Excerpt:

A Black Dog and the Awakening of an Ancestral Grandeur

For Xi-Nan

For years, China advanced across the world through fiber-optic cables, steel, satellites, and skyscrapers rising where there had once been dust. It was a silent ascent, sustained by algorithms, intensive manufacturing, and a technological imagination that seemed inexhaustible. Yet this expansion did not remain confined to the material realm. Gradually, it began to breathe within another, less quantifiable dimension—the realm of culture. As though, after building the body, the nation now sought to build a soul capable of speaking to the world without needing to translate itself.

In that second breath, science fiction took on an unexpected prominence. The emergence of Liu Cixin with The Three-Body Problem marked a before and after. It was more than the arrival of an ambitious novel; it was the appearance of a vision of the future that did not depend on the Western imagination to sustain itself. His worlds unfold with the confidence of a country that no longer looks outward for validation, but instead proposes—almost unconsciously—its own cosmology. After Liu, Chinese science fiction ceased to be a curiosity and became a central axis. There, within that widening of thought, one could sense the seed of something greater, an aesthetic sensibility seeking to manifest in other arts as well.

From that same emotional territory emerges Black Dog, by Guan Hu. It is not a film that rushes toward its audience, nor one that aspires to spectacle. Its force comes from elsewhere—from something closer to the slow breathing of deserts, and to the memory held in stone. The story unfolds in a town devoured by sand, a landscape where things do not happen because someone wills them to, but because the immensity leaves an empty space that forces the characters to look inward. There, on that frontier between the real and the desolate, appears the protagonist: a former convict condemned to hunting stray dogs. And in that arid task he finds a black dog he cannot bring himself to kill—a small gesture that cracks open the emotional dryness surrounding the film.

What fascinates is that Black Dog does not explain itself. It does not justify itself. It allows the light, the dust, and the distances to speak on their own. The camera lingers on the dunes as if trying to remember the exact shape of a silence no longer found elsewhere. Abandoned buildings rise like the remains of a civilization that never fully came into being. And the bond between the man and the dog becomes a thread of tenderness running through a universe where almost nothing invites tenderness. Everything holds together in a strange equilibrium, as if the film walked along the fragile line between contained life and an emotion so vast it could break everything open.

In that gesture, the sublime appears. Not the thunderous sublime of cathedrals or digital spectacles, but an austere, almost mineral sublime. It comes from the weight of the landscape, from the wind that erases footprints, from the way a small act can illuminate an entire geography. Black Dog sees solitude not as punishment but as a condition from which one can see farther. It turns emptiness into a form of beauty that requires no ornament.

What is most interesting is that this sensibility did not emerge from nothing. China has spent years moving toward a more intimate cinematic expression, one charged with emotional nuance. Hong Kong cinema had already hinted at this path through the luminous melancholy of Wong Kar-wai, but what now occurs in mainland China carries a different pulse. Works like An Elephant Sitting Still revealed a deep desire to explore sadness, stillness, the density of time. Black Dog takes that desire and refines it. It transforms it into an aesthetics of restraint that, paradoxically, allows the sublime to appear with greater clarity than any grand display.

Thus, the country that once dazzled the world with its technological power now begins to do so with a subtlety that once seemed improbable. It is no longer only about cables, turbines, or supercomputers. It is about the way a film can make desolation beautiful, how a stray dog can become a symbol, how an arid landscape can reveal a hidden spirituality. China is learning...

... "

--Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt: .

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Clinging

I gesture for her to stand. I ask if she wants to shower with me. She laughs. Jokes that she thought I never bathed. I look at her with a mock-offended face. She laughs again. Says fine. She stands. Walks toward the bathroom. Stops. Turns around. Asks if I'm coming. I get up. Tell her I just wanted to watch her walk for a moment. I like watching her walk. I follow her. She enters. I enter. I lock the door. She asks how we’ll know if someone comes. I shrug. Open the door. Tell her I don’t think we’ll take that long. We each undress ourselves. I see her naked for the second time today.

Lately I see her more without clothes than with them.

I hug her. Just body heat. It’s pleasant. It’s beautiful. I step into the shower. She steps in. Closes the curtain. I pretend to wonder aloud which knob is the cold one. She makes a frightened face. Says cold in a scared voice. Covers her breasts as if defending herself. Why does she do that? Though I can’t deny I like those gestures of hers. I point at the knobs. She points to the left one. Presses her hands harder over her chest. I love it. I open it. Slightly. Hot water comes out. I close it. Open the other. Cold. Open it more. Colder. I step fully under it. Pull her toward me. She lets out a tiny shriek. I laugh. She looks offended. I laugh. She splashes water into my eyes. I put her directly under the stream. She closes the tap. Grabs the soap. Tells me to turn around. I turn. She soaps my back. Finishes. Gives me the soap. She turns around by herself. I soap her back. She lifts her hair. I soap her neck. She turns. Extends her hand. I give her the soap. She soaps my arms. My legs. My chest. My groin. Down to my feet. She extends her hand. I take the soap from between her fingers. I soap her shoulders. Her breasts. Her arms. Her groin. Her legs. Down to her feet.

What we’re doing has nothing sexual about it. It’s strange. Almost everything we do lately has something sexual in it. I don’t love the path we’re on and I don’t know where it leads.

She turns. Opens the tap fully. The force of the water almost makes me fall. She laughs. Splashes water in my face while rinsing the soap off. I try to nudge her slightly so she’ll move closer. She does. I rinse myself. She splashes water in my face again. I spit water out of my mouth. Turn off the tap. We look at each other. She snaps her fingers. Steps out of the shower. Gets the floor wet. Grabs a towel. I ask why not two. She shakes her head. Replies, with obviousness, that two towels are for two people and that I was never here today. I laugh at my own stupidity. She finishes drying herself. Hands me the towel. Tells me to hurry, it’s almost six. I nod. She reminds me I have to be gone before then. I grab my clothes. Put on my uniform. She goes to her room. Puts on her pajamas. Comes out. I say goodbye at the door. Hug her. Leave. Cross the park. Walk.

I love her.

I enter the kitchen. Say hello. We talk about our days. I serve myself dinner. She goes to her room. I sit. Stand. Open the fridge. Look for juice. Or whatever’s there. Lemonade. I sit. Eat. When I follow her impulses. When I follow my impulses. I eat. We should go out someday to write and draw on the walls. We haven’t done that yet. She writes. I draw. Side by side. I drink. Months have passed since we last mentioned it. Why haven’t we done it? I eat. I have to remind her. I have to travel the world with her. Until we find our place. I eat. Sitting still watching the sun disappear. We’d sit there. Maybe holding each other. Maybe talking about something irrelevant. I drink. But deep down almost everything is irrelevant. Knowing how to bathe is relevant. Everything around us growing darker. I eat. Take my plate. Wash it. Streetlights would frame our silhouettes. Motionless. I open the fridge. Look for dessert. Without moving. Side by side. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing what to say. There’s ice cream. Summer approaches. The year ends. Held in silence. Why speak? Sometimes I just look at her and she understands. I take a small plate. A small spoon. Serve myself. Silence. I sit. The ice cream is good. Almost frozen. Silence doesn’t feel so frightening. I used to fear it. I used to fear falling silent with someone I liked. I spill ice cream on my pants. Tomorrow at school I’ll have a stain on my knee. Perfect. We can talk. We can be quiet. We can do whatever we want. I look for something to add to the ice cream. Pecans. I use them. I’d prefer peanuts, but no one likes them in this house. I rub my cheek. It hurt to bite a pecan. But it’s fine. I stand. Wash the plate. Let the plate and spoon dry. Sit again. Drink. Drink. Drink. Drink. Drink. Stand. Wash the glass. We could wash dishes together.

I put the pitcher away. It’s sweet to imagine it. I want to fall asleep on her stomach. Why? I go upstairs. Enter my room. Drop my backpack. Open it. Look for my pencil. Sketch a window. Open. Curtains moving. Waving. A couch. Two people sitting on it. Holding hands. Faceless. I just want to emphasize the hands clinging. As if tearing each other apart. I erase. Try again. Erase again. I never manage to capture the images in my head. Theory. Practice. They never match. The hands cling as if they’ll never let go. I keep darkening them over the rest of the drawing. I sit on the floor. Lean against the wall. Maybe that’s what we feel now. We don’t want to let go. I don’t want to let her go. I bite my pencil. I should sleep with her tonight. We’ve never slept together. Maybe it’ll be like the shower. Nothing sexual....

... "

--Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt:

The Road to Happiness – Prologue

I will never forget the day I found him.

His body was so frail, so still, that for a moment I truly believed he wasn’t breathing. I stopped, careful not to disturb the silence, and looked at him more closely.

The cold in that basement felt like something solid, a weight pressing against the skin; every breath we exhaled mingled with the frozen air. I couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been there, enduring such a hostile place.

His eyes… they were large, sunken into a face far too small to carry so much pain. There wasn’t a single spark of hope in them—only a terrifying emptiness, mixed with a fear so deep it sent a chill down my spine.

---

I had to be careful.

His tiny shoulders were tense, and I saw how he pressed his hands hard against his legs, his knuckles turning pale from the effort.

And I knew—knew it with a certainty I had never felt before—that I couldn’t leave him behind.

That fragile, shattered being became my responsibility...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

Darkness.

It was the first thing I ever knew.

A vast, heavy darkness.

I didn’t understand it; I only knew it was there, as if it had been waiting for me, stretching into every corner, swallowing sound, color, and hope.

The darkness wasn’t just a lurking shadow—it was something that stayed, seeping all the way into the bone.

I can’t remember the last time I saw the light.

Now and then, a drop of water falls from above; its sound multiplies through the stillness, disturbing the quiet like a sigh.

In one corner, a child with pale pink hair curls up inside a tiny cage, dressed in nothing but a thin scrap of cloth—so flimsy it can barely be called clothing; the fragile fabric barely covers him, leaving his skin exposed to the freezing air.

He shivers uncontrollably, and in a desperate attempt to keep warm, crosses his arms over his shoulders, shrinking into the corner.

When he tries to embrace himself, he clutches the fabric as if it were something precious.

Not because he thinks it helps—but even so, his knees stay pressed to his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around his shoulders.

The child lifts his head.

His breath rises in small white clouds, and every time they vanish, he feels that something inside him vanishes with them.

It’s because he wants to disappear—yet not entirely—and so he wonders:

If those little clouds disappear so quickly… why can’t I?

He looks toward the door, watching the place carefully.

He’s anxious, and he knows he must stay alert, because the footsteps he hears don’t always bring anything good.

He tries to hide wherever he can, seeking a corner where the cold hurts a little less...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

Surrealist Tale: My Tropical Journey to Behold Picasso’s Bust

Cubist Tale

A strange journey yet it reminds me that when I was born among coconut palms maize hurricanes and floods the extreme cyclopes—once subdued by a foreign wisdom and turned into dwarf cannibalistic aluxes—began devouring one another the moment they were freed five centuries after the landing of those golden-armored gods who floating on sticks sails crosses and trinkets brought with them the holy water with which a little priest baptized me his eyes all scrambled his skull like a bald kite long-nosed his black-whitish wings surfing while tied to an anchor an apse a barber’s razor engraved with Picasso’s name and sharpened like a quixotic picador’s lance—on which Salvador Dalí hangs his infamous mustaches upside down stretching beyond all perspective his wide mouth bubbling as he shouts: “Cosmogony! Cosmogony! Do you know what cosmogony is? Avida Dollars! Avida Dollars! Sex god dominance my dog! And what is art to you? The stump of my blue balls! Who is this child eating people’s faces? Off with you boy!” And he abandons me on the viscous breasts of my mother her cinnamon skin mounted a thousand times by ignorance and fear her breath strong as a Cadejo the spectral coo of a wailing Llorona: “Another one for your grandmother’s daycare I’m sorry I’m such an idiot I understand nothing oh oh my children…” She watches me slip from her arms pushing through rushes runnels pine trees wild brush swirling alleys dust trash sunken purple beasts all while the screams of men women and youngsters—sitting on a curb with their skulls blown open brain matter spilled—echo beside a lonely sign piled with cat skeletons: *“For every one the Cartel kills at least ten will be blown apart as a reminder.”*I keep running dodging an army of ragged clumsy dead who drinking greedily from their own gastric juices tear off their arms and legs: “Tastes good right buddy? Corruption is my pleasure. Here—take my ballot and my support General Mister Engineer—please when you sit on the Throne conspire against our interests drive it in hard without mercy leave none of us alive because we deserve exactly what we get.” And there I am—suspended in a mesh of space-time like a gramophone with a giant horn into which I leap, seized as though grabbing a bull by the horns—transformed into the bottom of a goblet like a giant hand swimming beneath empty oceans cresting waves of light between mountains scourged by hunters who kill without hunger: unibrowed faces with puppet eyes deer-horn shards surrounded by pyromaniacs who for a crop of dollars burn down cities and blame the residents: “It’s the others’ fault—can’t you see? There’s too much regulation now they won’t let us poison people as God intended won’t let us dry the river and that breaks the Virgin’s heart because she’s never taken out for a walk. Yes yes it’s all these lazy ones’ fault. Yes yes these foreigners’ fault. Yes yes the fault of these welfare parasites—you give them neither bread nor wine especially if they’re children or elders. Freedom! Freedom! Oh my Holy Homeland!”

And beyond the empty oceans and their dancing fireflies a great white vulture grabs me and flings me into a town full of nests...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

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Seated, gazing beside me at a landscape bent, inverted, and askew! The raw sorrow that bears my invented name is that of a man who gleams only in absence, his spine laid bare in sin.

At times I drift; I do not feel life, only displeasure. My wage is the death of the idle man hanged, wrestling on the rope with crows at his side. That is the landscape I see—crowded, licking its wounds. I sense the torment of the angel condemned.

Dry are my tears after endless relapses. This prison called a body invades me from without. The mercy of the man who calls himself free is locked within cages of thought.

A frequent stranger to his own existence— as my ego is to its patience— he waits for the lowest hour to strike the jaw of the youth who distracts himself with cursed emotions that shake a heart broken by time.

Slaying my illusions, living through weariness and self-punishment...

... "

--Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

**Excerpt: **

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A Couple of Months Later

“—Initializing Experimental Model Protocol.”

I heard the voice of a scientist in a white room—so white it made my eyes hurt even when they were shut. Damn… this part always hurts.

“—Loading residual matter… from prime cells…”

“—Levels stable…”

“—Good. Inject the material from A1 to Z2.”

Inject. What a funny word for shoving things up my ass…

“—Loading original model, exporting blood data…”

“—Proceed with matter transfer from Original Code Shin to Model 02, Code Kale.”

Who the hell is Shin? I always wonder that… But more importantly—who am I, if they’re putting someone else inside me? And even more importantly… why do I let them do this? Ugh… I need a drink after this. Though it’s better they don’t know I can hear everything. At least I don’t feel what they’re doing to me. That’s good… right?

“—Doctor, blood data shows interference…”

“—Run another scan and apply a more concentrated sample…”

“—Captain, why are we here?…”

Captain? Where is that voice coming from?

“—Attention, entering Exquema system…”

Exquema… why does that sound familiar? More importantly—why do I feel so agitated?

“—Doctor, levels keep rising…”

I feel strange. What is this sensation? My skin is burning…

“—AXIOS!”

It burns… Hey… get me out of here… I don’t want this anymore…

“—Increase anesthesia and continue with the sample.”

Hey, hey—I said stop, damn it!…

“—Aaaah!…”

I shot up in bed, drenched in cold sweat, staring wildly around the room.

“Damn nightmares…”

I dragged a hand over my face as my vision adjusted. I was home. At least, I thought so—it was the same room I’d seen every single damn day for months, from this same damn bed… How pathetic.

I got up wearing only the scraps of clothing I use to sleep. The heat on this island is unbearable.

“I hate the heat…”

I sat on the bed, scratching my head, and ran my hand down my arm… or rather, where my arm should’ve been. Now there was only a mutilated stump. I wanted to scream out of pure rage, but I’d done plenty of that these last months, and nothing changes no matter how loud you yell.

I stood up and walked to the small table in front of me, where there was a bottle of “healing water” according to the old woman who gave it to me. Witch—it's probably just water with plants some animal pissed on. But… I guess drinking it is better than not drinking it. I’m no doctor.

I glanced around the tiny cabin as I finished the bottle.

“This place is falling apart…”

I muttered as I set the empty bottle down and stared at my ruined arm. If this place is falling apart, then so am I.

“Damn it.”

After my wonderfully uplifting morning routine, I put on my loose granny pants and opened the cabin door. The sun stabbed at my eyes with its blinding white glare, but once my sight adjusted, the first thing I saw was the desolate view of an island at the ass-end of the world.

I sat on the steps, looking around, bored as always, letting my strength return. Though if I think about it, maybe this place does have some charm… for the old witch who lives on the other side of this rock. I don’t know if she’s an actual witch, but she sure looks like one, with all the strange things she says and the weird concoctions she makes—like that “medicine” bottle she gave me when we arrived…

After a while, I stood and took the path toward her hut. I didn’t want to see her, but she’d said she had something for me today, and since I have nothing better to do, it’s not like I’ll be wasting my time… I hope.

After a nice walk through the island’s complete lack of wildlife, I reached the witch’s hut, beautifully decorated with animal hides. Lovely welcome.

Without knocking—I mean, who else would it be?—I stepped inside.

“I’m here…”

I looked around for a sign of her.

“In the basement…”

Her voice floated up from beneath the floorboards. I sighed and looked for the stairs. Once I went down, the place was as creepy as the rest of her house, lit only by candles scattered everywhere.

“How are you feeling today? Any better?”

She asked without turning to face me, busy with something at her table. I leaned against a pillar, watching her.

“The same as every day…”

She laughed. She laughed? I didn’t tell a joke.

“Come here, I have something for you…”

I obeyed and walked to her side— and froze when I saw what was on the table.

“No way…”

For the first time in months, I felt actual excitement.

On the table was an arm. A metallic, damn-near beautiful arm.

“Is that…?”

I asked, uncertain, as she stepped aside.

“Of course it is. What, are you blind, you brat?”

She gave me a couple of light shoves.

“Go on, try it on.”

I was half stunned. How the hell was I supposed to “try it on”? It’s not like you just slap a limb onto yourself and call it a day. Still, with no better option, I picked it up and unwrapped the bandages around my stump.

I placed the prosthetic’s socket over my shoulder and—

CRACK.

Spikes shot out and dug straight into my bone.

“Shit—!”

It hurt, but at the same time— after months— I felt my right arm again.

It was incredibly strange, but there it was, moving like it was mine. My metal, robotic, glorious arm.

“Incredible… How… how did you even make this?”

I asked, stunned. The old woman looked ridiculously proud.

“You didn’t think I spent all these months doing nothing, did you? I used everything I had… and with that dragon of yours helping, it was a piece of cake.”

Who would’ve thought—this old witch was also a master craftsman…

“I don’t even know what to say…”

I took a breath and bowed deeply.

“Thank you. Truly.”

I had nothing else to give—nothing but myself.

“Don’t thank me yet…”

She shoved me again.

“Go outside and test it.”

She pushed me out of the basement and out the door entirely. The sun stabbed me again, and I blinked hard.

I nodded and walked away from her hut, moving and flexing my new arm.

“Incredible…”

It really was. I couldn’t stop talking aloud, amazed that a piece of metal could become a real arm—my arm—after so many months without one. I’d already accepted the idea of living one limb short...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

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Anomalous Events (Another Abnormally Normal Tuesday) – Chapter 004

After a long, damp night that involved far more mud than strictly necessary, all my body wanted was heat, carbohydrates, and for no one to mention pocket dimensions for at least twelve hours. Luckily, Alma knew a place.

El Rincón del Bife was exactly what its name promised: it smelled of grilled meat, smoke, and a floor just greasy enough to be comforting. Perfect. We collapsed onto a table in the back—Rafu wearing an expression that, for once, wasn’t absolute disgust; Alma ordering a bottle of red wine without even glancing at the menu; and me dreaming of a pile of fries the size of a car tire.

We were basking in that comfortable silence shared only by people who’ve spent far too much time together, when the bell over the door chimed again.

And he walked in.

It was as if someone had programmed an algorithm to generate an “average human.” Ironed clothes, rigid posture, and a smile that looked stapled onto his face. He sat at a nearby table with robotic precision, examined the menu as though deciphering alien code (the irony wrote itself), and then looked straight at us.

“Oh no,” Alma muttered, taking a long drink of wine.

“What?” I asked, following her gaze.

“Him. That’s Placeholder.”

“Placeholder? Like filler text?”

“Something like that,” Rafu grumbled, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “He’s a… recurring client.”

The man—Placeholder—approached our table with measured steps.

“Greetings, colleague units. Is your nutrient consumption cycle proceeding satisfactorily?”

I blinked.

“Uh… yes. Thanks. Who are you?”

“My operational designation in this sector is Juan Placeholder,” he said, pausing as if waiting for applause.

Rafu couldn’t help himself.

“‘Placeholder’? And your first name is ‘Juan’? Couldn’t you pick something even more generic? Like ‘User One’ or ‘Unnamed Human’?”

Juan frowned—an expression that felt calculated rather than natural.

“‘Juan’ was selected from a list of statistically high-frequency human designations. It is optimal for social integration.”

“Right, because nothing screams ‘I’m normal’ like introducing yourself as ‘Juan Placeholder,’” I said, unable to stop myself. “Don’t you think it’s a bit… obvious?”

He seemed to process the question.

“Obviousness is sometimes the best camouflage. A calculated risk.” Then he glanced at our plate of fries. “I also desire units of that format. What is the command sequence required to acquire them?”

Alma sighed, exasperated.

“You have to call the waiter, Placeholder. Raise your hand. Say, ‘Sir, fries please.’”

“Ah! Direct vocal interaction. Understood.” He nodded solemnly and turned, walking toward the waiter with the determination of a soldier heading into battle.

“What… what is that?” I whispered.

“That,” Alma said, “is a headache shaped like a man.”

“He smells like static and burnt plastic,” Rafu added gleefully. “And he’s so lost it’s pitiful. Last time, he tried to pay for his coffee with an integrated circuit that looked like it came off a spaceship. Alma nearly strangled him.”

We watched Juan Placeholder tell the waiter, in a loud, monotone voice:

“Service unit, I request one portion of solanum tuberosum fried units. With maximum urgency!”

The waiter—a man with the face of someone who had seen absolutely everything—just nodded and walked away.

Placeholder returned to his table, satisfied, and sat perfectly still, as motionless as a statue.

We finished eating, paid, and got up to leave. As we passed his table, Juan looked at us.

“It was highly satisfactory to encounter you! I hope our next data exchange is equally efficient!”

“Yes, yes,” Alma muttered, pushing us toward the door.

Just as we stepped into the cold night, I cast a final glance back. And for a fraction of a second—less than a blink—Juan Placeholder’s silhouette flickered. Like a bad TV signal. And beneath that perfectly normal façade, I saw something else entirely—something angular, and in a color my brain refused to process.

I froze on the sidewalk.

“Did… did you see that?”

Rafu nodded, still wearing that hyena grin.

“Yeah. You can see the wiring. Happens whenever he gets excited.”

Alma lit a cigarette, completely unfazed.

“Come on. I’m tired...

... "

--Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt:

Stellar Horizon Contact – Chapter II: Inspection

The crew’s resting area was located in the beta wing of the lunar space station, not far from where the exploration hangars began. As they went through the final and exhaustive medical tests required by the Confederation of Commercial Crew, Lucas decided it was time to familiarize himself with this intriguing place. It would help ease the nerves brought on by the examination, which had him genuinely worried. Surely, he was the youngest expeditionary on the Moon at the time—they weren’t going to make it easy.

He knew every street, every nook of this place; he had seen it thousands of times in readings and videos about the lunar base. There was one famous spot that was his favorite. During his visit to the lunar base, he walked through every accessible area, from bars and nightclubs to the sparse supermarkets. Nowadays, a whole industry related to the production of space food existed.

He wondered how he had never been there before; he wanted to shout to the world how he had made it. Twenty years dreaming of being here. And now everything was within reach.

He walked along what would be the main avenue, Neil Armstrong Avenue, where the shops rose like in old futuristic dystopian games. Neon-like signs simulated fluorescent tubes, which were actually screens displaying three-dimensional images, showing something that wasn’t really there. His augmented reality lenses interpreted these images, which otherwise would have been only codes written on the walls, letting him see what the lenses’ computer captured.

“Lu, I found a place to grab a drink!” shouted Jesus from across the street, his long, bony arm waving to get attention.

“Coming.”

Inside, the nightclub held a hundred people, jumping with arms in the air as if repelled by the Moon’s low gravity—a phenomenon only they could truly understand, because no human from Earth had ever danced that way.

Lucas removed his lenses and looked at the drink stand. A screen greeted him, buttons appearing to float in the glass, static in front of him. These were mere technological tricks, enabled by the lenses doing all the work. He removed the lenses to see the screen clearly, and everything became sharper. The letters were stuck to the glass, no separation at all. He chuckled inwardly; it was extremely easy to replicate, perhaps even with second-hand technology.

Still, he ordered a non-alcoholic drink, so as not to risk his tests. They drank and danced, mocking the “Moonies”—that’s what Jesus called those who lived and worked on the lunar base.

“Can you imagine?” Jesus stood on the edge of a round table surrounded by white sofas. “Getting a little gig here?”

“I’m not interested,” Lucas replied.

“But you’d have a lifetime insurance. You’d never send another CV in your life. You’d have a job feeding you for years with a month of work. Well, living down here,” said Jesus, referring to Earth.

“And would you… go back home?” Lucas asked. Jesus answered without hesitation, probably asked that question many times before.

“After this trip, you won’t see me again. I’ll live it up till I’m old.” Jesus, in his forties and believing a short space trip could grant him another forty-five years of life, spoke with misplaced certainty. Lucas knew better—impossible.

“You think so? You won’t even have enough to pay for the first round you spent all your cash on,” Lucas teased. Yet, beneath the banter, he sensed a dormant friend in Jesus.

“I guess after this, I’ll just fix some of the small tourist ships in the hangars,” Jesus said, as if his life were already solved.

“Well, cheers to that,” Lucas said, clinking glasses with Jesus, who kept his eyes on the dance floor, scouting for a young prospect.

Lucas returned relatively early, wanting to rise early. Jesus stayed behind, seeing what he could get. Their sleeping quarters were tiny bunks, just enough for a man lying down, stacked in multiple floors—an idea from the Asians, perfect for cramped lunar space.

Lucas reached his designated bunk, 309. Just by the number, he could tell the mission number. Not superstitious, but amusing to note for the captain the next day. When he lay down, sleep came effortlessly, and he only remembered waking the next day as if hours had flown by in a blink.

“Come on, Lucas, get up, kid,” said the second-in-command, moving bed to bed, waking the crew. “We have the exam now.”

“Hopefully you don’t talk so much during cryogenics…” Erick, beside Lucas, remarked. Lucas had taken the bed he desired the night before. “You were complaining nonstop last night.”

He woke slightly disoriented, for a moment thinking he was at the captain’s house in Buenos Aires, where they had stayed the previous month before heading south. Something felt off—he remembered running from something unpleasantly close. At the medical office, the dream escaped him entirely.

The facilities were highly advanced, minimalist. The walls were empty, white with indirect cold lighting—he imagined lasers hidden in the seams of long tiles. He sat, awaiting his turn; the seats were small and uncomfortable. Beside him, four people lined up: the second, Noel, Jesus, and Erick. Hundreds of candidates passed through daily; the rest of the rooms were crowded with crew.

When the screen announced his number and letter, he was ushered into a small two-by-two room. The walls were as white as outside, but the tiles smaller, lasers firing from all directions. He closed his eyes briefly as the red light blinded him; the doctor had instructed him to if needed.

Afterward, he waited to approach the counter. A relatively young girl, though older than Lucas, processed digital authorizations slowly and disinterestedly—until it was his turn.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be here?” asked the girl behind the counter. His lens translator caught it and relayed the words in Spanish. In the top-left corner, he saw her natural tongue: Slovenian.

“I don’t think so… I’ve seen older,” he said, taking the note allowing him to begin the trip, fully cleared for cryogenics.

“You’re very healthy; I could help with that…”

“Thanks, good afternoon.” He felt it was the first time someone flirted with him in such an awkward place—completely observed and monitored. He exited and waited for the rest.

“Stupid controller…!” Jesus exclaimed upon leaving.

“Next time, don’t drink before the exam…” Noel muttered to him.

“Hey, what happened?” Noel appeared upset, as if Jesus’ words had struck a nerve.

“Jesus came intoxicated. He’ll have to redo it tomorrow, slowing us down,” she replied. Lucas had come to know every gesture of hers. “I do my job and expect my teammates to take it seriously. Nothing more.”

“Relax, let’s eat.”

“All good?” Jericó approached, wandering like a civilian, though his circuits were almost exposed.

“Nothing. You?” Lucas diverted the conversation quickly.

“I understand there was a conflict with Jesus. Should I investigate further?” the droid asked inquisitively.

“Nothing for you to worry about. The team handles it.” Lucas patted Noel’s shoulder, and they walked off.

As they passed Jericó, the droid’s robotic arm gently rested on Lucas’ shoulder, surprising Noel. “I just want you to know you can count on me. Whatever happens on this trip is partly my responsibility. I need to ensure the team operates safely in near space.” Jericó blinked his eyes as if joking. “Analyzing your reaction, I see my movement was abrupt. I’ll correct it.”

Lucas moved away, thinking for a moment the droid might intimidate him—but why would a robot do that? He deferred the question for later, planning to discuss it with Maxi.

Six days had passed since the crew completed medical checks, five since Jesus repeated his. The rest of the Pampa team was ready: over ten technicians, two nurses, an extra doctor, and more supporting staff. Maxi remained mostly in the control center with Pato, rarely leaving the ship during pre-flight days.

“Erick, last inspection in an hour. Everything ready?” asked the second-in-command. Erick nodded.

“Next time, answer me, Lucas,” said the captain.

“I’m on check thirteen; all systems normal,” Lucas replied, eyes fixed on the screen displaying the ship’s fragmented layout.

“Noel, is the medical team on board?”

“All in zone three.”

“Jesus, last control check before…”

The central computer interrupted with a message. A crisp, monotone voice echoed. The crew fell silent, anxious despite repeated inspections.

“Where’s Jericó?” came the last question before a Confederation inspector entered the bridge.

A fat man with poor gait, scruffy beard, and untidy clothes for lunar station standards strode in with a lanky accomplice. Ignoring the crew, he inspected each console.

“And the prior checks…?” he asked. Lucas’ translator relayed his voice in neutral Spanish. Two steps later, he reached the captain. “But it’s Max.”

“Maximiliano.” The captain was curt—clearly displeased by the visitor.

“You were let go from the Chronicle Time?” Everyone knew the captain had piloted it before, but the Australis Corporation offered him this project without hesitation.

“I completed my mission with them.”

“Yes, I read the report. I heard they offered you a handsome sum to pilot it.” He laughed, but no one joined in. “Now you’re here…” His expression shifted as he realized no one feared him.

“The check was ready two hours ago; inspection is fully prepared.” The captain subtly asserted control.

“Good.” The inspector’s face darkened, unaccustomed to such exposure. “Please review the bridge entry computer.”

The young, thin inspector exited; the door closed behind him. The constant hum of the reactor signaled the ship was ready to launch on command.

“I’ll start here,” he said, approaching Noel’s panel. “Show me vitals and secondary cryogenics.”

Lucas observed Maxi’s gaze at the inspector, almost satisfied. He smiled at the captain, who winked, then returned to the inspector. Something was off, yet oddly gratifying for Maxi—like winning a thumb war you knew you’d win.

Lucas noticed a persistent alert on turbine four. Impossible; he had checked it moments ago. Moving subtly, he tried to resolve it, but the console was locked. Pressure imbalance prevented intervention from the bridge.

“Jesus, secondary support check,” he instructed.

Spotting the error in the turbine camera feed, he saw Jericó crouched at the manual module, expertly fixing the issue. The blinking screen ceased within seconds.

“Mechanical and EVA secondary,” called a voice. Jericó gave a thumbs-up to Lucas’ camera, then vanished as if never there.

The inspector stared, unable to believe a young, inexperienced-looking boy solved the issue so quickly. He moved aside, touching various controls, finding nothing.

“Minor… issue,” Lucas replied.

“Run the check, kid,” said the inspector, visibly stunned.

Finishing navigation panel inspection, Jericó reentered minutes later, silently.

“Report: manipulation detected in left fourth turbine diagnostics. Fault resolved. No risk for launch.” Lucas remained calm; his glance at Jericó analyzed not only utility but intent—would he always assist them this way?...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

The Rite of the Bolívar Orphanage

In the old orphanage of Ciudad Zamora, an unspeakable horror had long been brewing—one that sparked a terrifying chapter in the country’s student folklore. Its dreadful secrets still lie buried on the hillside cemetery and in the catacombs beneath the city’s Historic District. The frequent sightings of the dead nun, and the suicidal youths appearing in the bathroom mirrors, foretold an invitation into hidden corners of the mind; and the charred corpses from the Spanish Flu epidemic that once ravaged the city still exhale miasmas that darken the façade of the building that once served as a Catholic school.

The resurgence of an ancient curse—born from the bloody pact forged by the Guayanese founders with an unknown entity—manifested in our modern era as a digital echo of an underworld far beyond earthly concepts. It stirred an extremist uproar among the students and eventually caught the attention of the Church, who appointed the sacristan Salvador García as mediator between these dark forces that had turned the Bolívar Orphanage into their den of terrors, demanding victims to settle their arcane debt.

Before the student incident that shut down the school, there were alarming signs that something strange was unfolding. Yet Director Ramírez chose to ignore it for political convenience… until the worst occurred. Senior boys—and a few strong-willed girls—began exhibiting antisocial, aggressive behavior toward others. Younger students grew intimidated, withdrawn, depressed. The academic dean dismissed it all as “typical teenage nonsense,” unaware of the disastrous consequences of his negligence.

The last day of Rubén García’s life resembled all the others that came before: he sat silently between rows of desks, copied down the math lesson for the upcoming workshop, watched others play soccer on the school court without joining—he wasn’t very good. He visited the bathroom one last time, a habit that unnerved the student body. He bought nothing from the canteen—he had no money. He spoke to no one during recess; instead, he wandered in circles around the courtyard, as if bidding farewell. He left the orphanage, took the bus home, hugged his mother, and told her he was tired and would sleep. The next morning, they found him hanging from the beam in his room… suspended by a slipknot, swaying like a pendulum.

“He was always very quiet and shy,” recalled Moisés Fernández during the police investigation. Moisés had been the closest thing Rubén ever had to a friend, especially since María Victoria’s accident during that awful exam. Moisés always defended him from Jorge Arreaza’s group of bullies. Police interrogated those cocky boys but found nothing beyond rumors about Rubén’s “weird habits” in the bathroom. When no clues surfaced in that cramped room of three blue-painted stalls, a broken sink, and a large stained mirror, the authorities assigned a child psychologist to interview those closest to the deceased.

It was Moisés who revealed how María Victoria had slowly gone mad under the pressure of her parents—driving her to commit that horrific act in the middle of class. “Rubén was in love with the fat girl,” he said, “but she was totally losing it. She kept ripping her hair out because if she didn’t make the honor roll, her parents would beat her. She was smart, yeah, but she was not okay. During the chemistry exam—everyone failed that one—she snapped. Broke her sharpener and slit her wrists with the blade. There was blood everywhere until she fainted.”

María Victoria survived, but never returned to school, pulling Rubén deeper into his shell. They had been close since primary school, playing Nintendo together during breaks. He had other friends once, but after she left, he severed all ties. Psychologist Jessica Fuentes later learned that Rubén’s father—a drunken police officer—beat him and his mother on weekends. María had been his anchor in a world collapsing nightly. After she left, his inner silence grew heavier. He believed—or felt—that he didn’t deserve affection. Yet before leaving this world, he hugged his mother, shattered into pieces, unable to bear watching everything fall apart so quickly… just like his heart.

Jesús Arreaza, meanwhile, was a hot-headed delinquent with burnt, spiky hair and ripped shirts. With Enrique Martínez and Vicente Herrera, he tormented students of his own grade and those below it. Psychologist Jessica noted that Jesús displayed psychopathic traits: he committed cruel acts without remorse, believing he had the right to trample others due to a neglectful upbringing. Enrique and Vicente feared him, yet were drawn to the power he wielded—the way fear opened doors for them.

esús, Enrique, and Vicente found entertainment in tormenting weaker students—isolating them during recess, extorting their snacks or homework submissions, and forcing them to run errands. Their worst act occurred on a dark Monday at 6:30 p.m., when all three snuck into the almost-deserted campus while the cleaning staff mopped the corridors. The excursion to the third-floor bathroom had already become routine. What they found there was not—though, somehow, they remained disturbingly unfazed.

Vicente later claimed to have entered the bathroom alone first. Inside the middle stall, illuminated only by the dim reflection of the mirror lights, he found a noose hanging from the ceiling and, beside it, something even more repulsive: a used glove covered in yellowish grime. “It must’ve belonged to the guy who hanged himself,” he muttered, although no one actually knew how deep the rot went.

The three boys returned on Tuesday morning, planning to intimidate another student they wanted to extort. But when they arrived at the bathroom, they found the space eerily silent. The mirror seemed fogged from the inside, even though no water had been running. The noose, however, was still there—swinging ever so slightly as if stirred by a breath.

Vicente swore that while he washed his hands, the reflection of the stall door shifted on its own. He blinked once, twice—but the movement didn’t stop. Something behind him was breathing.

By Wednesday, the whispers began.

Voices echoed inside the third-floor corridor—childlike, hollow, calling out names that did not belong to the living. Some students said they heard Rubén’s soft, trembling voice. Others insisted the whispers belonged to María Victoria, begging for help, begging someone to stop her parents. No teacher believed the rumors, though many secretly avoided supervising that floor.

Then came the Thursday incident—the moment the orphanage’s curse crossed the line between rumor and reality.

It happened during the last period. The students taking the technical workshop were performing weight measurements while the instructor left to fetch more materials. Jesús and his group began to mock the younger students for their “weak arms.” When one of them—Ángel Rivera—refused to hand over his backpack, Jesús dragged him toward the bathroom.

The hallway lights flickered.

The temperature dropped suddenly, so sharply one girl later said she saw her own breath inside the classroom. Several students heard a metallic groan, like strained wires or rusted hinges twisting under pressure.

Moments later, Ángel stumbled back into the classroom, screaming. His hands were covered in blood. His eyes were wild.

“They pulled him,” he cried. “From the mirror. They pulled him in.”

When the teachers rushed toward the bathroom, they found Jesús alone, trembling on the floor, clawing at his own hair. The mirror had cracked down the middle, like a wound splitting open. On the other side of the glass, one faint, breathy word seemed to linger in the air:

Stay...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

---

Things You Can Only Say to One Person

He and I sit down. On a bench. Near the statue in the middle of the park. I don’t know if it’s a saint or a virgin. What matters is that it shines brighter than a streetlamp. We open the six-pack. I hand him one. Grab one. Set it next to me. On the ground. He chews. Chicken-fillet sandwich with tartar sauce, egg, and cheese. Thick. Sensual. Delicious. Exquisite. Greasy. The way only a sandwich like that can be.

I bite.

“So where was everyone going today?”

I chew. Swallow.

“No idea. Heard something about a get-together, but I didn’t know anyone going except like three guys.”

I bite again.

“Were they the ones who didn’t want to get kicked out?”

I nod while trying to keep a chunk of cheese from falling. Swallow the cheese. Sauce drips onto my hand. I lick it. Open the bottle. Drink. Long swallow.

“Why didn’t you go?”

He sets his bottle aside.

“My old man told me to go out with him today.”

I drink. Short swallow.

“What happened?”

He drinks. Long swallow. Moves his tongue like he’s afraid to say something.

“We were out shopping—me and my older brother.”

He drinks. Short swallow. I drink. Long swallow.

“It was my dad, my brother, and me.”

I chew.

“Just when we’re at the register, my dad tells us he has another kid. That he was just born. And we’re not supposed to tell our mother.”

I swallow. Take another bite.

“I mean, I don’t really care if he slept with someone. He works far away, he’s gone most of the time… most of the year… every year… but having a kid?”

He drinks.

“Obviously me and my brother told our mom.”

I finish my sandwich.

“She started crying when we told her.”

His voice begins to crack.

I feel something against my leg. I turn.

A cat is rubbing itself on me.

He notices what I’m looking at.

“A cat?”

He finishes his sandwich.

“We should grab our stuff and move to the other bench.”

We pick everything up. Move to the next bench. Sit. He keeps going. Drinks. A swallow—not long, not short.

“I don’t get that idiot… doing something that stupid.”

He drinks. Long swallow. I hug him. We let go. I take a drink.

I feel something on my leg.

He laughs.

“The cat loves you.”

We grab our things again. Move to another bench. Sit. I put the bottle in the bag. Take out another. He gives me his. I toss it in the bag. Hand him another. He stands up.

“Give me the burger wrapper.”

I hand it to him. He walks to the trash can. Tosses it. Sits back down. We drink.

“What are you gonna do?”

He finishes the bottle. I hand him another.

“I don’t know...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

Synopsis:

Riku is an impulsive beast who thinks with his stomach. Fio is a manipulative strategist willing to do anything to shine. Together, they are the High Sphere’s worst nightmare.

Tired of living in the wasteland’s filth, the siblings decide to commit the ultimate sin: infiltrate the train of one of God Ramma’s sons.

But what begins as a quick heist falls apart amid torn dresses, absurd violence, and a prize they should never have laid hands on.

Chapter 1: Filth and Blood

A shrill sound cut through all the clamor of the wasteland—the rails screaming. One of those “sons’” trains was passing by, and though the day had barely begun, the entire plain darkened before the sky broke into rain.

Bodies fell from the wagons like drops of water.

Riku stood at the entrance of his home, sweeping alongside his sister.

A fresh wave had dented the roof, and a pair of corpses had landed right in front of him, their entrails spilling over the pavement he had just finished cleaning.

“Ah…” he muttered, tossing the broom to the ground. “I’m sick of this shithole. Let’s go rob those bastards.”

“Sons of Ramma, actually,” Fio corrected.

“Food’s ready!”

“But first, we’re eating.”

“I am. You still have to finish cleaning. Byeeee!”

His sadness swelled as he watched his sister go inside, more bodies raining down behind her.

“I’m going to kill them all…”

Riku cleaned the path again—for the second time. Free at last, he went back inside. At the table, his sister was stuffed to the throat with noodles; his mother stirred food in the decrepit, mold-ridden kitchen; and his father rubbed his temples as he read.

“God… this season is going to be rough for the construction sector.”

“Oh dear God… will we even make it through the month?” his mother asked, shaking the pan anxiously.

“I don’t know, love… They’re barely paying us. The boss has been ignoring everyone’s demands.” He sighed and set the paper down on the hole-stained cloth. “I might need an extra pair of hands at the site.”

Fio, finally clearing her throat, slammed her hands on the table, rattling everything.

“That’s it! It was about time you asked, Dad.” Her teeth gleamed with sauce.

“I wasn’t talking about you… daughter.” He lifted a brow and slowly turned his gaze to Riku. “My son… I think he’s old enough to help.”

“Uh? No way. I already have enough work cleaning every day. Besides—Ah!” Fio stared at him with rage and disappointment.

“Say yes, idiot…” she hissed.

Riku understood—after rubbing his knee—what Fio was trying to accomplish.

“Fine, Dad.” A chunk of ceiling fell onto the table. “When do we start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Mooom, there’s an eye in my noodles!”

Riku woke early the next day to go with his father, praying he wouldn’t notice Fio sneaking behind them.

“So… what are we doing at work?” Riku asked, trying to distract him.

His father let out a sharp laugh, as if he’d been waiting for that question. “We’re shoveling shit.”

Riku already regretted everything. He glanced back, fist raised, glaring at the shadow following them.

“I’m going to kill you…” he muttered.

The shadow waddled like a penguin, arms swaying at its sides.

“Who are you talking to, son?”

“Ah, nothing… Just remembered something and drifted off.” He laughed loudly and patted his father’s back.

They arrived at the site—a construction pit overflowing with workers. The burned stench of malt and sweat hit instantly, hundreds of men hauling wood and buckets across the mud.

“Watch out below!”

A cloud of dust swallowed Riku, leaving him coated in mud and lime.

“Sorry!” a group of workers laughed from the scaffolding.

“Well… you were going to have to change anyway,” his father grumbled, watching Riku’s disgusted expression.

Things worsened in the showers. The soap slipped from his hands—when he bent to pick it up, one of the men seized the chance to drag his member across Riku’s face.

“Whoops!” the young man sang. “What a bold little newcomer!”

“He seems pretty hungry!” another called from the back.

“You want to see something bolder?” Riku growled.

The man’s dangling extremity vanished. A sickening crunch followed.

“Ah! That bastard bit it off!” the boy shrieked, writhing on the floor.

“Ugh! Do you not wash that thing? It tastes like rotten cheese!” Riku spat.

The laughing men instantly covered themselves, scrambling behind curtains to escape the cannibal. Blood pooled, then vanished along with the injured worker.

After washing, the boss sent Riku to dig up yesterday’s buried waste and corpses. His father, meanwhile, helped the older men reinforce the massive building.

“Hey, you!” Riku shouted, picking his teeth with a finger. “What the hell are they building here?”

“It’s a station,” said the boy beside him. “Looks like one of Ramma’s sons has a new train and needs a resting route.”

Not far from them, a group dressed in purple approached. The boss and his foremen spoke to them; their words were impossible to hear, but the mood wasn’t friendly.

One of the robed figures cast off his cloak, revealing a polished bald head, tribal tattoos covering his face, and skin riddled with metal piercings. He grinned as he raised a finger.

“What the hell are they doing?” Riku asked, resting his chin on the shovel.

“It’s… better not to look too long,” whispered the boy, hiding in the filth. “That’s Baal’s entourage. They bring death wherever they go.”

“Ball?” Riku asked blankly.

“You don’t know Baal?! He’s one of Ramma’s sons. Sometimes they come for slaves… or to collect debts.”

As the cloaked group withdrew, the setting sun caught golden curls among them. Sapphire eyes met Riku’s stare, and the blond youth smiled before disappearing into the crowd.

Later, once all workers had gone and the lights no longer bore witness to crimes, Riku and Fio regrouped near the blueprint the boss had shown the sectarian.

“Alright, here’s the plan: We climb the stairs and get into the train.”

“Brilliant.”

Having no idea what they were stealing—or what awaited them—they leapt into the unknown.

Atop the highest scaffolding, inside a chamber adorned with minimalist gold and porcelain—now splattered with jewels and guard blood—the whole structure trembled with the train’s vibrations. It was only meters from the platform.

“It’s time we robbed these bastards.”

Inside, dozens of lights illuminated a grand hall of pleasures. Perfume and rich meals clashed with the stench of rotting flesh and the squeals of rats feasting on it.

“Another guard’s coming—hide!”

“Where?!”

“I don’t know! Just do it!”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

Fio rammed into a dancing couple, dragging them into the nearest room with Riku close behind. One blow to each head.

“I admit, that’s the best idea you’ve had in ages, Fio.”

“I’m already regretting it. This dress is way too tight—my tits hurt—and it barely covers my ass!”

“Oh really? This suit looks femur-nomenal on me. Never thought I’d look this good.”

“It’s phenomenal. Whatever—let’s go.”

Back in the corridor, a wealthy man stared lustfully at Fio’s barely-covered body.

“Hey! Look but don’t touch!” Riku barked. “Though… for the right price we might reach an agreement…”

The man flushed, drool gathering at his chin as Fio’s chest spilled from the dress.

“It—It would be an honor to do business with you, my lady…”

Fio winked at Riku. Step one was underway, though they still had no clue why or for what. The large man and his friends led Fio through the train cabins.

“Hey! Hands off until you pay, big guy,” her voice fading with distance.

Riku followed, but the crowd swept him away into another section. Neon lights and the smell of grilled meat stole his focus.

“Hey handsome,” a woman whispered. “Want me to show you something pretty?”

“Somethin’… petty?” he mumbled, chewing ribs.

“Something like this.”

Her fingers slid up her delicate dress. Riku dropped the bones instantly—the woman already had him. They walked hand in hand, Riku admiring her thighs—until something caught his eye. Blood on a cabin door.

“Hold up, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”

He pushed the door open.

The fat noble lay split open from throat to sphincter.

“I feel like I missed something… Did something happen here, Fio?” he asked, staring at his sister drenched in blood.

“Where the fuck were you, you useless piece of shit?” she snapped, still stabbing one of the noble’s friends. “This disgusting pig tried to screw me—without paying.”

“Well… I got lost. Sorry,” he said, wiping his mouth on the man’s clothes. “Did they say anything important?”

“There’s a vault full of treasure in one of the rear wagons.”

“Perfect!”

He nodded and turned. Ignoring the gutted corpse, he walked to the wall phone, leaving a trail of blood.

“What the hell are you doing now?” Fio asked, wiping her knife on the sheets. “Ordering dessert? I’m starving…”

Riku glanced back with the first crooked smile of the day.

“I’m calling someone to clean this dump,” he said, lifting the receiver. “And for a change of clothes.”

Fio froze. The blood. The fancy clothes. Riku’s stupid grin. She understood.

“I’m calling dibs on the suit. I’m not repeating what happened earlier.”

“Ah… fair enough.”

The pair of maids crossed the walkway, drawing stares. Hard not to—her dress covered nothing.

“Hahaha! I can’t believe you’re actually this stupid,” Fio whispered. “You could’ve asked for a suit for yourself. You do know that, right?”

“Shut up! I—ah—didn’t think about it!” He adjusted the dress carefully. “Shit, this thing is crushing my balls.”

Blood still dripped from parts of it.

“And what’s that between your legs—are you on your period or something?” Fio mocked relentlessly.

Riku reached into the dress to adjust himself when a large, wrinkled hand grabbed his crotch.

“Hello, sweetheart. Need any help?” a group of wealthy men crowded around the “helpless lady.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re touching, bastard?!”

Unlike his elegant, patient sister, Riku’s temper exploded long before negotiations. He punched the man across the jaw, sending him crashing onto a porcelain table. The sound echoed through the wagon—chaos erupted instantly.

“Oh fantastic. Well done, brother.”

“It’s not my fault! How dare he touch a man’s sacred place?!”

“Gu—Guards!” the man shrieked from the broken shards. “Arrest these delinquents!”

A ring of terrified nobles formed around them.

“I was getting tired of peace anyway,” Riku said, cracking his neck.

“One, two… five… ten…”

“Start running.”

“Yes, sir!”

Screams and blood filled the hallways. A metal cart rolled by, leaving Riku open—one man seized the chance and punched him hard, making Riku spit out what he’d been chewing.

“Don’t play with food, you uncultured idiot!” he shouted, stabbing the man’s eye with the chicken bone.

“Behind you!”

Fio’s voice rang out as she repeatedly drilled a spoon into a woman’s throat.

“Don’t. You. Dare. Touch. Him… Bitch.”

The pile of corpses grew and their stamina faded. In a final desperate sprint, Riku smashed a guard through a gold-plated door, the body shattering the window.

“I’m done fighting. Let’s hide.”

“A break would be nice… mind if I bring my new boyfriend? He’s got friends.” She used the corpse as a shield.

They managed to hide—for now. Riku enjoyed a moment’s peace, popping grapes into his mouth as he finished off the last guard.

“God. These things are amazing,” he muttered, dropping the vine on the sofa.

“If you’re done, start cleaning this mess, alright?” Fio said, interrogating one of the survivors.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.” Adjusting the dress, he noticed an erection. “Seriously, brother? You’re turned on because a man in a maid costume is punching you?”

“Your… balls… are hanging out…” the man mumbled before collapsing.

Riku realized the dress hadn’t survived the previous battle.

“This is… extremely uncomfortable.”

He walked to the wardrobe. Opening it, a luxurious flurry of clothes spilled out—shirts, pants, coats lined with fur, all tailored.

“Damn… this guy’s loaded...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

Chapter 2:

The Same Method, The Same Result

“What if you could do it…?”

“I don’t know. Even if I do, this isn't the place for me anymore.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t feel comfortable here, or anywhere, really. But perhaps in another place, away from people…”

“But we’ve been here for a while now…”

“Yes, but I feel people’s stares. Even with everything that’s happened, their mindset hasn’t changed.”

“Hmm. So, where would you like to go then?”

“Maybe a forest or a mountain. I’m not sure. A log cabin, living peacefully.”

“Sounds like a good plan, but wouldn’t you be awfully alone?”

“I wouldn’t mind. I’m already used to it.”

“And, what if I came with you?”

“Heh, I couldn't do that to you. You have your own plans.”

“Well, it’s not like that’s changed, but once we’re done with this, then…”

“But I don’t know how good of company I can be…”

“It’s my choice. You’re going to give me that much, aren't you?”

“Of course, b-but—”

“No 'buts' allowed, unless… you don’t want me to—?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“Hmm, very well. But let it be known that I warned you.”

“Oh, how could I regret it? Don't be silly…”

It’s…

What…

She…

Wan…

The words fall silent; they’ve moved away. There’s something more, something that—

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Aiden wakes up. Someone is knocking at the door. He stands up to answer, but stumbles slightly against the walls on the way.

“Who is it? Talia? What’s going on?” he yawns. “What do you want?”

“Sorry for waking you, but I discovered something. Wait, are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?”

“What?” He quickly checks himself. “I-I suppose so, but that doesn’t matter. What did you find out?”

“Come on, let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“Alright, just let me wash my face first.”

“But—”

Aiden closes the door without warning.

I must have another shirt around here. Yeah, this will do.

The light from outside barely filters through the window; they are well covered. There’s not much difference in the atmosphere compared to last night.

It's 7 in the morning. The cold still lingers.

Aiden drinks some water, pats his face a few times, and gets ready to leave.

He opens the door slowly. Talia is leaning against the doorframe with one arm.

“You know, I worry about you. You won’t get a girlfriend like this.”

“Who are you, my mother?” he says as he closes the door behind him.

“I could be, but only if the little boy behaves,” she says, patting him on the back.

“Yeah, well, no thanks.”

“Why? It’s a good opportunity. A younger, prettier mother than yours is hard to ignore,” she says while following Aiden.

“I don’t think my ears can take it. Let’s just go.”

Aiden leads the way. They both reach the basement entrance in a couple of seconds.

“Wait, I haven’t told you what I found yet. Why are we going to the basement?”

“What, doesn’t it have something to do with the prisoner?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then let's not waste any time,” he says as he opens the door.

“W-wait—”

They both go down the stairs, but Talia stops him once they reach the bottom.

“W-wait for me. I need to tell you what I discovered first.”

“And? What is it?”

“Well, he told me that Varos and the rest of his men… work with several Aberrants, and not just work with them—he gives them the orders…”

“And…?”

“And? What do you mean, ‘And?’”

“Well, that's it.”

“And you think that’s not a big deal?”

“No, but I already knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That they work with those beasts.”

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

“Shhh, don’t yell.”

“Oops, sorry, but why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Oh, I know, but…” She runs her hands over her face. “Ugh, I can’t with you.”

“Well, is that all?”

“Yes, but if you already knew, why are we going to see him?”

“There’s something else I want to ask him, taking advantage of the fact that he’s cooperative thanks to the food you gave him.”

“How do you know I brought him food?”

“I don’t have to explain everything, do I? Come on, let’s go,” he says, patting her on the back and setting off again.

“But…”

She is left with the word in her mouth as Aiden walks away toward the cell.

“Looks like he hasn’t tried anything dangerous. Good for him.”

Thud!

Talia bumps his shoulder slightly when she catches up.

“Stay back, just in case.”

With the metallic click of the key unlocking the door, Aiden enters the room, finding the prisoner.

There is a small window in the room, through which the dim light from outside enters—enough space to illuminate the place, but not enough to escape.

In the back, the prisoner is lying on the floor, his back to the door. There is a tray with remnants of food beside him.

“Your name is ‘Aiden,’ right? I remember it well now. He told me about you.”

“Did he? And what did he say?”

“He said you were ruthless, that you don’t mind hurting others as long as you get what you want…” He stands up and turns to look at both of them. “…and that we shouldn't let ourselves be captured alive by you…”

“Sounds more like spite than a real warning to me.”

“Cut the nonsense. If you came to finish me off, I won’t go down without a fight,” he says, getting into a fighting stance.

“Tell me, do you know her?”

“Her? I have no idea who she is.”

Aiden just takes a few steps forward, opening his palms and showing them to the man.

“Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m not going to kill you, and I don't want to fight either,” he points behind his back, indicating he isn't carrying his sword.

“Then what do you want?”

“I just need answers—answers I know you have. And if you help me, we’ll let you go peacefully, just without the drugs you were carrying.”

The prisoner lowers his guard for a moment, thinking about the words he just heard.

“Look, I’ve been here for hours bracing myself for a fight for my life. So, I propose something.”

“I’m listening.”

“We fight. If you manage to knock me down until I can’t get up, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But if I manage to land a single blow that moves you or hurts you, you’ll let me go, with my drugs, of course.”

“Deal. Though I didn’t think you’d have so little faith in yourself.”

“Look, kid, I’m just being realistic. I’ve been told what you’re capable of, so I can only make it fair considering the circumstances.”

“Alright, you’ll tell me everything without reservations once we're done,” Aiden says, stretching his neck slightly.

“As you wish.”

The prisoner takes a combat stance, but Aiden remains relaxed; he doesn’t raise his arms or spread his legs.

Talia steps into the cell, moving aside into a corner.

“Alright, let’s begin!”

The prisoner lunges with strength and speed. He aims for the head, and—

THUD!

A powerful blow connects with Aiden's face.

He barely moved…

He slowly pulls back his hand.

“You’re going to have to try a little harder if you want to hurt me.”

“But I—”

“I didn’t move, did I?”

“Fair enough.”

Once more.

Fhh! Fhh! Fhh!

Fhh! Fhh!

The blows only cut the air.

Aiden dodges easily, as if they were in slow motion.

Fhh! Fhh! Fhh!

The prisoner doesn’t retreat; he doesn’t stop attacking.

Thud! Thud!

Aiden stops dodging and begins to parry the blows with his hands, without much difficulty.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

This time—

THUD!

He stops one of the blows with the palm of his hand.

“Kgh!”

Talia watches, leaning against the wall.

“Heh, that’s it.”

The impact was as hard as hitting a wall, making him recoil for a moment.

A sharp pain shoots through his knuckles.

“What the hell are you made of?”

“What’s wrong? Is that all you’ve got?”

“You bastard! Of course not!”

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Aiden continues to deflect the attacks with ease.

“I’m starting to get bored.”

Thh!

This time, he stops one of the blows completely.

I need to rattle him.

SMACK!

Aiden replies with a slap that leaves the prisoner stunned.

“M-merda. I’m going to—!”

Without even finishing his sentence, the man rushes forward in a fury, determined to land a blow with everything he has.

Good, this should be enough.

THUD!

“...!”

A direct hit to the chest.

What?

That felt different, strange…

I have to end it!

Aiden deflects all the force of the next attack and—

THUD!

Using the palm of his hand, he strikes and pushes the prisoner with colossal force, sending him flying to the other side of the room.

“Wow, I didn’t think you wanted to finish him off that fast,” Talia comments. “Or did that last hit actually hurt you?”

“Of course not, it’s just that—”

“...?!”

My mouth tastes like metal. What is—?!

“A-Aiden, y-you are, you have blood on…” she points to Aiden’s face with her hand.

“What…?”

My lips feel wet. What’s going on?

Aiden touches his lips with his fingertips.

“...!”

They are stained with blood.

Shit—

“Cough! Cough!”

Aiden coughs, covering his mouth with his palm, completely staining it with blood.

“Aiden! What’s wrong with you?!”

He continues coughing, this time not covering himself.

The floor is stained red.

Something is wrong, it must be—!

Talia quickly approaches Aiden, places her hand on his back, and rubs it to try and calm him.

“Khhg…”

“Come on, come on, it’s over. You’re alright now.”

He gasps as he tries to catch his breath. “Yes, I’m done. It’s nothing…”

Talia takes a big breath of relief upon hearing him speak.

“Oh, hey, don’t scare me like that! What happened to you? Don’t tell me he actually hurt you.”

“...?” He looks toward the back of the room; the prisoner is unconscious. “Heh, so that’s why he was quiet.”

“Hey! Talk to me!” She shakes Aiden slightly to get his attention.

“No, it wasn't him. His punch was strong, but not enough to do this to me.”

“Then what was it?”

“I was…,” he spits a little blood on the floor and clears his throat. “I was ambushed when I was outside. I couldn’t stop them. I took a lot of punishment.”

“But wasn’t that days ago?”

“Yes, but I guess I hadn’t fully recovered, and that blow reopened the wounds.”

“But, damn it, if you’re coughing up blood, you might have a damaged lung! You need to rest!”

“I know, I know. I’m not much use like this, and the prisoner is going to be unconscious for a while.”

“Well, come on, I’ll help you—”

“I’m not that bad. It was nothing. I can walk alone.”

“But—”

“I can. Let’s go.”

Aiden walks ahead, not giving her time to decide.

“W-wait! Where are you going?”

He stops for a moment.

“I’m going to see the doctor,” he says, then continues on his way. Talia stays behind, takes one last look inside the cell, then locks it securely.

It's 8 in the morning. People are already leaving their homes, heading to the communal areas for breakfast. Stores are beginning to open, and others are on their way to replace the watch shift. Sunlight begins to bathe the buildings and filter through the city's narrowest passages. The darkness is over, for now. There are still a few hours to breathe.

In a small house, the doors are not yet open to the public…

“You say it was spontaneous?”

“Yes, though it stopped after a few seconds.”

“Tell me, have you received any blows or injuries recently?”

“Nothing today or yesterday, but two days ago I was ambushed by some Conformes. I took quite a few hits, but nothing serious, beyond…”

“Beyond what?”

“Beyond being forcefully thrown against the wall of a wooden house. It completely broke behind me. It took me a few seconds to catch my breath, and when I could, my chest hurt when I breathed.”

“Hmm, anything else?”

“I bled from the mouth after taking a couple of punches to the stomach, but I thought the bleeding was from those same punches, so I ignored it…”

“Then that explains the hemorrhage.”

“It does? So, what do I have?”

“The blows you received caused an internal hemorrhage—an accumulation of blood between the lung and the chest wall. The condition is ‘Traumatic Hemothorax.’ Your, let's call it, regenerative capacity, managed to stop the active bleeding, but a large amount of blood remained trapped in your thoracic cavity.”

“So, that explains the darker color of the blood, and the amount, but why haven't I healed yet?”

“Look, only you know the degree and speed at which your wounds heal. I know they do so much faster than the average human, but considering I can barely hear your breathing, I’d say it hasn’t healed completely yet.”

“That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Based on what you've told me, your wound should have healed by now, but it hasn't. And I don't think the blow you took recently would have damaged you again. Therefore—and I’d be taking a guess—it's as if something is preventing you from healing.”

“But the other superficial wounds have healed.”

“Yes, and that’s where my doubt comes from. Whatever is stopping you from healing knows where to target to truly affect you. But for now, we gain nothing from guessing games. Here, take one of these now for the pain, and this other one later, to rule out a parasite. But the one thing you absolutely must do is rest.”

“I know. I understand, but—”

“Aiden, I know what you’re doing is important, and maybe I don’t understand half of your strengths, but I do know that if you keep forcing your body like this, it will fail you when you need it most. Your body and your mind are one, remember that.”

“Alright. Thank you, Doctor.”

He walks calmly toward the door and closes it behind him once he is outside the doctor's house.

So, I just need to rest. Maybe a few hours will be enough. It’s almost 9 o’clock. Aiden stands in front of his room door. With the creak of the wood, he opens the door. He is greeted by a cold, dark room where barely any light enters. It hasn’t changed. No matter how much time passes, it feels familiar, one way or another.

There is a plate on the nightstand—two sandwiches—along with a note: “I’ll bring you lunch when it’s time. Rest. And if I find out you’re not in bed, I’m stealing your sword and selling it by the pound,” a smiley face at the bottom of the...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

Knowledge Is Not Good

It feels like being caught in the middle of a trance—one that tears your soul away without causing pain. It’s as if a melancholic ecstasy reduces you to nothing, and you slip into a slow, deep meditation. You feel genuine, fulfilled, yet filled with a desolate emptiness. It’s an overwhelming sense of desolation that drags you into a strange emotional state, one that rebuilds your most desperate memories and sends you on a journey through time, reminding you of every moment you’ve ever fallen into that same trance.

There’s a sensation that nothing is left to hold on to, and that emptiness wraps itself around you. You let it, surrendering to its embrace, because you know that this ethereal melody will free you from everything. You feel the world breaking, collapsing, until all that remains is that soothing sound—an anguish that, paradoxically, brings you a strange kind of joy. Everything dissolves into a sigh, a sigh that splits you in two, shatters you, strips you bare, and yet makes you feel real and unique, because that sweet melody keeps you company. It reminds you of your loves and heartbreaks, of every time you thought you belonged and every time you felt alone. Everything is contained within it—slow, beautiful, sweet, profound. It feels like leaving your body and ascending into the sky, ceasing to exist while remaining painfully aware of everything. A sorrowful revelry. A peaceful death. It leads you into the deepest corners of yourself and leaves you there.

I couldn’t help it. I had to go back and search for his texts again, to read what he’d written. This one is new; it wasn’t among the others. He’s still writing. Still producing words.

When does he even make these? He gets home, eats, watches television, and goes to sleep.

Who are they for? He hasn’t had a girlfriend in years. Maybe I know much less about his life than I thought...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

---

Where Nothing Grows

Sometimes I wake

and feel my body is an abandoned building—

wires exposed,

stained walls,

and a silence so heavy

that not even the rats dare cross it.

I walk with the certainty

that something in me died long ago

and no one attended the funeral.

Not even me.

I just let the emotional corpse

cool in a corner

until it became part of the furniture.

There are days when my mind takes me

by the hand

like a cruel mother,

showing me all my failures

one by one,

lined up like broken trophies on a shelf:

“Look,” it whispers,

“here’s what you could have been…

and here’s what you ruined.”

My heart beats, yes,

but it beats like an old engine

that moves nothing,

only trembles out of habit,

warming the air a little

before growing cold again.

And when I try to fix myself,

I do it with rusty tools,

with trembling hands

that make the wound worse

while claiming they’re trying to save it.

I repair my ruins

like someone trying to put out a fire

with a glass of water:

sabotaging myself

while pretending I’m moving forward.

Sometimes I feel like a well with no rope,

a place no one looks into twice.

A point on the map

marked with a

“Do not enter. Nothing grows here...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

---

DINAMO

Chapter 3: Paper and Rob

KNOCK, KNOCK.

“Are you done yet?”

“I already told you I’ll let you know when I’m out, Uncle.”

My reply came out automatically. I adore my uncle, I really do—but sometimes he can be a little overwhelming. What, can’t a girl get ready in peace these days?

I was putting the final touches on my outfit; it was absolutely not the time for my heartless uncle to interrupt the sacred duty of looking pretty.

“That’s what you told me the last three times… Hurry up, breakfast is ready.”

“Fiiine, Uncle! I’m almost done.”

With renewed spirit, I happily waved him off so I could return to the most important part of perfecting my appearance.

Posing in front of the mirror.

But I had to hurry more than I wanted to… Rob had made blue pancakes with honey today. My favorite.

Hopping between poses, I checked every detail so I wouldn’t miss a thing. There was only one way to describe my appearance:

“Uuugh, what a perfectly disastrous mess of hair,” I muttered, making a face as I leaned closer to the mirror. “It’s everywhere—like it grew its own personality. White, white, white… like I fell headfirst into a barrel of fresh snow! Though honestly… I kinda like it. It’s long, soft, and it hugs my face just right. That’s definitely a point in my favor.”

And those unruly little hairs on my forehead… they’re always somewhere they shouldn’t be. I never cut them, though. They look cute there. Being annoying.

Although, sincerely? I’d be much happier without those ugly pink streaks.

I looked at my reflection.

“Hmm… hello, me.” I smiled.

My cheeks were a little flushed, and not even powder could calm the color down. Ugh… and those pink eyes. I hate that color.

My cat ears drooped a bit, as if they were bored of looking at me too.

“I wish I’d been born with Mom’s eyes…” I whispered. She had these beautiful spring-green eyes—like a forest at its most alive.

I sighed.

“Nope, Pap. Don’t get gloomy,” I told myself, plastering on an exaggerated smile. “You’re pretty! And no stupid color is going to change that.”

I patted my cheeks firmly to shoo away those discouraging thoughts. It was way too early to be cranky. Plus… I still had to check my look for the day!

I lifted my hand to inspect my freshly painted nails. Pearl white. White has always been my favorite color, even if everyone insists it’s boring. They looked clean and elegant without demanding too much attention. I turned them, making sure they had no chips or flaws.

Then I checked my jewelry—several bracelets, some metal, some with dangling charms that chimed when I moved. I didn’t choose them for emotional reasons; I simply liked the sound they made.

Leaning closer to the mirror, I blinked a couple times. My lashes were still nicely curled, just the way I like them. No extra mascara needed; they already had the perfect volume.

I opened the drawer and took out my favorite perfume. A little spritz on my neck and wrists. Floral with a sweet hint, noticeable but not cloying. It didn’t just smell nice—it reminded me of Mom.

“Perfect. Everything is perfect.”

And it was. I looked divine today.

“Now… the final part.”

The hardest part of my look. I was wearing an oversized black hoodie with a hood, the sleeves loose, and on the front, the face of a white kitten.

It fell all the way to my knees, hiding my entire figure—and more importantly, hiding what I most wanted to conceal: the bandages wrapped around my body from neck to ankles, ending just above my sneakers.

A heavy feeling sank in my chest for a moment, but I shut it down before it ruined my morning. Again.

“Nope, Pap! Don’t let it get to you. You’re the best!” I shook my head and patted my cheeks again.

“Remember, Pap: move forward. Don’t think about the past.”

With renewed determination, I decided I’d spent enough time in the bathroom. Besides, I didn’t want to miss breakfast.

I put on a black wool beanie with holes for my ears and flashed myself a bright smile in the mirror. I hopped, stuck out my tongue.

“Yep. I’m ready to cause adorable chaos today.”

With a final grin, I left the bathroom, ready to conquer the world… and, well, breakfast.

I skipped down the corridor of the Gersteyl Centurion Grade-5 Pro dimensional tent… “Yeah, the name is unnecessarily long.” Heading toward the kitchen, I could already smell the freshly made pancakes.

Upon entering, I found my boring, terrifying, loving uncle finishing up cleaning the countertop. He adored order and cleanliness.

“Well, well, the princess finally graces me with her presence,” he said, turning around while drying his hands.

“Hehe, sorry, Uncle. You should already know a lady’s bathroom time is sacred.”

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head.

“Oh, what am I going to do with you? Now, why don’t we sit down? Or would you prefer cold pancakes?”

Shaking my head fiercely, I sat down immediately. I was dying to enjoy those delights.

Smiling, Rob placed a plate of pancakes in front of me. That’s when I took a moment to study his outfit.

My Uncle Rob is… well, imagine a muscular wardrobe with the attitude of a strict nanny and the fashion sense of a glam-rock video-game villain. He’s well over two meters twenty (yes, we measured once, and yes, I was the one who wrote the numbers on a napkin), bald as a polished lightbulb and shining almost as much as his clothes. Literally. Because instead of dressing like a normal person, he prefers metallic green leather outfits that scream “LOOK AT ME!” from halfway across the planet.

And no, I’m not exaggerating about the leather: long coat with silver buttons, dark fur lining, and a neckline that boldly proclaims “I have abs and I know it.” Underneath, his torso looks like an intergalactic gym sculpture—pure muscle and tension, like he wrestles dragons to warm up.

And what does he do with that whole intimidating aesthetic? Work as a bodyguard? Break doors with his forehead? No. He puts on a white apron that says “Best Uncle in the World”—which we gave him, by the way—and makes bear-shaped pancakes. Because that’s who he is: a mix of living nightmare and mutant Care Bear. Though if you get too close, some critter might peek out of one of the odd holes in his greenish skin. But don’t worry, they hardly ever bite.

“So today you made them in bear shapes, huh?”

I said it with a half-pout, half-smile. His amused snort only annoyed me further.

“I’ve told you— I— am— not— a— child!”

I emphasized every word so it would sink into that shiny bald head, but the “disrespectful” oaf kept that mocking smile as he sat down.

“And I’ve told you that as long as I breathe, you’ll be a child in my eyes.”

“Uncleeee! I’m an adult, treat me like one!”

“Why don’t you eat your pancakes? They’re your favorite. I added red mushrooms too.”

Turning away from his smug loving grin, I looked at the adorable bear-shaped pancakes on my plate. Sure enough, red mushrooms on top, blue bear pancakes underneath, drenched in honey and cream.

With sparkling eyes, I began devouring my well-deserved reward.

“I’ll forgive you this time, Uncle.”

Just this once, I’d show mercy and excuse his insolence.

His smile widened as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, sitting down with his own plate.

Breakfast went by in silence. I didn’t have much to say while committing mass ursine genocide plate after plate. As for Rob, he was perfectly content eating quietly while watching me with that soft smile he always kept for us.

“Aaah! Stop that! You’re embarrassing me!”

On my fifth batch of bear carnage, I couldn’t take it anymore. The embarrassment detonated with good reason.

“Child, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I mean… Stop smiling! I hate it!”

Haha.

Like a bursting dam, a thunderous laugh exploded from my uncle. To my horror, I felt heat climbing up my cheeks as I blushed.

“I am NOT a child!”

I threw a balled-up napkin at him, which only made him laugh harder.

Sulking in my seat, I blew away a few strands of hair that had fallen into my eyes. That only made me more annoyed.

“All right, all right. I’m sorry, Paper. I was just teasing. Don’t be mad.”

Mmm.

Silence was all he deserved.

“Come on, Pap. How about we all go to that new park you and María mentioned for your birthday?”

Mmm.

“I’ll buy you three anything you want.”

Mmm, mmm.

“And we can go see whatever movie you want afterward. What do you say? Forgive me?”

He seemed genuinely remorseful. Even tried those ridiculous sad-puppy eyes.

“Fine… but only if you sing that song Lucía always asks you to sing.”

“Deal,” he said bitterly, fully aware he’d have to suffer for my forgiveness. Mwahaha.

With renewed energy, I went back to exterminating bear pancakes. I am the best.

When breakfast ended, Rob decided to use his disgusting yet efficient cleaning method.

A swarm of insects burst extravagantly from every part of his exposed skin—not just the holes—and feasted on the leftovers, leaving the dishes spotless.

“I’ll never get used to that. I don’t know how Mom finds it adorable.”

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t disgusted by the creatures he controlled. It was more like… uncertainty? Hard to define, but they made me uneasy.

“Eh, you’ll get over it someday.”

As always, Rob dismissed how bizarre his methods were.

Once the critters returned to his body, his cheerful expression died instantly. Looked like the mission had begun.

“And I wanted five more minutes of rest…”

“It’s time, Paper. Have you finished your preparations?”

“Yes, I finished last night. Don’t worry.”

“Good. Then we’ll proceed as usual: you take care of the subordinates, I’ll handle the leader.”

A simple plan, one we’d followed many times, but I didn’t like it.

“That’s not fair! You always take the leader. Let me fight him this time! I promise I’ll behave. Come on, please?”

Rob shook his head with a “merciless” sigh.

“Sorry, girl, but you know why you can’t face this one. I promise the next leader is yours.”

“Oh, come on! You always say that, and you never let me go after the big fish!”

“The next one. I swear.”

His tone was firm. No way he was budging.

Pouting, I turned around. As punishment, I wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the walk.

“Ughh, fine. Let’s go.”

Soon, we stood at the entrance of the dimensional tent. Rob placed his hand on the door and instantly teleported outside. I followed right after.

The outside was… how to describe it? Just another forest you’d find anywhere in the Empire of Messias: a gigantic forest of blue mushrooms.

Blue mushrooms as far as the eye could see.

What were blue mushrooms, you ask?

Short answer: everything. Every product—from food to electrical devices—used blue mushrooms. They were EVERYTHING in modern civilization.

Long answer? I have no idea.

Humming as I walked through that endless mushroom forest, Uncle Rob didn’t seem pleased with my carefree attitude. But why should I care?

Smiling to myself, I hummed louder just to annoy him.

“That’s what you get for acting all cold and serious.”

“Paper, the enemy camp is three kilometers ahead. You know the routine. I’ll sneak in and take down the leader.”

After giving that short instruction, Rob was swallowed by a swarm of insects and vanished.

“Coward.”

How dare he leave his defenseless niece at the mercy of dangerous criminals? Didn’t he worry about what might happen to me?

With random thoughts like that, I soon reached the target. A few hundred meters away, I saw the “hideout” of the villains.

A small settlement—simple wooden huts with one bigger structure at the center. The whole place was “protected” by a flimsy wall of stakes and surrounded by mushroom cover.

Only one entrance, “guarded” by two drunk sentries. I even saw one nearly fall asleep while standing.

“How many were there again?”

Try as I might, I couldn’t remember the number of weaklings I had to fight.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have fallen asleep while Rob was talking?”

But he gets so boring with those endless mission briefings—what to expect, what to avoid, bla, bla, bla… Isn’t it easier to just go and do the mission?

“Yes, that’s it. I’ll just ‘say hi’.”

With that brilliant plan, I hopped toward the guards.

They noticed me quickly. Drunk Rank-4 guards they may have been, but guards nonetheless.

“Hi! How are you? Want to be my friends?”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“Blah-blah?”

Either they spoke a different language or they were imitating me.

Annoying.

What fun is a mission if your enemies can’t understand you?

“Blah.”

While I was distracted, the two Rank-4s approached me. Ah—so they did want to be friends.

“Oh, wonderful! That makes it easier.”

The nearest one reached toward me, both wearing smiles that made my skin crawl.

“Then I’ll introduce myself— I’m Paper, nice to meet you!”

And then, their heads fell.

Not a single drop of blood touched me as I continued walking. Their bodies collapsed seconds later.

Entering through the crude gate, I was assaulted by an orchestra of foul smells and disgusting noises.

“So they’re using insulation… what a vile place.”

Not the first criminal group using insulation to hide its nastiness—but this place… this was easily top-three most disgusting missions.

Walking through huts, filth, unidentifiable substances, and drunks, I headed to the loudest spot.

“I can start there.”

I felt several Rank-6 presences, dozens of Rank-5, and hundreds of Rank-4. Lower ranks too, but those weren’t enemies.

Even if I didn’t listen to Rob’s lecture, I knew what kind of criminals these were.

One drunk reached toward me; I turned him into powdered corpse without breaking stride.

Eventually, I reached my destination. The noise had died down. Slaves looked at me with fear and… hope?

On the way, more drunks tried to touch me; they ended up like their friend. After a few, they stopped trying.

“How strange… where is everybody?”

I said mockingly as I stepped into what looked like a small plaza, packed with all my targets.

“Oh, so you waited for me. How thoughtful.”

No one laughed. They just stared, confused.

“How boring… What did I do to deserve this?”

As I said before: nothing fun about playing with trash that can’t understand you.

“Maybe I should finish them all in one blow?”

While I considered that, insects crawled out from every corner of the settlement—some sort of ants—forming a ring around the plaza.

“But Uncle… didn’t you say the trash was mine? You want to steal my prey too?”

Indignation surged. Not only did he take the leader—now he wanted these too?

“When I see you, I’m going to—”

Before I could begin my internal tantrum, a group of flies buzzed over carrying a note. They dropped it into my hands, spun happily in the air, and left.

The note read: No more hostages.

I didn’t need to be a genius. “Cut loose. Nothing to worry about.”

My smile returned even brighter. Rob’s attempted theft forgotten… for now.

“Insects…? Paper…?” “You Paper?” one Rank-6 criminal asked in broken Spanish, terrified.

“Oh, perfect! You speak Spanish. I’ll save you for last.”

Delighted, I pointed at him to remember his face and tagged him with red paper.

You’re probably wondering: what’s with the paper?

Easy. Just like Uncle Rob controls all critters, I have my own special ability. I can control PAPER.

Yes, I know it sounds useless. Tell that to the mountain of corpses left behind by this “useless” power.

“Now… how should I have fun?”

With a finger to my chin, I pondered. A Rank-5 took this moment—as a distraction, or thinking he had a chance—to rush me at hyperspeed.

He was sliced into millions of pieces by paper and swept aside in neat sheets. Not a drop touched me.

The buildings behind me suffered the real damage, crumbling into rubble from the shockwave. The poor ants were flung everywhere.

“Hey! I was thinking about how to kill you all. Could you stay still?”

“BLAAH!” A Rank-6 roared, ordering the others to charge while he stayed back.

About fifty Rank-4s and 5s rushed me. The Rank-6 must have had a boosting ability; his energy was draining fast as he powered them up.

Without losing my smile, I shouted my super-duper special attack:

“STELLAR CONFETTI!”

The fifty enemies evaporated—along with everything for kilometers in a straight line. And yes, the ants suffered again. Industrially tragic.

With no way to control the attack’s path, everything behind them was ruined too. The Rank-6 barely escaped the kill zone, losing a leg.

“Um… good thing Uncle wasn’t in that direction. He’d give me one of his legendary scoldings.”

“I wonder how he’s doing…”

I looked toward the leader’s hut. Silver liquid surrounded it.

“Hope you’re okay.”

A bit of worry crept in, but I stomped it down.

“Don’t be silly, Pap. He’ll win easily. Just focus on having fun.”

I refocused on the terrified criminals.

“Let the party begin!”

---

NARRATOR: ROB

“Silver Ant Cataglyphis.”

With those words, I activated the maximum capability of my silver ants, completely sealing the house of the criminal leader: the Burning Arm Bandits.

“What a stupid name…”

I had already evacuated all the slaves except this one, thank goodness, because the leader’s first reaction had been to release his power and turn everything to ash. And by ash, I mean molten lava.

Standing on a liquid fire puddle where a wooden hut once stood, I faced the supposedly fearsome leader.

He matched the mission report exactly: Black hair with scattered blond feathers, 1.85 meters tall, athletic build, attractive by standard measures, a few piercings, orange eyes, brown skin. Currently using his flames as clothing—his real clothes burned to nothing.

“You must be Rob. Rob, the Endless Hive. You’re not as impressive as rumors say. What do you say? If you stop this, I—”

“Scolopendra of Desolation Gigantea.”

Before he could finish, I invoked another ability and tore off all four of his limbs.

“Dream Butterfly Plexippus.”

With that, I erased his ability to think.

“I don’t like wasting time.”

Though I was going to torture him a little. What? I have to give my girl some entertainment. If I finish too quickly, she’ll be upset I came to help.

I approached the dying bastard—though I wasn’t actually seeing through my own eyes, but the ants surrounding us.

His condition was as expected: limbless, foaming, face twisted in agony.

When I got closer, he managed to react.

“W-wait! P-please… d-do you know… w-who I work f-for?”

“Oh? You can still speak? Impressive.” It really did surprise me he could form coherent sentences. “And who would that be?”

“Th-the… Brain Collector! So—”

He didn’t finish. I crushed his chest. Blood gushed from his mouth as his ribs collapsed inward.

“No need to say more.”

From my leg, ants swarmed toward his mouth, nose, and eyes. Among them, a single tiny worm carried toward his right eye.

“Devour Taenia Solium.”

At the command, the tapeworm burrowed through his eye to devour his memories while the ants ate his body.

What’s a “skill name”? The pinnacle of power, a level only prodigies reach.

Nonsense.

I won’t lie and say effort alone can match geniuses. That’s a myth. But even someone like me—

---"

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

---

Crack.

It was the first thing the new consciousness ever heard. But something was wrong. It wasn’t emerging from anywhere— quite the opposite. It felt rigid, unmoving, stuck in something it couldn’t understand. Maybe, if it used just a bit more strength…

Crack.

The sound returned, and this time the world truly came alive. With a sharp ninety-degree shift, the pale blue that surrounded it vanished, replaced by a sea of reds and yellows. It saw flowers—countless flowers—growing between its bones.

The being, barely aware of itself, thrashed helplessly, trying to tear free from the ground. Its bones creaked as it moved, perhaps too loudly, because an unexpected spectator appeared: a small creature with fur dusted in pollen.

“You seem to be in quite a tangled situation, friend,” said the newcomer’s voice. It could see the roots sprouting from the skeleton’s ribcage. “Are you the bony one here, the flowers… or both?”

The skeleton, incapable of grasping the complexity of the question, uttered the most primitive sound it could muster:

“Hagh.”

The little creature didn’t dwell on it.

“Listen, I don’t have much time. So tell me: if I pull you out of there, do you think you’ll be of any use?”

“Hagh.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now I need to move quickly, before they consume you entirely.”

The creature placed its soft paw on the bones and, one by one, touched the flowers while murmuring something incomprehensible. The roots recoiled, and at last the skeleton was free to move. Only a single white flower clung stubbornly to its skull.

It reached toward its savior, brushing pollen from its fur in a clumsy gesture of gratitude— and was met with sharp claws pushing it away.

“Thanks, but I can handle that myself.”

The skeleton didn’t take offense. Standing now, it shook off the dirt, plucked the white flower, and tossed it aside.

“Well then, now that things have calmed down, it’s time for introductions, isn’t it?” said the animal, licking a paw with an air of vanity. “My name is Kishtar, and I am the lord of this valley.”

He paused for a moment, studying the reanimated bones before him.

“I’ve never seen you before, so of course I’m curious. Who—and what—are you, my friend?” He examined the empty eye sockets. “And now that you’re free… what do you plan to do?”

Silence. Not a sound. Only the wind stirring the flowers.

“Friend? Nothing to say?”

The skeleton stared, confused, then tried to imitate him. It lifted a hand to its chin and pretended to lick it with elegance.

Kishtar sighed.

“Okay, message received. You have no idea where you’re standing. You’re in urgent need of assistance. But don’t worry, friend. I, the great Kishtar, will take care of you.”

He added a theatrical pause.

“You shall boast of your talents across the cosmos and write poems that make the hardest hearts weep.”

The skeleton, innocent yet growing more aware by the moment, attempted to communicate using his same words.

“Talents, Kishtar.” Its bony finger pointed at the flowers it had emerged from, still writhing as they lost their color. “I, free. Curiosity?”

Kishtar understood perfectly.

“That? I didn’t harm them, really. With my diplomacy I managed to convince them to step aside. That’s all. Perhaps they didn’t understand that, by abandoning you, they were giving up their resting place. The soil is too tough for them to relocate.”

The implications made the skeleton’s mood sink. Kishtar consoled him:

“It was them or you, twiggy. Maybe that’s your first lesson.” He turned toward the horizon—toward a path only he seemed to know. “And since you have no name,” he said, “from this day forward you’ll follow me, Belo. That will be your name.”

The skeleton felt things were progressing a bit fast, but the name pleased him. With a direction to follow, he only needed to ask his new companion:

“What do you plan to do?”

“Now? We’re going to my home. I’ll explain the basics and show you around.” Without further elaboration, he began walking toward some unknown direction. “We’re actually quite close; that’s the only reason I could save you. Well… what’s left of you.”

He didn’t seem afraid walking among the flowers. His confidence appeared well-founded. As they moved on, he explained the nature of the place.

“This spot is rather strange, but you’ll get used to it with time.” He quickened his pace slightly, hopping with grace. “You see, this is a place cut off from reality, where I believe anything with supernatural properties ends its journey.” He glanced at Belo, who showed no reaction. “I like to think they’re offerings that never reached their destination.”

Still talking, he added, “I’ve been here for as long as I can remember—basically forever—so I suppose it’s fair to claim it for myself.” Belo followed two steps behind. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Belo kept looking around, still somewhat alert, so he added:

“You’ve nothing to fear, Belo. You’ll learn to live here. This is my territory, after all. The flowers are like your allies. Wherever they grow, you’ll be safe.” Belo didn’t understand, but the words soothed him nonetheless. “For now, let’s keep going.”

After an unknown stretch of time, they reached a dip in the terrain: a kind of spiral in the grass leading to a hole in the ground. The same roots descended into it, though these looked… redder.

“Home sweet home, Belo. Follow me, I’ll show you your new house.”

“House?”

“Yes, house. Now let’s get down there.”

The hole wasn’t very deep. Belo crouched and crawled inside without trouble. The interior was surprisingly spacious: a cave with red roots hanging from the ceiling. Three tunnels branched off in the distance—perhaps more rooms.

Some small devices lit the corners. Belo picked one up but didn’t understand its purpose. Held awkwardly, its lights created a spectacle of colors.

Kishtar quickly snatched it away...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

---

Remnants of Shattered Souls – Chapter 1

Customs

“What is it you’re trying to hide?”

“…”

“What is it you’re trying to forget?”

“…”

“Are you trying to forget your losses…?”

“Or simply trying to bury the pain…?”

“The world will forget anyway. Whatever you’re doing, it serves no purpose…”

“…”

“Nothing will change… and nothing will return you to the past…”

“You’re trapped with us… whether you like it or not…”

The city falls silent. The lights went out hours ago. What once was a home now barely remembers its shape.

Filthy blood seeps from its wounds. There is no strength left to fight, and no answers remain.

“Enough. You keep repeating the same thing. You’re no use anymore.”

The leather on the hilt creaks, the blade shivering with anticipation.

“You won’t change a—!”

SCHRRK!

With a wet thud, everything goes quiet again.

Darkness stains the floor, spreading around his shoes.

Aiden doesn’t move, still absorbing what just happened…

He sheathes his sword—after wiping it clean.

“You don’t have to tell me. At this point, I’m tired of hearing it.”

He walks on. The headless body is left behind, already decomposing.

The stench lingers too, though faintly, in one way or another.

It’s ten at night. Aiden reaches the town with a slow, steady pace, careful not to draw attention.

The cold bites—seven or eight degrees, maybe colder later.

By this hour no one remains outside their rooms, except for the occasional guard—one of whom sees him approach.

“Hey! Aiden! How are you, my friend? Productive night?”

“Almost…” he answers, passing through the entrance.

“Sorry to hear that. Let me know if you head out again, alright? I’m on watch tonight.”

“Fine.”

He barely listens. The few answers he obtained weren’t enough, but for tonight, it doesn’t matter.

On his way to his room, someone steps in front of him.

“Hey Aiden, you took your time.”

“Yeah. That thing was tougher than it looked—and it wasn’t alone.”

“And what happened to the others?”

The ground still mirrors the rain. Each step splashes through a puddle, breaking the silence of the night.

“I avoided them. I want to save my energy. Any of the hunters can deal with them—I don’t need to.”

“Well… you’re not wrong.”

They open the door to the building across the path. A faint warm light welcomes them.

“Did you find anything?” Aiden asks.

“Uh… no?” she says, looking away.

He stays silent.

“Why… are you asking?”

“Because you’re in a good mood. So I assume you have good news.”

“Seriously?” she snorts, trying to hide a laugh. “I think the lack of sleep is making you paranoid.”

Aiden narrows his eyes at her.

“Ugh, fine! I was trying to cheer you up, don’t be so dull.”

“Just tell me what you found.”

“Alright, alright,” she says as they stop in front of the stairs.

“So… I found one.”

“A what?”

“You know… one of them. A guy with the mark.”

“What—?!”

“Shhh, don’t yell…”

“Sorry—but why drag it out like that?”

“I wanted to sound mysterious. And… I locked him in the basement.”

“But…” He rubs his forehead. “Never mind. Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so…”

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

“Oh, it’s fine! Come on, follow me. It’s this way,” she says, heading in the opposite direction of the stairs to the rooms.

They enter an empty room. Beside it, locked doors lead to the basement.

Once opened, only cold, stagnant darkness greets them.

“You left him with the lights off?” Aiden asks as they descend.

“Yep. He refused to tell me anything. A bit of darkness might loosen his tongue.”

“Good idea.”

“Wait—here, I think I have a flashlight,” she says, stopping before the last step.

“Huh? I don’t need it. You use it.”

“What, can you see in the dark?”

“No, but I’m used to it. I can make out silhouettes.”

“Ooh, then I’ll stay close and keep the light off. For extra suspense.”

“Sure.”

Their steps echo, bouncing off the walls, emphasizing how empty the place is.

“Where did you find him?”

“He was trying to trade pills for a bit of food.”

“What kind of pills?”

“You know what kind.”

“Oh… and?”

“They didn’t buy them. He got mad and slammed the table—almost broke it.”

“And you didn’t do anything?”

“O-of course I did! I ran over when I heard the noise and saw the table cracked—and it was stoneware.”

“That made you suspect what he was?”

“Yeah. I went in quickly, convinced him someone else would buy them, lured him here, and locked the door.”

“Wait—you brought him here without checking if he had the mark first?”

“Well… yeah. He was causing trouble anyway, so I didn’t think too hard…”

Aiden rolls his eyes.

“We’re almost there.”

As they approach the cell, the smell of rust thickens, blending with the damp air.

The prisoner hears their steps and starts yelling.

“Hey! Who’s there?! You sons of—!”

They stop before entering. Metal doors block any easy escape.

“Oof, he heard us.”

“Doesn’t matter. Anything else you want to clarify?”

“Well… he’s kinda big…”

“So what? He intimidated you? You?”

“What?!” she huffs. “Of course not.”

“Ahh, so that’s why you didn’t hit him and brought him here with tricks.”

“Shut up. I got him here, didn’t I? That’s what matters.”

“Yes, yes. Good work, Talia.”

“Good. But you owe me a favor.”

“Sure. I’ll open the door—aim the light at him.”

“Done.”

She hands Aiden the key.

He presses an ear to the door as he unlocks it. Faint breathing leaks through.

Yeah, well. That won’t matter.

“Brace yourself.”

THUN!

Aiden slams the door open, sending the prisoner flying a few meters. He lands with a crash that echoes around the room.

“Shit! My nose!” the man groans on the floor, clutching his face with one hand and propping himself with the other.

Aiden enters calmly, Talia behind him with the flashlight.

“Sit.” His voice is quiet but firm.

“Alright! Alright…”

The man sits on the lone chair, wiping blood from his nose.

“Could you stop shining that damn thing in my face? I can’t see.”

“You don’t—”

“It’s fine,” Aiden interrupts Talia. “Shine it on me.”

“Hm. Alright,” she says with a shrug.

She circles around Aiden, stepping back so the light spreads evenly.

She raises the flashlight, illuminating him fully.

“W-wait… you’re…?”

“You know me…” he says, approaching slowly.

“Hold on! Wait!”

“…”

“Hey! Don’t let him come near me!”

His footsteps echo sharply.

“Come on! I haven’t done anything to you!”

The distance closes.

The man grips the chair, terrified.

“Just wait! What do you want?!”

“…”

“Just tell me!”

His breathing grows frantic.

“You—you’re supposed to only kill those things! Not m—!”

Aiden reaches out.

The prisoner shuts his eyes, baring his teeth, turning his head away in fear.

Aiden grabs him by the collar and shifts him aside.

“There it is. So you’re like me…”

On his right collarbone—a mark. Small, but its tangled root-like pattern is unmistakable.

Not in the same place as mine. Neither like the others. It confirms the mark manifests differently each time.

Whether that affects abilities or potential… I still don’t know.

The man peeks one eye open, seeing Aiden hasn’t harmed him.

“S-so… you’re not gonna kill me?”

“That depends on you—and how useful you are.”

“O-okay… h-how can I help?”

“Tell me where Varos is.”

“I—I don’t know.”

Aiden sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“H-hey! I’m sorry! Really! But I swear I don’t know!”

“That’s not true.” Aiden extends his hand toward Talia.

“Here!” She tosses him the bag of pills.

He catches it easily.

“These pills—he makes them. And I doubt you’re stupid enough to steal from him unless he sent you to scout.”

“B-but drugs are common! Anyone could’ve made them!”

Aiden holds up a pill. Tiny initials are carved into it: V.M.

“Varos Merek. The idiot’s too arrogant to leave them blank. They need his name, or he’ll think someone else gets the credit.”

“B-but…”

“Look, I’m tired of this nonsense. I’ll ask once more… Where. Is. He?”

“I—I…”

“Fine.”

He unsheathes his sword, resting the blade on the man’s shoulder near his neck. The weight is heavy. Very heavy.

“Wait! Wait! I’ll talk! Just—don’t tell him I told you, he’ll kill me…”

“If you don’t talk, I will.”

“O-okay! Okay! He’s at a dam a few kilometers from here. We built a temporary camp there—the river water is fresh.”

“I don’t need extra details. What direction?”

“North. Straight north. You’ll reach the river—follow it and you’ll find the dam.”

“How many of you?”

“Sixteen. Including me…”

“Good. Let’s go, Talia.”

“On it!”

They turn toward the door.

“Wait—That’s it?”

“…!”

Aiden turns swiftly, marching back toward him.

“N-no! Wai—!”

He grabs him by the throat with his left arm.

The man struggles, choking.

Aiden lifts him off the ground effortlessly.

“Listen, idiot. Don’t test your luck. If that location is false, they’ll have to scrape what’s left of you with a shovel.”

“And if you try to run,” Talia yells from across the room, “we’ll tie you to a post outside the city!”

Aiden throws him onto the chair, shattering it to pieces.

Before he can get up, they’re already leaving.

“Are we really going to do that?” Talia whispers.

Aiden glances at her silently while locking the door.

“Oh…”

Once sealed, they head out.

“Hey, how did you know he was connected to them?” she asks.

“I didn’t. He told me.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“I asked for Varos. Instead of asking who that was, he said he didn’t know where he was.”

“Oh!”

They climb the stairs, leaving the basement behind, locking everything on their way out.

“So, what will you do now?” Talia asks.

“Sleep…”

“What? Really? I thought you’d go right away.”

“To find that bastard? Of course not. Even if I had the energy, going there without a plan is stupid.”

“And… do you have any idea yet?”

“Nope. I’ll consult my pillow. I’ve been awake long enough. My body needs rest.”

They head toward his room.

“How long were you tracking that Conform?”

“Three days…”

“Damn. All that… for nothing.”

“You don’t have to remind me…”

“I still don’t get it. That thing you were after—what was it? A Deform or a Conform?”

“Something in between. Still kept a sliver of human form, but not enough to fool anyone.”

“Well, I don’t know how similar a Conform looks to us…”

“Trust me. You don’t want to find out.”

They approach the door.

Aiden takes out his key; the metallic rattle pulls them back to the present.

Darkness greets them inside.

“I’d invite you in, but unless you want to watch me sleep, I’m not great company.”

Talia laughs softly.

“No worries…” She hesitates, playing with her fingers. “But… there’s something else I wanted to ask.”

“Go on. As if you didn’t ask enough questions already.”

“Hey! Sorry, okay? That’s just how I am.”

“Fine, fine. Shoot.”

“You’ve fought a Conform… right?”

Aiden averts his eyes slightly.

“Y-yeah. I had to. Before. Don’t know if I’m proud of the results, but at least I survived…”

“And… i-is that why you have those scars?”

Aiden’s eyes widen, startled.

“W-what? How—?”

“I know, I know! I’m sorry, really! It wasn’t on purpose. The other day, when the doctor was checking you in the tent—I happened to pass by and…”

“Ah.” He sighs. “Fine. It’s okay. Yes, those fights caused them. But not all.”

“But from what I saw—how are you still alive?”

“Luck? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You have stab and slash scars on your chest like something impaled yo—”

“You sure stared a lot for someone who passed by ‘accidentally.’”

“I said I was sorry! But still—”

“I know. I don’t understand it myself. But maybe he saved me…”

“He? Who?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m rambling. If you’re done examining me, I’m going to sleep.”

“But—”

“Good night,” he says, closing the door and leaving her outside.

Aiden is swallowed by darkness. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights.

Each step toward the bed feels heavier. When he reaches it, his body collapses.

He saved me? Sure. All he ever did was watch. Wait until the last moment… and—

...."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

The Powerful Part

Zabolo ya pembe.

Mama used to say zabolo ya pembe. I didn’t know why.

I remember Mama. I remember earth. I remember home. Heat. The heat of fire, not of sun. Fire burns more than sun. Fire kills.

Amari ran faster than a nkosi. I remember my brother Amari. He ran like nkosi, like lion, and still he could not escape the claw of the white man. White devil. Zabolo ya pembe.

Mama always said: beware the zabolo ya pembe.

Amari died on the masuwa, the ship, before we reached land. I remember Amari’s body shaking. I remember his belly hollowing in. Yellow eyes. Grey skin. I remember a man throwing Amari into the water.

The masuwa reached another land first and left some people there. I remember my friend Nayah. I met her on the ship, in the hold beside me. She spoke my language, and when the men slept, we whispered prayers and songs from Congo, our land. Very soft, so the men wouldn’t hear and kick us. Nayah stayed there, and the ship continued to Buenos Ayres. I never knew of her again. I don’t know if a family bought her or if she died before that.

Many days after we arrived, ladies and men began to come to take us away. The Orechano family took me. I remember Doña Irene’s gaze. She looked at my feet and my hands, and then at my chest. Ngai Ebelé, I said my name to her. She looked at my face. She had the same eyes as the men on the ship. Devil’s eyes. Ebelé, I said again, and the captain whipped my back. Doña Irene looked at my face, and I said it again: ngai Ebelé. The captain shouted and struck me again. He hit my leg and I fell. The lady said something to the captain and took me with her. We were three women and three men, in a mpunda cart. The lady came close, looked at us all, looked at me, and said: Belén.

In the Orechano house, at first, I was a washer. I scrubbed floors and did the laundry. Don Orechano had died of plague, and the lady lived with five children. Two boys, three girls. We baombo ate and slept in the cellar. She ordered her children not to go near us. While we worked the house, the children played in the yard, with the cats always around, or rested in their rooms. They had a white maid.

Often, Don Castelli visited Doña Irene. He spent many hours in the house. Sometimes he even stayed the night. He spoke to us baombo and treated us kindly. The lady grew angry with him. By then, I already knew this language and I cooked in the house, because the lady had sold Juana. When Castelli dined with Doña Irene, we served them meat and wine, and we were allowed to eat the leftovers. One of those nights, I saw for the first time the devil’s eyes in Castelli as I poured his wine. Later I heard him speak of us baombo, and the lady shouted that he was mad.

The gentleman returned one cold, rainy night. Doña Irene was not there; she had left the day before with chests of silver and silk dresses in three mpunda carts. Castelli was dirty and bruised and soaked by the rain. I let him in, took off his wet cloak and boots, and prepared a tub with hot water. He asked me to wash him.

As I bathed him, Castelli kept his eyes closed, but then he opened them and watched my hands washing his body, watched my chest and my face. His eyes were not like the lady’s when she bought me, but his look did not please me either. That night, while I washed him for the first time, the gentleman took my hand and placed it between his legs, under the water. I scrubbed with the cloth and tried to pull away, but he gripped harder and made me keep my hand there, rubbing more. I saw again, in his gaze, the eyes of the zabolo.

Afterward I dried him and served soup and wine. He asked me to sit by his side and spoke words I did not understand, though I remember he talked about offering baombo to the army, to the Church, to the council. He said that way we baombo could become free.

Castelli kept visiting Doña Irene and asking that I bathe him. The lady told me to do whatever Señor Castelli wanted. Every time I washed him, I had to rub harder his libolo. He also asked me to loosen the bow at the chest of my dress.

The last time I saw him was some time before the lady threw me out of the house. That night, the lady was sick in bed, and Castelli came again. After the bath, I served food, and once more he told me to sit beside him while he ate the rice pudding I had prepared. That time, besides talking, he stroked my face and touched my body. Don Castelli spoke of going far from Buenos Ayres, and then Doña Irene entered the dining room.

First, the lady punished me. She locked me in the cellar, without a dress and with nothing to eat. I slept little because there were many mpuku in the cellar and no cats. I feared they would bite me and infect me. I felt again as on the masuwa.

Many days later, the lady brought me out. She said she had sold me, but before handing me over I had to beg her forgiveness. She dragged me to the street, naked, and beat me with a sharpened rod. She screamed: witch, black witch, ungrateful black, useless. She screamed and struck. She hit my chest the most. It hurt terribly. This mark on my leg, my child, comes from that night at the clock street. The same night your father bought me and brought me to this house.

When Castelli returned to Buenos Ayres, he came to this house looking for me. You were already inside my libumu. Your father saw Castelli arriving on his mpunda and hid me in this very room. I only heard your father speaking. He spoke alone. Went silent. Spoke again. Then I looked through the keyhole and saw Castelli’s back at the table. He wore the same cloak as always—the one I used to remove when bathing him at the Orechano house. It was filthy and torn. He wrote and showed a paper to your father, who read and replied. Your father said he knew nothing of me, and they spoke of other things. Of politics. Of England, your grandfather’s land. Then Señor Castelli left.

I asked your father why Castelli did not speak. He told me he had a sickness in his tong…, in his…tongue, his lolemo. He also said he searched for me, brought a paper with my name. My name from there: the one the lady gave me—Belén.

Some time later, Señor Castelli died of the sickness in his lolemo...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

**Excerpt: **

---

We took one of the two empty tables left on the first floor: the ground level of Coffee Mood was packed, and both the patio and the terrace were closed because of the cool, rainy weather. Besides, we didn’t know if there were outlets outside, so we would have chosen an indoor table anyway—Tati needed one.

The upper floor was lined with couches set against the walls, mounted on a metal platform. The outlets were installed on a panel that covered the hollow beneath the seat; the plug ended up conveniently beside your right calf. Only Tati needed one, so she sat on the couch next to Mati; Cati and I took the vintage-style chairs on the opposite side of the table.

After a while, a group of loud kids carrying trays loaded with over-the-top snacks took the last free table, right next to ours. There were six of them; three sat on the couch and immediately plugged in their chargers. One of them asked if anyone else needed an outlet. Two said no. The other—blond, meticulously styled hair, sipping a smoothie of an indescribable shade somewhere between red, green and blue—said his battery was low, but he had a spare anyway. We tried to maintain a conversation over their shrill laughter and shouting.

Then a poorly dressed man walked in, clothes filthy: a gray jacket torn open to the padding in one sleeve, stained everywhere you looked, and jeans no less grimy, fitting him as though his legs were wrapped in garbage bags. He looked just as dirty as his clothes, and exhausted. He came toward our table, the one closest to the staircase. I noticed anguish on his face—fear, even. Breathless and with a frail voice, he asked if he could use an outlet. Mati told him yes, the one near him was free—he wasn’t using it. The man was approaching when, behind him, an employee appeared, visibly nervous and irritated.

“You know you can’t be here,” she said automatically—not so much to anyone in particular, though it was clear she meant him. “The outlets are for customers.”

“Please… I need it.” His voice trembled. Now there was no doubt: he was scared.

“Please don’t put me in that position. You need to order something if you want to stay. And besides, all the tables are taken.”

We were telling the girl that we didn’t mind, that we could even buy him a coffee, when the manager joined in. He seemed harsher, more uncompromising than his coworker.

“You again,” he said—not a question, an accusation. “I told you the other day I don’t want to see you here anymore.”

“Please, I just need—” The man broke off mid-sentence as he saw the manager’s rigid refusal.

“Leave, please,” the manager ordered, reaching for his arm.

“All right, all right—I’m going.”

He dodged the grab and headed toward the stairs. From where we sat, we could see him struggle with the first steps; he had to lean against the wall to keep his balance.

It happened so quickly, so abruptly, that we didn’t manage to insist that he could stay at our table for as long as he needed the outlet. The annoying kids went back to their cackling. We didn’t stay much longer ourselves; we finished our cappuccinos and juices and left shortly after.

We stepped outside, walked a few meters, and before reaching the corner found a commotion. People were gathering in a loose circle. In the middle, lying on the sidewalk, was the man in the gray jacket. He was sweating and breathing in short, broken bursts. His eyes, wide open, flickered. You could hear the sounds coming from inside him: metallic squeaks, the scraping of gears trying to move a body that no longer responded. Sparks snapped from his joints.

Those sounds were familiar—we all experience them at some point, in moments of fatigue, physical strain, or deep exhaustion. Even the occasional spark in our joints isn’t unusual. But there was another noise entirely unknown: a kind of electrical hum, constant and monotonous, coming from his chest.

His pant leg had ridden up on his right leg, revealing the energy-control and charging device. On its screen, a pulsing red circle showed a remaining battery level of one percent. Beneath it, a warning:

Critical energy level! Connect to recharge or replace your battery.

As we were turning to leave, I spotted the blond boy with the impeccable hair among the onlookers. He saw me too. While sipping what was left of his iridescent smoothie with a blank expression, he shifted his gaze from mine to the man lying there...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

---

Manuscript on the Earthquake

---

I began to feel it again three days ago: the tremors and that low, rumbling roar beneath everything.

I’d rather not imagine what it must feel like up close; closer, I mean. I’d rather not think about anyone anymore (I can’t and I don’t want to), about all those people, all those souls condemned to stand there on the brink—on what the ones on the other side call “the border.” Cynical sons of bitches.

I don’t have the courage Juan had—the strength to accept defeat, to recognize that the end was (is) irreversible and imminent. I can’t. So I’d rather not think, not even about myself anymore. I move like an automaton, waiting for darkness to finally swallow me whole. Real darkness, I mean—the kind no flicker of will can bear, the kind that can’t be fought off by stepping out into the sun. The darkness that seized him after witnessing the relentless advance of destruction up close. The darkness that turned his helplessness into sorrow. A thick, tumorous sorrow that first rooted itself, then spread through every fiber of him, hollowing him out until he grew so frail, so empty, that his body hitting the pavement made no sound. I realized he’d jumped only when I heard the commotion in the street—the shouting, the blows, the fight over who got to keep him. I’m certain that in the split second he hung suspended in the air, he felt peace. Peace in knowing it was all ending (finally), and in ending, he would become food. Sustenance for others who, like me, choose to stay alive simply because—waiting for the inevitable.

“Keep going, Julián,” he told me that afternoon. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“It’s going to stop,” I told him. “They say it’s going to stop.” It was what they said, and what I repeated to him—not very convincingly—every time the anguish and torment overtook him. That it was going to stop.

“This one is enormous,” Juan kept saying. “Long and wide. Worse than the others. It feels endless.”

He was right. About everything. Especially about this one being worse than all the previous ones: the past quakes were bad, yes, each leaving its wounds and scars (some unavoidable, some less so) over the years. We grew used to living among jolts, tremors, and roars; cracks zigzagging across the earth; razed zones reduced to nothing—unreachable, uninhabited or uninhabitable, yet still inhabited by people who had nowhere else to go; evacuations and landslide threats; families losing everything and living on the streets or among the ruins, little more than ghosts. Yes—all of that. But none of them, Juan wasn’t wrong, had been as destructive as this last one. None had literally split the earth in two, dividing the city into “this side” and “the other side.” No earthquake had ever left behind a border (cynical as the term is, it’s brutally accurate): a deep, abyssal trench—deadly, fatally so. And as if that weren’t enough, a living trench, advancing. Like the mouth—the jaws—of a starving beast. A colossal, impossible creature, all-powerful, devouring everything in its path.

Because that’s the worst part: the movement. The advance.

That day—the day Juan jumped—the thunder and vibrations had started again after the beast had lain quiet for a time (two months, or something like that). We knew it was getting closer. Juan had stopped going to the school because the fault was too near and the next advance would likely swallow it whole. The so-called “authorities”* had ordered the school evacuated, along with several blocks around it—already too close to our neighborhood. He’d stopped attending as a teacher, not as a worker: the school wasn’t a school anymore; it had become another shelter. Juan and the other teachers kept going, and besides assisting whoever they could with whatever scraps they had, they tried to keep teaching amidst the devastation.** Of course no one paid them anymore. It was no longer a job.

---

(*) The only thing the “emergency authorities” ever did was issue evacuation orders for the zones closest to the border as the fissure advanced, and enforce compliance with violence and brute authority. Nothing else. It wasn’t their problem where the displaced ended up.

In the past tense: by the time I write this, these authorities no longer exist (rumor says most were taken to the other side), and no one enforces or orders evacuations anymore.

(**) The things Juan witnessed in the school-shelter I’ll have to write down another time—if I ever can. But they played a decisive role in the anguish that consumed him.

---

In the months before the school evacuation, Juan had stopped bringing provisions; finding food had become almost impossible and we barely survived ourselves. He brought some clothes and blankets, but we needed those for barter too; we had little left worth trading. So he settled for bringing books—lots of them—since they were worthless in the barter market (no one offering food cared for them). He said at least they offered a way out of this absurd, cruel world—the only kind possible. But paper and ink don’t fill stomachs.

We’d handed over most of our appliances in exchange for a decent supply. There was still electricity, so they had some value (we decided not to give up the refrigerator, which is now nothing more than a metal sarcophagus). But we kept an old 21-inch tube TV we’d inexplicably kept in the laundry room. I don’t know why Juan insisted on building an antenna for it—why he wanted to watch television, when everything being broadcast came from the other side and was always the same. Later I understood: depression is a monstrous, immune, ravenous creature, fed by illusions and false hope.

But he built it—using two radio antennas (a boombox he brought from the school when he knew it would soon be rubble, and a small portable radio that had belonged to his father), stuck into a flowerpot, wired into our old cable, and placed on top of the water tank. And it worked. The signal was grainy, but visible enough. That prehistoric contraption—which in a good day might have been traded for a bag of pasta or a bottle of water—kept us informed of what the people on the other side said was happening here. And what they said was that this would stop (I write it in the past tense, but I suppose they’re still saying it); that help and reconstruction would arrive eventually, but only once the tremors ceased for good and the beast was finally fed—once the fissure stopped advancing, once and for all.

Experts spoke: geologists, seismologists, scientists. With aerial footage of our side—shot from helicopters or drones***—they explained indicators, calculations, data unverifiable and incomprehensible. Some blamed the previous quakes, claiming this devastation, this uncontrollable destruction, couldn’t have been avoided. That it had been known this moment would come, when the weakened earth would yield a living, irreversible fault like this one. That nature is wise, and things happen for a reason, they said.

---

(***) It’s been a long time since anything has flown overhead—ever since this sector, now closest to the fault, lost power.

---

But no one ever did anything more than speak. And always from over there—from the other side. From that piece of land which, once broken away and separated from this one (first by a crack, then by an abyss), stayed still and drifted farther away. From the half (let’s forget geography and call it a “half”) that seems less appetizing to the beast. The place where little was destroyed and whatever was damaged was rebuilt; where nothing was wiped clean by death; where electricity still flows and everything glows bright; where food is enough and money still means something; where people don’t have to give up everything they own just to eat; where eating a pet or trading it for food, or resorting to canibalism, is an unimaginable horror—something seen only in documentaries or read in history books or horror fiction.

That was the news. The rest was the usual: game shows, reality TV, idealized dramas.

---

That afternoon, when the roar began again (not the one I hear now, but the previous one), Juan turned on the TV only to find white noise on all five channels. It wasn’t raining; there was no wind. The signal was simply gone.

“Leave it, love, they’re not going to say anything new,” I told him, insisting he turn it off.

He hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ll check the antenna—maybe it shifted or came loose.”

Neither. The antenna sat exactly where it still sits now—there on top of the tank, like some wilted, skeletal plant from the future.

Juan didn’t fall—he jumped. I know because, though I pretended not to notice, I read defeat in his eyes in that single moment of doubt before he climbed onto the roof.

The commotion—the fight over the body (eighty kilos of flesh and bone in good condition)—I saw only in fragments, through the cracks in the blinds. I chose not to go downstairs; I wouldn’t have made it in time anyway. Weeks before, we’d barricaded the door with a beam and packed the staircase with furniture, and clearing the path would’ve taken too long—not to mention the risk of stepping outside, beyond the cannibal fight unfolding. And truthfully, there was nothing I could’ve done with the corpse. So I let them take him, knowing Juan would’ve done the same in my place.

---

I write these pages on the roof of the house Juan and I shared for fifteen years. The same roof where he chose to end his life before the destruction—now once more howling and thundering—could do it for him.

I have very little food left, and no idea how I could get more. For the last trade, I kidnapped a girl from the street**** and exchanged her at the station for a large supply, of which only the last cans remain—enough for a few more days (maybe a week if I ration severely). But now, with the end so close, the street is something else—more hostile, more feral. Hungrier. More cannibal.

In any case, this does seem to be the beast’s final march—at least for me. Its jaws draw near.

Dusk is falling; the light is nearly gone. My eyes ache, watering onto the page.

The tremors won’t stop...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

Aquí tienes una traducción al inglés literario y moderno, fiel al tono emocional, urbano y tenso del original, pero sin sonar artificial ni demasiado “formal”. Mantiene registro narrativo, fluidez y fuerza expresiva.

---

It’s getting dark and they still haven’t come back. It’s driving me crazy.

Every time they hang out with the neighborhood boys it’s the same thing: first they loiter on the corner, drink, blast loud music. A little later they head toward the avenue, and that’s when I start getting nervous.

I watch them from the window or I stand by the door with little Bastian, the youngest. He wants to go out with his friends too, and I can’t tell him no, can’t keep him locked up all day. I only let him play on our block or in the empty lot around the corner, where they kick a ball around—if the older boys aren’t using it, because sometimes they set up matches for money and things get real shady. Bastian is obsessed with soccer, but he also loves that field because his dad built the goalposts.

I forbid him to go any farther. He still listens when I tell him what to do, or at least tells me who he’s with, even if he rolls his eyes at me. Lauti and Leo don’t. All I ask is that they don’t wander around too much and that they stay away from that crew. Don’t worry, Mom, nothing’s gonna happen, they say, and off they go. But I can’t be calm until they’re back. Especially not when I hear that trouble’s breaking out and one of those trucks goes by.

The first time I ever saw one was when what happened to Fernando happened. Eight months ago already. I remember I was waiting for the boys just like now, but that afternoon I was with Bastian, because it was raining and I didn’t let him out. They had already stopped going to school, so the other two must’ve been out somewhere.

Then I heard the shots. Far, but not that far. And getting closer.

I don’t know why, but I ran out to look for him. I ran out so fast I almost forgot to turn off the kettle. I knocked on Mari’s door—my neighbor—begged her to stay with the kid, and ran toward the avenue. When I reached the next block, I saw the black truck turn the corner. It was the first time I’d seen one, but there’d been talk about them going around the neighborhood.

The gunshots kept going.

My legs gave out and I froze; I couldn’t run anymore. Or I didn’t want to—I don’t know. I kept walking: even though it was far, I wanted to make it to the Chinese shop. But I ran into Nico coming back; he was out of breath. He grabbed my arm and dragged me home.

He confirmed what I already feared: they’d taken Fer down. And they had collected him.

So it was true, what they said about the trucks. The collector trucks.

Yeah, Nico told me. I got away, but him and the Ant fell.

I started screaming, shoved him, threw something from the table—I don’t even know what— a plate, an ashtray, something that shattered against the wall. Bastian was crying, Mari was holding him and crying too. Nico grabbed my wrists while I punched him in the chest; then he pulled me in and held me tight. I can still remember the stink of sweat and grime.

I told him not to go, I told him, I yelled. I told him.

Fernando hadn’t stolen anything since he was a kid, back when I was pregnant with Leonel and Lauti was little. He straightened out after a job went bad and nearly got him locked up. He barely dodged death. I laid it out for him: if he got caught, he wouldn’t meet the baby and he wouldn’t see Lauti again until he got out, because I wasn’t taking my kids to a prison. Ever.

But when Nico told him about the Chinese shop, he had been without work for almost a year. They’d fired him from the tannery—which ended up closing anyway, like most of the factories in the neighborhood. And odd jobs were scarce, because there were too many guys looking for the same scraps.

Nico had offered him a spot on that job while they were building the goalposts in the lot with some planks they’d found by the trash corner. Told him he had a tip to hit the Chinese store. Not the small one— the big one. He had info that they had real cash coming in because they unloaded stolen trucks there.

He told me that same night.

Don’t go, Fer, I told him. It’s dangerous.

It’s always been dangerous, he said. Our life is dangerous.

But they say those people with the trucks are around.

We need money, babe. We can’t take it anymore.

He was right—we needed money. And if it went well, we’d be alright for a while.

A week later, he was dead. The Ant came to pick him up around five that day; the job was going to be around eight, when the shop was about to close. The boys and I couldn’t even say goodbye to his body: the collectors picked it up and took it. They say they hand the corpses over to be emptied out. They salvage what’s useful and dispose of the rest—like leftovers from a slaughterhouse. Not even that; I bet a slaughterhouse wastes less. Bastards.

If the shooter’s a cop, you can tell, Nico told me another day, because they shoot the legs first and then the head, that way they don’t damage any organs that could be used. That, he said, is what they did to Fernando. First shot blew out his knee; they finished him off before he even hit the ground.

Bastian isn’t back either. I go out looking for him.

I have no idea where he is; I don’t hear shouting from the field. There’s noise from the avenue, always some mess there.

I turn the corner and look at the lot across the street: empty. Damn it. Where did he go? He knows he’s not supposed to go far.

I shout, Bastian!

I look inside Tito’s store: nothing, no one.

Bastian! I shout again.

And then I hear the shots start. Oh God, damn it to hell. Bastian! I want to scream for Lautaro and Leonel too.

I walk fast, breathless—more from panic than anything else. I stop before crossing. Look left: no Bastian, nobody.

The shots are closer now and it’s getting darker.

A huge gray rat scurries right in front of me, crosses the street, climbs a mountain of trash and disappears. But a bit farther ahead, mid-block, I see him. His back turned to me, bouncing a ball while talking to someone.

Bastian! I cross diagonally, just like the rat. Before I reach him, he turns around. He’s hurt: a scrape on his forehead, another on his cheek, blood on his lip. His filthy shirt torn open at the side. He’s talking to Nico—I hadn’t recognized him in the dark, with all my nerves.

What happened to you? I ask.

I fought with a kid who lives over there, Bastian says. Says he got into a fistfight because the boy invited everyone to his house except him.

He told me he didn’t invite me ’cause I’m a thief.

I ask who the other kid is, if he knows him.

Yeah, I know him from before.

Before?

Yeah, from before. From school.

I was just passing by and ran into them, Nico says, standing behind him. I was telling him I’d walk him home.

He steps a bit closer; I smell the same stink as that day. Also weed and wine. I’m about to thank him when a black truck drives slowly past the corner, heading toward the avenue. The shots have just stopped.

Nico turns to look too. Go, he tells me. See ya, champ, he says to Bastian. Winks, ruffles his hair.

I run, holding Bastian’s hand. I’ll drop you at home and go get your brothers, I tell him.

Why are you crying? he asks...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

---

CHAPTER 50. PERFUMES

I parked on the same street as always. The neighborhood, even at that late hour, hummed with a distant, indifferent noise—unaware of the storm tearing through me. The apartment lights were on, casting long, blurred shadows over the mezzanine, as if reality itself were hiding in half-light.

I entered without knocking, using my keys. The metallic click of the lock sounded strangely loud. It was the key to my hidden identity—the one that opened Pandora’s box in my life. I felt like an intruder in my own home, or worse, the owner of a lie.

A sweet perfume struck me the moment I stepped inside: the unmistakable scent of the business I was trying to keep alive. Not a single perfume, but a lush, cloying blend mixed with the acidic breath of red wine or some other strong liquor. A smell that screamed transgression and clandestine luxury. My pulse thudded like a restless drum. I was looking for a safe harbor, a body to forget the pressure of the Administrator and Kate’s betrayal. What I didn’t know was that both the harbor and the storm were waiting for me—together—on the same couch.

Lisette sat on the main sofa, her legs folded to one side. She wore white shorts so short they barely covered the curve of her thigh, and a loose Guess tank top. The dim living-room light confirmed the absence of anything beneath. Her posture was relaxed to the point of abandon, yet her eyes were fixed on me. There was no surprise on her face, only that taut calm of someone who already knows exactly what is coming.

My initial relief froze in my chest. Across from her, on one of the individual chairs, sat Kate. She wasn’t wearing the football jersey. She was dressed in tight black leggings and a fitted athletic top, like she had just come from the gym—outlining every curve of the Monaco F1 circuit, from Sainte Dévote to the Fairmont Hairpin. Her hair was loose. She looked at me with that predator’s smile that made me feel foolish and desired in equal measure. She was at work. She was inside my lie.

My mind refused to connect the dots. I hovered in static shock, while the part of me that sought chaos felt an unbearable pull toward both of them.

“I thought you’d come later,” Lisette said. Her voice was sweet, almost lazy, with no trace of the anxiety she had shown over the phone.

“I had to move some things around,” I answered, my voice a tight thread. I still couldn’t bring myself to look directly at Kate.

Kate leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. The gesture was intimate, like she was joining a conversation already in progress.

“So, Architect?” she said. Her Venezuelan accent—soft, drawn out—cut through the silence, dragging me back into the reality I had tried to erase. “You’re here to fix the problem, right? By the way… won’t you give us a kiss?”

That question—that forced complicity—cracked my skull open. They weren’t two separate women. They weren’t two separate problems. They were a team. And I was the risk factor they were managing.

Lisette slid her hand slowly along her bare leg. She made a small gesture, inviting me closer.

“Darling,” she said—using that term of intimacy she’d used before, but which now sounded like an order directed at Kate. “Don’t just stand there. Come give me a kiss.”

She forced me to swallow a truth my ego had rejected for months. They were friends. They knew everything. Worse still, my chaotic entanglement with Kate was casual conversation in their living room.

“I came for you, Lisette,” I attempted, clinging to the lie. Kate laughed—low, sharp, cruel. Her laugh drilled into my skull. The laugh of someone who already knows the end of the film while I’m still searching for a plot twist that doesn’t exist.

I sat beside Lisette. The warmth radiating from her leg through my trousers was a quiet, simmering torment.

Lisette didn’t wait. She looked at me—into me—with eyes that saw the defeat in mine, and her mouth curved into a smile of acceptance.

“Give me my kisses, Architect,” she murmured—her voice now a purr of command, not partnership.

I leaned in and kissed her with a sudden urgency that left no room for thought. A kiss of total surrender. The price of my return ticket to Barcelona, and I paid it without hesitation. Her mouth tasted of wine and complicity.

While I kissed her, I felt someone draw near. Kate.

“I deserve a welcome kiss too, don’t you think?” Kate asked, her voice playful.

Lisette pulled back slowly, her gaze fixed on me as I turned toward Kate. She leaned across the armrest of the sofa. I gave her the traditional two kisses—one on each cheek—but the closeness of her body, the clean, expensive scent of sweat on her skin, shot through me like a reminder of the black lace thong from the photo. Her lips barely brushed my cheek, but her breath warmed my ear—a whispered promise. Kate straightened and gave me one last look of challenge, a silent the next move is yours.

“I’ll be quiet. Promise,” Kate said, with a deliberate mischief only Lisette and I understood. Then she walked toward the hallway, her movements precise, fluid—vanishing into the darkness of her room.

Lisette wasn’t looking into my eyes anymore. She looked at my mouth, my clothes, the urgency that Kate’s presence had ignited.

“Legality,” Lisette whispered—echoing my own words from that morning—“can wait.”

Her hand slid lower. Her touch was a spark. My own urgency—fueled by betrayal, fear, and pressure—surged violently through me.

Clothes came undone. Restraints dissolved. The apartment filled with perfume, breath, and the exorcism of every unresolved weight that had driven me back to Barcelona.

We were two castaways clinging to each other to keep from drowning.

And just when the tide was about to break, the hallway door swung open. We hadn’t heard her steps—only felt the atmosphere shift, as if a third flame had entered the room.

Kate stood beside the sofa, her silhouette sharp against the dim light, her braids falling neatly over her shoulders.

Lisette looked back at me over her shoulder, eyes full of pleasure, fear, and triumph all at once.

“I told you we were a team,” she said, her voice trembling with exhilaration.

Kate smiled—that predator’s smile that knew me better than I knew myself. She moved closer, her presence folding into the space between us, adding her heat, her desire, her chaos.

The world narrowed to breath, perfume, and the weight of consequences.

Then—a sharp, insistent sound cut through the thick air. My phone vibrated somewhere in the living room, a shard of cold metal calling me back to reality. I knew what it was: the last distress signal from my life in Madrid. The Architect calling his own funeral.

But Lisette’s weight on my chest, Kate’s hand gripping my hip, and the fragrant, oppressive warmth around us were stronger anchors...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–

Excerpt:

That Night

We had shared countless moments, yet we always took from each other selfishly, nothing more. When it ended, I always found a reason to leave. I would slip out your door with half-hearted excuses you pretended to believe.

We never fell asleep together, and that was fine. I preferred it fleeting, hollow of feeling, and you seemed to feel the same; you never once asked me to stay.
But that night was different.

“Please, stay,” you begged, voice soft as I pulled my clothes back on.

I didn’t know what to say. One part of me wanted to leave, as always. Another, though, ached to linger beside you. Then, out of nowhere, you pressed a tender kiss to my cheek from behind, and that small gesture tipped the balance. I stayed.

One hour passed, then two—perhaps even three—but sleep refused me. I couldn’t understand why I felt so nervous. We had shared a bed countless times before… yet never like this. Never simply to be close, never with the sole intention of savoring each other’s presence instead of our bodies.

The room was utterly silent; the only sound was your calm breathing, gentle sighs that both ensnared and soothed me for reasons I couldn’t name.

I stared at the ceiling, but after a while I turned my head to look at you. You were so beautiful asleep—curled on your side, peaceful, facing me. For a fleeting second I thought I saw your eyelids flutter, and I quickly looked away again...

..."

SILVIA EZQUERRA
Instagram: los_relatos_de_silvia

--Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--

Excerpt:

---

The high school courtyard felt unusually loud that day. Angélica and Pamela sat beneath the jacaranda tree, but the air between them was tense.

Angélica couldn’t shake off Sol’s reprimand. She felt embarrassed, responsible for the chaos she had nearly unleashed.

“I don’t know, Pamela… Sol’s right. I’m too… impulsive,” Angélica murmured, tracing circles in the dirt with her toe. My rage almost broke your restraint and nearly doomed that poor soul forever. If I keep making these mistakes, I’ll be more of a danger than a help.

Pamela set aside her idealism and focused on friendship, leaning toward Angélica.

“Listen. That cat—or angel, or whatever it is—is being hard on you. But we’re just getting started. We’re nothing more than ordinary high school students.

It’s normal to make mistakes. I couldn’t stop Estefanía’s monster, and you had to take the risk.

And even though you failed to contain it, in the end, you healed. You’re not a perfect warrior—you’re a person with a big heart. And that’s what matters.”

“But I can’t let my anger become a weapon of evil,” Angélica replied, her eyes brimming with sorrow. “I don’t want to become like the monsters I fight.”

Their conversation stretched over the last hours of the school day, unresolved. When they left, they decided to buy ice cream at a nearby stand, seeking something sweet to escape reality for a while.

As they walked, enjoying their ice cream, a poignant scene unfolded. A middle-aged man, his eyes heavy with sorrow, walked beside his teenage daughter.

The girl, about fifteen, hid her arms inside a red hoodie, and Angélica noticed she had no arms at all. The father spoke gently, trying to lift her spirits.

“Look, sweetheart. Today we’re getting your favorite ice cream. Cheer up! In fact, today you can have as many scoops as you want. How does that sound?” he said, his voice tender but tinged with barely contained guilt.

At that moment, Angélica and Pamela felt a chilling shiver.

The air thickened, and a gray-ash hue blanketed the sky. High above, on a building, a female demonic figure appeared, smiling cruelly, her eyes bloodshot with malice.

She unleashed a bolt of dark energy aimed straight at the father.

The man froze, his face twisting into a mask of despair and pain. His body grotesquely expanded, his skin turned into tree bark, and his limbs morphed into gnarled branches. Within seconds, he had become a three-meter-tall wooden monster. The wooden beast roared, a guttural sound full of self-loathing. The daughter screamed, terrified, reaching for her father.

Sol, materialized atop Angélica’s head, shouted an alert: “The Affliction Demon! It feeds on guilt. Quick, Angélica, Pamela—stop it before it destroys itself!”

Angélica and Pamela sprang into action. The wooden monster, its branches like iron clubs, crushed a delivery truck and slammed the pavement with its bark-covered fists, screaming, “It was me! It was my fault!”

Pamela, manifesting her light staff, shouted, “Containment! We need to surround it!”

But Angélica, seeing the man’s despair and guilt, felt overwhelmed. Memories of her own guilt over last night’s rage mixed with the father’s desperation, and her emotional control shattered.

“I can’t fail again!” Angélica yelled, raising her hands in a torrent of fury and fear. “Light!”

The beam she released wasn’t compassionate—it was pure desperate rage.

On impact, the wooden monster ignited, its anguished screams multiplied, and its strength became monstrous. It hurled a car that smashed into a house, collapsing a wall. The destruction was unstoppable.

“Angélica, no! Your fear is feeding his guilt!” Sol scolded.

Realizing her mistake, Angélica froze, paralyzed by terror and sorrow. Tears streamed down her face.

“I can’t! I can’t control myself!” she sobbed, collapsing to her knees.

Pamela, her face slick with sweat, held her staff steady, but her containment net failed. The monster was too powerful. It began running down the street, screaming in desperation.

While Angélica froze in her failure, Pamela refused to give up. With incredible will, she cast a net of light over the monster’s legs, bringing it down. It fell with a thunderous crash, struggling to rise.

At that moment, the daughter, chasing the creature, screamed, “Dad! Dad, it’s me! Please, wake up!”

The wooden monster paused, the scream of anguish fading. The memory of his daughter had stopped him. Pamela saw the opportunity.

“Yes! Call him! Tell him you’re his daughter!” Pamela urged the girl, struggling to maintain the net on the creature’s legs.

The daughter, tears streaming, kept calling to him, not understanding what was happening or why her father had turned into that monster. For a moment, it seemed the man might return to human form. But the Affliction Demon wouldn’t allow it.

The monster, renewed in strength, extended its branch-like arms, snatched the girl, and absorbed her into its wooden body, encasing her in bark. Her terrified scream was drowned out by the monster’s victorious roar.

Seeing the horror, Angélica felt an icy terror surpassing her sorrow. She leapt to her feet and unleashed a beam of pure light into the monster. Inside the wooden body, she saw the unconscious girl clutching a red crystal pulsating with dark guilt energy.

“Angélica! That crystal holds your father’s soul! Extract him and the girl safely!” Sol commanded.

With a precision she hadn’t known she possessed, Angélica used her golden light like a surgical tool. With extreme care, she enveloped the girl and the crystal in a bubble of light, extracting them from the wooden monster. The bubble floated to Pamela.

“Shatter the crystal!” Angélica shouted, maintaining the healing light on the father.

Pamela, manifesting her Sword of Purity once more, struck the red crystal. It shattered, releasing a gray light. The wooden monster disintegrated, revealing the naked, weeping man.

“My daughter! I took your hands! I’m a monster!” he sobbed, guilt etched into every word.

The girl, now safe, awoke and hugged her father. “No, Dad. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. Don’t cry.”

That night, Sol perched on Angélica’s shoulder.

“The Affliction Demon feeds on the weakness of the human heart and its suffering. Guilt is its most powerful meal,” Sol explained softly...

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–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–