Gene Wolfe: The Detective of Dreams

I was writing in my office in the rue Madeleine when Andrée, my secretary, announced the arrival of Herr D_____. I rose, put away my correspondence, and offered him my hand. He was, I should say, just short of fifty, had the high, clear complexion characteristic of those who in youth (now unhappily past for both of us) have found more pleasure in the company of horses and dogs and the excitement of the chase than in the bottles and bordels of city life, and wore a beard and mustache of the style popularized by the late emperor. Accepting my invitation to a chair, he showed me his papers.

"You see," he said, "I am accustomed to acting as the representative of my government. In this matter I hold no such position, and it is possible that I feel a trifle lost."

"Many people who come here feel lost," I said. "But it is my boast that I find most of them again. Your problem, I take it, is purely a private matter?"

"Not at all. It is a public matter in the truest sense of the words."

"Yet none of the documents before me—admirably stamped, sealed, and beribboned though they are—indicates that you are other than a private gentleman traveling abroad. And you say you do not represent your government. What am I to think? What is the matter?"

"I act in the public interest," Herr D_____ told me. "My fortune is not great, but I can assure you that in the event of your success you will be well recompensed; although you are to take it that I alone am your principal, yet there are substantial resources available to me."

"Perhaps it would be best if you described the problems to me?"

"You are not averse to travel?"

"No."

"Very well then," he said, and so saying launched into one of the most astonishing relations—no, the most astonishing relation—I have ever been privileged to hear. Even I, who had at first hand the account of the man who found Paulette Renan with the quince seed still lodged in her throat; who had received Captain Brotte's testimony concerning his finds amid the Antarctic ice; who had heard the history of the woman called Joan O'Neal, who lived for two years behind a painting of herself in the Louvre, from her own lips—even I sat like a child while this man spoke.

When he fell silent, I said, "Herr D_____, after all you have told me, I would accept this mission though there were not a sou to be made from it. Perhaps once in a lifetime one comes across a case that must be pursued for its own sake; I think I have found mine."

Carlos Buiza: Asfalto

El intenso brillo del sol reverberaba en las calles y en las blancas fachadas de las casas; el hombre deambulaba, sudando, bajo el calor del verano.

—¡Dios, debe hacer mil grados!

Debía andar, sin embargo; el médico le había dicho que cinco o seis kilómetros diarios, por lo menos. Era, quizá, la primera vez que lamentara la corta distancia entre su casa y el trabajo. Veía de vez en cuando algunas personas apresuradas que huían del calor de la calle, visiones fugaces que desaparecían por cualquier esquina. La goma del bastón y la guarda metálica de su pierna derecha, escayolada, establecían un ritmo de percusión, lleno también de calor y abotargamiento. El sombrero de esterilla le protegía, pero hacía bajar por su frente gotas de sudor que él enjugaba de vez en cuando, deteniéndose.

«Es un día agobiante..., un día de infierno», pensaba el hombre.

Después de haber recorrido algunas manzanas procurando mantenerse siempre al resguardo de la sombra, emprendió, como todos los días, el regreso a su casa.

Un perro sin collar, vulgar y feo, le asustó al salir inesperadamente de una esquina. Alargó el bastón para ahuyentarle, y el perro cambió de dirección, cruzando la calle. A su vez, el hombre se dispuso a cruzarla. Miró a ambos lados, inútilmente, pues no pasaba ningún vehículo. Apoyó el bastón en el caliente asfalto y adelantó una pierna; pero el bastón permaneció rígido en el mismo punto y casi le hizo perder el equilibrio. El hombre juró entre dientes. Tiró de él. Estaba bien fijo en el reblandecido alquitrán. Bajó de la acera, sintiendo cómo la guarda metálica de la pierna se hundía también en la pastosa mezcla.

—¡Maldita sea, debo ser imbécil! —dijo en voz alta.

Apoyándose en su pierna sana hizo presión con el pie. Pero el hierro se había clavado rígidamente y parecía no querer salir de allí. Se ayudó con las manos, tirando de la escayola y, a cada intento, la cara se le ponía más colorada; después se dio cuenta que el zapato también se había hundido un poco, privando a la pierna sana de movimiento.

Comprendió que se había clavado en el asfalto, sin posibilidad de salir, a no ser que recibiese ayuda.

Clive Barker: Sex, Death and Starshine

Diane ran her scented fingers through the two days’ growth of ginger stubble on Terry’s chin.

“I love it,” she said, “even the grey bits.”

She loved everything about him, or at least that’s what she claimed.

When he kissed her: I love it.

When he undressed her: I love it.

When he slid his briefs off: I love it, I love it, I love it.

She’d go down on him with such unalloyed enthusiasm, all he could do was watch the top of her ash-blonde head bobbing at his groin, and hope to God nobody chanced to walk into the dressing-room. She was a married woman, after all, even if she was an actress. He had a wife himself, somewhere. This tête-à-tête would make some juicy copy for one of the local rags, and here he was trying to garner a reputation as a serious-minded director; no gimmicks, no gossip; just art.

Then, even thoughts of ambition would be dissolved on her tongue, as she played havoc with his nerve-endings. She wasn’t much of an actress, but by God she was quite a performer. Faultless technique; immaculate timing: she knew either by instinct or by rehearsal just when to pick up the rhythm and bring the whole scene to a satisfying conclusion.

When she’d finished milking the moment dry, he almost wanted to applaud.

The whole cast of Calloway’s production of Twelfth Night knew about the affair, of course. There’d be the occasional snide comment passed if actress and director were both late for rehearsals, or if she arrived looking full, and he flushed. He tried to persuade her to control the cat-with-the-cream look that crept over her face, but she just wasn’t that good a deceiver. Which was rich, considering her profession.

But then La Duvall, as Edward insisted on calling her, didn’t need to be a great player, she was famous. So what if she spoke Shakespeare like it was Hiawatha, dum de dum de dum de dum? So what if her grasp of psychology was dubious, her logic faulty, her projection inadequate? So what if she had as much sense of poetry as she did propriety? She was a star, and that meant business.

There was no taking that away from her: her name was money. The Elysium Theatre publicity announced her claim to fame in three-inch Roman Bold, black on yellow:

“Diane Duvall: star of The Love Child.”

Daniel Mares: Los herederos

Soy Pizarro, y esto es lo que sé que es cierto: mi padre, Descartes, nació de una cerda, y yo igual que él. Con cuatro años decidió tener un hijo, un primer nacido, pues ya había cumplido con tres vástagos naturales y era supervisor del sector dos. Su petición ascendió, y Noé consideró oportuno permitirle tener un varón, la Seguridad capturó a la cerda más apropiada y nací yo. Mi madre natural fue Joplin, ya reciclada. Yo me eduqué en los cánones Primero y Quinto, y prosperé en ellos, hasta ser superior en el Quinto canon. Luego pasó el tiempo y llegó la guerra.

El canon Quinto no es por naturaleza belicoso, todo lo contrario; es el menos dado a los juegos de la guerra de entre todos los cánones. Por desgracia tuvimos que afrontar días muy turbios a pie de trinchera, pues nuestro lugar como lectores del Legado nos lo imponía. Con todo esto sólo quiero justificar por qué mi ayuda de campo era Shelley, del Segundo canon. Los Irregulares de Pizarro éramos la unidad de observadores del Quinto, el único grupo de combate en toda la historia de mi canon; difícilmente encontraríamos a alguien entre nosotros con la suficiente destreza para salir con bien de la lid. Yo, por mi nacimiento, era el indicado para el mando y, una vez conocido mi destino, busqué un asistente que pudiera cumplir con las funciones de general. Shelley era una competente oficial y se mantenía en muy buenas relaciones con el Quinto, interesándose más por las lecturas de los Legados que en las labores de guerra.

Un día en que los rebeldes del Sexto habían sido tan brutalmente aplastados que el olor a pólvora y cadaverina impregnaba el aire y se metía en la ropa hasta hacer imposible separarse de él, un día de sombras en que la luna ocultaba al sol y se veía como una gigantesca esfera de inquietante fosforescencia verdosa a punto de desplomarse sobre nosotros, ese día, el de mi tercer cumpleaños, Shelley dijo que me amaba. Yo estaba sentado sobre los restos de un muro ruinoso, el decorado apropiado para las postrimerías de una matanza, contemplando la luna, las siluetas oscuras de los sauces, y pensando en la sangre que había visto y en la que posi­blemente vería al día siguiente; ella se sentó a mi lado y lo susurró. La conocí veintiocho meses atrás, y simplemente la consideré mi ayuda de campo, la persona que daría de verdad las órdenes a los Irregulares mientras yo trataba de alejarme de la locura. Jamás vi en ella belleza alguna: su piel coriácea, sus espinas, sus ojos de fuego me parecían más de animal que de mujer. Pero ella me ama­ba, o así lo decía. Acaricié su duro cuerpo con mis manos y la besé, sintiendo la frialdad en sus labios. Mis dos brazos del canon la des­nudaron torpemente; nunca he aprendido a moverlos bien a pesar de las numerosas operaciones que he padecido para mejorar su coordinación. Ella rió ante mi desmaña, y pronto acabamos en el suelo húmedo, quién sabe si de sangre.

Shirley Jackson: The Lottery

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it. 

Clarice Lispector: Macacos

Da primeira vez que tivemos em casa um mico foi perto do Ano-Novo. Estávamos sem água e sem empregada, fazia-se fila para carne, o calor rebentara — e foi quando, muda de perplexidade, vi o presente entrar em casa, já comendo banana, já examinando tudo com grande rapidez e um longo rabo. Mais parecia um macacão ainda não crescido, suas potencialidades eram tremendas. Subia pela roupa estendida na corda, de onde dava gritos de marinheiro, e jogava cascas de banana onde caíssem. E eu exausta. Quando me esquecia e entrava distraída na área de serviço, o grande sobressalto: aquele homem alegre ali. Meu menino menor sabia, antes de eu saber, que eu me desfaria do gorila: "E se eu prometer que um dia o macaco vai adoecer e morrer, você deixa ele ficar? e se você soubesse que de qualquer jeito ele um dia vai cair da janela e morrer Iá embaixo?" Meus sentimentos desviavam o olhar. A inconsciência feliz e imunda do macacão-pequeno tornava-me responsável pelo seu destino, já que ele próprio não aceitava culpas. Uma amiga entendeu de que amargura era feita a minha aceitação, de que crimes se alimentava meu ar sonhador, e rudemente me salvou: meninos de morro apareceram numa zoada feliz, levaram o homem que ria, e no desvitalizado Ano-Novo eu pelo menos ganhei uma casa sem macaco.

Um ano depois, acabava eu de ter uma alegria, quando ali em Copacabana vi o agrupamento. Um homem vendia macaquinhos. Pensei nos meninos, nas alegrias que eles me davam de graça, sem nada a ver com as preocupações que também de graça me davam, imaginei uma cadeia de alegria: "Quem receber esta, que a passe a outro", e outro para outro, como o frêmito num rastro de pólvora. E ali mesmo comprei a que se chamaria Lisette.

Quase cabia na mão. Tinha saia, brincos, colar e pulseira de baiana. E um ar de imigrante que ainda desembarca com o traje típico de sua terra. De imigrante também eram os olhos redondos.

Quanto a essa, era mulher em miniatura. Três dias esteve conosco. Era de uma tal delicadeza de ossos. De uma tal extrema doçura. Mais que os olhos, o olhar era arredondado. Cada movimento, e os brincos estremeciam; a saia sempre arrumada, o colar vermelho brilhante. Dormia muito, mas para comer era sóbria e cansada. Seus raros carinhos eram só mordida leve que não deixava marca.

No terceiro dia estávamos na área de serviço admirando Lisette e o modo como ela era nossa. "Um pouco suave demais", pensei com saudade do meu gorila. E de repente foi meu coração respondendo com muita dureza: "Mas isso não é doçura. Isto é morte". A secura da comunicação deixou-me quieta. Depois eu disse aos meninos: "Lisette está morrendo". Olhando-a, percebi então até que ponto de amor já tínhamos ido. Enrolei Lisette num guardanapo, fui com os meninos para o primeiro pronto-socorro, onde o médico não podia atender porque operava de urgência um cachorro. Outro táxi. — Lisette pensa que está passeando, mamãe — outro hospital. Lá deram-lhe oxigênio.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Mors tua vita mea

No sabíamos entonces quién sería el siguiente en morir para servir de alimento, como el pobre desgraciado que acabábamos de despachar.

Owen Chase (primer oficial del Essex), Narrative of the Most Extraordinary and Distressing Shipwreck of the Whale-Ship Essex

El compañero, un hombre bajito y rechoncho, contempla con terror el pedazo de cuerda que sostiene entre sus temblorosos dedos. Comprende inmediatamente que la suerte está echada. El encargado de su ejecución lo despacha rápido con un abrecartas. Con la maestría del carnicero, proceden a descuartizarlo. Para hacer la tarea más llevadera, primero le cortan la cabeza, las manos y los pies. Después lo despellejan. Sin esos signos de identidad tan humanos, podría ser un cordero o un ternero. Les proporcionará unos treinta kilos de carne. Lo suficiente para ir tirando durante un tiempo, hasta ser rescatados. Corazón, hígado y riñones, más perecederos, se consumirán primero. Luego cortarán tiras de carne de la espina dorsal, costillas y pelvis.

Deberían racionarlo escrupulosamente, pero una vez liberado el voraz apetito, ni siquiera esperan a cocinarlo. Los hombres se lanzan sobre el cadáver caliente. Probado el festín, sus miradas se vuelven feroces. La saliva fluye junto a los jugos gástricos. Y cuanto más comen, más hambre sienten. Sólo cuenta el instinto más básico y animal, una voluntad amoral ‒incluso inmoral‒ de sobrevivir a cualquier precio.

Es la ley del mar, el canibalismo de supervivencia. Acabados los víveres, los náufragos echan a suertes quién servirá de alimento al resto. Son cosas que suceden en los desastres. Lo comprobó la tripulación del Mignonette en 1884 y la del Essex ‒cuya desgracia inspiró a Melville‒, en 1821. Y antes, en 1765, los marineros del Peggy. Y en 1710, los del Nottingham Gallery... En los casos de extrema necesidad, la moral puede relajarse excepcionalmente: la conciencia aprende a prescindir de los remordimientos.

Remy de Gourmont: Péhor

Nerveuse et pauvre, imaginative et famélique, Douceline fut précocement caresseuse et embrasseuse, amusée de passer ses mains le long de la joue des garçonnets et dans le cou des fillettes qui se laissaient faire comme des chattes. Elle se mettait, à propos de rien,

à    baiser les mains tricotantes de sa mère, et quand on la reléguait en pénitence sur une chaise, elle jouait à faire claquer ses lèvres sur ses paumes, sur ses bras, sur ses genoux qu’elle dressait nus l’un après l’autre ; alors elle se regardait. Telle que les curieuses, elle n’avait aucune pudeur. Comme on la grondait en termes grossièrement ironiques, elle se prit d’une tendresse de contradiction pour le coin méprisé et défendu ; les mains suivirent les yeux. Elle garda ce vice toute sa vie, ne s’en confessa jamais, le dissimula avec une effrayante astuce jusque parmi ses crises d’inconscience.

Les exercices préparatoires de la première communion la passionnèrent. Elle quémandait des images, des sous pour en acheter, volait celles de ses compagnes dans leurs paroissiens. Les Saintes Vierges lui plaisaient peu ; elle préférait les Jésus, les doux, ceux dont les joues lavées de rose, la barbe en flammes, les yeux bleus s’inscrivaient dans la diffuse lumière d’une auréole. L’un, avec une visitandine à ses pieds, lui montrait son cœur rutilant, et la visitandine articulait : « Mon bien-aimé est tout à moi et je suis toute à lui. » Sous un autre Jésus aux regards tendres et un peu loucheurs, on lisait : « Un de ses yeux a blessé mon cœur. »

D’un Sacré-Cœur piqué par un poignard giclait du sang couleur d’encre rose, et la légende, avilissant une des plus belles métaphores de la théologie mystique, portait : « Qu’est-ce que le Seigneur peut donner de meilleur à ses enfants que ce vin qui fait germer les vierges ? » Le Jésus d’où fusait ce jet de carmin avait une face affectueuse et encourageante, une robe bleue, historiée de fleurettes d’or, de translucides mains très fines où s’écrasaient en étoile deux petites groseilles : Douceline l’adora tout de suite, lui fit un vœu, écrivit

au dos de l’image : « Je me donne au S.-C. de Jésus, car il s’est donné à moi. »

Souvent, entrouvrant son livre de messe, elle contemplait la face affectueuse et encourageante, murmurait, en la portant à sa bouche : « À toi ! À toi ! »

Quant au mystère de l’Eucharistie, elle n’y comprit rien, reçut l’hostie sans émotion, sans remords de ses confessions sacrilèges, sans tentatives d’amour : tout son cœur allait à la face affectueuse et encourageante.

Cependant, comme succédané au catéchisme de persévérance, on lui fit lire le « Bouclier de Marie. » Un passage où était notée la préférence de Jésus pour les belles âmes et son dédain des beaux visages l’intéressa. Elle se regarda, des heures entières, dans un miroir, se jugea jolie, décidément, eut du chagrin, souhaita d’enlaidir, pria avec ferveur, se donna la fièvre, se réveilla un matin avec des boutons plein la figure. Dans le délire qui suivit, elle proférait des mots d’amour. Guérie, elle remercia Jésus des marques blanches qui lui trouaient le front, se livra à de longues éjaculations, à genoux, derrière un mur, sur des pierres aiguës. Ses genoux saignaient : elle baisait les blessures, suçait le sang, se disait : « C’est le sang de Jésus, puisqu’il m’a donné son cœur. »

Harlan Ellison: I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

Limp, the body of Gorrister hung from the pink palette; unsupported hanging high above us in the computer chamber; and it did not shiver in the chill, oily breeze that blew eternally through the main cavern. The body hung head down, attached to the underside of the palette by the sole of its right foot. It had been drained of blood through a precise incision made from ear to ear under the lantern jaw. There was no blood on the reflective surface of the metal floor.

When Gorrister joined our group and looked up at himself, it was already too late for us to realize that, once again, AM had duped us, had had its fun; it had been a diversion on the part of the machine. Three of us had vomited, turning away from one another in a reflex as ancient as the nausea that had produced it.

Gorrister went white. It was almost as though he had seen a voodoo icon, and was afraid of the future. "Oh, God," he mumbled, and walked away. The three of us followed him after a time, and found him sitting with his back to one of the smaller chittering banks, his head in his hands. Ellen knelt down beside him and stroked his hair. He didn't move, but his voice came out of his covered face quite clearly. "Why doesn't it just do us in and get it over with? Christ, I don't know how much longer I can go on like this."

It was our one hundred and ninth year in the computer.

He was speaking for all of us.

Nimdok (which was the name the machine had forced him to use, because AM amused itself with strange sounds) was hallucinating that there were canned goods in the ice caverns. Gorrister and I were very dubious. "It's another shuck," I told them. "Like the goddam frozen elephant AM sold us. Benny almost went out of his mind over that one. We'll hike all that way and it'll be putrified or some damn thing. I say forget it. Stay here, it'll have to come up with something pretty soon or we'll die."

Benny shrugged. Three days it had been since we'd last eaten. Worms. Thick, ropey.

Nimdok was no more certain. He knew there was the chance, but he was getting thin. It couldn't be any worse there, than here. Colder, but that didn't matter much. Hot, cold, hail, lava, boils or locusts it never mattered: the machine masturbated and we had to take it or die.

Ellen decided us. "I've got to have something, Ted. Maybe there'll be some Bartlett pears or peaches. Please, Ted, let's try it."

I gave in easily. What the hell. Mattered not at all. Ellen was grateful, though. She took me twice out of turn. Even that had ceased to matter. And she never came, so why bother? But the machine giggled every time we did it. Loud, up there, back there, all around us, he snickered. It snickered. Most of the time I thought of AM as it, without a soul; but the rest of the time I thought of it as him, in the masculine the paternal the patriarchal for he is a jealous people. Him. It. God as Daddy the Deranged.

Ángel Torres Quesada: El ángel malo que surgió del sur

Apenas terminó de materializarse, gritó:

—¡Ya está bien, coño!

El estentóreo bramido repercutió en toda la sala de la lujosa mansión del Sr. Aprieto, que palideció y se quedó encogido en el sillón donde había estado dormitando, vencido por el cansancio y tantas horas de aburrida espera.

Sus ojos se abrieron a continuación como platos y bailotearon vertiginosamente, como si un centenar de chistularis ensayaran dentro de su cabeza aún aturdida, a todo ritmo, la zarabanda que debían interpretar en la plaza mayor del pueblo el día del patrón.

Quizá fueron las esencias de tantas mixturas pseudomágicas que ardían las que provocaron el trance en que se había sumido y del que la voz fuerte, de ultratumba, le sacó tan violentamente.

Con un temblor en sus piernas que a veces le hizo entrechocar las rodillas, se incorporó, realizando un gran esfuerzo para sobreponerse al miedo, la sorpresa, y sus deseos, sobre todo, de salir corriendo de allí. Pero algo en su interior le dijo que ya no podía volverse atrás. Tenía que enfrentarse a lo provocado.

Sacó pecho, hundió estómago y adelantó el mentón. Luego intentó mover una pierna y… todos sus propósitos se vinieron abajo: seguía con aquel miedo que le aplastaba los hombros. ¡Adelante!, se dijo. Echó una mirada al personaje que continuaba despotricando a un par de metros de sus narices. Aprieto tenía detrás la mesa de nogal que le aprisionaba en los riñones, pero que al mismo tiempo sostenía su precaria posición vertical. Aumentó su apoyo en ella, acomodando sus posaderas en el canto para apuntalar su cuerpo lleno de temblores.

Entonces la visita se revolvió hacia él, y le miró como se contempla una cucaracha antes de aplastarla.

—He dicho que ya está bien, coño —repitió el personaje—. ¿Es que no me ha oído?

¿Cómo no iba a oírle si hasta había hecho oscilar los sólidos muros de la señorial mansión de sus antepasados? El Sr. Aprieto aspiró profundamente. ¿Por qué tener miedo? Al fin y al cabo, el diablo estaba allí porque él lo había llamado. Además, mientras el ente diabólico permaneciera dentro de los signos cabalísticos nada podía temer. Allí estaba más seguro que en el penal de Ocaña.

Carraspeó y dijo:

—El diablo, supongo.

—Eso, y usted es Livingstone. ¿Quién voy a ser si no, joder?

—Es que como ha tardado tanto…

—Pues no pensaba acudir a la llamada, ea.

Aprieto le miró estupefacto, fijándose con más detenimiento. El aspecto del diablo no tenía nada de aterrador. Por el contrario, consideró ridícula e inadecuada su vestimenta, ya que en el exterior hacía fresco, un airecillo frío que se filtraba por las mal encajadas ventanas, por lo que él se llevó un buen rato antes de hacer la invocación, atizando el fuego que aún crepitaba con fuerza en la chimenea, con el exclusivo fin de proporcionar a la esperada visita el acogedor ambiente que merecía.

—¿Por qué ha dicho que no quería venir? —preguntó susurrante.

John Langan: Renfrew's Course

“So this is the wizard,” Neil said.

“Supposedly,” Jim said.

Six feet tall, the statue had been carved from wood that retained most of its whiteness, even though the date cut into its base read 2005, seven years ago. Jim thought the color might be due to its not having been finished—splinters stood out from the wood’s uneven surface—but didn’t know enough about carpentry to be certain.

“Looks kind of Gandalf,” Neil said.

He was right. The wide-brimmed hat, long beard, staff and robe, all suggested Tolkien’s character, an impression the squirrel at the figure’s left foot, fox behind its right, owl on its shoulder did little to argue.

“I know,” Jim said. “It’s like that statue of William Wallace—did I tell you about that? They wanted to put up a new statue of Wallace—somewhere out near Stirling, I think—so what did the artist come up with? Mel Gibson in Braveheart.”

“No wonder there’re so few Jews in Scotland.”

“Apparently, the real guy was much stranger.”

“Gibson? I know,” Neil said, starting up the hill towards the dirt path that would take them into the nature preserve.

“No, the wizard.” Once he had caught up to Neil and they were walking under the tall pine and oak, Jim continued, “In one story, the King of France was causing some kind of difficulty for the local merchants—an embargo, I think. Michael Renfrew mounted his iron horse and in a single bound crossed the distance from Kirkcaldy to Paris. When he showed up at the French palace, its doors flew open for him. The King’s guards found their swords red hot in their hands. Needless to say, Louis-the-whatever changed his mind, and quickly, at that.”

“An iron horse, huh?”

“Legend says you can still see its hoofprint on the cliff it leapt off.”

To their right, separated from them by dense rows of pine, a stone tower raised its crenellated head above the tree line. “See?” Jim said, pointing to it. “Over there—that’s Renfrew’s keep.”

Gonzalo Suárez: Cierta alteración en la hipótesis de H. Poincaré

La pequeñez humana es cosa probada. Los filósofos nos han hablado de ello.

No había ni un hombre, ni un animal, ni una planta, ni una piedra.

La superficie era blanca, dura y resbaladiza.

Me enviaron a mí, para que investigara.

Soy un hombre de pocas palabras, pero tampoco tuve ocasión de hablar con nadie. Hacía frío.

Mis primeras observaciones me llevaron a poder afirmar, sin temor a errar, que: no soplaba viento.

Fue fácil proseguir la encuesta, puesto que ningún obstáculo se interponía en mi camino. Me deslizaba sentado, manteniendo el equilibrio con las palmas de las manos.

No se trataba de un tobogán, y a uno y otro lado había espacios abiertos.

Me abstengo de describir sensaciones subjetivas.

Era como la luna, pero por dentro. O más bien una cascara de huevo. Producía vértigo mirar hacia arriba. Una gárgola monstruosa pendía sobre mi cabeza.

Un monstruo metálico y babeante. Escupió, y me aparté a tiempo.

Y casi caigo en el cráter de un volcán funcional.

Había agua, pero no vida.

Arthur Machen: The Turanians

The smoke of the tinkers' camp rose a thin pale-blue from the heart of the wood.
Mary had left her mother at work on "things," and had gone out with a pale and languid face into the hot afternoon. She had talked of walking across the fields to the Green, and of having a chat with the doctor's daughter, but she had taken the other path that crept down towards the hollow and the dark thickets of the wood.
After all, she had felt too lazy to rouse herself, to make the effort of conversation, and the sunlight scorched the path that was ruled straight from stile to stile across the brown August fields, and she could see, even from far away, how the white dust-clouds were smoking on the road by the Green. She hesitated, and at last went down under the far-spreading oak trees, by a winding way of grass that cooled her feet.
Her mother, who was very kind and good, used to talk to her sometimes on the evils of "exaggeration," on the necessity of avoiding phrases violently expressed, words of too fierce an energy. She remembered how she had run into the house a few days before and had called her mother to look at a rose in the garden that "burnt like a flame." Her mother had said the rose was very pretty, and a little later had hinted her doubts as to the wisdom of "such very strong expressions."
"I know, my dear Mary," she had said, "that in your case it isn't affectation. You really feel what you say, don't you? Yes; but is it nice to feel like that? Do you think that it's quite right, even?"
The mother had looked at the girl with a curious wistfulness, almost as if she would say something more, and sought for the fit words, but could not find them. And then she merely remarked:
"You haven't seen Alfred Moorhouse since the tennis party, have you? I must ask him to come next Tuesday; you like him?"
The daughter could not quite see the link between her fault of "exaggeration" and the charming young barrister, but her mother's warning recurred to her as she strayed down the shadowed path, and felt the long dark grass cool and refreshing about her feet. She would not have put this sensation into words, but she thought it was as though her ankles were gently, sweetly kissed as the rich grass touched them, and her mother would have said it was not right to think such things.
And what a delight there was in the colours all about her! It was as though she walked in a green cloud; the strong sunlight was filtered through the leaves, reflected from the grass, and made visible things—the tree-stems, the flowers, and her own hands—seem new, transformed into another likeness. She had walked by the woodpath over and over again, but to-day it had become full of mystery and hinting, and every turn brought a surprise.
To-day the mere sense of being alone under the trees was an acute secret joy, and as she went down deeper and the wood grew dark about her, she loosened her brown hair, and when the sun shone over the fallen tree she saw her hair was not brown, but bronze and golden, glowing on her pure white dress.
She stayed by the well in the rock, and dared to make the dark water her mirror, looking to right and left with shy glances and listening for the rustle of parted boughs, before she would match her gold with luminous ivory. She saw wonders in a glass as she leaned over the shadowed, mysterious pool, and smiled at the smiling nymph, whose lips parted as if to whisper secrets.

Alejandra Basualto: Rosas

Soñabas con rosas envueltas en papel de seda para tus aniversarios de boda, pero él jamás te las dio. Ahora te las lleva todos los domingos al panteón.