Opinions

Carefully planned homicides, life imprisonment, forced resignation of public officials, legitimated plundering, movements on the stock exchange,weather forecasting,changes of government, coups d'état, repeal of laws,... poisoned the air at the cafe, making it thick and uncomfortable.

The sleepy smoke from the pipes climbed slow through the depths of predictions.

The most highly reputed moustaches of the city declaimed categorical rosaries of warnings and advice.

Some beards, already grey, agreed vehemently, getting tangled in the tight warp of bickering.

Opinions...

Story chosen to take part into the anthology of the Short Stories Contest “OPINIONS”

http://letrasconarte.es.tl

Got old suddenly

Got old suddenly a Friday.
While driving.

When I turned the corner that should place me happily at the foot of the weekend.

At that moment,
at that cobble,
at that very piece of asphalt,
some hidden switch clicked
and yesterday and the day twenty years ago
placed at the very same distance.

It was not a process.

I didn't see it coming.

It was just all my life was behind me.
locked in a helium balloon floating aimlessly.
I had just pass some level point I had never heard about before.

I circled the block.
And then in the opposite direction...

All things happened and the unhappened ones,
had now the very same level of reality.

It will rain

There's a weird quietness in the city.
Seems it were covered with a veil.
Heat, flat and dense,
flutters still over the asphalted floor.
Sounds get mixed and spill
as huge oil drums overturned.
Air seem to hold its breath
and everything smells as in a bubble.
A soap bubble.

I think it will rain.

Back at home

World begun to stagger after the second bottle. It reminded him that times at the cabin. Snuggled down. Dump. Sharing all his partners old sweat. Sea became sweet mother who lull them to sleep. After having tried to kill them in a hundred chances.

He missed that confidence swinging, resigned, between the predator arms. Defeated. Body totally destructed by the daily battle. Which will begin again the next day. And the next one. And the next one...

Until days were ended. They became lazy hours and later minutes that made themselves up slowly to slide dying to the next watch mark.

Sea was ended. World was ended. All  the ports with red bedrooms. Only a few grey roads stayed left wandering around a little brown cubicle he could hardly pay. A hole. A pit. A grave.

Languid minutes became glasses. And then bottles. That swung that coffin. Sometimes just shroud.

Sea became red. Blood. And past. Life became red and white. And black many times.

His kingdom became bundle. Light. He carried it with resignation. Full of past. Begging a sight of future from any corner.

World begun to stagger after the second bottle. Floor took a unexpected vertical position, and he felt it hitting his face. His head. As a mallet. Known darkness came. To eyes and to private corners of the heart. And he felt he was at last back at home.

A little star

It was only an instant.
A moment devoid of time.
The quality of the air changed.

Suddenly.

It got weirdly warm.
An intimate warm,
of kind and wet entrails
that made him blush.

And she became round and shiny.
As if the jail of her ribs
held a little star.

Lonely angels

Golden angels
sweeping with a slap
all the frontiers.

Relegating loneliness
to minimal limits
of shadows.

Little and sweet words
to explain it all.
Strawberry flavor.
Apricot flavor.

Warm breadcrumbs
dirtying the kind side
of the universe.

Dull knifes
to censure
sterile moments.

Lonely angels
who link both sides of things:
the beginning and the end.
Confining me for days
in a spiral of uncertainty.

Forest

New prison.
Foreign.
Missed.

Sad tree bars.
Rested creatures.
Restless.
Shedding their eyes
( leaves )
on your head.

Shy sky
snooping around the leaves.
Sunny smiles
blowing you
the back of your neck.

Strange forest.
Atavistic.
Carpeted.
Padded.

Ancient forest.
Elderly.
Child.

Rock womb.
Burrows with windows.
Quiet life
moving behind you.

Being at home.
Far away.
The heart empty,
by the spoonful,
by the dark song
of the crows.

If you don´t remember me

I am.
I was.
You are.

If you don´t remember me,
you don´t need to.

Blurred images
on little pieces of paper.

Movements seen
by the corner of my eye.

Past, nude, wandering about
the well known corners of the house.

Absence is only another way
to replace things.
Emptiness can devour you
or lick you slowly  for nights.
Licking intimate places
turning shadows into flesh.
Succubus hungry of oblivion.

Emptiness is comfortable darkness
behind your eyes.
The rugged cliff
where I got lost.

You were.
I am.

Creatures

Sad creatures.
Deformed
by dint of scratching
the scabs on their soul.
Badly loved.
Alone for vital imperative.

Dirty
of polish of
prematurely dead dreams.
Aborted, some of them.

Smelling like booze.
Bad alcohol.
The one to heal wounds.

Ancient children
behind glazed eyes.
Foggy.
Rainy.

Sad children
who flatten their hair
and hidden their eyes.

Adults of shaky souls.
Damned to exist.
Wandering in space and time.
Treading with their footsteps
the fleeting world surrounding them.
NOT surrounding them.

Scream

Scream.
YES!
NO!
At the dark hidden corner.

Scream.
Mute.
The father honoring the favorite son.

Scream with pride.
And scream with anger.

Father.
Son.
Ghost...
Specter.
Only able to make
the well known shadows of the corner
pregnant of hopes.

Scream.
With pleasure.
With anger.
Hidden in necessary shadows
that mark white flesh
with red nails and teeth.

Wanting to run away
and wanting to become incarnate.
Being made flesh.
Blood.
Or cold stone...

Just to be.
To make substance present.
Just for hurting the soul
or the eyes...

To exist.

Fitting

Fitting.
Finding the right gap.
The right moment.
The shiniest shoe.
The apple of the story.
BEING the shoe or the apple.

Trace your destiny
putting carefully your feet
in footprints forgotten on the sand.
Footprints from a absent owner
who lived or died to his fate.

Building future
with deformed mirages from the past,
with doubtful promises for tomorrow.

Believe.
Trust.
Find the gap, the crack to anchor your fingers.
The slightest moment to slip a glance.

Smile and agree.
As if you understood it.
As if you were right.

Being here.
Or there.
For appropriateness.
To fit.

Dreams where everything stay backwards.
Advance in free-fall.
Forward.
Downwards.

Run away.

Tonight

Sun is red and green and yellow
and all windows are right there across the street.
Rain has stopped for a moment,
in its way down,
and things don't get to be wet.

Streets, washed, reflects stars.
There's a blue glow at the other sidewalk.
Raindrops are even blue from time to time,
as sadness
and all cold that makes outdated leaves on the trees shiver.
Every window is closed, as the eyes behind them.

A grey angel comes in.
He shakes the water on his clothes.
I blush.

I have time to count windows.

The angel turns the colorful sun off and points upwards.
Everything is spilled on the asphalt.
There's not even a single star in the sky.
He smiles.
Has his pockets full.
He's been picking up constellations for me.
Today we'll paint maps of lost skies.
Tonight.

Play

Shout.
Laugh.
Up.
Dooooown.
Up and doooooown.
One and the other side.
Around, around, around.

Run.
Run.
Laugh.

Sweet snowflakes
to share.
Colourful ice.
Soft, cold, sticky.

Instants, long as eons,
minimum as electrons.

Semi-Detached days
gorged on night
not to have dinner.

Fairy-tale sunsets
of many years ago.

Butterflies with no tomorrow.

Shout.
Laugh.

Play.

Reminding

Reminding somebody
is caressing him in the distance.
Eyes closed.
Keeping him jailed
in the wrinkled labyrinth of your mind.

Feeding him with orphan pieces of past.

Reminding somebody
is drawing him with chalk on your soul.
Letting his blurry contours
mix with your own ones.
Letting him to be, somehow, a bit of you.

Reminding somebody
without recognizing him
is having digested him completely.
Having turned his HIS into your ME.
Having kept him forever.

And, if he turns up,
(even if he ever turned up)
he would still lack something
that only you will keep, deteriorated.

Corridor

I look into this corridor full of foreign ghosts
insisting in remain tangled in every corner.
And, ¡out! ¡Out!

But they still don't want to go completely.
Something special in their blue blanket density
insists in keeping them grounded little centimeters over the floor.
As moribund helium balloons.
Something... gravity.
And, ¡out! ¡Out!

But they still don't go.

Lost

Lost.
Wandering aimlessly.
Going round and round.
Tired.

Feet, restless,
unabled to get attached to
any piece of land.

He had lost his wings
in a subway car
doors closing.

He walked.
Lost.
He snoozed at times
hidden in the narrow shadow
of a streetlight.

On his side.
As world is seen
walking on the edges.

Standing side on.
As things with two faces.
As half-light.

He piked up river glasses.
Licked and dragged pieces.
Even. Smooth. Worn.

He picked up things about to fall
and light things that floated.

He kept nobody's things.

Memory lapses.

Butterflies

She walks like this, since ever.
Shuffling.
Advancing slowly.
Very slowly.
Hurting cobbled street with deep furrows.
Shuffling.

She walked as she had learnt
after skinning her knees walking on all fours.
Each advance must be worth it.
Very slowly.
Not mistaking the direction.
Shuffling.

An ancient angel sat on the corner
staring into the distance,
having saw it all many times ago.
The tired angel looks at his feet (his own ones)
resting dirty on the cobbles.
Looks at the grey hard floor.

The gray hair angel
puts her feet, as his own ones,
on the ancient floor. On it.
He fills the furrows with one hand
and with the other one helps her walking two steps.
The third one is born, like a tingling, from the red soles.

She looks downwards. And around. And backwards.
She looks at the ancient angel.
She cries a moment with anger.
And smile an instant with relieve.
She makes three more steps testing
Understands the 'staying' of the stone
and flies away.

The angel goes back alone to his corner.
He's seen it all many times ago.
Now, sometimes, he rescues butterflies.
Other wolfs. Other dolphins.
Sometimes...

Tread on crystals

And if it is time to tread on crystals, what?
Open eyes wide, grit your teeth...
Open eyes wide, clench your fists and smile.
A big brilliant smile as if nothing was wrong.
As if sharpened edges weren't getting deeply in your soles soft flesh.
A waning moon like smile
Your wet-nurse smiling proud:
of your smile,
of your silence,
of your submission.
Your blush and your dismay, a delicious delicacy.

If it is time to tread on crystals, shout.
As crazy.
As a devil.
Steal your beloved wet-nurse broom
and get the Prince Charming boots.
And sweep, sweep, sweep...
A mistaken Cinderella.
Build smiles with small transparent stings,
beautiful diamond edges, your delicious delicacy.
One for each amazed expression.

And run to relieve your wrath in some deep dark well.

I sleep

16:34
109ºF

I sleep.

If you awaken me,
I'll find you and
¡I'll rip off your wings!

Vikings

Playing in the neighborhood had its own fashions. Sometimes we played hide and seek and others we did shopping. Depending...

Those days, boys used to play indians and cowboys, whith archs, arrows and shotguns they made with wood and cord.

- May I play?
- Ok. You can be the mother: make our weapons and cook our food.
- I don't wanna be the mother!
- Ok, so you can be an indian other a cowgirl... But you gotta make your own weapons.
- I don't wanna be an indian other a cowgirl!
- So you cannot play!
- Why?
- This game is just like this!
- But I wanna be a Viking! Vikings were in America before cowboys!

Text selected to be included in the book "El vuelo de Neleb"

http://acencs.org

Where are you?

“This is the only thing soothing me, comforting me: the sea. Waves licking my feet. Always the same sea, and always a different caress. With the true promise to come back each time it goes away. Kept promises. That's the only thing appeasing me.
Why so difficult? Why when everything seems to be right something spoils it? Spoils it absolutely, completely. What am I doing wrong? Why doesn´t it last?
However I remember them all and I can still say I love them some way. Each of them in her special way... So many hearts, so many heartbeats, so many lost tears! I remember all the first times: the first time I saw them, the first time I hold them, when they came with me, ... everything. I just want it to last!"

He leaves the beach shaking carefully his feet. Walks sadly all the promenade, as if he still walk  within water. Breaths deeply for a while in front of the house door, as if doubting or trying to gather strength from some hidden place. At last, he turns the key and inside:
   - WHERE ARE YOU, BITCH?

Selected text for the book "Antología de Relato Breve - Amores"
http://letrasconarte.es.tl

Bad dream

And here I am again.
At the entrance of the black hole where I had fallen.
One of those wormholes.
A worm licking its feet.
And everything starts again,
from the begining, but a bit lower.
Around and downwards. As in a bad dream.
Cycles... cycles...
But it seems infinite.

I look upwards and both sides.
I see nowhere to get hold of.
I'd like to have something to grab.
Something red and living. With some letters of 'hope'.
But I can't see it yet.
Upwards and both sides are the same dim concept.

Some gusts of wind drag unawares light rays.
As little blades of rare solar plants,
that tangle between your hair
leaving only white threads,
that don't illuminate you, don't cheer you up
but heat you.

A cloud

A cloud for your pillow.
I'm seeding stars inside your sheets, to heat you.
I'll set a siren to sing in your ear.
A siren of light.
I want to light it all around you.
So, all and you, will be only one.
Kiss me when you dream me
and I'll have your lips in me each second.
Cry me in the awakening.
Your tears will be new stars of a night between the blankets.
I've been my whole life weaving words to lull you.
Y want to be part of you.
With each of your gazes I lose pieces of soul inside your shirt.
Kiss me when you dream me.
Dream me.

While sleeping

I met a man who smiled while sleeping.
Without awaking.
He smiled.
Asleep.
Only angels are said to be able to.
So it's said.

One night I heard him whispering to shadows
he didn't want to get back.

He did get back.

I wish I could meet him again.

An angel in black

What does an angel in black reminds you?
In black leather.
What does he reminds you?
An angel looking at you from up above and smiling.
What does he reminds you?
White feathers falling as daisies
following the clock heartbeat rhythm.

Crows.

Once I wanted a crow.
But angels have fun exchanging birds
and throwing them against the windows glasses
the open windows of your soul.

A game.

Who understands their games?
They dirty everything of random and hope
and of already known ends.