Tennessee Williams: The Vengeance of Nitocris

I. OSIRIS IS AVENGED

Hushed were the streets of many peopled Thebes. Those few who passed through them moved with the shadowy fleetness of bats near dawn, and bent their faces from the sky as if fearful of seeing what in their fancies might be hovering there. Weird, high-noted incantations of a wailing sound were audible through the barred doors. On corners groups of naked and bleeding priests cast themselves repeatedly and with loud cries upon the rough stones of the walks. Even dogs and cats and oxen seemed impressed by some strange menace and foreboding and cowered and slunk dejectedly. All Thebes was in dread. And indeed there was cause for their dread and for their wails of lamentation. A terrible sacrilege had been committed. In all the annals of Egypt none more monstrous was recorded.

Five days had the altar fires of the god of gods, Osiris, been left unburning. Even for one moment to allow darkness upon the altars of the god was considered by the priests to be a great offense against him. Whole years of death and famine had been known to result from such an offense. But now the altar fires had been deliberately extinguished, and left extinguished for five days. It was an unspeakable sacrilege.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Festival

Efficiunt Daemones, ut quae non sunt, sic tamen quasi sint, conspicienda hominibus exhibeant.
(Devils so work that things which are not appear to men as if they were real.)

—Lactantius

I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me. In the twilight I heard it pounding on the rocks, and I knew it lay just over the hill where the twisting willows writhed against the clearing sky and the first stars of evening. And because my fathers had called me to the old town beyond, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the road that soared lonely up to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very ancient town I had never seen but often dreamed of.

It was the Yuletide, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind. It was the Yuletide, and I had come at last to the ancient sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. Mine were an old people, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. And they were strange, because they had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and spoken another tongue before they learnt the tongue of the blue-eyed fishers. And now they were scattered, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. I was the only one who came back that night to the old fishing town as legend bade, for only the poor and the lonely remember.

Washington Irving: Legend of the Moor's Legacy

Washington Irving by Henry F. Darby

Just within the fortress of the Alhambra, in front of the royal palace, is a broad open esplanade, called the Place or Square of the Cisterns (la Plaza de los Algibes), so called from being undermined by reservoirs of water, hidden from sight, and which have existed from the time of the Moors. At one corner of this esplanade is a Moorish well, cut through the living rock to a great depth, the water of which is cold as ice and clear as crystal. The wells made by the Moors are always in repute, for it is well known what pains they took to penetrate to the purest and sweetest springs and fountains. The one of which we now speak is famous throughout Granada, insomuch that water-carriers, some bearing great water-jars on their shoulders, others driving asses before them laden with earthen vessels, are ascending and descending the steep woody avenues of the Alhambra, from early dawn until a late hour of the night.

Fountains and wells, ever since the scriptural days, have been noted gossiping places in hot climates; and at the well in question there is a kind of perpetual club kept up during the livelong day, by the invalids, old women, and other curious do-nothing folk of the fortress, who sit here on the stone benches, under an awning spread over the well to shelter the toll-gatherer from the sun, and dawdle over the gossip of the fortress, and question every water-carrier that arrives about the news of the city, and make long comments on every thing they hear and see. Not an hour of the day but loitering housewives and idle maid-servants may be seen, lingering with pitcher on head, or in hand, to hear the last of the endless tattle of these worthies.

Ricardo Álamo: Kamikazes

El prodigio ocurría diariamente al caer el sol. Como una lluvia oscurescente, acerada y oscilante aquellos ángeles sobrevolaban el skyline de la ciudad en rápidos y majestuosos planeos. Desde que se desencadenó el milagroso fenómeno, toda la metrópolis se hallaba al borde del colapso: autobuses, tranvías y carros eran sistemáticamente abandonados en medio de calles y avenidas. El hormiguero humano iba y venía en tropel, con un runrún de asombro, abriéndose paso a empujones. Todos querían estar lo más cerca posible de aquel suceso ultraterreno. En la radio menudeaban las tertulias de expertos que debatían acaloradamente el sentido misterioso de semejante hito. En la calle, sobre las aceras y el asfalto, grupos espontáneos de hombres y mujeres de todas las razas y credos salmodiaban alegremente sus plegarias.

Pero entonces, inopinadamente, ocurrió lo peor: sin previo aviso los ángeles se precipitaron, veloces, sobre la muchedumbre, huérfanos de piedad, como expertos o siniestros kamikazes.

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer: El miserere

Hace algunos meses que visitando la célebre abadía de Fitero y ocupándome en revolver algunos volúmenes en su abandonada biblioteca, descubrí en uno de sus rincones dos o tres cuadernos de música bastante antiguos, cubiertos de polvo y hasta comenzados a roer por los ratones.

Era un Miserere.

Yo no sé la música; pero le tengo tanta afición, que, aun sin entenderla, suelo coger a veces la partitura de una ópera, y me paso las horas muertas hojeando sus páginas, mirando los grupos de notas más o menos apiñadas, las rayas, los semicírculos, los triángulos y las especies de etcéteras, que llaman llaves, y todo esto sin comprender una jota ni sacar maldito el provecho.

Consecuente con mi manía, repasé los cuadernos, y lo primero que me llamó la atención fue que, aunque en la última página había esta palabra latina, tan vulgar en todas las obras, finis, la verdad era que el Miserere no estaba terminado, porque la música no alcanzaba sino hasta el décimo versículo.

Guy de Maupassant: La nuit

J'aime la nuit avec passion. Je l'aime comme on aime son pays ou sa maîtresse, d'un amour instinctif, profond, invincible. Je l'aime avec tous mes sens, avec mes yeux qui la voient, avec mon odorat qui la respire, avec mes oreilles qui en écoutent le silence, avec toute ma chair que les ténèbres caressent. Les alouettes chantent dans le soleil, dans l'air bleu, dans l'air chaud, dans l'air léger des matinées claires. Le hibou fuit dans la nuit, tache noire qui passe à travers l'espace noir, et, réjoui, grisé par la noire immensité, il pousse son cri vibrant et sinistre.

Le jour me fatigue et m'ennuie. Il est brutal et bruyant. Je me lève avec peine, je m'habille avec lassitude, je sors avec regret, et chaque pas, chaque mouvement, chaque geste, chaque parole, chaque pensée me fatigue comme si je soulevais un écrasant fardeau.

Mais quand le soleil baisse, une joie confuse, une joie de tout mon corps m'envahit. Je m'éveille, je m'anime. A mesure que l'ombre grandit, je me sens tout autre, plus jeune, plus fort, plus alerte, plus heureux. Je la regarde s'épaissir la grande ombre douce tombée du ciel : elle noie la ville, comme une onde insaisissable et impénétrable, elle cache, efface, détruit les couleurs, les formes, étreint les maisons, les êtres, les monuments de son imperceptible toucher.

Robert E. Howard: The Thing On the Roof

_They lumber through the night_
_With their elephantine tread;_
_I shudder in affright_
_As I cower in my bed._
_They lift colossal wings_
_On the high gable roofs_
_Which tremble to the trample_
_Of their mastodonic hoofs._
--Justin Geoffrey: _Out of the Old Land._

Let me begin by saying that I was surprized when Tussmann called on me. We had never been close friends; the man's mercenary instincts repelled me; and since our bitter controversy of three years before, when he attempted to discredit my _Evidences of Nahua Culture in Yucatan_, which was the result of years of careful research, our relations had been anything but cordial. However, I received him and found his manner hasty and abrupt, but rather abstracted, as if his dislike for me had been thrust aside in some driving passion that had hold of him.

His errand was quickly stated. He wished my aid in obtaining a volume in the first edition of Von Junzt's _Nameless Cults_--the edition known as the Black Book, not from its color, but because of its dark contents. He might almost as well have asked me for the original Greek translation of the _Necronomicon_. Though since my return from Yucatan I had devoted practically all my time to my avocation of book collecting, I had not stumbled onto any hint that the book in the Dusseldorf edition was still in existence.

Amado Nervo: El angel caído

Érase un ángel que, por retozar más de la cuenta sobre una nube crepuscular teñida de violetas, perdió pie y cayó lastimosamente a la tierra.

Su mala suerte quiso que, en vez de dar sobre el fresco césped, diese contra bronca piedra, de modo y manera que el cuitado se estropeó un ala, el ala derecha, por más señas.

Allí quedó despatarrado, sangrando, y aunque daba voces de socorro, como no es usual que en la tierra se comprenda el idioma de los ángeles, nadie acudía en su auxilio.

En esto acertó a pasar no lejos un niño que volvía de la escuela, y aquí empezó la buena suerte del caído, porque como lo niños sí suelen comprender la lengua angélica (en el siglo XX mucho menos, pero en fin), el chico allegóse al mísero y sorprendido primero y compadecido después, tendióle la mano y le ayudó a levantarse.

Los ángeles no pesan, y la leve fuerza del niño bastó y sobró para que aquél se pusiese en pie.

Su salvador ofrecióle el brazo y vióse entonces el más raro espectáculo: un niño conduciendo a un ángel por los senderos de este mundo.

Cojeaba el ángel lastimosamente, ¡es claro! Acontecíale lo que acontece a los que nunca andan descalzos: el menor guijarro le pinchaba de un modo atroz. Su aspecto era lamentable. Con el ala rota, dolorosamente plegada, manchado de sangre y lodo el plumaje resplandeciente, el ángel estaba para dar compasión.

Manuel Moya: Pulgares

Al abuelo lo habíamos despachado hacía meses al asilo. Se orinaba en la cama y hedía como un cocho. Pero a papá lo fregaron de verdad al botarlo de la gasolinera y, por los mismos días, Lita se marchó de casa y se fue a vivir ahorita no recuerdo dónde. Vivimos tranquilos unos meses, pues, pero cuando a papá se le acabó lo del desempleo, fuimos al asilo a recoger al abuelo que seguía hediendo a bodega. Su paga, mano, era lo uniquitito que nos llegaba. Mi padre andaba medio pendejo buscando trabajo en la milpa y dónde caía y yo cuidaba del abuelo y lo sacaba al sol todas la tardes. Todito estaba echado a perder. El abuelo se murió de madrugada. Lo encontramos tieso por la mañana y papá y yo nos quedamos mirando no más. Sin él, dijo papá, tú y yo estamos requetemuertos, así que tuvimos que enterrarlo en secreto aquella misma noche donde los chapulines, porque por allí no pasaban ni los coyotes. Días más tarde, ya en casa, nos dimos cuenta que ni siquiera disponíamos de su pulgar para firmar las mensualidades y allá que fuimos a desenterrarlo para cortarle el pulgar, que todavía estaría bueno, pero cuando llegamos, mano, encontramos la tierra removida. Pensamos que eran los coyotes pero no, habían sido nomás otros cabrones porque descubrimos con horror que se nos habían adelantado y le habían cortado los dos pulgares y allí que lo dejamos pues, para que se lo acabaran los cacalotes.

Barbara Garlaschelli: Loraine

Il primo ceffone la fa volare sulla poltrona con la stessa leggerezza di un foglio di giornale nel vento.

Si rannicchia su se stessa, le braccia a contenere le ginocchia contro il petto. Nella penombra della stanza lo guarda avanzare di alcuni passi, come un’onda lunga.

“Adesso mi ripeti dove lo hai incontrato e me lo ripeti con calma”. Henry le si para davanti, immenso e invalicabile, come le montagne d’inverno.

“Non ci pensare a scappare. Non ci pensare nemmeno o ti sbriciolo come un biscotto”.

“Va bene, Henry” sussurra Loraine e prende fiato dopo essersi passata la lingua sulle labbra gonfie. “La prima volta è stato due anni fa”. La sua voce assomiglia a un soffio di vento.

Henry la colpisce di nuovo con violenza.

Loraine si schiaccia contro lo schienale della poltrona. Non urla, non piange. Si raccoglie ancora di più su se stessa, un mucchietto di ossa vestito di chiffon nero nel nero della stanza.

“La prima volta è stato due anni fa” ripete, questa volta con tono deciso.

“Dove?”

“A quella festa di carnevale da Alain”.

Henry strizza gli occhi nello sforzo di ricordare.

Charles Chaplin: Rhythm: A Story of Men in Macabre Movement

Only the dawn moved in the stillness of that small prison yard -- the dawn ushering in death, as the young Loyalist stood facing the firing squad. The preliminaries were over. The small group of officials had stepped to one side to witness the end and now the scene had tightened into ominous silence.

Up to the last, the Rebels had hoped that a reprieve would come from Headquarters, for although the condemned man was an enemy to their cause, in the past he had been a popular figure in Spain, a brilliant writer of humour, who had contributed much to the enjoyment of his fellow countrymen.

The officer in charge of the firing squad knew him personally. Before the civil war they had been friends. Together they had been graduated from the university in Madrid. Together they had worked for the overthrow of the monarchy and the power of the Church. And together, they had caroused, had sat at nights around cafe tables, had laughed and joked, had enjoyed evenings of metaphysical discussion. At times they had argued on the dialectics of government. Their technical differences were friendly then, but now those differences had wrought misery and upheaval all over Spain, and had brought his friend to die by the firing squad.

But why think of the past? Why reason? Since the civil war, what good was reason? In the silence of the prison yard these interrogative thoughts ran feverishly through the officer's mind.

John Langan: How The Day Runs Down

(The stage dark with the almost-blue light of the late, late night, when you've been up well past the third ranks of late-night talk shows, into the land of the infomercial, the late show movies whose soundtrack is out of sync with its characters' mouths and which may break for commercial without regard for the action on the screen, the rebroadcast of the news you couldn't bear to watch the first time. It is possible—just—to discern rows of smallish, rectangular shapes running across the stage, as well as the bulk of a more substantial, though irregular, shape to the rear. The sky is dark: no moon, no stars.

(When the STAGE MANAGER snaps on his flashlight—a large one whose bright beam he sweeps back and forth over the audience once, twice, three times—the effect of the sudden light, the twirl of shadows around the theater, is emphasized by brushes rushing over drums, which give the sound of leaves, and a rainstick, which conjures the image of bones clicking against one another more than it does rain.

José María Merino: Pie

De soltero ha pasado a solterón y está bien acostumbrado a dormir solo. Una noche lo despierta la sensación de un contacto insólito, uno de sus pies ha tropezado con la piel cálida y suave de un pie que no es suyo. Mantiene su pie pegado al otro y extiende su brazo con cuidado para buscar el cuerpo que debe de yacer al lado, pero no lo encuentra. Enciende la luz, separa las ropas de la cama, allí dentro no hay nada. Imagina que ha soñado, pero pocos días después vuelve a despertarse al sentir de nuevo aquel tacto de suavidad y calor ajeno, y hasta la forma de una planta que se apoya en su empeine. Esta vez permanece quieto, aceptando el contacto como una caricia, antes de volver a quedarse dormido. A partir de entonces, el pequeño pie viene a buscar el suyo noche tras noche. Durante el día, los compañeros, los amigos, lo encuentran más animoso, jovial, cambiado. Él espera la llegada de la noche para encontrar en la oscuridad el tacto de aquel pie en el suyo, con la impaciencia de un joven enamorado antes de su cita.

Brian Lumley: The Disapproval of Jeremy Cleave

"My husband's eye," she said quite suddenly, peering over my shoulder in something of morbid fascination. "Watching us!" She was very calm about it, which ought to say quite a lot about her character. A very cool lady, Angela Cleave. But in view of the circumstances, a rather odd statement; for the fact was that I was making love to her at the time, and somewhat more alarming, her husband had been dead for six and a half weeks!

"What!?" I gasped, flopping over onto my back, my eyes following the direction of her pointing finger. She seemed to be aiming it at the dresser. But there was nothing to be seen, not anywhere in that huge, entirely extravagant bedroom. Or perhaps I anticipated too much, for while it's true that she had specified an "eye," for some reason I was looking for a complete person. This is perhaps readily understandable - the shock, and what all. But no such one was there. Thank God!

Then there came a rolling sound, like a marble down a gentle slope, and again I looked where she was pointing. Atop the dresser, a shape wobbled into view from the back to the front, being brought up short by the fancy gilt beading around the dresser's top. And she was right, it was an eye - a glass eye - its deep green pupil staring at us somehow morosely.