365 Fiction Bites

'I still do it, but I have never been really interested in it. I do it for the workout.' And as he was saying it, he forgot whether he was talking about sex or gymnastics.

I, like the whole of the world's population, want to be the exception, not the rule. I have always had this distant, blurry, yet almost tangible image in the back of my mind. The predictable ending, the long way home -maybe with a little twist, but predictable nonetheless.

We don't want to settle and have to say, when we finally meet That Person -because, you know, everyone has to have one of Those-, thanks but no thanks I'm married.

Like if you wait, and the romantic comedy happens to you, you are not going to feel exactly as trapped as that Conforming Cathy feels, in five, ten years time.

But, you know what, I know this guy who has this cousin, whose roomate's ex-girlfriend's best friend had that exact thing you are going through end happily. Honest. And isn't that weird?

So hold on. And, you know, look for the signs. No, actually. Don't wait. Quit searching. Relax, because, you know -I mean, everyone knows-, it's when you're not looking that you find it.

Esta noche se acaba el mundo, andan diciendo.

Mientras tanto, tú sigues enchufada a la pared, como si nada. Prefieres seguir soñando, alucinando. Despegarte de ti requeriría un esfuerzo demasiado grande, no se me ocurriría siquiera pedírtelo. Pero sabes que han pasado un par de días apenas y ya no quieres verte dos minutos más aquí, y menos así.

Sacas del baúl tu kit de realidad virtual por hipnotismo y comienzas a montar el equipo, dando gracias por la ciencia, la tecnología y el poder de sugestión de la mente humana.

With smarts heavy enough to show me off elegantly, with grace. Not distastefully. When the plague comes, she will lie beside me and let fate's will be carried out. Not like a sentence, but a simple reality.

'You of all people. You're judging me?'
'We are superior beings and as such we govern ourselves.'
'You're so out of line. You are being stubborn. Expidency blinds you so easily. '
'Impartial, not blind. You are not fit to lead yourself, who are you to force anyone to do your bidding?'
'Don't...'
'Don't strife. I am confident you will see reason. We all have to answer and get ours in the end.'
'That's right. We will all have to answer in the end.'

Mia had a temper. She always had. But lately she had been having some really screwed up moods. One minute she would be feeling bumed out about life and the next it was all a blast. Her nerves would get on edge from time to time, although most of the time she would be OK. Not great, not miserable. Just fine.

"There can be no perfect 24/7 perpetual state for anyone, right?", she would think. "Life has its downs and ups. Everyone's." And then she would start to wonder if that "ups and downs" change of order could actually mean something. A sign of her unconsciousness acting up, maybe.

The word treatment felt to her like a betrayal. Like a slap in the face. As if she was something to mend, something that needed fixing. Broken.

Frivolous Spending. Check. Starting numerous project, but hardly ever finishing them. Check. Feeling of sadness, hopelessness, lots of sleep. Check, check and check. "Well, gee", she thought to herself while reading the pamphlet entitled "Bipolar Disorder: Causes, Symptoms and Treatment" -which they had tried to pass as literature; she was surprised the title could fit in it. "Maybe I'm just a teenager, perhaps? Oh, and Sleeping very little is also on the list. That's rich." No, she wasn't buying this at all.


Aly -Alyson, really- wasn't very good with people. She wanted to die when people used the word shy against her, as retribution to something she could not do and even had gotten the memo on that had to be done. She despised having to check the introverted box on every personality test she had ever been forced to take. She didn't hate sports. I mean, she didn't like them as much now that there were more of an imposition than a pastime. It's only she would rather finish her work first thing so that she could get some reading done.

"I swear, teenagers are just like cattle". She had her own opinions which differed from those of the majority. She simply had a personality of her own, and hardly anyone was worth her time but herself. So what?

The sole diagnosing her as an aspie didn't make her into one. Whoa, wait. Was that a bad word, "aspie"? She didn't have any prejudices against people in the Asperger's spectrum, she just wasn't one of them. Anyways, who was she hurting being her? She was fine, thank you very much. Just fine.


Children's psychiatrist Dr. Adams had a huge pretentious office. But he sure as hell had set up a small waiting room for his patients. When Mia came in she only had one sitting option. So she sat next to the mousy looking girl on the corner, reading a book all by her lonesome. Most kids went accompanied by their parents, but Mia was old enough -and pubescent enough- to go by herself -or be embarrased to show up with her mom-, thank you. And apparently so was Corner Girl. Mia had gotten to the doctor's office almost fifteen minutes late and told she would now have to wait, so she was feeling a little frantic. The boy to her left was very busy taking care of the inner depths of his nose so she turned to her right.

- Hi! -cheerfully exclaimed Mia. Aly was taken aback, pulled away, or rather pulled four leagues up, from the Grand Salon of the Nautilus, where Captain Nemo was surely about to say something of extreme importance. She looked up at Mia, rather puzzled, remembered where she was and some primal form of manners and babbled a "Hi" back- Whatcha reading?
- Um... Twenty thousand leagues under the sea.
- Cool. Is that a new Twilight? -said Mia, causing Aly's eyes to widen to cartoon proportions.
- Guh! -Mia chuckled- I am so kidding. So, what are you in for?
- Aggravated assault. Totally bogus charge, though. I'm completely innocent -said Aly, awkwardly aware of how rude that sounded. To her surprise, it was exactly the kind of response Mia didn't know she was waiting for.
- That's funny, so am I -Mia said, amused-. Innocent, I mean. Hey, do you mind if I ask you something?
- Uh... sure.
- Cool -Mia made a pause, seemed to think it over for a couple of seconds and then asked- Are you happy?
- Mostly happy. Everybody has some things they don't like -said Aly.
- I guess you're right -said Mia.
- I usually am. People don't seem to like it, though.
- And when you're not?
- I kindly remind them that wrong is just another word for alternative. That doesn't seem to make them like me any more -said Aly.
- Really? Well, so far I like you. And I bet you agree with me that in denial is just another way to say optimist.
- I do.

Johnny, steady. Steady, Johnny, steady. Nice and slow. There you go. You've mastered parallel parking, you are a fucking genius, Johnny. Now, get out, that's right. Park again in reverse behind that grey Sedan. Kill the engine. Right. Johnny fucking Steady, now tell me what it's like to die, Johnny.

We are all carriers of this or other deadly sin. The mortal souls that give free rein to this one, however, are begging for it. Their victims' shame and humiliation is more so their own.

Nobody is free of flaw, and plain pride is wretched enough. But this, is truly beyond anything else. Extreme superciliousness and lack of humility before the gods leaves room for no possible redemption.

You dare to strife to the gods, you will be destroyed. Fatal retribution is the only way to go.

"You're too detached, son. I'm afraid you wouldn't make a good human being", he was told on his seventeenth birthday, the day he was scheduled to become a man.

And, just like that, humanity was denied to him.

All of his life he had been told not to mind others' opinion of him, not to care about them, what they thought. He was very proud of his restrain and self-control on that matter. He had become carefree on sheer willpower. That surely had to be an extraordinary achievement. And now it turned out he was too detached to be a mortal man. Well, good. He didn't want to be one anymore anyway. Humans are way too complicated.

It was about four years later that she came back into my life. We met casually on the subway, and we started talking as if we were old friends. She didn't mention the incident with the knife, and neither did I.

We started seeing each other regularly. Not dating, but as though we were rekindling a long lost friendship, which we had never had in reality. We pretended that was not the case.

A couple of movies, two or three concerts and innumerable coffees. Almost unconsciouly, we avoided any situation where utensils -other than a harmless miniature spoon- might be present. But it came the day I slipped and proposed we did lunch. She said sure, why not, a girl's gotta eat. I, irresponsibly, asked how about if I cooked and we ate at my place. Brilliant. That wasn't an earth-shattering disaster waiting to happen. Not at all.

Going back to the scene of the crime isn't all that's cracked up to be. Not if you have lived there for the last decade, at least.

Mild uncomfortableness showed in her face when she came in. Maybe she would have expected me to have moved by now. I could have been seeing things, but there was definitely not a speck of gilt or shame there.

Painfully aware of my unfortunate mistake, I already had everything ready. No cooking left to do. But, of course, oh silly me, there was still plenty of carving and cutting to do. I could have made Moroccan, maybe some couscous we could use only our hands to consume. Some nice sushi, or perhaps Thai, would have made a good excuse for chopsticks. The thought did enter my mind. However, being the people-pleaser that I am, I remember her favorite was Italian. What's a girl to do.

Naturally I could not keep my eyes off her hands as she skillfully -maybe a little too skillfully- sliced a chicken scallopine. She must have noticed. She put the knife down and speared a piece with her fork. Holding the fork up close to her mouth, she looked at me and gave me a little smugish smile before she ate it. I uneasily looked away and was about to focus my attention to my own plate when I heard a soft groan. She had accidentally stabbed herself in the back of her hand as she put it down.

She gave me a quick look and took the knife out. A puff of air escaped from the open wound. It sounded artificial, pneumatic. There was horror in her eyes when she looked back at me. Contradiction is all she could probably see in mine. I was torn, between disbelief and hilarity. The irony was too much to resist, so I gave free way to my amusement and chuckled.

Our enigmatic, and slighlty creepy, episode in the kitchen all those years ago had genuinely puzzled me for quite a while. Until I understood the point she was trying to make. My unresponsiveness, my enableness. When, all along, she was the bloodless one.

Life trees, like actual trees, extend their roots deeper to find water. If a tree has never experienced drought, it must sink its roots several feet deeper before it can get to where it needs to get. But if it has lived through periodic droughts, its roots are already deep enough to reach. That is something that never goes away.

When you have sinked low, for whatever reason, your roots know the way. So it's always quicker to fall back down. Easier to fall even deeper in.

Trees adapt to wind. They spread their roots broader and deeper, establishing firmer foundations. They are better prepared for extreme weathers. Really, they are just stuck. In one square boring place, bogged down. Holding on to something as fickle and slack as soil.

These weathered trees live longer, grow taller, and cast shadows on their weaker neighbors. They become stronger because of their challenges.

But, underneath that thicker skin, they are just rotten and tired.

The superfluous makes the divine what is is. It constitutes the bricks and tiles the columns wherein the foundations of the gods' molds rest upon are made of. You should never question this.

If you want plain and simple I can tell you right now you are wasting your time here. In this Society we do not tolerate neediness, indecisiveness nor any weaknesses of the like.

Carry your unwantedness somewhere else.

The small kitchen knife was not deep in, but had made its way down the entire length of my forearm, opening quite a nasty cut. And still she wouldn't let go. And still I didn't try to shake her off. I simply could not move, would not move. It isn't that I was paralyzed as much as I couldn't process what was happening. I just couldn't believe my eyes.

No argument had preceded. There hadn't been a heated fight, no yelling, no sign or attempt of physical violence until the sticking of the knife. Which wasn't really what happened either, that would have implied her using some force over me. She didn't. She just grabbed my left arm by the wrist with one hand and started pressing the knife she was holding with the other into my skin. Not a word was spoken.

I always enjoyed cooking dinner together, in harmony and almost rhythmically. We had been silently doing just that. I was starting the roux and I came over to her to get the onion she was chopping.

She looked up from her cutting plate, candidly. Opened her mouth as if to say something but said nothing and closed it. Her eyes were still fixed on mine when she finally let go of me, with a curious expression on her face, as if carrying out an experiment. She didn't wait for the result, however, -or perhaps she already had it- as she just put the knife down and walked out of the kitchen.

Bewildered, I stood frozen in the middle of the room. I heard the sound of a set of keys being dropped on the floor and the main door, closing.

Every statistic that you throw at them is going to be about other people. They don't care about other people. Over half percent of the couples is not them. They are not one and a half in every three. They are just them. Practically an entity of their own. They share everything, down right to the same delusion. That forever is, indeed, a reality.

But let them be. They are happy. For now. Feeding off of each other, merging their mania.

Ah, love!

Sucesiones, sucesiones y más sucesiones. Sin más y sin ningún suceso, sólo asombrosos descubrimientos. Como lo de tus piernas arqueadas, tipo cowboy, propias de alquien que se ha pasado largas horas montando a caballo. Sólo que tú no has visto un caballo en tu vida, y un vaquero del oeste, desmontado, andaba patoso, arrastrando las botas de tacones altos y espuelas -no diseñadas precisamente para caminar-, fuera de su elemento natural; y tú, elevado por encima del resto de los mortales en esos tacones de ocho centímetros te sientes -y estás- en tu propia salsa.

Bajas los dos pisos y medio que nos separan, te pones las zapas planas y casi estamos a la misma altura. Comprendo de pronto que mis barreras son a tus elevaciones lo que tu interminable lista de capullos desalmados lo es a mi triste post it de nombre y medio. Absurdo es absurdo.

Te refugias detrás de tu tocador alegando tus muchos des-preparativos. Pero, cariño, cuántas veces te tengo que decir que las drag queen no lloran a escondidas.

That summer I spent in Italy and hooked up with, let's call her, Italian Battalion, I learned there is a finite amount of happiness in the world. Just like there is a monthly sex quota allowed per inhabitant.

Ridiculous, right? That's exactly what I thought and so I transmitted my feelings on the matter to Miss Battalion, snort included. But the fucker was convincing and, in truth, she had some good arguments.

Suppose that it is that way. There is just so much happiness available. Now, assume it is up to us how we distribute it. In reality, we could all be fairly happy at once, content at least. But, of course, absolut power corrupts absolutely and the pursuit of absolute happiness has no absolute end. It is all relative. All over, people are so afraid their neighbour is going to use more than their share, that they constantly trip them just in case. And, if they happen to get a little extra dosage in the trade, so be it.

How else do you explain envy, which is essentially the base for every form of hate, from xenophobia to sexism.

Like I said, the bitch had some good points.

"Cuando se hace tarde, y tu cerebro te dice que ya pasó la hora tope de pensar, lo mejor es desconectar y dejarte llevar el resto del día", me dice desde el otro extremo del sofá, clavando sus azulísimos ojos en mí y exhalando el humo de su cigarrillo lentamente, muy lentamente.

Nunca me he fiado de los ojos claros. Pero, es que es ya tan tarde...

It was the darnest thing. I woke up in my old bed, went to the bathroom to take a leak in case I was still drunk from the night before. In the middle of my business I look down and there I see my eight-year-old sized penis. Holy crap on a cracker.

I had, somehow, come back. The last twenty years of my life had been erased, as if nothing ever happened. Which meant, I had -not got- to do it all over again. And this time was even worse, because this time I knew every fucking thing that was going to happen. To top things off, I soon discovered, there was nothing I could do to change a single thing. If it had come tails, tails was going to be every step of the nightmare.

"When you are going through a rough patch" he was saying with a smuggish condescending tone. "And I mean a really rough patch. You can consider yourself lucky to be brown bagging it". Up until that point I was skeptical. Now I was simply bemused. What was this yuppie asshole talking about? Was he a green disposable container luncher? Or did he really boast about having been a street drunkie?

Either way he had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

Nothing but mystery surrounded the anonymous figure cut out against the dim light. A pair of glasses glimmered in the dark. They were mounted in big double bridged seventies-esque frames, and their reflected glare blocked their owner's eyes from sight. A quiet rubbing noise denounced a leather jacket.

A nearby flickering street light came back to live to reveal the figure to be that of a late thirties-ish roughly-drafted man. He took a step towards the floodlight, so that, framing his scarred face, bushy thick sideburns were apparent.

The vintage glasses allowed now to see the man's eyes. A slightly bluer tone than turquoise, their hard gaze weighted a ton on your spirit if they ever fixed upon you. For nothing about the appearance of this man outweighed a look into his spotty soul through those demonic gemstones.

Time just makes bitches of us all, doesn't it? You starve; you run and you bench and you press and you crunch and you stretch and you sweat and you starve; you read and you study and you cultivate and you socialize and you flirt and you practice and you suck and you fuck and you lick and you stand and you stay and you go; you ask and you work and you slave and you give and you keep on. Till what? You give up, you refuse, you lift and you get sucked and stretched and filled. And you bloat and you bruise and you flab.

Then, one day, you dare to look back at your proudest moment just to realize it was a lie, after all. Nothing but a big ridiculous and humiliating farce. Or, worst, some sick game. Which does not invalidate it as being so, because all that is done. And your finest hour is still, and will be, irreparably gone.

Once a dark Sunday afternoon, Little Owen anguishly wanders around the house, when he decides to make an excursion to the kitchen. Carefully, he leans out his head through the stairwell railings to have a peek. Made certain that the coast is clear, he slides off his slippers and walks down the stairs quietly. His right sock gets snagged on a slightly loose nail, in such a way that his foot frees completely of it as Little Owen takes his next step down. "Soldier down", he whispers to himself.

The kitchen doorknob rattles. Little Owen closes his eyes and grimaces in fear. He counts a couple of seconds and scawls as the door squeaks on its hinges. Finally in, he hurries behind the big breakfast table.

His mouth waters at the sight of a glass bowl packed full of perfectly round juicy oranges. He can't resist from reaching his dainty hand to grab the one on the top, turning his wrist with the intention of taking a thoughtless bite then and there. Little Owen stifles a gasp of disgust at the sight of the most dreadfuly moldy orange you could ever imagine. He lets it fall to the ground and approaches the bowl fearfully. An explosion of greenish mold has gotten to them all.

Little Owen turns his avid attention to the non-stainless steel vegetable basket. A couple of red ripe tomatoes catch his eye, so he takes one. Little Owen cringes at the touch of the leprous piece of fruit.

His safe time window is running out and he knows it. Desperate, his eyes travel around the counter, the table and the corner perishables cart, for they constitute all he can reach. He sees it. The plastic basin of dark sweet cherries. Those never fail him. Little Owen quickly finds a cup for his trophy, fills it and escapes the soon-to-be ground zero.

A life-long thirty seconds later, he has materialized himself in front of the upstairs bathroom door. He hurriedly gets in and locks. The book and the walkman he had anticipatedly hidden in the cabinet are welcome into his arms.

As he sits on the toilet -lid down- to enjoy his evasion plan, something comes to mind. A piece of a memory. A flash, really. Recess. Mel, that kid from third row is sulking about his parents' loud arguments. "Lucky", Little Owen lets slip. He regrets it immediately, and all his classmates will look at him funny for a couple of days.

He shakes it off. He can't change that. Not all unpleasant situations can be avoided. And sometimes it's a good thing, too. In his mind, this gives room for the little ones, the truly unnecessary ones, to be, indeed, avoided. He opens his book.

Downstairs, Little Owen's parents might have already start setting up the table for dinner. Little Owen's mother could already be choosing which microwave meal to get out of the freezer for tonight. Perhaps they will have started without Little Owen, repressed undiscussed feelings and ice-cold silence do not always wait. In a while -about five to ten minutes, like a clock-, they will start wondering where in the world is Little Owen if he is not in the chair in the corner, between the high cupboard and the window -no escape-, where he should be.

It is even possible that they will try to go and find him, maybe even guess his secret undisclosed hideout location and pound on the door. Little Owen will not hear, his walkman's on.

Up in his haunt, Little Owen does not think of any of that. He doesn't want to. And he doesn't want any of that. He doesn't know what that word means yet, but his biggest fear in this world is that passive-aggressiveness might be hereditary.

They say that you manage to do a task daily for forty-five days, it becomes a habit. It has to be every day. For a month and a half. After that, it will come naturally to you. That easy.

Easy to get the ball rolling in the first place, not so easy to stop it. Forty-five days to create a habit, how many to break the cycle?

'Anonymous my ass, we know who called, when they called, and the authorities know who they are.' True as steel, there is no such thing as the perfect hit-and-run. Someone will see you, they will take your license plate number and throw your behind in jail so cut the pretentious bullshit. Your shitty karma will catch up with you eventually.

Try to keep me sweet with your cynical crap. Go on, I dare you. You ill-bred inconsiderate fuck.

Después de descubrirme descuidadamente en un autobús, y concederme volver a un dulce estado de semi-inconsciencia, me dejo llegar hasta el encuentro.

'Cinco minutos', me pide. Le dejo hablar. Su reloj debe medirse por Marte, el mío ya ha marcado más de quince y el fin de su discurso no llega. Ocupado como estoy cavilando estos asuntos no escucho una sola palabra de lo que mi interlocutora intenta transmitirme. Si deja de hablar antes del fin de los tiempos tendré problemas.

Sudden as a snap, everyone fell dead silent. Strangely enough, the numbers went up. Nothing like we were used to, though; in our daily scans we could see them rising exponentially before our own eyes. No monotonous series anymore.

We weren't so concerned with the news impound as much as with the seeming discordance. People go unexpectedly off the radar all the time, radio silence falls without warning. The meaning of the disruption itself, however, puzzled us.

Inexorablemente llegó el día en el que se olvidó de acordarse de llevar la cuenta. Cuántos días faltaban para que la separación fuera definitiva, ya no importaba. El día llegó y, siendo un día para olvidar, pasó inadvertido. No quedó plasmado en la memoria de nadie, ni siquiera se presintió su existencia hasta la llegada del segundo día; ese en el que cayó en la cuenta de que, quizá y después de todo, no se echaría tanto a faltar.