SOMETHING happened during Bill’s flight from Boston to Vancouver. Everything had been normal so far on the PanAm flight, with the other passengers and the weather and all. Except for a distant storm front over the Atlantic Ocean. But they would not get anywhere near the Atlantic Ocean, so he wasn’t concerned. And neither was the captain, who wished everybody a pleasant flight.
Bill had fallen asleep at some point, but that wasn’t unusual for him while flying. He kept dozing off if he had to sit in an airplane seat for more than an hour. This was no exception. He was woken by a sound. It hadn’t come from one of the other passengers, he assumed. Hardly half the seats were taken and nobody was sitting in his row. Actually, when he wanted to see any of the other passengers, he had to get up. Which he did, going to the bathroom.
Read the rest of the story in Horla Magazine:
I firmly believe that the man I knew as Martin Brons never, really never, had the intention to appear in my living room as a moose. A moose happens to be a powerful and especially large animal, and it would not fit into my living room. Martin Brons - or whomever was responsible for this appearance - had taken this into account, because the moose was a smaller version of itself. By which I mean: it was a mid-sized moose but nevertheless clearly an adult specimen.
I have just now returned from the therapist, a consultation that was planned three months ago, long in advance of Martin's visit as a moose. I reported the incident to the therapist, because I felt that I should not just let this pass.
Continue reading in The Café Irreal:
At four in the afternoon the Avenida Corrientes is the favorite dwelling place for the idle clerks, pimps, pen-pushers and gamblers of Buenos Aires, a city that only exists — as many whisper — by the grace of the Madonna and in the imagination of an old, blind poet. The latter, filled with a vision that his eyes could no longer behold, described the city as a collection of merely accidental and almost useless details: a blue enamel tile veined with brown, a basalt spire to commemorate some obscure mariner, a suburban villa lost between pines, a sword hanging in a bar by way of a forgotten trophy.
Read the story in The Café Irreal:
Comer japoneses está mal
Tal vez tenga algo que ver con la dieta tradicional japonesa que mayormente seguimos. Arroz, pescado crudo, verduras crudas, fideos, sopa de miso y el sake ocasional. Una dieta saludable, una bajo la cual, al menos los que pertenecemos a cierta generación, nos hemos criado. Y están también los buenos genes. Los genes son parcialmente responsables del por qué tantos japoneses permanecen saludables hasta bastante avanzados los ochenta. Excepto aquellos que se atiborran con comida rápida occidental. Hay una buena cantidad de McDonald’s y Burger King en las ciudades japonesas. Ni que decir de los Pizza Huts. Carne roja de origen incierto y más grasa animal de lo que es sensato. Los jóvenes se tientan. Ellos no siguen tanto la dieta de sus mayores.
La cosa es que no nos comemos a nuestros mayores. Queremos que nuestra carne sea joven. Tratamos de llegar a un acuerdo con ellos cuando están en la veintena. A principios de la treintena como mucho. No después de los cuarenta, de todos modos. Cuarenta es como una especie de límite. ¿Por qué vamos a conformarnos con menos que lo mejor?
Read the rest of the story (in Spanish) in La Idea Fija n° 17:
The Neanderthal in the Garden
Thursday 3201. The Neanderthal has just vacated the house, leaving a smeared towel, his musky body odor and a red coral necklace. He prunes my roses three days a week (there are a lot of roses) and he keeps the grass short. If I were attracted to him, it would be on account of his body odor, or perhaps the strength of his arms and the size of his torso. But I am not. He is merely a member of a species that is becoming increasingly extinct. He is barely intelligent, the least intelligent example of human evolution. But at least my roses get taken care of.
Read the rest of the story in East of the Web:
The Unicorn in the Park
Danielle, who has been my daughter for a quarter of a century, visits me every other week on Sunday, a day which to her – on account of her pertinent atheism – is no holy day even if she is not working.
She tells me about traffic. Even on a Sunday the highway is packed. She regrets living so far away from me. More and more cars appear on the highways and the streets every year. Soon there will be more cars than houses. People will live in their cars, never being able to get home any more. Carmakers will have to change the way cars are designed – there’s going to be a need for a miniaturised bathroom and sleeping facility in the everyday car. And a TV-screen, so nobody misses Friday’s match.
It takes her two hours for the forty kilometres that separate her flat from mine. In the meantime she could have read at least four or five chapters in her book. She’s not a fast reader, she never was a fast reader in school, she hasn’t got my genes.
Read the rest of the story in The Café Irreal issue 60:
The Man at the Pink Street Corner
THE man at the pink street corner turns away from us every time I pass with my mother. He doesn’t do that on my account, I suspect, because I don’t know who he is. I assume he does it on account of my mother. But when I ask her about him (Do you know who that man is, mummy?) she hisses at me and I have to keep my mouth shut and not tell father. What could I tell dad? That a man I don’t know so emphatically ignores both me and mother, at that famous pink street corner? Is this the extent of the story my father is not supposed to know about?
“Gianni,” she assures me, “some things only concern adults.” So this excludes me, but I’m nine and I’m curious, and I know only this: adults hide too many things from children. I don’t understand why they do that. Is it out of embarrassment? Do they want to avoid hurting or frightening children?
Ik ben er stellig van overtuigd dat de man die ik kende als Martinus Brons nooit, maar dan ook nooit, de intentie had in mijn woonkamer te verschijnen onder de vorm van een eland. Nu is een eland een machtig en vooral groot dier, dat verre van past in mijn woonkamer. Daar had Martinus Brons — of wie ook verantwoordelijk was voor dit verschijnen — rekening mee gehouden, want de eland was een miniatuurversie van zichzelf. Waarmee ik bedoel: het was een kleine eland maar niettemin al te duidelijk een volwassen exemplaar.
Lees verder op de site van het literaire tijdschrift Extaze: https://www.extaze.nl/?p=12043