Alice Munro: Free radicals

At first, people kept phoning, to make sure that Nita was not too depressed, not too lonely, not eating too little or drinking too much. (She had been such a diligent wine drinker that many forgot that she was now forbidden to drink at all.) She held them off, without sounding nobly grief-stricken or unnaturally cheerful or absent-minded or confused. She said that she didn’t need groceries; she was working through what she had on hand. She had enough of her prescription pills and enough stamps for her thank-you notes.

Her closer friends probably suspected the truth—that she was not bothering to eat much and that she threw out any sympathy note she happened to get. She had not even informed the people who lived at a distance, to elicit such notes. Not Rich’s ex-wife in Arizona or his semi-estranged brother in Nova Scotia, though those two might have understood, perhaps better than the people near at hand, why she had proceeded with the non-funeral as she had done.

Rich had told her that he was going to the village, to the hardware store. It was around ten o’clock in the morning, and he had just started to paint the railing of the deck. That is, he’d been scraping it to prepare for the painting, and the old scraper had come apart in his hand.

She hadn’t had time to wonder about his being late. He’d died bent over the sidewalk sign that stood in front of the hardware store offering a discount on lawnmowers. He hadn’t even managed to get into the store. He’d been eighty-one years old and in fine health, aside from some deafness in his right ear. His doctor had checked him over only the week before. Nita was to learn that the recent checkup, the clean bill of health, cropped up in a surprising number of the sudden-death stories that she was now presented with. “You’d almost think that such visits ought to be avoided,” she’d said.

She should have spoken like this only to her close and fellow bad-mouthing friends, Virgie and Carol, women around her own age, which was sixty-two. Her younger friends found this sort of talk unseemly and evasive. At first, they had crowded in on Nita. They had not actually spoken of the grieving process, but she had been afraid that at any moment they might start.

Gabriel García Márquez: Diálogo del espejo

El hombre de la estancia anterior, después de haber dormido largas horas como un santo, ol­vidado de las preocupaciones y desasosiegos de la madrugada reciente, despertó cuando el día era alto y el rumor de la ciudad invadía —to­tal— el aire de la habitación entreabierta. De­bió pensar —de no habitarlo otro estado de alma— en la espesa preocupación de la muer­te, en su miedo redondo, en el pedazo de barro —arcilla de sí mismo— que tendría su her­mano debajo de la lengua. Pero el sol regocija do que clarificaba el jardín le desvió la atención hacia otra vida más ordinaria, más terre­nal y acaso menos verdadera que su tremenda existencia interior. Hacia su vida de hombre corriente, de animal cotidiano, que le hizo re­cordar —sin contar para ello con su sistema nervioso, con su hígado alterable— la irreme­diable imposibilidad de dormir como un bur­gués. Pensó —y había allí, por cierto, algo de matemática burguesa en el trabalenguas de ci­fras— en los rompecabezas financieros de la oficina.

Las ocho y doce. Definitivamente llegaré tar­de. Paseó la yema de los dedos por la mejilla. La piel áspera, sembrada de troncos retoñados, le dejó la impresión del pelo duro por las ante. nas digitales. Después, con la palma de la mano entreabierta, se palpó el rostro distraído, cuida­dosamente; con la serena tranquilidad del ciru­jano que conoce el núcleo del tumor, y de la superficie blanda fue surgiendo hacia adentro la dura sustancia de una verdad que, en oca­siones, le había blanqueado la angustia. Allí, bajo las yemas —y después de las yemas, hueso contra hueso—, su irrevocable condición ana­tómica había sepultado un orden de compues­tos, un apretado universo de tejidos, de mundos menores, que lo venían soportando, levantan. do su armadura carnal hacia una altura me­nos duradera que la natural y última posición de sus huesos.

Sí. Contra la almohada, hundida la cabeza en la blanda materia, tumbando el cuerpo sobre el reposo de sus órganos, la vida tenía un sabor horizontal, un mejor acomodamiento a sus pro­pios principios. Sabía que, con el esfuerzo mínimo de cerrar los párpados, esa larga, esa fati­gante tarea que le aguardaba empezaría a re­solverse en un clima descomplicado, sin com­promisos con el tiempo ni con el espacio: sin necesidad de que, al realizarla, esa aventura quí­mica que constituía su cuerpo sufriera el más ligero menoscabo. Por lo contrario, así, con los párpados cerrados, había una economía total de recursos vitales, una ausencia absoluta de or­gánicos desgastes. Su cuerpo, hundido en el agua de los sueños, podría moverse, vivir, evolucio­nar hacia otras formas existenciales en las que su mundo real tendría, para su necesidad ínti­ma, una idéntica densidad de emociones —si no mayor— con las que la necesidad de vivir que­daría completamente satisfecha sin detrimento de su integridad física. Sería —entonces— mu­cho más fácil la tarea de convivir con los seres, las cosas, actuando, sin embargo, en igual forma que en el mundo real. Las tareas de ra­surarse, de tomar el ómnibus, de resolver las ecuaciones de la oficina, serían simples y des­complicadas en su sueño, y le producirían, a la postre, la misma satisfacción interior.

Aidan Doyle: Ghost River Red

Akamiko arrived three days before the anniversary of the Lady of All Colors’ death. The village held a small market filled with stalls selling fish and vegetables, and a bathhouse stood by the river. It was hard to imagine the Lady of All Colors growing up here.

It was still too early to perform the ceremony, but Akamiko wanted to make sure she could find the grave. She started along the path leading to the village’s hilltop cemetery. She had only taken a few steps when a chill wrapped itself around her. The sun was strong in the sky, but the air grew cold enough that she could see her breath. She drew her red sword, but the chill did not dissipate. Specks of ice appeared at the tip of her blade and she backed away in surprise. The cold air did not relinquish its grasp until she left the path.

She had to learn what was wrong with the cemetery.

The younger villagers would still be at work in the fields. The bathhouse would give Akamiko a chance to talk to some of the village’s seniors. Secrets were harder to hide when you were naked.

Some villages had mixed bathing, but she was pleased this one had separate baths. She unstrapped the wooden frame she carried on her back. It held her seven swords and the urn with the Lady of All Colors’ ashes. She missed her full palette, but swordwriters were permitted to travel with at most seven swords. Red, green, blue, yellow, purple, orange, and white. Even swordwriters needed special permission to travel with a black blade.

A young attendant helped her store the swords and frame. She gave the girl double the fee. “Take good care of my swords,” she instructed.

The girl hesitated and then asked, “Are you a swordwriter?”

Marcelo Maluf: A Bruxa corsária

Não faz tanto tempo assim, vivia na pequena cidade de Oito Ruivos uma velha bruxa Corsária. A última de sua espécie, meio bruxa, meio pirata, filha do encontro de saqueadores portugueses dos oceanos com feiticeiras índias. Uma legítima bruxa brasileira. Corsária tinha um hobbie muito suspeito. Colecionava olhos de crianças. Não era à toa que Oito Ruivos também era conhecida como a cidade das crianças caolhas.

Qual era a finalidade de colecionar os olhos das crianças? Bem, uma coleção não tem uma razão específica, colecionamos por colecionar, para juntar num mesmo lugar objetos de que gostamos, para dizer que temos mais, para ficar olhando, para ter algo que é só nosso etc. Mas no caso da bruxa Corsária era diferente. Ela colecionava os olhos para ver o futuro neles. Eram como bolas de cristal ─ só as bruxas corsárias e os seus descendentes é que tem o dom de ver o futuro nos olhos – e não tinha que ser olho de criança, não, para a coisa dar certo. Mas essa Corsária, preferia que fosse. E não bastava só um olho, precisava de muitos.

Cada olho tinha um tempo de vida de no máximo cinco ou seis dias, e um tinha um jeito diferente de ver o futuro. A magia só funcionava se a criança ficasse com um olho, para que houvesse uma conexão entre o olho que estava com a bruxa e o olho da criança na hora de ler os destinos.

Por conta disso, poucas crianças com dois olhos ainda restavam na cidade. Entre elas estavam Fernando e Clarice. Duas criaturinhas minúsculas e magricelas, abandonadas, esfomeadas e sujas. Nunca tiveram notícias dos seus pais. Haviam se conhecido nas ruas da pequena cidade e dormiam numa carcaça de carro num terreno baldio. Sobreviviam graças à generosidade de alguns moradores.

A velha bruxa nunca quis saber dos olhos deles, pois “que futuro poderão me mostrar esses dois desamparados?”, ela pensava. Mas devido à escassez de olhos bons, os dois acabaram entrando na lista da Corsária, e logo ficaram sabendo da novidade:

─ E agora, Fernando, o que faremos? – Clarice estava desesperada.

Luis Mateo Díez: El sicario

Los datos estaban cambiados y maté a un hombre que no era el previsto. Estos trabajos tan rápidos, tan secretos, con frecuencia te llevan a cometer errores irremediables.

Recuerdo una lejana ocasión en que el error se repitió tres veces. Todas las víctimas me miraron con sorpresa y sólo la verdadera lo hizo con aplomo.

–Te esperaba –musitó cuando le clave el puñal.

Como siempre, cuando concluyo un trabajo, fui a emborracharme y días después, repuesto de la resaca, regresé a casa y encontré una carta remitida la misma fecha de la muerte.

–Te perdono por lo que vas a hacer –decía–, pero te maldigo por lo mal que lo has hecho. Un muerto que cuesta tres muertes no es un muerto inocente. Además de matarme me has hecho sentir culpable y profundamente desgraciado.

Henry Kuttner: I, the Vampire

1. Chevalier Futaine

The party was dull. I had come too early. There was a preview that night at Grauman’s Chinese, and few of the important guests would arrive until it was over. Jack Hardy, ace director at Summit Pictures, where I worked as assistant director, hadn’t arrived—yet—and he was the host. But Hardy had never been noted for punctuality.

I went out on the porch and leaned against a coctail and looking down at the lights of Hollywood. Hardy’s place was on the summit of a hill overlooking the film capital, near Falcon Lair, Valentino’s famous turreted castle. I shivered a little. Fog was sweeping in from Santa Monica, blotting out the lights to the west.

Jean Hubbard, who was an ingenue at Summit, came up beside me and took the glass out of my hand.

“Hello, Mart,” she said, sipping the liquor. “Where’ve you been?”

“Down with the Murder Desert troupe, on location in the Mojave,” I said. “Miss me, honey?” I drew her close.

She smiled up at me, her tilted eyebrows lending a touch of diablerie to the tanned, lovely face. I was going to marry Jean, but I wasn’t sure just when.

“Missed you lots,” she said, and held up her lips. I responded.

After a moment I said, “What’s this about the vampire man?”

She chuckled. “Oh, the Chevalier Futaine. Didn’t you read Lolly Parsons’, write-up in Script'? Jack Hardy picked him up last month in Europe. Silly rot. Bill it’s good publicity.”

“Three cheers for publicity,” I said. “Look what it did for Birth of a Nation. But where does the vampire angle come in?”

“Mystery man. Nobody can take a picture of him, scarcely anybody can meet him. Weird tales are told about his former life in Paris. Going to play in Jack , Red Thirst. The kind of build-up Universal gave Karloff for Frankenstein. Our Chevalier Futaine”—she rolled out the words with amused relish—“is probably a singing waiter from a Paris cafe. I haven’t seen him—but the deuce with him, anyway. Mart, I want you to do something for me. For Deming.”

“Hess Deming?” I raised my eyebrows in astonishment. Hess Deming, Summit’s biggest box-office star, whose wife, Sandra Colter, had died two day before. She, too, had been an actress, although never the great star her husband was. Hess loved her, I knew—and now I guessed what the trouble was. I said, “I noticed he was a bit wobbly.”

“He’ll kill himself,” Jean said, looking worried. “I—I feel responsible for him somehow, Mart. After all, he gave me my start at Summit. And he’s due for the DTs any time now.”

Alfonso Sastre: Nagasaki

Me llamo Yanajido. Trabajo en Nagasaki y había venido a ver a mis padres en Hiroshima. Ahora, ellos han muerto. Yo sufro mucho por esta pérdida y también por mis horribles quemaduras. Ya sólo deseo volver a Nagasaki con mi mujer y con mis hijos. Dada la confusión de estos momentos, no creo que pueda llegar a Nagasaki enseguida, como sería mi deseo; pero, sea como sea, yo camino hacia allá. No quisiera morir en el camino. ¡Ojalá llegue a tiempo de abrazarlos!

Anatol France: La messe des ombres

Voici ce que le sacristain de l’église Sainte-Eulalie, à la Neuville-d’Aumont, m’a conté sous la treille du Cheval-Blanc, par une belle soirée d’été, en buvant une bouteille de vin vieux à la santé d’un mort très à son aise, qu’il avait le matin même porté en terre avec honneur, sous un drap semé de belles larmes d’argent.

— Feu mon pauvre père (c’est le sacristain qui parle) était de son vivant fossoyeur. Il avait l’esprit agréable, et c’était sans doute un effet de son état, car on a remarqué que les personnes qui travaillent dans les cimetières sont d’humeur joviale. La mort ne les effraie point : ils n’y pensent jamais. Moi qui vous parle, monsieur, j’entre dans un cimetière, la nuit, aussi tranquillement que sous la tonnelle du Cheval-Blanc. Et si, d’aventure, je rencontre un revenant, je ne m’en inquiète point, par cette considération qu’il peut bien aller à ses affaires comme je vais aux miennes. Je connais les habitudes des morts et leur caractère. Je sais à ce sujet des choses que les prêtres eux-mêmes ne savent pas. Et si je contais tout ce que j’ai vu, vous seriez étonné. Mais toutes les vérités ne sont pas bonnes à dire, et mon père, qui pourtant aimait à conter des histoires, n’a pas révélé la vingtième partie de ce qu’il savait. En revanche, il répétait souvent les mêmes récits, et il a bien narré cent fois, à ma connaissance, l’aventure de Catherine Fontaine.

Catherine Fontaine était une vieille demoiselle qu’il lui souvenait d’avoir vue quand il était enfant. Je ne serais point étonné qu’il y eût encore dans le pays jusqu’à trois vieillards qui se rappellent avoir ouï parler d’elle, car elle était très connue et de bon renom, quoique pauvre. Elle habitait, au coin de la rue aux Nonnes, la tourelle que vous pouvez voir encore et qui dépend d’un vieil hôtel à demi détruit qui regarde sur le jardin des Ursulines. Il y a sur cette tourelle des figures et des inscriptions a demi effacées. Le défunt curé de Sainte-Eulalie, M. Levasseur, assurait qu’il y est dit en latin que l’amour est plus fort que la mort. Ce qui s’entend, ajoutait-il, de l’amour divin.

Catherine Fontaine vivait seule dans ce petit logis. Elle était dentellière. Vous savez que les dentelles de nos pays étaient autrefois très renommées. On ne lui connaissait ni parents ni amis. On disait qu’à dix-huit ans elle avait aimé le jeune chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry, à qui elle avait été secrètement fiancée. Mais les gens de bien n’en voulaient rien croire et ils disaient que c’était un conte qui avait été imaginé parce que Catherine Fontaine avait plutôt l’air d’une dame que d’une ouvrière, qu’elle gardait sous ses cheveux blancs les restes d’une grande beauté, qu’elle avait l’air triste et qu’on lui voyait au doigt une de ces bagues sur lesquelles l’orfèvre a mis deux petites mains unies, et qu’on avait coutume, dans l’ancien temps, d’échanger pour les fiançailles. Vous saurez tout à l’heure ce qu’il en était.

Catherine Fontaine vivait saintement. Elle fréquentait les églises, et chaque matin, quelque temps qu’il fît, elle allait entendre la messe de six heures à Sainte-Eulalie.

Gertrude Atherton: The Striding Place

Weigall, continental and detached, tired early of grouse shooting. To stand propped against a sod fence while his host's workmen routed up the birds with long poles and drove them towards the waiting guns, made him feel himself a parody on the ancestors who had roamed the moors and forests of this West Riding of Yorkshire in hot pursuit of game worth the killing. But when in England in August he always accepted whatever proffered for the season, and invited his host to shoot pheasants on his estates in the South. The amusements of life, he argued, should be accepted with the same philosophy as its ills.

It had been a bad day. A heavy rain had made the moor so spongy that it fairly sprang beneath the feet. Whether or not the grouse had haunts of their own, wherein they were immune from rheumatism, the bag had been small. The women, too, were an unusually dull lot, with the exception of a new-minded debutante who bothered Weigall at dinner by demanding the verbal restoration of the vague paintings on the vaulted roof above them.

But it was no one of these things that sat on Weigall's mind as, when the other men went up to bed, he let himself out of the castle and sauntered down to the river. His intimate friend, the companion of his boyhood, the chum of his college days, his fellow-traveller in many lands, the man for whom he possessed stronger affection than for all men, had mysteriously disappeared two days ago, and his track might have sprung to the upper air for all trace he had left behind him. He had been a guest on the adjoining estate during the past week, shooting with the fervor of the true sportsman, making love in the intervals to Adeline Cavan, and apparently in the best of spirits. As far as was known there was nothing to lower his mental mercury, for his rent-roll was a large one, Miss Cavan blushed whenever he looked at her, and, being one of the best shots in England, he was never happier than in August. The suicide theory was preposterous, all agreed, and there was as little reason to believe him murdered. Nevertheless, he had walked out of March Abbey two nights ago without hat or overcoat, and had not been seen since.

Amado Nervo: El obstáculo

Por el sendero misterioso, recamado en sus bordes de exquisitas plantas en flor y alumbrado blandamente por los fulgores de la tarde, iba ella, vestida de verde pálido, verde caña, con suaves reflejos de plata, que sentaba incomparablemente a su delicada y extraña belleza rubia.

Volvió los ojos, me miró larga y hondamente y me hizo con la diestra signo de que la siguiera.

Eché a andar con paso anhelado; pero de entre los árboles de un soto espeso surgió un hombre joven, de facciones duras, de ojos acerados, de labios imperiosos.

-No pasarás –me dijo, y puesto en medio del sendero abrió los brazos en cruz.

-Sí pasaré –respondíle resueltamente y avancé; pero al llegar a él vi que permanecía inmóvil y torvo.

-¡Abre camino! –exclamé.

No respondió.

Entonces, impaciente, le empujé con fuerza. No se movió.

Lleno de cólera al pensar que la Amada se alejaba, agachando la cabeza embestí a aquel hombre con vigor acrecido por la desesperación; mas él se puso en guardia y, con un golpe certero, me echó a rodar a tres metros de distancia.

Me levanté maltrecho y con más furia aún volví al ataque dos, tres, cuatro veces; pero el hombre aquel, cuya apariencia no era de Hércules, pero cuya fuerza sí era brutal, arrojóme siempre por tierra, hasta que al fin, molido, deshecho, no pude levantarme…

¡Ella, en tanto, se perdía para siempre!

Aquella mirada reanimó mi esfuerzo e intenté aún agredir a aquel hombre obstinado e impasible, de ojos de acero; pero él me miró a su vez de tal suerte, que me sentí desarmado e impotente.

Entonces una voz interior me dijo:

-¡Todo es inútil; nunca podrás vencerle!

Y comprendí que aquel hombre era mi Destino.

Rubem Fonseca: Passeio noturno

Cheguei em casa carregando a pasta cheia de papéis, relatórios, estudos, pesquisas, contratos. Minha mulher, jogando paciência na cama, um copo de uísque na mesa-de-cabeceira, disse, sem tirar os olhos das cartas, você está com um ar cansado. Os sons da casa: minha filha no quarto dela treinando empostação de voz, a música quadrafônica do quarto do meu filho. Você não vai largar essa mala? Perguntou minha mulher, tira essa roupa, bebe um uisquinho, você precisa aprender a relaxar.

Fui para a biblioteca, o lugar da casa onde gostava de ficar isolado e como sempre não fiz nada. Abri o volume de pesquisas sobre a mesa, não via as letras e números, eu esperava apenas. Você não pára de trabalhar, aposto que os teus sócios não trabalham nem a metade e ganham a mesma coisa, entrou a minha mulher na sala com o copo na mão, já posso mandar servir o jantar?

A copeira servia à francesa, meus filhos tinham crescidos, eu e a minha mulher estávamos gordos. É aquele vinho que você gosta, ela estalou a língua com prazer. Meu filho me pediu dinheiro quando estávamos no cafezinho, minha filha me pediu dinheiro na hora do licor. Minha mulher nada pediu, nós tínhamos conta bancária conjunta.

Vamos dar uma volta de carro?, convidei. Eu sabia que ela não ia, era hora da novela. Não sei que graça você acha em passear de carro todas as noites, também aquele carro custou uma fortuna, tem que ser usado, eu é que cada vez me apego menos aos bens materiais, minha mulher respondeu.

Os carros dos meninos bloqueavam a porta da garagem, impedindo que eu tirasse o meu carro. Tirei o carro dos dois, botei na rua, tirei o meu e botei na rua, coloquei os dois carros novamente na garagem, fechei a porta, essas manobras todas me deixaram levemente irritado, mas ao ver os pára-choques salientes do meu carro, o reforço especial duplo de aço cromado, senti o coração bater apressado de euforia. Enfiei a chave na ignição, era um motor poderoso que gerava a sua força em silêncio, escondido no capô aerodinâmico, Saí, como sempre sem saber para onde ir, tinha que ser uma rua deserta, nesta cidade que tem mais gente do que moscas. Na Avenida Brasil, ali não podia ser, muito movimento. Cheguei numa rua mal iluminada, cheia de árvores escuras, o lugar ideal. Homem ou mulher?, realmente não fazia grande diferênça, mas não aparecia ninguém em condições, comecei a ficar tenso, isso sempre acontecia, eu até gostava, o alívio era maior. Então vi a mulher, podia ser ela, ainda que mulher fosse menos emocionante, por ser mail fácil. Ela caminhava apressadamente, carregando um embrulho de papel ordinário, coisas de padaria ou quitanda, estava de saia e blusa, andava depressa, havia árvores na calçada, de vinte em vinte metros, um interessante problema a exigir uma grande dose de perícia. Apaguei as luzes do carro e acelerei. Ela só percebeu que eu ia para cima dela quando ouviu o som das borrachas dos pneus batendo no meio-fio. Pequei a mulher acima dos joelhos, bem no meio das duas pernas, um pouco mais sobre a esquerda, um golpe perfeito, ouvi o barulho do impacto partindo os dois ossões, dei uma guinada rápida para a esquerda, passei como um foguete rente a uma das árvores e deslizei com os pneus cantando, de volta para o asfalto. Motor bom, o meu, ia de zero a cem quilômetros em onze segundos. Ainda deu para ver que o corpo todo desengonçado da mulher havia ido parar, colorido de vermelho, em cima de um muro, desses baixinhos de casa de subúrbio.

Julio E. Miranda: Mi hermano

Mi hermano se ha tirado por el balcón. Mi hermano estaba loco. Mi hermano era un pájaro. Mi hermano era mi hermano.

Iba por un desierto cuando tropezó con mi padre. Mi padre le llamó cabrón. Mi padre le llamó imbécil. Mi hermano era el rey. Se paseaba por el desierto meditando en cómo ganar la batalla. Mi hermano recibió una bofetada de mi padre. El ejército se desbandó. El pueblo no supo qué hacer. Algunos se suicidaron. Mi hermano pudo calmarlos rápidamente… Mi hermano es el rey. Mi hermano es mi hermano.Fue entonces que se lanzó al abismo. Mi hermano cayó sobre un pie de mi padre. No pudo alcanzar al enemigo. Mi padre le llamó idiota. Mi padre le llamó estúpido. Mi padre le llamó hijode. Castigó a mi hermano en el sofá. Desde el palacio mi hermano escrutó la llanura. El enemigo realizaba un astuto movimiento. Mi hermano quiso levantarse. El rey sabía que era necesario. Mi hermano corrió. Mi padre se quitó el cinturón. Mi hermano iba a cortarle el paso al enemigo, abajo, en la llanura. Mi hermano era el rey y era un pájaro. Mi hermano se acaba de tirar por el balcón.

Crystal Arbogast: Hobnail

Fannie Poteet sat cross-legged on her Uncle John's front porch; her favorite rag doll clutched under one arm. The late afternoon sun shone through the leaves of the giant oak tree, casting its flickering light on the cabin. This golden motion of light entranced the child and she sat with her face turned upward, as if hypnotized. The steady hum of conversation flowed from inside of the cabin.

"Ellen, I'm sure happy that you came to church with us today. Why don't you spend the night? It's getting awfully late and it will be dark before you make it home."

"I'll be fine Sally," replied Fannie's mother. "Anyhow, you know how Lige is about his supper. I left plenty for him and the boys on the back of the stove, but he'll want Fannie and me home. Besides, he'll want to hear if Sam Bosworth's wife managed to drag him into church."

The laughter that followed her mother's statement broke the child's musings and she stood up, pulled her dress over the protruding petticoat, and stepped inside.

"Get your shawl Fannie. When the sun goes down, it'll get chilly."

As the little girl went to the chair by the fireplace to retrieve her wrap, her uncle came in from the back with a lantern.

"You'll need this Ellen. The wick is new and I've filled it up for you."

"I appreciate it Johnny," Ellen said. "I'll have Lige bring it back when he goes to town next week."

Ramón Gómez de la Serna: Aparición

La bella joven se reía tanto a la orilla del mar que, como la risa es la mayor provocadora de curiosidad, asomó su cabeza un tritón para ver lo que pasaba.

—¡Un tritón! —gritó ella.

Pero el tritón, tranquilo y sonriente, la serenó con la pregunta más inesperada:

—¿Quiere decirme qué hora es?