(Un momento...)

jueves, 3 de septiembre de 2015

A dark dream

This one comes directly from my subconscious, the sick bastard. It's not structured like a story, and has every form defect known to man, but it sounds like what a soldier with the thousand yard stare would say. It's the way I felt it.
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I was in some kind of glassy maze. There was an attack undergoing. We were under siege. Winged, pristine white humanoids defended the maze, fighting against horrible aerial beasts. I remember I could do some kind of magic, and I saw everything through my own eyes. There was a little girl in there with me. She was important. We had to protect her at any cost. She kept smiling through the whole thing, even if she was afraid. And she was. I was terrified. I was no match for any of these things, and the white angels were all that kept us safe. I had to protect her. I kept blasting things and monsters out of the sky, even if I knew all of them could rip me apart in a second.

I lost sight of her amidst the battle and ran to find her. I saw her down some stairs, just twenty paces away from me. She kept calling my name. I called hers, even if I can’t for the life of me remember it. Then something appeared. I remember it being both a dark-haired man and a gnarled, clawed beast. I saw him look at me, smile like a madman, and pounce her. He started to run, laughing , and I followed, my steps frantic. He kept running and dodging my through the labyrinth, carrying the girl, who wouldn’t stop crying. I lost him for some minutes, and then I found her. He had  ripped her in half. She kept screaming for a few seconds. And he was there, over her, smiling like a satisfied man after a good meal.

I broke him. I hacked him to pieces. I burned him to cinders and ash. And, all the while, that monster just kept laughing at me, taunting me, mocking me. With his dying breath, he pointed at the wall behind us. There was a message there, the letters crimson and blurry.

"The little one. She died hungry, cold, afraid and in pain. I made sure of it. And you could do nothing about it. My win."

viernes, 14 de agosto de 2015

Innocents

Hear me, all of you. You who hide in the whispers of the wind, up in the attic or down below in the basement. You who lurk in my closet, under the stairs, in the creaking woodfloors and behind my windows. You who make noises in the dark, bring forth strange visions behind the curtains and drag chains across the floor. Eyes in the black. Teeth in the night. Claws at the witching hour. Hear me.

I am a child. I don't carry the weight of an adult heart, and know very little about consequences. I can still fly and run faster than time. I run on mischief and a spark of madness. I live with reckless bravery and play nonsensical games. I am still of both light and darkness, and creation and destuction act on my every whim. I have faced monsters, escaped impossible labyrinths and conquered trials untold. I have saved the realms of men and Fae from such horrors you wouldn't dare to understand. You may think me small, weak and harmless. You'd be wrong. This wooden sword has the keenest edge. I know ancient rhymes and words of power. This blanket can turn invisible at will. This cushion is an unbreakeable barrier. I have been a warrior, a wizard, a rogue. I have ridden dragons and beasts, danced on fire and earth and wind and water.

I am an innocent, and my imagination is sword and shield, cloak and armor, magic and medicine. The world tells me there is something to fear walking among us. I agree.

You should all be terrified of me.


miércoles, 22 de abril de 2015

The pen is mightier.

Picture this: You, Spanish born and bred, and proud to be, talking with an Englishman, a pirate heathen, reminiscing about better times. Times when both of you were part of greater empires. Days when, to kill someone, you had to look them in the eye. Days where a thousand atrocities were part of life. More savage days. And then, and idea clicks, and you both go:

"Who knows, maybe in a thousand years Spain will be ferrying some new fuel from some god-forsaken planet and you guys will come to take it from us. And then it will all start again. One can hope"

"A solar storm would rush through and destroy your fleet"

"And your invincible admiral Nelson would get cybernetic implants to compensate the arm he lost trying to take some small moon from us."

"Space Napoleon would lose at the battle of Waterloo IV"

"And be exiled to the Elba Asteroid"

"Elba Asteroid Prime!"

You both laugh, maybe drawing from memories you should by no means have, from events and times ingrained in your DNA.

"...Will, you know what? That isn't half a bad story, and it would be a good way to educate children about classic history. Change the gold to some nuclear fuel, the natives for a long lost colony who crashed and lost their ships, the data they had turning into myth, get the Englishmen as space pirates, the Spanish as the opresive empire who has been dying for a long time, but never seems to completely fall, and you have it."

"...You gonna write this? Because if not, I will."

"It certainly would be a good story"

"I'm being serious. Same ship names, leader names, and everything. But in space. This is fucking gold. Who are the french?"

"Depends, they would be either the young republic that's just starting out, but gaining strength under a strong, military genius, or some ancient, outdated monarchy with old, enormous ships who had seen better days. like the Spanish, but more worn.out"

"They could be both, and have a space revolution in the middle."

"And well they should...You know what the worst thing is? I'd love to see that as a children's book. They would read it and learn about what they were once, and to be proud of it. They would know their history."

It was a good laugh, and I loved talking about Trafalgar, Vernon and Lezo, Nelson and the Canary Islands, the Armada and Napoleon. History can be so much fun, and should give you a tingling sense of pride, even if you weren't there to experience it. We killed each other like animals, took everything that wasn't nailed to the floor and became masters of this world, turning to murder each other when there was nothing else to conquer. It was horrible, and it was amazing, and it's part of who we were. Of who we are still, sometimes. And that means we should know about it.

The world is getting dumber by the day and, barring radical shifts in TV programming, there's not much that can be done about it. That doesn't mean we should give up. Not for a single second. I doubt I will ever get to writing this, or that Will will. I doubt it'd get published anyway. But this hopeless struggle is far from over, knowledge has always been the best weapon against fear and injustice, and writers are the strongest soldiers in this war.

Hail, warriors.

lunes, 20 de abril de 2015

Bards we are, bards we will be.

There's a rhythm to each and everyone of us. Be it slow or fast, steady or flickering, there's a pulse inside of us that is more than the physical beating of our hearts. I like to think that, when someone clicks, when you are drawn to them without apparent reason, it's just that your rhythms aren't all that different.

Last night, I shared that rhythm with a thousand people

Last night, the Bards, Blind Guardian, gave what I hesitate to call a concert in Madrid. I hesitate because concert can't even begin to describe the sheer amount of will, passion, sound and madness that went into it. There we were, second row, maybe 6-8 feet away from them. And it was amazing.

You'd think that after the intro, after rousing us with speech and music, after praising us, and daring us to beat ourselves, we would just give it our all. You'd be wrong. There was a little surprise : The concert was being recorded for a future release. That meant that, in time, we would listen to that record and, amidst the thundering applause, the roaring scream, the rumbling chants, we would find our beautiful, broken voices.

So we set our hands to it, one mind, one will, one soul. We fled the sanctuary, banished, and stepped into the void, searching for Tanelorn. We took the second one to the right, and then, flew straight up to morning light, prepared to face Hook, the bravest man in the world. At nightfall, we dared the elements and challenged Ungoliath to follow us into the storm. We saw gods fall, be it by our own raging hands in Valhalla or by the coming of their everlasting twilight. We let not prophecies nor miracles bar our way, and we raged at the long lost stories of our childhood, now nothing more than imaginations. They tried to leave, but we wouldn't let them, and so the wheel turned again and again. We made impossible promises on rings and fire, and then we saw them become a reality.

You should have been there. We brought fire and lighting to the world around us, the storm within matching the one without. Our voices, clear as trumpets, loud as thunder, almost drowned theirs in the end. When their songs ended, when all mirrors fell, we stood, spent, and looked at them.

The Bards smiled, and deemed us worthy. The last candle burnt out, and they assured us somebody was out there. 

Aye. We were.

PD: Link to their setlist


martes, 17 de marzo de 2015

Of Ireland, the land of drink and music.

Today is St Patrick's day

That means it's time for me to get maudlin about Éire, it's green grass, cold mist and rough people that treated me so well. You may have seen the stereotype everywhere, the drunk irishman, rowdy and itching for a fight and a pint of beer, and maybe you think I'm about to disabuse you of the notion.

I'm not.

I had a bloody bad year, and the rest of the Spaniards gave me hell, but I swear that the Irish more than made up for it. The people I met drank a lot, and we were 14 at the time, but they always shared. They tried to teach me gaelic football and hurling, which I completely failed to learn. They drank with me, fought with me and treated me as a friend. The first person who bought a beer for me was a classmate on St Patrick's. We ended up singing in a pub with people playing violins and pipes, having a great time and off with the fairies. He taught me that a good drink precedes a good story, or the making of one.

The Irish people are many things, good and bad. They have wild music, high literature and an unquenchable thirst. And they pay copper, play silver and drink golden.

So tonight, if work is willing, I'm gonna get me a nice pint of not-quite Guinness in what passes for an Irish Pub in here, and a glass of uisce beatha, which I never managed to pronounce properly, but translates as "Water of life" and means whiskey. Then I'm gonna toast with "May the roof above us never fall in, and may we friends beneath it never fall out." and, finally, I'm gonna whisper to myself what is arguably the best blessing in the world:

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields and,
Until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

I hate the bastardization of the Irish culture, the so-called Irish pubs and the fact that St Patricks is some kind of drinking day for the Americans. The Rumjacks said it best, and you have their song to remind you..

I'm not Irish. I claim no heritage, no blood, no right. But they sure made me feel like one.


domingo, 15 de marzo de 2015

The Neverfought War - Chapter 1

Hi everyone

This is the first chapter proper of this short story, the Neverfought War, although there is a prologue that goes before this, chech ou the tags on the right to find it, as well as the rest of the chapters.

Work has been hell for a few weeks, but there is more to come soon(ish).

Good hunting

You can find it in DeviantArt and in Reddit.

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First, you have to understand how limited you are. You are not hearing any of this, and I know not the meaning of whatever words you are perceiving . I am just...thinking at you. Whatever your limited mind chooses to interpret from this message in a bottle, I’ll take, such desperate is the hour.

I have danced amongst the heavens, feeling everything and nothing at the edge of my perception. I have dived under the searing mantles of a thousand worlds, free of the sickness you represent. I have ebbed and flowed with the tides of poisonous dark seas, and found them mesmerizing. I once sat at the center of a dying star and watched it collapse on itself, all dazzling light and sound, waiting at the limit of time and space. I have found the root of all knowledge, shared it with my brethren, and then discarded it out of boredom. 

Your knowledge of physics barely qualifies as such, so I will use small words, ones we have taken from lesser beings. We exist in what you call imagination, the weave where thoughts reside. When you think about something, about someone, a small part your consciousness travels there, and fills the weave. Lie down on the grass, under the starry sky, and close your eyes. Think what it would be like, travelling through those heavenly bodies and, suddenly, a part of you is. You can almost feel the light on your face, the warmth of the fire and the cold of empty space in your skin. You think it’s a trick of your mind, making you daydream, or maybe your wishful thinking. It’s not. 

We live there, and nowhere else. Try to imagine that. We filed the weave around whatever we wanted, each of us moving whimsically. I would think of a star I saw in the distance and, suddenly, there I was, seeing it, feeling it, hearing it. I thought of a friend and I was at his side. We are the ultimate observers. We are living thoughts. That is as close as your mind can get to comprehend us.

When we were born, we saw the world around us and found it beautiful, its marvels entrancing. So we looked outside, and scattered across the stars, trying to take in as much of the universe as we could. 

Then we found the rest. 

At first we were..surprised. We had seen life before, but none of it had much of a mind, barely above instinct, and those ripples in our world where a nice touch, like waves we could finally ride. They were chaotic, but contained, and we could silence or drive them away with a thought, planting fear or worry in their minds. But sentient, material life? That was...dreadful. 

It barely imprinted on the weave, just tiny, little flickers, loud and ugly. Do you know how hate feels like in your skin? What envy and greed taste in your mouth? A million little thoughts flying around, all of them without any greater purpose. Imagine moving around through a cloud of flies, stagnant water and noxious fumes. Imagine the acrid stench on the air, the crawling bugs in your skin, the viscous, slimy rasp in your lungs. 

That’s what it's like. 

I’ve known beings of flesh and metal, of wood and bark, hive-minds and born-killers. I’ve met races full of warriors, of artists, of labourers and workers. I’ve seen civilizations that conquered stars and others that barely managed to get out their own homeworld. All those races were abominations, just like you are. Ugly things that have no place in the universe. You squirm like vermin, bound by your feeble bodies, barely grasping the wonders around you. You marvel at the sight of sunsets, at the crashing sound of waterfalls , at the flowing rivers of magma. You dance with glee under the rain, and clap in pace with thunderstorms like unruly children. You build monuments to your hubris, defiling sky, ocean and land. 

You disgust me. 

All we met thought themselves special, different somehow, and tried to find a meaning for life, the universe, and everything they encountered in their path. They weaved tales, talking of gods and demons, spirits of nature and abstracts personified. They hypothesized and postulated laws and principles of science. They all were wrong. We appointed ourselves purgers, the scourge that would wipe the universe clean. And thus we set to our task with devotion. We sent our bravest, the ones with more defined identities and metaphysical mass. The strongest. 

I spearheaded the cleansing, and we took the first planet by storm, bludgeoning the minds of its inhabitants. We destroyed them by main force, smashing their intellects to smithereens. Some of them fought back, trying their will against us. The poor things. Some ran away like vermin, trying to hide from us. I suppose that had some merit, since we couldn’t think of someone we had never seen or experienced, but we eventually found them. All of them. Their world lay, not in ashes or fire, not in ice or bleak sandstorms, but in total silence. We made it so. It had taken months, and some of us were tired, but the weave was clean again.

After the first cleansing, we thought the cost too much, but we also knew it was a necessity. So we started to become more creative. It started to be a game of sorts. Some of us would go into a planet and plant a thought, the seed of an idea, into an influential mind. An idea for the demise, for the fall of civilization and the ruin of the world. And then we let it grow. We saw our seeds flourish and evolve, a million everchanging tales. Eventually, our ideas festered in their minds, and they became the apocalyptic myths in beliefs and religions.We watched from afar and bet on the outcome, like some pantheon of change and chance and, when we finally needed more space in the weave, moved in, our ideas already in place,  and gave everyone the visions of their chosen cataclysm.

It was glorious.

I watched millions drown because they thought that their Oceanic God would save them from the hellfire raining from the skies. I saw what was left of a great nation pour into a forgotten cathedral, convinced  that a King of old would come back to save them in that eleventh hour. I enjoyed the riots in the streets, brought by the appearance of a thrice-foretold comet. I saw a whole empire, more than a hundred systems strong, just give up the will to live when their measurements indicated that a massive black hole was forming at the core of its strength.

I once managed to convince ten thousand people to make their children kill themselves while they were pure and innocent to safeguard their souls. That one was particularly enjoyable.

We came to be before time was born. We are the conquerors, the apex predators, the unseen foe, the everlasting threat. You may wonder how can all this be, what miracles of technology we might have accomplished to become what we are. There are none. Maybe your old magics and gods are real, and we are finally here to take you and bring you to some heaven or hell. We are not. There was no Singularity, no amazing breakthrough in science, no magic ritual or ascent to a higher plane of existence. We have always been. We believed we would always be.

We don’t really call ourselves anything, for we have no language or words, but we do have a name, one bestowed upon us by billions untold, in a million different languages, even if they never new.

All of them called us the End. 

The name is fitting, I suppose. 

jueves, 12 de marzo de 2015

The Neverfought War - Prologue

Hi everyone

This is going to be my first shot at a short, multichapter story, to which this ~250 words are a small prologue.  It's going to be a prologue, 3 chapters and an Epilogue, because I honestly can't possibly bullshit my way through any more than that :P  . This time I'm using Sci-Fi and Horror as my backdrop, but as always, that's not what the story is about. I'd say this is about humanity, its mind, and whatever lurks in it.

Good hunting

You can find it in DeviantArt and in Reddit.

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The only sure thing about life is that it eventually ceases to be. 

Every race in the universe has tales about the End of Days. They may call it the Apocalypse, the Ragnarok, the Reckoning or any other of a thousand different names. They may speak of all-consuming fire, of an everlasting winter, of some empty void taking everything away. Some think the world will end in darkness, full of nightmarish monsters and demons, some in light, one that cleanses the evil of the world away and takes the righteous away, to a better place.

Every race, no matter how advanced or primitive,  how religious or atheist, how spiritual or materialistic, thinks of the end of the world and shudders in fear unconsciously. You would think that these myths and legends, these stories, these scientific theories or madman’s ramblings, would come naturally to any living thing, born out of a sense of mortality, out of the instinctual knowledge that all things do eventually come to an end. You may even find it beautiful, that every sentient being, no matter its place or time of birth across the stars, be they made of  fleshy meat or hardy chitin, at least agreed on that. That a common thought was born into all minds, big or small, no matter how strange or alien they were to one another.

And that is exactly what we want you to think.