English

The thing in the jungle

I don’t remember the reasons that led me to leave home. Maybe it was a moment of anger, possibly the excruciating weight of the unending routine. Or an urgent need to find the answer to a question that was never asked.

Now I was lost in the middle of the jungle that, over the years, had regained its dominance over the city. The shapes of the buildings and vehicles that had been buried by the vegetation could still be guessed. Things that I never knew and that I have only seen in the old videos at the library.

There was a time when this place was crowded with the noises of diverse engines and the bustle of voices mixing without harmony. Now there are only the murmurs of the jungle, the incessant hum of insects, the occasional songs of the birds, and the calming sound of the wind swaying the vegetation. That orchestra had a hypnotic effect that soon made me forget why I was there.

Hundreds of eyes watched me from the anonymity provided by the undergrowth, all those presences observing my clumsy advance on the irregular terrain, but there was a pair of eyes following me with a particular curiosity. The owner of those eyes seemed to forget all precautions that are due to a stranger, the sound of dry leaves crushing behind me confirmed that it was just a few steps away. I could hear its heavy breathing a few inches away from me just before I turned around and found myself face to face with the creature.

I cannot calculate the number of thoughts that attacked me when I had it in front of me, the mixture of terror and astonishment that this creature provoked in me made it impossible to reach a clear conclusion. The resemblance between us was impossible to ignore, and certain words that I once read arose from my memory “In our image, after our likeness”.

When his finger touched me, I wished I had the ability to cry. We were so alike that I felt the immediate sensation of responding to his gesture, but my bewilderment prevented me from doing so. However, there were some differences that worried me even more. The first one is that the creature was almost entirely covered in hair, the second one was the proportion of its limbs since its arms were longer than mine and its legs shorter, and the last one is that this being was breathing.

It suddenly turned around and left losing itself again in the thickness of the jungle, the sound of footsteps behind me scared it away.

“I have been looking everywhere for you”, my brother said when he arrived by my side.

“I have seen a human; I have met our creators.” I told him while looking into his eyes.

“Humans are extinct, that was an orangutan.” He answered me outlining a smile as we turned to go home.

Tears of chenille

Her door opened in the middle of the night. The doorknob thumped against the wall, and the voices coming from the hall rode in screams into the room. The girl’s eyelids went so wide that her eyes looked like they were going to escape, and her mouth closed so tightly that she could feel her teeth gnash.

A lamp in the living room gave off the only light illuminating the house that night. A couple of shadows were projected against the wall that was right in front of her door. The larger figure twisted over the smaller one, flapping its hands as if it was trying to destroy it. The smaller figure seemed wanting to stretch out, trying to defend itself and shaking violently.

Her father paced back and forth, yelling words she was not allowed to say. He was taking things from all places and throwing them into a suitcase that already contained more than it could handle. Her mother was crying with rage and clenching her fists against her body while shouting other words she was forbidden to use.

They both stopped for a moment in front of the door. Her father said he wanted to say goodbye to the girl, but her mother said she would not allow it. He screamed that it was his right, she said a man like that had no right to get close to such a pure and innocent girl. Then came more shouting of adult words she didn’t understand.

The door to the street opened, and both figures turned into shadows. Then came the noise of a suitcase spilling its contents across the room, and more screams. Heavy footsteps in and out of the house. Things banging in her parents’ room. The sound of an engine. Squealing tires. A neighbor yelling. Voices turning into whispers. The street door closing. Silence.

The girl clung to her blankets. She searched for her teddy bear, but it wasn’t in its habitual place by her pillow. As she moved, the tears that had pooled in her eyes trickled down her face. She stood still for a while, feeling she should cry, but she couldn’t. She needed her bear. She started looking for it between the covers and under the bed, but it wasn’t there. Suddenly she saw it lying face down, trapped between the bed and the nightstand. She thought he must be terrified and reached out for it. Tears kept slipping from her eyes and fell on the bear’s back.

When she managed to take it, she took him to her side and got him under the sheets. She hugged him with all the strength she had and knew that he was as scared as she because he was full of tears. They comforted each other, vowed to be brave, and left the room holding hands. They walked into the living room, the door was ajar, and they could hear several voices whispering outside. Her mother was talking with the neighbors.

She decided to sit on the couch and turn on the TV. A man was talking about the most wonderful vacuum cleaner in the world, capable of getting rid of all the dirt and reaching the most difficult places. She wondered if it could wash away the tears and make everyone happy again.

Her mother entered the room and closed the door behind her. She approached her and hugged her with the same strength with which she had hugged her bear moments ago. The bear was caught in the middle of the hug. He couldn’t stop crying.

The girl asked about her father. Her mother replied that he would not return that night. Then she asked when he would return, and her mother told her that they should go to sleep. That question would be answered years later with a letter from a man apologizing for his absence and speaking with empty words about pride.

The sorrow taker

I still can’t understand the impulse that led me to speak to the woman on the corner. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know what she did for a living, it was obvious. She immediately told me the price as I went near her. I did not know what to do.

“No discounts.” She told me.

I took my wallet in front of her. I’d say it was my first mistake, but it was my third. While I was choosing the bills to pay the fare, her face quickly changed from an evident weariness to a mischievous smile.

I had never done anything like that, so I took her to the only place I knew: my house. After we entered, I offered her something to drink. She waited for me to drink first and said she wouldn’t start until I went on my second. I had already taken several drinks before noticing that she was still with the first one.

I told her my whole life and all my pains as if she were one of those dolls my grandmother liked so much and called quitapenas, which means sorrow takers. I don’t know when I fell asleep.

My house was empty when I woke up. In other circumstances, I would have felt heartbroken, but at that moment, I could only feel calm and joy because she took all my sadness with her. There was nothing left in my place that could bring me back bad memories.

Loose heart

Today I tried to rip my heart out. I woke up with the strange feeling that it was a little loose. I didn’t mind at first, but as the day passed by, the feeling became more and more annoying. I unconsciously began to push it a little, trying to accommodate it in its place. After a while, I began to feel that its place was no longer inside my chest.

At noon the discomfort became unbearable and I decided that the best thing to do would be to tear it off. I started by pulling a little on the arteries trying to get it to come off, but each movement was more painful than the last. I thought then that I should rip it off in one try. I approached a girl whom I found fascinating. She was one of those girls who can’t help but break men’s hearts. I tied my heart to her eyes with a silk ribbon and waited for her to walk away.

When she left, I felt a yank so intense I thought my heart had come off. But instead, I was left with a torn heart hanging from my chest supported only by a small swollen piece of flesh. The pain became excruciating to the point where the slightest breeze of air gave me stinging sensations.

I spent the last hours of the afternoon trying to ignore the pain but to no avail. The pain became more and more intense. For a moment I thought that suffering would kill me. My throat closed up and I wasn’t able to breathe. My vision began to close until everything went black. I started to feel so cold that I thought I would completely break down. Then the pain disappeared and along with it all my discomforts.

I discovered a black piece of meat lying in front of me. It was my heart that had detached at last. I haven’t felt so calm in a long time. I know I will sleep very well tonight.

Broken song

The jar where I kept my favorite song broke this morning.

I was able to listen to it one last time as it escaped through the pieces of broken glass. I’ve spent the whole afternoon humming the song, so I don’t forget it. Over and over I sing it in my head, trying to keep each note in its place, just like the first time I heard it. I’m afraid to leave my room, I’m fearful that if I accidentally hear some other tune, it will make me forget it.

I wish I could preserve the song somehow. I wish a fly would come and catch the notes that have been scattered in the air, and then played them with its wings. Until a spider would eat it and then played the song with its web until it broke, and the song would fly again. I wish a bird ate the song dispersed in the wind and came to sing it every morning at my window until a cat ate it and then the cat would meow the song every night on the sidewalk in front of the house. Finally, the cat would sing the song one last time, whispering it into my ear as I fell asleep before leaving life.

Refusing to think that the song could be lost forever, I keep the window closed hoping the notes are still out there, in the air in my room. I’d try turning on the fan to play them, but I’m afraid they’re out of order, and listening to them like this might make me forget the correct tune.

It has started to get dark and I start to forget little lines of the song. I’m afraid, I think if I fall asleep, I’ll forget it. The thought of never hearing it again terrifies me. In my despair I started to walk across the room, waving the notes. I accidentally put my bare foot on a piece of broken glass and cut myself. One of the notes had been trapped under the glass and I could feel it getting between the cut and seeping into my skin until it reached my blood. Now every time it passes through my heart, I hear the note being played.

Now I have found a method to preserve the notes, I have taken the glasses from my room, and some used to keep notes like the first one. My heart starts playing snippets of the song with each cut. Those notes that fluttered in the air stuck to my skin when they listened to the chords that sound with each beat of my heart. I have cut my skin with the glasses to allow them to enter.

The song is almost complete. My heart interprets the notes with singular pleasure. Each time, it sounds slower, more leisurely. As if my heart wanted to give space to each note and each chord so that they could be engraved in him.

I made the last cut with relentless perfection, despite the little strength left in my fingers. I listened to the whole song again, and after that, it started again from the beginning, each note lasting longer than the last, and each time the song gets slower. Listening to it like this I can’t understand why I liked it so much, it’s a depressing sound. If the song played faster, maybe I’d like it again, I’d like to hear it again as I heard it the first time. But that will not happen again.

The most terrible crime

Antoinette watched the clock that was in front of her. The second hand had advanced more and more slowly until it convulsed, like the leg of a spider that had been violently torn off. Then, it had stopped completely, announcing the death of time.

The corridor brought the murmur of distant laughter. They belonged to the children playing outside, unaware of the death of time. Also ignorant of Antoinette’s terrible crime, the reason for which she was at that moment, outside of time, sitting on that cold bench, clinging to her seat with her little fingers. Fearing that, if she let go, the universe would break.

For a moment she thought that perhaps it would be better to live in a shattered universe now that time had died, instead of facing what awaited her on the other side of the door. The consequence of her terrible crime, the cause of that guilt that rattled on the back of her neck like a woodpecker that grew stronger and stronger.

From the other side of the door came a persistent sound, perhaps it was hundreds of spikes crashing against some stones. Then there would be the sound of a car being pulled, and then the spikes would come again. This is how hell must sound, like a mine.

Antoinette wanted to get away from that place and run towards the flowers in the garden. She thought about how much she liked to talk to them and tell them her secrets, knowing they would never reveal them. She then remembered how they withered when she told them sad things. Surely, they would all die if she confessed what she had done to them.

A tear trickled down her face and landed on one of her shoes. She then noticed that her socks were dirty. Her mother didn’t like her getting dirty. And her father would be upset to see her cry. It didn’t matter anymore; they couldn’t love her after what she had done. She was about to cry when she realized that the sound of the spikes had stopped. The door opened. The hour of her sentence had arrived.

A very tall man called to her with a serious voice from the other side of the door. She wiped her tears with her sleeve and stood up. Each step she took toward the door seemed heavier. She felt her stomach try to rise and hide behind her heart. But her heart was shrinking and wouldn’t be able to hide it.

In an instant that seemed violent to her, the door closed behind her. She was now exiled from the world. The tall man invited her to sit in the chair across from the desk. Antoinette walked over to the desk, looking at the guillotine that rested on it. She looked at the corpses of the sheets arranged in the trash can and imagined that her head would end up right there. As she walked, she felt that she could hear the voices of her parents and the teachers whom she had let down.

Antoinette sat in the chair. She heard the click of a second hand. There was a clock hanging on the wall that still did not know that time had died. The girl put her hands on her lap and watched the man as he arranged the typewriter that was in front of him, next to the guillotine.

The man fingered his tie and cleared his throat. He then looked at Antoinette with a disapproving gesture and put his fingers on the machine. He struck the keys, A N T O I N E T T E, each one sounding like a pick striking a stone.

The man kept writing. Maybe he wrote Antoinette’s crime, maybe her sentence. But that moment seemed so long to Antoinette that she believed that she would stay there, listening to the sound of the pikes and the running of the car until she herself, like the second hand, writhed a few moments before death.

The sound of the machine stopped. The man sighed. He looked into Antoinette’s eyes. She felt the man grew behind his desk and she thought she saw a reddish flash on the man’s face.

«You didn’t do your homework». The man finally said as Antoinette read the plaque on the desk: Principal Sanson.

The brick factory

It was a sunny Sunday, and as every week, it was the day to visit his grandparent’s farm.

His father drove through the well-known road to Zumpango. During the journey he played the usual game with her sister: counting red cars, while his mother was singing alongside the stereo.

They finally arrived to the farm beyond the lake. Grandparent’s house. There was grandma, receiving them with her everlasting smile, she was holding a chicken in her arms, it was a special day and that chicken had been selected among the others to be the special dinner.

When they got down from the car there was the usual quaking in the ground. It was Rambo coming to say hello, he was a Great Dane dog, and behind him was Tatu, his eternal companion, who was a little terrier. Both were very happy to see him as they demonstrated with their slobbery greetings.

Grandpa was away in his art workshop, inside the big building that stood tall in the middle of the red field. The building used to be a brick factory, but now all that remained from those days was the red clay of the bricks.

His uncles and cousins arrived later. His uncles went with his parents to the kitchen, to prepare dinner. His cousins took his sister to pick up the purslane that grew behind the brick factory. But he was only five, and he was left alone, as usual.

Every Sunday there was a new adventure for him. Finding the moles in their holes. Running away from the serpents. Playing with the turkeys and the chickens. But there was something that he could never miss. As every week he went to the carrizal beside the factory and took one of the canes. It was not a luxurious sword for a knight, but it worked.

He suddenly stopped. The door to the factory was open. He has never seen the interior of the building, the grownups were always speaking about the dangers inside. It was forbidden for him to enter. But he had his cane, he was a knight and he was prepared to face whatever was inside. So he entered in the brick factory.

There was red dirt everywhere, he tried to mask the noise of his cough but he couldn’t. He kept walking while watching the sunlight that streamed through the windows, it looked as an abandoned castle. But it was not abandoned, someone or something was staring at him. He prepared his cane, but he was not ready for that encounter. Before him was something enormous. It was tall as anything he had seen in his life. It had a long neck, as a giraffe. His body was covered with a dirty red cloth, the same as his head. He trembled before the dragon. He knew that his cane would be of no use against that enemy, so he threw it away and ran. He failed himself as a knight, but he was not wearing a shiny armor and he had no shield, maybe that was enough of an excuse and he would not be casted away from The Knights Order.

Finally he found a refuge. His grandpa´s workshop. Grandpa was there, painting a rooster in a rooftop. He left his tools aside and hugged him while asking why a young boy was alone in that place. But there was no time to explain, the dragon was behind the door.

Grandpa was surprised about the discovery of the dragon, but it was not dangerous, not from many years ago as he later explained. He had not moved since the factory closed. His name was Crane, and he was left there because he was too old. Just as he was left behind for being too young.

Paetredeyus

An infinite viscous darkness surrounded me when I started to exist. Being in that primitive substance caused a continuous ecstasy, total peace. A substance dying and renewing itself with every breath. That ancient and nameless deity from which all things come from.

A substance that had to be transformed to be the Creation it is now. The perfect work, remaining to be the same substance, renewed every moment, with a variety of colors and shapes. Matter and energy, coming from the dark substance. Because at the beginning everything came from the same infinite thing and maybe in the end it will return to it.

Marvelous were the explosions and implosions, spectacular was the appearance of amazing colors and majestic the birth of stars.

The earliest forms, abstract and inconsistent formed the stars and the ancient stones floating in the universe.

The universe is always in motion, with the stars in their uninterrupted dance. The planets orbiting the old suns as if they are venerating them.

I remember the first time I laid on something solid as if it were a dim and distant dream. The time I was wandering alone, walking through the Creation looking for someone else, another like me, someone who I could share with what I had seen. But for a long time there was no one, wherever I went to, stones and dust were the only things existing.

I cannot say I’m the oldest of all beings, and I doubt I am. When I started to exist, the substance was the only thing present, immersed in it should be those who claim to be the Ancient Primitives, but in my long wandering I found only traces left by beings I could never see. And I met these Ancient Primitives when life was beginning to populate the Creation.

I also refuse to believe that dark matter was the beginning of everything. While it is true that whatever created it, or whoever carried it no longer exists.

Some propose that the substance has a period of existence and every so often becomes the dark infinite viscosity, only to return to become the Creation. If that is true everything that exists is renewed each cycle and maybe I am a survivor of the last one.

I have not found beings who belong to an earlier time, but if all that exist is renewed each time, then the matter and energy that forms the Creation, suffer the same fate as the rest of things. So it’s not possible that there is someone who can contemplate the beauty of the renewal of Creation.

 Either way we have to assume without ever finding the truth.

Perhaps when the next renewal arrives I will understand everything.