juan_spanishwritings

Excerpt:

"God is cruel. Sometimes he makes you live.", Stephen King

---

PLINK!

The sharp noise echoing through the alley pulled me back to reality. I was still far away, but just seeing the door, lonely at the end of the corridor, lit only by a broken LED strip that occasionally sparked, gave me goosebumps. The rain had started, and I was still there, hesitant. I took my backpack off my shoulders, my hands soaked and trembling with cold, struggling to free the umbrella. Again, I heard the same sound; it was a drip from a leak in the building next door. The rusty sheet formed a sort of slide that dropped those small, pointed, cold drops into the empty metal of the trash can.

PLINK!

PLINK!

PLINK!

A little over a week ago, I was finishing my shift; an ordinary day, somewhat tiring, but nothing notable in a hospital setting. Just as I was about to grab my backpack and leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Diana, we need to talk." It was my boss, damn it.

We didn't get along much; I usually chose the early morning shifts... or, as everyone here calls it, "the fucked-up shift." It's only for those who need urgent money and are willing to sacrifice their sleep and mental health for a mere fifteen dollars an hour.

My boss had his face fixed on me; his wart moved as his mouth did; it was hypnotic, to be honest. He pulled a sheet from a large, faded folder and started signing it; then he bent down to reach a drawer and pulled out a checkbook, signing the check again.

"I'm very sorry, but we have more staff than needed. You're fired; here is your severance. I wish you the best."

I didn't know what to say, just nodded and headed to my car. I threw my backpack on the back seat; the metal handle of the umbrella clanged against the car door. I hit my head on the steering wheel and sobbed, my fingers digging into my scalp.

What am I going to do?

My sister... she, she wasn't well.

Since childhood, she had been severely ill, sick with something complex that weakens her every day.

I can count on my fingers the times I saw my sister full of life. We spent years with the hospital as our second home, and when she turned twelve, she had to be hospitalized indefinitely.

Since I turned legal age, I took nursing courses and passed with great effort and dark circles under my eyes. Right after that, I got a minimum wage job, but it was better than nothing. I had to help my parents with my sister's hospital fees. After my unfortunate dismissal, I wandered the city's job market available for nurses, but I thought my path was over, or so I believed.

In my last interview (or attempt), I saw a man watching me from afar; he wore a black hat and a brown trench coat. Obviously, I kept my distance, but somehow, he shortened the path and saw me leaving the Metropolitan Hospital. He just handed me a small sheet and left into the night.

The sheet only had an address, which is where I am now, and the phrase: "Here, you will never worry about money again."

And here I am: in the wolf's mouth. I took a breath and exhaled. I walked slowly to the door, the echoes of the dripping still sounding; I knocked on the door with a rhythm, connecting the drip's melody with the knock of my fist.

KNOCK!

KNOCK!

KNOCK!

Nothing happened, no movement. The door was steel, gray, with a small old grate. I waited who knows how long there; when I finally turned around, I heard the heavy hinge of the grate opening.

"Welcome. Your interview starts now," a heavy voice responded from the other side.

I swallowed.

The screech deafened the entire alley; it was clear the place urgently needed maintenance. The friction of the door against the floor sent chills down my spine. The first details I saw inside were a kind of dull green offices, a green mixed with brown that conveyed monotony, lit by the classic white lights you find in any hospital.

The common area dazzled me: spacious but messy; only a few chairs placed without much care and an old TV broadcasting a soap opera. Across were the metal stretchers, placed against each other and against the wall, with mattresses covered in blue surgical fabric. Several had little tables with jars and all medical equipment in open drawers. A couple of patients lay motionless; I had to look twice to make sure they weren’t mannequins. Only one muttered. I tried to approach to check his status, but the man who opened the door pointed to a door at the end of the building.

"Follow me." His voice was warmer this time.

He took a key from his pocket, turned it twice, pushed hard, and with a shoulder shove, the door opened. He rubbed his shoulder to ease the pain and raised his hand toward a chair in the office.

"Take a seat, Diana, I'll soon give you your contract."

He pulled from under his desk a yellowed file. It was my dismissal over and over. The world has that sense of humor.

I started reading it over and over; there were terms I didn't understand. I opened it.

At first, it was no different from any other work contract, but as I read, safety warnings, confidentiality clauses, and unorthodox security measures stood out. There were fragments I didn't understand; terms like "captive guard," "revitalizing therapy," and "irreversible process" kept popping up.

The man stared at me desperately, his foot tapping the metal desk. I had a headache. What had I gotten into? I couldn't just quit; I had to commit to this job, if it could be called that.

He continued tapping his foot against the desk leg.

CLANK!

CLANK!

CLANK!

"Any problem, miss? I'm here to serve you."

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be signing. What would I do here?"

The boss adjusted his shirt, rested his arms on his chin, and leaned over the desk, coming closer to me. A cold electric line ran through my body.

He opened the folder, spreading papers all over the desk.

"Look, miss, your role here won't be very different from your past nursing experiences. Take care of patients, do your shifts, the usual. But..."

He took a sip of his coffee.

"We're a privately founded clinic, and our interests are those of the sponsor. Your mission is to explore the effects of certain medicines or drugs not yet released to the public; you will be in charge of seeing how far the patients can go."

I was stunned. Once I signed, I'd become a walking reaper, only lurking around the poor souls trapped here, counting their days until death. I was going to get out of here, damn it; if I couldn't be a nurse with dignity, I'd try something else: a call center, a teacher, fast food worker. Anything but this madness.

I got up immediately; when I was about to push the heavy door, a sound stopped me.

"Twenty thousand."

I turned quickly; my fingertips slowly released the handle.

If what I thought was true, I couldn't afford my righteous morality to make me lose so much money. My sister needed it. I still held hope she'd recover and we'd travel the Caribbean together, just the two of us after so long.

"Excuse me?"

"Twenty thousand dollars a month. Much more than your sister needs; enough to pay for her treatment with a top specialist. Diana, trust me, your little María will be safe."

"How do you know my sister's name is María?"

"Believe me, I know more than you could understand. Now, are you in?" he said as he shook my hand.

I still wonder how my hand shook his so fast; it was rough, like a file; it even scraped me. He squeezed firmly, not letting me reconsider. When I saw his eyes, I knew; this job tied me to him, I'd dug my grave myself. Great.

He asked me to wait in a small room next to his office while he prepared his instruments. I didn't want to sit; I was nauseous now; just seeing the putrid green of the place made me want to run, but I couldn't, so I settled for looking around.

The ceiling lights flickered irregularly, making the place even more eerie if that was possible. Suddenly, from the stretchers I'd seen at the entrance, a muffled scream sounded, like someone shouting but being silenced. Then a sharp thud.

My new boss came out of his office as if nothing had happened. He wore a folder, an ID, and a mint green clinical uniform.

"Damn, that's a lot of paperwork noise."

My boss responded as if it was any other Sunday and took another sip of his coffee.

I turned pretending not to have heard anything. I didn't want to get into another conversation with that guy. He walked to me and handed me the plastic folder and ID, along with a wrinkled uniform in a half-torn plastic bag.

"Congratulations, Diana, you start tomorrow. Be here before six. And..." —he paused briefly— "due to staff shortage, you'll have night duty. You'll be accompanying one of our longest-serving employees; he'll guide you through everything you need. Rest well; you'll need it."

He patted me on the back, and I swear, I was a second away from slapping it away, but I had to stop.

The rain had returned when I left. I walked several blocks, nearly getting run over several times, until I found a taxi, contract safely in my bag.

The temptation to tell the driver I wanted to go to another city and start over was stupidly real.

But every time I thought about it, I saw María suffering. And I could do nothing but do everything I could for her, even if that meant working in this dump. I just got to bed and collapsed.

The next day, I arrived ten minutes before six. The building looked even more sinister under the autumn fog; the same broken LED strip crackled just like the first time; it was a captivating sight, I must admit. I knocked twice on the metal door before the grate opened. This time it wasn't the boss who received me but what I supposed was the guard, who opened the door. He wore a khaki uniform, a faded plastic tag, and a revolver hanging from his belt.

"Come in," he said without looking up.

Inside, the light was brighter than the previous night; I guessed the morning shift was so tired the light burned. I barely took a step when the smell hit me immediately.

My eyes began to water, and my stomach churned: sulfur, moisture, something like unrefrigerated meat, and something sweet; the cherry on top. I covered my mouth expecting to gag but never did; I guess that's the advantage of not having breakfast. Passing the receiver, a thin nurse with deep dark circles and a red and yellow stained gown greeted me. I didn't want to ask.

"You're with me today; don't touch anything unless I say so. Don't talk to anyone unless strictly necessary; you're not here to make friends. Meléndez, you're here to record and store data, nothing else. Understood?"

I just gave a stupid look and nodded.

We began my tour down a narrow corridor where the doors, submarine-like, also metallic, slightly rusty, with circular windows that let us see the patients inside were numbered, with mysterious nomenclatures I didn't understand. I was going to ask my superior, but he seemed impatient. At one window, I saw a patient tied to a stretcher, chest heaving, his gown soaked with sweat, several syringes inserted in his skin.

The doctors just took notes and kept administering fluid.

"Don't ask, trust me," Ricardo muttered, noticing my stare.

In another room, two doctors injected a nearly glowing green liquid into a dosing machine connected to an unconscious patient. The machine monitoring vital signs beeped irregularly: long, short, total silence, over and over.

Ricardo stopped at the window and made a clock-like gesture with his hand; a doctor inside raised five fingers. As we advanced, I heard sobbing from the last door in the hall. Ricardo gently pushed me to keep walking.

Finally, we reached a common room with barely two free stretchers. On one lay a middle-aged man, extremely thin, eyes open but expressionless. A monitor showed irregular but constant heartbeats. The intravenous drip's falling drops were the only reminder this was no nightmare.

"You'll watch this patient as part of your shift. He doesn’t need food. Just make sure vital signs remain steady and the drip doesn’t stop; if you see anything strange, note it first and then tell me." —he pointed to a transparent bag with viscous amber fluid— "If it empties, call me immediately."

When he left, I was alone with the man under the greenish light. He blinked slowly, took my almost skeletal hand and held my forearm. I barely heard his whisper with his barely left strength.

"Help me..."

I froze. The sound of the drip hitting his arm seemed like a pacemaker. Like a ticking clock demanding I act quickly, pushing me to help this poor man I had to care for. But what if I got fired for helping him?

"Help me..." he repeated.

I didn't know if the voice was real or just my mind playing tricks; let's say stress, despair, hunger, and lack of sleep are a bad combo, and hallucinations wouldn’t be far-fetched. My brain screamed I shouldn't touch or do anything; I had signed a contract to only watch and record, nothing more. But why the hell did my heart tell me otherwise?

I had to focus. But his face, almost skeletal, stained and dehydrated, reminded me of when my sister had one of her attacks. Both were inside a cocoon with no near escape; they could only see the world without the world noticing them.

My foot started moving side to side; I looked at the drip. The amber liquid fell slowly, and he began to shake and grimace in pain like being poked.

"It’s not your problem, Diana. Calm down, finish your shift, gather enough money, and you and María will be far from here soon." I tried to repeat it, but another part of me seemed to want to silence that thought.

A sea of cold sweat poured over me; I even started shaking. I felt my breathing quicken, suffocating. The voice that silenced my plan to do nothing whispered firmly, "Do you really want to carry someone’s death on your shoulders?"

With a quick move, I closed the drip valve.

The flow stopped gradually until no drop remained in the tube. At first, nothing happened; he stayed as hurt and weak. Slowly, his vital signs improved; his breathing resumed, and his eyes finally opened. They looked into my soul; I feared what would come next. I was scared, but he smiled at me. I left the room for fresh air, or at least to not be trapped there with my thoughts longer.

I did the right thing, didn’t I, María?

I walked to the bathroom at the end of the hall. The echo of my steps mixed with the ticks of all the machines. It seemed like the lamps followed me, burning my eyes and making me dizzy.

Inside the bathroom, the mirror, stained white, and the chemical smell burned my nose, but it was better than being in there. I washed my hands slowly and then sat in a corner; I tried not to cry then and there.

That’s when I heard it.

A guttural scream from the ward. Then a thud like a wet cloth falling from a table. That thing was dragging itself, and right after, a vital signs monitor fell to the floor.

I froze.

I headed to the entrance where the guards were supposed to be, where I saw the guard who had let me in that morning walking around; they had to be there. But they weren't. The security desk was empty, with half-drunk cold coffee cups and a pair of dented beer cans on the floor, piled between their chairs.

"Hello!?" I screamed, but my voice barely escaped my body. I looked around, thinking they might be wandering the building, but again, nothing. It would be too easy for me, and if I’ve learned anything in my short time here, it’s that nothing will be easy..."

–Read more in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

The sun had already set, and the moon, with its calm presence, spread across all of Nevada. The silence was immeasurable, but this was unnatural; the crickets hid silently beneath rocks, every animal had taken refuge, and even the wind understood that its silence would bring peace, at least to the unfortunate souls who would lose their lives today.

A group of students hurriedly ran deeper into the forest, their terrified faces growing more evident with each step until they stopped to rest near a giant tree.

“Are you sure about this?” one boy asked, constantly scanning the surroundings with his eyes.

“It’s better not to risk being blamed; it’s preferable to escape than to wait and see who will take the punishment,” explained the girl. “I’m not willing to risk that.”

“Putting that aside, how much farther until we get out of here?”

“The nearest town is 20 miles away.”

A rough voice emerged from the darkness of the forest, revealing a man dressed as a chef. His uniform was impeccably clean, even under the moonlight there wasn’t a single stain. The man absentmindedly fiddled with his red neckerchief, but a sad glow shimmered in his eyes. For him, he was not in a forest; his mind remained in a grand mansion with a banquet laid out before him.

The students stepped back slightly, shocked by the man’s presence. They had seen him before — the head chef of Great Days, a very solitary person who avoided contact with anyone outside his family or close circle.

“You broke a rule as Great Days students, but… I don’t want to fall again,” the man exclaimed, his gaze growing increasingly weary. “So please, run. I don’t want to be your predator this time.”

Without hesitation, they began running from him, while he simply sat on the ground watching them flee. The two students kept running.

[Felix Dracon]

“They’re here,” murmured one boy.

“We’ll be fine as long as we don’t run into the others.”

“The worrying part isn’t that, it’s—”

The boy couldn’t finish before a rope wrapped around his neck, lifting him into the air above the treetops.

They watched as a shape emerged from the leaves, crashing into the boy. Realizing it was too late, the boy exploded into a thousand pieces. His fragments fell like raindrops.

At that moment, the students realized—they were nothing but deer before these hunters.

They kept running, ignoring the footsteps behind them, until suddenly a tree trunk flew through the air in front of them. Most dodged it, but one was impaled and died instantly.

“So easy,” said one of the strongest members of the reform committee, Nathan, stepping out from the trees. “Are you interested in this, brother Areus?”

Another figure emerged, completely wrapped in black bandages. The clothing over the bandages was stained with grease and dust. Even through the wrappings, a smile of total satisfaction could be seen.

“Laura Mauriel Garcia, sentenced to life for animal abuse and human torture,” said Areus. “Gerson Greenbull, twenty years for illegal substance sales and assassination, Gil Tan, life for illegal drug and weapon sales, indirect culprit of ten shootings—they’re the only ones I care about. The rest, kill if you can.”

The group turned toward the three named with doubtful expressions, each trying not to take their eyes off those two figures.

“Your Goshkets are impressive,” Areus continued. “Let me reach your perfection.”

Before anyone could react, Areus vanished, then a fleshy, liquid sound hit the ground behind them. Turning, they saw one of the named had fallen to his knees, a deep slice across his stomach bleeding like a fountain. Areus wrapped the wound in his bandages, stained with blood, like a small gift.

“What beauty,” Areus exclaimed, turning his head toward the students.

“Run. They can’t catch us all,” shouted one student.

At once, the students scattered, leaving Areus and Nathan alone. The former looked disappointed but soon turned to Nathan, who was about to collapse, his eyelids shutting.

“Hey Nathan,” Areus approached. “I think you should go rest. Raquel, Erick, and Luna are already in position, our work is done.”

“I can’t sleep yet. I have to supervise the pupils’ meeting.”

“Relax. Perfection isn’t reached by overexertion.”

“And that—”

Nathan fell into a deep sleep on the grass while Areus watched, then burst into uncontrollable laughter at the irony of a killer going to sleep with the angels after impaling someone with a tree trunk.

[Areus Dracon/Nathan Dracon]

Meanwhile, a duo of students ran, one helping guide the other whose eyes were bloodshot and full of blood.

“How are you holding up?” whispered the guide.

“I’m fine. I can continue.”

Bang.

A single shot, distant yet terrifyingly close, caused the guided student to collapse motionless. The blind girl felt her companion’s hand slip weakly away, followed by a thud as something metallic hit her neck. Without her guide, she too fell, something metallic striking her head.

“Thank you, for giving a piece of your life for him,” said a voice.

Bang.

The girl’s body dropped near her companion as a kneeling figure prayed beside the mercilessly slain, his eyes empty but filled with sorrow and fatigue.

[Erick Dracon]

Farther off, other students heard the shot but were close to the edge of the forest, the road in sight, so they couldn’t stop for the commotion. Suddenly, a red-haired man appeared, blocking their path. He struck one student with a blow that shattered his face.

All stopped, staring into the man’s angry, veined eyes...."

–Read more in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

Return. Second. Third. Fourth. I get up. Early morning. I go to the bathroom. I urinate. Three hours without being able to sleep. Maybe more. I don’t know. There are no noises in the house. Everyone is sleeping. I open the curtains. Darkness. Moon. There isn’t one. Silence. It’s cold. Silence. There is no one shouting, no one reprimanding, no one saying anything. There are no prohibitions. Silence. Blue hour. I can’t sleep. A car passing sounds in the distance. A siren sounds. Someone must be dying. Maybe someone is going to prison. Maybe someone just wants to turn on their siren. I get up. I go out. I sit. On the stairs. I look through the window. Lights. Street. Garbage truck. Garbage collectors. Only at this hour. It disappears. The truck. Contemplate the tree on the corner. Try to recognize some tree that I climbed as a child. See how everything changes at this hour. I recognize the most important one. It seems like it was in another place, as if it had been another time when I sat on those branches. A dirty tree. A dirty park. I rest my head on the wall. I curl up.

When was the first time I did this? When did I decide to spend the whole night looking out a window? Deep down I am still a scared child. Scared of what? I didn’t know then. Now I do. I am afraid of living with a huge emptiness for the rest of my life. An emptiness created by anxiety that eats me from within. A kind of beast that needs to create to feed itself, and if it doesn’t create, it will eat me alive. I look at the sky again. When did I decide to spend the whole night looking out a window?

Back then I went to sleep very, very early. It wasn’t to be awake at dawn, it wasn’t to look through the window and see dark trees, it wasn’t to try to imagine a different time or place. It was to be awake when no one else was. To be alone. Without anyone who thinks they know what is best for me better than I do. Do I know what is best for me? Now I do. If not, I wouldn’t feel this now.

Freedom.

With the window wide open to see the sky. I close my eyes. I try to sleep. If they find me sleeping here, what will they say? I can’t sleep. I open my eyes. I can see. What was I doing before at these moments? Playing, playing and playing. Hidden in my room. Without making much noise; not after the times I have been hit.

Shit.

Why do I keep thinking about this? Almost everyone I know doesn’t get caught up in these kinds of things. I don’t know anyone who gets caught up in these kinds of things. They go on with their lives without the flu chasing them. Maybe they feel the same as me. Maybe they go through the same thing. Maybe they don’t dare to tell anyone either. Maybe we all try to fool ourselves. I hold my right shoulder. I lean more.

I want to sleep.

Quietly, I played and no one disturbed me. At least until the sun was fully up. It’s part of a process. Feeling like this is part of a process. It has to be that. At some point I will stop sitting on the stairs at dawn. I will sleep. I will wake up. After that, back to school, back to the noise, back to existence, back to being someone, back to being vomited into the world. Silence. Lights. Street. Tree. The love for silence. I sigh.

I want to sleep.

I hope tiredness finally conquers me. I love silence. Other people get uncomfortable when I stay silent. They have to learn to enjoy it. One star. Two stars. Three stars. I don’t see any more. There are never more. The silence during the early mornings was the only thing I considered mine until I lost that too. Maybe I didn’t need it anymore. Why again now? No, it was last year that I started this again. I should have finished already. Where is that child? What happened to him? When did I lose myself? When did I stop being like that? Before I only enjoyed. Why can’t I look outside now like I did before without having to think about something sooner or later? Why do I always have to end up remembering what I used to do or who I was knowing I already stopped doing it or I am no longer like that?

Shit.

At some point, innocence disappeared for some reason or someone. They sent it to hell. Maybe I don’t feel comfortable noticing all the years that have passed and I don’t remember anything important, nothing significant I have done. No, she is important, she means something. My drawings, my creations are important too. It’s this hour that makes me feel like this. I could share this moment with her. No, not this one. Another different one. One in which I don’t feel lost. One in which I don’t lock myself in. I could tell her all this. Would she understand?

I hope so.

It’s a bond I don’t have with her. It’s that special relationship that exists between the first moments of the day and me. It’s sitting on the stairs leaning against the wall and feeling how I have been in this same place at different ages. That’s it. But this sky always reflects the emptiness I have. No, I don’t have emptiness.

What do I have?

Maybe it is the knowledge that I cannot decide what to do with my life. That in truth it never depended on me. Yet still being naive. And thinking I could choose. Reality is very harsh. Why is this society like this? What do I have that is really mine?

I have to create the bond with her. Maybe I am afraid. Knowing that I could have wasted time. But I am with her now. That is not wasted time. It will never be. I keep feeling that I am clinging to a past. Believing that any moment in which I was more innocent is better. That has nothing to do with her anymore. That is a problem I don’t know how to solve.

Believing that being unconscious, being ignorant, realizing only tiny things is the best way of living there is. I think the more I know or understand the worse I feel. Even love disappears. It always disappears. No, this love remains. It stays.

At this hour is when I doubt whether I really love someone or not. But I am thinking of her. If her image doesn’t come to my mind, I don’t care, it is a silly relationship doomed to die; if her image appears, I care. Only her image has appeared at this moment.

–Read more in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

"A fan of golden rays lights up the sunset, red and scarcely silent, disturbed only by the vision of a meteor descending from the heavens until reaching the height of the bay; its inevitable passage stirs a general sense of alarm that can be felt throughout the expanse. Birds scatter and fly to hide in the cliffs; others, crouched beneath the rocks, watch as the fiery tail grows longer, tracing an arc that collapses into the turquoise ocean.

The impact is mute, freed of doubts and reasons; within seconds, a furious mushroom cloud rises from the waters, slicing them diametrically with nothing and no one able to interrupt its path through the foamy mantle. The nearby coast silently endures the blows of its devastating power.

The plume dissolves, but leaves behind a tall and arcane figure, resembling a totem, anchored in the middle of the coast, which the sun, backlighting it, turns into a phantasmagorical shadow. It measures at least thirty meters in height; its configuration is fearsome and regal.

The titan rises toward the center of the vault; it spins on its axis, again and again. With measured timing, it descends the way it came and remains there, motionless, among the waves. Without confusion, it begins its slow march toward the beach.

With each step it takes, the waters churn and form turbulent spirals that transform into a high wall beneath its feet. When it reaches the shore, a human consciousness is revealed upon its face: indeed, it is one of the first human beings who would evolve into a virtual and mechanical entity in pursuit of legendary Promethean immortality; in other words, a being the epic chants describe as a primordial robot. It removes a box from a hidden compartment. It is a survival capsule. It lays it on the sand and opens it. A Gaian lies inside. He is the young Darian Janov.

“Wake up,” urges the metallic cyclops with a thunderous voice. “There is little time left.”

The Gaian seems dead; his face, clear and charismatic, at last wrinkles and his stomach heaves with force; he comes back to life. His aura exudes restraint and patience, but also firmness and determination.

“Ruwa…” he articulates, drowsy, breathing deeply; he possesses an auditory device that enables him to clearly hear the colossus’s voice. “The moment has come, hasn’t it?”

The giant nods and contemplates the fragility of his companion: he understands that within it lies his strength. “He possesses no physical capacity for hand-to-hand combat, but his intelligence and common sense ultimately compensate for any of his shortcomings.”

He raises his gaze, and what he sees troubles him: The sky begins to fill with hundreds of storm clouds, from whose shadows protrude laser cannons. They are gravitational warships belonging to the Twelfth Kybernes Legion of the Argernan Army, murderous glory of Emperor Killary III. It is led by the decorated General Hakan Grandou, a man fond of the hollow quill he uses to chronicle himself battling in heroic and adventurous events; he seeks, above all, through long, tedious, and unreadable narratives, to convince the Court and high officials of his incomparability as a paradigmatic strategist. So far, things have gone well for him, but he has begun to strain the emperor’s goodwill.

He has come to complete his mission and to inflict a penalty. He pursues with zeal what he considers his greatest prize—supreme embodiment of the ambitions that will consecrate him in the Argernan annals—the capture of the leader of the Galactic Resistance, Darian Janov, and of the primordial robot, Ruwa, who not long ago had escaped him after an epic battle fought in the center of the galaxy.

Haughty and vain, he descends in a small frigate detached from a mothership destroyer; he retains a certain respect for the fugitives; he positions the ship between the beach and his legion. A door lifts and from the depths emerges the vigorous cybernetic entity of the general. His luminous arm stands out, also famed for shattering with a single shot the greatest enemies of the Argernan people, while he delivers a well-worn harangue that turns vain intellectualism into something practical and effective.

“The winners will make of the losers whatever they wish. The greatest philosophers of bellum justify this procedure by invoking the right of conquest; yet I, for the love of divine justice and palatine greatness, disagree. I strive, if the enemy is even greater than myself, first to remedy matters with dialogue, chains, and the dungeon; lastly, if words grow short and emotion grows long, I relieve their unworthy suffering with the application of a painless death.”

He often embellishes his literary style with a mix of romanticism and barbarity when speaking of the affairs of war:

“In the crafts of conflagration, as in those of love, the course of events is always subject to the most trivial causes. Thus, let us not be so reckless as to dare tempt fate, and instead let fools remain convinced that what matters is the plan and the theory. Sometimes glory does not understand waits nor formalities, as the prehistoric commander Comporilliov well understood when he attacked the Relvetics who refused to fight because the moon had not yet reached fullness.”

With a tempered, slightly sardonic voice, his imposing appearance contradicts his charming personality. For a warrior like him, Darian Janov is an insignificant being. But he bears no such feelings toward Ruwa; he fears him for his warlike might. Thus, with careful words, perhaps to soften the heart of his enemy, he addresses his now prisoners:

“My adversaries, receive from the Empire and from General Hakan Grandou a warm salutation.”

He receives, almost rudely, an indifferent reply. Janov’s sharp expression makes him reconsider his words; Ruwa remains absorbed, silent, without this causing the general any anguish.

“I am pleased to state,” he continues with his exordium, “that in all my military career I have never had the honor of facing rivals so formidable. You have fought without fear, which is worthy, if we take into account your natural inferiority and my intrepid attributes. I must confess that I was not prepared to face you, and that such carelessness nearly cost me half my legions. It will not happen again. At last I have captured you.”

Ruwa lifts his head and points it toward the splinter of the region of the Great Rift. Janov remains imperturbable, without averting his gaze for even a second, capturing all his attention.

“I am a reasonable man,” he continues. “I have battled in the most violent campaigns against the Gaians and their allies, whom we conquered with almost no effort; I have subdued vast regions of the Milky Way, including those beyond its disk, last refuge of humanity; I have renounced the triumph owed to me and have punished with strength and without complaint the insolence of the insurgents. All in the name of the emperor of Galaxy, Killary III, ‘The Obstinate,’ proclaiming with the ardor of a believer and the fanaticism of a subject the truth of his good news about the union and solidification of a new empire that offers justice, peace, and planets to all its citizens, not just to a privileged few.

“But until now no one had ever presented such opposition, impressing me as you have done. Your capacity to withstand the pains of discouragement and the scorn of failure is a quality difficult to possess and to endure, even more than death itself, and reveals before my eyes the grandeur of your soldierly spirit. You could even consecrate yourselves within the ranks of my space legions. Thus, resentment is far from my thoughts; nor do I seek vengeance. In gratitude for your display of valor, I offer you a second chance to live.”

Ruwa and the young Janov remain silent. The latter receives a wireless message from Ruwa and proceeds to lift his arm, touch a button located in the right pocket of his suit, and emit a signal that disappears into space.

The general, absorbed in his triumphalism, asks himself: What will they decide now that they stand at the edge of death?

Hence he interprets the Gaian’s gesture as a kind of peaceful submission; however, with the skill born of years, mechanically, mistrusting even himself, he orders one of his officers:

“Find out the status of my troops deployed along the orbit of the planet Ciberion.”

The officer replies with a terse report: “No setbacks, my lord.”

Now confident in the gallantry of his army, the general does not wish to delay his old ritual of submission: he extends his hand and displays his splendid iron ring shaped like a phallus, which for him represents the highest creative expression of Nature, a rare and surprising intellectual sharpness on his part, if we consider that most of his body is composed of robotic components. Turning his head to one side, he makes a gesture of offering it to them, convinced that such mercy is worthy of his rank and treatment.

“Kiss it,” he says with a benevolent smile, “and you shall have my mercy.

“Otherwise, long darkness awaits you,” he concludes, consumed by a trace of histrionic pride.

His words disturb no one, which astonishes him; he arches his eyebrows as he broods due to his martial mordacity. He feels obliged to respond with punishments, but his spirit of letters and philosophy restrains him. He is intrigued with great surprise by the serenity of their souls, their iron will to destiny, and above all their warrior skill, which nearly caused him to fall in open space. “Even surrounded and trapped by the most lethal weapons and men, they do not yield in principle, nor did they cower when they faced an army a hundred times larger.”

Now that he has them before him, he tells himself that their end had come at the hands of the Sulmakian order, the feudal order of the Argernan lower nobility, from whom nothing was expected but complaints and lamentations.

Once again he convinces himself that his aphorisms have not failed him. By pure chance, while making an official and tributary visit to the region of the Sagittarius Great Rift, specifically to the planet Ciberion—capital of the Allied Confederation of Sulmaki, occupied during the third wave of the Andromedean invasion of Galaxy, the former empire of Gaia—his Sulmakian nobles had knelt before him, begging with tears and utter distress that he strike against the rebels of the Resistance. They had taken refuge in that cosmic splinter jutting from the galactic arm plane. The fallen nobles argued that this was nothing but a ruse to prepare an assault on the imperial capital located in the milky bulge.

Which translated to the claim that the rebels had not hesitated to recapture confederate planets with the aid of natives, appropriating all their cities and leaving the Argernan aristocracy exposed to the harsh rigor of aboriginal tyranny—an ill omen for an empire that prided itself on being relentless and unbeatable. Their Gaian leader, Darian Janov, they said, was a barbaric, irate, and reckless man, and his despotism could no longer be endured. They also said he was a kind of sorcerer before whom all bold ones fell who dared face him. If Emperor Killary III did not find a prompt solution, the Argernans stationed there would be forced to abandon the confederation in favor of more distant regions.

The general, with good political sense and aware of the debacle, consoled them with forceful reasons, swearing that he would take charge of the problems that so fiercely afflicted them. Eyes on the horizon, he confided that he harbored firm hope of restoring to each one their benefits, authority, and full plenitude of royal rights. This would put an end to so much violence and bring the long-awaited peace.

“A stroke of luck,” he told himself once far from those effeminate envoys. “I have the leaders of the Resistance within arm’s reach. As great general of the veteran legions, this grants me the popular momentum necessary to go as far as the throne of Galaxy itself.”

Seeing the opportunity for gain, he struck against the rebels, laying a trap involving double agents of the confederation army. It was not difficult to lure them. Even Janov himself had shown up to make war, which the general resolved in minutes after an epic battle. Unexpectedly, the Gaian leader changed his mind and found no other escape from defeat than retreat; he abandoned his people, who soon fled amid the chaos... "

*–-Please read more in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–- *

3. I Want to Write

I want to write— it’s simply that I want to write.

I want to leave something behind before I truly become mentally ill, or before my sensitive nerves disappear.

How curious: when I tried to type “消失” (to disappear) in pinyin, (1) the computer suggested “小时” (hour). It also knows that all this has to do with time.

“消逝” —to fade away— is also about time. (2)

Maybe I’ll never become a great writer; I feel it with a soft kind of sadness.

My writing lacks planning, it’s too random.

Is relying solely on passion unreliable?

I pay attention to the footsteps in the hospital hallway… Is that wrong?

My parents want me to think less, to be brighter, happier. And so does E.

When I type “bright” and “happy,” the computer suggests “almost” (“快了”). (2)

I hope. I keep hoping.

Now it’s already dark.

A rain that’s about to fall but never falls, and the sound of muffled thunder.

I remember that as a child I loved those midday storms, when everything suddenly turned dark.

I would sit quietly in my room, doing anything at all, and I felt safe.

I’m going to get rid of this feeling of strangeness, I’m going to forget everything, and simply live.

I love this world so much.

(1) Pinyin (拼音) is the romanization of Chinese characters based on their pronunciation. In Mandarin, “Pin Yin” literally means “to spell the sound,” that is, writing Chinese words using letters of the English alphabet.

(2) The words “disappear (消失),” “hour (小时),” and “fade away (消逝)” sound similar in Chinese; the same happens with “happy (快乐)” and “almost (快了).”

4. To Die and Be Reborn

If you don’t go looking for trouble, trouble won’t come to you. My medical report shows that quite well.

Some strange results came up; it seems I once had hepatitis B.

The doctor said that, luckily, the antigen is negative. It’s just that I have an absurd amount of antibodies.

The normal value is something like ten, but I have over three hundred.

My mother said it means that hepatitis B fought a battle in my body, my body fought back, and when it won, it left these antibodies.

The doctor said having many antibodies is good, that it means strong defense against hepatitis B.

But even so, it means that at some point I was infected.

To die and be reborn. Just thinking about it is frightening.

How can I live better? I’ve always been bad at living.

Relax, relax. Maybe I’m gripping everything too tightly.

---

Image credit: Estefano Burmistrov

---–Read in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Bored translation:

Trying to Tear Down the Wall

I need to talk to you both.

Has something bad happened at school? Are you okay?

I’m fine, and school is going well. It’s not about that.

Then what happened to you?

Nothing happened to me. I just want to tell you that I still want to study art.

Again with the same thing? Didn’t you understand the last time that if you study that, you’ll starve to death? That you can only make a living from art if you’re the child of someone rich or well-connected? Wanting it isn’t enough. You won’t achieve anything doing something that won’t even put food on the table. We had already agreed that you were going to study architecture.

But I don’t want to design houses. I want to draw, I want to paint.

You can do that in your free time. As a career, we’ve already told you no. Realize that it’s not profitable. We’re doing this for your own good. Stop thinking about it. Get that idea out of your head. Forget it. That’s not a job.

But…

No! Understand once and for all! You are NOT going to study art!

But…

No! Go to your room!

But…

Stop insisting! It’s already enough that we let you do whatever you want with the walls in your room. Keep pushing and we’ll paint over them so you learn your lesson.

But…

Enough! Go to your room!

--Read more in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com😁--

Excerpt:

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CHAPTER 41. THE CARD

“Life looks at us wanting to play.”

That’s what the little card said, placed on top of the napkin at Urban Sushi Bar Sibuya that midday. Ever since my work stay in Santiago de Chile in early 2012, I had become addicted to sushi, and now, sitting in front of that plate of perfectly aligned rolls, I couldn’t help thinking that phrase was more than a mere slogan: it was a challenge.

The sushi was arranged like a chessboard: small pieces, each with its own destiny. Salmon, avocado (known as palta in Chile), perfectly pressed rice, juicy ginger. Everything looked ordered, calculated, as if life were showing me that even in chaos there was a secret geometry. Chaos and order. Yin and Yang. Did that balance really exist? Or was the randomness of chaos literally the antithesis of order?

While the waiter set down some sexy curry rolls on the table, I thought that yes, life does play with us. It deals us cards and waits to see which one we’ll pick up. I took the chopsticks with a certain clumsiness, aware that my mind was elsewhere. The restaurant’s card remained in front of me, its phrase still echoing: “Life looks at us wanting to play.” What if the game had already started and I was the only one who didn’t know the rules? What if something similar to what happens in the series Alice in Borderland was taking place?

The phone buzzed on the table, bringing me back to reality. It was a message from Lisette: “don’t be late. Dinner is at nine.” There was no room for negotiation. The invitation had turned into an order disguised as courtesy. I put a roll in my mouth, trying to let the fresh taste of the fish calm me down. But all I felt was the pressure of the cards I had to turn over. Option A was the safety of catching the AVE and disappearing. Option B, the adventure, was facing that dinner which promised to be a minefield of insinuations, memories, and half-truths.

I arrived at the apartment five minutes early. I’ve never liked making people wait, nor being made to wait myself. I learned that from my father too. The Barcelona evening-night air still carried the city’s bustle, and in my hands I carried a bottle of wine I had just bought at Vila Viniteca in L’Illa Diagonal. The place, with its endless shelves and its aroma of wood and cork, had held me captive for a few moments, as if every bottle hid a story waiting to be told.

That was where a young, tall, blonde girl of extremely serene beauty and curious eyes recommended an Argentine Malbec to me. Her voice had the confidence of someone who knows what they’re talking about, and she spoke of the Uco Valley in Mendoza as if she had walked it herself, as if she could describe the sun caressing the vines and the cold wind coming down from the mountains. I listened, fascinated, and in the end I let myself be guided by her instinct. The bottle, with its pale and austere label, bore a name that felt more like an omen than a brand: El Enemigo (The Enemy). I held it carefully, aware that this wine was not just an accompaniment for the evening, but a symbol, a silent guest bringing its own mystery. As I climbed the stairs to the apartment, I thought that perhaps the name carried a warning, or maybe an irony: what enemy could be hiding in a wine that promised intensity and character?

I didn’t even have to knock. The door opened the moment I approached. Lisette greeted me with that smile that was never completely sincere: a gesture that seemed kind but always concealed a hint of calculation. She hugged me quickly and gave me a kiss that ran down my spine. She wore a tight black silk dress with a V-neckline that revealed just enough to spark the imagination. The light fabric, with its subtle sheen, slid over her skin like a second layer, marking every movement with natural grace. Matching it were high black heels that clicked firmly, almost hypnotically, against the floor as she walked. Long silver earrings swayed gently with each gesture, drawing the eye to her neck. On her wrist, a minimal bracelet—just a metallic glint that contrasted with the sobriety of the dress.

The clothes were not just an outfit: they were a statement. Every fold, every shimmer, every detail was arranged as part of the game that had begun with this dinner.

“Nice choice,” she said when she saw the bottle. “Though the name is a little unsettling, don’t you think?”

She took my hand and led me through the hallway of realities toward the living room.

The table had been set with almost theatrical precision. Two candles burned, plates arranged symmetrically, and a brand-new-looking linen tablecloth. Everything spoke of a dinner planned down to the smallest detail, as if every object had a role in the play about to unfold. She let the wine rest in the center, its pale label illuminated by the warm candlelight. El Enemigo seemed to watch us, like a third guest waiting for its turn to speak.

“Dinner for two?” I managed to say. “And the girls?”

Her gaze fixed on me, steady, as if searching for an answer beyond the obvious.

“Architect, this dinner is to thank you for everything you’ve done—and still do—for me. The girls went out tonight. It’s just you and me.” She paused. “Do you need anyone else?”

In that moment I understood this wouldn’t be a simple dinner. It was a board. And I, without having chosen it, was already in the game. The game had begun, and the phrase echoed again in my head: “Life looks at us wanting to play.”

We sat in the old chairs that had watched over that dining room since day one. The cork came out with a soft pop, and the aroma of the Malbec filled the air. We filled our glasses; the dark liquid slid smoothly, its purple reflection in the candlelight like a shared secret.

“The enemy…” she repeated, caressing the label with her fingertips. “Sometimes names hide truths we’d rather not say out loud.”

Her gaze settled on me, steady, with a glint that was anything but accidental. The silence grew thick, and when she handed me my glass her fingers lingered longer than necessary. A touch that burned like a spark.

“Let’s toast,” she said softly, almost in a whisper. “To enemies who become allies… or excellent lovers. Have you come to declare war on me?”

The glasses clinked gently, the sound like a shared heartbeat. She held my gaze while she drank, and the movement of her throat as she swallowed the wine was hypnotic. Lisette settled back in her chair, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness. The dress slid just a fraction, revealing a flash of skin.

“You know, some battles are worth fighting,” I said, entering her game. If we were going to play, we might as well play. Besides, since my “confinement” in Madrid I hadn’t been with a woman. Lisette had been the last.

“Reward?” she smiled, toying with the rim of her glass. “I’m curious to know what you expect to win.”

“Maybe it’s not about winning, but about losing… losing track of time, losing control.”

“That sounds dangerous.” She leaned forward, letting her perfume envelop me. “Though… sometimes the forbidden is what attracts us most.”

“And what we enjoy most. Like this wine: intense, dark, with a taste that lingers on the lips,” I said before taking another sip of the Argentine wine.

“Are you talking about the wine… or about me?” Lisette murmured.

The silence that followed spoke louder than words. The candles flickered, as if keeping time with the quickening scene.

“By the way,” she said with a mischievous smile, “you say losing control can be a pleasure… want me to prove it?”

“Maybe you already are. Every gesture of yours is a calculated move… and I’m falling right into your game.”

“Game?” Her fingers traced the edge of the table, moving toward my hand. “I don’t like rules. I prefer high stakes… where the risk is as great as the desire.”

The brush of her skin against mine lasted only an instant, but it was enough to make my pulse race. The dress shifted with every movement, revealing more than it concealed. The dining room was suddenly very, very warm.

“Then let’s toast to risk. To what begins with a wine and ends… who knows where.”“Perhaps in a place where words are no longer necessary,” Lisette...

--Read more in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com, an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt:

“Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim [He falls into Scylla while trying to avoid Charybdis].”
Homer, The Odyssey

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On January 15, 2007, after conducting some research in the subsoil of the Valley of the Emperors in Mexico, and following an uncomfortable three-hour flight in an old Tucano twin-engine plane, I was landing on the island of Roatán in the Central American Caribbean when I received a voicemail alert on my cell phone:

“My dear Bruno Colono, it is urgent that you contact me. Your presence in Moscow is mandatory. Call me as soon as possible to coordinate your arrival with the staff of the Marine Research Society. Your friend, Dimitri Pavlovich.”

Indeed, it was the powerful, impossibly lyrical Slavic voice of my friend Dimitri. I immediately remembered the wild nights in Russian land, soaked in vodka and mazurkas in the grachevka taverns, where we used to recite Pushkin’s poems and laugh uproariously at the charm of Afanasyev’s tales. And how could I forget the sweetest Olesya, that perfect girlfriend, a real Barbie doll, whom I had left behind with the deepest regret at old Abramovich’s house! Those were my best days. In those fabulous times, Dimitri and I had explored the Atlantic rifts, funded by the Russian government, mapping the abyssal floors, measuring their depths to make way for fiber-optic cables that would connect that country to the rest of the world. And most astonishing of all, we had done these dives with the help of an ancient bathyscaphe, the Thresler—a relic from the days of the great Piccard.

As soon as I stepped off the plane at Moscow airport, the Society’s staff welcomed me. One of them was Mr. Svyatoslav Chernov, a member of the Central Committee and an excellent marine geologist, and Mr. Yuri Kamkov, a submariner specialized in marine archaeology.

“Welcome,” Chernov greeted me in his schoolboy Spanish, kissing me on the cheek.

“Iá jarachó ravariú pa rússki,” I replied with a little smile.Kamkov, surprised, burst out laughing and hugged me, giving me another kiss. I asked about Dimitri, and they laughed again: “Oh, Pavlovich, on miédlenna guliáit!”—referring to the astonishing calm with which my friend usually faces everything.

We arrived at the Society’s building, a true masterpiece of Baroque architecture, and soon my eyes met Dimitri’s. He was waiting for me, leaning with arms crossed beside an archaic metal diving suit—none other than Fréminet’s famous “hydrostatergatic machine”!—smoking a cigarette.

“You’re standing before a monument!” I pointed out.

“In Russia everything is monumental!” Dimitri returned the greeting warmly. “Kak dela?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and extending his hand.

“Normalna,” I answered, and we embraced.We moved to a meeting room. Amid rolls of nautical charts, compasses, and measuring instruments, Chernov spoke..."

--Read more in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt:

"In the farthest distance, beyond the mountains, beyond the clouds.

A butterfly awoke whose brown eyes Are contemplated by beings I now envy.

In that paradise where an angelic being dwells, With her delicate flutterings she landed upon my life, Thus changing it forever.

Right now, her timid flutterings are far away, Very distant from me.In my memories remain bright colors That were part of her angelic physique.

Impotence floods my being, Wandering winds carried My presence to other horizons.

Leaving her thus, alone in a horrible world, Where the envy of our pure love Bred resentment in wounded beings Scarred by false love, Trying thereby to poison Our pristine feelings.

Nevertheless, our resilient love Will defeat the dark intentions Of the dark entities that Wish to see us succumb To their venom.

Today is a gray day, my only guide Is the memory of a divine gift, Her smile and her delicate flutterings Now absent, traveling hundreds of kilometers Crossing mountains, rivers, Highways and people who are unaware That the wind they feel Is feelings sent By an earthly deity to her beloved..."

--Read more in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt:

Ecstasy—that’s what it is, ecstasy. I don’t remember anything clearly; I had never felt anything like it. It’s a state of absolute, indescribable pleasure. What happened was a unique experience. I remember I wasn’t that drunk, yet I still couldn’t walk—I could only hear my heartbeat. I remember her blurred image above me; the sensations running through my body aren’t clear, yet it was pure pleasure. The confusion scares me, but not enough. It felt as if the universe was part of me, yet I belonged to nothing. It happened a while ago, and the effect still hasn’t worn off; it’s like being high.

...

--Read more in its original language, Castilian, at fictograma.com, an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt in English (the short story is in Spanish):

Did you know that everything makes a sound? Yes, everything.When they locked us all up because of a virus, I was alone for a long time, a very long time. In that time I discovered something: everything makes a sound. The first few months I tried to endure the solitude; there’s no person immune to loneliness, some just tolerate it better, but in the end they feel the same as all the other lonely people. With time I started talking to myself, then living on the internet, until I cut it off completely...

-Read in original text in the following url-

Fictograma is an open-source platform that serves to extend the reach of Spanish-language writers to the world.

1. In Psychiatry

A dark-haired girl, skin dark with a yellowish tone, sits sideways on the arm of a chair. Her long bangs fall downward, and she looks at me through her fingers, cautiously, warily...