle finger against a panel of white plastic on the wall, and then returns to his preparations. From the area he touched, a transparent hand emerges, followed by an arm, torso, legs and, ultimately, a full-bodied, ghostlike image of the scientist himself. It steps towards the table in the middle of the room and begins to monitor life signs.

 

It takes 17 seconds before the voice begins again – Basement – After which, there is a regular two second interval between floor announcements. Nobody gets in, nobody leaves; they do not stop. After a minute passes, Kepa feels the temperature change. The bandage over his eyes means he still cannot see anything, but there is a warmth on his face that feels like sunshine. The lift must have moved outside the building.

 

The scientist gets to work on the body. He begins with the vital organs, carefully removing them from their host and placing them in individual containers that rise from the floor, next to the bed. The containers are filled with fluid that quickly turns from clear to pink, and each one is connected to another. He strips the rest of the body, piece by piece, until the only thing on the table is blood and hair, and the scientist is surrounded by a web of containers.

 

The announcements eventually stop and Kepa is lifted to his feet once again. He stumbles out of the lift, guided by his old friend. The sun has gone. He is placed sitting on a table and instructed, not unkindly, to lie down. As he slowly wheels his legs up onto the table, he feels the sunshine on his face again, and leans back. Human hands lift his head and unwind the bandage. Beside him, Pedro hands a slim case to a woman: “So this is the one who has been marked?” She removes a syringe and allows three drops to fall into Kepa’s sockets. She hands back the syringe. By the time Pedro has placed the instrument back in its case, Kepa can make out a woman in her fifties with younger skin but her own hair.

 

 

8

  By

As Kepa watched, the figure stepped over the threshold of the church, out of the shadow of the door frame and into a shaft of sunlight that poured in from a gap in the fallen roof. Small clouds of dust billowed up around black leather boots with the first step, and the next. Tucked inside the boots were the legs of a crisply kept pair of trousers. These, and the matching sharp jacket, appeared to be a mottled grey colour, almost identical to the shade of grey of the church’s stonework. As the figure moved from shade to light, Kepa noted with appreciation, the colour of the uniform also seemed to change. A holster hung loosely from either hip. Most of the face was hidden under a brimmed hat with a tinted visor, only the ghost of ginger stubble peaked out.

–          They left a calling card.

–          You’re getting sloppy, granddad.

The man made his way slowly down the aisle, creating dust storms with every step.

–          Big man now you’ve got big clothes, eh? Look.

Kepa turned his shoulder to the approaching uniform, and looked back to the window, gesturing.

–          A great big, intricate pane glass window, complete with industry logo.

The guard drew up next to Kepa. He was half a foot taller and twice as broad. He glowered.

–          I could hear you a mile away.

–          No wonder with those ears.

–          Cheeky.

–          Always.

For a split second neither said a word, then, before Kepa could move, the guard dropped the bags and grabbed him, swinging him up in the air, laughing a deep belly aching laugh.

–          You always were a little shit! Haha!

Then, as soon as it started, it finished. The guard jumped back, releasing Kepa, who stumbled slightly as his feet hit the floor again.

–          This is a restricted area. Identify yourself.

The laugh was gone, another voice had taken over, one which brooked no argument. It was the uniform, not the man who was talking now. Kepa had landed next to the violin case but whoever was seeing through the guard’s visor would know that he had seen the window, wouldn’t they?

6

  By

Kepa stood at the crossroads and looked out over the canopy. The sun was high, the sky was clear. Shadows darted across the canopy as a hawk glided lazily overhead, finding warm currents to lift it towards the scrublands. Kepa shook the knapsack off his shoulder and took out a canister. He gave it an experimental shake, and frowned. The news he had heard about the city had distracted him for most of the journey and he had forgotten to refill the water when he passed the river earlier that morning. Distraction was a dangerous preoccupation in this part of the world; he had to focus.

Turning his back to the forest, he moved towards the Burnt City.

The Burnt City, that’s what it was known as now. Nobody questioned it, not really, that’s what it was; a city that had burned. That fact had meant many things, including emptying the road he now walked on of its daily thoroughfare of people traveling to and from the Capital. It had provided a handy income for wandering musicians or traders, and once in the forest section, Kepa thought momentarily wistful, there was plenty of opportunity for young lovers to have some time alone, away from the crowds.

But even now, so far after the event, there was no proper explanation as to how it had actually happened. Of the people who had escaped, no two had the same story to tell – some say it was bandits, others that it was rebels purging the city, a revolt of the lower classes, an enemy invasion, the end of days…Nobody knew for certain and the tales kept twisting and turning, changing with each new teller.

There was only one thing everyone could agree on: nobody who stayed behind had survived.

What most also knew but didn’t say aloud was that nobody was allowed to return. Although nobody knew why or by whose orders.

Digging in his trouser pocket, Kepa took out a crumpled piece of paper. He carefully unraveled it. Although old, crumpled and smudged there were still some legible words:

****************** disaster ****************** the fire from the ground **********captured, **************** ***********   flames

It was the only piece of paperwork to escape the city, an official document by the texture of the paper. It was enough to finally spur him on towards the charred remains of the Burnt City.

 

4

  By

–          Another?

–          Another.

–          How old?

–          Late teens.

 

–          Conditi#*?

 

–          ##**@####*#

 

–          #@#*ght?

–          Five foot six, #**###**

–          **####?

–          brow#

–          ######

–          ######

White noise fades in and out until the silence of darkness finally falls.

Everyone is marked somewhere.

A banjo plays.

Blinking, she opens her eyes. The room is blindingly white.  In front of her there is a short, old woman sitting on a crisp white bed. Everything is white: the room, the bed, the walls. Everything is pristine and blank.

From the old woman’s chin a long, grey beard grows, curling at the end where it sweeps between a pair of bare feet.  Her teeth grip a pipe, and a ruffled pink blouse explodes from beneath a drab pair of blue dungarees. The face of a grandfather clock swings from her neck by thick, frayed rope.

“Well hello, dearie. It’s a long way from home you are.”

Stepping down from the bed, the old woman edges closer, wearing a disconcerting smile.

“What is gone may never leave. Everyone is marked somewhere. And you’ve been marked. Oh yes, you mark my words.”

The white of the room flares brightly, blinding her again.

–          ####

–          ###.

–          **##?

–          **## increased to **##.

 

–          Conditi#*?

 

–          #tabilizin#

 

–          Can you **##?

–          No response. Wa##

–          Can you **##me?

–          Pupils responding. Pressure back to normal.

–          Do we proceed?

–          Hmm. Muscle is still good. Not too much nerve damage.

–          I would prefer a more suitable candidate.

–          Her city burned. You know what that means.

–          Hmm. And what she carried? Has it been identified?

–          There has been no reclamation. She is nobody.

Do we proceed?

–          …Begin

Darkness closes in again.

The last thing she hears is the whine of an electric saw.

Everyone is marked somewhere.