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:

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:

---

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: **

---

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:

---

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–