This space is a bite into monotony, through the impulsive and shameless exercise of the written word.
Dream picture
I look at a shattered mirror, my buttery face and watery circles under my eyes. I don’t recognize myself now. I turn around and my aunt is hanging babies on the rope so that they can dry better, she says that they drain well if you spread them by one foot and their heads are in the air; they are not dead yet.
They all cry and are gray, like the sky and the stones under my feet or the dirt on my nails.
The more they cry, the more it rains, the more it rains, the more babies who have been washed with detergent to make them pleasant to smell.
He doesn’t like babies. But I only feel cramps every time I hear a pitiful cry reminding me that I too was hanging on the aunt’s ropes; there, gray, with his head down and snot in his hair. A baby who never dried under the incessant rain and the smell of the well that the gray stones gave off.
I don’t recognize myself in the mirror because I hate it as much as my reflection, so with a very black rock I finish breaking it.
“It hurted me?” -I think.
Quite a bit, ”I tell myself.
And here I am: being chased by my aunt to hang me next to them, who will soon die, like me.
Julieth Polo
We suggest you read Bob Marley: the voice that sang against the war in the midst of a broken society
Microsleep
Celedonio, a curious name for a security guard, closed his eyes after fighting the onslaught of sleep. Three o’clock broke at dawn and the man dreamed that a parrot was devouring his guts. Immediately, he woke up and screamed accompanied by gestures that implied that he was pushing something away from his body. The building was silent, its sentry box kept warm, but the front door that had just closed before blinking, evidenced a break in the bolts and padlock.
David Cabarcas
Castro finished
Every three hours she looked in the mirror and said to herself: I’m very fat. The mirror returned a languid and long-suffering figure, but the woman only saw extra kilos and increased the diet of lettuce. Suddenly his mind lit up. He ran to the notary and asked for a name change. I want to call myself Finesst instead of Golda. Done said the notary. That night Finita Castro slept calm and placid on the edge of her bed.
Guillermo Ramirez
We invite you to read Las barra bravas in the dictatorships of the Southern Cone (I)
Remains
The boy plays with an empty bottle, making plastic noises to get his little brother’s attention. The mother, seated in the street, easily beats him when she offers her breast. Defeated, he leaves the indifferent remora behind to continue feeding on those maternal spoils and goes swimming among the currents of scrambled vehicles to try to catch a coin.
Follow the news of El Espectador on Google NewsDeftly he dodges the dangerous waves of metal to the rhythmless hum of the upbeat songs his dad taught him. Songs of the sea that they sang together when he accompanied him to the already remote fishing operations. That is all he keeps in his memory. The impassive faces of the hundreds of drivers he crosses every day have made him forget the features of the father who died for no reason.
Even so, from time to time, he tries to hold on to that last image that he protects from oblivion, the image of his father as a body thrown in the middle of the overflowing plaza on market day. But it is in vain, the features dissipate and only the effluvia of the ripe fruits gathered that day for sale reaches his memory.
Carlos Mendoza placeholder image
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