Henry Kuttner: Chameleon Man

TIM VANDERHOF wavered. He stood ten feet from a glass-paneled door, his apprehensive gaze riveted upon it, and swayed back and forth like a willow. Or, perhaps, an aspen. He wasn't sure. Yes, it was an aspen—a quaking aspen. His ears seemed to twitch gently as he listened to the low rumble of voices from the inner office of S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop, Fifth Avenue's snootiest establishment for supplying exclusive models of dresses, lingerie, and what-not.

Let us examine Mr. Vanderhof. He did not, at the moment, look like a man who, within a very short time, was going to turn into what amounted to something rather like a chameleon. Nevertheless, mentally and spiritually, Tim Vanderhof was a mere mass of quivering protoplasm, and no great wonder, after the interview he had just had. He wasn't bad looking, though slightly pallid. His features were regular, his face a bit chubby, and his eyes held the expression of a startled fawn. They were brown, like his hair, and he had a pug nose.

He shivered slightly as the glass-paneled door opened. A Back appeared. Under it were two short, slightly bowed legs, and it was surmounted by a scarlet billiard-ball of a head. There was no neck. The Bade was draped in tweeds, and a strong smell of tobacco, brandy, and horses emanated from it.

The Back extended a large, capable hand, clenched it into a fist, and shook it warningly at someone inside the office.

"Gad, sir!" a deep voice boomed, "Gad! This is the last straw! Mrs. Quester will be furious. And I warn you, Walker, that I shall be furious too. I have stood enough of your trifling. Twice already you promised exclusive models of a dress for my wife, and then failed to deliver."

"But—" said a Voice.

"Silence!" bellowed the Back, and the Voice was cowed. "You have promised Model Forty-Three to Mrs. Quester. If you dare to exhibit it at your fashion show this afternoon, I shall call upon you with a riding-whip. I shall be here after the show, and you will have the dress ready for me to take to Mrs. Quester. You have had enough time to make alterations. Gad, sir—in Burma I have had men broken—utterly broken—for less than this."

The Voice, with a faint spark of antagonism, rallied. It said, "But."

"But me no buts, damn your eyes! This isn't Burma, but you will find that Colonel Quester still knows how to use his fists—you tradesman! I shall be back this afternoon, and—brrrrmph!"

"Yes, Colonel," the Voice assented weakly, and the Back turned, revealing to the watching Vanderhof a round, crimson face with a bristling, iron-gray mustache, and beetling brows from beneath which lightning crackled menacingly. Brrmphing, Colonel Quester moved like a mastodon past the quaking Vanderhof and vanished through a door that seemed to open coweringly of its own accord at the man's advance. Vanderhof immediately turned and started to tiptoe away.

The Voice detected the sound of his departure. "Vanderhof!" it screamed. "Come here!"

Thus summoned, the unfortunate official halted, retraced his steps, and entered the inner sanctum. There he paused like a hypnotized rabbit, watching the Voice, who was also known as S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop.

Cristina Fernández Cubas: Mi hermana Elba

Aún ahora, a pesar del tiempo transcurrido, no me cuesta trabajo alguno descifrar aquella letra infantil plagada de errores, ni reconstruir los frecuentes espacios en blanco o las hojas burdamente arrancadas por alguna mano inhábil. Tampoco me representa ningún esfuerzo iluminar con la memoria el deterioro del papel, el desgaste de la escritura o la ligera pátina amarillenta de las fotografías. El diario es de piel, dispone de un cierre, que no recuerdo haber utilizado nunca, y se inicia el 24 de julio de 1954. Las primeras palabras, escritas a lápiz y en torpe letra bastardilla,dicen textualmente: Hoy, por la mañana, han vuelto a hablar de «aquello». Ojalá lo cumplan. Sigue luego una lista de las amigas del verano y una descripción detallada de mis progresos en el mar. En los días sucesivos continúo hablando de la playa, de mis juegos de niña, pero, sobre todo, de mis padres. El diario finaliza dos años después. Ignoro si más tarde proseguí el relato de mis confesiones infantiles en otro cuaderno, pero me inclino a pensar que no lo hice. Ignoro también el destino ulterior de varias fotografías, que en algún momento debí de arrancar —y de cuya existencia hablan aún ciertos restos de cola casera petrificados por el tiempo—, y el instante o los motivos precisos que me impulsaron a desfigurar, posiblemente con un cortaplumas, una reproducción del rostro de mi hermana Elba.

Durante el largo verano de 1954 sometí a mis padres a la más estricta vigilancia.Sabía que un importante acontecimiento estaba a punto de producirse e intuía que,de alguna manera, iba a resultar directamente afectada. Así me lo daban a entenderlos frecuentes cuchicheos de mis padres en la biblioteca y, sobre todo, las animadas conversaciones de cocina, interrumpidas en el preciso momento en que yo o la pequeña Elba asomábamos la cabeza por la puerta. En estos casos, sin embargo,siempre se deslizaba una palabra, un gesto, los compases de cualquier tonadilla a la moda bruscamente lanzados al aire, una media sonrisa demasiado tierna o demasiado forzada. Mi madre, en una ocasión, se apresuró a ocultar ciertos papeles de mi vista. La niñera, menos discreta y más dada a la lamentación y al drama,dejaba caer de vez en cuando algunas alusiones a su incierto futuro económico o a la maldad congénita e irreversible de la mayoría de seres humanos. Decidí mantenerme alerta y, al tiempo que mis ojos se abrían a cualquier detalle hasta entonces insignificante, mis labios se empeñaron en practicar una mudez fuera de toda lógica que, como pude comprobar de inmediato, producía el efecto de inquietar a cuantos me rodeaban.

Nunca como en aquella época mi padre se había mostrado tan comunicativo y obsequioso. Durante las comidas nos cubría de besos a Elba y a mí, se interesaba por nuestros progresos en el mar e, incluso, nos permitía mordisquear bombones a lo largo del día. A nadie parecía importarle que los platos de carne quedaran intactos sobre la mesa ni que nuestras almohadas volaran por los aires hasta pasada la medianoche. Mi silencio pertinaz no dejaba de obrar milagros. Notaba cómo mi madre esquivaba mi mirada, siempre al acecho, o cómo la cocinera cabeceaba con ternura cuando yo me empeñaba en conocer los secretos de las natillas caseras o el difícil arte de montar unas claras de huevo. En cierta oportunidad creo haberle oído murmurar: «Tú sí que te enteras de todo, pobrecita». Sus palabras me llenaron de orgullo.

Alice Munro: Dimension

Doree had to take three buses—one to Kincardine, where she waited for one to London, where she waited again, for the city bus out to the facility. She started the trip on a Sunday at nine in the morning. Because of the waiting times between buses, it took her until about two in the afternoon to travel the hundred-odd miles. All that sitting, either on buses or in the depots, was not a thing she should have minded. Her daily work was not of the sitting-down kind.

She was a chambermaid at the Comfort Inn. She scrubbed bathrooms and stripped and made beds and vacuumed rugs and wiped mirrors. She liked the work—it occupied her thoughts to a certain extent and tired her out so that she could sleep at night. She was seldom faced with a really bad mess, though some of the women she worked with could tell stories to make your hair curl. These women were older than her, and they all thought that she should try to work her way up. They told her that she should get trained for a job behind the desk, while she was still young and decent-looking. But she was content to do what she did. She didn’t want to have to talk to people.

None of the people she worked with knew what had happened. Or, if they did, they didn’t let on. Her picture had been in the paper—they’d used the photo he took of her with all three kids, the new baby, Dimitri, in her arms, and Barbara Ann and Sasha on either side, looking on. Her hair had been long and wavy and brown then, natural in curl and color, as he liked it, and her face bashful and soft—a reflection less of the way she was than of the way he wanted to see her.

Since then, she had cut her hair short and bleached and spiked it, and she had lost a lot of weight. And she went by her second name now: Fleur. Also, the job they had found for her was in a town a good distance away from where she used to live.

This was the third time she had made the trip. The first two times he had refused to see her. If he did that again she would just quit trying. Even if he did see her, she might not come again for a while. She was not going to go overboard. She didn’t really know what she was going to do.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: The Bicentennial Woman

El zapato de noche azul eléctrico brota de su pecho como un hongo tóxico.

‒Lo han dejado seco con el tacón. Un sólo golpe justo en el corazón: una fuerza sobrehumana. Diseñador de profesión. Un tipo tranquilo, nada de escándalos. Que se sepa, no le iba el sadomaso y ni siquiera era promiscuo: la misma pareja los últimos ocho años. Yo habría dicho un crimen pasional… Quizá, un súbito arranque de ira. Debe de haber cabreado mucho a alguien.

El inspector escucha atentamente con el rostro desencajado.

‒¡¿Cuántas veces te he repetido que no entres en casa sin las bayetas si he dado cera al suelo?! –fuera de sí, lo levanta en vilo y lo deja caer sobre el sillón.

La mira aterrado. Dónde la solícita atleta que pasaba el día limpiando al ritmo de sugerentes músicas orientales, armada de su inseparable plumero, ajena al cansancio, la frustración o los reproches de las mujeres normales. Su cuerpo sigue siendo perfecto, pero cada día resulta más evidente que algo no anda bien en sus circuitos. Se ha convertido en una suerte de Lara Croft desquiciada. Ya no reprime sus accesos de indignación ante la publicidad machista, los comentarios machistas, la moda machista...

‒¡A hacer puñetas! –grita de camino a la fiesta mientras lanza uno de sus zapatos de vertiginoso tacón por la ventanilla del coche‒. Sólo tú podías regalarme algo así. Sólo un hombre, alguien que no tuviese que ponérselos, podría diseñar algo tan incómodo. Cuándo os enteraréis de que no somos muñecas con las que jugar. De nada sirve un zapato desparejado, piensa para sus adentros.

Llevan casados un año. Aún está en garantía; podría descambiarla. Pero el inspector se ha acostumbrado a considerarla su esposa y, estúpidamente, sentiría remordimientos. Como remordimientos sentirá ella por saberse inadecuada. Ha de ser paciente.

En el escenario del crimen no hay huellas. Mientras él contempla la familiar pulcritud, una pluma fugitiva planea desde la lámpara y roza delicadamente su oreja.

Jack Ritchie: For all the rude people

"How old are you?" I asked!

His eyes were on the revolver I was holding. "Look, mister, there’s not much in the cash register, but take it all. I won’t make no trouble."

"I am not interested in your filthy money. How old are you?"

He was puzzled. "Forty-two."

I clicked my tongue. "What a pity. From your point of view, at least. You might have lived another twenty or thirty years if you had just taken the slight pains to be polite."

He didn’t understand.

"I am going to kill you," I said, "because of the four-cent stamp and because of the cherry candy."

He did not know what I meant by the cherry candy, but he did know about the stamp.

Panic raced into his face. "You must be crazy. You can’t kill me just because of that."

"But I can."

And I did.

When Dr. Briller told me that I had but four months to live, I was, of course, perturbed. "Are you positive you haven’t mixed up the X-rays? I’ve heard of such things."

"I’m afraid not, Mr. Turner."

I gave it more earnest thought. "The laboratory reports. Perhaps my name was accidentally attached to the wrong ..."

He shook his head slowly. "I double-checked. I always do that in cases like these. Sound medical practice, you know."

It was late afternoon and the time when the sun is tired. I rather hoped that when my time came to actually die, it might be in the morning. Certainly more cheerful.

"In cases like this," Dr. Briller said, "a doctor is faced with a dilemma. Shall he or shall he not tell his patient? I always tell mine. That enables them to settle their affairs and to have a fling, so to speak." He pulled a pad of paper toward him. "Also I’m writing a book. What do you intend doing with your remaining time?"

"I really don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about it for a minute or two, you know."

"Of course," Briller said. "No immediate rush. But when you do decide, you will let me know, won’t you? My book concerns the things that people do with their remaining time when they know just when they’re going to die."

He pushed aside the pad. "See me every two or three weeks. That way we’ll be able to measure the progress of your decline."

Briller saw me to the door. "I already have written up twenty-two cases like yours." He seemed to gaze into the future. "Could be a best seller, you know."

I have always lived a bland life. Not an unintelligent one, but bland.

I have contributed nothing to the world–and in that I have much in common with almost every soul on earth–but on the other hand I have not taken away anything either. I have, in short, asked merely to be left alone. Life is difficult enough without undue association with people.

What can one do with the remaining four months of a bland life?

I have no idea how long I walked and thought on that subject, but eventually I found myself on the long curving bridge that sweeps down to join the lake drive. The sounds of mechanical music intruded themselves upon my mind and I looked down.

Adela Fernández: La jaula de tía Enedina

Desde que tenía ocho años me mandaban a llevarle la comida a mi tía Enedina, la loca. Según mi madre, enloqueció de soledad. Tía Enedina vivía en el cuarto de trebejos que está al fondo del traspatio. Conforme me acostumbraron a que yo le llevara los alimentos, nadie volvió a visitarla, ni siquiera tenían curiosidad por ella. Yo también le daba de comer a las gallinas y a los marranos. Por éstos sí me preguntaban, y con sumo interés. Era importante para ellos saber cómo iba la engorda; en cambio, a nadie le interesaba que tía Enedina se consumiera poco a poco. Así eran las cosas, así fueron siempre, así me hice hombre, en la diaria tarea de llevarles comida a los animales y a la tía.

Ahora tengo diecinueve años y nada ha cambiado. A la tía nadie la quiere. A mí tampoco porque soy negro. Mi madre nunca me ha dado un beso y mi padre niega que soy hijo suyo. Goyita, la vieja cocinera, es la única que habla conmigo. Ella me dice que mi piel es negra porque nací aquel día del eclipse, cuando todo se puso oscuro y los perros aullaron. Por ella he aprendido a comprender la razón por la que no me quieren. Piensan que al igual que el eclipse, yo le quito la luz a la gente. Goyita es abierta, hablantina y me cuenta muchas cosas, entre ellas, cómo fue que enloqueció mi tía Enedina.

Dice que estaba a punto de casarse y en la víspera de su boda un hombre sucio y harapiento tocó a la puerta preguntando por ella. Le auguró que su novio no se presentaría a la iglesia y que para siempre sería una mujer soltera. Compadecido de su futuro le regaló una enorme jaula de latón para que en su vejez se consolara cuidando canarios. Nunca se supo si aquel hombre que se fue sin dar más detalles, era un enviado de Dios o del diablo.

Tal como se lo pronosticó aquel extraño, su prometido sin aclaración alguna desertó de contraer nupcias, y mi tía Enedina bajo el desconcierto y la inútil espera, enloqueció de soledad. Goyita me cuenta que así fueron las cosas y deben de haber sido así. Tía Enedina vive con su jaula y con su sueño: tener un canario. Cuando voy a verla es lo único que me pide, y en todos estos años, yo no he podido llevárselo. En casa a mí no me dan dinero. El pajarero de la plaza no ha querido regalarme uno, y el día que le robé el suyo a doña Ruperta por poco me cuesta la vida. Lo escondí en una caja de zapatos, me descubrieron, y a golpes me obligaron a devolvérselo.

Steve Rasnic Tem: Tricks & treats: One Night on Halloween Street

TRICKS

IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE last time they'd all go trick or treating together, but it didn't seem right that the gang go out now that Tommy was dead.

Every year all the gang had gone trick or treating together: Allison and Robbie, Maryanne and John, Sandra and Willona and Felix and Randall. And Tommy. They'd been doing it since fourth grade. Now they were teenagers, and they figured this was the last time. The last chance to do it up right.

Not that they'd ever done anything particularly malicious on Halloween. A few soaped windows. A few mailboxes full of cow shit. Not much more than that.

But Tommy had said this particular Halloween needed to be special. "For chrissakes, it's the last time.!"

But then Tommy had died in that big pileup on the interstate. They'd all gone to the funeral. They'd seen the casket lowered into the ground, the earth dark as chocolate. It wasn't like in the movies. This movie, Tommy's movie, would last forever. Sandra kept saying that word, "forever," like it was the first time she'd ever heard it.

The dead liked playing tricks. She figured that out quick. Dying was a great trick. It was great because people just couldn't believe it. You'd play the trick right in front of their eyes and they still just couldn't believe it.

He'd only been dead a week when Sandra wondered if Tommy's life itself had been a trick. She couldn't remember his face anymore. Even when she looked at pictures of him something' felt wrong. Tommy had this trick: he was never going to change, and because he didn't change she couldn't remember what he looked like.

Sandra and Willona had both had crushes on Tommy. And now he was going to be their boyfriend forever. He used to take them both to the horror shows, even the ones they were too young for. He knew places he could get them in. Sandra thought about those shows a lot -- she figured Willona did, too. Tommy loved the

horror shows. Now he was the star of his own horror show that played in their heads every night. He'd always be with them, because they just couldn't stop thinking about him.

Enrique Anderson Imbert: El fantasma

Se dio cuenta de que acababa de morirse cuando vio que su propio cuerpo, como si no fuera el suyo sino el de un doble, se desplomaba sobre la silla y la arrastraba en la caída. Cadáver y silla quedaron tendidos sobre la alfombra, en medio de la habitación.

¿Con que eso era la muerte?

¡Qué desengaño! Había querido averiguar cómo era el tránsito al otro mundo ¡y resultaba que no había ningún otro mundo! La misma opacidad de los muros, la misma distancia entre mueble y mueble, el mismo repicar de la lluvia sobre el techo... Y sobre todo ¡qué inmutables, qué indiferentes a su muerte los objetos que él siempre había creído amigos!: la lámpara encendida, el sombrero en la percha... Todo, todo estaba igual. Sólo la silla volteada y su propio cadáver, cara al cielo raso.

Se inclinó y se miró en su cadáver como antes solía mirarse en el espejo. ¡Qué avejentado! ¡Y esas envolturas de carne gastada! "Si yo pudiera alzarle los párpados quizá la luz azul de mis ojos ennobleciera otra vez el cuerpo", pensó.

Porque así, sin la mirada, esos mofletes y arrugas, las curvas velludas de la nariz y los dos dientes amarillos, mordiéndose el labio exangüe estaban revelándole su aborrecida condición de mamífero.

-Ahora que sé que del otro lado no hay ángeles ni abismos me vuelvo a mi humilde morada.

Y con buen humor se aproximó a su cadáver -jaula vacía- y fue a entrar para animarlo otra vez.

¡Tan fácil que hubiera sido! Pero no pudo. No pudo porque en ese mismo instante se abrió la puerta y se entrometió su mujer, alarmada por el ruido de silla y cuerpo caídos.

-¡No entres! -gritó él, pero sin voz.

Era tarde. La mujer se arrojó sobre su marido y al sentirlo exánime lloró y lloró.

-¡Cállate! ¡Lo has echado todo a perder! -gritaba él, pero sin voz.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: In the vault

There is nothing more absurd, as I view it, than that conventional association of the homely and the wholesome which seems to pervade the psychology of the multitude. Mention a bucolic Yankee setting, a bungling and thick-fibred village undertaker, and a careless mishap in a tomb, and no average reader can be brought to expect more than a hearty albeit grotesque phase of comedy. God knows, though, that the prosy tale which George Birch's death permits me to tell has in it aspects beside which some of our darkest tragedies are light.

Birch acquired a limitation and changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly "laying-out" apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. He was merely crass of fibre and function- thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. I suppose one should start in the cold December of 1880, when the ground froze and the cemetery delvers found they could dig no more graves till spring. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon.

Pío Baroja: Médium

Soy un hombre intranquilo, nervioso, muy nervioso; pero no estoy loco, como dicen los médicos que me han reconocido. He analizado todo, he profundizado todo, y vivo intranquilo. ¿Por qué? No lo he sabido todavía.

Desde hace tiempo duermo mucho, con un sueño sin ensueño; al menos, cuando me despierto, no recuerdo si he soñado; pero debo soñar; no comprendo por qué se me figura que debo soñar. A no ser que esté soñando ahora cuando hablo; pero duermo mucho; una prueba clara de que no estoy loco.

La médula mía está vibrando siempre, y los ojos de mi espíritu no hacen más que contemplar una cosa desconocida, una cosa gris que se agita con ritmo al compás de las pulsaciones de las arterias en mi cerebro.

Pero mi cerebro no piensa, y, sin embargo, está en tensión; podría pensar, pero no piensa... ¡Ah! ¿Os sonreís, dudáis de mi palabra? Pues bien, sí. Lo habéis adivinado. Hay un espíritu que vibra dentro de mi alma. Os lo contaré:

Es hermosa la infancia, ¿verdad? Para mí, el tiempo más horroroso de la vida. Yo tenía, cuando era niño, un amigo; se llamaba Román Hudson; su padre era inglés, y su madre, española.

Le conocí en el Instituto. Era un buen chico; sí, seguramente era un buen chico; muy amable, muy bueno; yo era huraño y brusco.

A pesar de estas diferencias, llegamos a hacer amistades, y andábamos siempre juntos. Él era un buen estudiante, y yo, díscolo y desaplicado; pero como Román siempre fue un buen muchacho, no tuvo inconveniente en llevarme a su casa y enseñarme sus colecciones de sellos.

La casa de Román era muy grande y estaba junto a la plaza de las Barcas, en una callejuela estrecha, cerca de una casa en donde se cometió un crimen, del cual se habló mucho en Valencia. No he dicho que pasé mi niñez en Valencia. La casa era triste, muy triste, todo lo triste que puede ser una casa, y tenía en la parte de atrás un huerto muy grande, con las paredes llenas de enredaderas de campanillas blancas y moradas.

Mi amigo y yo jugábamos en el jardín, en el jardín de las enredaderas, y en un terrado ancho, con losas, que tenía sobre la cerca enormes tiestos de pitas.

Dean R. Koontz: We Three

1 JONATHAN, JESSICA, AND I ROLLED OUR FATHER THROUGH THE DINING room and across the fancy Olde English kitchen. We had some trouble getting Father through the back door, because he was rather rigid.

This is no comment on his bearing or temperament, though he could be a chilly bastard when he wanted. Now he was stiff quite simply because rigor mortis had tightened his muscles and hardened his flesh. We were not, however, to be deterred. We kicked at him until he bent in the middle and popped through the door frame. We dragged him across the porch and down the six steps to the lawn. "He weighs a ton!" Jonathan said, mopping his sweat-streaked brow, huffing and puffing. "Not a ton," Jessica said. "Less than two hundred pounds." Although we are triplets and are surprisingly similar in many ways, we differ from one another in a host of minor details. For example, Jessica is by far the most pragmatic of us, while Jonathan likes to exaggerate, fantasize, and daydream. I am somewhere between their two extremes. A pragmatic daydreamer? "What now?" Jonathan asked, wrinkling his face in disgust and nodding toward the corpse on the grass. "Burn him," Jessica said. Her pretty lips made a thin pencil line on her face. Her long yellow hair caught the morning sun and glimmered. The day was perfect, and she was the most beautiful part of it. "Burn him all up." "Shouldn't we drag Mother out and burn the two of them at the same time?" Jonathan asked. "It would save work." "If we make a big pyre, the flames might dance too high," she said. "And we don't want a stray spark to catch the house on fire." "We have our choice of all the houses in the world!" Jonathan said, spreading his arms to indicate the beach resort around us, Massachusetts beyond the resort, the nation past the state's perimeters - the world. Jessica only glared at him. "Aren't I right, Jerry?" Jonathan asked me. "Don't we have the whole world to live in? Isn't it silly to worry about this one old house?"

"You're right," I said. "I like this house," Jessica said. Because Jessica liked this house, we stood fifteen feet back from the sprawled corpse and stared at it and thought of flames and ignited it in an instant. Fire burst out of nowhere and wrapped Father in a red-orange blanket. He burned well, blackened, popped, sizzled, and fell into ashes. "I feel as if I ought to be sad," Jonathan said. Jessica grimaced. "Well, he was our father," Jonathan said. "We're above cheap sentimentality." Jessica stared hard at each of us to be certain we understood this. "We're a new race with new emotions and new attitudes." "I guess so." But Jonathan was not fully convinced. "Now, let's get Mother," Jessica said. Although she is only ten years old - six minutes younger than Jonathan and three minutes younger than I - Jessica is the most forceful of us. She usually has her way. We went back into the house and got Mother. 

2 THE GOVERNMENT HAD ASSIGNED A CONTINGENT OF TWELVE MARINES and eight plainclothes operatives to our house.

Ciro Bernal Ceballos: Homo duplex

Agonizaba aquel día tropical: parecía, calenturiento como un tifoso en plena crisis; por el ocaso, ardían todos los matices del iris en una augusta bacanal de colores, y la tierra sudaba, echando bocanadas de vapor caliginoso.

El vicario abrió con alegría de escolar la puertecita del confesionario suponiendo que había terminado ya la chocante tarea de oír los nimios escrúpulos y veníales pecados de sus habituales penitencias.

¡Qué sabroso estaría el panzudo cangilón de aquel chocolate que sólo la adorable doña Corpus sabía condimentar!

La faena, como de costumbre, había sido ruda y cargante, sí, horriblemente fastidiosa; toda la chismografía local que se tamizaba por la rejilla penitenciaria para picotear sus oídos con picarescas anécdotas e intolerables monsergas, cosas que no le importaban, palabrerías de la gentecita que vive de lo vulgar, chocarrerías de viejas camanduleras, consultas de beatas y tonteras de paletos o pecadores de baja estofa.

Se hallaba libre al fin.

Su programa era encantador: tomaría la merienda con buen apetito, pasearía por el bosque una hora o dos, luego la lectura, ¡un libro nuevo!; después, las oraciones ordinarias y, por último, el confortante lecho donde noche a noche descansaba de las fatigas diurnas.

–Padre… ¡se puede…?

La bronca voz del hombre repercutió en los silentes dombos de la nave con acento majestuoso.

Alto, moreno, fornido, de magnífica musculatura, parecía un cíclope escapado de las fraguas de Vulcano.

–¿Se puede, señor cura…?

–Sí

La confesión fue lenta y fatigada.

Era un proyecto diabólico, un asesinato premeditado con singular vileza por un delincuente cobarde que antes de cometer su delito imploraba la absolución en el tribunal formidable de las conciencias.

El relato trastornó con intempestiva brusquedad el ánimo tranquilo del sacerdote, lo agitó, no de otra suerte que un chorro de pedruscos rebota el manantial sereno de aguas vivas.

Después de muchas vanas súplicas alejóse el penitente sin haber obtenido el perdón que allí imploraba.

El confesor llegó a sus aposentos profundamente emocionado.

Dejóse caer sobre un antiguo mueble forrado de terciopelo morado a grandes rosetones, y allí, sobando el lomo de su gato negro que hecho rosca dormitaba, se puso a meditar.

Robert Jordan: Heaven falls

Heaven falls. Details at eleven.

José Emilio Pacheco: El asesinato de Lincoln

El 14 de Abril de 1865, en el teatro Ford de Washington, el presidente Lincoln asistía al estreno de una ficción política llamada The Murder of Abraham Lincoln. El escenario del teatro Ford representaba al teatro Ford con todo y plateas, palcoa, foso de la orquesta, y, desde luego, escenario donde se desarrollaba una ficción política llamada The Murder of Abraham Lincoln.

A punto de terminar la obra, el actor John Wilkis Booth, que hacía el papel de John Wilkis Booth, abrió la puerta del palco a la derecha del proscenio y miró a los actores que impresionaban al presidente, a la señora Lincoln, al Mayor Rathbone y a su novia. John Wilkis Booth sacó una pistola marca Derringer y disparó una bala que él supo de salva. El actor que encarnaba a Lincoln se desplomó herido de muerte. John Wilkis Booth se preguntó quién le había hecho esa broma pesada. Trató de huir. Se interpuso el mayor Rathbone. John Wilkis Booth lo hirió con un puñal y salió del palco.

En el Teatro Ford se produjo una confusión total. El público ya estaba muy desconcertado por la obra tan extraña que habían puesto. Abraham Lincoln aprovechó la oportunidad para desaparecer. Quedó en la historia como el emancipador de los esclavos, el hombre que hizo la guerra para liberar a los negros, no por los intereses comerciales del norte industrial contra el sur agrícola.