365 Fiction Bites

On a Sunday, that didn't feel like a Sunday, I got lost on my way home. I have lived in the same town all my life and had't moved in over thirty years. Sometimes you get to know something so well, you get lost in it. But this usually only happens on odd Sundays.

Another time, another place. Different timing, were we two different people. We could have had the greatest romance that'd ever been sold.

Inaceptable. Se siente bajo investigación, quizá porque intuye intensamente el desastre que sin duda se acerca.

No es cierto, se dice en voz alta, examinando su rostro pálido pastoso, en fuerte contraste con el nuevo tinte para cubrir todos esos pelitos blancos que ya no podía seguir ignorando un momento más.

Se lanza a la calle, recién duchado, afeitado y perfumado. Los vaqueros todoterreno y camiseta de las elegantes, de vestir. Suficientemente arreglado, pero casual. No hay que pasarse, que él no llegó a esta vida con más ínfulas que las de ser y ser todo lo relativamente libre que sea posible.

Hasta el aire que respira parece ralentizarse. Será el frío, elucubra. Pero así no hay quien coja el suficiente. Se siente a ahogar, a morir. No contaba con el refresque del fin de verano. Hunde las manos en los bolsillos de los vaqueros, sin pararse un segundo, mirando alrededor incrédulo.

Pensando en las cervezas que le esperan -no las primeras, pero las últimas siempre por compromiso-, se le revuelve la tortilla en el estómago. Piensa también en el tío con el que ha quedado. Que le gusta, claro que le gusta. Pero es que ya se siente idiota metiéndola donde pueda, sin más. Sin discriminación ni conocimiento. Por una cara bonita, por una onza de encanto. Aprieta el paso y se cree convencido, resuelto, de mantener el no.

Si tuviera que elegir una palabra, una sola, diría que esta noche se siente prototípico.

Con el gélido aliento del can de los avernos sobre su nuca, él sabe que habrá un mañana. Sin embargo no estaría de más desaparecer durante la mayor parte del día hasta pasar el periodo de cuarentena.

Resuelto a no volver a hacer trampas, y a actuar siempre con nobleza y decoro, que las paredes tienen ojos y no querría que le pillaras en un descuido. Resuelto, en definitiva, a ser mejor. Para sentirse preparado para lo que es más sano convencerse jamás llegará.

Se permitirá soñar que no es así de vez en cuando. Es bueno para la circulación.

Podría recitar la letra entera de la canción de Fangoria. Podría ponerme en plan travesti radical y decir que no, no quiero dulce ni quiero blando. Quiero la dulzura como capacidad, no como cualidad, y quizás necesite terneza, pero nunca blandura.

No tenemos más que tiempo, si hay que encontrarse se encontrará.

Hard-headed or resolved? Waste time only for the sake of wasting time. Come in, play with my head and get off on a technicality. I am looking for quality here, quantity will have to be sacrificed. If we come to be eighty before we want to take the jump, then so be it. But I will blame it on you.

I spy with my little eye a bit of bullshit. A lot of dancing around and not wanting to be the first to say the words we ourselves long to hear. Because it would be so terribly inappropriate to say them too soon. Or, even worse, to not get them back.

Dude, that would break my fucking heart. Let's wait a little longer, just to see if the moment passes. And the temporary insanity to want to grab our one chance passes.

Cutting down on the sarcasm now, it is not that easy and it is that delicate. But, you know, it is only me. I wouldn't hurt a single hair on your head. For the life of me, I would never.

There is but three great truths in life. The first is that Gollum is a bosom creature and the soulless creeps that set out to hunt him should really take some time out and sit on the naughty stool to think about what they have done. Second, is that soap bubbles are undoubtedly the essence of summer, laughter and joy.

And the third I'm not ready to say yet.

Forget coy. Throw away your make-up and let the comb be, one single stroke should do the trick. Let it part the ocean of your un-tameness.

Forget little touch-ups. I don't want to have to alter the star chart I already began writing. Down to the last freckle and wrinkle, I want to be there and make a note. Life leaves a mark and it looks great on your face.

Forget the rest. Just take your baggage out of the closet, because I want every last bit of it.

There once was a young princess whose father, the king, renounced her in a desperate attempt to save his own ass. Which he did, but at what price? The princess grew beautifully, haughty and unattainable in the most remote tower of the impossibly roomy summer castle of the king. Resenting her father for stealing her youth away, perhaps her entire life, growing to despise and utterly hate him.

Over fifteen years had passed of her confinement. The one room that had been her entire world was closing in on her. Had been for a long time. There were several windows, all of them seriously barred, and one only door. The only door to the outside world.

For security reasons, only her housemaid had been allowed to visit her, bring in her meals and such. The woman hadn't had a sick day in two decades. Until she did. Irresponsibly, or maybe unbeknownstly of the princess' marriageable age, a male servant was sent to take the princess' supper up to the remote tower. The boy could not resist such a wondrous sight, and felt the unrestrainable need of sullying the young girl. He leapt on the princess, his callous -and callused, while we are on the subject- hands reaching for undeserving places. Although it was beneath a princess such as herself to respond to such an attack, her resentment had been piling up and turning into an unstoppable thirst for revenge.

She knew better than this, it is true. Revenge is for fools and madmen. Violence calls for violence and the circle of craziness never stops. She could have had him contained with the snap of a finger, the unfortunate wretch would have been hanged by the balls before dawn. The horny boy was not her father and by no means hurting him would take back all those years. Time was gone and the king wouldn't feel a thing when she pushed his eyes inside his skull until he stopped screaming his lungs out. The princess casted the body aside and walked out the door. No one tried to stop her.

At vindicta bonum vita jucundius ipsa nempe hoc indocti. So they say.

Com més parlava de tot això, més imbècil es sentia. Era ja massa tard, potser. Parlar amb els seus amics no ajudava, perquè feia l'assumpte realitat precisament on no havia de ser-lo encara. Tot just com amb la vida d'una persona, de la qual no es pot dir hagi estat feliç fins que aquesta sigui morta.

Va rebre un nou missatge al seu mòbil que li va fer somriure. Es va acordar d'aquella frase que Chazz Palminteri li diu al personatge de Calogero en Una història del Bronx, després que Calogero li parli de les seves objeccions a sortir amb la noia de la peli. Només pel que els seus amics pensarien, ja que la noia era "de color". Chazz li diu que els donin a tots, que la meitat d'ells acabaran morts o en la presó. A ningú li importa. Tot el que importa, li explica, és el que sigui bo per a ell. El que asseuen l'u per l'altre. I llavors solta la frase. La qual se'l va quedar gravada en la ment per a sempre, i de la qual es recorda cada vegada que el comença a agradar una noia.

"When you're alone, late at night in bed. Just you and her under the covers. That's all that matters."

I read somewhere once that taking your own virginity was an act of self-assertion. Of course you can't really lose it by yourself, that requires assistance. At least if you trust the dictionary. So I translated what the article meant as popping your own cherry. Technicalities aside, according to the piece, from that point on, no one would ever have any kind of power over you, as you had been both your "Keeper" and your "Taker". Go individualism.

This morning, my Nana rang me for Chatty Sunday and, I swear I don't know how the conversation got us there, she told me it was bad fucking mojo to deny for that act to be inflicted upon you by another soul. That what it implies is no one will ever own you in that special way we all secretly want to be owned. The hearts of those who deflower themselves are thus destined to yearn and burn for that which won't ever come.

Now she tells me.

Era curiós, pensava, que es senteixi aixi de rar feient tot això. Potser fossi pel seu propi bé que, per a no permetre's tenir certs pensaments pujats de to, acabés recorrent a uns molt pitjors. Només imatges deteriorades del que el seu cor delejava.

Incloïen tota mena de conseqüències que, d'haver estat pronunciades o tan sols contemplades en termes més sòlids, s'haguessin esfumat de la gran urna de les possibilitats tangibles.

Calia retrocedir per un moment de la intensitat de tot aquest realisme. Colpit, es va submergir en un Greatest Hits de somnis anònims i inofensius.

It was past midnight and I was coming back home for the umpteenth time that day. Bear with me. I felt like I was the only soul for miles. I really did.

On my way to the other side of the road, though, I crossed paths with a roach. Now, I have never really trusted them. I am led to think any non-turquoise cockroach is not one of the lucky ones. Of the magical persuasion, if you will.

As I was looking down trying not to step on it, the bastard roach moved its disgusting limbs in a sort of dance and, apparently, read my mind.

"Would you stop with the mental quivering, you sad little man? You're giving me a friggin' headache."

The nerve on that nosy little bugger.

Our moons and stars can align, but we will never get to really know what it is truly like. That kind of magic is reserved for the chosen people. Even if there were to be a lunar eclipse at dawn, on that exact same moment Venus rules the skies, and we happened to be there to lose ourselves in it, our immeasurable luck would end there.

And you would notice, right then and there, that there is only so much I have to offer. I might be wrong -I hope I am-, but my crystal ball is not too confident about this thing you call future. My sweet words and unwithering attentiveness may not be able to buy me your life-long happiness.

You and me, you see? We will never be three.

You are holding something really heavy. It is so heavy that your arms begin to fail. Which constitutes a problem, as this something so immensely heavy is equally fragile, and you have to make one last big fucking effort and lift it to safety. The thing is your strength and your confidence in it are gone, although it doesn't really matter since, if you don't lift it succesfully, you will unequivocally drop it, and it will break anyway. So you have to do it. No matter what, you have to try.

So, what's it gonna be?

Now, that's more like it. Her, he would have liked. He would have thought she was unconventionally beautiful. That seemed quite an important detail for him. Somehow it made it all the more deserving and fairy tale-like in his mind.

My little brother would have definitely approved of this girl, had he lived to meet her. I can close my eyes and imagine we are down at the bar, talking about how, this time, he is convinced she is the one for me. "Choices are half chance", he would say. "But damn it if you can't make a good one. I can see you with no one else, E. This is the one for you, I'm sure." Of course, I would believe him. The kid was never wrong in his life. Not once.

"It wasn't a choice, because there was never a question", I would say, already half-inebriated and shame-free. He would nod, both approving and understandingly.

And we would finish our beers without speaking another word. With him smiling to me like the proud big brother he never was but always acted as, and me with a big doofus grin. Both drunk from happiness and pride.

"Sólo cinco minutos, amigo. Cinco minutos menos y nada de esto me estaría pasando. Sé lo que tengo que hacer, ¿sabes? Lo peor es que no sé si quiero hacerlo. Es el proceso el que mata al asunto. Cinco minutos. Imagínate, amigo."

Y con todo el tipo no dejaba de besar su medallita, medio rezando. Parecía realmente turbado, el pobre diablo. No sabía cómo explicarle que, por supuesto, al camino de la perdición no le lleva más de cinco minutos engancharte. Pero no se trata de eso, de esos cinco minutos. Nada podría haber cambiado esos cinco minutos tanto así como nada había podido cambiar cuantos otros había esquivado hasta la fecha, sin saber.

A todos nos toda, bróder. Sólo que no sabemos cuándo nos alcanzarán los cinco minutos de la ruina.

You left behind some starfish in my belly. I wish you hadn't forgotten about them. But then again, maybe you did it on purpose.

I could tell you didn't really want to hear about me being human. And I'm thinking maybe that's what triggered it. You leaving the starfish behind, I mean. Everything is a big blur after that talk. I do remember short episodes of intense paranoia where everyone's personalities mixed and merged. Somebody else seemed to be speaking with the voice of my current companion all the time. Very unnerving.

Unfamiliar lingo being used by two completely unrelated people in my life could set me off at that time. I began to see unnecessarily intricate conspiratorial theories that were being cooked up against me everywhere.

Feeling a kick from your forgotten starfish would take me back to earth everytime. You could have left them on purpose, but I still think it was a happy coincidence. Collateral.

All intimacy hides from view. Even between us two.

Overused, stereotypical. Expected and predictable. Often used pejoratively and/or for comedic effect.

Clichés as big as the good old days. Oh, ye olde days with its damsels in distress. You can't win with clichés, you take two steps forward, one step back. Try and think outside the box, and you'll find that, inevitably, it tastes like chicken. Laugh an evil laugh like that stock character in that very special episode. You listen, she says, long walks on the beach. And you nod, monkey see monkey do.

Fairy tales, pirates, superheroes, supervillains -how about those mad scientists, huh? Talk about perpetuating a negative stereotype: don't pursue higher education, you might become the next Dr. Doom-, boy and girl next door, femme fatales, fag hags, lolitas, space nazis, tomboys, valley girls, swamp monsters, town drunks and fools, The Man, evil clowns, elderly martial arts masters, dumb blondes, lipstick lesbians, butch bulldykes, sacrificial lambs, leprechauns, cavemen, killbots, know-it-alls, knight-errants (chinese or otherwise), hookers with a heart of gold. I could go on.

Pick a couple of those, mix it up and draw the same boy-meets-girl tired tale we have all seen a million times. It just doesn't get old.

50,000,000 Elvis fans can't be wrong. What would Jesus do: Electric Boogaloo? Eskimo words for snow are the new black. Got milk? Have gun - will travel. The mother of all battles. The Bastard Operator From Hell.

You know what? It's the economy, stupid. We just can't afford to be creative. I can't eat, I can't seem to sleep. And this right here, is the biggest cliché ever. Which doesn't stop it from being true.

I have so many feelings right now. My number one feeling is I am in the mood for rice. A lot of rice. Colored rice. Like that Basmati one that is so unbelievably amazing I can't understand why anyone would grow it or cook it or season it any other way.

The thing is I don't even want to eat it. I just want to look at it and hear it talk to me. Colored rice does that sometimes.

Second of all, I want to drown in music. And, going back to the colored rice, I want nothing but neon colors in my rice. I need bright colors, the kind that very seldom appear in nature, to cancel out my color blindness.

It is the out-of-this-world metabolism that this rice posseses. Its rhythm, in sync with itself. The fact that I could take it or leave it. I would gladly take it, and still if denied to me, I would still be able to go on with my life as if I never had heard of it. Mulit-colored rice, you say? What a funny strange concept.

Still, I'd almost rather take it. And let it flutter with my water.

I was ten, she was nine. We did not ride on horses made of sticks. I watched her from the distance, looking forward to those delicious twenty seconds a day I devoured her vision with guilty joy.

That year my class had a two-day end of term field trip. My best friend and I were put on the same cabin with some other three or four girls I felt quite partial about. I remember that night, coming back from dinner she and I sat on the little cabin porch and started talking about nothing. Well, she did. As usual, I'd rather do the listening.

My thoughts had already drifted a bit, gone to the safe place they were most used to go these days, which was to her. The nine-year-old that seemed so much younger than me, only a fifth grader. My friend had gone quiet for a moment and started talking with a tint of embarrassment. She rapidly confessed to me that she thought she might like this boy from our class. Something in my mind just finished connecting the dots.

'Fuck. So, we're supposed to like boys already and I have to be the weirdo in yet another thing. And it has to be at this. Fuck.'

Su cuerpo estaba enfermo. Desde que creía, realmente, no estar sano, su cuerpo estaba enfermo. Lo mismo estaba convencido de tener sentimientos reales por esa persona, esa misma en la que estás pensando tú ahora. Se había empeñado en llamarlo amor. Y, ya se sabe que en ocasiones las mentiras, de tanto repetidas, se terminan convirtiendo en una realidad.

Freedom always walked around barefoot. Mostly she would wear socks, but she had taken one off to fully experience the cold touch of the linoleum floor. Her right leg was crossed over her left, and her right foot was swinging subtly back and forth.

She tucked a lock of rebellious curly hair behind her ear, deep in thought. She smiled the most mischievous of smiles and lifted both of her bony arms up in the air, as if to stretch out. Something was on her mind. Something irreverent, no doubt.

If you lend me a pencil, I'll draw you a pretty picture. If you give me the pencil, I promise to use it for good and not for evil. But I can't promise I'll use it for anyone but myself. That anyone includes you.

Your breathing got into that rhythmic fight for air a while ago, and a few drops of sweat have already juiced their way to your forehead. But you keep pushing it, 'cause this is your favorite part.

Up and down, your arms can barely take it anymore. You are afraid they might give up any second now, but you gotta keep going. Can't stop now, the best part is about to come.

The peak of a workout, the pinnacle itself, is the moment your entire body aches and screams and begs of you, stop, have mercy and stop before your strain muscles tear, your heart beats itself out of your chest and your blood reaches its boiling point.