The Century Of Chimeras

The red cobblestone extends on the second floor around the courtyard, I walk down the hall and head to the library. It is unusual to find someone there and is ideal to spend time alone.

I stroll through the bookshelves to the window, light a cigar and watch out onto the street, I can see the walls that limit the high school and the tree on the sidewalk whose branches reach me. I rip a leaf and drop it, spins in the air and before touching the ground, a current lift it high in the sky.

Doors creak when opened and hit the wall, I throw the cigarette away and hide. There is an odd silence made by something that disturbs the stillness of the objects, and I sense the atmosphere of «That» is hiding. Carefully I move glancing over the books.

I hear the rubber of the soles squeak on the floor, one lighter than the other and different from each other; whispers come, laughter that does not want to be heard and the blow on a desk that screeches.

A young woman is sitting on the edge of the table, the hair hides her face and, in her groin, she has the head of «Something» that hugs her body. It is fascinating how she enjoys and silences the moans of her orgasm.

«That thing», «That something»; «That» sucks her, holding her arm and leans her facing the table. She laughs and turns around but «He» or «She» subdues her again.

“You hurt me!” She claims when her head hits the table, tries to withdraw but she can’t move.

«She or He» lifts the girl skirt and opens her thighs, «That» unfold its crotch where tentacles hold her tight; in the androgynous form of «He or She» I do not distinguish which flesh is penetrated.

What I experience is her getting rid of «She or He», «That or It», «It or That» hurts her, «He or She» who rapes and abuses itself, a diaphanous body and another tangible, stain themselves.

At that moment I feel the turbulence of emotions that fade into something so dark and disturbing. There is a stench and I am paralyzed forced to keep watching. I see the pain of her sadness freeze my blood.

«She or He, That or It, Something or Thing. He or She, It or That, Thing or Something.»

“What are you?”

“…Ehshe,” «That» replied.

The girl falls at Ehshe’s feet, she writhes the legs hiding her vagina and with her hand the anus, the bleeding paralyzes her and withers until she becomes a trembling and sobbing lump. Ehshe licks her cheek and vanishes without taking its tongue off.

I cannot imagine the impression she has when her gaze, clouded with tears, reveals me. Wipe her eyelashes.

“Why are you here?” She asked, “it’s a nightmare.” Said shaking her face trying to erase the past.

“No, this is real,” I replied.

“Shut up!” Hides her face, “No one knows, only me and no one else. You are not here; you do not exist for me.”

Raises her head and finds herself in a pasture of a radiant green in the light of a crystalline sky, there is no pain and wears an impeccable white coat. And then she discovers that I’m not there anymore.

“I am sorry,” said.

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Please leave your comments if you like to contribute to improve the translation of this story. I’ll be very greatful.

Publicado por

Carlos Reeves

Soy como cualquier otro que le gusta leer y escribir, no estudié literatura y tampoco sé de grandes autores. La razón por la que comencé a escribir es porque desde niño tomaba esos cuadernos Scribe de hoja blancas y dibujaba todo el día. Esos personajes y escenarios empezaron a tener una narrativa, entonces tuve que escribir sus historias y saber dónde terminarían. Tengo problemas para concentrarme, si un colibrí vuela por mi ventana me la puedo pasar observando cómo se alimenta de las flores, incluso si se va, pareciera que me lleva con él a un mundo imaginario. Soy perfeccionista, escribir es un trabajo duro. Poseo una rivalidad contra las palabras y los renglones que conspiran en mi contra, paso horas editando y leyendo para aplacar su rebeldía. Antes me limitaba ocultarlos después de escribirlos, temía que lo leyeran y vieran semejante lío. Pero todo cambió cuando descubrí que hay personas que pasaron por las mismas rebeliones. Keanu Reeves, Steve Jobs y Scott Fitzgerald. Soy un soñador, no un escritor.

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