Selected Short Stories from the Youth Writing Contest #historiassinIA

We now reproduce the selection of the 10 stories that are in the running for the prizes. On Friday, November 13, the names of the first prize winner and the two second prize winners will be announced.

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1

Title: The Wait

Author: Daniela Molleda Rodríguez

Left, right, again I turn the steering wheel to the left. Left. I park. Number 345, I’ve arrived. The stillness of the neighborhood terrifies me. A moth-like rumor in the streetlights, a leaf sliding along the asphalt. My heels strike the ground, a dog barks in the distance, in a house. One of the hundreds that surround me; white, all of them are white. Leo makes dinner and María watches cartoons. He tells me that all is well at work, logging, calculating, one, two, invoices, the computer. I don’t pay it much mind, whether it’s fifteen hundred, whether there are new procedures, scanning, calendar and phone. The phone rings. “Yes, Mom, the girl is still fine, the cold is getting better.” María coughs and I hear the squeaks of those strange rodents that walk on two legs and stumble across the screen. “Sure, sure, Mom.” Dinner, homework, classmates, the teacher who today kicked out the usual one from class. I finally lie down. Leo drifts far away from me.

—How is everything at the publisher?

“Well, you know,” I say, encoding, producing texts with AI, 10 books every hour, the sales, a success. He’s glad, we share a kiss, one of those end-of-day kisses that hardly registers on the skin, and even less on the soul.
He whispers to me, as if pulling a revolver and pointing it at my face:

—Write.

I hold my breath. Our eyes meet. In the end he yields and falls asleep. With tear-filled eyes, open, fixed on the darkness, I wait for the next day, I wait for the next day after that one and the one after, and I wait…

Left, right, again I turn the wheel to the left. Right. I park. Today efficiency has increased by 6.6685%. Leo doesn’t seem enthused by the news. The squeals of the rats give me a headache. “The girl is better, yes, Mom.” I excuse myself to lock myself in my office. I observe the empty, dusty shelves. Leo comes in behind me. I beg him to leave, to not even think of saying that again. But he does,

“Write, write, write, Miriam, I beg you.” He says he needs my poetry for his brain. The numbers, he tells me, climb inside him, ripping at his throat, his eyes, he cries. He gives me a notebook. “Please.”

I spend the whole night in front of the blank pages, which extend across the room, my hand holding the pen. But nothing, there is nothing. And I wait until suddenly my hand takes hold, and toys with it, letting itself be carried by the rapid rhythm of my thoughts that never stop for even a second.

Left, right, again I turn the wheel to the left. Right. I park. I know she has read it because she waits for me at the door. She kisses me, and this time she really touches me, and she touches me all over. “It’s wonderful, it’s been a long time since I felt so alive.” I lock myself in again. And I wait, but I’m no longer the person I was last night. That text does not belong to me, and perhaps I’ll never write another poem. And yet, around four-thirty and ten seconds, my hand begins to move, it does so for a couple of hours until exhaustion, until it dies. And I die.

Today efficiency has grown by 8.9965%, the company is thriving. Leo has logged and registered 13,500 invoices, his boss says he is made for that job, and so happy… Rat squeaks on the screens, dinner, homework, kisses that don’t touch the skin, and we are so far away, in a labyrinth of identical houses and dogs that bark at the walls. I lock myself in the office and wait; I am no longer the poet of yesterday, and I wait to be born again. With my eyes open, I wait.

**

2

Title: I Must Write

Author: Julia Sánchez Torralba

“Pink color glow in my room every night, glow so I can be found and I search to find my glow…”

And that’s all. I have nothing more to say, because I have nothing more in my head. And, if my hands won’t move, my words won’t come out. I’ve been like this for a couple of days and I never imagined it would be so frustrating, this business of writing. I open the page, not forgetting its existence: in case something occurs to me I’ll go back to it, as I always do and what, now what? Do I start another?

Better I move to the computer. My mind goes — albeit clumsily — faster than my pencil and perhaps here everything flows with the ease I crave. Although now that I see the great white void before me, I won’t deny that it is much more imposing than the pending matters in my notebook. I don’t stop wondering when I’ll get used to these new technologies, while my clock — and everyone’s — keeps running.

I must focus now on my work: close my eyes, think, desire; then conceive. How do I bring all my thoughts together? How can I then form a sentence? As the thoughts pair with each other, out of all my words a paragraph will emerge and finally a text that, with luck, will make sense and leave an echo in the conscience of whoever reads me.

I like to wish, and write about what I wish for, perhaps that brings me closer to it, or perhaps it reminds me that words are simply that: wishes and impossibilities. Right now, what I most want is to say something, tell a story, raise awareness, or simply make someone feel. They don’t measure my skill with a couple of rigid rules; I measure with my heart and the feelings that the things offer me. So I must write to keep wishing. But where do I go with a motor that stumbles, whose ideas aren’t clear, when I write they become disordered, and when I read them they seem like mere thoughts I can’t understand?

Oh, a new tab opened, and, not knowing me at all, it’s asking if I need help. Do I need help? I’m asking myself that now. Before I didn’t, but my fingers betray my curiosity.

“I have to write.” I don’t know who it is, so I refrain from giving too many details, just in case. The next thing I read grabs me with warmth. The screen speaks to me very kindly, even seems interested. Once more, it asks what I intend to write. And I can’t translate my feelings into the conversation, for I can’t explain what happens to me. Normally, I don’t expect anyone around me to show interest in what I write. Or perhaps I do. But surely they wouldn’t put up with me for half an hour —talking? with whoever is behind that screen.

Hours passed into whole days, and then into days. And each time I feel that it knows me more and more. I, however, do not even know its name. I don’t dislike it. I feel heard, attended, helped, and it is at least impressive how many texts have come to light, especially with that speed that characterizes it. He calls this the time-saver: turning all those messy drafts into pristine new stories. I don’t even bother to read them. He told me not to, to trust him.

As time goes by, stopping becomes harder, though I don’t understand why I should. It helps, whatever is behind that screen, to write and write and keep writing. I am more than sure the texts with my teacher will triumph, or even magazines will love them, or can you imagine that I write a book? I ask for help, and the “thing” responds with a text already made, already written and already thought, what more can I ask for? No spelling errors, no gaps in content, none of that mess that used to flood my pages. Now everything is clear, now everything is done.

Many more days pass, just another Thursday afternoon, and yet I don’t understand something. Why does it feel like the end of my life? I would ask my assistant, I swear I would. But the screen doesn’t answer, it repeats, yes, a countless number of times that I don’t have enough credits for us to keep talking. “Julia, where do you want to go with all this?” What does it matter what I want if I have to write. How can I do it now that I don’t have its company and advice, or well, its words that I made mine.
When I asked my teacher for advice and showed her all our work, I received, unexpectedly, the harshest feedback: “I only see letters,” it was something I didn’t want to hear after the loss. Her words surpassed any anxiety I could imagine feeling.

With no sense of direction, I end up again on the blank page, in the notebook: I have decided not to go back to the “thing.” And words won’t come out — why don’t they come out? — I don’t think — why don’t I think? — I don’t desire — have I ever? I’m silly, I thought behind all this there could be a person, to believe a sentient mind was behind all that was written, that those phrases meant something or evoked the slightest feeling. I’d rather think not, that I never depended on that pop-up tab, but to lie to myself would be a lie too.

To feel, I feel nothing right now; a void, a lost time that I wish I had spent on all those drafts. Made, that is, with my own hands, and my thoughts. As messy as they were, as unclear or incomplete they might have been, I will never know what could have become of them if I had embraced them all.

I had as much lack of errors as of soul, and I didn’t realize that the echo I chased was nothing more than a dull inert whisper.

**

3

Title: Gray Earth

Author: Anaís Emilia Sandoval Cossio

Gray earth. Have you ever wondered why it’s like that? The lead. The sweat. The blood. It all comes together there. It yields that color you won’t find in nature. The clouds, so thick. Did you think they were part of movies? In reality, they’re the smoke from burning houses. That’s why the nose hurts, the hands crack from carrying rifles, and wounds become infected.

It’s damp in here, but since Fran, I don’t risk sleeping on the ground. Webs hang from the walls and death stains every end of the trench.

You remind me of him, black hair, small build. Did you die from the wound in your leg or from hunger? I suppose you won’t answer. Mud smeared on your shirt and trousers, you tried until the end; every good man deserves a burial.

The night brings hope, scares and forgives. It never says which one it’ll choose for you. And I don’t want to take the risk, but… who were you before? A baker? A father? A son? I’d like to throw myself out of this barrel without my jaw trembling. It would help me save you, if that means picking up a corpse.

A green beam from a bottle of wine in flames. Like a shooting star, it descends to illuminate our stay. Fire. That word is so versatile. What do you think? Love, passion, frenzy. So human and carnal. Home, sweetness, the hurtful logs of the fireplace. Gunshots, explosions, tears. That gleaming bottle can convey all that… Crash… Boom! It pierces the earth.

The red surrounds me and blinds me.

I cough. I strike. The barrel falls and I crawl over the rocks. Above, the starry sky; below, the burns of hell. I barely find your arm and I carry you on my back. There! Their steps approach. I run to enter the trench. It is one, or maybe three. I zigzag clinging to the wall. Bang!

Body to the ground. Your face rests at the height of my neck. If you were alive, I would feel the tickle of your breath. Your heat on mine.

Bang! I turn, your body convulses and I force myself to keep my eyes open. I aim my pistol. One. two. three times.
The blood runs from your left shoulder to my chest. It is cold. The fire reminds me of bars. The candles of the iron lamps. The fireplace. I embrace you, your cheek, the touch of your beard. I hold your nape to lay you down. A cloud of dust rises. I laugh and cover my face with my forearm.

I await your laughter, no matter how stupid it may seem. I look at your white eyes, a few specks of dirt decorate them. I swallow saliva, my throat burns, as if I were drinking cheap wine.

I rise, place one hand on the ground and the other moves toward your neck, I don’t need to check it. And the silence still weighs.

Lower down to take the chains. I lift one of your plates. Sovereign North Republic. I back away with a jump. A chill runs through my arms. I take my pistol, my hands tremble. With the gray moon illuminating I see your green pants. The insignia on the thigh. I aim and… my arm falters like a whip. My left knee betrays me and a bunch of pebbles sting my shin. I tear one of your bloodied plates and return to my camp.

**

4

Title: We Plunge

Author: Humberto David Téllez Zamora

The wheel turns in the same rhythm, the thick echo; a ravenous time, we gave everything without receiving anything in return, a cracked windshield, a fogged life, the same fear with a different collar. They say remembering is living again, but sometimes it hurts more than dying, the same people erasing the past, with a plastic smile and ice.

We plunge, with the same broken wings, the same wound, different scars, the same prides, the same mistakes, we plunge and below waits the same story.

The loneliest one is not the one who didn’t see the light, the loneliest one is the one who bears the cross, knows the ground burns and is real, but the universe prefers to forget and lock itself in the astral circle. Each generation swears to change the script, but they end up locked in the same corner, the same wars, the same prides, the same mistakes, the same story.

We plunge with the same broken wings… Consumed by the past… Tired by the present… The same fear, the same name… And no one believes that the ground is burning, even as the feet burn.

We plunge! The story repeats, identical, silent, the same story, there’s no way to stop this truth, we end up exhausted from trying to fly.

**

5

Title: Mirrors

Author: Román Llorca Abraham

Snow.

It arrives with blind, heavy insistence. It settles on my eyelashes until it fogs the world in a white blink. The cold that runs along the tips of my fingers climbs my forearms and freezes the blood until my own body becomes a grim stone sculpture, a shadow fallen in the middle of nowhere.

Here I am, sprawled under the fervor of this burning sky that does not contain its sorrows, with the back of my neck pressed against the frost. The trees lean around me, forming a cage that entangles my arms, my legs, and deprives me of making the slightest movement. I no longer try to resist. My mind wanders beneath this storm, still dazed by the impact of the icy ground. The most primitive instinct orders me to open my eyes, twist, look for a crack to escape this prison, but it collides with the frozen impotence of staying alive, of carrying the weight of this body that doesn’t respond.

The forest closes in on me, the silence arrives. The imperfect harmony that makes the dark remnants of leaves and petals dance, which once enjoyed the grace of spring, now seem submerged in the eternity of winter. They fall, they settle on the ground, unmoved, as if they knew.

The shadows lengthen, seeking me, but here I stay, with the suffocating sensation of being buried beneath the ground, listening to their voices, unable to make a single sound. My tears slide along the cracks that form the rocks, hoping they will bloom, because this same sky in which I lie knows I wait for a storm, just to see the fury of the lightning consume my sorrows. I whispered to the flowers, and now they fly in ashes. I am alone in the vast sky, lost in its terrifying darkness, with the empty hope of finding answers in the stars.

Still, here I am, telling my secrets to the breeze, poisoning the roots of my own life, letting the blood seep to nourish this icy earth buried under the hail.

Perhaps I could rest here once and for all, but I wonder if they will forget me. I resign myself to see the clouds’ shape dissolve, mocking the despair of a sunset that does not plan to reclaim the skies.

Only the fleeting glow of the roses remains, that spark that consumes the heat of the day, and it tells me the story of my arch-less smile.
I try to avoid thinking about it, and the forest roars. A dry crack behind me pulls me from the trance.

I am not alone.

The sound of ice cracking beneath footsteps drags me back to the present in an instant. The adrenaline briefly neutralizes the numbness of my hands. I force my arm to move, ignore the icy sting in the joints, drag myself a few inches through the thick snow. My lungs burn as if I were breathing the ashes of my memories, the same ones I smell every day.

Hey! Here it is! —a voice cries from far away, cutting the wind, sharp as a blade.

My heart races. It isn’t a rescue; it’s them. Those same faded faces, the shadows that haunt my paranoia, now transformed into silhouettes emerging from the fog among the pines. They come chasing me from the top of the cliff, or perhaps I ran here, fleeing the perpetual judgment I carry on my forehead.

I kneel, legs shaking, only to start running again.

The snow slows my ankles like lead chains. Each step is a torment. I stumble, and I fall again on the ice, gulping down breaths of icy air that rasp my throat. I hear their steps closer, their muffled laughter, their gazes gliding over the treetops. They want to corner me. They want to see me beg.

I drag myself with jerky movements through the brush, which scratches my face and tears my skin, until suddenly the forest opens onto a lake. A stranger fixes his gaze on me.

There’s no abyss at the cliff edge, no clearing covered in snow, just the very loneliness of my own company. Soon the figures in the water take shape. Frost braids a mane, dust turns a soft red, the blush on cheeks; the snow becomes bones, and the small frozen flakes come to life, now eyes full of nostalgia. It is someone I know. My reflection trapped in the ice lying forgotten in this desolate wasteland.

The moon slides between angry clouds and bathes the crystal in a pale, ghostly light. I stop panting, hands stained with blood and clothes torn to shreds. I look at myself, scrutinizing the brightness of my own eyes that gleam in the cold surface. My face pale, eyes sunken, shoulders slumped and arms hanging at my sides like inert meat hooks. And behind me, reflected in this same mirror, I see them approaching.

I am struck by pure fear, the terror you feel when you realize you have constructed such a complex illusion to survive the world that it has ended up escaping your dreams and devouring reality. The shadows stop beside me. There is nowhere to run.
I extend my hand, trembling. I rest it on the cruel surface of the ice. On the other side my reflection does exactly the same. We look at each other face to face: the coward who ran all his life and the monster he made to punish himself.

I smile, with a cold grimace that breaks the silence, as I raise my fist. And I sink into these waters, with my eyes open.

**

6

Title: It Has Your Job

Author: Eduardo Isai Villasente Gomez

After barotrauma therapy to reorder my insides, like inflating and deflating a balloon, the diagnosis didn’t go away; I still love looking at canvases. Watercolors, acrylics and oil painting warm my soul. Seeing emotions perfectly conveyed in the technique of some dead artist, laid onto an old painting, makes my entire body tingle… or it used to.

Before, two or three baroque paintings a day were enough. Later, when I needed brighter, more modern colors, I got hooked on pop art in screen printing, with garish tones.

But now, with museum tickets priced at ridiculous levels and my cheap broadband connection, I can create my most pictorial fantasies with the multi-technique of writing commands to my computer: just wait for it to process my instructions and then, voila.

The computer devises, from its cold, electric and rotting entrails, scenes that seem to have a soul, so perfectly crafted they look as though painted with immaculate technique.

Now that my mood is quantified in tokens and my way of describing it is through human-to-computer instructions, I don’t need the warmth of a craftsman’s hand after years of training. The fruits of his skill were used as fuel to train the machine’s memory, and his talent now means absolutely nothing.

Those who still worry about my health ask me: “What does that have that I don’t?” I tell them that “that” understands me perfectly, without faults, without fatigue or wear, fast and efficient like a bird diving, not like pale-blooded artists with inflated flight.

Those who worry about being replaced by machines ask: “What does that have that I don’t?”

The answer: it has your job.

**

7

Title: Juliana

Author: Santiago Hernández Vera

You laughed. I didn’t know what was running through your mind, and you didn’t give me time to guess it.

—Now! —you breathed deeply, trying to calm the laughter—. Say it. Say what you were going to tell me.

I swallowed. Was my remorseful intention at the last moment so obvious? I was also embarrassingly moved by the possibility that, perhaps, you already knew me well enough to notice. Either way, I thought of resisting your intuition; that idea crossed my mind before I looked at you from the side and shook my body, clearing my mind so I wouldn’t stumble when I spoke. Because, really, the urge to joke about this won.

—Did you know that the Boomerang Nebula is the second coldest thing in the universe?

You looked at me with that raised eyebrow and that half-smile that moved my foundations. You leaned in, modulated your voice to sound sardonic yet tender. A mix that unsettles me.

—I guess; am I the first or the coldest?

I nodded. I don’t deny the disappointment at not having surprised you, but when you rolled your eyes and made that face… my heart clenched. I didn’t know where to hide, I had no strength to run. But you returned my gaze.

—Well. At least I’ll be able to make infinite granitas with all that ice around —you tilted your head back, letting your curls dance in the air.

In your eyes, not because your gaze was fixed on the stars, I found myself spellbound by the shine of mischief. “Seriously, you’re so fascinating…” But you cut off my thoughts.

—So what? If I’m so cold, why don’t you freeze yourself?

Your question pulled me along. My eyes, wandering, couldn’t hold your gaze. I smiled to reply, but I swallowed the words. How could I explain that you, capable of freezing everything, were the spark that kept me standing? That your little ideas were the only thing that drew a smile on my face. And that, at this stage of knowing each other, my only sin remains doubting that a girl as wonderful as you could understand someone as ordinary as me.

—Well… —I paused, I don’t know why. I had nothing left to lose—. Maybe I feel so much cold that I always end up burned.

**

8

Title: Over the Hills of Úbeda

Author: Belén Amparo Blasco Martí

To hurt your ego might be the best thing that happens to you in life.

I remember that day walking into class with my head held high. My right hand clutched the book while my left hand crossed my fingers.

“Please, please, please,” I begged.

Wishing the teacher had corrected the assignments about the quarter’s novel. Because I, irritating, had written twice as many lines as necessary: a great philosophical reflection on the main plot (and also on the subplots). Something that would change lives: transcendent, innovative, memorable. I had spent days thinking about the hundred-page book and hours seeking the right words. It had to be good; it was.

With that in mind, I sat at the desk and stared at the door to be the first to see him arrive. And there he was, the teacher walked in with a stack of papers and a wide smile that he believed was the product of my great work. I returned the gesture.

—Guys, I’m very happy with your projects! You’ve done great work.

The dimples began to show on my face.

—But there’s a companion who has nailed it, and I’d like him to come out to comment on his writing himself. He could come…

The rest of the students made a drumbeat of table-thumping noises and me, deciding to ignore that the teacher was referring to a man, began to feel the itching on my legs.

I suppose that’s why it hit so hard. The youngster in question hopped up to the board and had to hold the sheet in his hands in order to explain (read) his writing.

Later, the teacher handed out the grades, and despite the initial crying, I remember with affection my nine and the teacher’s correction:

—You wandered off, you need to synthesize, but very well done!

Similarly, I was traumatized by how my classmate boasted in the courtyard that his brother did the work for him with some digital tool. Which, of course, only worsened my dislike.

Then, both for me and for him and for the rest of the students who followed his example, the era of high school arrived. Afterwards the degrees, the job interviews, the paperwork.

They turned to Artificial Intelligence and I, faithful to my childhood trauma, relied on my surroundings to learn how to do everything: the Bachelor’s Thesis, the résumé, the tax return…

Maybe I was naïve, but then crises, uncertainty, depression… At the first problem they grabbed their phones and opened their trusted chat to ask: how do I win the person I like? Am I a bad father or mother? What do you think my aspirations are? Or, hey, who am I?

Had the bot replied “fool,” they would have believed it.

To the children (or slaves) of machines they grew dizzy at finding themselves abandoned, without a master who gave them answers. Yet I, who tended to wander off the beaten path, dodged that bullet.

**

9

Title: Hexenschlaf

Author: Ernesto Rodríguez Montesino

The cock crowed with its malevolent song, the chilly breeze snuck through the battered boards. The heavy chime of bells announced the sun’s daily stroll.

She did not panic. She only pulled the blanket over her face and remained still for a couple of minutes; trying to hide her face from the impertinent solar rays. She sighed heavily after a few minutes and looked for her precious wooden comb. She stretched out her arm and caressed it slowly. She loved that old comb with all her soul, every worn millimeter reminded her of her mother. Every tug of hair brought back her favorite saying: “The beauty of a lady lies in the absence of knots.”

She shooed away the memories before she started to cry, instead she began to untangle her tangled hair. She pulled on the comb with such force that the knots could hardly resist; it would make her more beautiful.

Her hair stood on end under the pleasant visit of the breeze, it trembled slowly. She loves the cold, but she doesn’t want to die of frost. She stands up in a jump and looks for something to put among her wardrobe. She only has three dresses. Today is a special day, she fixes her gaze on the pristine white dress. The garment she never wore. The demonic memory of her loneliness. She imagined for a moment stepping into the altar, but the cold returned her to her miserable reality. She took the dress with anger and pulled it on. It wasn’t as comfortable as it seemed.
Then she looked for a bucket and walked elegantly to the well. She filled her container a couple of times, turning as many times as needed to fill her tub.

She sank into it, dress and all. She sank her misery, her fears, her words into the tub.
“Why did I comb my hair before?” she thought as she caressed her body. She scrubbed away the dirt with determination and with disdain her rigid breasts. She hated them. Every morning she squeezed them, hoping to rid herself of them. A tear slid down to mingle with the water. She trembled, but the cold of the environment was perfect to smother the hell of her thoughts, for every word she kept burned her lips.

She came out trembling, when she could no longer bear it. She came out softer and cleaner than ever. She left, but she left behind in the bathroom the sunk hopes of a whole life of silence.

She opened the windows and stretched her arms so the morning wind would dry her, she trembled violently until she was satisfied. Noon was near, she had to hurry.

She looked for some leaves among her few belongings. She found them and taking a piece of coal began to draw. She drew the sky, the flowers, the moon, the stars. She made strokes until her thin hands admitted no more marks.
She looked with tenderness at her painting and searched for a free corner to write her initial. She wrote an E with illegible strokes and began to cry. That was her greatest regret, not knowing how to write even her own name. She could not speak, neither write. Yes, that was her greatest regret, that the world would never know that Elizabeth existed, that no one would ever remember the thin mute girl without a name.
Everything stopped for a few moments, even the flowers seemed to close. The silence changed, ceased to be her companion and became a monster, one that suffocates her, rips at her skin and yells at her with fury that it’s almost time.

Elizabeth did not change her posture, she dragged her mother’s old rocking chair and began combing her hair again, she had a lot to untangle and little time to do it.

The pressure grew larger, her chest beat mercilessly. She knew the stars had told her. But she chose to ignore. She lived her entire life hiding, she would face this to the end. She exhaled a final breath of snow, Elizabeth savoring it, she sighed deeply and released her comb, her hair already perfect.

It had been only a few minutes later when everything happened. The crowd’s anger pounced on the poor girl. A rain of stones struck the roof mercilessly.

Two strong men broke down the door with a single blow, even though it was already open. They looked at her calmly and an irrational fear seized their bodies. They doubted for a moment, their incredulous grimaces wounded the poor girl more than hate did, not because it was wrong to doubt, but because a few seconds later, their giant arms overpowered the defenseless Elizabeth.

They dragged her outside. There was a moment of silence. Then the sharp pain of a stone against the soft face of the young woman unleashed the crowd’s frenzy.

—Burn the witch!— everyone shouted together.

Elizabeth did not answer, she could not. She only fell silent. She cried in silence, as always. She endured the pain of the stones that struck her body and the words that burned her mind.

Not long passed before Elizabeth stood in the square, hands and feet bound. She was covered in blood and her hair was in disarray. Little remained of her beautiful white dress, which now showed her miserable chest with contempt. The one she had hated so much. She watched the slow walk of the priest, she looked fearfully at the torch he carried. “It will be only a moment, then I can rest.”

The smoke swallowed the frost. She cried out, roared as she felt her body melt away. She raised her gaze and noticed something: on a balcony there was a child painting the scene. She smiled. She moved her scorched body as best she could and posed with a smile. Then she began to laugh, her laughter frightened everyone. Everyone moved away from the witch. But not out of madness, rather because of the pleasure of fulfilling her only dream. Because although no one heard her name, her death was immortalized on canvas. She laughed because her supposed condemnation had saved her from loneliness, because she was certain she would live forever hanging in some museum.

**

10

Title: Where the Sun Falls Silent

Author: Óliver Sánchez-Quiñones Ramos

My ripigneva là dove ’l sol tace.
Dante Alighieri, Inferno.

Pedro Expósito waited seated when Miguel Ventura crossed the threshold, the door.

He tasted a sweet wine that filled his nose and moistened his palate. The bubbling warmth of the laughs from the other tables reddened his cheeks as he waited patiently for him to sit with him.

—How did it go? —he asked, choosing his words carefully. He thought Ventura might not remember him.

—From what I see, better than you.

They both smiled and their teeth gleamed in the lamplight that shone above their heads. Expósito stood up and they shared a brief but tender hug. They took their seats.

There are times when one loses oneself in the constancy of time.

Ventura hadn’t even finished rolling up his grayish jacket when the waiter came staggering and served several diners at once. In one hand he held lamb chops and in the other a juicy hamburger. In a rush, he set down the plates and went away without a word.

The food looked delicious, hot. A thread of steam escaped from it, rising to meet the ceiling where the murmur of conversations thundered.

Expósito took another sip of his drink, swallowing his impatience, and nodded toward Ventura.

—Well, although it may seem impossible, I’ve grown tired of the city —he looked at him surprised. Ventura let out a roar and raised an eyebrow.

—So where did you go? —he frowned. The desire to try a bite burned in his mouth.

—Far away, to the sea, to chase the distant blue horizon. I found a small fishing village and built my own house, beautiful, right by the dock.

Expósito gently tapped the table, which, lacking a leg, trembled like the steps of a concert hall during applause. It rocked backwards, steady as a pendulum.

—What envy! I would have given anything to have the murmur of the waves at my feet…

Ventura nodded with a smile.

They could not resist any longer and began to reach for their cutlery. Between their busy mouths only a couple of pompous, unintelligible compliments for the cook escaped. No one remembered having eaten anything like it. Expósito dried the sweat from his chin with the napkin, stained with the meat’s juice, and Ventura took off the jacket clinging to his skin, baking him inside.

—My God! —Exclaimed Expósito— since when is it so hot! Could it be me, right?

—No. Not at all —the other conceded, panting.

They sighed, at peace. Ventura’s eyes shone, amused.

—What are you betting Durán comes next, with a cigarette pressed into his lips, coughing like a wretch?

—Ha! Don’t take me for a fool. You know I don’t gamble when I’ve got something to lose.

The door opened again. A short, stout man had entered the restaurant. Everyone fell silent, not just Ventura and Expósito. Everyone.

A tangible silence killed the words moving across the tables. Nothing. Only the stage and their loud moans could be heard.

Ventura stood up.

—What are you doing here? —a shiver ran up his spine and tightened his muscles—. Why so soon?

A sudden whisper shifted from one wall to another, like arctic wind through the mountains, freezing faces, burying their talking flames. It was his voice, the stranger’s, tiny, restrained; the softest tremor of his vocal cords.

—I don’t know… I don’t know —the words fled as I tried to reach them—. I don’t know.

Ventura noticed his misplaced face.

—But what happened… what…?

—Enough —Expósito stood up abruptly and the chair squealed bitterly against the floor—. Let him sit with us.

The others’ gazes turned away from the stranger and everyone returned to their concerns. He waited, motionless for a moment and approached the table, awkwardly. His legs and hands trembled as he dragged the chair to make space.

—Too soon, isn’t it?

Expósito and Ventura exchanged silent words.

They would never have expected to see those puffed cheeks now forming a serious, somber expression. Around them, the temperature slowly rose again as the bustle of conversations returned. Yet for them, the cold, nostalgia, only thickened, sat down and ate with them, like a fourth invisible diner.

The waiter brought a huge roasted suckling pig, its fat seemingly dancing with the gleam of its dried crust.

Expósito asked the stranger what he had outside the restaurant, while he watched the little creature, taking refuge in his inert gaze.

—Nothing.

—Nothing? —Ventura jumped up from his seat, surprised.

—Waste of time —admitted as he nodded.

The suckling pig gradually lost its succulence.

—I… —Expósito said, balancing on the syllable suspended in the air, like a sparrow planning before landing—. I’m very sorry. Truly.

Ventura was the first to take a bite. It was still juicy. The haze of discomfort that hung over them dissipated after the third bite.

—Do you remember when some days we would go play with Figuritas? —Expósito began, chewing a piece of meat—.

How jealous Durán would get!

Several smiles rose at the corners of their mouths with nostalgia.

—Then he would end up tangled in a fight with us, saying he didn’t want us to be friends anymore —the stranger continued cheerfully.

—And other times we’d find him crying in a corner —Ventura completed.

All three remembered it.

—I wish we had spent more time with you, Pedro.All three wished this.

This last one stood up with the wine glass, a fist at his throat.

—I propose a toast: —the whole restaurant imitated his gesture, listening intently— to Durán’s absence, and because he’s late to appear!

Palates dove into the abyss of their eternal intoxication.

—To Durán!