Rooms apart

Snow enough to muffle the devil's footsteps

2010-02-24T00:39:00.023Z

It was almost three in the morning, the whole school deeply quiet. But in the east wing, the girls bed-rooms, someone was still awake. Nothing but the glow of the cigarette gave her away. Lucy, because it was she, wearing a pink stripped gown, was sitting in the window-chair while smoking a cigarette of more than tobacco. Which, of course, was forbidden. That's why the window was open despite the chilling cold. She throw a look at her still well-made bed.
Nightmares, bad dreams.
Maybe it's true the Devil takes care of his own, because she ended up visiting Rupe in DreamLand, tipsy and giggling.
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The Nurse of Doom

2010-02-12T11:21:00.010Z

"Tell me, my dear, did you have any trouble with your pets when you were younger?"
Lucy could hardly kept her face straight. It was difficult to decide if she felt more insulted or amused. A sudden tip-tap brought her back to reality from her brief day-dreaming. The sound of a heel tapping sharply.
"I don't think so, ma'am."
"Did you never have a pet? Interesting".
The nurse wrote something in her black-leather notebook. The heels of doom gloomily silent.
"I did have pets, ma'am, but no trouble".
"How did they die?"
"The first one died of old age. The second one, I had already left home, she went mad and I took her to the vet."
"And, even so, you said you don't have any issues with pets, do you?"
"No, ma'am".
"All right, then".
Lucy took a sip of tea. The nurse offered her some biscuits in her professional voice. Lucy didn't like the nurse and neither did she like the long sessions she had to go through once a week. Rupert could laugh openly about it, but Lucy was starting to get really nervous. The nurse was "someone" at Meestake. Bad marks in Masonry and a bad report from the nurse could make an absolutely dangerous mixture.
The heel of doom startled her. Lucy gave an apologetic smile while composing herself.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"My dear, I see you are distracted. It's all right, Mr. Carter has told me how hard you are working for his class. Keep the spirit up, my girl, hard work has always been the answer."
"Yes, ma'am".
"Another biscuit? No? Well, you may go now, dear."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am".
"Don't forget your assignement for next week"
Alone in her bed-room, Lucy read her task. What happened to Wendy after the Peter Pan affair? Discuss.
Lucy sighed in defeat. At least it was Friday. Hell, Rupert was going to split his sides with that one!
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Too late

2010-02-07T03:58:00.011Z

It's been too long. He has been away for too long. All those goodbyes had done their work, the matter was settled and there was no point in starting again.
It's been too far away. He had gone further than them. Surely, they would never fancy one or two of the paths he himself had walked. But that wasn't even close to the point. You can face death -or worse- and come back, but when you have been really, really close, your life won't be the same. Ever.
The adventurer swore, his hands clenched. Other hands pumping him, fingering him, driving him mad.
"I shouldn't meet you again. Never. You don't wish me well, boys."
"Of course we do!"
"You wish me normal. I'm not."
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Muddy water

2010-02-03T13:55:00.012Z

Thursday came in an awful way, the rain beating fiercely against the school. Lucy sighed at the view through her window, the grounds waterlogged, a filthy mist growing in the woods. She stuck the damned essay in her satchel and went downstairs for breakfast.
As always happened on rainy days, the whole school seemed to be chattering, talking about the weather and planning unusual, indoor, activities. Lucy ate slowly, a tight knot in her guts. Masonry wasn't affected by the weather.
Indeed, it was an awful class. A wet, muddy, frustrating morning. The lighthouse crashing and crashing again, each time the stones slipping from her soaked gloves when she picked them up to try once more.
After class, already inside the safety of the school, Mr. Carter took in the essays. Lucy sighed after giving in hers. Time to wait, sentence suspended until Morning.
The rain went on all day.
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Strummin' my six-string

2010-01-30T00:42:00.006Z

Week-days were unhappy for Rupert. Out of boredom, restlessness and worry, he had resumed his former occupation only a few weeks after Lucy entered Meestake School. He had quit a long ago, the moment he had returned to his home land.
In his youth, he had worked for years at the Mind Circus, playing with words, a tightrope walker of the Logos. Later, much later, the idea of settling down started to take root in the back of his head. When it had grown, he left the Mind Circus and moved to Southern land. A city by the sea crossed by a river of trees and flowers, a city inhabited by people of fire. He rented a flat, his own kingdom. Under the bleak light of the old lamp, he sat at the old desk and worked. He liked the new job. Cross-words. Not so different from the old one.
Then, one sunny morning, he saw her. One sunny, spring-scented morning, Rupert saw Luce. He followed her, mesmerized. She didn't see him, not until she moved to F. Land. Rupert had followed her.
Mesmerized.
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Wrong road to Avonlea

2010-01-28T03:05:00.013Z

Lucy's lighthouse collapsed again next class. And the next. On Wednesday afternoon she still had only a few lines written for the essay. She looked around at her bed-room. It was nice, quite cosy for a boarding school. Quite cosy for outside F. Land. Her first moments at Meestake had been nerve-racking. All the calm she had gained the second she decided positively to give herself up had gone. Not even the trial and the judges had broken it. But the unknown of Meestake did. Her heart started to slow to a normal pace when she, after being led down long wide corridors and some stairs, saw her new bed-room and instantly noticed the one single bed. She muttered a fervent thank you to the Powers That Be (If They Really Are).
That Wednesday she was very aware of the fact that it was a privilege that could be as easily revoked. Lucy turned her attention to the paper on the desk. "Consequences of a collapse, by Lucy Favorleigh. It depends on the magnitude of the collapse and the previous state of the building, which often is related to the quality of the construction. Therefore consequences can be from minor damage, easily reparable, to total destruction."
"It has to be enough", she said to herself, "at least it's absolutely true."
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A miss is as good as a mile

2010-01-24T17:13:00.009Z

On Monday, right after the morning break, there was Masonry. The class took place outside the main building, in the grounds next to the stables. Lucy sat at her place and stared at the cracked stones. Mr. Carter eyed her but said nothing nor interrupted her inmobile concentration. Carefully, Lucy picked them up one by one. Some had deep, neat fractures, others slight bruises. The touch under her fingers were of different kinds, rough, smooth, sharp.
She looked up, in the distance, trying to clear her mind. Something white moved in the orchard. A white cap. Then a face and the full figure of the nurse walking the path to the back door of the school. Lucy thought she could hear the nurse's heels tip top tip top. The stone in her hand fell. It broke with a smash.
The bell sounded. "Class, dismiss", said Mr. Carter, "work on your papers, ladies and gentlemen, remember they are due by Thursday."
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P.S. I love you

2010-01-23T00:14:00.008Z

Lucy was tired. Tired of trying. Tired of failing. The damned sword grazing her head. She was running out of time.
If only she could start her lighthouse with brand-new stones! But no, bloody Mr. Carter forbade it! She knew the trick was to smoothe the old ones and reshape them, but she never did it right, the fractures in them were too deep. A few days earlier, Mr. Carter said she didn't dig enough. Lucy stuck her tongue out at him.
It was late. She wanted to sleep, but she was too tired to rest. Missing Rupert so much was stressful. When he was close she forgot she was failing him too. She had to sleep. She and Rupert had a date in Dream Land.
Lucy took a sheet of paper with the school letterhead and wrote
My love,
I'm trying.
Lots of kisses,
Lucy.
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What matters?

2010-01-19T18:34:00.009Z

Lucy was sitting in a lonely corner of the library. She had been there for a long time, but the paper on the desk was still blank. Mr. Carter had given her an essay. Suposedly, it was going to help her building skills. Bloody Mr. Carter! That was why she was there, even if there weren't results yet.
Pouting, she took up her pen. Name five things you have to do before adding a stone. Lucy nibbled the pen while thinking. Nothing happened. She frowned, biting her tongue in concentration. Then, a slow smile blossomed on her face. Painstakingly, she wrote: 1. look at the stones already placed. 2. look again. 3. mend them. 4. mend them again. 5. look again.
Next class, Mr. Carter returned her paper with an C. But her lighthouse crashed down again. At the end of the class, Mr. Carter gave her another paper. Consequences of a collapse.
What matters?, she thought distressed.
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The Humble Master

2009-12-31T05:21:00.009Z

Not long before, Rupert had teased Luce for their neglected hobbies. "We are too lost in ourselves" he said only half jokingly, "our own greediness will kill us." She had died then dramatically in his arms, with a whole opera of sighs and gestures. He smiled at his own reminiscence, picturing with nostalgic colours her stretched arms and curved neck, lying playfully dead like a silent cinema star in her final scene?
Shit, it was still Tuesday!
He looked through the kitchen window, a steamy cup of tea in his hands. The snow covered all the garden. It would be hard for it, but old sayings held old truths. A snow year, a rich year. It would have been their first snow together, an unusual event so close to the sea, and he regretted not being able to share it full time with Luce. Even if Luce, cat-like as she was, would never have got her paws wet and cold.
God, he missed her!
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Pig and Pepper

2009-12-29T00:43:00.015Z

The good family has lots of hatred and lots of love. But, pitifully, not in a balanced way. Christmas had come and gone and they still were out of F. Land. Lucy was resigned. Rupert was sad.
Once or twice she was lucky and could hide in the garden to whisper dark secrets and sad questions to a lonely flower. Lucy hoped Rupert would listen to another lonely flower in his newly rented garden on the border of F. Land. Lucy told the flower terrible tales about families who practiced excess. She wondered about the true nature of family. How, sometimes, it seemed they needed to hurt themselves only to prove they still cared about each other. To prove it still mattered. Someone said once, no-one with a family can really be free.
Lucy missed Rupert. A few miles away, a lonely flower seduced Rupert with its fragance.
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The Gift from Scaramouche

2009-12-23T01:12:00.017Z

All the students were going to be sent home for Christmas Eve. The bed-rooms, the corridors, the grounds... all the school was bubbling with enthusiasm. Not only for the break, but for the end of term party. The second form had formed a band for the Yule Ball, but before that, the third grade had prepared a pantomime. Parents and friends had been invited too. Rupert went for Lucy.
It was really late when the parents left and it took a while for the school to quieten down at last. Whispers and laughs coming from the shared bed-rooms. A door silently opened. Careful feet going downstairs. The back window of the kitchen never closed well. Rupert was waiting.
"I'll come back the day after tomorrow" Lucy said between kisses, "they give me a pass just for Christmas Day."
"I'll be with my parents."
"How long?"
"A week."
Rupert kissed her. A really good kiss.
"Then we need a lot of memories to keep going until we see each other again."
"We have all night, Rupert."
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Bad Marks

2009-12-22T00:21:00.011Z

Lucy stared angrily at the red D on the top right of her paper. Anger and fury raging through her body. But she knew that even though throwing something at the wall would calm her down, it would worsen her current situation. Mr. Carter had been adamant when he had summoned her after class. If she kept failing Masonry, it would mean more than detentions. If she kept falling Masonry, she would have to share her room and, at worst, her visits forbidden! Outrageous! Lucy almost growled in sheer rage. The craving to let the anger run freely through her fingers was overwhelming. With a real but soft growl, she sat at the desk.
She was trying really hard, Mr. Carter couldn't say a word about that. But her lighthouses kept falling as inexorably as her marks. They fell down scattering mishapen stones all around. It should't be so difficult! She moved to the window-seat, sighing at the peacefully white, snowy view.
Her stones weren't ever well-balanced.
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Memory tricks

2009-12-06T11:32:00.012Z

El aventurero brinda y festeja. A veces hay caminos que vuelven a cruzarse. El cuerpo es traicionero. Posee su propia memoria, su particular adaptabilidad. Hay cuerpos en los que la carne se relaja, se amolda, se funde. Pero hay otros cuerpos en los que la tensión es fuego que quema, que hiere, que lucha. Hay cuerpos para abrazarse y cuerpos para perder el sentido. Sangre y huesos sin conciencia pero con memoria.
Existen leyendas de amantes fugitivos en playas de perlas, o de amantes contrariados enterrados uno frente a otro. Hechizos de amor y desamor. Fábulas y leyendas, cuentos imposibles. Princesas encantadas y príncipes encantadores. Embrujos. Maleficios. ¿El peor de todos? La maldición desequilibrada. Países separados por océanos y continentes la conocen. Ella siempre se vuelve loca. Él siempre muere. No es una historia agradable. Cuando el cuerpo y la mente no van en la misma dirección... bueno, el desequilibrio es evidente. Hay cuerpos que se llevan mejor que sus dueños. Hay dueños que se quieren más que sus cuerpos.
El aventurero folla sin piedad y ama con pasión. Ave de paso, nunca se queda. Tampoco pide acompáñame. Rompe la maldición a la manera alejandrina, sin deshacer el nudo.
Si la mente no está, los ratones juegan.
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Improvising

2009-11-30T13:00:00.016Z

It was a lovely day, despite the winter cold. The sun was bright and the roads had been cleaned and salted at last. It really was a fine Saturday. Lucy and Rupert had a lot of plans for Saturdays and a handful more for Sundays. The main one being together, the others... well, the others sometimes got forgotten in favour of some improvisation.
As each weekend since her boarding sentence started, Lucy sat down on the window-seat of her bedroom waiting for Rupert to appear, walking keenly, with his umbrella tapping the road.
She smiled when she saw him, carrying a basket in his other hand. Lucy took her coat and ran downstairs.
They ate the contents of the basket in the deserted swimming-pool hut. They hid there, their need to find Bubble Land imperative. At tea time they ate kisses and bites and flesh and the moon and the stars.
The bell calling the visitors startled them.
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Advice from a caterpillar

2009-11-21T17:48:00.014Z

"You have to talk, my dear, it's the only way."
Lucy stirred her tea with the teaspoon, even smiled, but said nothing.
The nice nurse chuckled softly and drank a sip of her own tea.
"You see," she said, "this is a school and you can't learn without listening and talking. When you come to this place it means you have failed at all the others. It's time to stop trying all by yourself and accept there's help available."
Lucy kept her sad smile firmly in place while the nurse's words floated around her, filling the room, seeping out through the windows.
She thought about the escape, the days hiding, the proverbial sword above her head, the new opportunities that had new duties... She thought how simple life was when there was just Rupert and her in it.
"You'll have to talk, dear,"
"I want to sleep", she announced. Then left the room and the nurse.
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The rabbit sends in a little bill

2009-11-17T22:08:00.015Z

Lucy was lucky, always had been, but in bizarre things. Her sentence had been changed and so she had to serve it in the Meestake Preparatory School instead of going into exile.
The morning after Bonfire Night, Lucy had spoken to Rupert. "I've made my mind up", she told him. She had decided to give herself up and he resolved to accompany her. A trial was set and three old men in black suits and black beaver hats sentenced her to boarding school. The school itself was outside F. Land.
Two days later, Rupert rented a house near the hill, from where he could see the school grounds and, on a good day, Lucy. At the top of the highest tree of the back garden, Rupert raised a flag. Two crossed joints under a steaming cup of tea.
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Meestake Prep School

2009-11-10T17:02:00.013Z

El prado se extendía en el horizonte hasta el linde del bosque. Aquí y allá brotaban asientos, bancos y balancines. Hacia el este, la fachada principal del edificio y la calzada que conducía hasta las magníficas escalinatas. Entre Bentleys, Daimlers y Aston Martins, Rupert y Lucy caminaban. La estación de ferrocarril estaba apenas a una milla y el paseo había sido muy agradable.
Atrás quedaba el cruce de fronteras, la tapia, las barreras, los pasaportes. El tren había sido registrado concienzudamente.
Era fácilmente discernible quién iba y quién acompañaba. Lucy tenía la mirada baja, Rupert la tenía triste.
Era un día soleado, cálido para la estación. El poste señalaba su destino: "Meestake Preparatory School".
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Remember, remember

2009-11-05T23:28:00.012Z

A penny loaf to feed the Pope
A farthing o' cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah hoorah!

Rupert ignored all the chants and the fireworks, he had his own fugitive to catch. And when he did, he was going to tell her clearly that leaving town didn't mean leaving him.
He found her sleeping in the open, pale face and soft snores. It had stoped raining a few hours after dark, the half moon was already high and clear in the sky.
It was sunrise and Rupert was still looking at her.
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The day before Bonfire Night

2009-11-04T14:45:00.009Z

She was regretting how hard the path is, how lonely. She said "I won't cry, I won't!" and she didn't. It was raining.
It was cold. She was shivering. No fireplace, no tea, no biscuits.
She wondered when missing F.Land came to mean missing Rupert.
Lucy was sad.

After the harvest

2009-11-01T19:23:00.010Z

Lucy dreamed about the afternoon after the harvest. Some bats were flying over her. Lucy woke up and ran away from the creepy shack where she had slept. Bloody dark side of F. Land!
The sun was high in the sky when Lucy crossed a river with a picnic table on the bank. She remembered the dream and decided to honour it. So, she made an early stop and set the fire. Some potatoes and one onion she got from the land, a piece of butter she stole from a farm the day before and pumpkins, lots of pumpkins. She added some water and let it boil for hours. At night she had a hot meal for the first time since her escape. A wonderful, tasty pumpkin soup.
Then, she remembered. Rupert loved pumpkin soup.
The taste was sour in her mouth.
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The Curse of the Wrong Door

2009-10-31T18:42:00.005Z

The night was clear, the moon high in the sky. A dog barked. A man shouted. The dog barked again. Rupert awoke. The silence filled the darkness. He felt disorientated and confused. But something was horribly clear: he was alone. Luce wasn't there.
His bare feet made no noise on his way downstairs. There was no light from the living room. The fireplace was cold but not the kettle in the kitchen. The door to the back garden was open. Luce was sitting on the steps. He approached her silently, the orange point from his cigarrette a mark in the air. Rupert heard her before she noticed he was there, but she didn't stop. He sat inside, smoking and listening to the tale Luce was telling to the flowers of his own back garden.
She didn't look at him even once, as if he wasn't there.
Maybe she wasn't there at all.
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A caucus-race and a long tale

2009-10-29T12:11:00.010Z

No music, no dancing. Just going and going. She looked at the stars. Their indifference was reassuring. Their constant presence, soothing.

Lucy walked through a deserted farm, probably full of ghosts and bad memories. The woods were dark and no bird sang. That was a part of F.Land Lucy hadn't seen before.

She never thought what would be the consequences of entering the country illegally. Now she had found. One year plus one day.

Lucy didn't know, but in that very same farm, centuries ago, a spoiled brat had got drunk and joined the Navy full of irresponsible joie de vivre. He was unaware of the curse a spurned farmgirl had put on him.

Those who would go to sea for pleasure, would visit hell as a pastime.

The Flaw in the Plan

2009-10-25T21:12:00.006Z

It was a quiet evening, a lonely one. The chill air in the wet night kept Rupert inside, trapped on the sofa playing the ukelele. He remembered another evening, the first of many, it seemed like a life ago, singing about her. About how wonderful it would be. Yes, it was. It was too much. It was a bloody new world. Even if it was the same old F. Land where he was born, where he had never wanted to return, it looked like a new country. "Damn, a whole new galaxy!" he thought, and his fingers missed the note.
Rupert sang and sang all night, missing her in each word. Maybe she could hear them.
That first evening he didn't think it could be so painful. He wouldn't have believed it. Bubble Land was a place he hadn't known yet. Then.
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Pool of crocodiles

2009-10-23T22:13:00.009+01:00

Down the rabbit-hole

2009-10-19T18:19:00.015+01:00

One morning, Lucy received an official letter, easy to tell because a big well-known profile was stamped over the adress. "Oh, shit!" she thought. Nothing good ever came from an official letter. When things went wrong she seemed to be bad.
And she got punished. Always.
She opened the letter with shaking hands. She was informed, very politely, she had been condemned to a one year plus one day exile. She had to wait, very calmly, until they arranged her departure.
When Rupert came in the afternoon, he found the butterfly net over the worn leather backpack in the middle of an unnaturally clean living-room. He froze. Lucy smiled, too brightly.
"I'm going on a trip" she said, taking some maps off the table and hiding them in the side pocket of the backpack.
"Can I say good bye?"
"With a kiss, please."
They kissed. She went. He saw her leaving.
It was a sad afternoon.
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In the shade of an oak

2009-10-17T15:22:00.028+01:00

La siguiente misión lleva a las intrépidas exploradoras hacia el norte, hacia tierras abruptas, sembradas de peñas casi infranqueables, el horizonte punteado de crestas desoladas. La necesidad de su nacimiento fue también su muerte. Ciudades que nacen, crecen y mueren por la guerra. Cuando no hay más luchas, respiran sosegadas, como adormecidas. Solitarias, abandonadas a su suerte, ignoran el mundo. Hasta que otra batalla les recuerde su destino.
Ellas callejean despacio. El sol y las empinadas cuestas demorando sus pasos. Les han contado historias de muerte y destrucción. Sables, espadas, pistolas, fusiles. Tantos cadáveres. Los caminos traen la muerte. Quizá por eso sean tan escarpados. Más tarde descubren otras leyendas, otras muertes. Jóvenes enfermos de amor.
Horas después, de nuevo entre paisajes familiares, les resulta extraño. Cuentos de Scherezade en un oasis sin palmeras. Exóticos. Improbables en la realidad relajada de la vida junto al mar.
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Almost gone up in smoke

2009-10-15T15:08:00.018+01:00

Vestidas con ropas de lino crudo y calzadas con glamourosos salacots, emprenden la expedición. Desolados parajes donde, desde tiempos inmemoriales, lo que se apuesta es la vida. Un entorno despiadado, no apto para los débiles, ni hombres ni bestias. En épocas pasadas, aguerridos caballeros de bandos opuestos cabalgaban este horizonte rojizo y cruel, tragando polvo en galopadas furiosas, a veces ofensivas y a veces defensivas. Tierra de molinos y gigantes. El aire es seco, la luz es seca. No hay ninguna amabilidad en ella. Cuerdos y locos conviven por igual, no hay lugar para tibias medianías.
Almuerzan en una venta a la vera del camino. El regreso a casa está marcado por las risas. Risas fáciles de quienes viven a la sombra de la huerta.
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Tanti ricordi

2009-10-10T11:00:00.010+01:00

Llega el verano, hace sol, las faldas se acortan y los días se alargan. Las fiestas empiezan al anochecer. Hay bailes, música y risas. Sorbete de limón y hamburguesas de madrugada. Guirnaldas de papel y farolillos decoran la noche.
Cuando los invitados se van, las anfitrionas se relajan. El sofá es tentador y la mesita, más estratégicamente situada que Perejil, invita a poner los pies encima. Un té, un zumo, agua. Líquidos no espiritosos que no menguan los efectos de la fiesta. No todavía, al menos. Eso será mañana. De momento, es tiempo de tener los pies en alto y reir.
Cuando los invitados ya no están, las anfitrionas sonríen de verdad.
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Kind Hearts

2009-10-08T00:33:00.012+01:00

"I wish I were going back there."

"But I'd prefer to go to the countryside."

"Think about it, the bookshops, the museums... just for a few days... then coming back to the countryside... come on, Rupe..."

"I wouldn't mind going to London the day after the Apocalypse!"

"Ha!"

"Still get the museums and bookshops, but no people!"

"I think it depends on which kind of Apocalypse... the one with sulphur and fire won't be very good for the books."

"A very civilised kind! An English one."

"A virus of some kind, Rupe, and we are inmune! Because we aren't earthians but bubblians."

"People just politely lie down with no fuss, no mess. Just you and me, Luce, to the ends of the Earth."
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One more

2009-10-03T12:09:00.009+01:00

The napkins were folded like a Lady Windermere fan. The menu written in calligraphy. Every thing had been setted for the evening. Pretty clothes, fashionable hats, smooth gloves. The band played old songs and the couples danced among champagne glasses and murmurs.
But the moment came. She closed her eyes and blew out the candles on the birthday cake. Hugs, cheek kisses and congratulations. The guests ate cake, smoked cigars and, when the music started with renewed spirit, they boogied again.
"Have you made a wish, love?", whispered Rupert bending over her.
"Sssh" said the birthday girl "it's a secret."
"Dance with me, love"
"Of course. It's my present!"
They waltzed under the sign of Pegasus. At midnight the carriage turned into a pumpkin and the princess into little Lucy. The guests and the party disappeared. The band and the music too. But not Rupert, nor the cake. Pegasus was still flying over the sky. Rupert and Lucy danced in the silence. They flew with the thunder and the lightning, swinging in a rain of feathers.
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Before the frost

2009-09-30T19:18:00.003+01:00

Shadows through the ages

2009-09-29T01:39:00.007+01:00

Once upon a time, a handful of little ducks got lost. When the elder ducks found them, they punished them. Later, the Quack Council, behind close doors, for three days with their three nights, pondered. On the fourth day, The Duck spoke.
"Bearing in mind all the aspects of the situation and what happened, this Council has decided to appoint a guardian. One of all of you will be from now responsible in all senses for the rest of you. The case has been given careful consideration as the situation requires. Being Duck nº1 and Duck nº2 the oldest of you, this Council decided one of them would be chosen. After humble and quiet deliberation, it is the will of this Council that Duck nº1 is your sergeant. At his command, duck!"
"Duck!!" quacked all of them in agreement.
With a few more quacks, Duck nº1 had all the little ones formed and ready. Duck nº2 was slightly apart, watching the new order be established. Duck nº1, fully conscieous of its new stripes, didn't make eye contact while the wee ones closing ranks and started to walk to the pond. One little duck at the bottom of the line looked at the silent Duck nº2, whispered something to the others in some kind of argument until another one turned to Duck nº1 to ask about the route. Duck nº2, closer and knowing the answer, stayed silent.
It was almost at the pond when a wee one asked Duck nº2 something.
Duck nº2 considerered its options.
Duck nº2 cracked a joke.
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Lost with the rain

2009-09-28T14:55:00.005+01:00

One morning Lucy went for a walk. She put on her wellies, took the butterfly net and walked the tiny road to the woods.
Little by little, the fog was getting thicker and soon the trees were just like shadows behind a grey cloak.
She was lost. Alone, wet and hungry. And lost. She couldn't call Rupert, she was beyond help. She knew she should have take precautions, either mark the path or stay on it. But she had been careless. She was careless. The glory of the sun and the chase of the butterflies a temptation too great for her. Easy, natural pleasures that she craved, but were her own highway to the hell outside F. Land.
"Listen to me, lads" shouted a bold man on the pier hardly two days beforehand. "The days of justice and reward are coming. Prepare yourselves for the punishment!"
Lucy didn't cry. She cursed and swore but didn't cry. What for? The damage was already done.
.

Love & Tea

2009-09-27T11:21:00.016+01:00

In the days of wonder Lucy walked with a swing and Rupert sang cheerfully. They drank tea, he beat her at chess, she sunbathed. In the land of wonder the moans carried their wantoness through the green.
The imminent October would bring the Square of Pegasus bright in the sky. Sadalbari would meet The Chained Lady. Mercury pumping through their veins. Like liquid silver melting under their brightness. They loved, they anguished. Their tears fell down and cinnabar appeared in the earth.
A million light years away, Rupert and Lucy enjoyed a quiet evening staring at the sky holding hot cups of tea. The bright stars blessed them.
.

Lucy in the sky

2009-09-23T00:31:00.003+01:00

Blue moon

2009-09-21T23:05:00.012+01:00

Rupert doesn't know anything about F. Land because he was born there. Green is overrated. Rain is overrated. What Rupert does know is about happy places. He left almost twenty years ago, going in and out of style, always with a big smile. The happiness of those who leave. Selfish, bold happiness.
He doesn't know and he doesn't care. He has a ukelele, a back garden and a girl. A boisterous, flamboyant girl who makes his life brighter. And a lot more complicated.
Rupert was walking a slippery slope. Swinging between girls like a butterfly between two tempting, scrumptious flowers. Would he fall? And, more important, where?
Sometimes Lucy hinted a secret, little smile. Rupert fell in Bubble Land. With her.
.

Pilgrimage

2009-09-19T01:10:00.012+01:00

The Church of the Holy Foreskin was little and pretty, hidden in a dark alley. Pilgrims from everywhere came to make their prayers. The hopeless added their votives offerings to the ones already filling the entrance. The side chapels had shelves from floor to roof crammed with what looked like the leftovers of a porn horror film, breasts, cocks, quims...
Jasper the cat, a runaway from the Peak District, watched them all, miaowing its disdain for the human race. Another kind of miaow prompted an answer from the fence of the church. Jasper the cat went there with its tail right in the air, a slow purr in its throat.
.

Hard times

2009-09-18T15:03:00.007+01:00

Life in F. Land is getting harder. Lucy feels that if she doesn't try harder, she will float away. Not expelled from F. Land but swept. Pity. Because she wants to be in F. Land. Oh dear, how much she wants it! Her life is a bubble in the green of F. Land, a bubble of bubble-happiness in her bubble-garden with her bubble-mate. Lots of pink and golden bubbles. But now she is afraid.
Fear is a bad thing. Fear keeps Lucy away from her fancy life. Nothing like fear to revert human nature to its internal beast. All sort of bubbles explode under fear.
Lucy had a bet. She lost. Years later she's still recovering.
Though she feels that, perhaps, she's ready to bet again.
.

Drifting away

2009-09-11T04:36:00.005+01:00

Dear Jane

2009-09-09T11:26:00.012+01:00

Dear Jane,
I don't know quite how to tell you this, but our hororscopes clash.
I think I first knew it when your sheepdog went berserk at the Hare Krishna prom, and I saw you punch out my spinach souffle. I'm sure you're gutless enough to see that "The Gong Show" stinks.
I'm returning your Darth Vader poster, but I'm holding on to my sanity as a keepsake. I want you to know that I'll tell my priest about your eggplant fetish.
With great relief,
Rupert
.

The Church of the Sparkling Flowerhood

2009-09-07T02:31:00.018+01:00

The lavender season reached its peak, the days were long and hot and the summer beat down.
Her Splendiferousness lay on the grass making a green angel. Rupert, sitting on the deck chair, lazily played the ukelele. The languidness of the day made them smile. The crickets chorused Rupert when they sang.
Her Sparkling Luminescence stayed all day outside, devouring the sun. Rupert stared at Her. The humblest minion or the treacherous, underhand Grand Vizier? Whichever reason, Lucy enjoyed being indulged.
Rupert revelled in his private pleasures.
.

My House, My Kingdom

2009-09-06T03:48:00.007+01:00

Lots of things were illegal in F. Land. Damn, lots of things were illegal everywhere! The things Lucy did at home were beyond punishment. The sins danced happily in her garden. She set up a party every afternoon for the pleasures and the joy and the Powers That Be (If They Really Are). Even the sun was invited, though it seldom came. Didn't matter. Champagne bubbles lit F. Land under the stars. Lucy had a castle, a kingdom. There were few rules inside. Less than few. Only one. She was the law.
On the wall in the living room was her scimitar. She used it capriciously.
The bright side of being a capricious girl is that capriciousness defies routine. But the paths of the pleasures are full of sacrifices. Being a true devotee of pleasure is a hard call.
.

Never knew how much...

2009-08-30T17:17:00.005+01:00

El aventurero fuma frente al fuego, la vista fija en la trucha que se asa sobre la piedra. Pero no la ve. La trucha que hay ante sus ojos no es la misma que hay en su mente. Esa otra trucha sucedió muchos océanos y continentes antes. Cuando eran cuatro los que hollaban caminos inexistentes. Una noche en la que la pesca se dio mal y la caza peor. Una trucha para cuatro. Pero la petaca de Merry y los recursos herbolarios de Penthesilea alegraron la cena. Fue una de esas noches. Sin rabia. Sin dolor. Sólo fiebre. Fiebre. Manos ásperas, caricias suaves. Penthesilea se abría como una Dama de Noche, fragante en su exhuberancia. Juegos gentiles. El aventurero se recuerda suspirando "Pemmm" con total abandono. Merry ardía a fuego lento. Disfrutaba quemándose. Los gemidos auyentaron a las bestias hasta el amanecer.
El aventurero maldice ante la trucha quemada. Otra noche sin cenar. No importa.
Se alimenta de amor.
.

Wavering like it's glittering

2009-08-23T11:14:00.008+01:00

She couldn't forget it. She had thought she was becoming a ghost. She had panicked. The fear, so deep, cracking her bones and withering her soul.
Sure. Rupert was there. Shoulder to shoulder. But she had shivered alone for weeks. Something had to be done. She had to do something.
At dusk, Lucy sat under the trees in the back garden, crossed her legs and rested her hands in her knees. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the air, her breathing, the warmth of the falling sun. She traveled to her white panic room, where her white luggage was over the white sofa.
But it wasn't white anymore. It was... it seemed stained. Dark spots on the walls. Dark drops on the floor, as if the furniture had cried darkness.
Lucy smiled. Time for painting.
.

It's the woman in you

2009-08-15T21:40:00.008+01:00

Sometimes he smiles like the devil. Sometimes he is a saint with horns.
Lucy doesn't like that smile. It's not a common one. Fortunately.
Once, Lucy was cursed. She was cursed so deeply that it followed her into F. Land. Some days it makes its way up to the surface. Then, Lucy bitches. And she can do it really well.
It's not usual, though when it happens everything seems possessed by an unnatural rage. Lucy gives out waves of heat. A furious red aura surrounding her. She is totally pissed off.
And then more.
Because Rupert smiles.
That smile.
.

Knockin' on Bubble's Door

2009-08-13T15:17:00.012+01:00

"I'm so glad you came!"
"I didn't leave, love"
"But I didn't know"
"I love your pouty mouth"
"Kiss me, baby"
The fever, the noises. Arms and legs twisted. The wetness, the tongues.
"Is that a make-up fuck, my love?"
"No, it's a welcome back fuck"
"But I didn't leave!"
"Stop talking, Rupe"
He didn't stop, but the new words were sweet and hot and she didn't complain. Instead, she moaned. That wise tongue... Lucy felt all her blood rushing, flowing wildly, boiling.
"I love when you blush" said Rupert.
Though he wasn't looking precisely at her face.
.

Wanderlust

2009-08-05T01:24:00.007+01:00

Lucy was sitting on the grass, her hands cupping her knees. She felt so small. Rupert was gone. Gone! Or was it her who had disapeared? The sky was still grey, the afternoon lazy and the summer tempting. But Rupert had taken a plane to wherever and she hadn’t. Or maybe he had never been in F. Land and all was a monsterous error of her runaway imagination.
Travelling is a dangerous hobby. And not all the trips are in the open world. There are always dark continents to walk, adventures to live. But that uncertainty was killing her. Not knowing if she was dead or alive, even alive or in love.
The mirror didn't shown her image. She began to think Rupert had taken her with him, leaving just a footprint behind. A ghost. Sick with love.
.

Apocalypse then

2009-08-03T14:09:00.011+01:00

Noches, semanas, soñando con ello. El fin del mundo. El apocalipsis. Imágenes desesperadas poblaban sus sueños. Era un mundo caótico y cruel que sucumbía ante una plaga oscura. Personajes siniestros al acecho, cazando hombres, mujeres y niños. Angustia, desesperación. Hasta que aparecían ellos. De espaldas delante de él. Dispuestos a enfrentarse a los monstruos del abismo sin dejar de hacer bromas entre ellos. Pero no eran más que hombres y el día del Juicio Final los hallaba cubiertos de sangre seca y podredumbre. Llevaban semanas muertos.

Meses después sus vagabundeos le dejaron a un tiro de piedra de Babilonia. Otra vez. Como preso de un embrujo, acudió al baile que se celebraba en el Bosque de los Cedros. El Dr. Amor lo recibió con un beso, Pem y Merry con sendos abrazos. Bailaron hasta el amanecer. Se despidieron ebrios.
-Te quiero, tío.
-¿Y eso?
-Por si llega el fin del mundo. Para que lo sepas.

El aventurero durmió a la intemperie, varias millas al oeste de Babilonia. Bailes decadentes en la ciudad del vicio. Los remedios para las pesadillas son muchos y variados.
.

...are the Devil's workshop

2009-07-31T02:43:00.008+01:00

"Lucy! Lucy!" shouted Rupert. He was walking up and down the house , saying her name as a mantra.
She was totally confused. Scared. Why couldn't Rupert see her? It was true, then. She had become a ghost in her own fetish. In her own mind? If it wasn't so frightening she would be utterly scandalised. Expelled from her own... what? whatever! But expelled anyway!
Yes, memories can warm you on cold and lonely nights, but nothing stands a comparison with real life. Fantasy life. Whatever.

Sometimes Lucy missed the days of gambling. Lately it seemed bolder having Rupert than having lots of lost bets on the 2 of hearts.
.

Idle hands...

2009-07-29T01:26:00.012+01:00

You know what?
The fight is lost. I have lost.
Who the hell wins?
Doesn't matter.
But I've lost.
I've been gambling all my way around.
The dice betrayed me, the cards mocked me.
I had hope. Bold, blind hope.
Hope for nothing.
Hope for the gambler's dream.
The hand that changes your whole life.
But it never comes.
And you bet your house, your life, your soul.
And you lose.
Who wins?
Whoever.
I'm done.

"Lucy!" shouted Rupert "Where are you?"
"In the kitchen, my love, writing my goodbye note."
.

El sudor de tu frente

2009-06-10T16:40:00.004+01:00

Los días siguientes se le fueron en un frenesí. Visitas a quirománticos, consultas astrológicas, adivinos, pitonisas. Oráculos y sibilas. Un búho ululó bajo su ventana. Comió una galleta de la fortuna. Palabras y más palabras. Lucy guardó el cazamariposas.
Un gato negro se atravesó en su camino y su gato, ese que no existía pero ya tenía nombre, bufó en respuesta. Todo inútil. Lucy sabía que estaba condenada. Sentenciada. El espejo ya no le devolvía su reflejo. Ella ya no estaba allí. Expulsada. Desterrada. ¡No!, gritaba. Pero ni siquiera ella podía oír su propia voz. Resonaban los ecos de una amenaza. "¡Vete!"
Lucy se escondió en el hueco del reloj, como el séptimo cabritillo, y esperó que el Lobo Feroz no la encontrara. Pero no era un cuento y ella no era un cabritillo. El Lobo Feroz, que no era tal, dio con ella y se la comió.
Ya no existía Lucy en F. Land.
.

Condenación

2009-06-08T16:56:00.007+01:00

Lucy está triste. Como la princesa. Como la naranja. Muere de tristeza. Lucy llora. Expulsada de F. Land. Funesto destino.
Lucy sufre, se duele. Tiene poco equipaje, llegó a F. Land con lo puesto aunque en su maleta imaginaria llevara todo lo necesario y más. Ahora, desterrada, su bagaje intangible pesa más. Pesa con el dolor y la inercia del descenso.
Lucy no lucha. Nunca lo ha hecho. La vida, cree, es un baile y no una guerra. Ni siquiera una batalla. La vida es un jardín y a ella le gusta leer tumbada en la hamaca.
Desconsolada, Lucy está buscando la entrada a esa habitación del pánico que construyó en su mente hace años. Es blanca y silenciosa. Pero no encuentra la puerta. Está en F. Land.
.

Camino de Perdición

2009-06-06T02:08:00.003+01:00

Una mañana Lucy despertó sola. Qué extraño. Recordaba haberse acostado acompañada. Se asomó a la ventana. Apenas amanecía. Volvió a la cama. Demasiado temprano para enfrentarse al mundo. Se arrebujó bajo las sábanas y no tardó en rendirse al sueño de nuevo.
El té del desayuno lo bebió a mitad mañana. Una vaga inquietud ensombrecía su ánimo. La taza, la cucharilla, incluso la ventana o las paredes, todo parecía más pálido que el día anterior. No borroso, sino borrándose. Lucy volvió a la cama.
Despertó al amanecer. Rupert estaba a su lado.
-Ha sido un sueño- le dijo.
-Tengo miedo- contestó Lucy.
Estaba pálida. Quizá era ella la que iba a desvanecerse, desaparecer de F. Land como si nunca hubiera estado allí.
.

What will I be?

2009-05-29T00:32:00.004+01:00

"Lady, baby, gypsy, queen."
"Do I have to choose?"
"Time is going. Tick-tock tick-tock."
"Just now I fancy... hmm..."
"Tick-tock tick-tock"
"Stop it! You aren't a clock!"
"I can be whatever I want."
"What's wrong with being a mirror?"
"It's boring!"
"Because being a clock and saying Tick-tock is so exciting! A mirror is cool! You know everybody."
"Yes, but nobody looks at me, they look at themselves. They talk to me though they never see me."
"Hm... that's the nature of a mirror, isn't it?"
"Lamest excuse ever."
"Sorry, but I'd never thought before what being a mirror would be. So, tell me, what is it . Explain to me the ins and outs of a mirror's life."
"I'll tell you one thing, if you are not the fashion-fan-type, it sucks."
"I'm still not convinced."
"Worry about yourself, miss, you haven't decide about yourself yet."
"It's a pretty night, don't you think?"
.

Lollipopping

2009-05-26T22:38:00.009+01:00

The day was clear. The blue clean sky, the hills a green sea of grass. Rupert liked walking alone. That pretty morning he put on his wellies, took the umbrella and started his walk with happy feet. He said hello to everybody with a big smile. Crossing the graveyard his steps were slower. Fascinating places, graveyards. He stood in front of an old grave. It was an intriguing one. The letters on the stone were worn and mouldy, but still clear. Lucius M. Loinbury (1882-1914) He died. That was all. No beloved parents, nor siblings nor wife. Nothing. Just the obvious fact of his death. Rupert went on with his walk, still wondering about Lucius M. Loinbury. He smiled and thought he should bring Lucy here, to meet Lucius. Lucius's grave, in fact. He was sure she'd like it.
.

Stardate 3141.9

2009-05-22T23:55:00.009+01:00

She was playing chess with Rupert. Losing. Again.
But in a blink she wasn't there. Where, she didn't know, either how or why. She waited. Alone. Waited a long time. In a room? A prison? Days and nights. In her dreams she heard Rupert whispering.
But in a blink she was in her old own room, in her homeland, before she moved to F. Land. Her old friends were there, laughing and drinking coke. It seemed they were having a pyjama party. A very long pyjama party. Noisy and boisterous. If she closed her eyes she could believe Rupert was talking to her. But any blink brought her to him. She tried to toss her thoughts through the wind and the leaves. "I'm coming, please, my love, I'm coming, I'm trying, please, wait!!"
But the joy and the laughs seemed never-ending.
.

Be seeing you

2009-05-20T00:57:00.008+01:00

Lollipopping

2009-05-17T11:31:00.007+01:00

"Have you seen the advert for the exhibition?"
"At the local gallery, about that zen guy?"
"I think you lack a bit of perspective, my dear Lucy".
"Do I?"
"Well, maybe you would be interested in taking a look at the old numbers of the Gazette. Old, old numbers. Back to the twenties numbers".
"Stop teasing me, Rupe".
"Never".
"Git".
"A cup of tea, my love?"
"I'm going to kick your tao, honey".
"All right, all right. So, back in the twenties he was living here, at the Manor. He turned the old stables into his studio".
"And what did he do? Got involved with the daughter of the landlord? Popped her cherry?"
"Nothing so conventional, my love. It seems he was very influenced by the fever for the orient that hit the twenties and acquired, um, unusual dressing priorities. He painted naked and the rest of the time he wore white robes".
"Sure I lacked perspective".
"They said the vicar's wife never recovered from an unexpected encounter in the gardens".
"You put things under such an interesting light!"
"Tomorrow night, then?"
"You diabolical mastermind!"
.

Heart sick

2009-05-11T00:45:00.016+01:00

Algunas noches son distintas. No muchas. Cuando pasa una estrella fugaz o quizá los planetas se alinean. Empezó tras la marcha de Penthesilea. Si estaban en el mundo civilizado buscaban una habitación, si no se escondían entre los árboles. Lejos de Merry. Sólo ellos dos. Para luchar. Pelear. Enfrentarse con besos que eran como mordiscos. Volcando la rabia en otro cuerpo rabioso. Furia en la carne. No hablan. Gimen si no pueden evitarlo, sobre todo gruñen y jadean. Se olfatean como animales. Se aparean como las bestias. No hay nada suave en ellos, en lo que hacen. Nada tierno. No es amor. Ni siquiera es sexo. Es un castigo. La penitencia por otro pecado. Por eso se esconden.
El dolor es una distracción.
Por eso se buscan.
.

¡Bailad, bailad, malditos!

2009-05-10T04:17:00.010+01:00

¡Malditos! ¡Estamos malditos! Es una enfermedad de la sangre, marcados por las mareas y la luna, cada seiscientos veintidós años hay una conjunción planetaria que nos empuja a ello, cada medio siglo el cometa nos enciende, cada sexenio, cada lustro, cada vez que nos vemos. Aunque ya no nos vemos. Tú estás en Babilonia, tú también, incluso tú. Pero yo no. ¡Malditos! Me visitáis en mis sueños y despierto con vuestro olor en las sábanas. ¡Malditos mil veces! Voy a lanzar un hechizo en tu cama y mañana cuando te despiertes estarás muerto. ¡No! Mejor aún, cuando te despiertes estarás vivo pero nadie te verá. Serás la muerte en vida. Maldito Pem, maldita Penthesilea, viejo Merry. Malditos, os odio con todo mi corazón...

-Delira constantemente.

-Si la fiebre no baja esta noche...
.

Fatalidad

2009-04-19T00:45:00.015+01:00

El aventurero sabía que estaba enfermo, febril. La urgencia de encontrar un lugar seguro y caliente para descansar estaba agotando sus escasas fuerzas. El poblado parecía abandonado, aunque las puertas y ventanas se veían cuidadosamente cerradas y los visillos primorosamente limpios. Quizá ya estaba alucinando. Entró en un establo, desierto como el resto, y buscó acomodo entre la paja. ¿Por qué hay paja si no hay caballos ni cuidadores?, se preguntó, pero un ladrido espantó cualquier posible respuesta. Un perro flaco y magullado enseñaba los dientes en una esquina. ¡Perros!, pensó con disgusto.
El aventurero lo tentó con palabras suaves y gestos aplomados, después alguna caricia. Deliró durante días. El perro le lamió la fiebre. Cuando se recuperó y siguió su camino, el perro fue tras sus pasos. Intentó alejarlo con más palabras dulces y mano autoritaria, pero el perro tan solo se retrasaba unas millas antes de volver a saltar a su alrededor. Algunas noches después el aventurero compartió su magra cena con el maldito perro y se lamentó de su mala suerte. Recuperar la salud para perder la cabeza. Porque al alba acunó al perro muy despacio y con cuidado le metió una bala entre los ojos.
Muchos océanos y continentes después, un chamán lo expulsó de una ceremonia de purificación.
El aventurero no se lo discutió.
.

Lollipopping

2009-04-12T00:24:00.013+01:00

Usually Lucy didn't take the road that only let to an old neglected house, even if the road itself was lonely and lovely. But a strange sadness made it look like a scenario.
They said the house belonged once to Primula Loinbury. They said she lived there with Mrs. Rumbelow. There's still a pretty greenhouse in the back yard, even though with smashed windows. Some said too there was something odd about Miss Loinbury and Mrs. Rumbelow. Nobody could keep quiet about them, that's true.
Old Jane Lester, who now spent her days watching the world through the window sitting in her wheel chair, was once their maid. She was used to seeing Miss Loinbury having breakfast with peacock feathers in her hair or dancing naked but for pearls around her neck on the heavy hot days of summer. Mrs. Rumbelow was the one for discretion, sort of. The town still remembers when she went to the church dressed in a white sheet. Mrs. Rumbelow explained to Jane that tunics were a very acceptable garment and to the vicar's wife she added that the drapée was not for everybody.
Old Jane cried when the tragedy happened.
The people only remember the gossip.
.

The Rainbow Roof

2009-04-10T18:53:00.008+01:00

"So, what sort of crock of gold do you expect to find on a rainbow roof?"
"A tall one."
"Like the cat on the hot rainbow roof?"
"I hope you fall with me."
"Wherever you wish, my dear."
Lucy didn't comment on that. She stayed silent enjoying the sun and the summer. But Rupert couldn't let it go.
"But, why a rainbow roof? That doesn't make any sense."
"The most sensible things usually don't make any sense."
"Now you're being twisted."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"So, the point is...?"
"I've come here to appeal to you, Rupert."
"You certainly do that. "
.

Falacias

2009-04-06T21:58:00.007+01:00

La regularidad de los planetas. El orden. La inmutabilidad. De ahí el vértigo. No está en la naturaleza humana ser compasivo.
Existen algunos, sin embargo. Pocos. Salvados no por su propia gracia sino por una gracia aleatoria, caprichosa. Existen algunos. Pocos. Se retiran del mundo para dedicarse a la contemplación. Se han forjado en la fragua del deseo. Son viento. No son nada. Les llaman iluminados, tontos, desvíados. Pero ellos son como los lobos, escuchan lo que nadie más puede oír. Si tuvieran que ponerse algún nombre, sería los solitarios. No lo hacen. Se reconocen entre ellos y eso es suficiente. A veces caminan juntos un trecho. A veces no.
Cuando estas historias cayeron en el olvido, sólo quedó la leyenda. Empezó una nueva era sobre la tierra. Creyendo seguir a los antiguos, las nuevas religiones, todas ellas, fundaron monasterios.
.

April Fool's

2009-04-01T12:44:00.010+01:00

"Honey, I'm home!"
Rupert left his wallet on the table and the umbrella and the coat on the stand. The fire in the living-room was cosy. He sat on the sofa. Lucy gave him a cup of tea. Milk. Two sugar. He talked about his day at work and she listened. She talked about the children and he read the newspaper. At half past six she served the dinner. Beef Wellington with mashed potatoes. Some series on TV. He drank. She washed up. Before midnight they went to bed.
"Good night, darling."
"Good night, dear."
.

Tea parties

2009-03-29T19:48:00.009+01:00

The back garden was shining yellow under the late sun on that summer afternoon. There were two deck chairs and a garden table covered with a white tablecloth. Some candles. A plate of biscuits, another of cakes, chocolate éclairs and walnut cake. A pot of Earl Grey, the milk jug and the sugar bowl. Two tea cups. A wooden box of grass with a grinder and papers side by side with the teapot.
Rupert took a last look. The door bell rang.
Lucy was in the door, ravishing. She follow him with a smile. He had a perky bottom. In the garden she laughed.
"Are you trying something inappropriate, Rupert?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Your sincerity is inspiring, my dear".

It was already dark, just some biscuits left, no tea. The ashtray full of joint butts. Two small glasses with something mesmerisingly green. Rupert and Lucy. Laughing and kissing. Naked. Ready to howl at the moon. At all the three of them.
But wolves don't do what they did on their knees.
.

The cats we don't have

2009-03-28T15:18:00.011Z

Rupert hadn't a cat either. Nor even an imaginary one. But there's one ginger with only one ear and a half. Sometimes he leaves the left-overs at the back door. Sometimes the cat comes. His cat doesn't have a name, either. But he owns it and knows it. Maybe only knowing, because nobody can claim ownership with a cat. Just a path you walk together. But Rupert knows his ginger unnamed cat. It's like Lucy, unfriendly and disdainful. Walking on the back of the hammock, jumping over the windowsill, teasing Rupert when he's trying to take a nap.
No, you never own a cat.
Maybe, if you are lucky, a cat owns you.
.

The hell in the morning

2009-03-27T19:00:00.018Z

He woke up with the birds. He ate the left-overs of the rabbit from the night before and had some coffee. As usual. But his compass was pointing at "adventure". The adventurer packed his belongings quickly and started to walk. Didn't matter which direction, adventuring was a state of mind. He crossed a valley and climbed the hill, but nothing happened. The air was quiet, everything was so right it seemed unreal, a perfect moment crystalised. But perfection doesn't exist. It had to be a dream. The next valley was crossed by a river. There was a bridge, the old stones green through the ages, and on the other bank there was a Tudor cottage. The kind that had old aunties embroiding inside. But the voice that said "Come in!" was sweet and languid as honey melting down under the sun. His cock itched.
The inside was shadowy, heavy dark curtains in the windows. Some candles on the table. The big mirror reflecting the trembling flames. An odd hissing sound. He closed the door. "Come here, my boy" she said. He obeyed. Mesmerised. Here was the remotest corner. She was sitting in her boudoir, looking at herself in the mirror. He only could see her shadow, her white back, her blonde hair. He kept walking. Close enough to see the devious snake around her waist. And when he was closer he saw her red lips and red nipples. She searched his gaze in the mirror. She found it and kept it. She ran her finger around her red nipples and gave it to him. He licked it. Then she took a paperknife and draw a line in her own pale shoulder. Blood dripped. She took some with her finger and painted her already red lips with it. He swallowed. Hard. Again she took more blood and painted her nipples. She smiled at him on the mirror. She said "Do you fancy a drink, boy?" He hold her hand and licked the blood. "Yes, ma'am."
.

Somewhere in limbo land

2009-03-14T23:50:00.011Z

Rupert avanzaba espada en mano, lentamente, esquivando ramas bajas y troncos caídos. El bosque se espesaba por momentos, cada vez más denso, impenetrable. El ruido ya no era importante, sólo no quedar atrapado. El sudor se le escurría cuello abajo, los músculos tensos, intentando no perder la calma. De repente al apartar unas ramas un río apareció a pocos pasos de distancia. No había ningún puente a la vista, aunque sí una casa al otro lado. Una granja. Logró vadear con éxito el río y llamó con decisión a la puerta, a medias mojado y a medias enfadado. Nada tenía sentido. La voz que le invitó a entrar, sin embargo, era soleada y vibrante, los paradisíacos mares del sur pero también sus violentas tormentas estaban contenidas en aquella voz de mujer que simplemente dijo "¡Adelante!"
La puerta crujió al abrirse, dejando a la vista un cómodo salón con amplios ventanales. Los muebles eran todos de madera, pero no toscos, y las cortinas y bordados parecían de buena calidad. Al fondo un tocador. La mujer le habló desde el espejo, sin girarse. "Acércate". Y Rupert se acercó sin dejar de mirarla, sin dejar de notar su propio reflejo cada vez más cerca del de ella. Ella. Era rubia y el picardías transparente no ocultaba su blanca espalda ni la serpiente tatuada que se perdía cadera abajo. La cabeza le daba vueltas y la duplicidad del espejo acentuaba su confusión. Ella. Ella no lo miraba, sino su reflejo. La boca era roja y la piel muy blanca. Rubia. Resplandeciente. "¿Quieres beber?" Rupert asintió, o quizá lo hizo su yo atrapado en el espejo. Ella cogió un abrecartas del tocador. El corte en el hombro fue limpio. La sangre brotaba despacio. "Bebe", le dijo. ¿Quién lo hizo? ¿Rupert o su otro yo?
.

Estotiland

2009-03-12T00:24:00.005Z

No existe nada mejor. Ni siquiera los besos de bienvenida. Nada se compara a los mapas con grandes extensiones marcadas como "terra incognita". Quizá, no es seguro pero quizá, esos mapas que en lugar de lo desconocido señalan islas fabulosas, continentes perdidos. El aventurero es incapaz de asegurar sus propias apetencias. No sabría decir qué le gusta más. Perderse por sendas inexploradas o viajar hacia tierras que no existen.
En ambos casos se mea en los mapas.
Metafóricamente hablando.
(Sólo una vez fue literal, pero ésa es otra historia.)
.

The Bubble Revisited

2009-03-09T23:00:00.006Z

In the begining there was a lamp post. And rain. But in the middle of the afternoon the sky turned clear and a clean sun brightened the tea. There is something wonderfully simple in a tea party in the garden. Slices of white bread with honey and cheese, tomatoes, ham, cucumber. Amusing tea time on a lazy sunny afternoon.
It rained a lot, though. Then was time for a fireside tea, playing chess on the rug. The day falling outside the windows, darker and darker while the rain beat on the house. But the bed was tempting and cosy and really, of all the wonderfully simple things, spooning was the best.
Once upon a time, there was a white house in Bubble Land. The house had a grandfather clock in the living room. The clock was broken. It stopped at tea time.
.

Back to square one. Again.

2009-03-01T11:52:00.008Z

Sometimes Lucy remembered when she was alone in F. Land. When she was the only one to suffer for her own mistakes. Now, now it's different. Now she isn't alone. Lucy knew that not every thing can be undone, not every path can be gone back on. You have to walk.
It was a pretty day, a bit sunny, a bit windy. But smooth, very smooth. Tea parties and ginger biscuits. Strawberries with cream and champagne. Ascot was close. The joy of being in F. Land hiding anything else.
Lucy was sad. Lucy cried.
Lucy smiled because she had another path to walk.
.

Narciso enamorado

2009-02-28T12:15:00.008Z

Narciso es caprichoso. Siempre ha sido caprichoso. Pero no siempre ha sido Narciso. Las abejas del aprendizaje liban en flores inesperadas.
Los dioses del Olimpo son avariciosos, codician lo que no tienen. Atacan, persiguen, seducen, engañan. El estupro como posesión.
Un caballero nunca habla de sus conquistas, pero se le presuponen amplias y variadas. Los motivos de esas conquistas también son amplios y variados. El deseo restalla por causas caprichosas. Unos labios dulces y voluptuosos que esconden una sonrisa que un colmillo torcido vuelve maliciosa. En otra, largas piernas femeninas de andar equívoco. Un ingenio irónico y expresión sarcástica. Una piel dorada como trigo maduro. El deseo se enciende con distintas chispas, pero siempre es fuego que quiere poseer, quemarse en él, como si el sexo fuera un robo, el hurto de lo deseado. Hasta que un día ya no desea más. La caja fuerte está llena, no hay más joyas que robar. Su cabello es gris y su rostro ya no es terso ni inocente. Pero el espejo le demuestra que todavía es capaz de desear. Furiosa, caprichosamente. Se gusta tanto que se codicia a sí mismo. Porque el cofre que es su yo está lleno de tesoros, robados o no.
En su vejez, Narciso es feliz como nunca lo ha sido. Conocer a otro Narciso es una felicidad que va más allá de la posesión. Soy yo y soy otro. Narciso está enamorado.
.

Lazy days

2009-02-25T17:18:00.004Z

Lucy extendió la manta sobre la hierba y se sentó. A pocos metros empezaba la arena y más allá el mar. Dejó el cazamariposas a un lado y abrió la cesta del pic-nic. Una copa, un plato, un juego de cubiertos. Una servilleta. Almuerzo en soledad.
La vida en F. Land es más fácil, pero no sabe si es ignorancia o realidad. El desconocimiento de la ley no exime de su cumplimiento.
Lucy abrió la botella de soda y bebió a gallete. Mientras comía un sándwich de pollo frío y lechuga las abejas volaban, las gaviotas volaban, incluso las moscas. Pero ella estaba varada en tierra. ¿Realmente era F. Land o sólo un espejismo?
El murmullo del oleaje acompañó su comida y, cuando de la manzana sólo quedó el corazón, arrulló su siesta. Bajo el sol y entre la brisa, Lucy soñaba.
.

Soy un oasis datilero

2009-02-24T23:09:00.010Z

Suddenly there was a bright green spot on the horizon. He got closer and closer as he looked at a splendid, exuberant wild garden. Palm trees, apricots, bougainvilleas. He blinked once, twice and still it was there. In the middle of nowhere, miles and miles of nothing, days and weeks of sand and now that! The bloody Garden of Eden! Funnier, Eve was there too! Or, at least, a woman. She was sitting on the well and the adventurer could only see her bright green eyes. The rest of her was covered with rainbow clothes.
"Good morning, ma'am" said the adventurer "nice to find you"
"I'm always here, but they are few who can see me, and even less who stop"
"I can't understand why, ma'am"
"It's my fate, my curse"
"I'm not at my best, but if there's something I can do..."
"How kind, my dear, but there's no solution"
"I can't even start to consider it but, did you offend someone? Has some witch something against you? Some hex?"
"I could believe that"

"Nobody stays with me"
"I'll stay"
"How long?"
"A few days"
"And then you'll go"
"I'll send you a postcard"

"Come back now and then to see me"
"Promise"
"Sure?"
"It's your fate"

She was a goddess, a spirit of the water, a promise of the promised land. Maybe the youngest daughter of a camel's merchant. Who knows? She was joyful and lovely. She was an oasis to everybody who travels beyond the borders.
.

Last call! All aboard!

2009-02-23T20:59:00.008Z

The worst and most powerful curse is unsatisfied desire. It causes the worst kind of lust.
The adventurer had lost the count of the days and nights he had spent in that madness of lust. Of all the deadly sins, he was cursed with lust and laziness. But laziness was an easy path. Lust... lust obsessed him, darkening his mind's clarity until the entire world around seemed bathed in ambrosia and his mind wasn't able to go beyond his twisted senses. Then, when that happened, there was no hope.
The adventurer travelled on a train the windows of which were all curtain-closed. The rails formed a circle. The train didn't stop. He walked along the corridors while people were inside the compartments. He knew it, but the curtains never opened. He was condemned to just walk and try to look, never to get in. Just imagination.
The train that was his mind was lost in a perfect circle.
Then he saw a bright green spot on the horizon.
.

Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night

2009-02-19T20:25:00.016Z

.
"It's been a long time"
"Meaow"
"Where's the bloody shirt? The white one? I can't find anything. Why can't I find anything?"
"Meeaow"
"Maybe that's not healthy. Do you think it is? I don't know when was the last time I was here and that's not right, is it? Because this is my place and I've not been here in a long time and there's no way than that can be right. F. Land is a perfidious land and now I'm trapped in it. I know I am!"
"Meaow"
"What am I doing?"
"Meaow"
"What's a good thing is that I really don't have a cat"

"Yet"
.

Following a blue camel

2009-02-18T18:10:00.006Z

The sun was abrasive and the sand reflected the boundless desert. Extremly cold nights and suffocating days. The adventurer was lost in his sinful lust. Suffering and tormenting himself.
Then, a bright green spot on the horizon. He blinked and the spot vanished. The lust returned. Visions from hell. Memories. Who knows? He was touching Pem's back, caressing Penthesilea's long legs, kissing Merry's neck.
When it was full night he was trembling with cold and loneliness. And with need. His cock hard and begging.
He, the bloody heartless, was, as always, being punished by and for his flesh. He was paying with blood the bill for all these years of twisted love. His body still wanted to leave marks on these other bodies. All over them. They had poisoned his mind then and he felt it even now. Merry with his dirty talk, Pem with his dirty hands and Penthesilea... she was all dirty.
Despite what it looked like, the adventurer wasn't trying to let himself go. But still it was a path, a painful path, he had to walk. A fight. Against greediness. His mind knew it was a vain attempt, stealing with your body what you covet in another body. But his heart didn't. It was a painful path. But he had to.
Then, there it was again. A bright green spot on the horizon. Maybe bigger. Closer? The adventurer sighed, disbelieving his own eyes.
He wanted to walk without monsters at his back.
.

4 Queen Anne's Court, Tothill Street, Westminster.

2009-02-17T17:57:00.009Z

.
"Would you like a drink? "
"Intravenously!"
But after the drink it was always work. Something had to be done. And he did it.
"I'm a herbicidal maniac, didn't you know?"
Because the job was done and now the garden was healthy. He cleaned his hands under the garden tap and afterwards he rested on the deck chair while with a handkerchief from his pocket he took away the sweat from his forehead. He looked at her hopefully but under the corner of the handkerchief his smile was mischievous.
"You diabolical mastermind, you!"
But she said it with sparkling eyes and so it was. They shared dinner. He deserved it, didn't he?
TV in F. Land was a bit unpredictable. That evening they watched the adventures of an inefficient chief inspector ("Just painstakin" Rupert protested) and his greedy young seargent as they tried to find out the link between the sexy and punctual Ophelia in the woods and the dominatrix in the stable.
"I like this Ophelia" Lucy said "she's glamourosly lying in bed and all around her are trees and leaves and flowers, but she's on silk sheets. I do I like her style."
She watched the series thoughtfully, admiring the antique bed on screen.
" I've always rather fancied myself in one of these."
"So have I... I mean, I have too."
"Oh Rupert, I like this game!"
"Let's play another round, my dear."
"Is that a proposition? "
"More of a sly suggestion. "
.

The truth about Cosima

2009-02-08T13:05:00.015Z

On the stage, a fat man crying and singing about his tragic love. It was really impressive. Touching. Lucy had gleaming, wet eyes. Rupert looked at her.
In the kitchen they shared tea and sandwiches. Lucy sang quietly. Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva! Outside it was raining. As always. Inside it was cosy and smooth. They played chess and Lucy was defeated shamefully quickly. It was a quiet night. She was sitting on the armchair, little and soft, like the cat she didn't have yet, taking slow bites of biscuit. Another teapot was ready. Rupert was stretched over the sofa, playing the ukelele. He was looking at her.
Often, he smiled.
.

The wisdom of the lizards

2009-02-02T11:27:00.004Z

The explorer was out of his mind, lost in his trial of lust. Following a kiss from hell he found a lizard, peacefully sleeping under the sun on a rock. The radiant yellow keeping away the fears of a whole live. The lizard was a sign of the Powers That Be (if They really Are), the steady sword against lust. The wisest way to live on the earth.
But the heat was inside him. Until it went out. Sometimes in the dark, sometimes on a lazy afternoon. But always crashing against other hot flesh, going deep and hard inside someone's tight arse. Deeper and harder. Screaming in pleasure.
The lizard warms its cold blood under the sun. Taking a nap.
.

Cherries and peaches

2009-02-01T12:05:00.004Z

Un inesperado chapuzón, un tonto tropiezo, un par de días de mala caza. Una mañana sus oídos ensordecen y se le nubla la vista. Está inconsciente antes de estampar la cabeza contra un roble.
El aventurero está herido. En su delirio ha vuelto a Babilonia. Las gatitas de Penthesilea se ocupan de él. Están ahí. Siente el calor. Se quema. ¡Arde! Hay llamas bailoteando a su alrededor y cada una tiene el rostro de un desamor. Están todos, incluso los que ya no recuerda o nunca supo. Algunas caras son más que familiares, son una llaga siempre supurante. Siempre dolorosa. Pero algunos remedios a veces le alivian. Como ahora. Sus manos ciñen carne blanda y suave, rizos que huelen a hierba caen sobre su frente, hay otro aliento mezclándose con el suyo. La oscuridad es absoluta. Se deja besar y lamer hasta que se le retuerce la piel en agonía. El aventurero le busca el cuello con los labios y luego baja hasta dejar puntiagudas marcas de dientes en los hombros carnosos. Hay fuego y tormento y no puede soportarlo. La tumba en el suelo con las manos sobre la cabeza y saquea su boca complaciente. Con cada embestida repite "no puedo evitarlo". Sus gemidos se pierden en la oscuridad.
El aventurero está herido de muerte. La insatisfacción mata.
.

I've taken more...

2009-01-15T17:01:00.006Z

Llueve. Siempre llueve en F.Land. O casi.
Cuando Lucy llega a casa nadie sale a recibirla y no puede evitar recordar al gato que aún no tiene y al que ya le ha puesto nombre. Lo cual demuestra, piensa Lucy, que es posible tener amigos imaginarios después de los siete años.
El primer té lo toma en el asiento de la ventana. La lluvia en F.Land posee una extraña cualidad, esquiva, infrecuente. Algo casi mítico. Una bendición para los locales y un castigo para los visitantes. Lucy observa. Es fácil distinguirlos. La lluvia es como kriptonita para ellos. Pero para los locales, los naturales de F.Land, es su rasgo más característico. Ha definido lo que son. Agua. Siempre agua. Alrededor y por encima. Quizá hay que ser de una pasta especial para mantener los pies firmemente sobre la tierra cuando no puedes ir a ninguna otra parte. Porque no hay más tierra. Sólo agua.
F.Land es la civilización definitiva. Por necesidad.
Porque F.Land está tan lejos del mundo como Avalon.
Lucy no quiere ir a Avalon. Quizá, si surgiera, si se lo ofrecieran un fin de semana que no tuviera otra cosa que hacer ni demasiada pereza, quizá entonces, sólo entonces, iría a Avalon. Pero F.Land...
... le apetece tanto vivir en F.Land!
.

No colors anymore

2009-01-14T19:03:00.009Z

Merry, Pem. Penthesilea. El odio siempre ha sido una parte importante en su relación. Igual que el amor. Todos con todos y todos contra todos. A la vez. Se aman con rabia. O quizá se odian con cariño. El problema es la medida. La falta de ella. Cuando la desmesura es lo único que queda, los orgasmos se multiplican y los navajazos también.
El aventurero les desea mal, les desea maldiciones y sufrimiento. Les desea reciprocidad. Mientras se hunde en su carne prieta buscando un alivio que nunca consigue, susurra "te odio, mi amor" y Penthesilea contesta "ódiame más fuerte, más". Pero Pem está detrás de él, abriendo su carne, embistiendo, y decir "te odio" ya no es suficiente. Nunca es suficiente. Les puede la desmesura. Es más que odio, más que amor. Es una maldición que les consume. No sabe si los gemidos de Penthesilea se deben a él o al ritmo que marca Pem. Sí sabe que sus propios gemidos son para ellos dos por igual. "Me estáis matando."
Lo que Pem y Penthesilea saben es "mío".
"Mío" como lo dicen los niños con su juguete preferido.
El mundo está lleno de juguetes abandonados.
.

On the road

2008-12-30T23:33:00.008Z

Lucy goes down the street, an easy swing in her walk. She stops on the corner and looks back. Rupert, still at the front door, smiles. She smiles back and turns. She steals a red flower from a garden while walking home. Unconsciously she smells the flower. Without thinking she licks her lips and slowly a perky grin shows in her face.
There are no other words.
In the whole history of words and books. In the whole history of senses and experiences. There are no other possible words.
Just.
Extremly satisfying.

Lucy is still smiling when she opens her front door.
.

Als 4 gats

2008-12-14T20:45:00.006Z

F.Land es un extraño lugar. Hay bruma, niebla, lluvia. Mucha humedad. Todo florece.
Es solitario también. Territorio desconocido. En las carreteras de F.Land hay cruces que conducen a mansiones góticas de gruesas cortinas de terciopelo y mullidas alfombras. Fiestas de té y brandy junto a la chimenea. Desvíos que acaban frente a un viejo y bello edificio de cristal y acero con ventanas emplomadas. Antiguas estaciones de ferrocarril donde el polvo y las telarañas robaron los colores de los sofás hace ya mucho tiempo. Hay un camino comarcal que pasa frente a la casa más hermosa del mundo, el paraíso de los colores, blancas escaleras de caracol, en la balustrada los lagartos dormitan. Siempre hay limonada fresca y galletas para el que llega.
A veces, lo mejor de F.Land son sus oasis.
.

Wrong road

2008-09-28T20:02:00.007+01:00

Lucy was sad. Exploring the F. Land no rule from anywhere is right. And she went wrong. It was easier when she was alone. She was happy dancing and drifting in each and every prairie. Her caprice was the only law. Changes make the world go round. Now her will had to be suffocated. That's what civilization is, suffocation. All went better when the F. Land was a lonely place.
Civilization means another thing too. People. More or less, but people.
It was dark in the living room. Just the fire on that cold spring afternoon. The half empty cups of tea were still on the table, cold too. The biscuits on the plate. The two chairs unoccupied.
Lucy was looking through the window. At Rupert's back.
.

Two hundred years of gardening

2008-09-26T23:32:00.009+01:00

When something becomes obsession it is rotten. He was trying, really, trying hard and hard day to day. But in the night of his mind there was flesh and pain and moans. Consumed by lust. The sin of lust. When the flesh hurts another flesh, when there is blood and soreness, when the pleasure becomes so exquisite that is rotten. Because there is hate in love too. In the night of his mind he didn't know if that was a memory or a sick desire. All he knew was the heat and his own body melting down his legs and the trembles and the harsh voice whispering in his ear. I don't love you. And then he was miaowing just fuck me, I don't care.
I don't love you either.
.

Bup-bum, butle-doodle-dum-bum!

2008-09-25T22:29:00.011+01:00

Llovía. Oficialmente iniciado el verano, llovía. No una tormenta estival, pasajera. No. Era una cortina de agua constante desde el amanecer y ya estaba mediada la tarde. Rupert era indígena, él sí extraía súper poderes de la lluvia. Pero Lucy no. Así que ella estaba calada hasta los huesos y la boca fruncida en un puchero.
Rupert la acompañó hasta la puerta de su casa y esperó mientras ella buscaba la llave, la encontraba y abría. Pero no le invitó a entrar.
Lucy le vio irse desde la ventana, caminando bajo la lluvia torrencial como un bravo caballero, armado con su paraguas y sus botas Wellington. Al llegar a la esquina Rupert se giró. Lucy le saludó con la mano medio oculta por las cortinas. De lejos, parecía como si llevara una túnica y con el regio ondular de su mano estuviera despachando a algún inoportuno. Pero su sonrisa torcida era oro puro.

El aventurero nunca dice adiós. Sería tentar la suerte.
.

Drifting

2008-09-22T21:10:00.006+01:00

Despedirse de Plena de Seny fue mucho más sencillo.
-Me voy- le dijo.
-Lo sé.
-Por algo eres la última de los Siete Sabios.
-Claro que lo soy. La más inteligente. Por eso sé que aunque no vuelvas no te vas del todo.
-¡Cásate conmigo!
-Seríamos un matrimonio espantoso.
-Puede que tengas razón.
-Siempre tengo razón- suspiró Plena de Seny- es mi maldición.
-Yo te quiero igual, boba.
-También me quieres igual a tres mil millas de distancia- suspiró de nuevo- te echaré de menos.
-Será divertido.
.

On the road

2008-09-21T23:23:00.008+01:00

Lucy salió a caminar con su cazamariposas. Junio era una promesa cumplida, vientos suaves y sol brillante, magnífico. Peces saltando en los estanques. Lucy también saltaba. Su cabeza y su estómago saltaban. O más bien iban a la deriva. Entre el malestar por los excesos de la víspera y los nervios ante el peligro. Peligro, sí. Había abandonado los parajes solitarios de F.Land para adentrarse en las ciudades. Cuando el fetiche se duplica y está en tu cabeza y frente a tí es que ya no tienes el control. Lucy era una marioneta vestida de azul, con su camisita y su canesú.
.

Plena de seny

2008-09-20T22:44:00.010+01:00

Una noche de tormenta comparte cueva con un viejo trampero y un par de jesuitas desorientados. La conversación es esporádica, como los rayos en el exterior. El trampero masca tabaco y no tiene cuidado con dónde escupe. Los dos religiosos han rezado una oración antes de engullir la magra cena, si es que se le puede llamar así al pedazo de pan duro y la sopa aguada en la que chapotean escasos pedazos de carne dura. El aventurero llena la pipa. Será una larga noche.
El amanecer es luminoso y brillante, recién lavado. El aventurero sonríe. Algo bueno salió de anoche. Ahora sabe dónde está. Muy cerca de Las Casas de Barro. Muy cerca de la última de los siete sabios, el octavo sabio. Muy cerca de Plena de Seny.
El coñac en el café de la mañana corre de su cuenta. Es un buen día.
.

La medida del mundo

2008-09-19T23:12:00.009+01:00

Sonetos, odas, haikus, incluso algún dístico elegíaco. La exuberancia verbal del aventurero no conoce límites. El sol hace bailar su sangre y sus huesos, se le desborda en la lengua. No hay brújulas ni mapas ni siquiera caminos. Alguna senda a tramos incompleta. No hay mundo. No hay nada. Sólo él, los árboles y los pájaros. Piedras, ríos, gatos monteses. Los días se convierten en semanas, en meses. Camina montaña arriba montaña abajo. Atraviesa valles y praderas. A veces encuentra pequeñas aldeas. Aborígenes. Desertores de la civilización. Caravanas que han extraviado el rumbo. El aventurero les sonríe a todos, aunque habla más con los ciervos de las manadas de los bosques vírgenes. Los ciervos nunca le responden. El aventurero lo agradece.
En la claridad prístina de su mente no hay sitio para otros. No todavía. La forja, como aventurarse, requiere de una clase especial de paciencia.
.

Sing, sing, sing

2008-09-18T23:29:00.007+01:00

El aventurero camina con paso ligero. Ha tenido que prescindir del violín, pero no del coñac ni de la escribanía. No tarda en disponer de ambas cosas. Pero primero ensarta un par de escarabajos en sendos alfileres. Está al pie de una colina, en los alrededores de una cueva y hay unos cuantos especímenes fascinantes. Se oye el rumor de una cascada cercana. El sol aún no ha llegado a lo más alto. Entre trago y trago traza minuciosos retratos de los cadáveres.
El aventurero es feliz.
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The royal pavillion

2008-09-17T22:41:00.013+01:00

Pertrecharse para la aventura es una prioridad. Debe regresar a la civilización. Los vagabundeos le han dejado a pocas jornadas de Babilonia. Irá. Si tuviera una paloma mensajera avisaría a los otros de su llegada. No saben que será la despedida definitiva, incluso aunque vuelvan a encontrarse. Quizá haya santos que una vez muertos permanezcan incorruptos y en olor de santidad, pero sus años mozos no es uno de esos cadáveres. Hace tiempo que apesta. Mejor enterrarlo definitivamente. Un grandioso velatorio y un magnífico funeral.
Es un banquete espléndido. Ríen, comen y brindan alegremente. Desgranan anécdotas y recuerdos añejos. También hay destellos de sus vidas actuales, de las futuras. El aventurero calla. Sonríe, come y brinda. Pero calla. Sigue en silencio cuando la ropa desaparece y se entregan a la orgía de la memoria. Pem tiene nuevas arrugas y cicatrices que se complace en explorar. Merry le devuelve un par de mordiscos que tenía guardados. Penthesilea dinamita su corazón. Eso tampoco es nuevo. Sudor, ritmo. Es el jazz del adios. El saxo más voluptuoso. La trompeta más triste. Esto es todo lo que puede conseguir, ya no hay más.
Parte con las primeras luces del alba. Consigue escabullirse del confuso montón de cuerpos sin despertarles. Una última ojeada desde el umbral. Extravagante, caprichosa despedida.
Su olor le acompañará durante semanas.
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Vae victis

2008-09-16T23:46:00.007+01:00

Tiene suerte de no salir emplumado de la aldea. Le acompañan hasta el linde sur del bosque. No hay despedidas ni buenos deseos. Simplemente sigue caminando cuando los otros se detienen. Se marcha con lo puesto, tal cual llegó, aunque más limpio y mejor alimentado. Varias millas más adelante cruza un riachuelo. De repente, un manzano. Parece el mejor sitio para deleitarse.
El aventurero cae de rodillas asustado, se palpa el pecho frenético. Hay un volcán rugiendo bajo sus costillas. El dolor es insoportable, una marea que acaba escapando por la garganta. Versos y versos que forman más y más sonetos.
El aire mismo se solaza con esa métrica brillante que lo atraviesa. Por un instante, incluso las estrellas se alinean.
En el Olimpo los dioses aplauden.
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Pandæmonium

2008-09-15T14:01:00.007+01:00

Dos días después fue el juicio. Liarse a puñetazos con alguien habría resultado comprensible, incluso bienvenido. En cambio, destrozar una noria en perfecto estado sólo admitía una conclusión. Era un perturbado. O algo peor.
Es un día claro, de un brillo imposible. El aventurero parece ajeno a la multitud vociferante. Carraspea. Ensaya unas sílabas. Su voz vuelve a ser suya. Dice "hola", pero nadie le escucha. Hay gritos y acusaciones. Gimoteos y palabras airadas. Algo sobre gatos y cabras. Un par de escobas desaparecidas. La cosecha arruinada de Abe Johnson. Los colonos son gente de ética calvinista. Esclavos de la geografía. No quieren respuestas sino ratificaciones. Así que de nuevo esconde la voz en el fondo del pecho.
No la merecen.
Quomodo cecidisti de caelo, lucifer, fili aurorae?!
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The road to Shangri-La

2008-09-13T23:45:00.004+01:00

Los colonos creen que es un tipo tranquilo. Silencioso, eso sí. Un poco raro. Pero trabaja duro y no se mete con nadie. A vecen le ven sentarse junto a la noria mientras anochece. Parece hipnotizado.
Algunos empiezan a murmurar. Que si es un profeta, un iluminado, un farsante. Que si está trastornado, penando, cumpliendo una promesa. Cuchicheos. Es lo más emocionante que les ha ocurrido desde que un oso destrozó las barricas de whisky del viejo Jim, al otro lado del río.
El aventurero come, trabaja, duerme.
No sabe cuántos días han pasado, ni cuantas noches. Pero cuando despierta en medio de la oscuridad y sale al exterior hay luna llena. Una gigante luna llena sobre las copas de los árboles. Puede que ahora se afeite todos los días y mantenga el pelo pulcramente recogido con una cinta, pero algo salvaje dentro de él responde al influjo de la luna. Su voz sale ronca, quebrada. No sabe por qué. El hacha está donde la dejó, en el cobertizo de las herramientas. Son golpes rabiosos los que inutilizan la noria. Sobre el cadáver de madera y barro aúlla a la luna.
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Audentes fortuna iuvat

2008-09-10T23:48:00.005+01:00

Le ha costado muchos días, casi una luna. Ha cruzado el mismo bosque más de una vez. Más de dos, en realidad. Sigue sin ser capaz de pescar. Fabricó una honda que tenía más de tirachinas y acaba firmemente plantada bajo un roble centenario como un exvoto. Las alucinaciones persisten. Por eso al principio cree que es otro espejismo. Una cabaña. En el claro del bosque. ¿Todavía es el mismo bosque? El aventurero no sabría decirlo. Hay una especie de inexorabilidad matemática en sus desencuentros forestales. La desconfianza en sus propios sentidos se desvanece cuando una patada a la cerca le deja el pie sangrando.
Afeitado, despiojado y bañado, el aventurero siente que despierta de un sueño. Cuando engulle el plato de estofado que le ponen delate, cae de nuevo. Pero esta vez es un sueño plácido. Al día siguiente contribuye con un par de truchas para la cena. Le gusta pescar. Al otro día ayuda en el huerto. Come, trabaja, duerme. La niebla en su mente es puré de guisantes.
No se ha dado cuenta, pero aún no habla.
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