Edward Frederic Benson: A tale of an empty house

It had been a disastrous afternoon: rain had streamed incessantly from a low grey sky, and the road was of the vilest description. There were sections consisting of sharp flints, newly laid down and not yet rolled into amenity, and the stretches in between were worn into deep ruts and bouncing holes, so that it was impossible anywhere to travel at even a moderate speed. Twice we had punctured, and now, as the stormy dusk began to fall, something went wrong with the engine, and after crawling on for a hundred yards or so we stopped. My driver, after a short investigation, told me that there was a half-hour's tinkering to be done, and after that we might, with luck, trundle along in a leisurely manner, and hope eventually to arrive at Crowthorpe which was the proposed destination.

We had come, when this stoppage occurred, to a crossroad. Through the driving rain I could see on the right a great church, and in front a huddle of houses. A consultation of the map seemed to indicate that this was the village of Riddington. The guide-book added the information that Riddington possessed an hotel, and the sign-post at the corner endorsed them both. To the right along the main road, into which we had just struck, was Crowthorpe, fifteen miles away and straight in front of us, half a mile distant, was the hotel.

The decision was not difficult. There was no reason why I should get to Crowthorpe to-night instead of to-morrow, for the friend whom I was to meet there would not arrive until next afternoon and it was surely better to limp half a mile with a spasmodic engine than to attempt fifteen on this inclement evening.

"We'll spend the night here," I said to my chauffeur. "The road dips down hill, and it's only half a mile to the hotel. I daresay we shall get there without using the engine at all. Let's try, anyhow."

We hooted and crossed the main road, and began to slide very slowly down a narrow street. It was impossible to see much, but on either side there were little houses with lights gleaming through blinds, or with blinds still undrawn, revealing cosy interiors. Then the incline grew steeper, and close in front of us I saw masts against a sheet of water that appeared to stretch unbroken into the rain-shrouded gloom of the gathering night.

Niccolò Ammaniti: Il libro nero di Sanremo

Mango se ne stava accasciato sulla poltrona del suo camerino e rifletteva che nonostante fosse da molti considerato l'unica vera alternativa alla tradizione musicale italiana e racchiudesse in sé tutte le caratteristiche più personali di un grande compositore e di un grande interprete, di tutto ciò, detto a chiare parole, non gliene poteva fregare di meno.

Mancavano ormai poche ore all'inizio del festival più importante del mondo e si sentiva depresso come poche volte gli era capitato di essere nella vita. L'esistenza della popstar lo aveva stancato. E odiava Sanremo con tutto il cuore. Un laido baraccone dove da più di dieci anni inscenava la farsa del compositore latino che riesce a raggiungere un respiro internazionale rimanendo imbevuto dello spirito della sua cultura. Ma quale cultura e cultura. Non sopportava più quella settimana di apnea che si doveva sciroppare ogni anno. Una tassa necessaria per poter sopravvivere. I giornalisti sempre a criticarti, il pubblico che si comporta come una banderuola. Pronti a esaltarti, a dirti che sei il più grande di tutti e poi appena molli un attimo, appena hai una normale crisi creativa ti buttano via come uno straccio. E poi c'era sua madre. Mariapia Mango aveva settantaquattro anni e viveva a Lagonegro, in Basilicata. Che errore terribile aveva fatto a montarle in casa il Salvavita Beghelli. Ma lui che ne poteva sapere, che quello era un oggetto infernale, fatto apposta per farti saltare i nervi. Gli era arrivato a casa un pacco dono dalla Beghelli, lo sponsor del festival, e dentro c'era un Salvalavista TV, un Salvalavista Computer 626 e il dannatissimo Salvavita. Lo aveva dato a sua madre, che diceva di soffrire di coronarie e quella ci si era attaccata come fosse un telecomando della TV. Per tre volte Mango si era precipitato a Lagonegro per scoprire che sua madre stava benissimo, era solo in pena per quel figlio che conduceva quella vita zingara. L'ultima volta, in preda a una crisi isterica, lo aveva strappato dal telefono e lo aveva gettato dalla finestra. Ma la madre aveva spedito la garanzia e con una astuzia malvagia era riuscita a farsene rimandare uno nuovo.

Mango si attaccò alla bottiglia di Uliveto e poi si studiò allo specchio. Aveva le occhiaie. Aprì la bocca e tirò fuori una lingua che sembrava un calzino da tennis. Il nuovo look, capello corto, basetta alta e barba sfatta non lo convinceva. Oramai aveva una certa età, non poteva continuare a fare l'adolescente. Tutta colpa di quella cretina della sua parrucchiera.

In questo oceano di dolore aveva almeno una consolazione. Quest'anno cantava “Luce”, un pezzo d'ispirazione new-age, in duo con Zenima, giovane scoperta della canzone italiana di origine mediorientale, le cui doti vocali fuori dal comune ben si sposavano con la raffinata ricerca vocale da sempre al centro della sua esperienza artistica. Oltre che essere una grande interprete era anche una ragazza sensibile, non una delle migliaia di buzzicone che affollavano il palco dell'Ariston. Praticava lo yoga ed era una buona conoscitrice della cultura orientale. Amava l'architettura e il teatro giapponese, le poesie di Emily Dickinson e la musica romantica mitteleuropea. La loro fusione avrebbe potuto far emergere una nuova linea melodica, intimista e meditata, che non aveva niente a che spartire con la merda dei Jalisse.

Cristina Fernández Cubas: La ventana del jardín

El primer escrito que el hijo de los Albert deslizó disimuladamente en mi bolsillo me produjo la impresión de una broma incomprensible. Las palabras, escritas en círculos concéntricos, formaban las siguientes frases:

Cazuela airada,

Tiznes o visones. Cruces o lagartos. La

noche era acre aunque las cucarachas

llorasen. Más

Olla.

Pensé en el particular sentido del humor de Tomás Albert y olvidé el asunto. El niño, por otra parte, era un tanto especial; no acudía jamás a la escuela y vivía prácticamente recluido en una confortable habitación de paredes acolchadas. Sus padres, unos antiguos compañeros de colegio, debían sentirse bastante afectados por la debilidad de su único hijo, ya que, desde su nacimiento, habían abandonado la ciudad para instalarse en una granja abandonada a varios kilómetros de una aldea y, también desde entonces, rara vez se sabía de ellos. Por esta razón, o porque simplemente la granja me quedaba de camino, decidí aparecer por sorpresa. Habían pasado ya dos años desde nuestro encuentro anterior y durante el trayecto me pregunté con curiosidad si Josefina Albert habría conseguido cultivar sus aguacates en el huerto o si la cría de gallinas de José estaría dando buenos resultados. El autobús se detuvo en el pueblo y allí alquilé un coche público para que me llevara hasta la colina. Me interesaba también el estado de salud del pequeño Tomás. La primera y única vez que tuve ocasión de verle estaba jugueteando con cochecitos y muñecos en el suelo de su cuarto. Tendría entonces unos doce años pero su aspecto era bastante más aniñado. No pude hablar con él —el niño sufría una afección en los oídos— y nuestra breve entrevista se realizó en silencio, a través de una ventana entreabierta. Fue entonces cuando Tomás deslizó la carta en mi bolsillo.

Habíamos llegado a la granja y el taxista me señaló con un gesto la puerta principal. Recogí mi maletín de viaje, toqué el timbre y eché una mirada al terreno; en la huerta no crecían aguacates sino cebollas y en el corral no había rastros de gallinas pero sí unas veinte jaulas de metal con cuatro o cinco conejos cada una. Volví a llamar. El Ford años cuarenta se convertía ahora en un punto minúsculo al final del camino. Llamé por tercera vez. El amasijo de polvo y humo que levantaba el coche parecía un nimbo de lámina escolar. Golpeé con la aldaba.

Fritz Leiber: The Girl with the Hungry Eyes

All right, I’ll tell you why the Girl gives me the creeps. Why I can’t stand to go downtown and see the

mob slavering up at her on the tower, with that pop bottle or pack of cigarettes or whatever it is beside

her. Why I hate to look at magazines any more because I know she’ll turn up somewhere in a brassiere

or a bubble bath. Why I don’t like to think of millions of Americans drinking in that poisonous halfsmile.

It’s quite a story—more story than you’re expecting.

No, I haven’t suddenly developed any long-haired indignation at the evils of advertising and the national

glamour-girl complex. That’d be a laugh for a man in my racket, wouldn’t it? Though I think you’ll

agree there’s something a little perverted about trying to capitalize on sex that way. But it’s okay with

me. And I know we’ve had the Face and the Body and the Look and what not else, so why shouldn’t

someone come along who sums it all up so completely, that we have to call her the Girl and blazon her

on all the billboards from Times Square to Telegraph Hill?

But the Girl isn’t like any of the others. She’s unnatural. She’s morbid. She’s unholy.

Oh it’s 1948, is it, and the sort of thing I’m hinting at went out with witchcraft? But you see I’m not

altogether sure myself what I’m hinting at, beyond a certain point. There are vampires and vampires, and not all of them suck blood.

And there were the murders, if they were murders.

Besides, let me ask you this. Why, when America is obsessed with the Girl, don’t we find out more

about her? Why doesn’t she rate a Time cover with a droll biography inside? Why hasn’t there been a

feature in Life or the Post? A Profile in The New Yorker? Why hasn’t Charm or Mademoiselle done her career saga? Not ready for it? Nuts!

Robert E. Howard: The Children of the Night

There were, I remember, six of us in Conrad's bizarrely fashioned study, with its queer relics from all over the world and its long rows of books which ranged from the Mandrake Press edition of Boccaccio to a Missale Romanum, bound in clasped oak boards and printed in Venice, 1740. Clemants and Professor Kirowan had just engaged in a somewhat testy anthropological argument: Clemants upholding the theory of a separate, distinct Alpine race, while the professor maintained that this so-called race was merely a deviation from an original Aryan stock--possibly the result of an admixture between the southern or Mediterranean races and the Nordic people.

"And how," asked Clemants, "do you account for their brachycephalicism? The Mediterraneans were as long-headed as the Aryans: would admixture between these dolichocephalic peoples produce a broad-headed intermediate type?"

"Special conditions might bring about a change in an originally long-headed race," snapped Kirowan. "Boaz has demonstrated, for instance, that in the case of immigrants to America, skull formations often change in one generation. And Flinders Petrie has shown that the Lombards changed from a long-headed to a round-headed race in a few centuries."

"But what caused these changes?"

"Much is yet unknown to science," answered Kirowan, "and we need not be dogmatic. No one knows, as yet, why people of British and Irish ancestry tend to grow unusually tall in the Darling district of Australia--Cornstalks, as they are called--or why people of such descent generally have thinner jaw-structures after a few generations in New England. The universe is full of the unexplainable."

Alberto López Aroca: La mercancía

Al principio, yo quedé con mi contacto en que iba a ser lo de siempre, que no íbamos a tener más complicaciones que las normales en esto. Porque como se puede usted imaginar, complicaciones las tenemos a patadas, ¿eh? Pero a patadas. Y yo no digo que sea una cosa poco honrada, que no lo es, porque a esa pobre gente luego la putean mucho, pero eso lo hacen los empresarios, ¿sabe usted? Los empresarios, que son los que buscan lo que buscan, o sea, mano de obra y no barata, no, sino gratis. Y claro, gratis, gratis, lo que se dice gratis, pues no puede ser, porque la vida está muy jodida, y no sólo por ahí, de donde vienen todos éstos, no, sino también aquí. Y lo que yo digo, vamos, es que si vienen es por algo, y es porque se piensan que esto va a ser la hostia, que se van a hacer ricos, o vete tú a saber. Y este país puede ser cualquier cosa menos Jauja. Yo, sin ir más lejos, estoy bien jodido. ¿Se cree usted que me gusta pegarme las palizas de camión que me pego yo, eh? Mire, hasta cinco días sin dormir he estado yo en la carretera. Y claro, luego vienen que si los accidentes, los ayayais y los madres mías. Y es que no puede ser, coño, que para mantener a la familia uno tenga que hacer estas cosas. Pero cuando no hay más cojones, no hay más cojones, y ya está.

A mí la verdad es que me dan mucha lástima, qué quiere que le diga, pero también me da mucha lástima ver a los chavales aquí, que se pegan media vida estudiando, se sacan sus carrera y al final terminan de barrenderos. ¡Y eso con suerte, ojo! Porque las cosas están así de mal, o peor. Y si encima te vienen yo qué sé la de extranjeros de todas las partes del mundo, pues mira... Y es que en parte la culpa la tienen los jóvenes, que no quieren trabajar en las cosas de toda la vida. Dígale usted a uno de los chiquillotes esos que se ven por la calle, borrachos del todo, que se vaya a coger ajos. ¿Sabe qué le va a decir? Que unos cojones, que vaya su puta madre, con perdón. Y es que no saben que nosotros, sus padres, nos estamos partiendo el pecho por ellos. Y así va España.

No, no le pienso decir el nombre de mi contacto, señor. ¿Usted qué se ha creído, que yo soy tonto o qué? Bastante tengo ya encima con esto, como para encima buscarme más complicaciones. Que esta gente no se anda con tonterías, oiga, que a las primeras de cambio te pegan un tiro y se quedan más anchos que largos. Pues sí, hombre, no faltaba nada más que eso.

Lo del tío raro sí que se lo voy a contar, claro que sí.. Es que si no, ¿cómo se explica esta mierda? La verdad es que yo no lo entiendo, y aún me tiemblan las manos, para qué nos vamos a engañar. Me tomaría un cafelito, ¿sabe? Sí, con leche estaría1 bien. Y si tienen algo de comer... No, no se moleste, si con un bollo de esos que tienen en la máquina de ahí afuera me vale. Es que la he visto cuando estaba en la sala de espera, sí. Muchas gracias, señor.

Pedro Ugarte: La curva de Flick

En resumen, la idea de adscribir recién nacidos africanos al cuidado de niñas europeas tuvo un éxito inmediato, un éxito del que sólo salieron perjudicados los fabricantes de muñecas y ositos de peluche, pero bien puede decirse que la economía occidental asumió con coraje este pequeño sacrificio ante los numerosos efectos benéficos que prodigó la humanitaria iniciativa. Nadie recuerda a ciencia cierta quién fue el promotor del proyecto, pero a principios del siglo XXI ya eran varias las oenegés que facilitaban esta práctica; hacia la tercera década del siglo, Unicef la consagró en varios documentos y después la ONU la confirmó definitivamente con una reglamentación internacional, ante la aplastante evidencia de que redimía del hambre a numerosos niños nacidos en los países más pobres del planeta.

Puede decirse que el hambre no quedó erradicada del Tercer Mundo, pero al menos evitó que padecieran ese horrible destino los más débiles: los recién nacidos. A mediados del siglo XXI, la ONU pudo declarar de forma solemne que el hambre ya no mataba a las criaturas de corta edad que nacían en depauperadas aldeas africanas.

Básicamente el sistema de adopción consistía en lo siguiente. Las niñas de los países desarrollados, en contra de lo que predijeron tantos grupos feministas, seguían sintiendo la irreprimible inclinación de jugar con muñecos y oficiar sobre ellos una suerte de primaria maternidad. A la vista del mantenimiento de este hábito (que nadie tuvo el atrevimiento de calificar como genético, pero sí como una enojosa herencia cultural) se pensó en trasladar a criaturas hambrientas del Tercer Mundo hasta los hogares europeos, donde las niñas podrían jugar, en vez de con muñecas, con auténticos bebés, a los que darían el biberón, acostarían en camitas y sacarían a pasear en encantadores carritos de juguete.

El sistema de acogimiento contaba con innumerables ventajas: eximía a los padres de los engorrosos procesos burocráticos de la adopción (De hecho, les eximía de toda responsabilidad en el proceso: la moda tomó el informal aspecto de encantadores regalos navideños), ayudaba a completar la formación de las niñas occidentales mediante la adquisición de obligaciones y responsabilidades y, por último, daba a los bebés africanos una razonable posibilidad de seguir vivos, una posibilidad, en todo caso, infinitamente mayor a la que podían esperar de seguir agonizando en aldeas subsaharianas quemadas por el sol.

Catherine Cheek: She's Taking Her Tits To The Grave

Melanie hitchhiked for the first time ever after she climbed out of her grave. A week later, and she wouldn't have been able to flirt her way into the trunk of a late model sedan, much less shotgun with full access to the radio. But she had had a stellar figure, a southern California tan, and bleach-blonde hair that could pass for natural. Maintaining a beautiful body had landed her a rich husband, and she'd kept the position of wife long past the time when a less successful trophy would have been replaced.

That nice face and body still served her, for the embalmers had done a great job preserving her not-inconsequential looks. The middle-aged chiropractor who drove her from the cemetery would happily have driven her all the way across town to the house she shared with Brandon, her husband, but she decided to go to Larry's condo first.

More than anything else, she needed to find the man who had raised her from the dead.

A few people noticed as she walked from the parking lot to Larry's door, and she got some second looks, but she paid them no mind. People often mistook her for an actress or a model here in Los Angeles, the land of the Barbie.

The steps up to Larry's condo seemed endless when you were wearing four-inch heels. She smoothed her hair, cleared her throat before knocking on Larry's door, and felt a thrill of anticipation. Wasn't he going to be happy to see she was alive again!

Alfredo Álamo: La cirugía del azar

Morir es un arte como cualquier otro.

John Faré, 1965

Nunca antes había tallado un pulgar humano. En 1964 muchos me consideraban uno de los mejores prostéticos de Dinamarca; mi trabajo sobre articulaciones, cadera y clavícula sobre todo, me había otorgado cierta fama en círculos médicos. En una galería de arte moderno de Copenhague incluso realizaron una pequeña exposición con mis bocetos y mode­los de trabajo. Me gustaba codearme con escultores y fotógrafos. En el fondo yo siempre me había considerado más un artista que un simple médico. Y quizás por eso acudieron a mí.

Llovía, recuerdo eso. En mi taller siempre olía a alcantarilla en cuanto caían cuatro gotas. Puede que por eso asociara al principio aquel olor a la persona de Gilbert Aridoff, el prime­ro de los compañeros de Faré que llegué a conocer. Siempre que me encontraba con él me llegaba ese olor almizclado y levemente nauseabundo. En aquella primera ocasión no habla­mos demasiado, Aridoff quería saber si podía realizar la réplica exacta de un pulgar humano. Le dije que sí, pero que mi trabajo se orientaba a moldes y prótesis genéricas. Dijo entenderlo y se marchó sin más explicaciones.

Volvió unas semanas más tarde. Llevaba con él una caja de cartón del tamaño de un puño. La dejó sobre mi mesa de trabajo y se encendió un cigarrillo mentolado que no pudo apartar aquel olor que parecía desprender.

—Debe usted comprender —me dijo, tras un par de caladas profundas al cigarro— que lo que le voy a proponer no tiene nada que ver con la ciencia o la medicina. Tiene que ver con el arte.

El arte. En aquella época el arte podía ser tanto pintar un globo gigante de azul o saltar desde un segundo piso. No quiero decir que haya cambiado demasiado ahora, pero entonces todo el mundo experimentaba cierto vértigo ante el arte. Sobre todo si el que hablaba era capaz de pronunciar aquella palabra con mayúsculas.

—Represento a un artista muy especial —continuó, alguien dispuesto a romper todas las barreras que el stablishmeni ha dispuesto durante años sobre la verdadera expresión artística. Trabajamos en un proyecto arriesgado, una idea revolucionaria. Y créame si le digo que necesitamos su ayuda para seguir adelante.

El porqué un artista de vanguardia necesitaba a un especialista en prostética para romper con los valores establecidos mi intrigó. Aridoff señaló la caja que había traído.

David Sutton: Clinically Dead

Russell's mother was seriously ill in intensive care.

The sneaking suspicion was that he should never have been away on holiday when she went in for her operation. At the back of his mind he'd known he was tempting fate, but who ever believed in that? Nevertheless, his one nagging thought, as he lay on hot, gritty beaches, dozing, was that something would inevitably go wrong if he took his vacation rather than cancelling. Because his mother's aneurysm operation was to be performed a mere twelve hours before the 757 deposited him back at the airport, it hardly seemed logical to miss out on two weeks in the sun. But guilt struck any form of rationality stone dead.

He rushed to the hospital dazed, in shock, wondering if the situation could have been avoided by treating himself to a bit of healthy selflessness. To keep lady luck sweet.

Before Russell was allowed in to see his mother, he was spoken to by the senior anaesthetist, having been required to sit for fifteen minutes in a small office adjacent to intensive care.

"The operation went without a hitch," he said without preamble. "The procedure is well established and usually straightforward. In fact, your mother was coming out of surgery as we expected when there were complications." The face of the anaesthetist was alarmingly boyish; Russell thought he looked too young to be responsible for life and death in the operating theatre.

Unable to maintain eye contact, Russell stared at the man's shoes. Unexpectedly, they were white leather mules with thick wooden soles, the sort of shoes which are supposed, somehow, to do your feet good. The leather was spotted with dried blood.

"Is she -?" Russell could not finish what he wanted to ask. He'd never had to face precisely this situation before. His father had died ten years ago, at work. His death was a fait accompli. Having his mother halfway between this world and the next was proving to be altogether more difficult to handle. He wished that his mother and father had not had him so late, then he wouldn't have had to cope with aged parents whilst he was still relatively young.

"Your mother is, what age?" the anaesthetist asked, as if deliberately trying to avoid answering the question he must have known Russell was trying to ask.

João Guimarães Rosa: A terceira margem do rio

Nosso pai era homem cumpridor, ordeiro, positivo; e sido assim desde mocinho e menino, pelo que testemunharam as diversas sensatas pessoas, quando indaguei a informação. Do que eu mesmo me alembro, ele não figurava mais estúrdio nem mais triste do que os outros, conhecidos nossos. Só quieto. Nossa mãe era quem regia, e que ralhava no diário com a gente — minha irmã, meu irmão e eu. Mas se deu que, certo dia, nosso pai mandou fazer para si uma canoa.

Era a sério. Encomendou a canoa especial, de pau de vinhático, pequena, mal com a tabuinha da popa, como para caber justo o remador. Mas teve de ser toda fabricada, escolhida forte e arqueada em rijo, própria para dever durar na água por uns vinte ou trinta anos. Nossa mãe jurou muito contra a idéia. Seria que, ele, que nessas artes não vadiava, se ia propor agora para pescarias e caçadas? Nosso pai nada não dizia. Nossa casa, no tempo, ainda era mais próxima do rio, obra de nem quarto de légua: o rio por aí se estendendo grande, fundo, calado que sempre. Largo, de não se poder ver a forma da outra beira. E esquecer não posso, do dia em que a canoa ficou pronta.

Sem alegria nem cuidado, nosso pai encalcou o chapéu e decidiu um adeus para a gente. Nem falou outras palavras, não pegou matula e trouxa, não fez a alguma recomendação. Nossa mãe, a gente achou que ela ia esbravejar, mas persistiu somente alva de pálida, mascou o beiço e bramou: — "Cê vai, ocê fique, você nunca volte!" Nosso pai suspendeu a resposta. Espiou manso para mim, me acenando de vir também, por uns passos. Temi a ira de nossa mãe, mas obedeci, de vez de jeito. O rumo daquilo me animava, chega que um propósito perguntei: — "Pai, o senhor me leva junto, nessa sua canoa?" Ele só retornou o olhar em mim, e me botou a bênção, com gesto me mandando para trás. Fiz que vim, mas ainda virei, na grota do mato, para saber. Nosso pai entrou na canoa e desamarrou, pelo remar. E a canoa saiu se indo — a sombra dela por igual, feito um jacaré, comprida longa.

Nosso pai não voltou. Ele não tinha ido a nenhuma parte. Só executava a invenção de se permanecer naqueles espaços do rio, de meio a meio, sempre dentro da canoa, para dela não saltar, nunca mais. A estranheza dessa verdade deu para. estarrecer de todo a gente. Aquilo que não havia, acontecia. Os parentes, vizinhos e conhecidos nossos, se reuniram, tomaram juntamente conselho.

Darrell Schweitzer: The Dead Kid

I

It’s been a lot of years, but I think I’m still afraid of Luke Bradley, because of what he showed me.

I knew him in the first grade, and he was a tough guy even then, the sort of kid who would sit on a tack and insist it didn’t hurt, and then make you sit on the same tack (which definitely did hurt) because you were afraid of what he’d do if you didn’t. Once he found a bald-faced hornet nest on tree branch, broke it off, and ran yelling down the street, waving the branch around and around until finally the nest fell off and the hornets came out like a cloud. Nobody knew what happened after that because the rest of us had run away.

We didn’t see Luke in school for a couple days afterwards, so I suppose he got stung rather badly. When he did show up he was his old self and beat up three other boys in one afternoon. Two of them needed stitches.

When I was about eight, the word went around the neighborhood that Luke Bradley had been eaten by a werewolf. "Come on," said Tommy Hitchens, Luke’s current sidekick. "I’ll show you what’s left of him. Up in a tree."

I didn’t believe any werewolf would have been a match for Luke Bradley, but I went. When Tommy pointed out the alleged remains of the corpse up in the tree, I could tell even from a distance that I was looking at a t-shirt and a pair of blue-jeans stuffed with newspapers.

I said so and Tommy flattened me with a deft right hook, which broke my nose, and my glasses.

The next day, Luke was in school as usual, though I had a splint on my nose. When he saw me, he called me a "pussy" and kicked me in the balls.

Already he was huge, probably a couple of years older than the rest of the class. Though he never admitted it, everybody knew he’d been held back in every grade at least once, even kindergarten.

But he wasn’t stupid. He was crazy. That was the fascination of hanging out with him, even if you could get hurt in his company. He did wild things that no one else dared even think about. There was the stunt with the hornet nest, or the time he picked up fresh dogshit in both his bare hands and claimed he was going to eat it right in front of us before everybody got grossed out and ran because we were afraid he was going to make us eat it. Maybe he really did. He was just someone for whom the rules, all the rules, simply did not apply. That he was usually in detention, and had been picked up by the police several times only added to his mystique.

And in the summer when I was twelve, Luke Bradley showed me the dead kid.

José María Tamparillas: Cosecha de huesos

Huesos.

Sólo huesos.

Un montón de ellos.

Lucas Cebrián no paraba de sacar huesos. Adultos, unos pocos niños... Esqueletos completos y piezas sueltas.

Limpios y algo ennegrecidos por el color rudo del suelo que los acogía.

Los apilaba en la parte de atrás del cobertizo. Lo hacía con cuidado y respeto; imaginaba que en una situación parecida, a él le hubiera gustado que quien perturbara el sueño eterno manejase sus restos con un mínimo de decoro.

Mes tras mes, año a año, Lucas peleaba con denuedo con­tra el destino que había heredado: una granja contagiada de lepra, en medio de un páramo insalubre donde sólo medra­ban los mosquitos, las culebras y las ratas; rodeado de una tie­rra estéril con la que había que pelearse para obtener algún fruto.

Y que sólo parecía querer germinar intermitentes cosechas de huesos.

Lucas Cebrián era un hombre solitario: segundo hijo en una familia humilde, y por lo tanto abocado a la miseria en un lugar en el que el primogénito heredaba todo. La granja, las tierras, los cerdos y hasta aquel saco de pulgas, parecido a un mulo, provenían de un tío materno suyo, padrino de bautizo, que había muerto poco tiempo atrás sin más descendencia que aquel muchacho retraído y hosco, aunque trabajador. Era una nueva vida, lejos de su lugar de nacimiento. Cualquier otro hubiera cejado en el empeño al poco tiempo, pero Lucas era un hombre adusto y obstinado, temeroso de Dios a la mane­ra de quien lo ve como un padre exigente, brutal y algo dis­tante. Aquella herencia había sido un regalo, la puerta que se le había proporcionado para salir de una existencia abocada al infortunio: puerta y prueba. Asumía su actual pobreza con pragmatismo: nadie es pobre, un pobre de verdad si tiene un lugar y los medios para subsistir por sí mismo. Sólo se es pobre de verdad si se depende de la caridad ajena. Consideraba que el trabajo era una obligación moral y que la riqueza, la autén­tica riqueza estaba en relación inversa a las necesidades que uno mismo se exigía.

Lucas pedía poco: comer, beber, dormir y tener la salud sufi­ciente para ir amanecer tras amanecer a pelearse con aquella tie­rra preñada de huesos y penuria.

Sin embargo había días en los que percibía un ligero pruri­to de duda.

Miraba el montón de tibias, costillas y cráneos y se pregun­taba en voz baja si él no iba a ser el siguiente en pudrirse bajo la maloliente capa que lo cubría todo; dudaba si alguien iba a recoger sus huesos mondos, roídos por las ratas.

Hector Hugh Munro (Saki): The Open Window

“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”

Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.

“I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.”

Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division.

“Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.

“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.”

He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.

“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady.

“Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.

“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.”

“Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.