Santiago Eximeno: Te quiero

Como todas las mañanas, mamá me prepara el desayuno. Sonríe mientras me sirve la leche. Papá me pasa la mano por el pelo, bromea. Me hace cosquillas y se burla de mi hermana pequeña, que lucha en su trona por tomar otra cucharada de su papilla. Termino el desayuno. Mamá me abraza y me besa. Papá también. Me revuelve el pelo. Antes de salir por la puerta, mamá me coloca la mochila a la espalda. En su interior están los explosivos.

L. Sprague de Camp: A Gun for Dinosaur

No, I'm sorry, Mr. Seligman, but I can't take you hunting Late Mesozoic dinosaur.

Yes, I know what the advertisement says.

Why not? How much d'you weigh? A hundred and thirty? Let's see; that's under ten stone, which is my lower limit.

I could take you to other periods, you know. I'll take you to any period in the Cenozoic. I'll get you a shot at an entelodont or a uintathere. They've got fine heads.

I'll even stretch a point and take you to the Pleistocene, where you can try for one of the mammoths or the mastodon.

I'll take you back to the Triassic where you can shoot one of the smaller ancestral dinosaurs. But I will jolly well not take you to the Jurassic or Cretaceous. You're just too small.

What's your size got to do with it? Look here, old boy, what did you think you were going to shoot your dinosaur with?

Oh, you hadn't thought, eh?

Well. sit there a minute. . . . Here you are: my own private gun for that work, a Continental .600. Does look like a shotgun, doesn't it? But it's rifled, as you can see by looking through the barrels. Shoots a pair of .600 Nitro Express cartridges the size of bananas; weighs fourteen and a half pounds and has a muzzle energy of over seven thousand foot-pounds. Costs fourteen hundred and fifty dollars. Lot of money for a gun, what?

I have some spares I rent to the sahibs. Designed for knocking down elephant. Not just wounding them, knocking them base-over-apex. That's why they don't make guns like this in America, though I suppose they will if hunting parties keep going back in time.

Now, I've been guiding hunting parties for twenty years. Guided 'em in Africa until the game gave out there except on the preserves. And all that time I've never known a man your size who could handle the six-nought-nought. It knocks 'em over, and even when they stay on their feet they get so scared of the bloody cannon after a few shots that they flinch. And they find the gun too heavy to drag around rough Mesozoic country. Wears 'em out.

Stig Dagerman: Att döda ett barn

Det är en lätt dag och solen står snett på över slätten. Snart ska klockorna ringa, ty det är söndag.

Mellan ett par rågåkrar har två unga hittat en stig som de aldrig förut gått och i slättens tre byar blänker fönsterrutorna. Män rakar sig framför speglarna på köksborden och kvinnorna skär gnolande upp bröd till kaffet och barn sitter på golvet och knäpper sina livstycken. Det är den lyckliga morgonen till en ond dag, ty denna dag skall ett barn dödas i den tredje byn av en lycklig man. Ännu sitter barnet på golvet och knäpper sitt livstycke och mannen som rakar sig säger att i dag skall de ta en roddtur nerför ån och kvinnan gnolar och lägger upp det nyskurna brödet på ett blått fat.

Det far ingen skugga över köket och ändå står mannen som skall döda barnet vid en röd bensinpump i den första byn. Det är en lycklig man som tittar in i en kamera och i glaset ser han en liten blå bil och bredvid en ung flicka som skrattar. Medan flickan skrattar och mannen tar den vackra bilden skruvar bensinförsäljaren fast locket på tanken och säger att de får en fin dag. Flickan sätter sig i bilen och mannen som skall döda ett barn tar upp sin plånbok ur fickan och säger att de ska åka till havet och vid havet skall de låna en båt och ro långt ut.

Genom de nerskruvade rutorna hör flickan i framsätet vad han säger, hon blundar och när hon blundar ser hon havet och mannen bredvid sig i båten. Det är ingen ond man, han är glad och lycklig och innan han stiger in i bilen står han ett ögonblick framför kylaren som gnistrar i solen och njuter av glansen och doften av bensin och hägg. Det faller ingen skugga över bilen och den blanka kofångaren har inga bucklor och inte heller är den röd av blod.

Men samtidigt som mannen i bilen i den första byn slår igen dörren till vänster om sig och drar ut startknappen öppnar kvinnan i köket i den tredje byn sitt skåp och hittar inget socker. Barnet som har knäppt sitt livstycke och knutit sina skor står på knä i soffan och ser ån som slingrar sig mellan alarna och den svarta ekan som ligger uppdragen i gräset. Mannen som skall förlora sitt barn är färdigrakad och viker just ihop spegeln. På bordet står kaffekopparna, brödet, grädden och flugorna. Det är bara sockret som fattas och modern säger åt sitt barn att springa över till Larssons och låna några bitar. Och medan barnet öppnar dörren ropar mannen efter det att skynda på, för båten väntar på stranden och de skall ro så långt ut som de aldrig förut rott. När barnet sedan springer genom trädgården tänker det hela tiden på ån och på båten och på fiskarna som slår och ingen viskar till det att det bara har åtta minuter kvar att leva och att båten skall ligga där den ligger hela den dagen och många andra dagar.

Det är inte långt till Larssons, det är bara tvärs över vägen och medan barnet springer över vägen far den lilla blå bilen in i den andra byn. Det är en liten by med små röda hus och nymornade människor som sitter i sina kök med kaffekoppen höjd och se bilen rusa förbi på andra sidan häcken med ett högt moln av damm bakom sig. Det går mycket fort och mannen i bilen ser äppelträden och de nytjärade telegrafstolparna skymta förbi som grå skuggor. Det fläktar sommar genom vindrutan, de rusar ut ur byn, de ligger fint och säkert mitt på vägen och de är ensamma på vägen - ännu. Det är skönt att färdas alldeles ensam på en mjuk bred väg och ute på slätten går det ännu finare. Mannen är lycklig och stark och med högra armbågen känner han sin kvinnas kropp. Det är ingen ond man. Han har bråttom till havet. Han skulle inte kunna göra en geting förnär, men ändå skall han snart döda ett barn. Medan de rusar fram mot den tredje byn sluter flickan åter ögonen och leker att hon inte skall öppna dem förrän de kan se havet och hon drömmer i takt med bilens mjuka krängningar och hur blankt det skall ligga.

Charles Maturin: Tale of Guzman's Family

‘Of what I am about to read to you,’ said the stranger, ‘I have witnessed part myself, and the remainder is established on a basis as strong as human evidence can make it.

‘In the city of Seville, where I lived many years, I knew a wealthy merchant, far advanced in years, who was known by the name of Guzman the rich. He was of obscure birth, — and those who honoured his wealth sufficiently to borrow from him frequently, never honoured his name so far as to prefix Don to it, or to add his surname, of which, indeed, most were ignorant, and among the number, it is said, the wealthy merchant himself. He was well respected, however; and when Guzman was seen, as regularly as the bell tolled for vespers, to issue from the narrow door of his house, — lock it carefully, — view it twice or thrice with a wistful eye, — then deposit the key in his bosom, and move slowly to church, feeling for the key in his vest the whole way, — the proudest heads in Seville were uncovered as he passed, — and the children who were playing in the streets, desisted from their sports till he had halted by them.

‘Guzman had neither wife or child, — relative or friend. An old female domestic constituted his whole household, and his personal expences were calculated on a scale of the most pinching frugality; it was therefore matter of anxious conjecture to many, how his enormous wealth would be bestowed after his death. This anxiety gave rise to inquiries about the possibility of Guzman having relatives, though in remoteness and obscurity; and the diligence of inquiry, when stimulated at once by avarice and curiosity, is indefatigable. Thus it was at length discovered that Guzman had formerly a sister, many years younger than himself, who, at a very early age, had married a German musician, a Protestant, and had shortly after quitted Spain. It was remembered, or reported, that she had made many efforts to soften the heart and open the hand of her brother, who was even then very wealthy, and to induce him to be reconciled to their union, and to enable her and her husband to remain in Spain. Guzman was inflexible. Wealthy, and proud of his wealth as he was, he might have digested the unpalatable morsel of her union with a poor man, whom he could have made rich; but he could not even swallow the intelligence that she had married a Protestant. Ines, for that was her name, and her husband, went to Germany, partly in dependence on his musical talents, which were highly appreciated in that country, — partly in the vague hope of emigrants, that change of place will be attended with change of circumstances, — and partly, also, from the feeling, that misfortune is better tolerated any where than in the presence of those who inflict it. Such was the tale told by the old, who affected to remember the facts, — and believed by the young, whose imagination supplied all the defects of memory, and pictured to them an interesting beauty, with her children hanging about her, embarking, with a heretic husband, for a distant country, and sadly bidding farewell to the land and the religion of her fathers.

‘Now, while these things were talked of at Seville, Guzman fell sick, and was given over by the physicians, whom with considerable reluctance he had suffered to be called in.

‘In the progress of his illness, whether nature revisited a heart she long appeared to have deserted, — or whether he conceived that the hand of a relative might be a more grateful support to his dying head than that of a rapacious and mercenary menial, — or whether his resentful feelings burnt faintly at the expected approach of death, as artificial fires wax dim at the appearance of morning; — so it was, that Guzman in his illness bethought himself of his sister and her family, — sent off, at a considerable expence, an express to that part of Germany where she resided, to invite her to return and be reconciled to him, — and prayed devoutly that he might be permitted to survive till he could breathe his last amid the arms of her and her children. Moreover, there was a report at this time, in which the hearers probably took more interest than in any thing that related merely to the life or death of Guzman, — and this was, that he had rescinded his former will, and sent for a notary, with whom, in spite of his apparent debility, he remained locked up for some hours, dictating in a tone which, however clear to the notary, did not leave one distinct impression of sound on the ears that were strained, even to an agony of listening, at the double-locked door of his chamber.

Froilán Turcios: Salomé

Era una joven de rara hermosura que llevaba en la frente el sello de un terrible destino.

En su cara, de una palidez láctea, sus ojos de un gris de acero ardían extrañamente, y su boca, flor de sangre, era un poema de lujuria. Largo el talle flexible, mórbida la cadera, finos y redondos el cuello y los brazos, sus quince años cantaban el triunfo de su divina belleza.

Cuando Oliverio la conoció en una alegre mañana del último estío, quedóse como petrificado. Vibró en su ser hasta la más leve fibra y sintió que toda su alma se anegaba en una angustia dolorosa. Ella pasó como una sombra errabunda; pero él nunca más volvería a gozar de la dulce paz de antaño. La amó inmensamente, con cierta vaga impresión de espanto, como si de improviso se hubiera enamorado de una muerta...

Aquella noche tuvo fiebre. Pálidas mujeres de la historia, creaciones luminosas de los poetas, blancos seres de legen¬daria hermosura, que duermen, desde remotos siglos, el hondo sueño de la muerte, llegaron hasta él, en lento desfile...

Vio pasar a Helena, marmórea beldad vencedora de los héroes; a Ofelia, cantando una tenue balada, deshojando lirios en las aguas dormidas; a Julieta, casta y triste; a Belkiss, incendiada de pedrerías; a Salomé, casi desnuda, alta y mórbida, de carne de ámbar, de áurea cabellera constelada de grandes flores argentinas, tal como la vio en el cuadro de Bernardo Luini.

Esta última figura llegó a producirle una alucinación profunda.

Comparó a la hija de Herodías con otra imagen de inefable encanto, pero viva y cálida, llena de sangre y de amor, y un vértigo de sensualidad le hizo desfallecer dulcemente... Eran gemelas las dos vírgenes extraordinarias. Ambas tenían el cuerpo florido; ambas se hacían amar mortalmente por la gracia y por el aroma, y por la atracción embriagadora del sexo...

Era, no le cabía duda, un caso de metempsícosis...

Oliverio empezó a languidecer, devorado por un fuego interno. El harpa de sus nervios vibraba de continuo y su alma de silencio y de sueño se pobló de imágenes luctuosas. Él era de un temperamento raro y aristocrático, en donde florecían fantásticamente las rosas de la fábula. Era un esteta por su continua obsesión de belleza y por el culto de la palabra, y, desventuradamente, un voluptuoso. Su espíritu refinado, puro y excelso, sufría tormentos dantescos, vencido por la carne traidora. Llevaba en las venas –quizá por alguna oscura ley atávica– rojos ríos de lujuria; y en las horas demoniacas revolaba en su cerebro un enjambre de venenosas cantáridas...

El deseo que sintió por aquella adolescente fresca y sen¬sual le hizo ver, desde el primer instante, el abismo en que iba a hundirse. La deseó de una vez con un ansia viril y fuerte. Soñó poseerla hasta hacerla llorar en el espasmo supre¬mo, bajo la potente presión de la caricia fecunda; pero luego comprendió, por un hondo instinto, que el luminoso rostro de aquella virgen no le sonreiría nunca, y quedóse por mucho tiempo, por varios años, como muerto, aherrojado a su negro destino.

Robert A. Heinlein: All You Zombies

2217 Time Zone V (EST) 7 Nov. 1970-NTC- "Pop's Place": I was polishing a brandy snifter when the Unmarried Mother came in. I noted the time-10: 17 P. M. zone five, or eastern time, November 7th, 1970. Temporal agents always notice time and date; we must.

The Unmarried Mother was a man twenty-five years old, no taller than I am, childish features and a touchy temper. I didn't like his looks - I never had - but he was a lad I was here to recruit, he was my boy. I gave him my best barkeep's smile.

Maybe I'm too critical. He wasn't swish; his nickname came from what he always said when some nosy type asked him his line: "I'm an unmarried mother. -- If he felt less than murderous he would add: "at four cents a word. I write confession stories. --

If he felt nasty, he would wait for somebody to make something of it. He had a lethal style of infighting, like a female cop - reason I wanted him. Not the only one.

He had a load on, and his face showed that he despised people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of Old Underwear and left the bottle. He drank it, poured another.

I wiped the bar top. -- How's the "Unmarried Mother" racket? --

His fingers tightened on the glass and he seemed about to throw it at me; I felt for the sap under the bar. In temporal manipulation you try to figure everything, but there are so many factors that you never take needless risks.

I saw him relax that tiny amount they teach you to watch for in the Bureau's training school. -- Sorry, " I said. -- Just asking, "How's business? " Make it "How's the weather?

He looked sour. -- Business is okay. I write 'em, they print 'em, I eat. --

I poured myself one, leaned toward him. -- Matter of fact, " I said, "you write a nice stick - I've sampled a few. You have an amazingly sure touch with the woman's angle. --

It was a slip I had to risk; he never admitted what pen-names he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the last: "'Woman's angle! "" he repeated with a snort. -- Yeah, I know the woman's angle. I should. --

"So? -- I said doubtfully. -- Sisters? --

"No. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. --

"Now, now, " I answered mildly, "bartenders and psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than truth. Why, son, if you heard the stories I do-well, you'd make yourself rich. Incredible. --

"You don't know what "incredible" means! "

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: De un tiro / With one stone

Realmente el hombre es el rey de las bestias, pues su brutalidad sobrepasa la de ellas. Vivimos de la muerte de otros.

Leonardo Da Vinci

“A pesar de la carestía provocada por la radical disminución de los recursos y la sucesiva migración de la industria extranjera, la tasa de natalidad ha seguido creciendo a un ritmo brutal en los países subdesarrollados. Debemos buscar una salida para todos esos niños que se hacinan como ganado en suburbios sin apenas servicios higiénicos ni alimentos. Ustedes no han de sentir remordimientos. En sus lugares de origen no tendrían ninguna oportunidad. La experiencia resultará muy gratificante, verán. Generalmente quien prueba, repite. Su actitud es responsable y solidaria; pronto todos tomarán ejemplo”.

Han tardado mucho en decidirse a pedir información, pero según sus amigos criar a una criatura supone una experiencia única. Además el funcionario ha disipado sus dudas. En efecto, mientras esté con ellos, comerá cuanto quiera ‒sano, eso sí‒ y gozará de todas las comodidades. Se trata de un acto de caridad, no de egoísmo.

Tras el papeleo habrán de esperar turno hasta que se les asigne un bebé; cada vez se tramitan más peticiones. Han escogido una niña. Según dicen sus amigos, resultan más tiernas. Son primerizos, así que les falta experiencia. La adquirirán con el tiempo.

Cuando la nena llegó, su habitación llevaba equipada meses. Era todo pellejito y huesos, pero en breve comenzó a coger peso. Ya no se diría la misma: sonrosada y rellenita. En una palabra, saludable. Duerme con el pulgar metido en la boca, cual cochinillo mordiendo manzana. Su aspecto es delicioso. Marido y mujer, orgullosos, cruzan una mirada de complicidad. Su obra parece perfecta. Y se diría en su punto.

La nueva pareja vacila. Los clientes temen llegar a encariñarse. El funcionario remata su faena: “Es el futuro, se lo aseguro. Con este género de ganadería ecológica los consumidores controlan la alimentación de la pieza. El papeleo con el Ministerio de Sanidad vale la pena a cambio de un producto seguro. ¿Quién, hoy en día, suministra carne no engordada a base de hormonas? Y díganme, ¿qué va a ser, niño o niña?”.

Brian W. Aldiss: The Skeleton

The people lived in a spectacular setting, in a land where skyscrapers and luxurious shopping centres mingled with palm trees and flowers, set on the fringes of sandy beaches, warm seas and chilly economic realities.

One day, the people were taking an unpaid holiday on the beach when a stranger appeared. He was tall, pale, solid, and had a shock of fair hair. The people were astonished at the appearance of this young man, who threw himself upon them and demanded their love.

He saw them draw back from him and said, “I want only to be accepted. Let me stay here and be part of you. I need to be truly integrated.”

He was asking for something they could not give. But they cordially invited him to remain with them on the beach. It was not enough for him. He jumped up and tore off his skin, throwing it aside like an old track-suit.

“At least you cannot say my skin is a different colour from yours.”

They looked with astonishment at this man of scarlet, inviting him again to stay with them beneath the palms.

But he could not feel himself properly accepted. This time he wrenched away all his flesh, until only his gleaming white skeleton was left.

“Now you see that I have given all I have to be accepted by you.”

And he danced before them so that his bones rattled.

At this the people were very surprised, and ran off to swim in the warm sea. When they returned the skeleton was still there. Again they made him welcome.

“But you still do not accept me as one of yourselves,” the skeleton cried.

So they used him in their wayang as a figure of death. And then he was truly integrated with them.

He even became a small commercial success.

Virgilio Piñera: En el insomnio

El hombre se acuesta temprano. No puede conciliar el sueño. Da vueltas, como es lógico, en la cama. Se enreda entre las sábanas. Enciende un cigarrillo. Lee un poco. Vuelve a apagar la luz. Pero no puede dormir. A las tres de la madrugada se levanta. Despierta al amigo de al lado y le confía que no puede dormir. Le pide consejo. El amigo le aconseja que haga un pequeño paseo a fin de cansarse un poco. Que enseguida tome una taza de tila y que apague la luz. Hace todo esto pero no logra dormir. Se vuelve a levantar. Esta vez acude al medico. Como siempre sucede, el médico habla mucho pero el hombre no se duerme. A las seis de la mañana carga un revólver y se levanta la tapa de los sesos. El hombre esta muerto pero no ha podido quedarse dormido. El insomnio es una cosa muy persistente.

Jacques Sternberg: La Créature

Comme c’était une planète de sable fin, de falaises dorées, d’eau verte et de ressources naturelles complètement inexistantes, les hommes avaient décidé d’en faire un monde de tourisme enchanteur, sans chercher à exploiter ou à creuser un sol, d’ailleurs stérile.

Les premiers pionniers y débarquèrent en automne. Ils y construisirent quelques stations balnéaires faites de cabanes pour milliardaires style Club Méditerranée et, quand l’été arriva, ces villages de fortune pouvaient déjà recevoir des milliers d’estivants. Il en arriva deux mille, cet été-là. Ils passèrent plusieurs semaines de charme à se dorer aux trois petits soleils de ce monde, à s’extasier devant ses paysages, son calme, son climat et le fait reposant que cette planète ne recelait ni insectes ni carnivores, ni poissons redoutables, ni aucune forme de vie animale. Puis le 25 août à l’aube, arriva l’événement : en une seule goulée, en quelques secondes, la planète avala tous les estivants en même temps.

La planète, en effet, ne recelait pas d’autre forme de vie que la sienne : elle était la seule créature de ce monde. Et elle aimait particulièrement les êtres vivants, les humains en particuliers. Mais elle les aimait bronzés, polis par l’eau et le vent, chauds et bien cuits.

Pere Calders: El desert

A la fi d'un mes de juny amable, aparegué l'Espol amb la mà dreta embenada, marcant el puny clos sota la gasa. La seva presència, plena d'aspectes no coneguts abans, feia néixer pressentiments, però ningú no podia imaginar l'abast del cop que l'ajupia.

L'expressió del seu rostre, que no havia suscitat mai cap interès, prenia ara l'aire de victòria plena de tristesa tan propi de les guerres modernes.

El dia en el qual la seva vida sofrí el canvi no havia estat anunciat en cap aspecte. Va llevar-se amb el mal humor de sempre i passejava pel pis, del bany al menjador i del menjador a la cuina, per veure si el caminar l'ajudava a despertar-se. Tenia un dolor al costat dret i un ofec lleuger, dues molèsties que sentia juntes per primera vegada i que creixien tan de pressa que l'alarma el desvetllà del tot. Arrossegant els peus i recolzant-se en els mobles que trobava, retornà a la cambra i s'assegué a la vora del llit per a començar una agonia.

La por va cobrir-li tot el cos. Lentament, la salut se li enfilava per l'arbre dels nervis amb l'intent de fugir-li per la boca, quan es produí a temps la rebel.lió de l'Espol: en el moment del traspàs, aferrà alguna cosa amb la mà i va tancar el puny amb força, empresonant la vida. El dolor del costat cessa i la respiració esdevingué normal; amb un gest d'alleujament, l'Espol va passar-se la mà esquerra pel front, perquè la dreta ja la tenia amatent a una nova missió.

La prudència aconsellava no especular amb possibilitats massa diverses. Estava segur, des del primer instant, que una sola cosa valia la pena: no obrir el puny per res. En el palmell s'agitava lleument, com un peix petit o una bola de mercuri, la vida de l'Espol.

Per tal d'evitar que un oblit momentani pogués perjudicar-lo, adoptà l'artifici d'embolicar-se la mà, i, tranquil.litzat a mitges, va traçar-se un pla provisional de primeres providències. Aniria a veure el gerent de la casa on treballava, demanaria consell al metge de família i als amics, i procuraria anar posant el fet en coneixement de les persones amb les quals l'unien més lligams.

Així fou la nova aparició de l'Espol. Amb la cara transformada (un estupor tot natural no va deixar-lo més) caminava pel carrer amb la mirada absent. Els ciutadans, a despit d'estar acostumats a veure tantes coses, intuïen que aquella bena era diferent i sovint es giraven per mirar-la d'una manera furtiva.

Avui, a mig matí, el gerent escolta la relació amb un interés progressiu. Quan l'Espol li diu que es veu obligat a deixar la feina perquè ja no podrà escriure mai més amb la mà dreta, replica:

—No veig la necessitat d'anar de pressa. Això, de vegades, se'n va de la mateixa manera que ha vingut...

—És definitiu —contesta l'Espol—. El dia que desclogués el puny per agafar la ploma, se m'escaparia la vida.

—Podríem passar-lo al departament de preparació i connexió de subcontractes de compra. —No.

El gerent, que fa prop de cinc anys que espera una oportunitat per treure l'Espol, es resisteix ara a prescindir-ne. Primer es mostra conciliador, després insinua augments de sou (sense comprometre's massa) i acaba cedint del tot. Podien acordar una ampliació de les vacances i anticipar-les.

—No.

—I com es guanyará la vida?

—La tinc aquí, ara —diu mostrant el puny dret—. És la primera vegada que la puc localitzar i he de trobar l'estil de servir-me'n.

Mentre surt del despatx, el segueix la veu del patró, que, encuriosit, li demana que no s'oblidi de tenir-lo al corrent.

Vincent O'Sullivan: The Bargain Of Rupert Orange

The marvel is, that the memory of Rupert Orange, whose name was a signal for chatter amongst people both in Europe and America not many years ago, has now almost died out. Even in New York where he was born, and where the facts of his secret and mysterious life were most discussed, he is quite forgotten. At times, indeed, some old lady will whisper to you at dinner , that a certain young man reminds her of Rupert Orange, only he is not so handsome; but she is one of those who keep the mere incidents of their past much more brightly polished than the important things of their present. The men who worshipped him, who copied his clothes, his walk, his mode of pronouncing words, and his manner of saying things, stare vaguely when he is mentioned. And the other day at a well-known club I was having some general talk with a man whose black hair is shot with white, when he exclaimed somewhat suddenly: "How little one hears about Rupert Orange now!" and then added: "I wonder what became of him?" As to the first part of this speech I kept my mouth resolutely shut; for how could I deny his saying, since I had lately seen a weed-covered grave with the early moss growing into the letters on the headstone? As to the second part, it is now my business to set forth the answer to that: and I think when the fire begins to blaze it will lighten certain recollections which have become dark. Of course, there are numberless people who never heard the story of Rupert Orange; but there are also crowds of men and women who followed his brilliant life with intense interest, while his shameful death will be in many a one's remembrance.

The knowledge of this case I got over a year ago; and I would have written then, had my hands been free. But there has recently died at Vienna the Countess de Volnay, whose notorious connection with Orange was at one time the subject of every man's bruit. Her I met two years since in Paris, where she was living like a work-woman. I learned that she had sold her house, and her goods she had given to the poor. She was still a remarkable woman, though her great beauty had faded, and despite a restless, terrified manner, which gave one the monstrous idea that she always felt the devil looking over her shoulder. Her hair was white as paper, and yet she was far from the age when women cease to grin in ball-rooms. A great fear seemed to have sprung to her face and been paralyzed there: a fear which could be detected in her shaking voice. It was from her that I learned certain primary facts of this narration; and she cried to me not to publish them till I heard of her death — as a man on the gallows sometimes asks the hangman not to adjust the noose too tight round his neck. I am altogether sure that what Orange himself told her, he never told any one else. I wish I had her running tongue instead of my slow pen, and then I would not be writing slovenly and clumsily, doubtless, for the relation; vainly, I am afraid, for the moral.

Now Rupert Orange lived with his aunt in New York till he was twenty-four years old, and when she died, leaving her entire estate to him, a furious contest arose over the will. Principal in the contest was Mrs. Annice, the wife of a discarded nephew; and she prosecuted the cause with the pertinacity and virulence which we often find in women of thirty. So good a pursuivant did she prove, that she and her husband leaped suddenly from indigence to great wealth: for the Court declared that the old lady had died lunatic; that she had been unduly influenced; and, that consequently her testament was void. But this decision, which raised them up, brought Rupert to the ground. There is no worse fall than the fall of a man from opulence to poverty; and Rupert, after his luxurious rearing, had to undergo this fall. Yet he had the vigour and confidence of the young. His little verses and sonnets had been praised when he was an amateur; now he undertook to make his pen a breadwinner — with the direst results. At first, nothing would do him but the great magazines; and from these, week after week, he received back his really clever articles, accompanied by cold refusals. Then for months he hung about the offices of every outcast paper, waiting for the editor. When at length the editor did come, he generally told Rupert that he had promised all his outlying work to some bar-room acquaintance. So push by push he was brought to his knees; and finally he dared not walk out till nightfall, for fear some of those who knew him in prosperity might witness his destitution.

Fernando Iwasaki: Papillas

Detesto los fantasmas de los niños. Asustados, insomnes, hambrientos. El de casa llora desconsolado y se da de porrazos contra las paredes. De repente me vino a la memoria el canto undécimo de La Ilíada y le dejé su platito lleno de sangre.No le gustó nada y por la mañana encontré todo desparramado. Volví a dejarle algo de sangre por la noche, aunque mezclada con leche y unas cucharaditas de miel: le encantó.Desde entonces le preparo unas papillas riquísimas con sangre, cereales, leche y galletas molidas. Sigue desparramándome las cosas, pero ya no se da porrazos y a veces siento cómo corre curioso detrás de mí. Quizás me haya cogido cariño. Tal vez ya no me tenga miedo. ¡Angelito!, si hubiera comido así desde el principio nunca lo hubiera estrangulado.

Dan Simmons: Eyes I Dare Not Meet

Bremen left the hospital and his dying wife and drove east to the sea. The roads were thick with Philadelphians fleeing the city for the weekend, and Bremen had to con-centrate on traffic, leaving only the most tenuous of touches in his wife's mind. Gail was sleeping. Her dreams were fitful and drug-induced. She was seeking her mother through endlessly interlinked rooms filled with Victorian furniture.
As Bremen crossed the pine barrens, the images of the dreams slid between the evening shadows of reality. Gail awoke just as Bremen was leaving the parkway. For a few seconds after she awoke the pain was not with her. She opened her eyes, and the evening sunlight falling across the blue blanket made her think—for only a moment—that it was morning on the farm. Her thoughts reached out for her husband just as the pain and dizziness struck behind her left eye. Bremen grimaced and dropped the coin he was handing to the toll-booth attendant.
"What's the matter, buddy?"
Bremen shook his head, fumbled out a dollar, and thrust it blindly at the man.
Throwing his change in the Triumph's cluttered console, he concentrated on pushing the car's speed to its limit. Gail's pain faded, but her con-fusion washed over him in a wave of nausea.
She quickly gained control despite the shifting curtains of fear that fluttered at the tightly held mindshield. She subvocalized, concentrating on narrowing the spectrum to a simulacrum of her voice.
"Hi, Jerry."
"Hi, yourself, kiddo." He sent the thought as he turned onto the exit for Long Beach Island. He shared the visual—the starting green of grass and pine trees overlaid with the gold of August light, the sports car's shadow leaping along the curve of asphalt.
Suddenly the unmistak-able salt freshness of the Atlantic came to him, and he shared that with her also.
The entrance to the seaside community was disappoint-ing: dilapidated seafood restaurants, overpriced cinder-block motels, endless marinas. But it was reassuring in its familiarity to both of them, and Bremen concentrated on seeing all of it. Gail began to relax and appreciate the ride. Her presence was so real that Bremen caught himself turn-ing to speak aloud to her. The pang of regret and embar-rassment was sent before he could stifle it.
The island was cluttered with families unpacking station wagons and carrying late dinners to the beach. Bre-men drove north to Barnegat Light. He glanced to his right and caught a glimpse of some fishermen standing along the surf, their shadows intersecting the white lines of breakers.
Monet, thought Gail, and Bremen nodded, although he had actually been thinking of Euclid.
Always the mathematician, thought Gail, and then her voice faded as the pain rose. Half-formed sentences shred-ded like clouds in a gale.