Lydia Davis: The Mother

The girl wrote a story. “But how much better it would be if you wrote a novel,” said her mother. The girl built a dollhouse. “But how much better if it were a real house,” her mother said. The girl made a small pillow for her father. “But wouldn’t a quilt be more practical,” said her mother. The girl dug a small hole in the garden. “But how much better if you dug a large hole,” said her mother. The girl dug a hole and went to sleep in it. “But how much better if you slept forever,” said her mother.

Virginia Woolf: A Haunted House

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure — a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too!" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it," one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling — what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room..." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

Alejandro Jodorowsky: Extravío

Un ciego, con su bastón blanco, en medio del desierto, llora sin poder encontrar su camino porque no hay obstáculos.

Flannery O’Connor: A Good Man Is Hard To Find

The grandmother didn't want to go to Florida. She wanted to visit some of her connections in east Tennes- see and she was seizing at every chance to change Bailey's mind. Bailey was the son she lived with, her only boy. He was sitting on the edge of his chair at the table, bent over the orange sports section of the Journal. "Now look here, Bailey," she said, "see here, read this," and she stood with one hand on her thin hip and the other rattling the newspaper at his bald head. "Here this fellow that calls himself The Misfit is aloose from the Federal Pen and headed toward Florida and you read here what it says he did to these people. Just you read it. I wouldn't take my children in any direction with a criminal like that aloose in it. I couldn't answer to my conscience if I did."

Bailey didn't look up from his reading so she wheeled around then and faced the children's mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied around with a green head-kerchief that had two points on the top like rabbit's ears. She was sitting on the sofa, feeding the baby his apricots out of a jar. "The children have been to Florida before," the old lady said. "You all ought to take them somewhere else for a change so they would see different parts of the world and be broad. They never have been to east Tennessee."

Dario Voltolini: Luci

Nel laboratorio di genetica al terzo piano della Clinica universitaria le luci sono spente. Le finestre danno sul parco. La luna rende nitide le sagome degli alberi con­tro il cielo notturno. Al lato opposto dell'edificio, sullo stesso piano del laboratorio in fondo a un lungo corri­doio, il reparto di rianimazione occupa due ampie sale e tre locali più piccoli connessi. Le luci sono accese. Dall'autostrada che passa oltre il fiume si possono ve­dere in controluce medici e infermieri muoversi, le loro ombre sulle finestre smerigliate e sigillate. Sulla porta d'ingresso del laboratorio di genetica c'è una targhetta con quattro nomi: G. Saliceti, A. Vasari, A. Thompson e S. Pizzi. La porta della rianimazione è una doppia ve­trata, senza etichette. All'interno, nella seconda sala grande, su di un letto, privo di conoscenza, Andrea Va­sari muove solo il torace, per respirare. I tracciati della sua attività cerebrale scorrono su di un monitor. L'atti­vità è intensa.

—    Sogna — deduce un'infermiera, mentre inietta un liquido nella soluzione fisiologica che pende dal tre­spolo accanto al letto.

—    Però non dorme — commenta Jean-Luc Volatier, anestesiologo, rivolgendosi a Sergio Pizzi.

—    E come lo chiamiamo, se non sonno? — doman­da Pizzi con un tono sprezzante.

—    Chiamalo come vuoi. Ti ricordo però che dal son-

ci si sveglia, mentre qui abbiamo provato ogni tipo di stimolo e non è successo niente. Intendo dire: niente di evidente nei tracciati. Tu che sei intelligente, cosa ne pensi?

—  Oh, io sono solo un genetista...

Enrique Anderson Imbert: Espiral

Regresé a casa en la madrugada, cayéndome de sueño. Al entrar, todo obscuro. Para no despertar a nadie avancé de puntillas y llegué a la escalera de caracol que conducía a mi cuarto. Apenas puse el pie en el primer escalón dudé de si ésa era mi casa o una casa idéntica a la mía. Y mientras subía temí que otro muchacho, igual a mí, estuviera durmiendo en mi cuarto y acaso soñándome en el acto mismo de subir por la escalera de caracol. Di la última vuelta, abrí la puerta y allí estaba él, o yo, todo iluminado de Luna, sentado en la cama, con los ojos bien abiertos. Nos quedamos un instante mirándonos de hito en hito. Nos sonreímos. Sentí que la sonrisa de él era la que también me pesaba en la boca: como en un espejo, uno de los dos era falaz. «¿Quién sueña con quién?», exclamó uno de nosotros, o quizá ambos simultáneamente. En ese momento oímos ruidos de pasos en la escalera de caracol: de un salto nos metimos uno en otro y así fundidos nos pusimos a soñar al que venía subiendo, que era yo otra vez.

Edmond Hamilton: The Monster-God of Mamurth

Out of the desert night he came to us, stumbling into our little circle of firelight and collapsing at once. Mitchell and I sprang to our feet with startled exclamations, for men who travel alone and on foot are a strange sight in the deserts of North Africa.

For the first few minutes that we worked over him I thought he would die at once, but gradually we brought him back to consciousness. While Mitchell held a cup of water to his cracked lips I looked him over and saw that he was too far gone to live much longer. His clothes were in rags, and his hands and knees literally flayed, from crawling over the sands, I judged. So when he motioned feebly for more water, I gave it to him, knowing that in any case his time was short. Soon he could talk, in a dead, croaking voice.

"I'm alone," he told us, in answer to our first question; "no more out there to look for. What are you two—traders? I thought so. No I'm an archeologist. A digger-up of the past." His voice broke for a moment. "It's not always good to dig up dead secrets. There are ionic things the past should be allowed to hide."

Alfonso Castelao: Un ollo de vidro. Memorias d'un esquelete

Leutor:

Certo día fitoume unha vaca. ¿Que coidará de min?, pensei eu; e naquel intre a vaca baixou a testa e sigueu comendo na herba. Agora xa sei que a vaca somentes dixo:

—Bo, total un home con anteollos.

E ó mellor eu non son máis que o que coidou a vaca. Velaí a ledicia de pensar que cando a miña calivera estea ó descuberto xa non poderá xuzgarme ningunha vaca.

A morte non me arrepía e o mal que desexo ó meu nemigo é que viva até sobrevivirse.

Eu son dos que estruchan a cara pra apalpa-la propia calivera e non fuxo dos cimeterios endexamais.

Tanto é así que teño un amigo enterrador nun cimeterio de cibdade. Iste meu amigo non é, de certo, amigo meu; é somentes un ouxeto de esperencia, un coelliño de Indias. Un enterrador sabe sempre moitas cousas e cóntaas con humorismo. Un enterrador de cibdade que dispe e descalza ós mortos pra surti-las tendas de roupa vella, ten de sere home que lle cómpre a un humorista. Un enterrador que saca boa soldada co ouro dos dentes das caliveras tiña de sere meu amigo.

Emilia Pardo Bazán: El conjuro

Emilia Pardo Bazán by Joaquín Vaamonde Cornide

El pensador oyó sonar pausadamente, cayendo del alto reloj inglés que coronaban estatuitas de bronce, las doce de la noche del último día del año. Después de cada campanada, la caja sonora y seca del reloj quedaba vibrando como si se estremeciese de terror misterioso.

Se levantó el pensador de su antiguo sillón de cuero, bruñido por el roce de sus espaldas y brazos durante luengas jornadas estudiosas y solitarias, y, como quien adopta definitiva resolución, se acercó a la chimenea encendida. O entonces o nunca era la ocasión favorable para el conjuro.

Descolgó de una panoplia una espada que conservaba en la ranura el óxido producido por la sangre bebida antaño en riñas y batallas, y con ella describió, frente a la chimenea y alejándose de ella lo suficiente, un pantaclo, en el cual quedó incluso. Chispezuelas de fuego brotaban de la punta de la tizona, y la superficie del piso apareció como carbonizada allí donde se inscribió el cerco mágico, alrededor del osado que se atrevía a practicar el rito de brujería, ya olvidado casi. Mientras trazaba el círculo, murmuraba las palabras cabalísticas.

Una figura alta y sombría pareció surgir de la chimenea, y fue adelantándose hacia el invocador, sin ruido de pasos, con el avance mudo de las sombras.

Luis Bermer: Mañana lloverá

La última clase es siempre la peor. El cansancio acumulado durante la mañana finalmente vence nuestras fuerzas y nos oprime contra los pupitres. Hoy ha sido otro día vacío de significados, tal vez porque el gran hueco que deja el autoengaño al desvanecerse no puede ser ocupado por las pasajeras afectividades cotidianas.

El profesor expone en voz alta su interesante monólogo sobre la lógica kantiana. Al igual que los escritores, los filósofos son seres curiosamente extraños. Todos parecen escandalizarse ante la simplicidad del monótono ciclo de la vida y, para evitar la desesperación, dedican su tiempo a la creación de posibilidades razonables, mundos paralelos, complejas interconexiones conceptuales de difícil comprensión, realidades no acontecidas y toda una extensa gama de metafísicas ridículamente humanas; como si lo que es pudiera adentrarse un poquito en lo que jamás podrá llegar a ser. Aquel que no reconoce sus límites está irremisiblemente condenado a chocar contra ellos, y los ahogados bufidos de la clase parecen confirmar lo que pienso.

Robert E. Howard: The Dream Snake

The night was strangely still. As we sat upon the wide veranda, gazing out over the broad, shadowy lawns, the silence of the hour entered our spirits and for a long while no one spoke.

Then far across the dim mountains that fringed the eastern skyline, a faint haze began to glow, and presently a great golden moon came up, making a ghostly radiance over the land and etching boldly the dark clumps of shadows that were trees. A light breeze came whispering out of the east, and the unmowed grass swayed before it in long, sinuous waves, dimly visible in the moonlight; and from among the group upon the veranda there came a swift gasp, a sharp intake of breath that caused us all to turn and gaze.

Faming was leaning forward, clutching the arms of his chair, his face strange and pallid in the spectral light; a thin trickle of blood seeping from the lip in which he had set his teeth. Amazed, we looked at him, and suddenly he jerked about with a short, snarling laugh.

"There's no need of gawking at me like a flock of sheep!" he said irritably and stopped short. We sat bewildered, scarcely knowing what sort of reply to make, and suddenly he burst out again.

Stanton A. Coblentz: The Round Tower

I

Of all the shocking and macabre experiences of my life, the one that I shall longest remember occurred a few years ago in Paris.

Like hundreds of other young Americans, I was then an art student in the French metropolis. Having been there several years, I had acquired a fair speaking knowledge of the language, as well as an acquaintance with many odd nooks and corners of the city, which I used to visit for my own amusement. I did not foresee that one of my strolls of discovery through the winding ancient streets was to involve me in a dread adventure.

One rather hot and sultry August evening, just as twilight was softening the hard stone outlines of the buildings, I was making a random pilgrimage through an old part of the city. I did not know just where I was; but suddenly I found myself in a district I did not remember ever having seen before. Emerging from the defile of a crazy twisted alley, I found myself in a large stone court opposite a grim but imposing edifice.

Four or five stories high, it looked like the typical medieval fortress. Each of its four corners was featured by a round tower which, with its mere slits of windows and its pointed spear-sharp peak, might have come straight from the Middle Ages. The central structure also rose to a sharp spire, surmounting all the others; its meagre windows, not quite so narrow as those of the towers, were crossed by iron bars on the two lower floors. But what most surprised me were the three successive rows of stone ramparts, each higher than the one before it, which separated me from the castle; and the musket-bearing sentries that stood in front.

Javier de Navascués: Muertos

Cuando los muertos se van haciendo viejos, tosen con más frecuencia, gruñen en medio del silencio, tienen un dolor en cada costado de la semana y se les cae el pelo a cinco milímetros por segundo. Pero lo peor de todo es que ya han perdido la ilusión de terminar aquello que nunca llegaron a hacer o de aquello otro que siempre aspiraron a empezar algún día. Ya les da igual no acabar el maldito Quijote, ni se molestan en disfrutar de una pieza desconocida de Vivaldi ni sienten el menor interés en escuchar el rumor del aire en un atardecer de octubre. Para cuando llegan a ese triste estado, los muertos se mueren definitivamente y para siempre.

Manly Wade Wellman: O Ugly Bird!

I swear I'm licked before I start, trying to tell you all what Mr. Onselm looked like. Words give out—for instance, you're frozen to death for fit words to tell the favor of the girl you love. And Mr. Onselm and I pure poison hated each other. That's how love and hate are alike.

He was what country folks call a low man, more than calling him short or small; a low man is low otherwise than by inches. Mr. Onselm's shoulders didn't wide out as far as his big ears, and they sank and sagged. His thin legs bowed in at the knee and out at the shank, like two sickles point to point. On his carrot-thin neck, his head looked like a swollen pale gourd. Thin, moss-gray hair. Loose mouth, a bit open to show long, even teeth. Not much chin. The right eye squinted, mean and dark, while the hike of his brow twitched the left one wide. His good clothes fitted his mean body like they were cut to it. Those good clothes were almost as much out of match to the rest of him as his long, soft, pink hands, the hands of a man who never had to work a tap.

You see what I mean, I can't say how he looked, only he was hateful.