Foodie

   The next plate came in a matter of minutes. In the hour she spent at that restaurant, she tasted more than 10 dishes and almost the same amount of beverages. She only got to taste a couple of desserts because time was running short and she had to make it to a previous appointment. She thanked the people at the restaurant and promised then the review would be out soon. Their faces hoped for a good one but Laura would have to take her notes and think twice before writing one way or the other.

 Just outside the place, she took a taxi and headed straight to her best friend’s house. His name was Samuel and he was celebrating his birthday at home, with a nice dinner and party with many people that he loved to hang out with. Whenever Laura and Sam were together, they were normally just the two of them. It would be one of the only times she would join him in a big party and she did it only because he had always being so good to her, including recommending her to the job she had at the moment.

 As Samuel worked as an software developer, he knew a lot of people in the world of journalism and such. He recommended Laura for a job at one of the biggest newspapers in town and she was very eager for the opportunity but he interview was a real nightmare. It was obvious they preferred to hire someone they knew and, for the looks of it, there were at least three other people the day of the interview that were very well acquainted with the editor that was handling the process.

 She waited a long time until she was called and then she felt he cold attitude of the editor. It was clear that woman didn’t want Laura there, so she just answered her questions the best way she could and, in only ten minutes, she was out of there. She felt so bad after the interview that she decided to buy a big tub of ice cream to eat at home watching cartoons or something. It was only a two weeks after the interview when Laura finally heard from the newspaper. She had been selected for the post.

 The day she went in to sign her contract, Laura asked why it had taken so long for them to call. After all, it was a writing job and those were assigned fairly fast in normal circumstances. The man that greeted her there told her, in confidence, that the editor than had ran the interviews had been fired because of several misconducts and potentially criminal behavior. Besides, the person she had selected was clearly not the best one for the post. Laura did not ask any further. She was very happy to get a job in she could finally do her two favorite things.

 When she got to Samuel’s house, Laura hoped she was early and could talk to him a little bit before more people arrived. However, she didn’t realize her time at the restaurant had been too long and that her taxi ride had been too slow because of the traffic jams that plagued the city at that time of night. When she entered the apartment, she saw several people all over, more than she had ever seen in such a small space. She moved around carefully, trying not to push anyone.

 Samuel had not been the one to open the door. Some girl that didn’t even say a word had done that and she had disappeared almost instantly. Laura moved around, looking for him friend. Eventually she got to the dining room table were all the food was in display. She grabbed a plastic plate and grabbed some of the things around the table. It was an assortment of food, not only sweets or savory stuff. There was a little bit of everything and she could bet Sam had not done any of them.

 Laura turned around to look for a place to eat what she had taken but there was no place to do so, so she stayed put and grabbed a piece of quiche from her plate and ate it whole, because of the size. Something funny was that Laura never really felt full when eating, so she could do it for a long time and she would only stop once she felt really full. That’s why her job was so ideal for her. Nevertheless, the piece of quiche she had in her mouth was not the kind of food she liked.

 In seconds, she grabbed four or five napkins and spit the whole piece of food into that. She placed the ball of napkins and chewed quiche on her plate and headed for the kitchen. She was sure she could find a garbage can there and maybe even a space to eat the rest of the stuff. Although, maybe, everything else was as dreadful as that tiny piece of quiche. She had never tasted something that tasted so bad before. It was difficult to describe, in the worst way possible.

 Once in the kitchen, she found the garbage can and a spot besides the burners. She couldn’t see her friend there but Laura knew she would eventually see him. It was a bit ridiculous to be in his house and not been able to talk to him at least for a while. The thought of her talking to Sam was interrupted by a cramp, one of those that make you squeal. It was very fortunate that the music was so loud. If it hadn’t been like that, people would have heard a dreadful scream coming from the kitchen. Laura grabbed her belly and looked for a glass or something similar to have some water.

 As she didn’t find any and had no problems with shame, she drank directly from the faucet. No one was watching anyways, they were all very concentrated on their conversations. Weary of all other food elements on her plate, Laura decided to smell them and taste only the tiniest pieces. There was one that looked like cake but it was very salty. She had grabbed some cookies but they were rock hard. And something looking like Chinese rice was undercooked.

 There were some other things in there but she decided to throw away everything. She chose the worst moment to do so because it was right then when Samuel entered the kitchen and saw her. He waved his hand but she clearly didn’t see him while drinking more water and then doing this face that made it clear how awful the food was. When she noticed Sam, her expression changed and she launched herself at him, hugging Samuel very hard, as they usually did.

 When they did, she realized she had not taken off her coat because she could still feel the gift she had brought to her friend. It was in a box on one of her pockets. Laura took the wrapped box out and gave it to her friend. Samuel didn’t look very happy. Nevertheless, he took her by the hand and travelled through the mass of people in order to get to his room, which was empty except for a big mountain of coats and similar clothing. Laura was surprised she could hear her own thoughts there.

 She apologized to Samuel for being late and waited for him to open his present but he didn’t. He looked at her with a very serious expression, a very judgmental expression to be precise. For a moment, she didn’t really understand what it was but then she realized he had seen her throwing out the food, so she explained that it was just dreadful. She detailed the flavors for him and advised him never to let his friends cater ever again. It was obvious they had no idea about cooking.

 Samuel threw the box she had given him to the bed and said that his guests had not cooked anything for him. If that had been the case, he would have wanted her to do something for the party, like the cake for example. Instead, he explained how he had cooked every single dish.

 He had wanted to make it a surprise for everyone but especially for her, as he wanted to be supportive of her recent job and just to connect with her in his own birthday. He sighed and left the room, leaving a very confused Laura, whose belly roared as soon as Samuel was gone.

El sofá

   Para cualquiera que pasara por ese lugar, el sofá clavado en el barro era una visión interesante y ciertamente extraña. Aunque no era difícil ver muebles tirados en un lugar y en otro, siempre se les veía un poco trajinados, con partes faltantes, sucios y vueltos al revés. En cambio, el sofá del que hablamos estaba perfecto por donde se le mirara, excepto tal vez por el lado de la limpieza, pues estando clavado en el barro era difícil que no estuviera sucio, más aún en semejante temporada de lluvias.

 Había quienes detenían el automóvil a un lado de la carretera solamente para tomarse una foto con el extraño mueble. Su color marrón no era el más atractivo, pero su ubicación sí que lo era. Muchos de los que paraban se daban cuenta que, cuando uno se sentaba en el sofá, se tenía una vista privilegiada del valle que cruzaba aquella carretera. Era una vista hermosa y por eso casi todas las fotos que se tomaba la gente allí, eran fotos que todos guardaban por mucho tiempo.

 Cuando hubo una temporada especialmente dura de lluvias, acompañada de truenos, relámpagos, mucho agua y barro hasta para regalar, vecinos y visitantes se dieron a la tarea de proteger el sofá. Se había convertido, poco a poco, en algo así como un monumento. Por eso primero lo protegieron con sombrillas, que salieron volando con el viendo, y luego con un toldo de plástico que duró más en su sitio pero también se fue volando por la dura acción del viento en la zona.

 Eventualmente, lo que hicieron fue construir una estructura alrededor del sofá. La hicieron con partes metálicas, de madera y de plástico, casi todas de sus propias casas o de lo que la gente traía en su automóvil. Se usaron cuerdas de las que usan los escaladores para llegar a las cumbres más altas y también cuerda común y corriente, que le daba varias vueltas al mueble para que se quedara donde estaba y no fuera victima del clima tan horrible que hacía en el valle.

 El sofá resistió la temporada de lluvias y se le recompensó con más visitas de parte de las personas que viajaban a casa o hacia algún balneario. Los vecinos ayudaron de nuevo, esta vez podando alrededor del sofá para que el pasto crecido no fuese un problema para las personas que quisieran tomarse una foto en el lugar. También se sembraron flores de colores y, en un aviso con forma de mano, se escribió en letras de colores el nombre del lugar donde estaba ubicado el importante sofá. La zona se llamaba Estrella del Norte, un nombre ciertamente apropiado en noches de luna llena.

 Sin embargo, cuando algunos quisieron cambiar la tela del sofá por otra, para que resistiera más tiempo, muchos se opusieron diciendo que se perdería la esencia original si se cambiaba el color marrón. Hasta ese momento, lo que habían hecho era coser los huecos y arreglar el relleno de espuma de la mejor forma posible, sin tener que abrir el objeto ni nada por el estilo. Lo hacían todo con el mayor cuidado posible pero se sabía que el pobre sofá no duraría para siempre.

 Resolvieron consultar la opinión de los visitantes. En la ladera donde estaba el sofá se instalaron dos cajas, parecidas a buzones de correo. En cada uno estaba escrito algo. En el de la derecha decía “cambiar” y en el de la izquierda decía “conservar”. Se les pedía a las personas dejar una piedrita dentro del buzón que expresara su opinión respecto al dilema. Un vecino vigilaba atentamente que nadie hiciese trampa. El experimento tuvo lugar a lo largo de un mes entero, todos los días.

 Cuando por fin contaron las piedras, tuvieron que reírse en voz alta pues el resultado no era uno inesperado. El buzón de “conservar” era de lejos el más lleno y no era de sorprender la razón de esto. A la gente le gustaba como se veía el sofá y como se había convertido en un símbolo de la zona de la noche a la mañana. Si lo cambiaran demasiado, ya no sería lo mismo, incluso si lo reemplazaran por uno completamente nuevo. Todo cambiaría dramáticamente y la gente lo sabía.

 Era raro, pero se sentía algo así como una magia especial cuando uno veía al pobre sofá, manchado de barro y mojado en partes. No era agradable sentarse en él y por supuesto que había muchos muebles en este mundo que eran mucho mas agradables a la vista. Incluso, esa panorámica del cañón que había valle abajo era algo que había en otros lugares del mundo y con muebles y toda la cosa, no era algo que fuese único que de ese rincón del mundo. Esas cosas eran hasta comunes.

 Esa magia venía de lo absurdo, de lo extraño que era ver un objeto tan cotidiano y reconocible como un sofá en la mitad de la nada. Porque no había pueblos ni ciudades cerca, solo casitas esparcidas por el eje de la carretera y poco más. Era esa visión extraña de un sofá clavado en ninguna parte el que atraía tanto a las personas y los hacía tomarse las fotos más ridículas pero también las más creativas en el lugar. Por eso se podría decir que el lugar se había convertido en un lugar de peregrinación. Se había convertido en un símbolo para la gente de algo que habían perdido.

 Lamentablemente, el romance no duró tanto como la gente esperaba. En una temporada de lluvias especialmente fuerte, toda la ladera de la montaña fue a parar abajo, al río que bramaba con fuerza, tallando más y más el cañón. El sofá fue a dar allí y eventualmente quien sabe adonde. De pronto al fondo del río o tal vez había flotado de alguna manera hasta llegar a algún punto río abajo. No se sabía a ciencia cierta pero los vecinos ciertamente sintieron mucho la partida de su monumento.

 Les gustaba imaginarse que su sofá había ido a dar a alguna orilla arenosa río abajo, donde otras personas descubrirían su magia especial. Tal vez lo alejaran un poco del margen del río para protegerlo y ayudar a que secara. Los niños, estos más morenos que los de la ladera, jugarían alrededor del sofá todos los días, dándose cuenta de sus particularidades, imaginando a su vez su larga historia y posible recorrido. Esa manera de producir cuentos era parte de la magia del sofá.

 La otra posibilidad era que hubiese quedado clavado al fondo del río. Ese pensamiento era menos agradable pero igual de posible. Solo los peces del río turbio serían capaces de tocar su superficie, de estrellarse contra él al nadar de un lugar a otro. Sería uno de esos muchos tesoros que quedan perdidos para siempre solo unos metros por debajo del nivel del agua. Los pescadores pasarían por encima y nunca se enterarían de la extraña visión de un sofá entre los peces.

 Eso sí, nadie nunca se imaginaría que la historia del mueble había empezado de la manera más común y corriente posible. Un hombre, queriendo descansar de su labor diaria, había decidido tomar el viejo sofá donde su padre se había sentado tantas veces a mirar por la ventana y lo había puesto en un sitio donde de verdad se pudiese apreciar la majestuosidad del lugar donde vivía. Se sentaba con una cerveza en la mano y contemplaba con pasión y mucho amor por el campo.

 Ese hombre y su padre habían muerto hacía mucho. Incluso su pedazo de tierra ya era de otras personas y fue así como se perdió el origen del sofá, no que ha nadie le importara mucho saberlo. El punto que es que logró captar la imaginación y las pasiones humanas, las risas y las lágrimas, el orden y el desorden. Y todo lo hizo siendo apenas un sofá viejo y gastado, golpeado una y otra vez por las increíbles fuerzas de la naturaleza.

 Pero su magia no se la quitaría nunca nadie, en ninguna parte.

That old house

   In the neighbourhood of Cedar Hills, the people were kind and very friendly. The houses, built many years ago by people wanting to have their personal paradises not too far from everything good in the city, were established in a very perfect order, each different from the next but still seeming like a family. Not one house seemed out of touch, except for the one at then end of Maple road, just by the tall trees that belonged to the park. That house was the odd one out.

People were extremely nice. They would have all these parties and gatherings, to eat food or watch a movie. Sometimes they did this inside of their houses and other times they would occupy the street and do a nice night outside or something like that. The children were all specially close, having a group that headed every morning to school together, in bicycles. However, in that one ugly house, there were no children. No one ever heard much out of it, least of all a laugh.

Once a month, every single person in the neighbourhood, made out of about two hundred people, got reunited in another of their gatherings in order to talk about the most pressing things involving their community. If one of the lampposts of the street failed, it was there they decided how to proceed with the local council. Of course, the woman that lived in the run down house was never in those meetings. Actually, many people had never ever seen her face while others had already forgotten.

 But the meetings were mostly about people talking to others and sharing their love for each other by singing some music, showing their talents and even sharing personal news that wouldn’t normally be in public record. They loved their community and trusted everyone in it. They were close, so close in fact that when something bad happened, everyone was there for the person in need. Again, except the old lady from Maple street, who people had already learned to forget about.

 Bad things rarely happened in the neighbourhood. In the recent years, the most awful thing to happen was when a storm ravaged through the city and many trees fell because of the potency of the wind. Many houses had minor damages but the neighbours helped in a very short time to have it all looked as it had always looked: perfect. However, a large tree destroyed the garage area of the house no one ever talked about. It was the first time in years they ever talked about it, as if it had become real only because of the wood scattered all over the place.

 Reparations on that house were done only several weeks after the storm had passed. The people, concerned by how their neighbourhood would look which such a horrible stain on it, decided to write letters and then sliding them under the door. No one ever tried to talk in person to the woman that lived inside. They just wrote letter after letter until they got tired of it. And when they did, they decided to forget the house was there, again. They just didn’t want to know anything about it.

 Children, however, were not as “kind” as their parents. They couldn’t block out the house so easily, particularly because it stood by the entrance to the forest, a place where they liked to play and explore. The fact that they had to pass by the house every time they wanted to enter the forest, made it impossible to just forget about its existence. They couldn’t do what their parents do and often even stopped in front of the house and talked quite loudly in front of it, about the person living in there.

 Kids are mean. They used awful words to describe the woman, the house and everything they could come up with about the two of them. They insisted the old lady inside was probably dead. And even if she wasn’t, she was clearly a witch or some kind of sorceress. They also all agreed that the house was haunted, probably because of the woman’s tendency to kill every single man that became her husband. She was kind of like a black widow but in a human form and even deadlier than any animal.

 None of them could know for sure whom she was or why she didn’t seem to mind about the state of her house. The children often asked their parents about it but they never really received answers. Parents liked to pretend the one thing that made their neighbourhood out of the norm was just not real, not even there. One day, the people from the city council decided to remove the tree that had destroyed the garage. Weeks later, the garage was repaired, looking as if nothing had happened.

 Of course, children attributed this to the woman’s powers. They could have realized that the materials used in the repairs were not very good or that it was obvious the garage could collapse again by being hit hard by a gust of wind. But the fact that there was such mystery around the house, made it clear that they preferred to answer all questions about it from a supernatural point of view. But when kids grew older, they forgot about those thoughts and the words they used to mock the woman and the house, and they became just like their parents.

 But no matter what the neighbours thought, including their children, the woman inside still lived and had no plans to go anywhere else. She was called Sara and she had lived in the house more than any other person in the neighbourhood. The reason her house seemed like the odd one out was that it had stood there long before plans to build other houses and streets had been laid out. Her home was ultimately included in the plans, in an effort to have a certain harmony.

 Of course, that wasn’t what happened at the end because everyone disliked her house even more than they disliked her. She remembered clearly that her last day outside was when the first families decided to move into the other houses. You see, there was a reason why Sara lived so far from other people and it was that, her father had built her a home because of a psychological condition she had, where she couldn’t stand too many noises or constant contact with other people.

 She didn’t interact with her neighbours, not because she thought she was better or because she hated them, it was because she naturally feared them. She felt it every time she saw one of them out the window. She hated when they spoke loudly in her front lawn or when they held parties on that street. She would close doors and windows in her bedroom and then sleep inside her bathtub, where another door would protect her from the people outside and their words and hands.

Sara had been raped when she was just a teenager and her father had always felt responsible for what had happened. He felt he could have done so much more to save her, to put her away from danger. But when it happened, he decided he would do what he thought was best for her. As she became more and more aggressive to other people after her recovery, he decided to build on a land he had acquired long ago and that was how the house came to be, made only for her.

 He had been dead for many years and she wasn’t going to last much longer. Although still agile and sharp, she was an older woman that depended on family she had never seen to deliver her food at night, through her backyard. She only ate things she could stock for a long time.

 Sara never felt she needed other people to survive. She had learned to think those boxes of food just appeared there, out of the blue. It was better that way. Inside of the house, it was her own worlds with her own rules and that’s how she lived, in almost exile.

El castillo en la colina

   El camino hacia el castillo había sido despejado hacía varias horas por cuerpos móviles de la armada, que habían continuado marchando hacia la batalla. A lo lejos, se oían los atronadores sonidos de las baterías antiaéreas móviles y de los tanques que, hacía solo unas horas, habían destruido la poca resistencia del enemigo en la base de la colina. El pequeño grupo de científicos y expertos de varias disciplinas que venían detrás de los equipos armados, tomaron la ruta que se encaminaba al castillo.

 En el camino no vieron más que los restos de algunos puestos que debían haber estados ocupados por soldados del bando opuesto. En cambio, las ametralladoras y demás implementos bélicos habían sido dejados a su suerte. Era una buena cosa que decidieran entrar al castillo junto a algunos de los hombres armados que los habían acompañado hasta allí. Parecía que el enemigo se estaba ocultando dentro del castillo y no en el camino que conducía hacia él.

 Los historiadores, expertos en arte y demás estuvieron de acuerdo en que no se podía bombardear el castillo. No se le podía atacar de ninguna manera, pues se corría el riesgo de que al hacerlo se destruyera mucho más que solo algunos muros de piedra que habían resistido ochocientos años antes de que ellos llegaran. No se podía destruir para retomar, eso era barbárico. Así que lo mejor que podían hacer era despejar el camino y ahí mirar si el enemigo seguía guardando el lugar o no.

 El camino que subía la montaña tendría un kilometro de extensión, tal vez un poco más. La enorme estructura estaba situada en la parte más alta de la colina, que a su vez tenía una vista envidiable hacia los campos de batalla más allá, hacia el río. Era allí donde la verdadera guerra se haría, pues el enemigo sabía bien que no podía resistir en las montañas o en terrenos difíciles de manejar. El sonido de las explosiones era ya un telón de fondo para los hombres que se acercaban a la entrada principal de la estructura.

 El castillo, según los registros históricos, había sido construido a partir del año mil doscientos para defender la pequeña cordillera formada por una hilera de colina de elevaciones variables, de la invasión de los pueblos que vivían, precisamente, más allá del río. Era extraño, pero los enemigos en ese entonces eran básicamente los mismos, aunque con ciertas diferencias que hacían que se les llamara de otra manera. Cuando llegaron a la puerta, vieron que el puente levadizo estaba cerrado, lo que quería decir que era casi seguro que había personas esperándolos adentro.

 Dos de los soldados que venían con ellos decidieron usar unas cuerdas con sendos ganchos en la punta. Los lanzaron con precisión hacia la parte más alta del muro y allí se quedaron enganchados y seguros. Con una habilidad sorprendente, los dos soldados se columpiaron sobre el foso (de algunos metros de ancho) y al tocar sus pies el grueso muro empezaron a subir por el muro como si fueran hormigas. Verlos fue increíble pero duró poco pues llegaron a la cima en poco tiempo.

 Adentro, los hombres desenfundaron sus armas y empezaron a caminar despacio hacia el nivel inferior. Lo primero que tenían que hacer era abrir el paso para que los demás pudiesen entrar y así tener la superioridad numérica necesaria para vencer a un eventual enemigo, eso sí de verdad había gente en el castillo. El problema fue que ninguno de los soldados conocía el castillo ni había visto plano alguno de la estructura. Así que cuando vieron una bifurcación en el camino, prefirieron separarse.

 Uno de los dos llegó a la parte del puente en algunos minutos y fue capaz de accionar la vieja palanca para que el puente bajara. Despacio, los expertos, sus equipos y los demás soldados pudieron pasar lentamente sobre el grueso pontón de madera que había bajado para salvar el paso sobre el foso. Sin embargo, el otro soldado todavía no aparecía. El que había bajado el puente explicó que se habían separado y que no debía demorar en aparecer puesto que él había llegado a la entrada tan deprisa.

 Sin embargo, algo les heló la sangre y los hizo quedarse en el lugar donde estaban. Un grito ensordecedor, potenciado por los muros y pasillos del castillo, se escuchó con fuerza en el patio central, donde todos acababan de entrar. El grito no podía ser de nadie más sino del soldado que había tomado un camino diferente. Pero fue la manera de gritar lo preocupante pues el aire mismo parecía haber sido cortado en dos por la potencia del sonido. Incluso cuando terminó, pareció seguir en sus cuerpos.

 Los soldados se armaron de valor. Sacaron armas y prosiguieron por la escalera que había utilizado el que les había abierto. Los llevó hacia la bifurcación y tomaron el camino que debía haber seguido el soldado perdido. Caminaron por un pasillo interminable y muy húmedo hasta que por fin dio un giro y entonces vieron una habitación enorme pero mal iluminada. Esto era muy extraño puesto que a un costado había una hilera de hermosas ventanas que daban una increíble vista hacia los campos y, más allá, el río de donde venían atronadores sonidos.

 De repente, se escuchó el ruido de algo que arrastran. Mientras la mayoría de los soldados, que eran unos quince, miraban el ventanal opaco, ocurrió que el que les había bajado el puente ya no estaba. Había guardado la retaguardia pero ahora ya no estaba con ellos sino que simplemente se había desvanecido. El lugar era un poco oscuro así que uno de los hombres sacó una linterna de baterías y la apunto al lugar de donde venían. El pobre soldado soltó un grito que casi le hace soltar la linterna.

 En el suelo, había un rastro de sangre espesa y oscura. Pero eso no era lo peor: en el muro, más precisamente donde había un giro que daba a la bifurcación, había manchas con formas de manos, hechas con la misma sangre que había en el suelo. Lo más seguro, como pensaron todos casi al mismo tiempo, era que el soldado que los había encaminado a ese lugar ahora estaba muerto. El enemigo sin duda estaba en el lugar, de eso ya no había duda. Lo raro era que no los hubiesen escuchado.

 Uno de los soldados revisaba la sangre en el suelo, tomando prestada la linterna de su compañero. Con algo de miedo, dirigió el haz de luz sobre su cabeza y luego al techo del pasillo que había recorrido. No había nada pero algo que le había hecho sentir que, lo que sea que estaban buscando ahora, estaba en el techo. Una sensación muy rara le recorrió el cuerpo, haciéndolo sentir con nauseas. Su malestar fue interrumpido por algunos gritos. Pero no como él de antes.

 Tuvieron que volver casi corriendo al patio inferior, pues los gritos eran de alerta, de parte de los científicos y demás hombres que se habían quedado abajo. El líder de los soldados bajó como un relámpago, algo enfurecido por lo que estaba pasando, al fin y al cabo tenía dos hombres menos en su equipo y no tenía muchas ganas de ponerse a jugar al arqueólogo ni nada por el estilo. Cuando llegó al patio estaba listo para reprenderlos a todos pero las caras que vio le dijeron que algo estaba mal.

 Uno de los hombres mayores, un historiador, le indicó el camino a un gran salón que tenía puerta sobre el patio central. Los hombres habían logrado abrir el gran portón pero lo habían cerrado casi al instante. El líder de los soldados preguntó la razón. La respuesta fue que el hombre mayor ordenó abrir de nuevo. Del salón, salió un hedor de los mil demonios, que hizo que todos se taparan la cara. La luz de la tarde los ayudó entonces a apreciar la cruda escena que tenían delante: unos treinta cuerpos estaban un poco por todas partes, mutilados y en las posiciones más horribles. Sus uniformes eran los que usaba el enemigo. De repente estuvo claro, que algo más vivía en el castillo.

Rainfall

Rain falls. That's what it does. But it doesn't do it always in the same way. Sometimes, rain feels almost extraterrestrial, as it fell not from the sky, but from some awful place, far in space. Other times, you would think it comes from a land made of candy, created for children or for people that love a nice piece of heaven in their mouths. Wherever it comes from, rain is one of those things that makes us feel truly alive, specially when it rolls down our faces and bodies.

Rain is water but it can also burn when the body it touches is not pure, full of guilt and all those pathetic human feelings that fester inside brain and heart. Water cannot wash way all of our evil. It's not acid, even when it feels like it. Some cannot feel all of its properties. There are people that could swim for hours and never feel clean, not truly. Hot or cold, the liquid is not enough to wash away everything that is wrong with the human soul, and humankind in general. People won't be saved.

Rain won't do It and nothing else will. On other worlds, it rains gasoline and diamonds. So we all have that in common: things will Jeep falling on our heads, no matter what we think about the universe. The brain might have an understanding of how mostly everything works but when we're all dead, that won't matter. Water will still be water and gasoline will keep falling from the sky unto someone else's head. And it won't matter if we were here, if we attempted to understand this place or not.

Rain won't care. Nothing will. Because we don't want to understand that se are all here for a little while. We were given some seconds on the clock of existence and that time will run out. No matter how much we try, we won't be here forever and our existence will leave no trace. No wonder or creation made by our hands will remain to tell our story. This scares us more than we want to admit, but that's how it works, no Gods in question. One moment we are here, the next we're not.

Rain, however, will stay. Until the very end.