Firenze, Gerhard Richter
Las
palabras que perdí orbitan mi existencia. Día con día me tientan con la
posibilidad de su regreso, y el arte de seguir en su ausencia me enamora.
and he cannot find a name."
This blogpost marks a momentous occasion: the first time I've ever finished a short story. I use 'finish' lightly, none of my writing ever feels complete, at least not complete enough to be published in any manner other than this. Hopefully this story does not disappoint you- whoever you are- as much as I think it will.
A multitude of stars gather in the sky, illuminating with their vastness a balcony atop a structure of stratospheric proportions. There, within the light, a figure stands alone. A musculature overbearing its own frame held tightly by an expensive suit betrays him as a man of ill-fitting ego. His nose casts a shadow over his neck, and his eyes seem leaden by their own sockets. He reaches for a pair of spectacles hanging by his collar, and presses them to his eyes. The glass engorges his pupils and his hands tremble with puzzling astonishment. The cluster of light comes to life as thousands of minuscule specks of light. One by one, they begin expanding across the sky, occupying a space light years away from him, but still at his sight. They have come to be at his own will. The world, this world, belongs to him.
Only from the balcony in which he stands can one see the universe with such clarity. From here one can comprehend its vastness. Now the stars circle the sky, one by one they move forward and disappear to open up space for ones further away in the universe.
Below him, the land remains dark except for the faint glimmers of workers beginning their days. The lights in their homes switch on for only seconds at a time as the city maintains its stillness.
The workers open their doors, step outside, and for a second remain quiet. Every night they circle the square, their hundreds of bodies follow each other in unison. Their steps loud thunders in the darkness. They only wonder if the man will ever come down below. The Faceless they call him when no one is listening.
How he came to rule the world, no one really knows. For years, an old man used to stand in the same balcony. At precisely six in the afternoon, his solemn figure would appear, and disappear twelve hours later. Once at midnight the old man entered the structure and for ten nights the balcony remained empty. When the presence of man up top seemed forgotten, the doors opened and from the light a young man emerged. He stood with his shoulders pushed back and his head straight ahead, only looking down when a noise down below seemed out of place.
A week after his first appearance, The Faceless saw a woman down in the ground. She seemed illuminated by the same stars that shone upon him. Dressed in a light dress with her hair flowing forward, she walked towards the structure. Her eyes fixed upon the balcony, she flashed a smile. His senses fluttered with futility, his heart beat until the sound reached his throat and his eyes seemed to release tears as clear as fine jewels. She continued forward and entered a building heavily overshadowed by the structure in which he stood. Seconds later a light in the top floor went on, and her silhouette remained motionless for a while. He coveted the air of innocence his distance provided. It never occurred to him that she was more than the flesh his carnal instincts coveted.
Now months after, as the stars begin to climb up in the sky, only she matters. The syllables of her name sit at the tip of his tongue. One by one they gather but never complete a sound. How curious of them, how curious of things to function this way. He can own the world, this world, but not a woman’s name. Someone down there must be causing trouble. Someone must have forgotten to turn on a light. Maybe a bulb, the size of his fingernail.
From the structure behind him emerges a short man, his hair perfectly pushed back with a glittery substance, the top of his head barely reaching the knees of this man, whom he only knows as Faceless. He pinches the man’s thigh and waits.
Faceless’ gaze travels to meet the eyes of a creature he despises- It as he enjoys calling him. It trembles uncontrollably as Faceless utters a series of commands. One. Two. Three. Four- It counts, the number of tasks he must complete before sunrise. It does not respond, but merely turns around, and with diminutive steps moves into the structure.
Moments later, Faceless can spot It in the ground, charmingly diminutive. He follows It until the creature reaches an improvised metal construction guarded by a worker, the steps of the structure far behind. It whispers into the worker's ear, he then enters the metal room and seems to fidget with uncontrollable machinery until a green bulb lights up in the roof. Miles away, another bulb goes off, and a short distance away, another.
Faceless’ eyes travel to the sky above, to the stars he covets. He remains there, alone, until the sunlight peers in the horizon. He remembers her, Elize. He remembers. He turns back, enters the structure and closes the door. He removes his spectacles and the stars fade outside, one by one.
This blogpost marks a momentous occasion: the first time I've ever finished a short story. I use 'finish' lightly, none of my writing ever feels complete, at least not complete enough to be published in any manner other than this. Hopefully this story does not disappoint you- whoever you are- as much as I think it will.
A multitude of stars gather in the sky, illuminating with their vastness a balcony atop a structure of stratospheric proportions. There, within the light, a figure stands alone. A musculature overbearing its own frame held tightly by an expensive suit betrays him as a man of ill-fitting ego. His nose casts a shadow over his neck, and his eyes seem leaden by their own sockets. He reaches for a pair of spectacles hanging by his collar, and presses them to his eyes. The glass engorges his pupils and his hands tremble with puzzling astonishment. The cluster of light comes to life as thousands of minuscule specks of light. One by one, they begin expanding across the sky, occupying a space light years away from him, but still at his sight. They have come to be at his own will. The world, this world, belongs to him.
Only from the balcony in which he stands can one see the universe with such clarity. From here one can comprehend its vastness. Now the stars circle the sky, one by one they move forward and disappear to open up space for ones further away in the universe.
Below him, the land remains dark except for the faint glimmers of workers beginning their days. The lights in their homes switch on for only seconds at a time as the city maintains its stillness.
The workers open their doors, step outside, and for a second remain quiet. Every night they circle the square, their hundreds of bodies follow each other in unison. Their steps loud thunders in the darkness. They only wonder if the man will ever come down below. The Faceless they call him when no one is listening.
How he came to rule the world, no one really knows. For years, an old man used to stand in the same balcony. At precisely six in the afternoon, his solemn figure would appear, and disappear twelve hours later. Once at midnight the old man entered the structure and for ten nights the balcony remained empty. When the presence of man up top seemed forgotten, the doors opened and from the light a young man emerged. He stood with his shoulders pushed back and his head straight ahead, only looking down when a noise down below seemed out of place.
A week after his first appearance, The Faceless saw a woman down in the ground. She seemed illuminated by the same stars that shone upon him. Dressed in a light dress with her hair flowing forward, she walked towards the structure. Her eyes fixed upon the balcony, she flashed a smile. His senses fluttered with futility, his heart beat until the sound reached his throat and his eyes seemed to release tears as clear as fine jewels. She continued forward and entered a building heavily overshadowed by the structure in which he stood. Seconds later a light in the top floor went on, and her silhouette remained motionless for a while. He coveted the air of innocence his distance provided. It never occurred to him that she was more than the flesh his carnal instincts coveted.
Now months after, as the stars begin to climb up in the sky, only she matters. The syllables of her name sit at the tip of his tongue. One by one they gather but never complete a sound. How curious of them, how curious of things to function this way. He can own the world, this world, but not a woman’s name. Someone down there must be causing trouble. Someone must have forgotten to turn on a light. Maybe a bulb, the size of his fingernail.
From the structure behind him emerges a short man, his hair perfectly pushed back with a glittery substance, the top of his head barely reaching the knees of this man, whom he only knows as Faceless. He pinches the man’s thigh and waits.
Faceless’ gaze travels to meet the eyes of a creature he despises- It as he enjoys calling him. It trembles uncontrollably as Faceless utters a series of commands. One. Two. Three. Four- It counts, the number of tasks he must complete before sunrise. It does not respond, but merely turns around, and with diminutive steps moves into the structure.
Moments later, Faceless can spot It in the ground, charmingly diminutive. He follows It until the creature reaches an improvised metal construction guarded by a worker, the steps of the structure far behind. It whispers into the worker's ear, he then enters the metal room and seems to fidget with uncontrollable machinery until a green bulb lights up in the roof. Miles away, another bulb goes off, and a short distance away, another.
Faceless’ eyes travel to the sky above, to the stars he covets. He remains there, alone, until the sunlight peers in the horizon. He remembers her, Elize. He remembers. He turns back, enters the structure and closes the door. He removes his spectacles and the stars fade outside, one by one.
An Editor's Letter
Dear Reader,
I must tell you I crowned myself an "editor" because no one else was around to object. I use that term lightly, to do otherwise would be pretentious at this stage. I have read a hundred of these letters hoping to figure out what to write exactly. So far, nothing. Clearly, people capable of heading established publications know exactly what to do. They have actual content, years of published material, they know what readers can expect. I can only tell you I have no idea what will come of this.
As of this Monday night, a bright day in August, I write to no-one. I only hear the murmurs of a city everyone knows, stifled in growth by sin, debauchery, and occasionally greed. The sounds it makes, 10 miles away, all of them voices, mumbles, perhaps moans, feel only foreign. They speak to each other in laughter and delight, but none speak to me. My audience lies somewhere else, maybe a few blocks away on my University campus, or across the country somewhere where people don't know I exist. Let's hope that audience finds me soon.
I will not tell you quirky details about myself, but only how the name of this place came to be.
I have an undying love for zucchinis. Forget their almost phallic shape and texture when raw, those things are adorable. Their name in Spanish, calabacitas, literally translates to small pumpkins. While I searched for an appropriate title for the blog, I devoured an entire plate of those roasted bastards. In the warm emptiness of summer and without much inspiration, I settled for their name -- the non-diminutive form, and therefore far less adorable: calabasas. I opened the Illustrator file with a rusty logo, swapped a c for an h, imputed the result into Google, deemed it appropriate, and created the blog.
From the name, to this first post, everything reeks of improvisation, of not knowing what to do except to do something. My heart seems to leap out of my chest when I wonder what will come of Halabasas. Only time may deem this giant leap into the abyss a futile attempt at creation.
For now, this is my child.
Dear Reader,
I must tell you I crowned myself an "editor" because no one else was around to object. I use that term lightly, to do otherwise would be pretentious at this stage. I have read a hundred of these letters hoping to figure out what to write exactly. So far, nothing. Clearly, people capable of heading established publications know exactly what to do. They have actual content, years of published material, they know what readers can expect. I can only tell you I have no idea what will come of this.
As of this Monday night, a bright day in August, I write to no-one. I only hear the murmurs of a city everyone knows, stifled in growth by sin, debauchery, and occasionally greed. The sounds it makes, 10 miles away, all of them voices, mumbles, perhaps moans, feel only foreign. They speak to each other in laughter and delight, but none speak to me. My audience lies somewhere else, maybe a few blocks away on my University campus, or across the country somewhere where people don't know I exist. Let's hope that audience finds me soon.
I will not tell you quirky details about myself, but only how the name of this place came to be.
I have an undying love for zucchinis. Forget their almost phallic shape and texture when raw, those things are adorable. Their name in Spanish, calabacitas, literally translates to small pumpkins. While I searched for an appropriate title for the blog, I devoured an entire plate of those roasted bastards. In the warm emptiness of summer and without much inspiration, I settled for their name -- the non-diminutive form, and therefore far less adorable: calabasas. I opened the Illustrator file with a rusty logo, swapped a c for an h, imputed the result into Google, deemed it appropriate, and created the blog.
From the name, to this first post, everything reeks of improvisation, of not knowing what to do except to do something. My heart seems to leap out of my chest when I wonder what will come of Halabasas. Only time may deem this giant leap into the abyss a futile attempt at creation.
For now, this is my child.
