15K

Forget it. Now I want to run a Marathon =)

A Day in the Möbius Strip

   The alarm clock. I thought it was Saturday. Must be Friday.

   Without thinking about it, I throw my arm towards the device. Snooze. I press it two or three times, to no effect, before opening my eyes. The flashing number seven, colon, zero zero, bothers me. What a bore. I press the button once more but the sound, bothersome as well, continues.

   What did he tell me? The clock is my roommate’s. He’s a professor at a prestigious university. Theoretical physicist. To me, he’s one of those mad scientists. “Don’t press snooze,” that’s what he said. “Don’t bother pressing it, since it doesn’t work,” would have been a more adequate warning.

   The radio sounds while I undress. Sometimes, I think that the only thing that changes in my day by day are the songs I hear. Shower, shirt, shoes. Something’s missing. Shove off? The cold wind hits my naked legs. I return for the pants I did not put on before getting out of the flat.

   I will be one of the first to buy one of those automatic automobiles. Auto-automobiles. The one’s that drive themselves, I mean. After all, I drive the same route daily. Why not let a machine do the heavy work? With the new parking policy, I even arrive to the same space every day.

   Speak to the colleagues, drink some coffee, have lunch at the same eateries and fast-food chains. Honestly, now that I think about it, I believe I’ve not stopped going to the company’s mess hall in a long time.

   Is it important to describe what I do for a living? It’s a rhetorical question. “No, it is not,” would be a good captious answer. Captious because this one time, a skunk broke into the office and it was a pretty funny day. That happened... too long ago. I can’t remember the exact date. Did I live that or did I dream it?

   The point is that the way back home is, also, boring. For dinner, yesterday’s leftovers. By now, they are nothing more than little pieces of meat and vegetables. Vestigial vegetables of something that I don’t remember eating since a long time ago. I shit you not, I don’t know what I had for dinner last night.

   The TV’s programming offers nothing innovative nor too interesting. The websites that I check don’t either. The jokes are yesterday’s, and from the day before, and so on and so forth until the first, and only, day in which I found them funny.

   Still, I don’t go to bed until my eyes are completely red. If you asked me, I wouldn’t even be sure of what I saw on the internet. Pornography, maybe. It’s curious, the amount of media that I consume without thinking about its quality. Junk food everywhere, for the stomach and the brain. For the heart. Everything in this world clogs your arteries.

   But, anyway, it’s the weekend. Staying up late will do me no harm. I barely ask myself why I didn’t go out with a friend or a girl for a beer or a gin tonic. Whatever.

   The consuetudinary insomnia. I casually turn over my bed. I’m hot, real hot. Damn. It’s one of those classic nights. It will seem that as soon as I can fall asleep, the alarm will go off. It’s always the same. Oh, but it’s the weekend, right? Have I already said that? I feel that the tiredness finally knocks me out, that’s the last conscious thought that I have in this starless and Moonless night.

   The alarm clock. I thought it was Saturday. Must be Friday.

Short Story. October, 2015.

Christmas Five

   “But, how does he do it mum?”

   “I don’t know honey. It’s just magic.”

   Chance was not satisfied with his mother’s answer. He remained there, looking at her with his brown eyes wide open. She left the candle on the table and turned towards him.

   “Honey,” she said, “I really don’t know. He’s not like you, or me. He just can and he does it. Take it on faith.” She caressed Chance’s cheek and smiled. She kissed him on his forehead. “Now go on and write your letter. If you don’t, how will he know what to bring you?”

   Chance walked away and sat at his little table, next to the Christmas tree. He grabbed a green crayon and continued. It had become a tradition on its own, to write his letter to Santa and decorate it with a little drawing. This year it was a turtle. His mind wasn’t completely in the task at hand, though, and he kept thinking until it hit him: if Santa Claus could deliver presents to children all over the world in a single night, wouldn’t he also be able to know what he wanted for Christmas without him having to write it down? He should be magical, after all.

   His father returned. He had spent most of the previous half hour looking for his football magazine’s pre-season special issue. It had been buried for far too long somewhere in his studio, and it was time to take it out again and remember the stats and forecasts about how the teams were likely to perform throughout the season. He sat on the couch, a couple metres from Chance, and continued to watch the game, while skimming through the mag. Not long after, mom approached.

   “The wreath is ready,” she said while sitting on the couch’s arm.

   Dad glimpsed at her. “Third quarter’s ending,” he said nonchalantly and resumed his watching. Silence fell as he felt his wife’s gaze, still upon him. “Five more minutes,” he said.

   “Five. No more.”

   His father nodded.

   “I’m getting Marnie,” said mom. She walked towards the staircase. “Chance, get ready for the wreath.” She proceeded upwards.

   Chance looked at his father, who winked at him. Ten minutes later, the four of them were sitting at the dining table.

   The Advent wreath was a family tradition. Every Sunday, for the four weeks before Christmas, they’d light each of the wreath’s four candles, have a family activity and say a little prayer. It was the first week, so the activity was that his parents recounted how they prepared for both his and his sister’s births. Chance already knew the stories. He remembered them from the previous year, and the year before that. His mind began to wander and he drifted away, until his mother called him.

   “Chance, do you want to say today’s prayer?”

   He gently shook his head. His mother then turned to Marnie, who shook her head as well.

   “Okay, I’ll do it today. But one of you is going to do it next Sunday.” The four held hands. His mother went on to give thanks and to ask for health and prosperity for the whole family. Their rite was over.

   His parents started to question Marnie. They asked her how she felt about high school and if she already had any idea of what college she’d like to go to. Since Chance wasn’t interested, he returned to his little table and his drawing. When he finished, he got up and approached the stocking.

   “Need help, shrimp?” asked his sister. Unbeknownst to Chance, she had sat on the couch and was reading some brochures.

   He knew he couldn’t reach it. Chance turned to her sister, stuck his tongue out and started to drag his little chair towards the wall.

   Marnie laughed and got up, walked towards him. “Don’t make a fuss, shrimp. Here… give it to me,” she said as she reached out.

   “Don’t call me a shrimp,” said Chance self-consciously. He thought that, even for a nine year old, he was a little bit too short.

   “Okay bro,” said Marnie after a silent moment. She reached out again.

   Chance gave her the letter. “Don’t read it!” he shouted when Marnie started to open it. She smiled and closed it, then threw it in the stocking. “Have you written yours?” he asked.

   “No.”

   “Why not?”

   “I want something that Santa can’t bring me,” she said as she walked back to the couch. Chance followed her.

   “But… he’s magic, isn’t he? What could he possibly not bring you?” He sat next to his sister.

   “You will understand when you’re older,” she said. “Besides, I don’t want to hog Santa. What if I ask for something so big that he doesn’t bring anything to you?” Chance’s eyes widened and Marnie laughed again. She stroked his head. “See? Now, don’t worry. He’ll get you what you want.”

   “Marnie?” His sister looked at him, expectantly. “How does he do it? How does he manage to bring toys to kids all over the world in a single night?”

   “I don’t know, you little creep. Now go away,” she said as she waved Chance off. She picked up a brochure and kept on reading.


   The next weeks dragged slowly for Chance. Even more than in previous years, he found himself painfully waiting for Santa Claus, and for the presents he would bring, of course. The moments he found the most comforting were when he talked with his friends about what they had asked for. It was funny how they said to be sure that they had made it to the ‘nice’ list, but remained cautiously doubtful within. If he was to be asked, Chance would probably say that the most interesting conversation he had was one with his friend Thomas.

   “I don’t believe you,” had said Chance.

   Tom shrugged. He began to walk away.

   Chance ran after him. “But, I mean… tell me how.”

   “I just woke up, okay? Jesus, I shouldn’t have told you!” Tom hastened his pace.

   “So… you just woke up and there he was? In your room?”

   “No dummy, not in my room.” Both stopped. “I went downstairs and there he was, next to the tree.”

   “And?”

   “And… what?”

   “And what did you do?” Chance’s voice fluctuated between awe and bewilderment.

   “Nothing. I went back to my room.”

   “I don’t believe you,” had said Chance, again.

   Now, it was Christmas Eve. The tree’s lights played their usual symphony of bright and dim, while Chance and his sister watched special holiday cartoons on the TV. Mom would cook a feast, and dad would go out, to buy some last minute necessities. It was all too slow. Chance felt that even the day’s religious rites and the Christmas dinner unfolded too unhurriedly. He was eager for the nightfall. He had devised a marvellous plan.

   Just before bedtime, Chance drank a litre and a half of water. The need to go pee woke him up at two thirty in the morning. His footsteps were not heard as he made his way downstairs. The floor kept from creaking and the doors kept from squeaking. And there it was, at last. The Christmas tree was still without presents. He thought about sitting on the couch, but feared that its leather would sound, giving his position away. He sat on the floor. By two fifty, it was uncontrollable and he went to the bathroom. He did it as fast as he could, and rushed back without even flushing or washing his hands. However, Santa had already come and gone. Disappointed, Chance went back to bed.

   His sister woke him up later, urging him to “not being a pig” and to “flush the toilet when he went”. Downstairs, he opened his present. It was the superhero action figure he had asked for, wrapped in a silver box with a golden bow. Family breakfast, lunch and dinner came, as well as a series of board games in which Chance didn’t partake. He was sitting next to the Christmas tree, ignoring all distant sounds, just playing with his new toy. At night, he felt like he slept for a long, long time.


   The year that saw Chance turn ten was a blur. He had vague recollections of the moments he had experienced and of the things he had seen all through the year. The only certainty he knew was that autumn had come after summer, and that they both had followed spring. It was winter again, and eleven months had gone by without a moment’s notice. Chance was putting on some formal black pants, a formal white shirt and a black bow tie. The calendar marked the date as December 24th. They were spending Christmas with their grandparents. Probably. Before long, Chance was once again thinking about Santa Claus, mainly how he’d know where to deliver his presents if he was away, visiting family far from home. His mother called for him and the road trip began.

   Christmas dinner was great. Chance had always loved grandma’s cooking, especially her duck à l’orange. Everyone was having dessert after the main course. Well, everyone but Chance, anyway. His grandparents were chatting with Marnie, inquiring about what she wanted to do with her life. Chance excused himself and started to roam. He went down to the cellar. There, he found a long string with many rattle bells attached to it. He smiled and took it with him, hid it in the guest room where he and his sister were going to sleep in. After everyone had gone to bed, he sneaked into the living room. He tied the string to the chimney, right next to the Christmas tree, and returned to his room. He was not sure how he was able to do it without waking everyone up, since the bells rang wild and loudly.

   Chance woke up to the chiming. At first, he was little bit scared. When he remembered that it was his doing, he rushed to the living room. He was so excited that he didn’t notice the empty bed beside his, or the sunlight that was already filtering through the drapes. His sister was standing there, playing with the rattle bells, as if composing a song. It was too late, and the presents were already beneath the tree. Chance’s parents and grandparents arrived at the living room and stood around, until Marnie finished fooling around. Afterwards, the presents were opened. Chance got a pair of skates. He went outside, tried them, and didn’t return until it was time to go back home. Then, sitting on the back seat, he fell profoundly asleep.


   Chance was tucked in bed. He lazily opened one eye, then the other one. He got up and out of his room. The whole house was dark, and the only thing Chance could hear was the living room clock’s distant ticking. He made his way downstairs, and even further into the cellar. There was a big calendar, which he didn’t recognize, on the wall. He felt so drowsy he couldn’t read it. Yet, somehow, he knew the date. It was December 25th and another year had gone by without him really acknowledging it. Everything was foggy, out of focus. He made an effort, but couldn’t even remember his birthday party. He had turned eleven that year. The clock marked two in the morning as he returned upstairs.

   The kitchen floor was impeccable, and the pantry was full with cereal boxes and bread. And flour. Chance grabbed the big flour package and brought it to the living room. He was just going with the flow, moving mechanically, even when he started to pour the white powder all over the floor, starting at the chimney and all the way up to the Christmas tree. Chance felt tired, and didn’t fully understand why he had spread the flour. Maybe, on a subconscious level, he felt like Santa’s footprints would be valid proof of his ability to run the world in a single night. He returned to his bed, leaving the package on the first step of the stairwell.

   His mother’s shouts woke him up. Chance ran downstairs. His mother was extremely upset and his sister was laughing uncontrollably. His father had started sweeping. The whole living room was covered in a white layer of flour, as if it had snowed indoors, and the family’s footsteps were everywhere, except for a narrow path that ran from the chimney to the presents in front of the tree: a couple of brand new bicycles, for Chance and his sister. Chance smiled incredulously. His mother, upon discovering his grin, made him vacuum the whole house.

   The cold breeze felt good on his face as he rode his new bike downhill. His sister had also gone out on hers, but he didn’t know where she went. The only thing that mattered now was the ride. He raced the wind, pedalling against it as fast as he could. He returned home late in the afternoon. His parents were watching the Christmas football match on TV. His sister’s door was shut; she probably had returned and was minding her own business. Chance felt exhausted, so he entered his room and went to bed. He didn’t make too much out of the fact that he, in the entire day, didn’t get out of his pyjamas.


   Chance’s stomach growled. He woke up hungry, feeling as if he hadn’t eaten a thing for a long time. The house was, once again, in darkness. Marnie’s door was wide open, so he peeked inside. She wasn’t there, so he kept going. He stopped at the living room, where it struck him as odd that the clock was nowhere to be found. His stomach growled again. He entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was filled with Christmas leftovers. He picked a salad bowl and took it with him. He sat on the living room’s couch. A ray of moonlight was the only thing that disturbed the stillness of the room. It pointed directly at the Christmas tree. He noticed the stocking that hung right next to it. He walked over to it.

   The stocking was full. Inside, Chance found a letter. It was his handwriting, but he had no recollection of writing it. He tried to read, but there was not enough light. A chill went down his spine. He put the letter back in the stocking and went upstairs. He went into his sister’s room and looked for her old video camera. He didn’t find it, so he went into his room. He wasn’t sure of what he was searching for until he found it. Inside a box that had a note that read “Happy Twelfth” he found a camera of his own. It didn’t matter. He was moving mechanically again, without thinking too much about anything. He placed his camera on the living room’s couch, pointing towards the tree. He hit the record button and returned upstairs, without even thinking how tall he was, and how he had already reached the stocking, high on the wall.

   His mother woke him up. He had left the salad bowl on the couch, unattended, which was not the right thing to do. Chance apologised and followed her downstairs. He didn’t bother opening his Christmas present, which was some videogame he had wanted for some time. He picked his camera up and fast-forwarded through its most recent video. Before he could examine it meticulously, mom called him for breakfast. When he asked where Marnie was, his parents told him that he already knew she was not returning from college for the holidays. After eating with his parents, he excused himself to his room. He played the video again, and watched its entire seven hours. The camera’s angle was not so wide, and it didn’t show the lower or upper part of the tree. For the seven hours in which he looked at the tree’s midsection, he found nothing out of the ordinary. He took a piece of paper and wrote that he didn’t want any presents. All he wanted was to know how he did it, how Santa Claus delivered his presents to every kid all over the world in a single night. When he placed the letter in the stocking his parents told him that it was too early for writing to Santa. He didn’t care and just smiled. He returned to his room and tried to fall asleep. After a long time, he managed to do it.


   The man was wearing a red suit and he had a long white beard. He wasn’t as fat as one would have imagined, though. Chance found him downstairs, sitting on the couch, waiting for him with a goody smile on his face. He no longer knew what was happening.

   “Santa?” asked Chance, finally.

   The man in red nodded.

   “Am I… dreaming?”

   “After all that has happened to you, all that you have experienced, what do you think?”

   Chance shrugged. He really didn’t know anymore.

   Santa smiled. “A time machine,” he said as he showed Chance the letter he had left in the stocking.

   Nonetheless, Chance frowned.

   “I use a time machine, Chance. It’s the only way I can deliver presents all over the world in a single night.” Santa got up from the couch. “Come along. I’ll show you.”

   It looked like a sleigh, painted in red and gold. The reindeers that pulled it had weird-looking hooves. Rocket boots, Santa had said. Their brown-leathered reins hung over a strange panel at the front of the vehicle. Santa pushed a couple of its buttons, and then pulled a lever. The sleigh didn’t seem to move. The surrounding world, however, thrust itself over them. Soon before long, every light rushed past, only to end like a glimmering dot in a far and foreign space.

   Chance and Santa stepped out of the sleigh and re-entered the house. It seemed as if they had never left, yet the air smelled different. When they reached the living room, Chance noticed that Santa was carrying a couple of presents, which he left under the tree, and some candy, which he poured into Chance’s stocking. Santa grabbed Chance by the shoulder and both stepped out of the way just in time for a younger Chance to rush into the room and find that he had missed his opportunity of catching Santa by going to the bathroom.

   “You should have flushed,” whispered Santa in Chance’s ear, as they both watched the kid stumble back upstairs slowly.

   “Thanks Marnie,” said Chance sarcastically. He tried to walk forward, but Santa stopped him.

   The clock’s ticking increased its pace, and time hastened its speed. Chance and Santa saw everything move faster. How young Chance remained just there, alone, playing with a toy on his own. Time only slowed down when everyone had gone to bed. Santa guided Chance back to his sleigh. They got in and Santa pressed another combination of buttons. This time, it was they who started to move.

   The sleigh landed next to a house that was very familiar to Chance, and they arrived just as a car was parking in the house’s driveway. Chance’s grandparents greeted him, his sister and his parents merrily.

   “Duck’s always a popular choice,” said Santa. He was biting a candy cane. “Do you know what your sister is studying at college?” he asked.

   Chance was unable to answer. He didn’t remember. Maybe, he didn’t even know.

   After everyone went to bed, Santa and Chance entered the house through the front door. Santa left a couple of boxes, containing skates, and some chocolates next to the tree. Chance tried to touch the rattle bells that hung from the chimney, but Santa grabbed him before he could. They stepped outside and waited for everyone to wake up. They listened to Marnie play with the bells, and saw a young Chance rush outside, put on his new skates, and steal into the horizon.

   “Do you want to know what your family did while you were away?” asked Santa.

   Chance shrugged. He did feel a little curious.

   “Oh,” said Santa as he looked at his watch, “no time… maybe on another occasion,” he said. Both returned to the sleigh and flew back home.

   The living room was covered in flour. Santa had just put the two bicycles next to the tree, not even bothering about the footsteps he had left. Now, he and Chance were just waiting, sitting on the couch. The sun started to rise, and Chance was looking at Santa nervously.

   “You left your footsteps all over the floor.”

   Santa smiled. He nodded, like a small and mischievous little boy.

   Chance heard a door open. He rushed towards the stairwell, grabbed the flour package and spread it on the floor, covering Santa’s tracks. He then stood idly by as his mother made his younger self clean everything up. He saw how his sister and he went outside, and then how Marnie returned alone, crying.

   “Why is she crying?” Chance asked.

   “Don’t you remember?”

   “I…” Chance hesitated, “I don’t know. Where are mom and dad? Why aren’t they here?”

   “I don’t know Chance,” said Santa, “I wasn’t here… either. We should go now,” he said and guided Chance back to the sleigh. “I believe we have time for one last delivery.”

   When they arrived, Chance knew what had to be done. He grabbed the gift box and started walking towards the tree. Santa stopped him. He pointed at the video camera that lay on the couch. Santa turned it off and turned it back on only after Chance had put the gift under the tree.

   “I don’t understand. I watched… I will watch… no, I watched the whole footage in that camera,” said Chance.

   “Yes, you have,” said Santa laconically.

   “But… I should have noticed in the video’s timer that you turned it off for a moment.”

   “The most important details of life are often the ones we pay the least attention to.”

   Chance was still thinking of Santa’s last phrase when they jumped out of the sleigh. He knew they had returned to the moment when they’d first meet. Santa walked him to his room and waved goodbye. Maybe Chance was a thirteen year old now, and he felt like maybe he had lived with a blindfold over his eyes for five years. Maybe he had gotten both answers and questions to things he didn’t even think of before. Maybe… this was all a dream and there’s more to Christmas magic than he had ever thought. Chance cuddled in bed and waited for a long time, hearing his heartbeat and the sway of his lungs. He fell asleep.


   The Christmas tree was refulgent, as usual. A ray of light filtered through one of the windows and hit it directly, like a spotlight for the important houseguest that returned every year. Under the tree lay a silver box with a golden bow. Chance’s present. He gulped and opened it slowly. It was the superhero action figure he had already seen. He smiled. Maybe Chance had a second chance.

   He didn’t speak through the entire breakfast, so his mother finally asked what was wrong with him.

   “Nothing,” Chance muttered.

   “Are you sure?” asked his mother.

   Chance nodded. “I think…” he said after a while, “I think I know about Santa.”

   Chance’s mom’s eyes opened widely. There was a scope of fear in them. She looked at Chance’s father, who shook his head lightly. Then, she looked at Marnie, who shrugged and shook hers as well. “What do you mean, honey?” she asked carefully.

   “I think he uses a time machine. You know, for delivering his presents.”

   Mom sighed with relief. “Maybe he does.”

   “No, he doesn’t. That makes no sense,” said Marnie. She shut up just as she felt her mother’s gaze upon her.

   “But I think it doesn’t matter anyway,” said Chance. “So… what games are we playing today?”

Short Story. December, 2014.

Mash-up Marathon: Bonus

The Vice President

I want you!, to say no to drugs

And, well, this is how the marathon ends. This last piece, by the way, reminds me that... there's new merchanidse on REDBUBBLE!

Mash-up Marathon VII

He-Man and He-Manerer

I have... the power?

Mash-up Marathon VI

Double feature! In honor of the movies that are to be released soon and that have most people excited:

The Saiyajin: The desolation of Shenlong

I am fire... I am death

Star Mario Kart

Better than a lightsaber with guards

Mash-up Marathon V

The Budokai Saints

Aequitas... veritas...

Mash-up Marathon IV

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Mash-up Marathon III

Then... I'll Break You

Who rules the night

Mash-up Marathon II

Deadly Mushroom Assassination Squad

That woman deserves her vengeance and we... we deserve to die

Did you watch Kill Bill? Same thing, only Mario is Bill. Why? Why not?

... I'm starting to see a pattern here...

Mash-up Marathon I

The week... does it start on Monday or Sunday? Let's say, for the sake of the following string of entries, that it starts on Sunday.

Have you ever noticed how some authors create their work based on the amalgamation of characters, situations, themes, etc.? Sometimes, it's necessary to sound like the voice of others so that you can find your own. Either way, to analyze the legacy that yore artists have left allows us to discover what we like the most, the longing that we keep ingrained in the deepest of ourselves.

The following string of entries possesses a bit of that truth within it. Each iteration has a mixture of elements, within a unique genre: drawing. So, without subsequent preamble, the piece that starts the marathon:

Mushroom League: Bowsied Ascends

Super... Superwho?

Bear with me. Bowser is Darkseid for... some reason, so the (Justice) Mushroom League has to stop him. Mario is Batman -obviously because Batman is awesome -and Luigi is Green Lantern. Peach (or Toadstool, if you, like me, enjoy Super Mario RPG) is Wonder Woman. Yoshi is J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter, and Toad the Mushroom is Superman because, even though I don't dislike the 'shroom, Superman sucks.

Capitalistic Christmas

Capitalism is nothing but to usufruct something.

It's nothing bad or adverse... it simply is taking advantage of one's abilities to obtain some profit and, in many occasions, to constitute a lifestyle.

For this Christmas, I've made a couple of drawings (both known and untold) available as t-shirts, hoodies, stickers, posters, pillows, mugs, etc at REDBUBBLE. (click here)

So... yeah... go buy and stuff...

So that this is not a Nightmare before Christmas...

A Christmas Carol

"¡Bah, humbug!" was what I said when this wrecked the back tire of my bicycle last week:

It is a marvel... that something so slight could topple a legend...

"¡Bah, humbug!" was what I said when, two days later, this wrecked my same tire:

All men fall... it is but time and method that differ...

This week it was my bicycle's pedal the one that succumbed before Dame Destiny. Believe me, oh brothers, that I just didn't say "bah, humbug". The curses I raised towards the sky, as well as the wounds in my feet, which skidded for ten metres over the pavement, will forever be present in my mind.

Due the the graphic nature of my feet, I have decided not to publish their photo. Instead, here is the cover of my first novella, already available at Amazon

It's never nice to be hurt or sick, confined to a bed, with your mobility lessened by the venturesome and ruthless pass of life. However, it can give you something, sometimes. It can give you, perhaps, time to think, or it can give the Ghosts of Christmas time to visit you.

Have you ever seen The Town Santa Forgot?

It's a quaint Christmas story, in which a boy understands the real meaning of toys and presents

As I began thinking about how much I liked to receive Christmas presents when I was younger, the first one arrived. It was an apparition that emanated warmth and tenderness. It also smelled of grape juice. She was a brown-skinned lady, with golden hair. Her purple robe covered her body completely and reached several metres behind her. She approached and sat over the bed, smiling. We remained silent for a long while.

"It's been a long time since Christmas doesn't excite you," she said finally, "or not as much as before, anyway."

I simply shrugged and nodded gently. A mild affirmation.

"What did you like the most?" she asked, "what's the thing you remember most fondly?"

I remember... the letters, and the thrill I got from writing them, strongly wishing for a toy, making drawing for some Santa Claus. I remember decorating the Christmas tree with my parents, every November the 20th, while we watched a movie about Pancho Villa. I remember, of course, the pollo en achiote, and the codito pasta, and I even remember the sandwiches that we prepared as snacks before the lavish dinner. I remember the hugs, and the constant "Merry Christmas" in every corner. I remember that time when I dressed with formal pants, a white formal shirt and a cool black bow tie, while I still was a child. I remember the advent crown, and every dominical chat with my parents. I remember the vacations. I remember Christmas morning, with games and chocolates under the magnificent and gorgeous tree. I remember Christmas day, with the apple and carrot salads, and the pudding. I remember... the reheated meal. I remember my friends, and their messages and phone calls, full of good vibrations and happy wishes, full of affection and cheerful happiness. I remember being with the people I love, just sitting, watching Christmas specials, like The Town Santa Forgot, smiling.

When I turned, the Ghost of Christmas Past had gone. However, her smell of grape juice stuck with my for a long time.

I got up from bed slowly, trying not to bend my toes. I got out of the room and drank a glass of guava juice. When I returned, a husky man was sitting on my bed. He had a thick black beard, a black and yellow cap and a megaphone. His robe, red, was so big that it looked like the bed's duvet.

"What's your plan for today?" asked the man. His voice was accentuated by the megaphone, but not amplified.

I looked down, towards my feet. Then, I turned back towards the apparition, the Ghost of Christmas Present. I shrugged.

"I see your feet have got you a little down, kid," said the man, "but I know exactly what you need to get out of the dumps." The man smiled and walked towards me. "Hold this," he said while he held a yellow towel in front of him.

When I took it between my hands, the landscape changed. We were no longer in my room, but in a big store... in the toys department.

"Window shopping," he said, through his megaphone. He smiled and walked towards a shelf. I followed slowly, since my feet were still hurt. There, ready and stacked over each other, were a thousand board games, in every colour and flavour, and for every age...

The Tower of Drinking... 8 out of 10 livers recommend it

Have you ever noticed that board games are not what they used to be? I remember that there was a game called Uno, but now there are a million versions of the same game. There used to be a unique version of Monopoly, but now you have the superhero version and the brands version and the extreme restaurants version. All that overfall of new directions, joined by products like:

Blow the Bubble Gum... AKA Share Buccal Microbes EASY

I see deady people? Deady!? Well, I guess that, at least, they wrote that word like that on purpose, right?... right!?

Resucitate? Resucitate!? It is the Oxford Dictionary the one that is undone and moaning from its grave

And, of course, the classics are also here, even if they are a little bit modified, like that game in which you have to act what your friend has in her head:

A demented zombie mime, a cannibal and, possibly, superficial rock band...

... a diabolical plump-cheeked trumpet...

After a while of wandering, I realised that the second apparition was gone. He had left me stranded in the toys department of some store. I crossed my arms, annoyed, but as I did I felt someone touching my shoulder. It was the Ghost of Christmas Present. He offered me the yellow towel again, and in touching it we returned to my room.

The Ghost gave me a small box. "Play for a while," he said, "and I'll call you when the window is ready."

The Ghost's cryptic message surprised me, but I thought it to be part of the magic. I opened the box and found a copy of Chrono Trigger inside. I smiled and started to play. Truth be told, one of the habits I still have is that of playing it when the year is ending. After a while, the apparition called me, asking me to join him in the upper floor. I frowned, but climbed the stairs carefully. The Ghost of Christmas Present was gone, but had left me a present.

He had fashioned a kind of window, where all the drawings I had made throughout my life now hanged. There were moving images, the animations that I had created. In its own stand, the novella -in spanish and english -that I wrote. There was also a little Christmas tree, with a note that read "Window shopping always helps... now, dedicate yourself to whatever you like to do the most, living with the joy of Christmas within your heart. Only in making the art you long for, lay the answer to your anxieties".

I still had a smile in my face when I stepped out of the shower. I was even singing. As I carefully dried my feet, a dense vapour flooded the bathroom. It was a kind of fog, dark but with an ethereal supernatural shining. I put on some pants and a shirt, and walked outside to the living room. There, the third apparition awaited, the Ghost of Christmas Future. A long, hooded, gray mantle covered it, so I couldn't see its face. I was scared.

"Are you de herald of what will happen in forthcoming Christmas holidays?" I asked, my voice faltering.

The silhouette nodded slightly. Then, it slid towards me.

"You frighten me, apparition" I said, "even more so than your predecessors."

The silhouette moved towards my bedroom. As it was beneath the lintel, it turned towards me. It raised its arm, and told me to join it. I did, slowly, dragging my feet both because of the pain of my wounds and the dread that had taken hold of my reason. The apparition pointed towards my old Super Nintendo. I frowned. The apparition pointed again towards the videogames console.

I moved closer to the console and ducked. I could hear a distant murmur, like a little laughter. I turned to see the apparition and found that it had slid right next to me. My heart rumbled within my chest and I had to inhale deeply. However, I heard that little laughter again. I jumped and removed its hood. Its face was that of a little redheaded girl, smiling. I fell backwards because of the surprise. The girl turned to see me, still smiling. She removed the mantle completely. She was standing over the shoulders of another kid, a boy with brown hair. He was laughing as well. The girl jumped down and both walked towards me. They helped me up. Then, both pointed to the Super Nintendo.

I plugged the console and gave a control to each kid. The game was Super Mario Kart. I just stayed there, watching how they played and challenged themselves, deciding who would get to drive Yoshi for the next race. After a while, I grabbed the computer and started to write this story. When I looked up, after finishing the first paragraph, the kids were gone. I continued writing. Now I'm thinking, meditating what would the perfect ending to this little tale be, and I suppose that each and every one of us must decide how to treat his past, present and future... both in the Christmas as in the summertime...

And the Celluloid... where is it going?

Allá en el Camposanto

las Calaveras Alegres,

dejando de lado el llanto,

forman ruidosos tropeles.

Se sientan frente a los muros

de su querido panteón,

contemplan los claroscuros

que lo convierte en odeón.

Y es que el celuloide nuestro 

se lo ha llevado la Muerte,

tal vez no es un plan siniestro,

es sólo un cambio de suerte.

Con "Clavillazo" y "Resortes"

se escapan las carcajadas,

y entre papeles consortes

tiemblan las voces cuajadas.

Armendáriz y Cantinflas

llenan la pantalla grande,

también Tin Tan con sus cuitas,

y el "Inmortal" Pedro Infante.

Escenas llenas de lío,

de Aguirre, Marín y Beltrán,

la Félix y la del Río

a la audiencia conmoverán.

Así todos los difuntos

se dedican a disfrutar,

sin pensar en más asuntos

ni cuando se pone el altar.

Y cuando llegue el destino,

la Flaca nos venga a llevar,

alegre emprende el camino

y no hagas al cine esperar.

Calavera Literaria. October, 2014.

Bizarre

My first Novella, Bizarre, is already available on Amazon!

¡Adquiérela ya en Español!
http://www.amazon.com/Bizarros-Spanish-Edition-J-Mtz/dp/1502829835/

Get it now in English!
http://www.amazon.com/Bizarre-J-C-Mtz/dp/1502832607/

The Six of Six

Since we are about to start into the witching hour -or rather month -, here are six horror stories, written in only six words:

Then, she said: "It is yours."

After eight shots... she kissed me.

No denying it: it was stuck.

I shouted: "Kill me!" It did.

The baby growled, hungry for more.

Your card was declined. Have another?

Alijo

       Vamos vamos, hacia el final del camión. Faltan un par de pasos, sólo un par de pasitos más. Zonza, tú querías cargarte bien y bonito las bolsas, evitarte ese último viaje, ¿no es cierto? Bueno, ya no importa. Ya te sentaste, sólo respira y descansa un poquito. Sólo agarra bien las una dos tres cuatro… ¿y mi otra bolsa? De acuerdo, no abras tanto los ojos queridita, ciérralos un poco. Ahí está, tranquila, justo a la mitad del camino. No, no, ¿qué está haciendo? No tiene por qué ayudarme joven, no se levante de su asiento. No, no tome la bolsa. Bueno, ya te vio. Tranquila… sí, sí es mi bolsita. Ay Dios, cómo debe estar mi carita roja roja. No importa, ya viene. Una sonrisa, sólo di que sí con la cabecita. Sólo…

       “Gracias.” 

       Milotepec es un pueblo muy chiquito. La gente ni sabría su nombre si no estuviera en el periódico. Sólo era un poquitito de droga, pero la enviaron por correo a las oficinas de la Procu y eso ya cala. Quién sabe por qué la enviaron, al igual y sólo era una bromita. Siempre venían polis, por su droga o su dinerito, pero ahora venían por los cuerpos. Bueno, los pedacitos… unos por aquí y otros por allá. Es triste cuando escuchas a la vecina decir que encontraron una cabecita en el baldío de la esquina, que encontraron un piecito o una manita en la cancha de futbol. Ya todos viven quitaditos de la pena, viendo la violencia tan normal. Tan casual. 

       Y es que Milotepec es un pueblito de mulas y burros. La mayoría se come la droga y la lleva en la pancita. Todos saben que es peligroso pero aquí no hay más trabajo que de carga. Y ahora todo es más difícil, con tantos ojitos observándole a una y tantos extraños en nuestros caminos de tierra. Como ese joven que me recogió mi bolsita, creo que está volteando a verme. O tal vez sólo es el miedito de que alguien descubra lo que llevo. Aunque no es mi parada me bajo. Agarra todas tus bolsas queridita, arriba a tocar el timbre, abajo del camioncito. 

       No es mi parada pero conozco a todas las vecinitas. María está comprando unas flores de cempasúchil porque es viernes y seguramente visitará a su familia en el panteón. Pobrecita, solamente le queda un hermanito que ya está bien metido con los del barrio. Doña Meche vende sus pitahayas y sus melones y algunos mangos. Antes yo le compraba rabanitos y chayote pero tiene mucho que no hago ni pozole ni caldito de pollo. Gracielita, la abuelita del pueblo, está con su carrito de nopal y perejil en su pequeña esquina. Su chicharrón es bien sabroso. La pollería sigue regalando pescuecitos y menudencia, esa doña Chole es una santa. 

       Doy un par de vueltecitas y veo al jovencito que me está siguiendo. Pero estoy cansadita y ya estoy llegando al basurero, así que sólo sigo. Por fin dejo mis cinco bolsitas. No me paro a acomodarlas, me voy caminando picadito picadito. Ay, pensara seguro que iba a encontrar droga en las bolsas el jovencito. Pero lo que tienen es algo peor. Me doy vuelta y lo veo blanco blanco del susto, tiene en sus manos la cabecita que corté en la mañana. Yo ya agarré un fierrito que encontré y que es como un largo tubito de donde cuelgan las cortinas de una casita. Le doy un buen golpe, justo en la frentecita, y él se cae hacia atrás. 

       He visto tantos golpes que sé que tengo que hacerlo rapidito. Saco un mecate de una de mis bolsitas y amarro sus manos. La sangrita está pegostiosa pero si aprieto fuerte el nudo no se zafará. Después de dos minutitos ya se calma y me mira. Me siento frente a él pero con mi fierrito bien agarrado. También me alejé un pasito o dos, porque aunque lo amarré a un poste hay que tener cuidadito. Si se suelta, ay pues tendría que correr rapidito rapidito. Estoy segura que es un poli, pero no sé qué es lo que quiere. Le doy otros dos minutitos para que sus ojos dejen de dar vueltas, intento hacerle una sonrisita pero como que me quiere echar el mal de ojo. 

       “Buen día joven,” digo porque no se me ocurre decir otra cosita. El joven se mueve muy rápido, quiere zafarse pero el mecate y la sangre ya se le pegaron en los bracitos. “Buen día joven,” repito y él me voltea a ver un poquito más calmado. “No lo había visto por aquí y yo conozco a todas las gentecitas de Milotepec. Creo que no es el hijo de ninguna comadrita,” sigo diciendo mientras niego con mi cabecita. Me acomodo porque el piso está muy duro y mi historia es un poquito larga. Le tengo que dar otro golpecito arriba del brazo izquierdo para que deje de moverse y de intentar zafarse. 

       “En un pueblito tan chiquito, todos la conocen a una y todos dicen chismes sobre su vida,” digo. “Yo nací aquí y nunca tuve papás, así que todos sabían que iba a ser una mulita. Desde los trece añitos yo ya cargaba droga, muchas veces en la pancita. Otras veces la escondía en el trajecito de algún hombre, uno de esos que te dan florecitas y te hablan bonito mientras te acarician y que ni te hablan cuando te están soplando en la carita mientras abren tus piernitas. Muchos son hombres gordos y les sobran los pesitos, esos que una necesita para la carnita del sábado o domingo, la única de la semana. 

       “Siempre te dicen que no abras tanto las piernitas y que si te dejan más que dinerito que el doctor don Melchor te ayuda con tu problemita. Pero don Melchor cobra mucho y una no siempre puede deshacerse del encargo. Por años tuve suerte y no me creció la pancita. La seguía usando sólo para guardar la droga que me daban ellos. Ellos eran dos y los dos me trataban bien. A veces me daban dinerito de más para que hiciera caldito de pollo. Claro que siempre tenía que llevarles sus platitos, pero no me importaba porque eran buena gente conmigo. 

       “Pero una vez uno tomó mucho mezcalito y terminó abriendo mis piernitas, igual que los otros hombres gordos que una tenía que aguantar para juntar lo del gasto. Él fue el que hizo que me creciera la pancita. Yo nunca junté centavitos, todo lo usaba para comida, ropita y también las cervecitas y cigarritos. Yo no podía ir con don Melchor y cuando él lo descubrió me pegó. Me dio muchas cachetadas y hasta me dio una patada en la pancita. Ay, yo sentí mucho miedo, pero no por mí. Me encariñé con mi pancita, con mi bebita que iba a nacer. Yo quería hacer todo por ella. 

       “Su amigo le dijo que me dejara, le dijo que una embarazada siempre pasa más fácil la frontera. Pasaron los mesecitos y mi pancita creció y creció. Yo cargaba con la droga en una bolsita que me colgaba en el hombro pero un día los polis me la quitaron. Don Esteban les había dado dinero para que nos quitaran la droga a todas las mulitas de don Ramiro. A muchas las golpearon pero a mí hasta eso que no me hicieron nada. Ellos me pegaron igual por perder la droga pero yo protegí mi pancita lo más que pude. Ya faltaba poquito para que naciera mi bebita, mi Clementina.” 

       Me acomodo otra vez porque el piso está muy duro. El joven apenas me mira y sus ojitos están cerrados todavía. Sólo piensa en zafarse y está sudando por la concentración. Ya no quiero darle otro golpecito y sé que si quiere escuchará el resto de mi historia. Yo sólo puedo contarla al igual que la he recordado ya por varios años. Dejo el fierro a un lado y cambio la piernita de abajo a que se esté sobre la otra. Me acomodo el chalequito sobre las espaldas y lo jalo un poquito hacia abajo. Mientras me acomodo paso salivita. Mi garganta se pone un poquito seca cuando recuerdo el pasado y ahora que lo hablo mi gargantita está más seca. 

       “¿Alguna vez ha cortado un dientecito de león joven?” pregunto pero sé que no me va a responder. “Vaya que es muy muy bonito pero se deshace también muy rapidito. Nomás necesita soplarle uno y todo se va al aire y se pierde de vista tan pronto. Así, igualita, es la vida. Yo ya no quería cargar la droga, pero sólo soy una mulita. No me la escondieron en mi bolsita ni me la escondieron en la faldita. Me la metieron por la boca. Sentí el plástico en mi gargantita y pensé que me ahogaba y cuando me dieron agua todavía sentí que me ahogaba. 

       “El paquetito de plástico con droga no estaba bien amarradito. No tenía un nudo bien hecho como el suyo joven. Todo ese polvito que salió me puso muy muy malita y no recuerdo mucho. Sólo sé que llegué con don Melchor y como por magia ya no tenía a mi hijita, igual que como decían las vecinitas. Lloré y lloré joven, lloré y mis ojitos están rojos desde entonces. Y pronto ellos me jalaron otra vez de los pelos, porque yo sólo era su animalito y si tu mula no trabaja entonces no sirve para nada. Y las mulitas son caras joven.” 

       Ay, lo rojitos que deben estar mis ojitos. Siempre se ponen más vivos cuando recuerdo a mi Clementina. Ya me ve el joven, seguro ve mi lagrimita de mi ojito. Me empieza a salir moquito pero me lo limpio con la mano. El joven ya no se mueve y me escucha. Necesito dejar de llorar y otra vez me limpio la naricita y los ojitos. Me pongo las manitas sobre la cara un momento. Agarro el tubo de metal y otra vez cambio la piernita que está arriba por la de abajo y me jalo el chalequito. 

       “Pasó mucho tiempo antes de que volviera a cargar droga joven. Y si tu mulita no carga la pones a hacer otros trucos. Después de perder a mi hijita ya no podía tener más hijos y si no tienes problemas de encargos te hacen abrir las piernitas. Yo no las abrí pero me las abrían y así fue mucho tiempo joven. Yo lloré y hasta rezaba, rezaba para poder regresar a cargar droga en mi pancita, que al fin ya sólo para eso me servía. Dejé de llorar cuando se me acabaron las lagrimitas. 

       “La droga era como agüita joven, pero no me servía ni para quitarme la sed. Me la daban antes de aguantar a cualquier hombre gordo pero sentía igual sus manos y su saliva. Lo peor era cuando mordían porque las marcas que le dejan a una la hacen sentir mucha vergüenza. Ahí me tenían como esclava y ni siquiera me tenían amarrada. Yo he sido mula y zorra y hasta buey joven. Me han cogido mucho y así hubiera terminado mi vida, en alguna cama porque a uno se le pasaron los mezcalitos y el pulque y estira y afloja hasta que rompe el juguetito. 

       “Yo estaba desmayada en una cama cuando todo pasó. Desperté porque no podía sentir mi piernita y es que encima de ella estaba un cuerpo. Había mucha sangre por todas partes y mis manitas y mis piecitos estaban pegostiosos. Me dio miedo y corrí pero me caí porque mi pierna seguía dormidita. Me arrastré entre muchos cuerpos joven, nadie se movía. Sólo nos dejaron a dos o tres vivas porque pensaron que ya estábamos muertas. Nunca nos dijeron por qué habían llegado y disparado a todos pero tampoco importaba. Sin un lugar dónde tener a las zorritas, me hicieron otra vez una mulita.” 

       Le enseño al joven un paquetito lleno de polvo blanco que me saco de la faldita. Es un condoncito amarrado con un muy buen nudo. Ni un poquito del polvo se sale de mi paquetito. Me levanto y me quedo paradita un rato porque se me durmieron las piernitas. Me acerco al basurero y pellizco el condoncito. Le sacudo encima un poco del polvito y luego dejo el resto del paquetito bien acomodadito entre las cáscaras y los cartones que hay ahí. Me siento junto al basurero, más cerca del joven. Sigo agarrando mi palito, sólo por si lo necesito de veras. 

       “La primera vez que le llevé mi droga a los muchachitos de don Esteban tenía mucho miedo joven. Ya había pasado la frontera un chorro de veces como una mulita cualquiera pero mi miedito era diferente. Sentía tantas cosquillas en mi pancita que hasta pensé que se me iban a romper los paquetitos como aquella vez y que me iba a poner otra vez muy malita. No quisieron mi droga joven. Yo insistí tanto que me dieron de cachetadas. Me han pegado tanto que unos golpecitos más no me sorprendieron. 

       “En la frontera me revisaron y no me encontraron nadita. Y aunque me hubiera tocado un poli que no trabajara para don Ramiro, yo estaba limpiecita. Ese paquetito ya lo había escondido yo muy bien joven, lo enterré en el patiecito de una vecinita. Me golpearon de nuevo cuando dije que me habían robado la droga, me golpearon y me dijeron que yo tenía que ser más cuidadosa joven. Por un rato entregué todos los demás paquetitos que me dieron, pero cada quincena pasaba por donde estaban los muchachitos de don Esteban y los saludaba y les mostraba mi paquetito de droga con una sonrisita. 

       “Unos mesecitos después por fin me hablaron. Me dijeron que me acercara y hasta un vasito de refresco me dieron. Me preguntaron que qué quería por la droga que cargaba en mi pancita. Yo les dije que nomás quería un par de pesitos para mi refresquito mientras me tomaba el que me dieron. Me tomaron mis paquetitos joven y me dieron un poquito de dinero. Luego me fui hacia el norte a ver al amigo de don Ramiro, el que me recogía la droga del otro lado de la frontera. 

       “Nunca he sido lista joven, pero ya había pensado mucho en lo que tenía que hacer ese día. Yo no tenía ni la droga ni las cachetadas que mostraban que me habían quitado la droga. Hasta llevaba unos pesitos extra escondidos en mi faldita y aunque no era mucho pues yo nunca llevaba más dinerito del que me daban para el viaje en camioncito. Me acerqué a ese esquina donde se venden las muchachitas y empecé a levantarme la faldita para que los que pasaban vieran mis piernitas. Al igual y a alguien se le antojaba pero eso no me importaba. 

       “El dueño de las muchachitas llegó pronto y me dio las cachetadas que quería. Me dijo que no me acercara otra vez a su esquina o que iba a matarme y que iba a matar a toda mi familia también. Hasta se llevó el dinerito extra que tenía. Me fui con el amigo de don Ramiro y él también me golpeó. Que ya era de costumbre que me robaran, me dijo, y que le iba a decir a don Ramiro que era tiempo de sacrificar a su mulita. Sólo estaba enojado joven, porque le digo que las mulitas son caras. 

       “Son caras por el tiempo que usas para enseñarlas a hacer lo que quieres que hagan. Son caras por la droga que usas para mantenerlas quietecitas hasta que puedan caminar sin saber hacia dónde van. Y como yo era mulita desde los trece añitos, pues ya les había costado. Me pegaron otra vez cuando volví del norte y me tuvieron un rato descansadita sin darme más droga. Sobreviví gracias a pescuecitos y menudencia de pollo, esa doña Chole es una santa. Cuando por fin me pusieron a cargar otra vez, pasé por donde estaban los muchachitos de don Esteban pero ni me acerqué a ellos.” 

       Dejo de hablar otra vez porque estoy cansadita y porque hablar de refresco me dio sed. Me pregunto si el joven tiene sed también porque el sol está bien duro y el calor también. Los dos estamos sudando y por un momentito pienso que al igual y el joven podría zafar sus manitas del nudo que le hice gracias a su sudor. Pero él no se mueve ni dice nada y de veras que ya no importa porque creo que solamente quiero terminar de contar mi historia. Ya no cambio de piernita ni me jalo el chalequito, ya estoy llegando al final. 

       “No me acerqué a los muchachitos de don Esteban porque sabía que me estaban siguiendo. Cada semanita del siguiente mes pasaba enfrente de donde estaban. Ya me habían reconocido pero yo ni los volteaba a ver. Hasta que un día se me acercó uno y me agarró del bracito. Yo grité joven, grité muy muy fuerte y hasta le di una cachetada. Los muchachitos de don Ramiro que me estaban siguiendo se acercaron. Yo grité pidiendo que no me robaran mi droga de nuevo, así que se armó la balacera joven. 

       “Todos se murieron joven, porque eso es lo que pasa cuando estás mucho tiempo con los del barrio. A mí no me tocó ninguna bala porque todos estaban ocupaditos matándose entre ellos. Yo jalé luego el cuerpo de uno de los muchachitos de don Esteban hasta un baldío que conocía por ahí y picadito picadito me fui con el amigo de don Ramiro a entregarle mi droga. Le dije que me habían querido quitar la droga y que todos se habían muerto, hasta los muchachitos que había mandado para que me protegieran. Él sólo dijo que sí con la cabeza y me dijo que me fuera para mi casita. 

       “Regresé a mi casita pero no por mucho tiempo. Con el tiempo se le quita el asco a una joven y se aprende a hacer cosas que antes no se hacían. Agarré un viejo machetito y me regresé al baldío. Le di muchos muchos machetazos joven, la carne y más el hueso son muy difíciles de cortar. Ya llevaba bolsitas de plástico para guardar todos los pedacitos. Dejé la cabecita a una cuadra del baldío y un bracito y una piernita a una cuadra de donde don Esteban iba a jugar dominó con sus amigos del municipio. Así le dejé partecitas en varios lados del pueblo joven, para que sintiera que por puro respeto tenía que matar a algunos muchachitos de don Ramiro. 

       “Los demás cuerpecitos que aparecieron ya fueron cosa de don Esteban y de don Ramiro. Sus muchachitos se mataban a balazos o a golpes cada que se encontraban en algún lugar. Don Esteban empezó a dejar pedacitos de los muchachitos de don Ramiro por todos los basureros de la región y cuando le dejaba una manita o un piecito el otro le mandaba una cabecita de alguno de sus muchachitos. También mataron a dos o tres mulitas que yo conocía y no parecía que ni don Ramiro ni don Esteban quisieran dejar de matar a los muchachitos del otro. 

       “Desenterré los paquetitos de droga que los muchachitos de don Esteban no quisieron tomar cuando fui con ellos la primera vez. Después de que le puse un poquito de droga a un sobre y lo mandé a la Procu la gente empezó a fijarse en Milotepec y nuevos polis empezaron a llegar. Las cosas se ponen feas pero supongo que de eso ya se dio cuenta joven. Pero una hace su luchita joven, apenas el otro día mandé otro sobrecito con un poquito más de droga otra vez a la Procu y le mandé un sobrecito también al periódico del estado. 

       “El cuerpecito que está aquí,” digo y le doy dos golpecitos al basurero con mi manita, el palo que tenía ya lo lancé lejos, “es el hijito de don Ramiro. Una se da cuenta de muchas cosas cuando lleva toda su vida viviendo en este pueblito. Cuándo va alguien a jugar dominó, cuándo va alguien al banco. Cuándo va alguien a la casa de las putitas. Voy a dejar aquí una piernita, luego una manita en el basurero que está a dos cuadritas. Así voy a dejar todas las bolsitas en los basureros que hay desde aquí hasta la gran casa de don Ramiro. La cabecita me la voy a llevar, a ver si se la puedo dar en persona a don Ramiro.” 

       Me paro y otra vez me espero porque mi piernita se me durmió. Me acerco al joven y aflojo el nudito que le hice. Con calma agarro la bolsa con la cabecita y otras dos bolsitas. Empiezo a caminar y siento que el joven viene detrás de mí pero yo sigo caminando igual. Él camina rápido y por fin me alcanza. Nos detenemos y nos quedamos quietecitos por un momento. Él lleva una de mis bolsitas y entonces me doy cuenta que había dejado una bolsa extra en el basurero, una que me sirve para dejar más partecitas del hijito de don Ramiro regadas por todo el pueblo. El joven me la deja en el piso y da dos pasitos hacia atrás. 

       Sí, sí es mi bolsita. Ay Dios, cómo debe estar mi carita roja roja. No importa, ya lo dije todo y ya no tengo otra cosita que ocultar. Una sonrisa, sólo mueve la cabecita. Sólo…

       “Gracias.”

Short Story. April, 2014.

... de Risa

            “No vuelvas a mirarme de esa manera”

           Casi igual a aquella frase que constantemente me decían las muchachas guapas de la preparatoria pero en un contexto diferente. Algo… solamente… diferente.

            Río y continúo con una pequeña sonrisa, “¡así es la expresión del rostro de esa imagen!... tú la conoces bien…”

            “Sí… te salió igualita…”

            Pienso en reír de nuevo pero la expresión en sus rostros me indica lo contrario, así que dejo de esbozar mi sonrisa y devuelvo mi mirada a mi vaso vacío. Constantemente nos reuníamos a divertirnos… a beber. Esta noche era diferente, sobria. Una bola de nieve de historias bizarras y hasta de terror.

            Ya no importa el comienzo, ni importa siquiera todo lo que lleva al desenlace. Todo hasta desembocar en una última historia y la historia final, la que termina en carcajadas a la luz del alba.

             Tampoco importa la hora, una madrugada que intentaba erradicar el fuego de la chimenea y, así, robar el último resquicio de calor de la habitación. Tampoco importa el lugar, las brasas alumbrando dos sillones, una mesita entre ambos y una mesa de billar al fondo.

            Éramos cinco. Ella y yo en el sillón a la derecha, yo sentado y ella recostada, su cabeza sobre mi regazo. Sus ojos clavados en mí y mis ojos todavía en mi vaso. Mi vaso en mi mano y mi mano pegada a mi brazo y mi brazo sobre el brazo del sillón.

            Dos más en el sillón frente a nosotros. Hombre y mujer. Ambos recostados y apoyándose uno sobre el otro, como colchones de hueso y músculo y piel y pellejo. El último sobre la mesa de billar, recostado también. Todos están tan cansados y todos están tan callados.

            “Bueno, pues es un dibujo realmente escalofriante,” digo para romper el silencio, “y causó una fuerte impresión en nosotros,” miro a la pareja de enfrente y sonrío un poco.

            Todos tenían historias y yo ya las conocía. Podía recitarlas como si yo mismo las hubiera vivido…

            “¿Recuerdas aquél verano en que vivimos en esa casa embrujada? Estábamos de intercambio con otro amigo y nos tocaron tres cuartos en una vieja y destartalada casa. Había tres cuartos pero utilizamos solamente uno que tenía una cama grande y que tenía un pequeño cuarto de servicio con un sucio y pequeño catre.

            Nosotros tomamos la cama y enviamos a nuestro otro amigo a dormir al catre. Nos pasamos la noche hablando y nos carcajeamos hasta inundar la habitación. Y cuando nuestras risas se habían apoderado del aire mismo la escuchamos. Una risa chillona como de niña, una chiquilla impúber compartiendo un sentimiento que pretendía ser de felicidad. Corrimos al cuarto de servicio para encontrar a nuestro amigo dormido y después de alebrestarlo y contarle lo sucedido ahí nos quedamos los tres, despiertos, hasta que inició el nuevo día…”

             “Y a la mañana siguiente, cuando le comentaron lo sucedido a la anciana dueña y ella felizmente les dijo que la casa estaba embrujada, se preguntaron cómo podía haber gente que viviera tan tranquila en lugares tan desolados.” Quise reír pero recordé que no debía hacerlo. “Igual que en aquel hostal romano,” dije mientras volteaba a ver al amigo recostado sobre la mesa de billar.

            “Es que simplemente no puedes acondicionar cualquier lugar para vivir o dar hospedaje a la gente… simplemente no puedes hacerlo. El simple hecho de pensar que la habitación en la que estás durmiendo le pertenecía a algún maniático, un loco que pudo haber sido asediado por demonios con motivos ulteriores… simplemente no puedes…

            Igual que cuando viví en el extranjero… nuestra residencia era también un antiguo psiquiátrico. Viví la única noche de brujas que nunca olvidaré, encerrado en los pasajes subterráneos de ese antiguo hospital de locos que desembocaban en geriátricos y otros lugares lúgubres y tristes. Juro que escuché ecos de voces muertas esa noche y a veces siento todavía un escalofrío muy parecido al que sentí entonces…”

            Recuerdo el hostal pero aún más a ese peculiar hombre de la recepción. Recuerdo cómo pensamos que era un fantasma, una pobre alma penando por siempre cuya única función era asustar a los turistas. Locos pensamientos, unos que en retrospectiva sonarían tontos la mayoría de las veces. La mayoría de las noches.

            “O tal vez tu casa de verano,” digo, “con esas espantosas muñecas y ese crucifijo,” siento un pequeño escalofrío recorrer mi espalda y quiero reír pero sé que no debo hacerlo. “Una locación perfecta para filmar una película de terror,” continúo y en ese momento no puedo contenerme más y río y volteo a ver a todos. Dejo de reír cuando veo sus ojos, clavados en mí todavía. “¿Vieron los videos que les recomendé hace tiempo? ¿El cortometraje de miedo sobre la madre y sus hijas?”

            “¿Tenías que recordarnos esas cosas en este momento?”

            “No comprendo por qué las caras largas,” digo y sonrío y quiero volver a reír pero no lo hago y solamente clavo mi mirada en mi vaso vacío. “Tantas historias y hablar de fenómenos ‘inexplicables’… son ilusiones, nada es real.”

            Todos siguen recostados y sin moverse. Siento un poco de frío y noto que el fuego está consumiéndose pero nada hago al respecto. Regreso mi mirada a mi vaso, un vaso vacío y pintado de rojo. Siento que no puedo dejar de mirarlo.

            Me desconecto y las voces que escucho suenan tan distantes. No muevo un solo músculo. Me siento adormilado y estoy sonriente y así me quedo, conteniendo la risa entre mis dientes. Y justo en ese momento, cuando el fuego sucumbe por fin y el primer rayo de sol entra por la ventana es cuando exploto. Las carcajadas inundan rápidamente la habitación.

            Dejo caer mi vaso, dejo que se rompa contra el piso… dejo que se termine de romper. El líquido rojo sigue escurriendo por sus paredes y me doy cuenta que estoy cubierto en él y que todos lo estamos. Miro sus rostros inertes, sus expresiones vacías. Volteo y veo su cabeza posada en mi regazo y río aún más fuerte. Paso mis manos por su rostro, su cuello, sus pechos y de vez en cuando los siento, esos… glifos que he… acuñado, como un nuevo lenguaje, en su cuerpo. Y veo mis otros glifos en los demás y sigo riendo.

            Y me pregunto cuál es el caso de seguir aquí. Todos están tan cansados, recostados y sin moverse. Y yo sigo aquí y no puedo moverme, solamente sigo riendo. Y tengo frío pero solamente sigo riendo. Y recuerdo tantas veces que me dijeron que dejara de reír pero ahora nadie puede decirme que deje de hacerlo... y reír es lo que hago y lo que seguiré haciendo.

            “Cállate… ¡ya cállate!”

            Y recuerdo ese poema y digo “nunca más… ¡nunca más!” y continúo riendo hasta que mi abdomen no puede más y la historia termina en carcajadas a la luz del alba. La historia perfecta, la coda única que podía embonar en esta canción. Y mientras la risa consume todo y la luz avanza poco a poco escucho sus distantes voces, opacas, diciéndome que me calme y que me comporte… y entre risa y risa… lo digo de nuevo…

            Nunca más…

Short Story. April, 2012.

Causes...

     ... of Greater Force, mainly the fact of being working. I will not stop writing but I will stick to one entry per month only. The job is interesting and the team is nice but, as happens with many projects, our manager's planning demands 10+ hours of work to achieve the ridiculous deadlines.

     Is it wrong to not want to work twelve hours a day ? To want to have a balanced life where there is time for working, time for fun and time for resting ? Sometimes I think that I am the problem, that I am the one with the flawed mentality for being the subversive element whose job may be at stake even though I am efficient in the fullfilment of my duties. Either way I will continue to be the rebel and will continue to set boundries... sweeter and warmer waters will be found... and I will continue to take advantage of the experience I'm acquiring, all the knowledge I can get.