Short Stories for Short on Time People

Short stories for short on time people

  by

  David Santos Solano

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  TRANSLATED BY:

  David Santos Solano

  Short Stories for Short on Time People

  Copyright © 2010 by David Santos Solano

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  SHORT STORIES for short on time people

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  GENESIS. IN THE BEGINNING...

  Lying down on the weeds, exhausted, she stares at the creature crying on her arms. She suddenly understands that the newborn baby, covered in hair, covered in blood, has a name long before she was born. Or perhaps the opposite would be more correct. Perhaps she has a name long after she was born.

  Something went wrong, so wrong. All previous tests had been successful. Einstein's theories laid the foundation stone three hundred years before and now top secret Project Wells had met all the expectations: time travel was a fact.

  Eva Dawn had been recruited to be in charge of the opening journey. At first she received the news with skepticism. Time travel? But soon could she see with her own eyes that this was not a delusion of some visionary scientist but a real working technology. And the truth was that, as a paleontologist, the job was a dream come true: a trip into the Garden of Eden to witness the origins of the human species. But something went wrong.

  When she recovered consciousness she was overpowered by terror. A group of eight individuals, eight primates, were prying with curiosity and fear among the metal jumble that Wells I was now. Beside her Doctor Kim Leung lied and some steps from them Commander Raymond Julien's body rested on a pool of blood. She tilted her body towards Kim's, her eyes were wide open, her hand frozen. She was alone. Alone. Alone? Eight pairs of eyes observed her.

  Eva had already given up hope. More than two months trapped in that world. Why hadn't anyone come searching for her? Something had gone wrong. Something had gone much more wrong than she had thought. What had happened to Wells II and Wells III? Something had gone utterly wrong and Eva had already given up hope.

  During the first few days they just stared at her, and she stared back. That was a group of hominids, no doubt about it, but it could not be the group they were looking for. Those individuals had not reached the expected evolutionary stage, there was not a hint of “humanity” in them. Probably there were other more evolved groups in the area. There had to be. She had studied their fossils herself. During the first few days they just stared at her. Then everything changed. Then everything was horrible. And two months later, Eva knew. She knew that horror, that humiliation, that violence, that beastly... Eva knew. And her body proved her theory to be correct.

  Lying down on the weeds, exhausted, she stares at the creature crying on her arms. She suddenly understands that the newborn baby, covered in hair, covered in blood, has a name long before she was born. Or perhaps saying the opposite would be more correct. Perhaps she has a name long after she was born.

  “Lucy,” she whispers kissing the baby's head, “my Lucy.”

  * * * * *

  CALVARY

  He woke up shouting, terrified. He examined his forehead, his hands. All was just a horrible nightmare.

  A small luminous spot appeared on the ceiling. Suddenly the tiny light became a powerful beam devouring darkness, blinding him. And he was hoisted up. Pain came back, he woke up. Sunlight hurt his eyes. Tears drew winding tracks through the dried blood on his face.

  “Eli, Eli, metul mah shevaktani?”

  * * * * *

  A WHISPER

  “I love you, baby. Come with me.”

  The whisper into his ear got him out of sleep. He was still in that indefinite place in between sleep and wakefulness when, lips against the pillow, he mumbled “Marta?” Instantly a shudder ran through his spine and he was fully awake. He broke into tears.

  Sun started to filter through the small holes of the blinds. He opened his eyes. Thousands, maybe millions, of dust particles floated inside the room. Through the tears, they looked like stars.

  It was her voice. Mind plays such dirty tricks on us. Her voice. He tilted his head towards the night table and looked at her photograph. Marta's voice. The knot in his stomach got tighter. She looked so beautiful. He had taken the picture during that nice trip through Italy. Five weeks before the accident. Eleven months ago. The accident. The damned accident.

  It took him months to give up, to let himself be convinced by friends. Even today, this morning, he still has the feeling that he killed her. It could have happened to anyone. But it happened to him. But it happened to her. He shot the rifle. She cried, wounded. And hers were the drowned eyes that asked for help, a help he was not able to give. It could have happened to anyone, they said. That's easy to say.

  He reached for his cigarettes, behind the photograph, on the night table. He lit one, blew a puff of smoke towards the ceiling, dried the tears in his eyes with his forearm. It was her voice. Exactly as he remembered it. Exactly as he felt it in the chest. As he felt it in the guts. It was her voice. Mind plays such dirty tricks on us.

  After the funerals he had just one thing in mind, revenge. Revenge on himself. He was not brave enough. He took revenge on the rifle, instead. That old rifle, his father's, that had only been shot once. Just one damned time. He tore it to pieces. And he buried it beside the tree. Beside that same tree, the same spot where he lost his whole life.

  He decided to get up. He rolled over the mattress to reach the other side of the bed and then he felt something hard and cold against his back. Surprised, he looked under the sheets. And he turned into stone. Her voice. Again he heard the whisper beside his neck, while he stared in awe at the mattress, at his father's old rifle.

  “I love you, baby. Come with me.”

  * * * * *

  THE WAIT

  The little girl, on her knees upon the wooden floor, was playing with his favorite rag doll. She rocked her in her arms while singing an old lullaby. “We'll be back soon,” mom had said.

  But, how long ago was that? She looked around. There were hundreds of clocks in that attic. Some were big with a long golden pendulum, some were small with a big bell, wall clocks, table clocks, even an old hourglass.

  However, none of them were working. Their hands all rusty, they were covered on spiderweb, the sand that once showed the passing of time had escaped through the broken glass and lied now upon the worn out floor.

  The girl stood up in silence and walked down the long dusty stairs to the second floor. When she entered her parents bedroom she felt suddenly exhausted, her arms could not hold the doll anymore and it fell upon the floor, raising a white cloud of dust.

  Spinning in the center of the room she stared at the yellowish curtains that lazily covered the dirty windows, she stared at the rickety wardrobe on which an open door, hanging precariously on rusty hinges, showed the frayed dresses that looked s
o nice on mom, and she stared at a strange old lady who stared back, just in front of her, with a doll at her feet.

  She moved her lips as if to speak, but words froze in her throat as she recognized her own dress, her own hairband, her own eyes... in mom's mirror.

  * * * * *

  REPRIEVED

  It all seemed like a dream. Sitting in his rocking chair, facing the beautiful lake, just a couple of days afterwards.

  Judy and Malcolm waved their hands at him, from the pier. Life sometimes gives you a second chance.

  A second chance to grow old with Judy, to see Malcolm growing up. The reprieve arrived at the last second. It was something beyond hope. For him, there was tomorrow. Only tomorrow, nothing else. He curled up on the bunk of his cell and cried the whole night. His last night. But at the last second, a miracle.

  He looked at the intense blue sky. He closed his eyes, rocking. A gentle breeze running among the pine trees. A cicada. Malcolm laughing and swimming in the lake. It all seemed like a dream.

  When he woke up there was no breeze. No cicada. No rocking chair. No Malcolm swimming in the lake. Just a bailiff tightening up the belts that tied him to a metal chair. Tomorrow was today and there was no tomorrow. A tear rolled down his cheek, reached the corner of his mouth and evaporated.

  * * * * *

  JC

  Night fell.

  JC freed his hands and feet. His wounds stopped bleeding, miraculously, they healed. He descended to the dusty ground. Smiling, with an obscure sparkle in his eyes, he looked right and left. The horrified screaming of two thieves echoed for hours.

  Dawn and a crowd found a crucified JC. The victim that had suffered to redeem us was on the brink of smiling. But it went almost unnoticed. He is still worshiped today.

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  THE MÖBIUS BAND

  He got into the tub, slowly, and closed his eyes. The feeling was nice, indeed. Warm water wrapping his body, he felt safe and, somehow, happy. But his decision was already taken and he knew backing out would be a big mistake.

  Fear, sadness, doubt, shame, rest. All in the shaking instant that separated the hairdryer's dive into the water and his death. Then, peace. And a white light, a white light at the end of a tunnel. For an instant he thought he had fallen asleep, death could not be so ridiculously movie-like.

  At first everything happened in slow motion, gradually the spot of light grew. Very slowly. Slowly. But accelerating. Faster. Then he felt catapulted, disintegrated against that absolute white. For a fraction of a second he felt huge, infinite. He was infinite. And then he was again submerged in warm water, and he felt safe and happy.

  Something was happening now. Confusion. Pain. Coldness. Fear. Light. Light. Light. He rested his head, exhausted, as she hold him in her arms. He opened his eyes. He couldn't believe it, her mother smiled at him, so young. He burst into tears, terrified. For the second first time mom breastfed him. With every little gulp of milk he started forgetting who he was. And so he stopped cursing reincarnation.

  * * * * *

  MARTIAN TWILIGHT

  After three days of silence from Beijing's Command Center he was, at last, getting the information he had requested, as a last resource, from one of the artificial satellites the Coalition kept on Earth's orbit. The hologramatic projector showed complete data in the middle of his office. The satellite's readings left no place for doubt about what had happened on Earth. The chances of surviving life forms on the planet were extremely scarce, the presence of human life was absolutely unthinkable.

  General Márquez, Supreme Commander of Mission Mayflower, spun on his office's armchair to stare at the Martian surface through the glass wall. Mars terraforming project was progressing faster than expected. The atmosphere already contained oxygen enough to make the presence of big mammals possible and plant life was beginning to spread without human aid on vast extensions of the planet. The only human settlement was New Earth, used as a base to house the personnel in charge of the terraforming works.

  Márquez was still paralyzed, staring blankly over New Earth. The situation was about to overcome him. But he had gone through bad situations before, and he will go through this one. The mere presence in that office of Patrick Márquez (or Pato, as his folks and friends called him), son of a Honduran immigrant working at a pest control company, was evidence enough of his enormous self-improvement ability.

  The final deadline for the completion of Mission Mayflower was still far ahead. But maybe what they had already done could be enough to go on. After all no settlers would come from Earth now. The severe environmental problems that threatened the survival of our species and motivated the development of a Martian terraforming project were beyond solution so they were not real problems anymore. And although it was true that no help was either to be expected, perhaps the local resources they had already developed could be sufficient to support New Earth.

  The colony had farming facilities that up to now, with the help of some additional provisions and goods from Earth, had been able to supply sustenance for its 353 inhabitants, all of them working for the mission. Everything was beginning to be so clear in Márquez's mind. With will and austerity it would be possible. Perhaps humanity could have a second chance. The planet that witnessed its birth, the planet that witnessed how it grew to dominate it, was now reduced to ashes, but they had a second chance. A new planet, so pure and untouched, was ready for humanity to try again, to grow again, to conquer every inch of its surface. Yes, they could do it again. They would do it again. Again.

  General Márquez activated the intercom to speak to New Earth's Central Command. Now everything was crystal clear for him. “Lieutenant, start urgent evacuation plan immediately. I want all personnel aboard the Conqueror in less than five hours.” For an instant there was only silence at the other end. “Urgent evacuation, sir? Is it a safety drill?” “Lieutenant... Mark, this is strictly confidential: we're going back home. I have received orders from Beijing. Mission is canceled.” “Canceled, sir?” “I will explain everything to you when the moment comes, now there's no time to lose, start the evacuation plan.”

  Márquez stood up and stared at New Earth with his hands and all his weight on the glass wall. A tear slided through his face, grave and contrite, and reached his lips at the exact moment in which, unexpectedly, they smiled. He remembered his father, the pest control worker. “A chip off the old block,” he said and laugh out loud.

  * * * * *

  COLDNESS

  I stare at her while she is laying on the bed. Her eyelids start to feel heavy, they close. My lips approach her mouth, so slowly, I kiss her. But I feel nothing, only the coldness of death. I collapse beside her bed crying, trembling.

  The worst of pains. To know I will never feel her lips again. I will never hold her in my arms. I will never feel her skin shaking while I bite her neck. To know that her blue eyes will never look at me again.

  Night is endless. As pain. As the rage inside me. As this absolute solitude. Wake up, Elisa, wake up! I shout at the top of my lungs, just into her ear. I try to shake her. I sob. Please... Wake up... Fear takes over. And with it, ire, unstoppable in my chest. Wake up! I hit the alarm clock while screaming. I watch, in awe, how it crashes into the floor and blows to pieces.

  And then Elisa wakes up, breathing fast, fear in her eyes. “Carlos?” Elisa! And she bursts into tears. But no, her blue eyes still don't look at me. They will never look at me again. I stroke her hand. But I feel nothing, only the coldness of my death.

  * * * * *

  GOLD, INCENSE, MYRRH AND...

  Tired of kicking it against a wall, Mateo picked up the brand new football the Three Wise Men had brought him and entered the house. Then he played on his brand new Wii for a while but he discarded it, too. Mateo was bored as hell.

  Dad came into his room to tell him lunch was ready and, while he was sitting down and mom served the soup, he got a great idea.

  “Mom, I know what I'm gonna ask the Three Wise Men for nex
t year.”

  “You just got this year's presents, son!”

  “Next year I want them to bring a little brother to me, so I can play football with him.”

  “A little brother?”

  “I get bored without a goalkeeper.”

  “Ángel, listen to your son, he wants a little brother,” mom said laughing.

  “A brother? Well, if you are a good boy we can ask for it and maybe they'll bring it. What do you think, mommy, shall we ask for it?”

  “What a shameless father you have!”

  And though mom had said dad was shameless and that is not supposed to be good, both of them were laughing so Mateo joined them, because he liked when dad and mom were laughing and looking at each other the way they were looking at each other then.

  Next year Mateo had a lot of presents from the Three Wise Men. Even though they had already brought him a brother a couple of months before. But they brought him a lot of toys anyway. Some of them they left home and some others at dad's place. Dad was living now in a different house because mom and dad had divorced. Mateo did not understand why. Mom told him that sometimes moms and dads argue and it is better to get divorced than to have ugly fights but, she said, dad and mom loved him very much even though they were not together anymore. That is what she said. But Mateo thought that dad was angry because the little brother he asked for was brought by Balthasar.

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