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La suerte del dulce cuidado
se pierde en el tiempo y la distancia.
No sé cómo extrañar
lo que nunca he conocido.

Tal vez en otra vida
tenga menos nudos que desatar,
mis cimientos sean piedra y no paja,
deje de romper la porcelana.
Por ahora sólo puedo resignarme;
nudo tras nudo,
ladrillo tras ladrillo,
taza tras taza.

La Máquina

La máquina rebota su brazo de forma errática, agitando la enorme aguja reluciente en el aire putrefacto. Sus articulaciones crujen y chillan entre el óxido y los fluidos secos.

La mujer confía a pesar de sí misma, encadenada a la máquina. Desde una pantalla la mira un lobo. Mira a cualquier lugar menos al filo tembloroso del metal, posando su vista en cada mancha roja en el piso. Escucha las gotas chocar contra la ventana del edificio desagradable.

Todo se llena de agua.

---

Sale a la calle temblorosa, con las piernas y el abdomen cubiertos de sangre y anestesia derramada, y arde pero ella se siente agradecida. Es una de pocas. La mayoría queda paralizada o muere. Es un riesgo que se toma por la discreción.

Las drogas son fuertes y el “doctor” no se preocupó por darle un descanso para que se pase el efecto. Apenas puede levantarse, el hombre del otro lado de la máquina la guía a la puerta con fría certeza, tomando el dinero con una de las garras oxidadas y cerrando bruscamente tras de ella. Se resbala al suelo mojado un minuto, preguntándose si debería llamar a su familia. Teme que la llamada sea rastreada, que sea vista paseando por ahí, y decide volver caminando.

Hoy la noche la bendice, y una vez más es una de pocas. Llega a casa en una pieza, temblorosa y con náuseas, y corre al baño ignorando la indiferencia de su familia.

Pone a correr el agua caliente, echa llave a la puerta y reza para que no la interrumpan. El mundo le da vueltas mientras se mira al espejo, las pupilas como agujeros negros absorbiendo todo alrededor. El clavel de la culpa florece en su estómago como una primavera negra, la cara del lobo grabada en su mente, riendo, riendo, riendo…

No se da cuenta de que se ha sumergido en el agua caliente hasta que abre los ojos. Le quema pero se queda quieta. El reflejo de su cuerpo parece serpentear ante sus ojos, brillando en curvas inhumanas, como una pesadilla en pleno día. Cada línea le forma un vacío en el corazón y siente que se atraganta con el aire. No puede más.

La cuchilla de afeitar ya no se desliza suavemente como lo hacía en su piel. Cruza torpemente, dejando un rastro oscuro que gotea al agua.

La mujer rompe a llorar al ver sus brazos y sus piernas. El clavel de la culpa se pinta de rojo. Ella se echa boca abajo, dejándose llevar por el sonido del agua en sus oídos, entrando por su boca, como explorándola. Cómo odia sentirse como una aventura.

Todo se llena de agua.

Talus Astragalo (Honorary XII)

talus

i fly
over the sun
over the stars
i am led to believe
i am above

astragalus

i come down
crashing down
thank the heavens for the rope around my ankle
from which i hang
let me drip clean of my mistakes

El Camino

(Hace más de un año que no publico aquí. Me arrepiento)



Llueve. Llueve como nunca ha llovido en Lima.
Me pregunto si es el final.

 El ruido de la lluvia contra el cemento ensordece. Los carros siguen su camino, ajenos al fin del mundo.

 Veo desde el balcón a una señora. Me pregunto si la conozco. Deben estar empapándose. Es una lástima que se hayan caído mis lentes, pienso.

 Me miro las manos, mis huellas dactilares se extienden como un camino, blanco y serpenteante, arriba y adelante.

 Arriba y adelante. Es lo único que me falta. Cae el sol y se borran las líneas; la del horizonte, mar y cielo ambos de tinta; las de los edificios, oscuros tras sus luces apagadas; las de la realidad. Pero no la de la lluvia, nunca la de la lluvia. Mi pelo se evapora friamente.

 El final me espera. Ahí donde no hay nada, ni líneas ni huellas, tan al final del camino que casi no lo veo. Es blanco como el cielo en invierno y negro como las semillas de una sandía. Ahí no cargaré el peso de los días ni la culpa de las noches.

 Doy dos pasos adelante y el camino desaparece por un segundo, mínimo, una fracción de parpadeo. Cuando doy un paso atrás parece brillar, seducirme con marfil y seda. La pólvora en mi estómago chispea. Me doy la vuelta y entro a resguardarme de la lluvia.

Más vale malo conocido que bueno por conocer.

The Stag (Writing Exercise 1)

I bougth Chaotic Shiny's writer's tools to motivate me and I've been doing some fantasy-ish writing exercises. I'll post some of them along with the prompt that inspired them.



Write for at least 700 words about a stag, a person and several runes.

Azvar could not believe his eyes.

Before him, in a clearing lit by fireflies and his own dying torch, stood the majestic creature he'd been looking for for years. His calling, the mission of his life.

It had started as a hobby, hunting the Elderhorn. He saw it in a painting once, from a travelling troupe of artists. They had refused to let him see it twice, claiming no one was allowed to, lest they would be taken in by the curse. He heard the story several times, to the point of having it memorized.
There was in the forests an enormous wild stag, once the mount of choice of a powerful witch. She found him dying by a river as a baby and rescued it. They bonded quickly, with the stag's imposing presence and her strong willpower made them the perfect team. Soon afterwards, villagers started blaming her for the ills of their small town, and she was driven away. She was chased out of every village she set foot on, resorting at last to hide within a cave in the wilderness.
The witch soon came to thrive in the middle of nature, finding the close contact with herbs and animals to boost her powers. The stag found itself at home in the forest as well, and soon the two of them had become the peacekeepers of the land.
Every equinox after she was cast away, the witch would engrave a single rune into the beast's majestic horns, She said that should harm come to her, it would inherit all her magic in order to keep their new home safe. The stag accepted this, their wordless bond reaching their souls.
So they lived for years, shielded from the human world, the stag's horns growing intricate and detailed as the witch's features too grew lines and details, and her hair was white and brittle. However, one day came in which soldiers from one kingdom or another - she kept no record of their  petty battles anymore - stumbled upon her cave in a drunken stupor in the dead of the night. They attacked her, and before she could even react, the stag had tackled them away, making their bones rattle in their armor. They refused to back down and drew iron swords, fully ready to kill, but in the blink of an eye they were killed by the very roots on which they stood. Noting their disappearance, more and more soldiers starting showing up in her forest, and soon enough a myth had grown around her. She never attacked first, it was a promise she had made to herself. She was only defending herself from the attackers that came into her home with the sole intent of harming her. But after time went by of troops and troops coming to take her down, she became a legend, hunted by adventurers and mercenaries. Those too fell before her, paling before her hundreds of years of experience and wisdom.
However, one equinox, while she was engraving yet another rune onto her stag's horns, an adventurer took her by surprise, shooting an arrow right through her heart. The stag, enraged by its mistress' murder, hunted the hunter, enhanced with the magic filling him from the underworld. It was the witch's magic, as promised, the runes on its horns burning brightly. It ripped the adventurer to pieces, and soon took up the woman's role of defending the forest against invasion. It was said that every equinox it went back to its cave, to nuzzle the dried-up body of the witch, from which wildflowers had sprouted for as loon as she had been dead. The years it lived became uncountable.

Which was why Azvar was in utter shock, the silence of his fear broken only by the singing of birds, signaling the coming of dawn. He felt thankful. Daylight could not come soon enough.
Before him was the creature he had hunted his entire life.
Dead.
Its body stood at least five meters above him, looming even while lifeless. Its mane had grown moss, making it seem hair had kept growing even after he had died. And on top of  his head, the horns. The precious horns  he'd been after for ages. Only  he had  expected  an epic fight, and  instead had been treated to a corpse that was no older than a month. Even so, instead of the stench of decay, the clearing was filled with the perfume of fruit, despite no fruit growing nearby.
A note at the feet of the beast caught his attention.

"It would appear I got here sooner. Boring fight. The monster did not even have any treasure to steal. Why were you after this trash? - Merval"

Azvar felt blood boiling in his veins. He was going to murder that rogue.

XX

Sonaban al fondo gritos de bronce, marcando con paciencia el camino al infierno. Sentada con vapor en la cara, esperaba y esperaba, cantando al ritmo del perdón que no llegaría. Sus palabras fueron bienvenidas con sonrisas que ocultaban el silencio incómodo. Todos esperaban que pasara, pero el fin del mundo no espera a nadie.

IX

Hilos de oro y plata cuelgan de mi mente, se entrelazan con sueños por las noches y cuentan mil vidas nuevas. Se raja la botella de cristal poco a poco, cada segundo más cerca del polvo. Mis sonrisas y deseos, al final, sólo valen bajo este techo, y no puedo dejarlos volar afuera por miedo a perderme sin ellos. Escucho el crujido del cristal bajo el peso de mi penitencia.