365 Fiction Bites

My body had been giving up, my skin covered in pustules. My mood fell hard and everything lost sense. I began to see everything black, losing interest in moving on, fighting through and all that crap people say.

Then, one gray day as any other, lying down busy obsessing over my multiple virulent marks, I realized my sores where symmetrically placed along my body. The open wounds on my arms had a match in the exact opposite point from one arm to the other. With the help of a full-length mirror I confirmed the ulcers on my back suffered from the same odd phenomenon. It took me a couple of minutes to discover this proportion to be a planar symmetry rather than a volumetrical one, since there was a line of various lesions forming a line right on the middle of my front and back side.

I considered stigmata for a split second. The mere thought of an actual superior being gave me a perfectly symmetrical rush on my upper chest. Iddly scratching this new treat, a scene of a particularly traumatic day at Sunday School came back screaming to me. I checked just to be sure. Nope. No bodily marks on my feet or hands. Those were spared for some reason.

Alien coded messages, Matrix plug marks and a rare new disease that could be named after me later, I was about ready to give up on it. Whatever the cause, I decided, it wasn't as important as the meaning. I was rather keen on the idea of a coded message and, being the narcissistic obsesser that I am, I decided to map the constellations of my sores.

For now, it's hainging on my wall and I spend endless hours staring at it, as if trying to magically decode the shit out of it, Beautiful Mind style. So far, no luck.

In the meantime I went back to my doctor's diet and started taking the vitamins. No reason, I just felt like it. Unfortunately, all this fresh fruit and healthy eating choices is making my stigmata disappear. Even if I decode the message and it turns out I am the chosen human specimen the Superior Beings will spare when they come to annihilate the planet -you know, for collecting purposes-, I will have no way of proving it. Fuck my luck.

Existen tantos tipos de abuso como de bastardosinmadres maltratadores e incluso de "simples" bestias desconsideradas. Ellos son los perpetradores, ergo, los responsables del crimen, legal o moral. Pero no los culpables, o al menos no los únicos culpables, ni los más.

La culpa y la vergüenza la llevan las víctimas, los sufridores, sí, y también los consentidores. Los peleles quasi-voluntarios -a efectos prácticos lo son-, tienen una carga psíquica y de conciencia aún mayor. Porque es tan ridículo, tan obvio y de cajón que hay que decir que no, hay que devolver la hostia y es tanto o más necesario pasar del mirar mal y quejarse, coño, nada más que quejarse y si hace falta discutir. No tolerar.

Sufrir, llevar con paciencia. Eso es lo que implica la tolerancia. Resistir ante las burlas, soportar las palizas o las faltas de respeto, los insultos amistosos denigrantes y menospreciativos.

Permitir ser el blanco te hunde en la miseria. Te sientes peor. Más aún de lo que el hijodemilputas debería sentir, si tuviese esa capacidad escondida en alguna parte.

Cuanto más inocente o informal pueda llegar a parecer, más te golpea donde más te duele. En el orgullo y, peor, en lo que ya no te queda, la dignidad. Por consentirlo, por no defenderte.

Te dejas robar de ti mismo y callas como en lo que tanto odias estar convirtiéndote. Callas como una puta.

"You know, when someone asks me How is the real Luke like? The first word that comes to mind is balanced." Balanced, she said. If that isn't an insult, I don't know what is. I am a living human male, I am not fucking balanced.

The nerve on her. She kept getting dressed as if nothing happened. As if what she just laid on me hadn't been but a conversational add-on. I sat frozen, staring at her black pants as she pulled them up. I couldn't bring myself to strike back. I knew how to hurt her -I always know where I can poke them so they don't get back up, I simply choose not to, 'cause I'm bigger and better than than, than them-, and yet I didn't.

I didn't say a word. I kept my thoughts to myself. Those who told me I had never thought about her as nothing but a training excercise. Until the real one came along, so I knew what to do and how to do it so I could get it right on the first try. But I didn't say. And, to this day, she doesn't know. Probably will never know, I didn't ever cared much about her. Only as a practice dummy.

Lo que más me ha fascinado/acojonado siempre del asunto es la fragilidad de todo el tinglado. Ya puedes tener un historial impoluto, que en cualquier momento puedes cagarla. Aunque sólo sea una vez, aunque sólo sea un poquito. Cagarla es cagarla. Y cargártelo.

Te puedes descalificar por el error más nimio y ridículo. Te pueden echar, te pueden perder el respeto, te pueden mandar a la mierda. Por un sólo puto error.

Así que no te duermas en los laureles, no te atontes y esos ojos bien abiertos. Esa espalda bien erguida y esa lengua bien rápida.

I'm set out to break a heart. It gives you power like no other. That is if you do it right, remorse-free. You are never more alive than when you manage to completely and utterly disregard someone else's feelings. I could live off of that for years.

An electro-plasma beam parts the waters, Interrupting an intimate embrace between a sea monster and a long lost wrecked ship. The ray of energy keeps going, making its way through the globe, liberating all forms of life of the hability to feel jealousy.

"There is great love without great jealousy!", pointlessly yells an anonymous human voice. Half a milisecond later, the human specimen succums to the simultaneous collectively worldly orgy that broke out with the first two beings the beam reached. Soon enough, every STD in existence is transmitted to the whole of mankind, rendering their reproductive systems sterile and useless, as their genitalia dries, withers and dies.

Now, what would you bet is the one decease that ends with the biggest percentage of human lives?

I guess taking up your mom's side in every matter, every fight and everything else means you are unequivocally gay. Whatever your gender. Could be only true 80% of the time, or even less. Still. My theory is, there must be a very determining gene that actives a neuron somewhere in our brains that allows a certain amount of cognitive functions to filter through an ultra common sense, for lack of better phrasing, which prevents us from wanting to emulate a complete ass.

In those cases it applies, of course. Not mine.

We never had this much fun. At least we don't recall ever feeling quite like this. People tend to romanticize their early memories. Not you. You remember what it felt like being an anxious little overthinker. It's not that you had a difficult childhood, and that's precisely why you can know you remember everything exactly how it happened. That's not my case, but you already know all about that.

When and if you manage to get around somebody's knee more than twice, they are yours. That's a fact. So someone told me once and now I can see it's a bit of a practicing social rule. And while all this would make up for a really intricate, if not interesting, soap opera, I am going to have to pass. If anyone ever wants to have me in their hands they will have no choice to come out and try to take hold of me. With this in mind, I'll decide five seconds into a new encounter whether I want to be grabbed or not.

Chances are, I won't. But, hey, go ahead and try. The flattery of discovering onself graspable will not be overlooked.

Qué bonito fue soñar contigo, y qué estupendo despertar. Ganar la batalla del tiempo es posible, y más que ridículamente sencillo. Deseemos y reprimámonos y estaremos de por vida en un limbo temporal. Ni ayer, ni hoy, ni mañana. Nunca. Nunca jamás.

'We can always bring you back. You know we will. There is at least four copies in the house alone, plus the main back-up'.

'No, there ain't. I got to all copies, even the back-up'.

'Why would you do that? You can't just go away. I have more than one extra copy of you, missy. I hide them, OK? I fucking know you and you are not going to get away from me, I will always bring you back.'

'It won't be me. Whatever you bring back, it ain't gonna be me. I am still going to get out every time. And each time you make a hard copy of me, it will get further and further away from me.'

When he finally came out of the bathroom he looked unsure, embarrased. 'I'm sorry, I've made such a mess in there', he said clumsily. He was blushing when he said it. He met Lisa's eyes and quickly looked away again.

She helped him back to his seat and headed to the broom closet to get the mop.

'We're behind almost a year, and it's all because of me', he said in a small whimper, eyes on his shoes.

Lisa was already standing at the door and she gave him a smile, shaking her head. On her way to the bathroom she stopped and kissed him soflty, her hand on his cheek. He shyly smiled back and sighed, between nervous and relieved.

She was still smiling a minute later, when she was literally ankle deep in his shit.

It is true that I had a crush on her first year. Up until very recently I could still see a little bit of that something left in her eyes. Not anymore. There is nothing more off-putting than seeing someone dating down.

He is one of those people who are too cool to be seen running after anything or anyone. On extreme cases, they can walk fast or even march or step vigorously. But never run. At least he looks like the type. It is so bizarre when a person who won't run looks like someone you'd like to see fastly moving away.

If I hadn't gotten over her ages ago, he would have ruined her for me. Instead, he has only killed that unmeasurable remnant that reminds you what we are here for.

I personally wouldn't be caught dead trying to swim in such residually pestilent waters. But when it comes down to it, who's holding the umbrella?

He is not used to taking someone else into account every damned step of the way. He likes to keep to himself, always have. He knows this, and doesn't exactly hide it. He hasn't lied to her. He told her from the start he was fiercely independent and introspect, reserved.

His brand new wife disagrees. She thinks he's uncommunicative, secretive and distant. Plainly a selfish bastard.

Como consejo para la vida número ochenta y siete, me recomendó procurar morder más de lo que pudiera masticar. Para la número ochenta y seis había sugerido que si encontraba la víbora demasiado pesada para cargarla, usara la cobra como almohadón. Sospecho y siempre sospecharé que, de no haberse visto interrumpida nuestra amistad, su consejo número ochenta y ocho hubiera sido abarcar mucho y apretar poco.

My ears have been ringing all day. Every sound gets to me muffled, distorted and distant. All for no apparent reason.

Then I remembered a few days ago my sense of smell had been acting up as well. Usually, I don't notice odors so much, but last week the slightest smell stank to high heaven to me.

I understand now my senses have been adjusting, getting comfy and ready for a new, super-enhanced sense. I just don't know which one is going to be the winner just yet. I'm rooting for hearing, though. I want this fucking buzzing to stop ASAP, it's driving me insane.

I was brought up not to accept rides from strangers. You had to hitchhike your way through life. We're fundamentally different, you and I. Right down to the core.

If you were to stop your car and offer me a lift, I would tell you I'd rather keep drifting around. But, would I stop for you if I saw your thumb on the side of the road? I just don't know.

K was leaving, and she knew it was for good this time when she got up to pee and saw K fully clothed, bag in hand, in the middle of the hallway. She simply gave K the weakest wave goodbye and, without saying a word, turned around and stumble her way to the bathroom. She understood, there was nothing else to do or say.

After she had put some clothes on and was more or less fully awake, she got out of the house from the back door and headed to the small stream. She lit the tiny candle and placed it inside the paper shade and onto the little boat she had fashioned out of fresh sticks. She put the boat in the water and gave it a delicate push, as she wished for her wedding day to be a really rainy one.

Never met a bottle he didn't like. Not that it constituted a problem for him. And it usually didn't unless he met more than one bottle a day.

Fortunately, the bottle seemed to like him almost as much as he liked the bottle. He thanked his metabolism every morning for sparing him from another hangover. And so each day he would wake up and decide to celebrate his good mood treating himself to something decadent, like strawberry French toast with chocolate sauce and whipped cream.

Getting away with thoughtless behaviour can make you into a gratified fat bastard.

Both angels were on tour. Their dates and places were not supposed to coincide, but someone Up There made a mistake, and on July 10th they both ended up on duty at the same part of town.

The same case to both. On different sides, of course, but still. The Bigun pulled its number on someone one of them was overseeing. Through the other's assigned soul. By his hand. Actually, by the knife he had been holding. So Matthew's soul had to be surrendered, even though he was not scheduled to be yet.

Shit happens. Mix ups, too. No one's really to blame. Julian understood the situation as such, and turned to Matthew to continue their eternal argument on human free will they had been having since the world came to be and man came to be in it. But Matthew was not happy about the mix up. He had a great deal of work yet to do with that soul. He felt cheated, being fired out of a job like that one. I mean, he had made a lot of progress. And now it had been all for nothing?

A foul stink filled the room. It was not only the blood, or the bowel contents. It just smelled like murder. That killing scent was now so condensed -thirty-eight hours after, no ventilation since-, it could even get to an angel's head if he had his guard down. Matthew, distracted by his feelings of disappointment, wasn't quite feeling like himself.

While Julian kept blabing something about the misuse of free choice, Matthew's eyes found the already bloody knife. For a split second he considered it. He knew Julian was not at fault -no one's to blame, really-, and yet the built-up frustration he felt made the thought a reality in his mind.

At this very moment, a single feather on Matthew's left wing came off. It landed in a pile of blood, out of both angels' sight. Neither of them noticed this, and they left the scene of the crime, along with a single angel feather, covered in a chosen soul's blood, behind.

You read and hear about all these people who are exceptionally brilliant whilst somehow socially inept. They talk about having some fucked up shit happen to them when they were kids. Sometimes, it's so fucked up, they'd repressed the memory and only as adults they get it back. It is scary that something that happened so many years ago had such an impact on their lives. And will continue to do so. Like a little spot on their otherwise pristine childhood ruined their chances to be happy, or balanced, or normal.

And it makes you wonder. And it makes you fear and doubt your own reasons for being how you are.

But then, you'd rather believe things are good. And even if they are not, they will be soon enough. And you'd rather not think about what you may or may not remember. You decide you should be too busy participating, even if sometimes it feels forced and fake as hell. You try your best to do an impersonation of yourself having fun, being happy, remembering it, or caring. Making yourself pass as someone with actual vocal chords, or something mildly interesting to share with the person in front of you.

Even if people fail to see all your hard efforts to be an active part of things. Even when someone will think -time and again- that it's no excuse, and people who've had it so much worse are doing perfectly OK in all aspects.

Like they would -or could- know about "every aspect".

Todo lo que tienes te puede ser arrebatado. Y lo será, lo sabes. Porque te prometo que, desde ahora, sólo te ocurrirán cosas malas.

La buena noticia es que, cuando te hayan ocurrido suficientes desgracias, estallarás. Los procesos de inhibición dejarán de funcionar correctamente ahí arriba y enloquecerás. Antes de perderlo todo por completo, perderás el juicio. A partir de ahí, no podrás distinguir con total certeza la realidad de tus propios delirios. Te sugiero que llegado ese punto asumas que todo lo que te ocurra de naturaleza negativa lo consideres irreal, y te centres en las alucinaciones placenteras.

Unexpected understanding from strangers is as puzzling to me as complete disregard for other human beings.

Nonetheless, here I am, stuck in quicksand. There's something bigger than me holding me back, and I am not at all surprised that, out of the thirty-eigth people that passed me, not a single one gave me a second look, yet along offered me any help.

I didn't know someone could be that inappropriate until that moment.

You can't rate reality. It's right there in front of you and you have to look at it. And you should. That's how you learn what's what in this world. Life isn't a romantic comedy and you don't get a happy ending. Endings are evictions, and divorces, and death. And when they come, you can't look away.

As the world grows smaller, their distance seems larger. Unbeknownst to them. They are to remain strangers as long as they don't surrender themselves to the call. The call of each other, loud as it can be in their eyes. Which they haven't laid on one another in months.

You can see it, I know. But what are you to do? If everyone can see it but themselves, it must be none but their own fault.

The distance is only going to grow from now on. And you know it, I can see it. But, why should you care?

'Well, maybe I shouldn't have', she was telling me, with a high-pitched voice and a too familiar a tone. I barely knew the woman. 'But I sure as hell wanted to. I just hate unprepared hosts, you know. It makes you feel unwelcome, like you are disturbing their peace. Even if it's them that insisted you come over. And then they go and even forget what day or what time you were supposed to arrive and don't even have a cot or half a decent meal ready for you. No manners. That's why I'd rather be a hostess than a guest. I hate being a guest. So don't you go apologizing for accepting my invitation. You're welcome here anytime, son. You hear me? Anytime. And you know I mean it.'

All that was very well, but it just made me feel more uncomfortable that I already was. I am quite the opposite of that, always been. I hate planning and pre-planning and making arrangements and working for anyone else's sake. I very seldomly extended staying invitations to anyone, not even to my closest friends. Specially to them, we wouldn't stay friends for much longer if I did.

She had laid down the table, way too fancily for my taste, and what I thought the situation would require. The contents of the plates didn't quite match the tone of the linen, silverware and crystal glasses. There were little sandwiches -crustless-, various trays containing cookies, pastries and all kinds of sweets. It made no kind of sense.

I wasn't really hungry, but I smiled and started to munch on one of the bite-sized sandwiches when we sat. They were cucumber and goat cheese. I have never gotten that. Why put raw cucumber between to slices of white bread? An abomination, that is what it is.

She insisted I at least tasted one item in every plate before I showed her the card. After I finished my jagernaut piece of home-made tiramisu it occurred to me I could have claimed to be a diabetic, and my agony would have ended with the cucumber sandwich. Too late.

Now that I felt like a complete pig we could get down to business. The old woman removed the trays from the table and set a mat in the space between us.

'Ok', she said, her voice suddenly dropping a few octaves. 'Let's see it.'

I took it out and put it down on the table face up, facing her.

'As des épées', she pronounced. That was what the card read, "AS DES ÉPÉES". Ace of Swords. 'It stands for conquest, triumph, great force in love and hate. It also shows the beginning of a situation whose potential is as double-edged as the blade of a sword.' She made a pause, gave me a suspecting look, looked down at the card as she picked it up again and back up as she spoke again.

'Did you ever heard about the Double-edged Irish twins?' I had. My mother used to tell me a tale about them. It was so cheesy I always assumed she herself had made it up. Legends are usually more imaginative.

There were once a Catholic family of Italian descent that had long settled in Québec. Most of them lived in Montréal. Being Catholic and devout followers of the Church, they usually had a full house. In every generation there was bound to be at least a couple of siblings less than twelve months apart. Now, this family had had a curse placed on them. Not on the whole family, but on one of its ancestors. He had apparently pissed off a young gyspsy woman by cheating on her, or maybe repudiated her after knocking her up. Something of the like. Here is when my mother's version of the story varied from time to time. Sometimes she would assure that it was his brother, eleven months younger than him, who had gotten her pregnant after forcing her and that is why he left her. According to this version, the young woman had cursed both brothers.

Thing is, she put a curse on his seed. That, in every generation which had two brothers less than a year apart in age, one would end the other's life. Their roles would not be assigned by birth, though. One of them would inevitably choose to become one or the other. Separatedly or together, they would make a choice. Not always an informed or a conscious one, but a decision nonetheless. It wouldn't matter who resolved to kill the other or refused to do so first. Even knowing about the curse, the other would always make the opposite resolution.

I had recenlty learned that my grandfather, on my mother's side, had been a native Montrealer. Another piece of the puzzle that fell into place.

'The one about the curse, the brothers and the fratricide?' I said it with a tone of disbelief.

'That one. You understand the killing always has to be deliberate, yes?'.

'I guess. I've never had homicidal feelings towards my brother, though.'

'That's completely irrelevant. Do you remember how you first saw the card? Was it right-side-up or upside-down?'

'I don't know. I can't remember.'

'Well, that would help you a lot. It wouldn't change the outcome, but we'd know which side of the knife you're gonna end up on.' My eyes must have looked like saucers. What the hell was this woman saying?

I didn't bother responding to that. I got up and left the house, as fast as I could and without looking back. When I got to my car and sat down behind the wheel I was still huffing.

Before I could properly calm down the beginning of Debussy's Suite bergamasque started playing in my pocket. My cell screen read Incoming call: Victoria. My brother's fiancée.

'Hey. It's me,' she sounded anxious. 'Listen, I have something to tell you. I know I shouldn't tell you on the phone, but I need you to know before... Well, I just have to tell you now.'

'What is it? Is everything alright with Ian?'

'No. Yes. That's not it. I'm pregnant. And it's not Ian's. It's yours.'

'Are you...'

'Sure? Yes, of course I'm sure. I'm telling Ian when he gets home, that's why I had to tell you now.'

'Fuck, Mary. Are you out of your goddamn mind? You can't fucking tell Ian, he will fucking kill us both!'

'I have to. You know me, I can't live a lie. Not like this, I can't keep this in any longer. He has to know.'

'No, wait. I'll tell him with you, wait for me.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Henry. I have to tell him. No way. I just wanted you to know, just in case. Bye, Henry.'

I tried to make her wait but she had hung up. Giving up, I went to put the phone back into my pocket and I felt something in there. It was the card. The Ace of Swords. I couldn't remember having taking it when I left the card-reader's house, but there it was.

Without missing a beat, I put the keys in the ignition an started the car, my mind resolved.

Era la segunda semana y ya le costaba trabajo sacudirse las pelusas de encima. Era una de las inevitables importunaciones. A pesar de lo que pudiera pensar el resto de la gente, había encontrado su sitio en el mundo en la vida en completa oscuridad, y no la cambiaría por nada.

Cries of grief and true pain were head throughout the village. She was dead. Not only she was dead, she'd been murdered. Someone took her from them. They took her. From all the people in the world, even all the villagers, why did it have to be her?

Old K. Jr. was the one who found her. It was dawning when he brought her desecrated lifeless body to the town's Main Square -the only square, really-, reeking of whiskey.

There was no doubt on anyone's mind it was the work of an outsider. No neighbour of hers would ever conceive hurting the girl in the slightest. Or even say a single unkind word to her, near her. Not a bad thought could cross your mind in her pressence, unthinkable.

A whole bus of tourists had arrived early in the morning. Foreigners. Had it been anyone else's life they took, the culprit would have been searched for and found. Now there was no time and no need for that. They emptied the inn all the strangers were staying in of locals, locked all doors and windows and set it on fire. The life of a bus-full of people for the life of a village. It still wasn't fair trade, but at least it was somewhat closer.

There was a single thought in the common of the village's people. Not a word had been spoken since she had been placed at the bottom of the Town Hall's stairs. There was no need for words anymore. They were no use.

A big stone round fountain, bowl-like but massive, occupied the center of the square. It now needed to be drained. The man who had been mayor until that very moment saw to it. Everyone else went back to their home, found the fanciest glasses they owned and took one per person living under their roof, along with all the alcoholic beverages they could find.

Villager after villager came back to the square, in a silent procession; dropped the contents of their bottles, cans and boxes into the drained fountain and waited for every last neighbour to finish doing the same.

Finally, it was down to K. Jr., who, after emptying his many many bottles and barrels, took out of his dusty overall a tiny dark red plastic bottle and pour it whole.

B., the road sweeper, had been sweeping the emptied bottles, cans and boxes away, forming separate piles. Recycling was a habit that died hard in him.

One by one they dipped their crystal goblets, glass glasses and plastic cups in, and started drinking. Young men and women, old folk and little children alike. When they could barely stand up, they gathered around the corpse and let their collective consciousness along with themselves slip away into nothingness.

She had been the soul of the village. It'd died with her.