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Lullabies

30 Dic

40-bis (El mismo cuento en español)

Lullabies–

Malbrough is going to war

Mironton ton to mirontaine

Malbrough is going to war

Doesn’t know when he’ll come back


–He’ll come back for Easter

Mironton ton ton mirontaine

He’ll come back for Easter

Or for Trinity Sunday

Ha Ha Ha!

Ha Ha Ha.

Charlie sang to his brother as the night became silent. They had to go to sleep because they had school the next morning. Charlie sang to his brother that night because neither of his parents had come to their room to say goodnight.

Almost every night dad sang songs, they stuck their noses under the blankets and bed covers until the dream of night and rest crept under the pillows. The bed covers were ones of battles between Spider-Men and Batman, many of the drawings and adventures that scattered on the soft embrace of the fabric were bothered in the stale night by something. Under the tiny mattress the tension built up that night because something happened that changed the tradition of tucking up and dreams of night and rest.

Behind the wall they heard a strong and silent discussion, like furniture moving from one side to the other side of the room. The wooden floor panels creaked with rubber soles, back and forth until it stopped dead. They listened to a sound of doors closing last, a thump that did not mean to wake anyone. Seguir leyendo

The praying prophet.

2 Dic

42-bis

The Praying Prophet.

He awoke from a dream, a recurring story behind closed eyes, floating, suspended in deep space.

There it was, after walking a few steps, the trail that he left few meters away from the previous stop. Without memory, like an elephant´s heavy footsteps with each new step, he kept walking.

The stones got stuck under his boots, pointy, sharp, toothed carnivores like a praying mantis about to mate.

The countless hours that had passed since his last communication with the central were, as every step that further alienated him from where he came, as long generations descending from a single tree that withered and was going to stop growing. The ancient peoples, their memory branched generations-trees, each following a different family name, each of the branches a true story of wars and survival, recounted to the last vein from the leaves.

He was the last offspring of a large grove, already condemned to extinction. He knew that there he was, lost, dying, in the long road to nowhere. Turning, in revolution around a center that was not there.

The next steps proved to be crucial, thought-arrested, he had to decide what to do with the meager provisions they had brought in emergency. He had packed his survival bag with some books, a pack of gum, an army knife, a small flashlight and fifty packages of superproteic syrup. Enough to last a hundred days if he could find water, which he only carried a liter of drinking water in circulation, renewable but not infinite in his biosuit. Nonetheless, he knew that under those conditions he could not survive more than a handful of days in the dust exposed nostrils, inhaling thousands of particles that clogged his airway and would achieve their purpose if not prevented.
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