Michael Marshall Smith: Later

I remember standing in the bedroom before we went out, fiddling with my tie and fretting mildly about the time. As yet we had plenty, but that was nothing to be complacent about. The minutes had a way of disappearing when Rachel was getting ready, early starts culminating in a breathless search for a taxi.

It was a party we were going to, so it didn't really matter what time we left, but I tend to be a little dull about time. I used to, anyway.

When I had the tie as close to a tidy knot as I was going to be able to get it, I turned away from the mirror, and opened my mouth to call out to Rachel. But then I caught sight of what was on the bed, and closed it again. For a moment I just stood and looked, and then walked over towards the bed.

It wasn't anything very spectacular, just a dress made of sheeny white material. A few years ago, when we started going out together, Rachel used to make a lot of her clothes. She didn't do it because she had to, but because she enjoyed it. She used to trail me endlessly round dress-making shops, browsing patterns and asking my opinion on a million different fabrics, while I half-heartedly protested and moaned.

On impulse I leant down and felt the material, and found I could remember touching it for the first time in the shop on Mill Road, could remember surfacing up through contented boredom to say that yes, I liked this one. On that recommendation she'd bought it, and made this dress, and as a reward for traipsing around after her she'd bought me dinner too. We were poorer then, so the meal was cheap, but there was lots and it was good.

The strange thing was, I didn't even really mind the dress shops. You know how sometimes, when you're just walking around, living your life, you'll see someone on the street and fall hopelessly in love with them? How something in the way they look, the way they are, makes you stop dead in your tracks and stare? How for that instant you're convinced that if you could just meet them, you'd be able to love them forever?

Darío Herrera: La nueva Leda

–La tarde está linda, mamá; hoy no siento ninguna fatiga, no he tosido desde esta mañana... ¿Ves? Respiro muy bien, y creo que pronto estaré buena. Déjame ir a Palermo: no es día de corso y el paseo me pondrá mejor... te lo aseguro.

La madre contempló a la hija con su angustiosa mirada de siempre, y un rayo de esperanza brilló en aquellos ojos. Sobre la demacración terrosa del rostro de la joven, aparecía difun­dida una leve aurora; las pupilas tenían resplandores más in­tensos, y todo el semblante ostentaba inusitada animación, cual si en aquel organismo, corroído por la tisis, comenzara a realizarse una resurrección milagrosa.

El permiso fue concedido; y de la Avenida Alvear la victo­ria partió, al trote del vigoroso tronco. Recostada sobre los cojines del carruaje, Julia bebía con fruición el aire oxigenado de la gran calzada. Iba sola, y esto la contrariaba. Experimentaba la necesidad de hablar; una alegría secreta, cual fluido mágico, le circulaba por los nervios. Nunca se sintió en tan benéfica disposición moral; sus ideas tejían sueños luminosos, y su cuerpo impregnado de ese jocundo baño interno, se aligera­ba, llenábase como de vida nueva, e imprimía a sus músculos agilidad y fuerza... Sí, experimentaba la necesidad de hablar, de comunicarse con alguien, y lamentaba no llevar a su lado a alguna amiga. Pero carecía de amistades íntimas, hacía va­rios años. El mal se inició durante el paso peligroso de la in­fancia a la pubertad, y su manifestación más significativa fue una melancolía constante, que la retrajo de todo trato social. No se la veía desde la época en que, sana y fresca como las yemas primaverales, vertía en torno suyo el encanto de su in­teligencia precoz y la gracia de su prometedora belleza. Así, atravesó en su victoria, inadvertida, por entre los concurren­tes de Palermo, y fue a situarse junto al lago, bajo la radiosa calma vespertina...

Y en la tarde declinante, el lago esplendía como un espejo, en su quietud bruñida. Los árboles de la orilla lo circundaban, proyectando sus sombras en el agua hospedadora. Por inter­valos, desprendíase alguna hoja seca, voltejeaba en el vacío, y descendía a posarse sobre la superficie temblorosa. De las ave­nidas inmediatas, sordos e intermitentes, llegaban el ruido de los carruajes, el rehilar de las bicicletas, o el murmurio de las pisadas de los paseantes. Y la sensación de soledad del sitio, rota un momento, recobraba su imperio; y entonces, vibraba más claro y musicalmente el vuelo de la brisa entre el ramaje sonoro. Arriba, el cielo lucía incólume su azul, pálido como seda antigua; y en el horizonte, una gran nube de violeta epis­copal, era como un suntuoso catafalco que la noche prepara­ba al sol.

Henry James: Sir Edmund Orme

The statement appears to have been written, though the fragment is undated, long after the death of his wife, whom I take to have been one of the persons referred to. There is, however, nothing in the strange story to establish this point, which is, perhaps, not of importance. When I took possession of his effects I found these pages, in a locked drawer, among papers relating to the unfortunate lady’s too brief career (she died in childbirth a year after her marriage), letters, memoranda, accounts, faded photographs, cards of invitation. That is the only connection I can point to, and you may easily and will probably say that the tale is too extravagant to have had a demonstrable origin. I cannot, I admit, vouch for his having intended it as a report of real occurrence – I can only vouch for his general veracity. In any case it was written for himself, not for others. I offer it to others – having full option – precisely because it is so singular. Let them, in respect to the form of the thing, bear in mind that it was written quite for himself. I have altered nothing but the names.

If there’s a story in the matter I recognise the exact moment at which it began. This was on a soft, still Sunday noon in November, just after church, on the sunny Parade. Brighton was full of people; it was the height of the season, and the day was even more respectable than lovely – which helped to account for the multitude of walkers. The blue sea itself was decorous; it seemed to doze, with a gentle snore (if that be decorum), as if nature were preaching a sermon. After writing letters all the morning I had come out to take a look at it before luncheon. I was leaning over the rail which separates the King’s Road from the beach, and I think I was smoking a cigarette, when I became conscious of an intended joke in the shape of a light walking-stick laid across my shoulders. The idea, I found, had been thrown off by Teddy Bostwick, of the Rifles, and was intended as a contribution to talk. Our talk came off as we strolled together – he always took your arm to show you he forgave your obtuseness about his humour – and looked at the people, and bowed to some of them, and wondered who others were, and differed in opinion as to the prettiness of the girls. About Charlotte Marden we agreed, however, as we saw her coming toward us with her mother; and there surely could have been no one who wouldn’t have agreed with us. The Brighton air, of old, used to make plain girls pretty and pretty girls prettier still – I don’t know whether it works the spell now. The place, at any rate, was rare for complexions, and Miss Marden’s was one that made people turn round. It made us stop, heaven knows – at least, it was one of the things, for we already knew the ladies.

Óscar Esquivias: Biológicas: una lectura providencial

Dasha Paskualova Susinos, hija de la única «niña de la guerra» burgalesa que encontró cobijo en la Unión Soviética, es una mujer extraña. Parece una de esas posaderas tenebrosas que salen en las películas de Terence Fisher, una aldeana de los Cárpatos o algo peor. Esa fue la primera impresión que tuve de ella. Cincuentona, con los cabellos blancos alborotados, vestía como una misionera seglar o como alguien acogido por la beneficencia: ropas que en alguna época remota fueron corrien­tes y nunca bonitas. Llegó a mi despacho hace casi ocho años. Venía recomendada por el párroco de San Gil, quien ya me había puesto en antecedentes sobre su persona e intenciones. Traía una carpetilla ceñida por gomas, de donde fue sacando varios diplomas que, en cirílico, debían de acreditar sus conocimientos académicos. Sin embargo, lo que a mí me interesaba era el relato de su vida, que me narró con todo su aplomo y vozarrón, como un poema épico. Su historia, de tan descabellada, debía o ser enteramente cierta o fruto de una alucinación. La di por buena y no me equivoqué. Su vida y sus principios se sostenían sobre su profunda fe, transmiti­da por su madre, y una visión providencialista de la historia, la existencia y el futuro. Al cuello, como grandes escapularios, llevaba tres imágenes de la Virgen: el icono de la de Chestojova, protectora de los alejados de su patria, y en su reverso el retra­to de Juan Pablo II; la Virgen Milagrosa, que predijo la unión de Europa bajo su bandera mañana, y en su envés, Jacques Delors con halo; y la Virgen de Fátima, que profetizó la con­versión de Rusia: en el reverso (que en esta ocasión no me ense­ñó) llevaba la revelación de los misterios de Fátima que quedaban por descubrir al mundo y que la propia sor Lucía, vestida de pastora y a lomos del arcángel san Gabriel, le había dictado en sueños. Con el régimen comunista su vida había sido un calvario. A los diez años y siguiendo el ejemplo de las santas precoces, había agredido a las gentes que esperaban ante el mausoleo de Lenin, por idólatras. Fue en un rapto de inspi­ración divina en el que, además, los lápices escolares se le con­virtieron  en  piedras.  Por  una vez  estas  explicaciones convencieron a la policía (y eran los tiempos de Stalin), pero no así a su familia: su madre, a pesar de ser creyente, no quería tener en casa a una santa Juana de Arco en potencia y no dio crédito al milagro de los lápices y las piedras, y su padre, un conductor de tranvías en una línea donde no se montaba nadie, no entendió nada, pero le hizo mucha gracia tener una hija tan aguerrida. Fue el primer episodio de una vida desdichada que nuestros lectores conocen bien porque la hemos publicado varias veces y con lujo de detalles. Al fin, después de una exis­tencia marcada por la persecución oficial, la cárcel y el exilio de su Moscú natal, pudo aprovecharse de la mayor tolerancia del régimen de Gorbachov y, con ciertas ayudas del gobierno espa­ñol, consiguió salir de la Unión Soviética. Escogió la ciudad materna para asentarse y esperar la muerte, o mejor, el tránsi­to, pues ella había de ascender en cuerpo y alma a los cielos de cumplirse una visión que tuvo a los catorce años en Irkutsk, ya en el destierro. Tenía una pensión modesta que cobraba puntualmente y que le permitía vivir en una casuca desvencijada pero aseada de la calle Corazas, donde ella misma había pintado al fresco escenas de la vida de la Virgen. Dasha paseaba su facha de anacronismo con leotardos, de reta­blo ambulante, con la dignidad de una reina en el exilio. Asistía a todos los oficios en la iglesia de San Gil y solía rezar de pie, balanceándose, en medio del círculo que formaba en el suelo con velas pequeñas, temblonas, veletas de mil vientos rastreros, que acababan consumidas en un charco de cera. Siempre reza­ba en ruso y a veces se le oían, entre dientes, cantos abismales de un fervor arcaico y febril. Sólo con estos precedentes, que ella misma me contó con su voz de trombón del Apocalipsis, se podrá entender que la acogiera con entusiasmo: al fin y al cabo el mío es un periódico católico y local, y no todos los días apa­rece una mujer de ascendencia burgalesa, recién llegada de la URSS comunista y atea y con semejante biografía a sus espaldas. Bien contada, sin necesidad de novelar en exceso, su historia haría las delicias de nuestros lectores. Allí había material como para medio centenar de entregas. Una mina. No hubo ningún problema en convencer a Dasha: de hecho tenía escritos una suerte de apuntes autobiográficos, totalmente inéditos, que podíamos utilizar y modificar a nuestro antojo, siempre que no faltáramos a la verdad. No quiso cobrar nada por el relato de su vida, alegando que los derechos de autor correspondían a Dios. En lo que sí tenía interés, me dijo entonces, era en que, sin periodicidad fija, un par de veces al mes o cosa así, le concedié­ramos un espacio de pocas líneas junto a la sección de necroló­gicas. Entonces creí entender que pretendía publicar alguna reflexión sobre la vida. Me habló de los recién nacidos, de la tesis agustiniana de que «nada ocurre en la vida humana, por ínfimo que parezca, que no haya sido programado por la Providencia». Es una idea que yo, en mi humildad, comparto, y que, dados los tiempos que corren, a veces me avergüenzo de sostener. Pero, ¡qué duda cabe!, la fe es uno de los pilares de la nación, como siempre digo. Le di plena libertad y para que tuviera confianza en mis palabras, hice llamar al jefe de redac­ción y allí mismo di órdenes de aceptar sin ninguna cortapisa cuantos textos trajera y de publicarlos al día siguiente de su recepción, en un recuadro de doble hilo, con el título engatilla­do y junto a la sección de necrológicas, como ella quería. Unas palabras aleccionadoras sobre la vida nunca están de más en un periódico como éste. Dasha se despidió con una reverencia de violinista en noche de éxito. La acompañé hasta la puerta y observé cómo se alejaba con sus pasos torpones pero acelerados por la calle San Pedro de Cárdena mientras sentía el contento de haber hecho un buen negocio con aquella mujer.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Terrible Old Man

It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva, for that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery.

The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.

Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless grey-beard, who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.

Edgar Allan Poe: The Sphinx

DURING the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement of his cottage ornee on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death. That palsying thought, indeed, took entire posession of my soul. I could neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was of a less excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical intellect was not at any time affected by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.

His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into which I had fAllan, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain volumes which I had found in his library. These were of a character to force into germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition lay latent in my bosom. I had been reading these books without his knowledge, and thus he was often at a loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been made upon my fancy.

A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens-a belief which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously disposed to defend. On this subject we had long and animated discussions-he maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in such matters,-I contending that a popular sentiment arising with absolute spontaneity- that is to say, without apparent traces of suggestion-had in itself the unmistakable elements of truth, and was entitled to as much respect as that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.

Óscar Acosta: El vengador

El cacique Huantepeque asesinó a su hermano en la selva, lo quemó y guardó sus cenizas calientes en una vasija. Los dioses mayas le presagiaron que su hermano saldría de la tumba a vengarse, y el fratricida, temeroso, abrió dos años después el recipiente para asegurarse que los restos estaban allí. Un fuerte viento levantó las cenizas, cegándolo para siempre.

John Fante: Mama's dream

MAMA ANDRILLI SAT at the kitchen table preparing lunch. The hot white sun of the Sacramento Valley hurst into the room from the south windows

— big cascades of sunshine over the red linoleum floor where slept Papa's cats, Philomina and Costanza. Both were males, but Papa recognized only one sex in cats.

In less than an hour he would be home from work. Papa was seventy now, and worse than ever; except for a weakening of his eyes, he still laid brick and stone as fast as a young mason. But the years — no matter how blasphemous his denials

— had taken their toll, and by now Mama had given up all hope of a quiet old age.

When a man reaches seventy you would think he might mellow. But no: the past ten years, with their three sons married and gone, had been the worst. Now Papa would never soften and grow gentle. Until his last breath he would go raging and shouting, with Mama always there, patient to the end. It had been so for forty years, and now Mama was sixty-eight, with white hair and sometimes excruciating agony in her withered hands. Papa still had his red mustache and only traces of grey at his temples. He still pounded his chest with furious blows as he entreated God to strike him down and remove him from this valley of travail. Years ago, when she was young and strong, Mama took comfort in the thought that she would leave her noisy husband as soon as her children were grown. The notion was a tiny jewel she hoarded in secret. But it was lost now, misplaced in some teapot of the past, and Mama had forgotten it.

On the table stood a bowl of bell peppers, green and fat. Mama cut them into strips for frying and thought again of last night's dream. Papa had slept badly, his kidneys heckling him, tumbling him from bed half a dozen times. Naturally he blamed Mama. Not enough peppers in his diet. Papa was a sort of primitive medicine man with some ancient Italian notions about food. You ate fish for the brain, cheese for the teeth, eggplant for the blood, beans for the bowels, bread for the brawn, chicory for the nerves, garlic for purity, olive oil for strength, and peppers for the kidneys. Without these a man faced quick decay.

Javier García Sánchez: Duncan

Un día le contaron la historia de Duncan, y desde entonces vivió obsesionado. En cierto modo cambió su vida, aunque con frecuencia hablaría de ella en términos de fantasía, y a veces incluso de broma. Era la historia de alguien, un tal Duncan, que se tiró desde la azotea de un edificio con la intención de suicidarse, pero nunca llegó al suelo.

Años antes, el padre de Carlos entró cierta tarde en casa. Venía del trabajo. Entonces vivían en Madrid. Aquella tarde el padre dijo a su esposa nada más llegar: «Duncan se ha suicidado». Luego explicó los pormenores hasta donde él sabía. Al parecer, los hechos ocurrieron hacia media tarde. Duncan, como el padre de Carlos, trabajaba en una compañía norteamericana, unos grandes almacenes. Tenía un puesto importante, en concreto el de Gerente de Compras para España. Después de comer, Duncan llegó a los despachos situados en pleno Paseo de la Castellana. Fue hacia las tres y media, como todos los días, y al poco le dijo a su secretaria que pensaba acercarse hasta Coslada para supervisar perso-nalmente la llegada de cierto pedido procedente de la central de Chicago. En las oficinas se cruzó con varios ejecutivos y técnicos de la empresa, a los que saludó cor-tésmente, entre ellos el padre de Carlos. Después tomó su auto y, unos veinte minutos más tarde, llegó a esa zona periférica de la ciudad, no muy alejada del Aeropuerto de Barajas.

En el almacén de Coslada estuvo durante hora y media aproximadamente. Se mostró cordial con los empleados que había por allí, y también bastante ajetreado yendo de un sitio a otro. Incluso ayudó a descargar un material pesado. Fue hacia las cinco y cuarto cuando entró en uno de los despachos. Habían llamado por teléfono preguntando por él. Después se supo que se trataba de un hombre con acento inglés que se limitó a decir: «¿Mr. Duncan, por favor?» Duncan estuvo en aquel despacho apenas un minuto. Dos empleados pudieron observarle, serio el semblante pero en apariencia no especialmente preocupado. No hablaba, más bien parecía atender a lo que su interlocutor le decía. Sin embargo, otro empleado creyó oírle comentar una frase en inglés. La estructura acristalada de aquellos despachos permitía oír lo que se decía dentro si no sonaba ninguna máquina cerca, algo que era bastante usual.

Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Birth-mark

In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control over Nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength of the latter to his own.

Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.

"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?"

"No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth it has been so often called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."

"Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband; "but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection."

"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot love what shocks you!"

Ronal Kayser: In the Dark

Is was a tale of sheer horror that old Asa Gregg poured into the dictaphone

The watchman's flashlight printed a white circle on the frosted-glass, black-lettered door:

GREGG CHEMICAL CO., MFRS.

ASA GREGG, PRES.

PRIVATE

The watchman's hand closed on the knob, rattled the door in its frame. Queer, but tonight the sound had seemed to come from in there.... But that couldn't be. He knew that Mr. Gregg and Miss Carruthers carried the only keys to the office, so any intruder would have been forced to smash the lock.

Maybe the sound came from the storage room. The watchman clumped along the rubber-matted corridor, flung his weight against that door. It opened hard, being of ponderous metal fitted into a cork casing. The room was an air-tight, fire-proof vault, really. His shoes gritted on the concrete floor as he prowled among the big porcelain vats. The flashlight bored through bluish haze to the concrete walls. Acid fumes escaping under the vat lids made the haze and seared the man's throat.

He hurried out, coughing and wiping his eyes. It was damn funny. Every night lately he heard the same peculiar noise somewhere in this wing of the building.... like a body groaning and turning in restless sleep, it was. It scared him. He didn't mention the mystery to anyone, though. He was an old man, and he didn't want Mr. Gregg to think he was getting too old for the job.

"Asa'd think I was crazy, if I told him about it," be mumbled.

Ángel Olgoso: Árboles al pie de la cama

Volvía del trabajo, al anochecer, cansado, casi enfebrecido, cuando se me ocurrió que me gustaría ser un animalillo silvestre, que sabría administrar esa vida simple, limpia de la confusión y el alboroto de las preocupaciones, que podría acomodar con facilidad mi conciencia a ese estado ideal. Como una bendición, alguien, lejos de escamotear mi deseo, me dio la forma de una criatura peluda y diminuta y me soltó en el bosque. Era, como vi después, una vida descorazonadora: no sentía interés por otra cosa que no fuera acarrear alimentos, avariciosa e infatigablemente, hasta mi agujero al pie del tronco de un árbol podrido; los límites de cada territorio desencadenaban continuos litigios entre los habitantes de la fronda; las voces de los pájaros me ensordecían; los parásitos habían invadido mi pelambre; los apareamientos resultaban tan gravosos como los espulgos; y mis ojos revolaban de pánico en sus órbitas cada vez que presentía a los rapaces. Aquel desconsuelo, por fortuna, no duró demasiado. Un día se acercó con sigilo un trozo de oscuridad y, aunque husmeé su hedor a distancia y oí luego las pisadas y los furiosos ladridos, apenas tuve tiempo de entrever sus dientes cerrándose sobre mí.

Norman Partridge: In Beauty, Like The Night

The beach was deserted.

Somehow, they knew enough to stay out of the sun.

Nathan Grimes rested his elbows on the balcony and peered through his binoculars. As he adjusted the focus knob, the smooth, feminine mounds that bordered the crescent-shaped beach became nets of purslane and morning glory, and the green blur that lay beyond sharpened to a crazy quilt of distinct colors—emerald, charcoal, glimpses of scarlet—a dark panorama of manchineel trees, sea grapes, and coconut palms.

Nathan scanned the shadows until he found the golden-bronze color of her skin. Naked, just out of reach of the sun's rays, she leaned against the gentle curve of a coconut palm, curling a strand of singed blonde hair around the single finger that remained on her left hand. Her fingertip was red—with nail polish, not blood—and she thrust it into her mouth and licked both finger and hair, finally releasing a spit curl that fought the humid Caribbean breeze for a moment and then drooped in defeat.

Kara North, Miss December.

Nathan remembered meeting Kara at the New Orleans Mansion the previous August. She'd posed in front of a bountifully trimmed Christmas tree for Teddy Ching's centerfold shot, and Nathan—fresh off a plane from the Los Angeles offices of Grimesgirl magazine—had walked in on the proceedings, joking that the holiday decorations made him feel like he'd done a Rip Van Winkle in the friendly skies.

Nathan smiled at the memory. There were several elegantly wrapped packages under the tree that August day, but each one was empty, just a prop for Teddy's photo shoot. Kara had discovered that sad fact almost immediately, and they'd all had a good laugh about her mercenary attitude while Teddy shot her with a little red Santa cap on her head and sassy red stockings on her feet and nothing but golden-bronze flesh in between.

José Víctor Martínez Gil: Bella

Quería estar más bella que nunca. Por eso tejía en su cabellera la trenza más perfecta, más larga y elaborada. Cuando la terminó, observó con detenimiento lo que ella consideraba su obra maestra. Al llegar la noche acudió a verlo. Más guapa que nunca, más radiante que nunca, más entregada que nunca, a pesar de que él no la merecía en absoluto. A la mañana siguiente, ella, delicadamente deshizo su trenza y se marchó. Y a él lo encontraron, ahorcado, sin que pudiera determinarse el arma del crimen.