El anciano se bajó lentamente del automóvil. La suspensión del carro no se vio afectada en lo mínimo por el peso liviano del viejo. Cerró la puerta con un esfuerzo leve y comenzó a acercarse con un paso suave hacia el establecimiento. Cada paso era un movimiento doloroso para los observadores. Sus pies, frágiles y temblorosos, se levantaban sólo centímetros del suelo, antes de acelerar algunos hacia adelante. Se quedaba quieto después de cada pisada. Respiraba una vez y preparaba el ánimo para mover el bastón. Tenía los ojos cerrados y se mordía los labios con cada esfuerzo.
-Hola. Me llevaré trece Mocha Frappuccino’s cuatro de ellos que sean Light blend y con dos extra shots de café, once chocolates calientes, quince Charamel Macchiato’s, cinco Cappuccino’s con leche nonfat, trece Latte’s, un posillo negro, 6 Brewed Tazo Tea’s, tres Tuna Wraps, dos botellas de agua, catorce…
Tom awoke at exactly 8:15 in the morning.
His eyes did not open gently. His senses did not return with the usual morning delay. His mind did not carry remnants of his previous dream.
He simply awoke.
He sat on the bed and looked out the window. His one room apartment had only one view: an alley.
How many hours had he spent already in his limited lifetime looking out this particular window, at this exact time, every day of his life? Looking at the same dark corners; at the same damp dumpsters; at the same hookers who prowled even at this time of the day.
It was pathetic to him.
He stood and carried out his usual morning routine: undress, shower, shave, brush, dress, comb his hair, make breakfast, clean the dishes afterward, polish his only pair of black shoes and put them on.
He checked the calendar, even though he knew exactly what day it was. He had been dreading this very day for the last year. Every time he went to sleep and woke up the next day, the only thought that raced through his mind was that he was one day closer to this particular day.
And yet, a part of him was anxious to have arrived at this exact point in time. A part of him wanted today to happen. A part of him was happy that he had chosen this day of all the other days and that this day was finally here.
Today he would decide what to do with the world.
Even though he wasn’t exactly sure if he could actually carry out today’s plan, nothing but that simple fact edged him to stop and consider everything all over again. And that little doubt in him was not enough to convince him to change everything again to another day.
This was the day.
At 10 am, exactly, he walked downstairs and, as he passed all his’ neighbors doors, he tried not to pay attention to all the screams and shouts coming from these ‘kind of people’.
He continued downstairs and finally reached the outside driveway. Would he drive or walk? He thought walking might be more pleasing, considering he might never do so again, and decided to take a stroll. He always enjoyed looking at the people who passed him by. He enjoyed trying to figure out if that person was happy or not. You can tell a lot about someone from the way they treat you on the street. Men bumped against him, as they passed him by. They never even seemed to notice he was there, but he was used to this; Women with too many shopping bags, and still finding a way to talk on their cell phone, never even glanced at him as he smiled at them from 2 feet away; Children too enthralled by their own musings to look up at the man walking beside them; Animals picking at whatever scrap they could find on the street or in the trash. All this he was used to. But that didn’t make it right, anyhow.
Everywhere he looked he saw people who didn’t look back; people who didn’t smile; people who didn’t seem to remember that we are here together in this place, to live together, to be together, to know each other’s names, to, at the very least, acknowledge each other’s presence and communicate some greetings.
People who don’t care about other people.
And this was precisely why today was important.
For the past five years he had been waiting, waiting, waiting. He had constantly changed the date, hoping everything would change. Hoping that people would change. He read books, saw movies, went to work and had his occasional fancy dinner – by himself, of course. He didn’t really have any friends. He saved money, spent money, gave away money and even burned it one night to keep an old man’s burning fire aloft. He traveled, he stayed, he wrote, he filmed; he took pictures of everything he liked and meticulously framed them to later on place on his picture collection. But most of all, he watched, he wept and he waited. Every single day of his pathetic, little existence, he cursed the heavens for putting this burden on him. He thought of ending it himself. Just go out one day and do it. But it had frightened him too much. His body had felt like never before and in that split second he seemed to know everything and everyone. He felt close to everything. At least he thought he did. He stopped after the first shift in sensations and cowered back to his apartment. Since then, he promised himself he would never do that again unless it was the right time.
And by what he was seeing today, that time was now.
He thought of what to do. What would be the last thing to enjoy before he destroyed everything? If that’s what would really happen, which Tom had no doubt it would.
Ice cream.
He would eat ice cream.
He loved ice cream the most, out of all foods. Kind of simplistic, come to think of it. Of all the foods in the entire world, he picks ice cream. However, conveniently, he can find ice cream in a store right in front of him. As he heads towards the ice cream shop, he continues to think of everything he sees. How would it be if everything were perfect? Would we actually be better? Would that utopia lead us to greatness or stump us in a stupor from which we could never recover? Is this constant war with oneself; this self righteousness we don’t deserve; this feeling of hopelessness that drives us to want to die; this desire to want more; this fear of everything we can’t control… is all this exactly what makes this society, this race of human beings, great? Should we be excused of our ways of living our lives, simply because we must be wolves to survive? If we lived in utopist societies, would those feelings still exist?
What about love?
What about love?
Love is merely an illusion; a sense of complacency; a way of ‘giving up’ on an alternate future that perhaps would have come out better for you. Love is a way of not having to deal with life in a much broader spectrum. It’s an anchor.
Fuck love.
Tom sees no love in the people who pass him by. Tom sees no love in the people who don’t even know he exists. But that’s precisely it, isn’t it? People are not supposed to love others, simply because they know them. Love, in its true form, should be a shared ‘thing’ that everyone must feel reciprocally. Love shouldn’t have bounds. Whether we know them or not; whether they’re poor or rich, dirty or clean, everyone should love each other unconditionally.
But now Tom doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s going to eat ice cream. On the way to the shop, he realizes he has no choice. Today is the day he must decide. He thinks of pushing it back another year, but quickly ignores the thought. Something miraculous would have to happen to change his mind.
He’s going to miss ice cream.
He sits in a corner with a view of the outside, as he enjoys this delicacy. He savors every spoonful and wishes with all his might that he’ll remember that taste, whatever happens. Outside, the oblivious world is the same.
When he’s done eating, he sits there for a while, staring at the world one last time. The clouds are beautiful. The sky has that perfect shade of blue that still confounds normal people. The winds grazing the grass and the leaves in an enormous tree makes him want to dream of all the different possibilities his life could have taken. Had he married and had kids, would this moment be any different? Had he found someone to share his life with, would he still go through with this? Would he still be a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses?
He wished he could see his parents again. But they were dead. They were the happiest people he knew. If he ever had a life and love like that couple did, he probably would have been more like his father: A hero to someone else’s eyes.
But this was it.
Now was the time.
The present was now and he was not a hero.
He was a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses.
He took a deep breath and walked outside.
He stood in the middle of the road.
This is how it’s going to happen.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeper. He started to get in touch with his inner strength; that energy that he had glimpsed just once before and wept before it.
He felt his senses tightening. He could feel it again.
It was growing. His body was sensitive to everything.
He could feel, smell and hear everything. He felt warm. Hot, actually.
He saw the light that had grown within him before.
It raced from his inner consciousness and rose towards him like a speeding train through a dark, wide tunnel. He felt it. It was going to come out.
This was it. He had never gone any farther.
Suddenly, he realized he had been wrong. It was not his senses that changed, but himself. He changed. He was now a part of everything. Everything and everyone was he and he was they. He could see into them. He could feel as them, think as them. Everything turned into one. One consciousness.
One life.
One death.
He felt the warmth rush through his skin, cascading out of him like a river. He felt the energy shift as it traveled.
And then, as he opened his eyes and smiled, it was over.
His eyes did not open gently. His senses did not return with the usual morning delay. His mind did not carry remnants of his previous dream.
He simply awoke.
He sat on the bed and looked out the window. His one room apartment had only one view: an alley.
How many hours had he spent already in his limited lifetime looking out this particular window, at this exact time, every day of his life? Looking at the same dark corners; at the same damp dumpsters; at the same hookers who prowled even at this time of the day.
It was pathetic to him.
He stood and carried out his usual morning routine: undress, shower, shave, brush, dress, comb his hair, make breakfast, clean the dishes afterward, polish his only pair of black shoes and put them on.
He checked the calendar, even though he knew exactly what day it was. He had been dreading this very day for the last year. Every time he went to sleep and woke up the next day, the only thought that raced through his mind was that he was one day closer to this particular day.
And yet, a part of him was anxious to have arrived at this exact point in time. A part of him wanted today to happen. A part of him was happy that he had chosen this day of all the other days and that this day was finally here.
Today he would decide what to do with the world.
Even though he wasn’t exactly sure if he could actually carry out today’s plan, nothing but that simple fact edged him to stop and consider everything all over again. And that little doubt in him was not enough to convince him to change everything again to another day.
This was the day.
At 10 am, exactly, he walked downstairs and, as he passed all his’ neighbors doors, he tried not to pay attention to all the screams and shouts coming from these ‘kind of people’.
He continued downstairs and finally reached the outside driveway. Would he drive or walk? He thought walking might be more pleasing, considering he might never do so again, and decided to take a stroll. He always enjoyed looking at the people who passed him by. He enjoyed trying to figure out if that person was happy or not. You can tell a lot about someone from the way they treat you on the street. Men bumped against him, as they passed him by. They never even seemed to notice he was there, but he was used to this; Women with too many shopping bags, and still finding a way to talk on their cell phone, never even glanced at him as he smiled at them from 2 feet away; Children too enthralled by their own musings to look up at the man walking beside them; Animals picking at whatever scrap they could find on the street or in the trash. All this he was used to. But that didn’t make it right, anyhow.
Everywhere he looked he saw people who didn’t look back; people who didn’t smile; people who didn’t seem to remember that we are here together in this place, to live together, to be together, to know each other’s names, to, at the very least, acknowledge each other’s presence and communicate some greetings.
People who don’t care about other people.
And this was precisely why today was important.
For the past five years he had been waiting, waiting, waiting. He had constantly changed the date, hoping everything would change. Hoping that people would change. He read books, saw movies, went to work and had his occasional fancy dinner – by himself, of course. He didn’t really have any friends. He saved money, spent money, gave away money and even burned it one night to keep an old man’s burning fire aloft. He traveled, he stayed, he wrote, he filmed; he took pictures of everything he liked and meticulously framed them to later on place on his picture collection. But most of all, he watched, he wept and he waited. Every single day of his pathetic, little existence, he cursed the heavens for putting this burden on him. He thought of ending it himself. Just go out one day and do it. But it had frightened him too much. His body had felt like never before and in that split second he seemed to know everything and everyone. He felt close to everything. At least he thought he did. He stopped after the first shift in sensations and cowered back to his apartment. Since then, he promised himself he would never do that again unless it was the right time.
And by what he was seeing today, that time was now.
He thought of what to do. What would be the last thing to enjoy before he destroyed everything? If that’s what would really happen, which Tom had no doubt it would.
Ice cream.
He would eat ice cream.
He loved ice cream the most, out of all foods. Kind of simplistic, come to think of it. Of all the foods in the entire world, he picks ice cream. However, conveniently, he can find ice cream in a store right in front of him. As he heads towards the ice cream shop, he continues to think of everything he sees. How would it be if everything were perfect? Would we actually be better? Would that utopia lead us to greatness or stump us in a stupor from which we could never recover? Is this constant war with oneself; this self righteousness we don’t deserve; this feeling of hopelessness that drives us to want to die; this desire to want more; this fear of everything we can’t control… is all this exactly what makes this society, this race of human beings, great? Should we be excused of our ways of living our lives, simply because we must be wolves to survive? If we lived in utopist societies, would those feelings still exist?
What about love?
What about love?
Love is merely an illusion; a sense of complacency; a way of ‘giving up’ on an alternate future that perhaps would have come out better for you. Love is a way of not having to deal with life in a much broader spectrum. It’s an anchor.
Fuck love.
Tom sees no love in the people who pass him by. Tom sees no love in the people who don’t even know he exists. But that’s precisely it, isn’t it? People are not supposed to love others, simply because they know them. Love, in its true form, should be a shared ‘thing’ that everyone must feel reciprocally. Love shouldn’t have bounds. Whether we know them or not; whether they’re poor or rich, dirty or clean, everyone should love each other unconditionally.
But now Tom doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s going to eat ice cream. On the way to the shop, he realizes he has no choice. Today is the day he must decide. He thinks of pushing it back another year, but quickly ignores the thought. Something miraculous would have to happen to change his mind.
He’s going to miss ice cream.
He sits in a corner with a view of the outside, as he enjoys this delicacy. He savors every spoonful and wishes with all his might that he’ll remember that taste, whatever happens. Outside, the oblivious world is the same.
When he’s done eating, he sits there for a while, staring at the world one last time. The clouds are beautiful. The sky has that perfect shade of blue that still confounds normal people. The winds grazing the grass and the leaves in an enormous tree makes him want to dream of all the different possibilities his life could have taken. Had he married and had kids, would this moment be any different? Had he found someone to share his life with, would he still go through with this? Would he still be a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses?
He wished he could see his parents again. But they were dead. They were the happiest people he knew. If he ever had a life and love like that couple did, he probably would have been more like his father: A hero to someone else’s eyes.
But this was it.
Now was the time.
The present was now and he was not a hero.
He was a pathetic wimp with a pudgy gut, a receding hairline and glasses.
He took a deep breath and walked outside.
He stood in the middle of the road.
This is how it’s going to happen.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeper. He started to get in touch with his inner strength; that energy that he had glimpsed just once before and wept before it.
He felt his senses tightening. He could feel it again.
It was growing. His body was sensitive to everything.
He could feel, smell and hear everything. He felt warm. Hot, actually.
He saw the light that had grown within him before.
It raced from his inner consciousness and rose towards him like a speeding train through a dark, wide tunnel. He felt it. It was going to come out.
This was it. He had never gone any farther.
Suddenly, he realized he had been wrong. It was not his senses that changed, but himself. He changed. He was now a part of everything. Everything and everyone was he and he was they. He could see into them. He could feel as them, think as them. Everything turned into one. One consciousness.
One life.
One death.
He felt the warmth rush through his skin, cascading out of him like a river. He felt the energy shift as it traveled.
And then, as he opened his eyes and smiled, it was over.
I never thought I'd ever get the chance to see the words 'Redneck' and 'Literature' penned together in the same sentence. Much less in a good way. And I dont mean 'Redneck' with any kind of bad connotation. What Richard has done in this book is truly astounding. I had read stories about 'country life' and we've all seen movies showcasing this type of lifestyle, but this was the first time, at least for me, to ever read stories about rednecks, as if told by rednecks.And they are good.
From the beginning of the very first story, to the end of the last, Richard manages to keep you entertained, pampered and motivated. His choice of words is extremely complex, not in its language, but in it's intricate form. After reading this book, if you don't know how to make long sentences then at least you'll know what they look like. There are sentences here that span pages! This alone is very interesting. But the true genius in these stories is how Richard manages to keep you intertwined in the characters and the separate plots.
Each story has a multitude of separate plot lines that break off and unite somehow to give you a picture of an organic, real story. The characters feel alive, the dialogue is credible and the environments are described in just the right amount of space. Even if the narrator is a small child, by the end you feel like you know exactly what he's talking about. You understand them, you feel for them. Everything in this book feels like it's going to keep growing and living on even after you close the book, like a small cosmos living inside it, functioning all by itself. When you open the pages, they all stare up at you and after a while simply start talking, filling you in on the recent events. I'd like to think that twenty years from now, I'll open that book and find out what kind of men the kids from Strays became, or if Genius is still floating on the beach, or if they managed to fix the rocket ride.
But the true genius in these stories is how Richards manages to keep you intertwined in the characters and the separate plots.
He tells aspects of a story without mentioning them. After a few details of dialogue, a part of the background suddenly shifts and gives you a peek at something that gets your attention but doesn't pull you away from the main plot. Like listening to a story told by a little kid about a guy with no face, who only appears when you least expect him, but in the corner of your eyes you see a reflection on a mirror of a man looking at you. You can't tell if it's him, because you don't want to look away from the kid, but hes there! Looking at you. And you know it's the man with no face. Maybe it's a bad example, but I hope you understand what I mean.
These stories span from tragically sad to absurd and funny. There's just something about a horse shooting gas from both ends at the same time that sticks in your brain for a while, you know? Genius is one of the best stories I've read in a long time. But i think the best of all is the first one, Strays. This one is just magical. Apparently it's some kind of fan favorite.
I have to be honest, I didn't know anything about this book or author when I found it. I thought it would be some kind of fantasy or sci-fi thing. But it turned out to be something so different and refreshing, that I wish I had read it when it originally came out. I recommend getting it, if you can, downloading it or whatever. These are stories that should be shared. I'll definnetly be looking for more works from Mark Richard.
Admito que Quiroga es mejor que yo pero siempre me gustó su interés en los animales. Así que aquí va mi intento a hacer un cuento con animales:
El rey Dionisio
Los esclavos prepararon la última comida del día y se mantuvieron alerta a las ordenes del rey Dionisio. Cuando llegó al comedor, inspeccionó el banquete y sentó su cuerpo orondo en una cama, dado a que no existía una silla que pudiera soportar su peso. Sus brazos no eran largos suficientes para abrazar su gordura, así que tenía sirvientes entrenados para que le empujaran toda la comida que pudiera engastar en su boca. Los demás esclavos, cubiertos sólo por una tela sucia amarrada en la cintura, observaban con penuria mientras la comida se desaparecía frente a ellos.
Al terminar de comerse el banquete solo, le tiró un pedazo de pollo a los sirvientes y llamó a las esclavas para que lo bañaran. Los sirvientes se repartieron el pollo entre ellos y saborearon el único mordisco de comida que tendrían en el día.
En las afueras del castillo, los habitantes del pueblo y los animales carnívoros de la jungla se mueren de hambre. Todas las mañanas, los grupos de cazadores del rey entran en la jungla y recogen todo lo comestible para guardarlo en un almacén privado.
Esa noche, los tigres, teniendo hambre y nada para comer, olfateaban ferozmente siguiendo el único rastro de carne que encontraban en el aire. Se reunieron frente a las entradas del pueblo, donde ocurrió una recolecta de todos los animales hambrientos que fueron llamados por la comida almacenada del rey. Invadieron el pueblo y corrieron por las calles gruñendo y salivándose, dirigidos directamente hacia el castillo. Ignoraron los residentes, que se escondían en sus casas y miraban por las ventanas la ola de alimañas y cuadrúpedos salvajes.
El estruendo llegó hasta el cuarto del rey, donde dormía en una cama enorme, y lo despertó. Sin poder ver lo que ocurría, ni poder salirse de la cama solo, gritó a sus esclavos para que lo buscaran pero nadie fue. Los esclavos y los sirvientes se escaparon cuando vieron los animales feroces regarse por los pasillos del castillo y mordiendo cualquier persona que encontraran de frente. El único que quedaba dentro era el rey Dionisio y temblaba con miedo, lloraba porque nadie lo fue a rescatar.
Después de apoderarse del castillo, el tigre más grande caminaba lentamente por un pasillo, buscando la comida que sentía tan fuerte en su nariz. Detrás de él, otros lo seguían, hasta que llegaron a una puerta abierta donde vieron una cama enorme, con un cuerpo gigantesco acostado. Los tigres se lamieron los labios mientras se subían a la cama del rey. Dionisio les tiró con cojines, les gritaba, trataba de ahuyentarlos pero lentamente más y más tigres se treparon encima de él. Cuando escucharon los gritos, los esclavos sonrieron y abrieron las puertas del almacén para repartir la comida entre los del pueblo y los animales.
Al terminar de comerse el banquete solo, le tiró un pedazo de pollo a los sirvientes y llamó a las esclavas para que lo bañaran. Los sirvientes se repartieron el pollo entre ellos y saborearon el único mordisco de comida que tendrían en el día.
En las afueras del castillo, los habitantes del pueblo y los animales carnívoros de la jungla se mueren de hambre. Todas las mañanas, los grupos de cazadores del rey entran en la jungla y recogen todo lo comestible para guardarlo en un almacén privado.
Esa noche, los tigres, teniendo hambre y nada para comer, olfateaban ferozmente siguiendo el único rastro de carne que encontraban en el aire. Se reunieron frente a las entradas del pueblo, donde ocurrió una recolecta de todos los animales hambrientos que fueron llamados por la comida almacenada del rey. Invadieron el pueblo y corrieron por las calles gruñendo y salivándose, dirigidos directamente hacia el castillo. Ignoraron los residentes, que se escondían en sus casas y miraban por las ventanas la ola de alimañas y cuadrúpedos salvajes.
El estruendo llegó hasta el cuarto del rey, donde dormía en una cama enorme, y lo despertó. Sin poder ver lo que ocurría, ni poder salirse de la cama solo, gritó a sus esclavos para que lo buscaran pero nadie fue. Los esclavos y los sirvientes se escaparon cuando vieron los animales feroces regarse por los pasillos del castillo y mordiendo cualquier persona que encontraran de frente. El único que quedaba dentro era el rey Dionisio y temblaba con miedo, lloraba porque nadie lo fue a rescatar.
Después de apoderarse del castillo, el tigre más grande caminaba lentamente por un pasillo, buscando la comida que sentía tan fuerte en su nariz. Detrás de él, otros lo seguían, hasta que llegaron a una puerta abierta donde vieron una cama enorme, con un cuerpo gigantesco acostado. Los tigres se lamieron los labios mientras se subían a la cama del rey. Dionisio les tiró con cojines, les gritaba, trataba de ahuyentarlos pero lentamente más y más tigres se treparon encima de él. Cuando escucharon los gritos, los esclavos sonrieron y abrieron las puertas del almacén para repartir la comida entre los del pueblo y los animales.
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