Ambrose Bierce: The hypnotist

By those of my friends who happen to know that I sometimes amuse myself with hypnotism, mind reading and kindred phenomena, I am frequently asked if I have a clear conception of the nature of whatever principle underlies them. To this question I always reply that I neither have nor desire to have. I am no investigator with an ear at the key-hole of Nature's workshop, trying with vulgar curiosity to steal the secrets of her trade. The interests of science are as little to me as mine seem to have been to science.

Doubtless the phenomena in question are simple enough, and in no way transcend our powers of comprehension if only we could find the clew; but for my part I prefer not to find it, for I am of a singularly romantic disposition, deriving more gratification from mystery than from knowledge. It was commonly remarked of me when I was a child that my big blue eyes appeared to have been made rather to look into than look out of—such was their dreamful beauty, and in my frequent periods of abstraction, their indifference to what was going on. In those peculiarities they resembled, I venture to think, the soul which lies behind them, always more intent upon some lovely conception which it has created in its own image than concerned about the laws of nature and the material frame of things. All this, irrelevant and egotistic as it may seem, is related by way of accounting for the meagreness of the light that I am able to throw upon a subject that has engaged so much of my attention, and concerning which there is so keen and general a curiosity. With my powers and opportunities, another person might doubtless have an explanation for much of what I present simply as narrative.

My first knowledge that I possessed unusual powers came to me in my fourteenth year, when at school. Happening one day to have forgotten to bring my noon-day luncheon, I gazed longingly at that of a small girl who was preparing to eat hers. Looking up, her eyes met mine and she seemed unable to withdraw them. After a moment of hesitancy she came forward in an absent kind of way and without a word surrendered her little basket with its tempting contents and walked away. Inexpressibly pleased, I relieved my hunger and destroyed the basket. After that I had not the trouble to bring a luncheon for myself: that little girl was my daily purveyor; and not infrequently in satisfying my simple need from her frugal store I combined pleasure and profit by constraining her attendance at the feast and making misleading proffer of the viands, which eventually I consumed to the last fragment. The girl was always persuaded that she had eaten all herself; and later in the day her tearful complaints of hunger surprised the teacher, entertained the pupils, earned for her the sobriquet of Greedy-Gut and filled me with a peace past understanding.

A disagreeable feature of this otherwise satisfactory condition of things was the necessary secrecy: the transfer of the luncheon, for example, had to be made at some distance from the madding crowd, in a wood; and I blush to think of the many other unworthy subterfuges entailed by the situation. As I was (and am) naturally of a frank and open disposition, these became more and more irksome, and but for the reluctance of my parents to renounce the obvious advantages of the new regime I would gladly have reverted to the old. The plan that I finally adopted to free myself from the consequences of my own powers excited a wide and keen interest at the time, and that part of it which consisted in the death of the girl was severely condemned, but it is hardly pertinent to the scope of this narrative.

Luis Mateo Díez: El sueño

Soñé que un niño me comía. Desperté sobresaltado. Mi madre me estaba lamiendo. El rabo todavía me tembló durante un rato.

Amber Benson - Christopher Golden: Ghosts of Albion: Illusions

In my whole existence I have never seen a lovelier sight than my Louise smiling up at me before our lips touched for that very first time.

Her face was like the most precious of gems; there was always another facet to discover. On first appraisal she was quiet and demure, her translucent skin and pale green eyes only adding to the air of fragility that surrounded her. Yet, I realized later that it had been a mistake to judge her on appearance alone for there was a core of iron underneath the girlish façade.

I first met her at a dinner party thrown by my friend Ludlow Swift in honour of the famed illusionist Capernicus. It was the first and only time I encountered the man, but I sensed in him a great thirst for power that I knew could only end tragically. I once tried to explain this intuition to my friend Ludlow, but he was blind to the other man's faults. Perhaps he could not see the darkness in Capernicus because they were brother magicians, or perhaps it was because Ludlow himself had a great thirst for knowledge, and he wanted to believe that this was what he saw in his friend as well.

As dessert was being served, a tiny pianoforte was wheeled into the dining room by one of Ludlow's servants. A small child stepped out from behind the wooden frame of the instrument and sat down at the bench, smoothing her skirts underneath her.

I can still see in my mind's eye her tiny fingers as they began lovingly to coax a melody from the ivory keys. Then she opened her mouth and the voice that issued forth was that of a seraph. I was utterly charmed and spent the rest of the evening watching her every move as she sat beside her ill-fortuned father.

She was just thirteen at the time, but I sensed that our paths would one day cross again. Four years passed and then Ludlow received news that Capernicus had been killed in India, attempting one of his extraordinary illusions. In this same letter of loss was a postscript: Louise was now on her way back to London by train where she would take up residence with her new guardian... Ludlow Swift. Needless to say that this came as a shock to my friend. His son Henry was barely seven at the time and the Swift household had a full coterie of maids and butlers and cooks, yet it seemed the idea of having another child in the house was daunting to him. Perhaps it was that he was intimidated by the mere thought of having a young woman only now coming into full blossom under his roof.

I alone was not surprised at this turn of events. Capernicus would never have trusted another soul save his brother magician. For my part, I endured the days awaiting her arrival with great impatience and wonder. As barely more than a child the girl had enchanted me. I hungered to discover what she had become.

Juan Antonio Fernández Madrigal: La señora de las estancias

Noticias y Primavera; Fuera y Dentro.

La Señora miraba con sus ojos miel a través del cristal hacia el exterior, el cristal limpio que apenas existía, sus uñas color uña apoyadas delicadamente en el cristal para cederle existencia. La piel blanca de sus manos estaba fría como casi siempre, agradeciendo el calor que comenzaba a entrar a través del cristal. Dentro de su pecho, tic tac, tic tac, más calor se despertaba al ritmo del sol naciente. La Señora parpadeaba lentamente y despertaba lentamente, y se deleitaba mirando a través del cristal, sonriendo al jardín que empezaba a corresponderle floreciendo tímido.

El jardín estaba resguardado por un muro no muy alto de ladrillo, fuerte, recio, en muchas partes abrigado amablemente por enredaderas y setos frondosos. Los ladrillos que no disfrutaban de esa gentileza mostraban sus caras rojas arrugadas y estoicas, acumulando experiencia y fuerza como servidores de la última frontera. Quizás había orgullo en el muro. O simplemente lealtad. O el orgullo de ser leal a todo lo que protegía. Quizás el resto del jardín sintiera aquello; la Señora podía sentirlo y le hacía sentirse segura.

Había algunos árboles en el jardín, pero no muy altos, más bien rechonchos y de formas suaves, con sombras acogedoras, con colores siempre primavera. Los árboles estaban plantados en el centro del jardín y no se apoyaban en el muro, probablemente por respeto. Bajo ellos, las rosas aprovechaban su techo refugio y se abrían para despertar al pequeño mundo que las rodeaba, separaban sus pétalos, examinaban complacidas los regueros sinuosos pero firmes que les llevaban el alimento, y se preguntaban de dónde venían esos regueros, a dónde iban y qué misteriosos senderos recorrían a través de otras rosas, parterres y arbustos.

La Señora suspiró levemente y se alejó de la ventana no sin antes retocar un poco la caída de las cortinas y las volutas análogas de su vestido. Tic tac, tic tac, el amanecer avanzaba pausado marcando el ritmo de todas las cosas. Tic tac. Tic tac.

Ding dong.

La Señora se dirigió hacia el recibidor comprobando de reojo la disposición de cada mueble, cada utensilio y cada adorno, con serenidad, a medida que avanzaba con su paso siempre elegante. Cada cosa tenía su lugar dentro de su corazón, incluso los detalles más pequeños, incluso los detalles más grandes. Independientemente de la cantidad de espacio que ocuparan, dentro de ella se ajustaban a su verdadera importancia. Cuando los repasaba no pensaba: sentía.

Ding dong.

—¡Buenos días! —Al abrir la puerta la voz de la Señora se extendió a todo el exterior posándose como una segunda manta de rocío sobre las rosas, los setos, los árboles y el gran muro, y por partida doble sobre el recién llegado.

Joseph Payne Brennan: Levitation

Morgan's Wonder Carnival moved into Riverville for an overnight stand, setting up its tents in the big ball park on the edge of the village. It was a warm evening in early October and by seven o'clock a sizable crowd had made its way to the scene of raucous amusement.

The traveling show was neither large nor particularly impressive of its type, but its appearance was eagerly welcomed in Riverville, an isolated mountain community many miles from the motion "picture houses, vaudeville theatres and sports arenas situated in larger towns.

The natives of Riverville did not demand sophisticated entertainment; consequently the inevitable Fat Lady, the Tattooed Man and the Monkey Boy kept them chattering animatedly for many minutes at a time. They crammed peanuts and buttered popcorn into their mouths, drank cup after cup of pink lemonade, and got their fingers all but stuck together trying to scrape the paper wrappers off colored taffy candies.

Everyone appeared to be in a relaxed and tolerant state of mind when the barker for the Hypnotist began his spiel. The barker, a short stocky man wearing a checkered suit, bellowed through an improvised megaphone, while the Hypnotist himself remained aloof at the rear of the plank platform erected in front of his tent. He appeared disinterested, scornful, and he scarcely deigned to glance at the gathering crowd.

At length, however, when some fifty souls had assembled in front of the platform, he stepped forward into the light. A murmur went up from the crowd.

In the harsh overhead electric glare, the Hypnotist made a striking appearance. His tall figure, thin to the point of emaciation, his pale complexion, and most of all his dark, sunken eyes, enormous and brilliant, compelled immediate attention. His dress, a severe black suit and an archaic black string tie, added a final Mephistophelean touch.

He surveyed the crowd coolly, with an expression betraying resignation and a kind of quiet contempt.

His sonorous voice reached to the far edge of the throng. "I will require one volunteer from among you," he said. "If someone will kindly step up—"

Everyone glanced around, or nudged his neighbor, but nobody advanced toward the platform.

The Hypnotist shrugged. "There can be no demonstration," he said in a weary voice, "unless one of you is kind enough to come up. I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, the demonstration is quite harmless, quite without danger."

He looked around expectantly and presently a young man slowly elbowed through the crowd toward the platform.

Gabriel García Márquez: Eva está dentro de su gato

De pronto notó que se le había derrumbado su belleza que llegó a dolerle físicamente como un tumor o como un cáncer. Todavía recordaba el peso de ese privilegio que llevó sobre su cuerpo durante la adolescencia y que ahora había dejado caer —¡quién sabe dónde!— con un cansancio resignado, con un último gesto de animal decadente. Era imposible seguir soportando esa carga por más tiempo. Había que dejar en cualquier parte ese inútil adjetivo de su personalidad; ese pedazo de su propio nombre que a la fuerza de acentuarse había llegado a sobrar. Sí; había que abandonar la belleza en cualquier parte; a la vuelta de una esquina, en un rincón suburbano. O dejarla olvidada en el ropero de un restaurante de segunda clase como un viejo abrigo inservible. Estaba cansada de ser el centro de todas las atenciones, de vivir asediada por los ojos largos de los hombres. En la noche, cuando clavaba en sus párpados los alfileres del insomnio, hubiera deseado ser mujer ordinaria, sin atractivos. Dentro de las cuatro paredes de su habitación todo le era hostil. Desesperada, sentía prolongarse la vigilia por debajo de su piel, por su cabeza, empujando la fiebre hacia arriba, hacia la raíz de su cabello. Era como si sus arterias se hubieran poblado de unos insectos diminutos y calientes que con la cercanía de la madrugada, diariamente, se despertaban y recorrían con sus patas movedizas, en una desgarradora aventura subcutánea, ese pedazo de barro frutecido donde se había localizado su belleza anatómica. En vano luchaba por ahuyentar aquellos animales terribles. No podía. Eran parte de su propio organismo. Habían estado allí, vivos, desde mucho antes de su existencia física. Venían desde el corazón de su padre que los había alimentado dolorosamente en sus noches de soledad desesperada. O tal vez habían desembocado a sus arterias por el cordón que la llevó atada a su madre desde el principio del mundo. Era indudable que esos insectos no habían nacido espontáneamente dentro de su cuerpo. Ella sabía que venían de atrás, que todos los que llevaron su apellido tuvieron que soportarlos, que tuvieron que sufrirlos como ella cuando el insomnio se hacía invencible hasta la madrugada. Eran esos insectos los mismos que pintaban ese gesto amargo, esa tristeza inconsolable en el rostro de sus antepasados. Ella los había visto mirar desde su apagada existencia, desde su retrato, antiguo, víctimas de esa misma angustia. Todavía recordaba el rostro inquietante de la bisabuela que desde su lienzo envejecido pedía un minuto de descanso, un segundo de paz a esos insectos que allá, en los canales de su sangre, seguían martirizándola y embelleciéndola despiadadamente. No; esos insectos no eran suyos. Venían transmitiéndose de generación a generación sosteniendo con su diminuta armadura todo el prestigio de una casta selecta; dolorosamente selecta. Esos insectos habían nacido en el vientre de la primera madre que tuvo una hija bella. Pero era necesario, urgente, detener esa herencia. Alguien tenía que renunciar a seguir transmitiendo esa belleza artificial. De nada valía a las mujeres de su estirpe admirarse de sí mismas al regresar del espejo, si durante las noches esos animales hacían su labor lenta y eficaz, sin descanso, con una constancia de siglos. Ya no era una belleza, era una enfermedad que había que detener, que había que cortar en forma enérgica y radical.

José Vicente Ortuño: Frankenstein 2004

Mi nombre es Víctor Frankenstein, nací en Ginebra a finales del siglo XVIII en el seno de una familia distinguida, como casi todo el mundo sabe gracias a cierta obra literaria; pero lo que nadie conoce es que al comienzo del siglo XXI, todavía estoy vivo; muy vivo. Después de tanto tiempo me apetece contar públicamente los resultados de algunos de los estudios y experimentos que he llevado a cabo a lo largo de mi vida.

En mi juventud decidí estudiar los orígenes de la vida, el porqué del funcionamiento de los seres vivos, la esencia que mueve a la materia a convertirse en un ente animado y consciente. Dediqué todas las fuerzas y entusiasmo de la juventud, junto con la fortuna de mi padre, al descubrimiento de los secretos de la creación.

Como consta en el relato que del principio de mi vida hace mi amada Mary Wollstonecraft mi única biógrafa y maravillosa compañera, relato que es fruto de infinidad de noches desveladas, tras desbordar nuestros sentidos con la pasión de la juventud, esa juventud que ahora queda tan lejos-, el final incierto permite que el lector piense que morí perdido, solo y arrepentido, yaciendo en la tundra helada o atrapado entre los hielos como justo castigo por mis pecados, o simplemente devorado por un oso polar; pero no fue así: sobreviví a todo ello. Perseguí a mi primera criatura durante algún tiempo y al fin la encontré, en una recóndita aldea en el norte de Siberia, donde vivía feliz tras haber fundado una familia. Pero no es de aquella, mi primera y desdichada criatura, de quien me propongo hablar, ya que la historia es de todos conocida; esta es otra historia.

Mi buen amigo y compañero de tertulia Herbert West, al que conocí casi un siglo después realizando estudios encaminados al mismo fin, sólo consiguió crear estúpidos zombis sin cerebro, terrores ambulantes que lo llevaron a un macabro final. Donde él fracasó yo he triunfado. En todo el tiempo transcurrido, especialmente desde que murió mi querida Mary, me he dedicado a crear nuevas criaturas cada vez más perfectas. No sé por qué no le devolví la vida a mi amada. Era tan dulce. Estaba tan viva. Tal vez tenía miedo de verla convertida en una patética criatura de andares rígidos y menguado cerebro. ¿Acaso ella me lo pidió antes de morir? Es posible. Los años no pasan en balde y los recuerdos se difuminan. Pero todavía veo con toda claridad su sonrisa y esa mirada dulce, que me provocaban bruscas erecciones en aquellas noches de alcohol, opio y orgías en la mansión de Lord Byron. Por aquel entonces, ocultaba mi identidad bajo el patético disfraz de poeta mediocre, pero pese a todo fueron tiempos muy felices.

Edgar Allan Poe: Mesmeric Revelation

WHATEVER doubt may still envelop the rationale of mesmerism, its startling facts are now almost universally admitted. Of these latter, those who doubt, are your mere doubters by profession — an unprofitable and disreputable tribe. There can be no more absolute waste of time than the attempt to prove, at the present day, that man, by mere exercise of will, can so impress his fellow, as to cast him into an abnormal condition, of which the phenomena resemble very closely those of death, or at least resemble them more nearly than they do the phenomena of any other normal condition within our cognizance; that, while in this state, the person so impressed employs only with effort, and then feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with keenly refined perception, and through channels supposed unknown, matters beyond the scope of the physical organs; that, moreover, his intellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and invigorated; that his sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound; and, finally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases with its frequency, while, in the same proportion, the peculiar phenomena elicited are more extended and more pronounced.

I say that these — which are the laws of mesmerism in its general features — it would be supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall I inflict upon my readers so needless a demonstration; to-day. My purpose at present is a very different one indeed. I am impelled, even in the teeth of a world of prejudice, to detail without comment the very remarkable substance of a colloquy, occurring between a sleep-waker and myself.

I had been long in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question, (Mr. Vankirk,) and the usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the mesmeric perception had supervened. For many months he had been laboring under confirmed phthisis, the more distressing effects of which had been relieved by my manipulations; and on the night of Wednesday, the fifteenth instant, I was summoned to his bedside.

The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the heart, and breathed with great difficulty, having all the ordinary symptoms of asthma. In spasms such as these he had usually found relief from the application of mustard to the nervous centres, but to-night this had been attempted in vain.

As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and although evidently in much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally, quite at ease.

"I sent for you to-night," he said, "not so much to administer to my bodily ailment, as to satisfy me concerning certain psychal impressions which, of late, have occasioned me much anxiety and surprise. I need not tell you how sceptical I have hitherto been on the topic of the soul's immortality. I cannot deny that there has always existed, as if in that very soul which I have been denying, a vague half-sentiment of its own existence. But this half-sentiment at no time amounted to conviction. With it my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at logical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more sceptical than before. I had been advised to study Cousin. I studied him in his own works as well as in those of his European and American echoes. The 'Charles Elwood' of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed in my hands. I read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it logical, but the portions which were not merely logical were unhappily the initial arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it seemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself. His end had plainly forgotten his beginning, like the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long in perceiving that if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he will never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so long the fashion of the moralists of England, of France, and of Germany. Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am persuaded, will always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The will may assent — the soul — the intellect, never.

Leopoldo Lugones: La estatua de sal

He aquí cómo refirió el peregrino la verdadera historia del monje Sosistrato:

Quien no ha pasado alguna vez por el monasterio de San Sabas, diga que no conoce la desolación.

Imaginaos un antiquísimo edificio situado sobre el Jordán, cuyas aguas saturadas de arena amarillenta se deslizan ya casi agotadas hacia el Mar Muerto, por entre bosquecillos de terebintos y manzanos de Sodoma. En toda aquella comarca no hay más que una palmera cuya copa sobrepasa los muros del monasterio. Una soledad infinita, sólo turbada de tarde en tarde por el paso de algunos nómades que trasladan sus rebaños; un silencio colosal que parece bajar de las montañas cuya eminencia amuralla el horizonte. Cuando sopla el viento del desierto, llueve arena impalpable; cuando el viento es del lago, todas las plantas quedan cubiertas de sal. El ocaso y la aurora confúndense en una misma tristeza.

Sólo aquellos que deben expiar grandes crímenes, arrostran semejantes soledades. En el convento se puede oír misa y comulgar. Los monjes que no son ya más que cinco, y todos por lo menos sexagenarios, ofrecen al peregrino una modesta colación de dátiles fritos, uvas, agua del río y algunas veces vino de palmera. Jamás salen del monasterio, aunque las tribus vecinas los respetan porque son buenos médicos. Cuando muere alguno, lo sepultan en las cuevas que hay debajo a la orilla del río, entre las rocas. En esas cuevas anidan ahora parejas de palomas azules, amigas del convento; antes, hace ya muchos años, habitaron en ellas los primeros anacoretas, uno de los cuales fue el monje Sosistrato cuya historia he prometido contaros. Ayúdeme Nuestra Señora del Carmelo y vosotros escuchad con atención.

Lo que vais a oír, me lo refirió palabra por palabra el hermano Porfirio, que ahora está sepultado en una de las cuevas de San Sabas, donde acabó su santa vida a los ochenta años en la virtud y la penitencia.

Dios lo haya acogido en su gracia. Amén.

Sosistrato era un monje armenio, que había resuelto pasar su vida en la soledad con varios jóvenes compañeros suyos de vida mundana, recién convertidos a la religión del crucificado. Pertenecía, pues, a la fuerte raza de los estilitas. Después de largo vagar por el desierto, encontraron un día las cavernas de que os he hablado y se instalaron en ellas. El agua del Jordán, los frutos de una pequeña hortaliza que cultivaban en común, bastaban para llenar sus necesidades. Pasaban los días orando y meditando.

De aquellas grutas surgían columnas de plegarias, que contenían con su esfuerzo la vacilante bóveda de los cielos próxima a desplomarse sobre los pecados del mundo. El sacrificio de aquellos desterrados,

que ofrecían diariamente la maceración de sus carnes y la pena de sus ayunos a la justa ira de Dios, para aplacarla, evitaron muchas pestes, guerras y terremotos. Esto no lo saben los impíos que ríen con ligereza de las penitencias de los cenobitas. Y, sin embargo, los sacrificios y oraciones de los justos son las claves del techo del universo.

John Collier: The Chaser

Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in the neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dime landing before he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.

He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the dirty buff-colored walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all perhaps a dozen bottles and jars.

An old man sat in the rocking-chair, reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given. "Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely. "I am glad to make your acquaintance."

"Is it true," asked Alan, "that you have a certain mixture that has-er-quite extraordinary effects?"

"My dear sir," replied the old man, "my stock in trade is not very large-I don't deal in laxatives and teething mixtures-but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary."

"Well, the fact is. . ." began Alan.

"Here, for example, "interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. "Here is a liquid as colorless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy."

"Do you mean it is a poison?" cried Alan, very much horrified.

"Call it a glove-cleaner if you like," said the old man indifferently. "Maybe it will clean gloves. I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes."

Marco Denevi: La bella durmiente del bosque y el príncipe

La Bella Durmiente cierra los ojos pero no duerme. Está esperando al príncipe. Y cuando lo oye acercarse, simula un sueño todavía más profundo. Nadie se lo ha dicho, pero ella lo sabe. Sabe que ningún príncipe pasa junto a una mujer que tenga los ojos bien abiertos.

Kahlil Gibran ( جبران خليل جبران ) : Lady Ruth (اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث)

وﻗﻒ ﻣﺮة ﺛﻼﺛﺔ رﺟﺎل ﻳﺘﺄﻣﻠﻮن ﻣﻦ ﻌﻴﺪ ﻴﺘﺎ ﻴﺾ اﻟﻠﻮن ﻳﻘﻮم وﺣﺪه ﻓﻮق رﻴﺔ ﺧﻀﺮاء ﻓﻘﺎل ﺣﺪﻫﻢ : «ذﻟﻚ ﻫﻮ ﻴﺖ اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث. ﻧﻬﺎ ﺳﺎﺣﺮة ﻋﺠﻮز».

وﻗﺎل اﻟﺜﺎﻧﻲ : «ﻧﺖ ﻣﺨﻄﺊ. اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث ﻤﺮأة ﺟﻤﻴﻠﺔ ﺗﻌﻴﺶ ﻣﻨﻘﻄﻌﺔ ﻫﻨﺎك إﻟﻰ ﺣﻼﻣﻬﺎ».

وﻗﺎل اﻟﺜﺎﻟﺚ: «ﻛﻼﻛﻤﺎ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺧﻄﺎ اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث ﺻﺎﺣﺒﺔ ﻫﺬه اﻷرض اﻟﻔﺴﻴﺤﺔ وﻫﻲ ﺗﻤﺘﺺ دم اﻟﻌﺒﻴﺪ اﻟﺬﻳﻦ ﻳﻌﻤﻠﻮن ﻓﻴﻬﺎ». وﻣﻀﻮا ﻳﺘﺠﺎدﻟﻮن ﺣﻮل اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث.

وﺣﻴﻦ ﻠﻐﻮا ﻣﻔﺘﺮق ﻃﺮق ﻟﻘﻮا رﺟﻼ ﻃﺎﻋﻨﺎ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺴﻦ ﻓﺴﺄﻟﻪ ﺤﺪﻫﻢ ﻗﺎﺋﻼ: «ﻫﻞ ﻟﻚ أن ﺗﺨﺒﺮﻧﺎ ﻣﺎ ﺷﺎن اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث اﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﻘﻴﻢ ﻓﻲ ذﻟﻚ اﻟﺒﻴﺖ اﻷﻴﺾ ﻓﻮق اﻟﺮﻴﺔ؟».

رﻓﻊ اﻟﺸﻴﺦ رﺳﻪ وﺘﺴﻢ ﺳﺎﺧﺮا ﻣﻨﻬﻢ وﻗﺎل : « ﻧﺎ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺘﺴﻌﻴﻦ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻨﻲ وﻨﻲ ﻷﺗﺬﻛﺮ اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث ﻣﺬ ﻛﻨﺖ ﺻﺒﻴﺎ ﺻﻐﻴﺮا. ﻏﻴﺮ أن اﻟﻠﻴﺪي روث ﻣﺎﺗﺖ ﻣﻨﺬ ﺛﻤﺎﻧﻴﻦ ﻋﺎﻣﺎ، واﻟﺒﻴﺖ اﻵن ﺧﺎو ﺗﻨﻌﺐ ﻓﻴﻪ اﻟﺒﻮم ، واﻟﻨﺎس ﻳﻘﻮﻟﻮن ﺣﻴﺎﻧﺎ: ﻨﻪ ﻣﺴﻜﻮن».

Guadalupe Vadillo: El camino

Anduve. Al final me di cuenta que caminé en círculo. Y volví a vivir.

Viví la oscuridad de una sala de operaciones y la luz de un cuarto de hospital y la masa infinita de mi madre y la mirada alegre de algunas personas que empañaban el vidrio que me separaba, y que me hacía especial.

Pronto descubrí las cosas importantes. Viví el sexo, los prostíbulos, las películas eróticas. La corrupción.

Disfruté del momento y no llegué a ser feliz. Me sentí algo pesado por no poder mover mi iniciativa y atrapar mis ideas.

Rodeado de mediocridad viví mi segunda vida igual que la primera. La lluvia me hace imposible ver por mis anteojos y cruzo la calle buscando el fin.

Dan Simmons: Vanni Fucci is Well and Living in Hell Simmons Dan

On his last day on earth, Brother Freddy rose early, showered, shaved his chins, sprayed his hair, put on his television make-up, dressed in his trademark three-piece white suit with white shoes, pink shirt, and black string tie, and went down to his office to have his pre-Hallelujah Breakfast Club breakfast with Sister Donna Lou, Sister Betty Jo, Brother Billy Bob, and George.

The four munched on sweet rolls and sipped coffee as the slate-gray sky began to lighten beyond the thirty-foot wall of bulletproof, heavily tinted glass. Clusters of tall, brick buildings comprising the campus of Brother Freddy's Hallelujah Bible College and Graduate School of Christian Economics seemed to solidify out of the predawn

Alabama gloom. Far to the east, just visible above the pecan groves, rose the artificial mountain of the Mount Sinai Mad Mouse Ride in the Bible Land section of Brother Freddy's Born Again Family Amusement Complex and Christian Con-vention Center. Much closer, the great dish of a Holy Beamer, one of six huge

satellite dishes on the grounds of Brother Freddy's Bible Broadcast Center, sliced a black arc from the cloud-laden sky. Brother Freddy glanced at the rain-sullen weather and smiled. It did not matter what the real world beyond his office window offered. The large "bay window" on the homey set of the Hallelujah Break-fast Club was actually a $38,000 rear-projection television screen which played the same fifty-two minute tape of a glorious May sunrise each morning. On Brother Freddy's Hallelujah Breakfast Club, it was always spring.

"What's the line-up like?" asked Brother Freddy as he took a sip of his coffee, his little finger lifted delicately, the pinky ring gleaming in the light of the overhead spots. It was eight minutes until air time.

"First half hour you got the usual lead-in from Brother Beau, your opening talk and Prayer Partner plea, six-and-a-half minutes of the Hallelujah Breakfast Club Choir doing "We're On the Brink of a Miracle" and a medley of off-Broadway Christian hits, and then your Breakfast Guests come on," said Brother Billy Bob Grimes, the floor director.

"Who we got today?" asked Brother Freddy.