The Gift

“I fell into absolute darkness, in the depths where he lives…”

Unconscious I collapse like a feather into the abyss; thin and luminous ribbons descend from the outside. They tie my body and smoothly pull me to the wavy surface. I cross the ocean line into the sky and enter a hole with windows shining in golden lights. On the ascension the vitality of my being declines.

A valley of flowers follows from the tunnel, the sky is clear and the clouds concentrate in a vortex. The ribbons become warmer and transform into a radiant point that spreads flares in the shape of rings. Three angels levitate in paradise and stare at the moon above them, in it is the tower where there is an enormous tree that emerges from the heart of the copper vault. My journey continues along the rock paths to the library and books are dragger away in a sandstorm. Then come the sewers and take me inside the tower. I arrive at the temple where the wind organ sounds, there are candles surrounding the altar and I hear a voice calling me from outside. It is noon and a blue light falls on the town. I blow steam into my hands that I can barely heat. 

The doorbell rings as I come in the cafeteria; it reflects the menu table in the dessert display case, no one is at the counter.

Sprinklers spray the grass and the droplets get trapped in its leaves, two butterflies flutter among the trees and then rise to the tops, a few rays of sunlight escape from the branches and fall to the ground with small dots of light.

The faint bright flickers at the sound of the projector; the film shows the star-filled ocean where a comet traveling in a bright spot.

I look back and a glow appears across the street, it comes from her medallion. She is sitting on the pedestal of the pole and is waiting leaning on it. Her blouse is white and her skirt is gray, her eyes are green and her hair is straight black.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“I haven’t moved from here,” she pats the concrete and stares at me, “will you go up?”

I sit next to her and from there we observe the town.

“A dream,” she said.

“But who?”

“Me,” she replied, “whenever I am sitting here, I see you going through those places and you disappear into one of them.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, it’s the first time you’ve come to my side,” she takes the medal off his collar.

In her hands she extends the chain and wraps her arms in my neck; her lips are close to me and I kiss her, she stays with me until she fastens the chain, then with a smile she jumps away from me.

“I will wait for you!” I yelled behind her before she disappeared around the corner.

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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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