.


















.

Some people see things that others cannot. Tales of Mystery and Imagination. “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” (H.P. Lovecraft).

Ray Bradbury: The Fog Horn

Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

OUT there in the cold water, far from land, we waited every night for the coming of the fog, and it came, and we oiled the brass machinery and lit the fog light up in the stone tower. Feeling like two birds in the grey sky, McDunn and I sent the light touching out, red, then white, then red again, to eye the lonely ships. And if they did not see our light, then there was always our Voice, the great deep cry of our Fog Horn shuddering through the rags of mist to startle the gulls away like decks of scattered cards and make the waves turn high and foam.

"It's a lonely life, but you're used to it now, aren't you?" asked McDunn.

"Yes," I said. You're a good talker, thank the Lord."

"Well, it's your turn on land tomorrow," he said, smiling, "to dance the ladies and drink gin."

"What do you think McDunn, when I leave you out here alone?"

"On the mysteries of the sea." McDunn lit his pipe. It was a quarter past seven of a cold November evening, the heat on, the light switching it's tail in two hundred directions, the Fog Horn bumbling in the high throat of the tower. There wasn't a town for a hundred miles down the coast, just a road, which came lonely through the dead country to the sea, with few cars on it, a stretch of two miles of cold water out to our rock, and rare few ships.

The mysteries of the sea," said McDunn thoughtfully. "You know, the ocean's the biggest damned snowflake ever? It rolls and swells a thousand shapes and colours, no two alike. Strange. One night, years ago, I was here alone, when all of the fish of the sea surfaced out there. Something made them swim in and lie in the bay, sort of trembling and staring up at the tower light going red, white, red, white across them so I could see their funny eyes. I turned cold. They were like a big peacock's tail, moving out there until midnight. Then, without so much as a sound, they slipped away, the million of them was gone. I kind of think maybe, in some sort of way, they came all those miles to worship, Strange, But think how the tower must look to them, standing seventy feet above the water, the God-light flashing out from it, and the tower declaring itself with a monster voice. They never came back, those fish, but don't you think for a while they thought they were in the Presence?"

I shivered. I looked out at the long grey lawn of the sea stretching away into nothing and nowhere.

León Arsenal: Besos de alacrán

León Arsenal, Besos de alacrán, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Como cada mañana, el capitán Moctaur había subido a la torre de control. Siguiendo la costumbre de años, lo hizo por la escalera exterior, ascendiendo hasta lo más alto para terminar acodándose en la barandilla del piso superior, a contemplar ociosamente el bosque claro, las arboledas dispersas y los herbazales acariciados por la brisa, más allá de la descuidada pista del astropuerto.

En un extremo de las instalaciones, perdida entre las hierbas verdes y amarillas, yacía una vieja lanzadera abandonada, con el casco enrojecido por la herrumbre. Gigantescos insectos alados de caparazones brillantes danzaban entre la vegetación. Una bandada de aves, de plumajes multicolores, sobrevoló el astropuerto antes de alejarse hacia el sur. Con indolencia, el capitán se colocó un cigarrillo entre los labios, siguiendo con la vista el vuelo de la formación, que aleteaba perezosamente en el cielo azul sin nubes de Balifata II.

El capitán Moctaur hizo visera sobre los ojos. Allí, punteando el cielo a unos pocos grados más al sur que la bandada, algo volaba a baja altura, acercándose al astropuerto. Enfocó sus prismáticos sobre aquella mota. Un transporte, una gran nave aérea se desplazaba muy lentamente en el aire claro de la mañana, planeando a unos pocos metros por encima de las ondulantes copas de los árboles. Pensativamente, el capitán encendió el cigarrillo y lanzó una bocanada de humo que la brisa dispersó casi de inmediato. Luego, con una última mirada al lento transporte, entró en la penumbra de la sala de control.

Casi al descuido, comprobó que las defensas autómatas del astropuerto estuvieran activas. El capitán no creía seriamente en la posibilidad de un ataque de piratas. Diez años de servicio en Balifata II le había acostumbrado a las naves que llegaban furtivamente, volando a muy baja altura para esquivar los sensores de otros aparatos.

—A ver, esa nave sin identificar que se aproxima volando desde el sur —avisó por el sistema de comunicaciones—. A ver si me recibe, cambio.

Silencio.

Philip K. Dick: A Little Something for Us Tempunauts

Philip K. Dick, A Little Something for Us Tempunauts, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Wearily, Addison Doug plodded up the long path of synthetic redwood rounds, step by step, his head down a little, moving as if he were in actual physical pain. The girl watched him, wanting to help him, hurt within her to see how worn and unhappy he was, but at the same time she rejoiced that he was there at all. On and on, toward her, without glancing up, going by feel … like he's done this many times, she thought suddenly. Knows the way too well. Why?
“Addi,” she called, and ran toward him. “They said on the TV you were dead. All of you were killed!”
He paused, wiping back his dark hair, which was no longer long; just before the launch they had cropped it. But he had evidently forgotten.“You believe everything you see on TV?” he said, and came on again, haltingly, but smiling now. And reaching up for her.
God, it felt good to hold him, and to have him clutch at her again, with more strength than she had expected. “I was going to find somebody else,” she gasped. “To replace you.”
“I'll knock your head off if you do,” he said. “Anyhow, that isn't possible; nobody could replace me.”
“But what about the implosion?” she said. “On reentry; they said—”
“I forget,” Addison said, in the tone he used when he meant, I'm not going to discuss it. The tone had always angered her before, but not now. This time she sensed how awful the memory was.“I'm going to stay at your place a couple of days,” he said, as together they moved up the path toward the open front door of the tilted A-frame house. “If that's okay. And Benz and Crayne will be joining me, later on; maybe even as soon as tonight. We've got a lot to talk over and figure out.”
“Then all three of you survived.” She gazed up into his careworn face. “Everything they said on TV …” She understood, then. Or believed she did. “It was a cover story. For—political purposes, to fool the Russians. Right? I mean, the Soviet Union'll think the launch was a failure because on reentry—”
“No,” he said. “A chrononaut will be joining us, most likely. To help figure out what happened. General Toad said one of them is already on his way here; they got clearance already. Because of the gravity of the situation.”
“Jesus,” the girl said, stricken. “Then who's the cover story for?”
“Let's have something to drink,” Addison said.“And then I'll outline it all for you.”

Jorge Campos: American Dream: The Evolution

Jorge Campos, American Dream: The Evolution, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


¡Ah, si en esa mañana hubiera olvido!
Jorge Luis Borges

Bajaron emocionadas del camión tras una fría semana de viaje. Poco a poco se fueron acostumbrando a la luz. Un hombre de barba cerrada les indicó el agujero por donde debían cruzar el muro. Del otro lado tres las esperaban con placas metálicas enumeradas. El rótulo frente a una fila de hombres de negro desesperados por sus encargos libres de impuestos era claro: “No se aceptan devoluciones”.

Robert W. Chambers: The demoiselle d'Ys

Robert W. Chambers: The demoiselle d'Ys , Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


"Mais je croy que je
Suis descendu on puiz
Ténébreux onquel disoit
Heraclytus estre Vereté cachée."

"There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not:

"The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid."
I

The utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; I sat down to face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark which might aid me in extricating myself from my present position. If I could only find the ocean again all would be clear, for I knew one could see the island of Groix from the cliffs.

I laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a rock lighted a pipe. Then I looked at my watch. It was nearly four o'clock. I might have wandered far from Kerselec since daybreak.

Standing the day before on the cliffs below Kerselec with Goulven, looking out over the sombre moors among which I had now lost my way, these downs had appeared to me level as a meadow, stretching to the horizon, and although I knew how deceptive is distance, I could not realize that what from Kerselec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were great valleys covered with gorse and heather, and what looked like scattered boulders were in reality enormous cliffs of granite.

"It's a bad place for a stranger," old Goulven had said: "you'd better take a guide;" and I had replied, "I shall not lose myself." Now I knew that I had lost myself, as I sat there smoking, with the sea-wind blowing in my face. On every side stretched the moorland, covered with flowering gorse and heath and granite boulders. There was not a tree in sight, much less a house. After a while, I picked up the gun, and turning my back on the sun tramped on again.

There was little use in following any of the brawling streams which every now and then crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into the sea, they ran inland to reedy pools in the hollows of the moors. I had followed several, but they all led me to swamps or silent little ponds from which the snipe rose peeping and wheeled away in an ecstasy of fright. I began to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder in spite of the double pads. The sun sank lower and lower, shining level across yellow gorse and the moorland pools.

Clarice Lispector: Uma história de tanto amor

Clarice Lispector, Uma história de tanto amor, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


Era uma vez uma menina que observava tanto as galinhas que lhes conhecia a alma e os anseios íntimos.
A galinha é ansiosa, enquanto o galo tem angústia quase humana: falta-lhe um amor verdadeiro naquele seu harém, e ainda mais tem que vigiar a noite toda para não perder a primeira das mais longínquas claridades e cantar o mais sonoro possível.
É o seu dever e a sua arte.
Voltando às galinhas, a menina possuía duas só dela. Uma se chamava Pedrina e a outra Petronilha.
Quando a menina achava que uma delas estava doente do fígado, ela cheirava embaixo das asas delas, com uma simplicidade de enfermeira, o que considerava ser o sintoma máximo de doenças, pois o cheiro de galinha viva não é de se brincar. Então pedia um remédio a uma tia. E a tia:
“Você não tem coisa nenhuma no fígado”. Então, com a intimidade que tinha com essa tia eleita, explicou-lhe para quem era o remédio. A menina achou de bom alvitre dá-lo tanto a Pedrina quanto a Petronilha para evitar contágios misteriosos.
Era quase inútil dar o remédio porque Pedrina e Petronilha continuavam a passar o dia ciscando o chão e comendo porcarias que faziam mal ao fígado. E o cheiro debaixo das asas era aquela morrinha mesmo. Não lhe ocorreu dar um desodorante porque nas Minas Gerais onde o grupo vivia não eram usados assim como não se usavam roupas íntimas de nylon e sim de cambraia.
A tia continuava a lhe dar o remédio, um líquido escuro que a menina desconfiava ser água com uns pingos de café – e vinha o inferno de tentar abrir o bico das galinhas para administrar-lhes o que as curaria de serem galinhas. A menina ainda não tinha entendido que os homens não podem ser curados de serem homens e as galinhas de serem galinhas: tanto o homem como a galinha têm misérias e grandeza (a da galinha é a de pôr um ovo branco de forma perfeita) inerentes à própria espécie. A menina morava no campo e não havia farmácia perto para ela consultar.
Outro inferno de dificuldade era quando a menina achava Pedrina e Petronilha magras debaixo das penas arrepiadas, apesar de comerem o dia inteiro. A menina não entendera que engordá-las seria apressar-lhes um destino na mesa.
E recomeçava o trabalho mais difícil: o de abrir-lhes o bico. A menina tornou-se grande conhecedora intuitiva de galinhas naquele imenso quintal das Minas Gerais. E quando cresceu ficou surpresa ao saber que na gíria o termo galinha tinha outra acepção. Sem notar a seriedade cômica que a coisa toda tomava:
– Mas é o galo, que é um nervoso, é quem quer! Elas não fazem nada demais! e é tão rápido que mal se vê! O galo é quem fica procurando amar uma e não consegue!
Um dia a família resolveu levar a menina para passar o dia na casa de um parente, bem longe de casa. E quando voltou, já não existia aquela que  em vida fora Petronilha. Sua tia informou-lhe:
– Nós comemos Petronilha.

Arthur Machen: A New Christmas Carol

Arthur Machen, A New Christmas Carol, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Scrooge was undoubtedly getting on in life, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.
Ten years had gone by since the spirit of old Jacob Marley had visited him, and the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come had shown him the error of his mean, niggardly, churlish ways, and had made him the merriest old boy that ever walked on 'Change with a chuckle, and was called "Old Medlar" by the young dogs who never reverenced anybody or anything.
And, not a doubt of it, the young dogs were in the right. Ebenezer Scrooge was a meddler. He was always ferreting about into other peoples' business; so that he might find out what good he could do them. Many a hard man of affairs softened as he thought of Scrooge and of the old man creeping round to the countinghouse where the hard man sat in despair, and thought of the certain ruin before him.
"My dear Mr. Hardman," old Scrooge had said, "not another word. Take this draft for thirty thousand pounds, and use it as none knows better. Why, you'll double it for me before six months are out."
He would go out chuckling on that, and Charles the waiter, at the old City tavern where Scrooge dined, always said that Scrooge was a fortune for him and to the house. To say nothing of what Charles got by him; everybody ordered a fresh supply of hot brandy and water when his cheery, rosy old face entered the room.
It was Christmastide. Scrooge was sitting before his roaring fire, sipping at something warm and comfortable, and plotting happiness for all sorts of people.
"I won't bear Bob's obstinacy," he was saying to himself—the firm was Scrooge and Cratchit now—"he does all the work, and it's not fair for a useless old fellow like me to take more than a quarter share of the profits."
A dreadful sound echoed through the grave old house. The air grew chill and sour. The something warm and comfortable grew cold and tasteless as Scrooge sipped it nervously. The door flew open, and a vague but fearful form stood in the doorway.
"Follow me," it said.
Scrooge is not at all sure what happened then. He was in the streets. He recollected that he wanted to buy some sweetmeats for his little nephews and nieces, and he went into a shop.
"Past eight o'clock, sir," said the civil man. "I can't serve you."
He wandered on through the streets that seemed strangely altered. He was going westward, and he began to feel faint. He thought he would be the better for a little brandy and water, and he was just turning into a tavern when all the people came out and the iron gates were shut with a clang in his face.

Antonio Ros de Olano: Historia verdadera o cuento estrambótico, que da lo mismo

Antonio Ros de Olano, Historia verdadera o cuento estrambótico, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


Abarricadado en los códices de muchos eruditos esquimales, desde donde sólo haré fuego con textos a rebote a los señores críticos si osaren atacarme, voime ahora derecho al correo submarino natural de Catania Pesce Cola. Y como por tales señas la mayor parte de ustedes no sabrán quién es; aclaro, y repito, que me voy derecho al atrevido recreador de la cruel admiración de Federico de Ñapóles... Mas como ni por ésas tal vez caigan ustedes en ello, digo, por último, que me voy como una bala al peje Nicolao; del cual peje, hasta que yo consigne lo que sé, sólo sabrán ustedes, acaso, que sacando del fondo de la mar, entre Scila y Caribdis, monedas y vasos de oro que le arrojaba su piadoso monarca, desapareció y... pax Christi.

Creen los investigadores someros que allí, entre aquellas bravas olas, muriera ahogado y acabara comido de monstruos marinos nuestro héroe; y así pretenden dar fin a su naciente historia: mas para refutarlos doy punto a mi discurso, y ahora verán ustedes lo que dijo el peje poniendo el pie en la playa de la isla.
Van cumplidas muchas lunas Desde que me eché a nadar; Tempestades oportunas, De las olas en las cunas, Me han mecido en alta mar.

Nuevas traigo generosas De mi príncipe y señor... Mas mis carnes escamosas Piden pausa en estas cosas, Hasta vestirme mejor.

En efecto, antes de adelantarse el peje hacia la hermana del gobernador, se revolcó en la arena para mejor cubrir sus carnes, según había indicado.

La hermana del gobernador era hermosa, pero no perfecta en el orden de la sensibilidad, porque le faltaban el susto, el desmayo, el ¡ay-ay-ay! y el no más por Dios.

En cambio causaba la admiración de cuantos la conocían; así por cierta virilidad y noble fiereza que trasporaba en ella a pesar de su belleza femenil, como porque tenía una propiedad singular: nunca había dicho una mentira; y la adornaba otra, más singular si cabe, que la de no decir embustes; soplaba y sorbía a un tiempo mismo.

¡Oh! Esto último auguraba a la doncella grandes ventajas en el porvenir, porque a la vez podía dar y tomar un beso, sin que pudieran achacarle la desenvoltura de ser parte activa en un caso en que, si tomar es igual a dar en sus resultados sensibles; dar y tomar a un tiempo, es uno más uno; aritméticamente igual a dos. Podía pues tomar o tomarse dos besos en uno, contra todo principio, excepto el de la modestia.

La luz del sol se había sumergido.

El peje Nicplao estaba interesante: vestía de fósforo sobre prismas de cilice, que ejecutaban cambiantes vistosísimos.

Илья Варшавский ( Ilya Varshavsky ): Гомункулус ( Homunculus )

Илья Варшавский, Ilya Varshavsky, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


Я проснулся от звонка телефона. На светящемся циферблате будильника часовая стрелка перешла за два часа. Не понимая, кто может звонить так поздно, я снял трубку.
- Наконец-то вы проснулись!- услышал я взволнованный голос Смирнова.- Прошу вас немедленно ко мне приехать!
- Что случилось?
- Произошло несчастье. Сбежал Гомункулус. Он обуреваем жаждой разрушения, и я боюсь даже подумать о том, что он способен натворить в таком состоянии.
- Ведь я вам говорил,- начал я, но в трубке послышались короткие гудки.

Медлить было нельзя.
Гомункулус! Я дал ему это имя, когда у Смирнова только зародилась идея создания мыслящего автомата, обладающего свободой воли. Он собирался применить изобретенные им пороговые молекулярные элементы для моделирования человеческого мозга.
Уже тогда бессмысленность этой затеи вызвала у меня резкий протест. Я просто не понимал, зачем это нужно. Мне всегда казалось, что задачи кибернетики должны ограничиваться синтезом автоматов, облегчающих человеческий труд. Я не сомневался в неограниченной возможности моделирования живой природы, но попытки создания электронной модели человека представлялись мне просто отвратительными. Откровенно говоря, меня пугала неизбежность конфликта между человеком и созданным им механическим подобием самого себя, подобием, лишенным каких бы то ни было человеческих черт, со свободой воли, определяемой не чувствами, а абстрактными, сухими законами математической логики. Я был уверен, что чем совершеннее будет такой автомат, тем бесчеловечнее он поведет себя в
выборе средств для достижения поставленной им цели. Все это я откровенно
высказал тогда Смирнову.
- Вы такой же ханжа, - ответил он, - как те, кто пытается объявить выращивание человеческих зародышей в колбе противоречащим элементарным нормам морали. Ученый не может позволить себе роскошь быть сентиментальным в таких вопросах.
- Когда выращивают человеческого эмбриона в колбе,- возразил я, - для того, чтобы использовать его ткани при операциях, требующих пересадки, то это делается в гуманных целях и морально оправдано. Но представьте себе, что кому-нибудь пришло в голову из любопытства вырастить в колбе живого человека. Такие попытки создания нового Гомункулуса, по-моему, столь же омерзительны, как и мысль о выведении гибрида человека с обезьяной.

Felisberto Hernández: Acunamiento

Felisberto Hernández Acunamiento, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Prólogo

Todos los sabios estaban de acuerdo en que el fin del mundo se aproximaba. Hasta habían fijado fecha. Todos los países se llenaron de espanto. Todos los hombres con el espíritu impreciso, no podían pensar en otra cosa que en hacerse los gustos. Y se precipitaban. Y no se preocupaban de que los póstumos placeres fueran a expensas del dolor de los demás. Hubo un país que reaccionó rápidamente de la fantástica noticia. Nadie sabía si ese estado de coraje era por ignorancia, por sabiduría, por demasiado dolor o por demasiado cinismo. Pero ellos fueron los únicos asombrosamente capaces de resolver el problema de precaverse: construyeron seis planetitas de cemento armado incluyendo las leyes físicas que los sostuvieran en el espacio.

I

Por más grande que fuera el esfuerzo humano, resultaba ridículo y pequeño al querer suplir a la Tierra. Se calculaba que ese país tenía diez veces más habitantes de los que cabían en los planetitas. Entonces decidieron algo atroz: debían salvarse los hombres perfectos. Vino el juicio final y unos cuantos hombres juzgaron a los demás hombres. En el primer momento todos se manifestaron capaces de esta tarea. Sin embargo, hubo un hombre extrañamente loco, que dijo lo contrario. Además propuso al pueblo que todos los hombres que se eligieran para juzgar a los demás, debían aceptar esta tarea a condición de ser fusilados.

II

El pueblo aceptó esta última proposición. Se disolvieron las aptitudes para la tarea de selección: nadie amaba la justicia al extremo de dar la vida por ella. Hubo sin embargo un hombre de experiencia concreta que aceptó. Indignado porque un grupo de inteligentes se burló de su experiencia, prefirió juzgar al grupo de inteligentes, y morir fusilado con una sonrisa trágica de ironía y de veneno de rabia. Gracias a los sacrificados por la justicia a ellos mismos, se juzgó a los hombres y los perfectos ocuparon sus respectivos puestos en los planetitas de cemento armado.

Neil Gaiman: A Study in Emerald

Neil Gaiman, A Study in Emerald, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


I. The New Friend
F RESH FROM THEIR STUPENDOUS EUROPEAN TOUR, WHERE THEY PERFORMED BEFORE SEVERAL OF THE CROWNED HEADS OF EUROPE, GARNERING THEIR PLAUDITS AND PRAISE WITH MAGNIFICENT DRAMATIC PERFORMANCES, COMBINING BOTH COMEDY AND TRAGEDY, THE STRAND PLAYERS WISH TO MAKE IT KNOWN THAT THEY SHALL BE APPEARING AT THE ROYAL COURT THEATRE, DRURY LANE, FOR A LIMITED ENGAGEMENT IN APRIL, AT WHICH THEY WILL PRESENT MY LOOK-ALIKE BROTHER TOM!, THE LITTLEST VIOLET-SELLER AND THE GREAT OLD ONES COME (THIS LAST AN HISTORICAL EPIC OF PAGEANTRY AND DELIGHT); EACH AN ENTIRE PLAY IN ONE ACT! TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE NOW FROM THE BOX OFFICE.

It is the immensity, I believe. The hugeness of things below. The darkness of dreams.
But I am woolgathering. Forgive me. I am not a literary man.
I had been in need of lodgings. That was how I met him. I wanted someone to share the cost of rooms with me. We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, in the chemical laboratories of St. Bart’s. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” that was what he said to me, and my mouth fell open and my eyes opened very wide.
“Astonishing,” I said.
“Not really,” said the stranger in the white lab-coat, who was to become my friend. “From the way you hold your arm, I see you have been wounded, and in a particular way. You have a deep tan. You also have a military bearing, and there are few enough places in the Empire that a military man can be both tanned and, given the nature of the injury to your shoulder and the traditions of the Afghan cave-folk, tortured.”
Put like that, of course, it was absurdly simple. But then, it always was. I had been tanned nut-brown. And I had indeed, as he had observed, been tortured.
The gods and men of Afghanistan were savages, unwilling to be ruled from Whitehall or from Berlin or even from Moscow, and unprepared to see reason. I had been sent into those hills, attached to the-th Regiment. As long as the fighting remained in the hills and mountains, we fought on an equal footing. When the skirmishesdescended into the caves and the darkness then we found ourselves, as it were, out of our depth and in over our heads.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: No haré nada por lo que el dios de la biomecánica me impida entrar en su cielo / Nothing the god of bio-mechanics wouldn't let you in heaven for

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo, No haré nada por lo que el dios de la biomecánica me impida entrar en su cielo, Nothing the god of bio-mechanics wouldn't let you in heaven for, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Philip K. Dick



Antes eran hombres, hombres como nosotros…
                    La isla del doctor Moreau, H. G. Wells

Procread y multiplicaos, y henchid la tierra; sometedla y dominad sobre los peces del mar, sobre las aves del cielo…”. Acostumbra a repetir ese paso de la Biblia mientras el heterogéneo material genético se funde en las probetas.
Pero ese laboratorio no es un templo. Y de serlo, se habría erigido en honor a un dios cruel, preocupado únicamente por sus mezquinos intereses, siempre ávido de nuevos sacrificios. En las paredes, en nichos excavados sobre el pretendido blanco, tarros con fetos de rasgos zoomorfos que antaño se habrían considerado monstruos. Un macabro homenaje a los orígenes del mayor programa de ingeniería genética y social.
“Sobrevive el que se adapta al cambio”, afirma el director del proyecto. Quizá esté jugando con él. Puede que lo hayan descubierto. Disponen de tantos informantes…
De regreso a casa, en los sórdidos suburbios que se extienden más allá del perímetro de seguridad, compra bajo la lluvia ácida, en uno de tantos puestos ambulantes, tallarines. No tiene tiempo que perder; le espera una larga noche de trabajo.
En su pasillo hace cola una variopinta multitud: humanos mejorados para la gloria del Estado y el óptimo funcionamiento del sistema. Branquias para los operarios de las plataformas petrolíferas; alas para los albañiles asignados a la construcción de los rascacielos desde donde la élite dirige sus destinos; enormes y sensibles pabellones auditivos para los zapadores ‒ciegos‒ encargados de excavar el laberinto subterráneo que alberga los niveles más desfavorecidos del desgarrado tejido social...
Aunque no podrá revertir la manipulación genética que les dio vida, procurará paliar sus secuelas con cirugía y tratamientos farmacológicos. 

Philip K. Dick: The Skull

Philip K. Dick, The Skull, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


"What is this opportunity?" Conger asked. "Go on. I'm interested."

The room was silent; all faces were fixed on Conger—still in the drab prison uniform. The Speaker leaned forward slowly.

"Before you went to prison your trading business was paying well—all illegal—all very profitable. Now you have nothing, except the prospect of another six years in a cell."

Conger scowled.

"There is a certain situation, very important to this Council, that requires your peculiar abilities. Also, it is a situation you might find interesting. You were a hunter, were you not? You've done a great deal of trapping, hiding in the bushes, waiting at night for the game? I imagine hunting must be a source of satisfaction to you, the chase, the stalking—"

Conger sighed. His lips twisted. "All right," he said. "Leave that out. Get to the point. Who do you want me to kill?"

The Speaker smiled. "All in proper sequence," he said softly.

The car slid to a stop. It was night; there was no light anywhere along the street. Conger looked out. "Where are we? What is this place?"

The hand of the guard pressed into his arm. "Come. Through that door."

Conger stepped down, onto the damp sidewalk. The guard came swiftly after him, and then the Speaker. Conger took a deep breath of the cold air. He studied the dim outline of the building rising up before them.

"I know this place. I've seen it before." He squinted, his eyes growing accustomed to the dark. Suddenly he became alert. "This is—"

"Yes. The First Church." The Speaker walked toward the steps. "We're expected."

"Expected? Here?"

"Yes." The Speaker mounted the stairs. "You know we're not allowed in their Churches, especially with guns!" He stopped. Two armed soldiers loomed up ahead, one on each side.

"All right?" The Speaker looked up at them. They nodded. The door of the Church was open. Conger could see other soldiers inside, standing about, young soldiers with large eyes, gazing at the ikons and holy images.

"I see," he said.

"It was necessary," the Speaker said. "As you know, we have been singularly unfortunate in the past in our relations with the First Church."

"This won't help."

"But it's worth it. You will see."

They passed through the hall and into the main chamber where the altar piece was, and the kneeling places. The Speaker scarcely glanced at the altar as they passed by. He pushed open a small side door and beckoned Conger through.

"In here. We have to hurry. The faithful will be flocking in soon."

Conger entered, blinking. They were in a small chamber, low-ceilinged, with dark panels of old wood. There was a smell of ashes and smoldering spices in the room. He sniffed. "What's that? The smell."

My Blog List

Tales of Mystery and Imagination

" Tales of Mystery and Imagination es un blog sin ánimo de lucro cuyo único fin consiste en rendir justo homenaje
a los escritores de terror, ciencia-ficción y fantasía del mundo. Los derechos de los textos que aquí aparecen pertenecen a cada autor.


Las imágenes han sido obtenidas de la red y son de dominio público. No obstante si alguien tiene derecho reservado sobre alguna de ellas y se siente
perjudicado por su publicación, por favor, no dude en comunicárnoslo.

List your business in a premium internet web directory for free This site is listed under American Literature Directory