Henry Kuttner: The Shadow on the Screen

TORTURE MASTER was being given a sneak preview at a Beverly Hills theatre. Somehow, when my credit line, "Directed by Peter Haviland," was flashed on the screen, a little chill of apprehension shook me, despite the applause that came from a receptive audience. When you've been in the picture game for a long time you get these hunches; I've often spotted a dud flicker before a hundred feet have been reeled off. Yet Torture Master was no worse than a dozen similar films I'd handled in the past few years.

But it was formula, box-office formula. 1 could see that. The star was all right; the make-up department had done a good job; the dialogue was unusually smooth. Yet the film was obviously box-office, and not the sort of film I'd have liked to direct.

After watching a reel unwind amid an encouraging scattering of applause, I got up and went to the lobby. Some of the gang from Summit Pictures were lounging there, smoking and commenting on the picture, Ann Howard, who played the heroine in Torture Master, noticed my scowl and pulled me into a corner. She was that rare type, a girl who will screen well without a lot of the yellow grease-paint that makes you look like an animated corpse. She was small, and her ha,ir and eyes and skin were brown—I'd like to have seen her play Peter Pan. That type, you know.

I had occasionally proposed to her, but she never took me seriously. As a matter of fact, I myself didn't know how serious I was about it. Now she led me into the bar and ordered sidecars.

"Don't look so miserable, Pete," she said over the rim of her glass. "The picture's going over. It'll gross enough to suit the boss, and it won't hurt my reputation."

Well, that was right. Ann had a fat part, and she'd made the most of it. And the picture would be good box-office; Universal's Night Key, with Karloff, had been released a few months ago, and the audiences were ripe for another horror picture.

"I know," I told her. signaling the bartender to refill my glass. "But I get tired of these damn hokumy pics. Lord, how I'd like to do another Cabinet of Doctor Caligari!"

"Or another Ape of God," Ann suggested.

I shrugged. "Even that, maybe. There's so much chance for development of the weird on the screen, Ann—and no producer will stand for a genuinely good picture of that type. They call it arty, and say it'll flop. If I branched out on my own—well, Hecht and MacArthur tried it, and they're back on the Hollywood payroll now."

Someone Ann knew came up and engaged her in conversation. I saw a man beckoning, and with a hasty apology left Ann to join him. It was Andy Worth, Hollywood's dirtiest columnist. I knew him for a double-crosser and a skunk, but I also knew that he could get more inside information than a brace of Winchells. He was a short, fat chap with a meticulously cultivated mustache and sleeky pomaded black hair. Worth fancied himself as a ladies' man, and spent a great deal of his time trying to blackmail actresses into having affairs with him.

David Lagmanovich: Marcos

En aquel cuarto de hotel había un antiguo arcón, dentro del cual se encontró el manuscrito de un libro de relatos. En el primer cuento se hablaba de una colección formada por un relato de cada integrante de un club de narradores. El primero de ellos se refería a un antiguo arcón que se podía encontrar en un cuarto de hotel.

Algernon Blackwood: A Psychical Invasion

I

“And what is it makes you think I could be of use in this particular case?” asked Dr. John Silence, looking across somewhat sceptically at the Swedish lady in the chair facing him.

“Your sympathetic heart and your knowledge of occultism —”

“Oh, please — that dreadful word!” he interrupted, holding up a finger with a gesture of impatience.

“Well, then,” she laughed, “your wonderful clairvoyant gift and your trained psychic knowledge of the processes by which a personality may be disintegrated and destroyed — these strange studies you’ve been experimenting with all these years —”

“If it’s only a case of multiple personality I must really cry off,” interrupted the doctor again hastily, a bored expression in his eyes.

“It’s not that; now, please, be serious, for I want your help,” she said; “and if I choose my words poorly you must be patient with my ignorance. The case I know will interest you, and no one else could deal with it so well. In fact, no ordinary professional man could deal with it at all, for I know of no treatment nor medicine that can restore a lost sense of humour!”

“You begin to interest me with your ‘case,’” he replied, and made himself comfortable to listen.

Mrs. Sivendson drew a sigh of contentment as she watched him go to the tube and heard him tell the servant he was not to be disturbed.

“I believe you have read my thoughts already,” she said; “your intuitive knowledge of what goes on in other people’s minds is positively uncanny.”

Her friend shook his head and smiled as he drew his chair up to a convenient position and prepared to listen attentively to what she had to say. He closed his eyes, as he always did when he wished to absorb the real meaning of a recital that might be inadequately expressed, for by this method he found it easier to set himself in tune with the living thoughts that lay behind the broken words.

By his friends John Silence was regarded as an eccentric, because he was rich by accident, and by choice — a doctor. That a man of independent means should devote his time to doctoring, chiefly doctoring folk who could not pay, passed their comprehension entirely. The native nobility of a soul whose first desire was to help those who could not help themselves, puzzled them. After that, it irritated them, and, greatly to his own satisfaction, they left him to his own devices.

Edmundo Paz Soldán: La puerta cerrada

Acabamos de enterrar a papá. Fue una ceremonia majestuosa; bajo un cielo azul salpicado de hilos de plata, en la calurosa tarde de este verano agobiador. El cura ofició una misa conmovedora frente al lujoso ataúd de caoba y, mientras nos refrescaba a todos con agua bendita, nos convenció una vez más de que la verdadera vida recién comienza después de ésta. Personalidades del lugar dejaron guirnaldas de flores frescas a los pies del ataúd y, secándose el rostro con pañuelos perfumados, pronunciaron aburridos discursos, destacando lo bueno y desprendido que había sido papá con los vecinos, el ejemplo de amor y abnegación que había sido para su esposa y sus hijos, las incontables cosas que había hecho por el desarrollo del pueblo. Una banda tocó “La media vuelta”, el bolero favorito de papá: Te vas porque yo quiero que te vayas, / a la hora que yo quiera te detengo, / yo sé que mi cariño te hace falta, / porque quieras o no yo soy tu dueño. Mamá lloraba, los hermanos de papá lloraban. Sólo mi hermana no lloraba. Tenía un jazmín en la mano y lo olía con aire ausente. Con su vestido negro de una pieza y la larga cabellera castaña recogida en un moño, era la sobriedad encarnada.

Pero ayer por la mañana María tenía un aspecto muy diferente.

Yo la vi, por la puerta entreabierta de su cuarto, empuñar el cuchillo para destazar cerdos con la mano que ahora oprime un jazmín, e incrustarlo con saña en el estómago de papá, una y otra vez, hasta que sus entrañas comenzaron a salírsele y él se desplomó al suelo. Luego, María dio unos pasos como sonámbula, se dirigió a tientas a la cama, se echó en ella, todavía con el cuchillo en la mano, lloró como lo hacen los niños, con tanta angustia y desesperación que uno cree que acaban de ver un fantasma. Esa fue la única vez que la he visto llorar. Me acerqué a ella y la consolé diciéndole que no se preocupara, que estaría allí para protegerla. Le quité el cuchillo y fui a tirarlo al río.

María mató a papá porque él jamás respetó la puerta cerrada. Él ingresaba al cuarto de ella cuando mamá iba al mercado por la mañana, o a veces, en las tardes, cuando mamá iba a visitar a unas amigas, o, en las noches, después de asegurarse de que mamá estaba profundamente dormida. Desde mi cuarto, yo los oía. Oía que ella le decía que la puerta de su cuarto estaba cerrada para él, que le pesaría si él continuaba sin respetar esa decisión. Así sucedió lo que sucedió. María, poco a poco, se fue armando de valor, hasta que, un día, el cuchillo para destazar cerdos se convirtió en la única opción.

Mary Elizabeth Braddon: The copy-cat

Mary Elizabeth Braddon byWilliam Powell Frith

THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became known. Two little boys and a little girl can keep a secret—that is, sometimes. The two little boys had the advantage of the little girl because they could talk over the affair together, and the little girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate girl friend to tempt her to confidence. She had only little Amelia Wheeler, commonly called by the pupils of Madame's school "The Copy-Cat."

Amelia was an odd little girl—that is, everybody called her odd. She was that rather unusual creature, a child with a definite ideal; and that ideal was Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If Amelia's mother, who was a woman of strong character, had suspected, she would have taken strenuous measures to prevent such a peculiar state of affairs; the more so because she herself did not in the least approve of Lily Jennings. Mrs. Diantha Wheeler (Amelia's father had died when she was a baby) often remarked to her own mother, Mrs. Stark, and to her mother-in-law, Mrs. Samuel Wheeler, that she did not feel that Mrs. Jennings was bringing up Lily exactly as she should. "That child thinks entirely too much of her looks," said Mrs. Diantha. "When she walks past here she switches those ridiculous frilled frocks of hers as if she were entering a ballroom, and she tosses her head and looks about to see if anybody is watching her. If I were to see Amelia doing such things I should be very firm with her."

"Lily Jennings is a very pretty child," said Mother-in-law Wheeler, with an under-meaning, and Mrs. Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. She looked remarkably like her mother, who was a plain woman, only little Amelia did not have a square chin. Her chin was pretty and round, with a little dimple in it. In fact, Amelia's chin was the prettiest feature she had. Her hair was phenomenally straight. It would not even yield to hot curling-irons, which her grandmother Wheeler had tried surreptitiously several times when there was a little girls' party. "I never saw such hair as that poor child has in all my life," she told the other grandmother, Mrs. Stark. "Have the Starks always had such very straight hair?"

Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was very straight. "I don't know," said she, "that the Starks have had any straighter hair than other people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to contend with than straight hair I rather think she will get along in the world as well as most people."

José María Merino: El niño lobo del cine Mari

La doctora estaba en lo cierto: ningún proceso anormal se desarrollaba dentro del pequeño cerebro, ninguna perturbación patológica. Sin embargo, si hubiese podido leer el mensaje contenido en los impulsos que habían determinado aquellas líneas sinuosas, se hubiera sorprendido al encontrar un universo tan exuberante: el niño era un pequeño corneta que tocaba a la carga en el desierto, mientras ondeaba el estandarte del regimiento y los jinetes de Toro Sentado preparaban también sus corceles y sus armas, hasta que el páramo polvoriento se convertía en una selva de nutrida vegetación alrededor de una laguna de aguas oscuras, en la que el niño estaba a punto de ser atacado por un cocodrilo, y en ese momento resonaba entre el follaje la larga escala de la voz de Tarzán, que acudía para salvarle saltando de liana en liana, seguido de la fiel Chita. O la selva se transmutaba sin transición en una playa extensa; entre la arena de la orilla reposaba una botella de largo cuello, que había sido arrojada por las olas; el niño encontraba la botella, la destapaba, y de su interior salía una pequeña columnilla de humo que al punto iba creciendo y creciendo hasta llegar a los cielos y convertirse en un terrible gigante verdoso, de larga coleta en su cabeza afeitada y uñas en las manos y en los pies, curvas como zarpas. Pero antes de que la amenaza del gigante se concretase de un modo claro, la playa era un navío, un buque sobre las olas del Pacífico, y el niño acompañaba a aquel otro muchacho, hijo del posadero, en la singladura que les llevaba hasta la isla donde se

oculta el tesoro del viejo y feroz pirata.

Una vez más, la doctora observó perpleja las formas de aquellas ondas. Como de costumbre, no presentaban variaciones especiales. Las frecuencias seguían sin proclamar algún cuadro particularmente extraño. Las ondas no ofrecían ninguna alteración insólita, pero el niño permanecía insensible al mundo que le rodeaba, como una estatua viva y embobada.

El niño apareció cuando derribaron el Cine Mari. Tendría unos nueve años, e iba vestido con un traje marrón sin solapas, de pantalón corto, y una camisa de piqué. Calzaba zapatos marrones y calcetines blancos. La máquina echó abajo la última pared del sótano (en la que se marcaban las huellas grotescas que habían dejado los urinarios, los lavabos y los espejos, y por donde asomaban, como extraños hocicos o bocas, los bordes seccionados de las tuberías) y, tras la polvareda, apareció el niño, de pie en medio de aquel montón de cascotes y escombros, mirando fijamente a la máquina, que el conductor detuvo bruscamente, mientras le increpaba, gritando:

–Pero qué haces ahí, chaval. Quítate ahora mismo.

El niño no respondía. Estaba pasmado, ausente. Hubo que apartarlo. Mientras las máquinas roseguían su tarea destructora, le sacaron al callejón, frente a las carteleras ya vacías cuyos cristales sucios proclamaban una larga clausura, y le preguntaban.

Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis: Três Tesouros Perdidos

Uma tarde, eram 4 horas, o Sr. X... voltava à sua casa para jantar. O apetite que levava não o fez reparar em um cabriolé que estava parado à sua porta. Entrou, subiu a escada, penetra na sala e ... dá com os olhos em um homem que passeava a largos passos como agitado por uma interna aflição.

Cumprimentou-o polidamente; mas o homem lançou-se sobre ele com uma voz alternada, diz-lhe:

- Senhor, eu sou F ... marido da senhora Dona E...

- Estimo muito em conhecê-lo, responde o Sr. X ...; mas não tenho a honra de conhecer a senhora Dona E...

- Não a conhece! Não a conhece! ... quer juntar a zombaria à infâmia?

- Senhor!...

E o Sr. X... deu um passo para ele.

O Sr. F..., tirando do bolso uma pistola, continuou:

- Ou o senhor há de deixar esta côrte, ou vai morrer como um cão!

- Mas, senhor, disse o Sr. X..., a quem a eloquência do Sr. F.... tinha produzido um certo efeito, que motivo tem o senhor?...

- Que motivo! É boa! Pois não é um motivo andar fazendo a corte à minha mulher?

- A corte à sua mulher! não compreendo!

- Não compreende! oh! não me faça perder a estribeira.

- Creio que se engana...

- Enganar-me! É boa!... mas eu o vi... sair duas vezes de minha casa...

- Sua casa!

- No Andaraí... por uma porta secreta... Vamos! ou...

Hans Christian Andersen: Tællelyset

Det sydede og bruste, mens Ilden flammede under Gryden, det var Tællelysets Vugge - og ud af den lune Vugge gled Lyset for[m]fuldendt, helstøbt, skinnende hvidt og slankt det var dannet paa en Maade, som fik Alle, der saae det til at troe at det maatte give Løvte om en lys og straalende Fremtid – og Løvterne, som Alle saae, skulde det virkelig holde og opfylde.

Faaret - et nydeligt lille Faar - var Lysets Moder og Smeltegryden var dets Fader. Fra dets Moder havde det arvet sin blendende hvide Krop og en Ahnelse om Livet; men fra / dets Fader havde det faaet Lysten til den flammende Ild, der engang skulde gaae det igjennem Marv og Been – og ”lyse” for det i Livet.

Ja saadan var det skabt og udviklet, da det med de bedste, de lyseste Forhaabninger kastede sig ud i Livet. Der traf det saa underlig mange Medskabninger som det indlod sig med; thi det vilde lære Livet at kjende – og maaskee derved finde den Plads, hvor det selv passede bedst. Men det troede altfor godt om Verden; den brød sig kun om sig selv og slet ikke om Tællelyset; thi den kunde ikke forstaae, til hvad Gavn det kunde være, og derfor søgte den saa at bruge det til Fordeel for sig selv og toge forkeert fat paa Lyset, de sorte Fingre satte større og større Pletter paa den reene Uskyldsfarve; denne svandt efterhaanden ganske bort og blev heelt tildækket af Smuds / fra Omverd[e]nen, der var kommet i altfor svær Berøring med det, meget nærmere end Lyset kunde taale, da det ikke havde kundet skjelne Reent fra Ureent, – men endnu var det i sit Inderste uskyldig og ufordærvet.

Da saae de falske Venner, at de ikke kunde naae det Indre – og vrede kastede de Lyset bort som en unyttig Tingest.

Men de[n] ydre sorte Skal holdt alle de Gode borte, – de vare bange for at smittes af den sorte Farve, for at faae Pletter paa sig, – og saa holdt de sig borte.

Nu stod det stakkels Tællelys saa ene og forladt, det vidste hverken ud eller ind. Det saae sig forstødt af det Gode og det opdagede nu, at det kun havde været et Redskab til at fremme det slette, det følte sig da saa uendelig ulyksalig, fordi det havde tilbragt dets Liv til ingen Nytte, ja det havde maaskee endogsaa sværtet det Bedre i sin Omgang –, det kunde ikke fatte, hvorfor eller hvortil det egentlig / var skabt, hvorfor det skulde leve paa Jorden – og maaskee ødelægge sig selv og andre.

Rafael Dieste: Sobre da morte de Bieito

Foi preto do camposanto cando eu sentín boligar dentro da caixa ó pobre Bieito. (Dos catro levadores do cadaleito eu era un). ¿Sentino ou foi aprensión miña? Entonces non podería aseguralo. ¡Foi un rebulir tan maino!… Como a teimosa puvulla que rila, rila na noite, rila de entón no meu maxín afervoado aquel mainiño rebulir.

Pero é que eu, meus amigos, non tiña seguranza, e polo tanto —comprendede, escoitade— polo tanto non podía, non debía dicir nada.

Imaxinade nun intre que eu dixese:

O Bieito vai vivo.

Tódalas testas dos velliños que portaban cirios ergueríanse nun babeco aglaio. Tódolos pícaros que viñan extendendo a palma da man baixo o pingotear da cera, virían en remuíño arredor meu. Apiñocaríanse as mulleres a carón do cadaleito. Escorregaría por tódolos beizos un marmular sobrecolleito, insólito:

¡O Bieito vai vivo, o Bieito vai vivo!…

Calaría o lamento da nai e das irmás, e axiña tamén, descompasándose, a gravedosa marcha que planxía nos bronces da charanga. E eu sería o gran revelador, o salvador, eixo de tódolos asombros e de tódalas gratitudes. E o sol na miña face cobraría unha importancia imprevista.

¡Ah! ¿E se entonces, ó ser aberto o cadaleito, a miña sospeita resultaba falsa? Todo aquel magno asombro viraríase inconmensurable e macabro ridículo. Toda a arelante gratitude da nai e das irmás, tornaríase despeito. O martelo espetando de novo a caixa tería un son sinistro e único na tarde estantía. ¿Comprendedes? Por iso non dixen nada.

Houbo un intre en que pola face dun dos compañeiros de fúnebre carga pasou a insinuación leviá dun sobresalto, coma se el estivese a sentir tamén o velaíño boligar. Mais non foi máis que un lampo. De seguida ficou sereno. E non dixen nada.

Houbo un intre en que case me decidín. Dirixinme ó da miña banda e, acobexando a pregunta nunha surrisa de retrouso, deslicei:

— ¿E se o Bieito fose vivo?

O outro riu picaramente coma quen di: «Qué ocorrencias temos», e eu amplifiquei adrede a miña falsa surrisa de retrouso.

Tamén me vin a rentes de dicilo no camposanto, cando xa pousarámo-la caixa e o crego requeneaba.

«Cando o crego remate», pensei. Mais o crego acabou e a caixa deceu á cova sen que eu puidese dicir nada.

Ambrose Bierce: An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners -- two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest -- a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.

Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground -- a gentle slope topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway up the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators -- a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good -- a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well fitting frock coat. He wore a moustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

Mario Benedetti: El niño cinco mil millones

En un día del año 1987 nació el niño Cinco Mil Millones. Vino sin etiqueta, así que podía ser negro, blanco, amarillo, etc. Muchos países, en ese día eligieron al azar un niño Cinco Mil Millones para homenajearlo y hasta para filmarlo y grabar su primer llanto.

Sin embargo, el verdadero niño Cinco Mil Millones no fue homenajeado ni filmado ni acaso tuvo energías para su primer llanto. Mucho antes de nacer ya tenía hambre. Un hambre atroz. Un hambre vieja. Cuando por fin movió sus dedos, éstos tocaron tierra seca. Cuarteada y seca. Tierra con grietas y esqueletos de perros o de camellos o de vacas. También con el esqueleto del niño 4.999.999.999.

El verdadero niño Cinco Mil Millones tenía hambre y sed, pero su madre tenía más hambre y más sed y sus pechos oscuros eran como tierra exahusta. Junto a ella, el abuelo del niño tenía hambre y sed más antiguas aún y ya no encontraba en si mismo ganas de pensar o creer.

Una semana después el niño Cinco Mil Millones era un minúsculo esqueleto y en consecuencia disminuyó en algo el horrible riesgo de que el planeta llegara a estar superpoblado.

Kahlil Gibran ( جبران خليل جبران ) : The Two Hunters (اﻟﺼﻴﺎدان)

اﻟﺘﻘﻰ اﻟﺴﺮور واﻟﺤﺰن، ﻓﻲ ﻳﻮم ﻣﻦ ﻳﺎم ﻧﻮار، ﺠﺎﻧﺐ ﺣﺪى اﻟﺒﺤﻴﺮات، ﻓﺘﺒﺎدﻻ اﻟﺘﺤﻴّﺔ، وﺟﻠﺴﺎ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﻘﺮﺔ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻤﻴﺎه اﻟﻤﻄﻤﺌﻨﺔ، ﻳﺘﻄﺎرﺣﺎن اﻷﺣﺎدﻳﺚ.

ﺗﺤﺪث اﻟﺴﺮور ﻋﻦ اﻟﺠﻤﺎل اﻟﺬي ﻳﻐﻤﺮ اﻷرض، وﻋﻦ اﻟﺮوﻋﺔ اﻟﻴﻮﻣﻴّﺔ اﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﻔﻌﻢ اﻟﺤﻴﺎة ﻓﻲ اﻟﻐﺎﺔ، وﻴﻦ اﻟﻬﻀﺎب، واﻷﻏﺎﻧﻲ اﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﺴﻤﻊ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻔﺠﺮ واﻷﺻﻴﻞ.

وﺗﻜﻠّﻢ اﻟﺤﺰن، وواﻓﻖ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻛﻞ ﻣﺎ ﻗﺎﻟﻪ اﻟﺴﺮور، ﻷنّ اﻟﺤﺰن ﻛﺎن ﻳﺪرك ﺳﺤﺮ اﻟﺴﺎﻋﺔ واﻟﺠﻤﺎل اﻟﻤﻨﺒﻌﺚ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ. واﻟﺤﺰن ﻠﻴﻎ ﺣﻴﻦ ﻳﺨﻮض ﻓﻲ ﺣﺪﻳﺖ ﻧﻮار وﺳﻂ اﻟﺤﻘﻮل وﻓﻮق اﻟﻬﻀﺎب.

وﺗﺤﺪث اﻟﺤﺰن واﻟﺴﺮور ﻃﻮﻳﻼ، وﻛﺎن اﻟﻮﻓﺎق ﻴﻨﻬﻤﺎ ﺗﺎﻣﺎ ﺣﻮل ﺟﻤﻴﻊ اﻷﺷﻴﺎء، اﻟﺘﻲ ﻳﻌﺮﻓﺎﻧﻬﺎ.

ﺛﻢ ﻣﺮ ﻬﻤﺎ ﺻﻴﺎدّان ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﻀﻔﺔ اﻷﺧﺮى ﻣﻦ اﻟﺒﺤﻴﺮة. وﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﻫﻤﺎ ﻳﻨﻈﺮان إﻟﻴﻬﻤﺎ ﻋﺒﺮ اﻟﻤﺎء، ﻗﺎل ﺣﺪﻫﻤﺎ: "ﻧﻲ ﻷﻋﺠﺐ ﻣﻦ ﻋﺴﻰ ﻫﺬان اﻟﺸﺨﺼﺎن أن ﻳﻜﻮﻧﺎ ؟" وﻗﺎل اﻵﺧﺮ: " ﻗﻠﺖ: ﺛﻨﺎن ؟ ﻧﺎ ﻻ أرى إﻻ وﺣﺪا".

ﻗﺎل اﻟﺼﻴﺎد اﻷول: " وﻟﻜﻦ ﻫﻨﺎك ﺛﻨﺎن ". ورّد اﻟﺜﺎﻧﻲ ﻗﺎﺋﻼ: "ﻟﻴﺲ ﻫﻨﺎك إﻻ ﺷﺨﺺ وﺣﺪ ﺳﺘﻄﻴﻊ أن ﺗﺒﻴّﻨﻪ، وﻧﻌﻜﺎس ﺻﻮرﺗﻪ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺒﺤﻴﺮة وﺣﺪ ﻳﻀﺎ".

ﻗﺎل اﻟﺼﻴﺎد اﻷول: " ﻻ ! ﻫﻨﺎك ﺛﻨﺎن. وﻧﻌﻜﺎس اﻟﺼﻮرة ﻓﻲ اﻟﻤﺎء اﻟﻬﺎدئ، ﻧﻤﺎ ﻫﻮ ﻟﺸﺨﺼﻴﻦ ﻳﻀﺎ ".

وﻟﻜﻦ اﻟﺮﺟﻞ اﻟﺜﺎﻧﻲ ﻗﺎل ﺛﺎﻧﻴﺔ: " أرى وﺣﺪا ﻤﻔﺮده ". وﻗﺎل اﻵﺧﺮ ﻟﻠﻤﺮة اﻟﺜﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﻳﻀﺎ: " وﻟﻜﻨﻲ أرى ﺛﻨﻴﻦ ﺑﻮﺿﻮح".

وﻻ ﻳﺰال ﺣﺪ اﻟﺼﻴﺎدﻳﻦ ﻳﻘﻮل ﺣﺘﻰ اﻟﻴﻮم إن اﻵﺧﺮ رأى ﺷﺨﺼﺎ ﻣﻀﺎﻋﻔﺎ، ﻴﻨﻤﺎ اﻵﺧﺮ ﻳﻘﻮل: "ﺻﺪﻳﻘﻲ أﻋﻤﻰ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻧﺤﻮﻣﺎ ".

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: Ex oblivione

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victims body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.

Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.

Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours, and undying roses.

And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.

Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples. And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein.

After awhile, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return.

So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.

Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.

Hugo Carlos Martínez Téllez: Flor roja

El combatiente alcanzó a sonreír, satisfecho, antes que las balas del terror lo aplastaran contra esa tierra ya empapada en sangre nueva, en sangre vieja, en sangre…

Muchos años después, un niño pasó por aquel sitio y cortó una flor roja… muy bella, muy roja; la contempló tranquilamente durante unos minutos, la guardó después en su mochila y, tras reacomodarse el fusil al hombro, continuó su marcha.