Stories and tales

Limbo is that place capable of turning a small glimmer into a great illusion. A shadowed place where some sense of time can be perceived.

There, in that nothingness, dwells the silence of indifference. It is filled with a possible space in which to become uncomfortable.

In limbo nothing happens; everything is ignored. How uncomfortable nothingness is: an empty shell. It is like a snake’s shed skin; one can see that something was once contained within it, and now only that rough, brittle, fragile, useless hide remains.

It is not even useful as a threat; it is merely a memory of life. I live in limbo. It neither suffocates me nor spits me out. I swallow it bitter, chew it again and again, believing I will find flavor and meaning in it—but I do not.

I put my face into limbo to see whether something happens, and I feel nothing. There is no breeze, no drowsiness; nothing sounds, and everything remains absent. And yet, a small glimmer seems like a great illusion.

The door is the valve of life. Quarrels and sorrows enter through it; forgiveness and oblivion leave through it.

The door allows defeated men to enter and lets them go out again with chests swollen with pride. Men who doubt and women who wait stand in the doorway. Lovers who finally decide to cross kiss there; it is also the best place to reconsider and bid desire farewell.

Messages of protection and blessings are read upon the door, and some might well stop to pray before crossing that threshold.

Time pauses at the door so that dimensions may be changed. Once it has been crossed, reality changes and our thinking reveals a destiny through decisions.

At the door remain the memories of lost days, half-finished writings, and a few friends.

At my door, I decide how many times I remain inside or step out to find a new road. There is no precise schedule, nor does the day matter; it stands there as a liminal space waiting to be occupied.

How many times have I crossed it without noticing my passage? It is so ordinary that I forget its fundamental shelter, its precious value. Crossing is itself an act of redemption, and one crosses again and again until finding its meaning.

Today was definitely one of those days filled with anticipation while shopping. Naturally, starting in the produce section, I could not miss the opportunity to feel the melons and watermelons. I gave them a firm pat and tested their firmness to determine whether they were ripe. I turned them over to find the mark left by the peduncle—the fallen stem that leaves a small hollow. Right there, I brought my nose close and inhaled deeply, searching for their sweet aroma, so characteristic of the perfect moment to eat them.

Once home, in the privacy of the kitchen, I again took into my firm palm those fruits whose weight invited me to hold them more carefully. With one hand steady against the side, I drove the knife deep and slid it through to make a large incision. I continued cutting without a moment’s hesitation, and the sweet, aromatic fragrance filled my nose.

Melon is very special; it slips away while this movement prepares the glide of my knife. It opens in a single stroke, and before me unfold two juicy halves full of seeds, offering themselves. Without losing an instant, I insert my fingers between those halves, turn and remove that temptation, which comes apart and spills juice between my fingers. The flesh lies exposed, and once more I draw near to immerse myself deeply in the intoxicating flavor offered to me.

Determined not to let the moment pass, I cut the first slice and take it directly to my mouth, sinking my teeth into a deep bite that reaches my cheeks and sends juice running around my face. The aroma, the flesh, the juice, and I become one complete mouthful in that moment.

(A story born from the rejection of a green space in Jurica)

My child, from the moment I learned you would be born, I cared for your gestation, ensuring that you arrived under the best conditions. Today, now that your presence here is a fact, I must send you to a boarding school where you can receive the very best. I will continue to watch over you and visit whenever I can. I will promise to come see you, but you will not be at home. Here you would awaken temptations; your friends would come, and surely one or two undesirable people as well. They would visit you and occupy the street, park in front of the house, and the truth is, I do not want them here.

Sending you away is better. There is a special road by which to visit you, and others will shelter you better than I. If they put you to work, it will cause me great sorrow because, from the moment I learned you would be born, I wanted the best for your life, for ours. May not having you at home forge a better destiny for your character and help you enter society as a good being. It could not be otherwise if, thanks to me, you were born; thanks to my determination and care, you are here.

My child, I love you with all my soul, but you cannot be here. I am not turning my back on you; I am simply seeking what is also best for me.

Time gets better when the hips are grasped in time with both hands. They are squeezed within seconds, and the hands glide over the body until the hour arrives to take the breasts, lower one hand, and recognize that it is already time to kiss the neck and take the vulva.

Time gets better when it is allowed to go, to be lost while the entire silhouette is traced, the hidden places are kissed, and the sweet scent of sex is inhaled.

Time improves when my mouth hurriedly finds the nipples and, with one suck, they melt into a soft moan.

Breath now owns the moment.

I keep emptiness in jars and store them safely in the pantry. I do not tighten the lids, so they are easy to open.

Each empty jar has the power to add a hint of memory, a dressing of smiles, a sigh of embrace. How fortunate I am to have my pantry filled with these jars, ready to flavor any dish.

I have left the door open, and only the mice have entered. The afternoon sun has come in, and my dogs go out through it to bark.

I have left the door open so you may enter with the wind’s breath, with the dry leaves and alongside the earth my footsteps left behind.

You have not come, although I left the door open for you. Even at night, I do not slide the bolt, thinking you might arrive in the storm.

Instead, I myself have gone out through that door at night with my head held high, looking toward the sky and searching for the stars.

I return peacefully to sleep, knowing very little about those constellations that have told me so many stories of other loves, other gales, other gates, and so many footsteps belonging to others.

I have left the door open so that you will not arrive and, even if I allowed myself hope, I will not slide the bolt—so that every night I may go out, asleep, with my face lifted, dreaming of other reasons.

One day we had something of our own, and it slipped through our fingers like water. I remember bringing my hands to my face and feeling the freshness of the water seeping between my fingers. We had something of our own, which was nothing other than plunging our hands into a bucket of water, cupping them together, and drinking from them. I put my hands in so many times to soak my arms and splash the floor.

We had something of our own. It was fleeting, although in that moment it felt as though it could continue forever. I put my hands into the bucket of water so many times, then brought them to my hair and swept it back, lifting my face without thinking much and closing my eyes.

We had something of our own, contained for a moment, and we spilled water upon the earth until the dry ground absorbed it. I shook my wet hands in the wind until they dried, knowing that although we had something of our own, there would be no way to keep that moment in our hands—in my hands.

A creative collaboration between father and son: Federico Hernández Ruiz and Emiliano Hernández Soto (2007)

Across the seas of Charcón, beneath the skies of Who Knows Where, sailed the valiant pirate Captain Mascachueco, accompanied by his fierce crew. They were a band of well-born but very badly behaved pirates, and all of them had astonishing nicknames:

• Patachueca, the admiral

• Narizrara, the first commodore

• Garzín, the cabin boy

• Patalcaso, the helmsman

• Sachuta, the lookout

• Imareado, the cook

They had spent days, perhaps weeks, sailing the sea. But there were no adventures in sight, and boredom was sinking them into a stupor so deep they seemed to be becoming part of the ship. It could not be! A ship full of bored pirates! Determined not to fall into the same drowsiness afflicting his crew, Captain Mascachueco spent the hours building model ships in his cabin. He had already assembled half the English fleet, part of the Spanish fleet, and a pair of Portuguese sailboats. Outside his cabin, however, the crew had no idea how to defeat their tedium.

In the mess hall, Patachueca could not stop watching the mucus drip from Narizrara’s nose while Garzín and Sachuta played Chinese checkers. Poor Narizrara was so absorbed in Garzín’s moves that, in addition to the mucus, a thread of drool fell from his mouth all the way to the floor, creating a puddle no one noticed… until Imareado the cook entered.

As he came in, Imareado tripped over one of the benches and, trying to save himself, stepped into the slimy puddle. Poor fellow! He slipped and, in his attempt not to fall, grabbed Sachuta’s hair. Reacting instinctively, Sachuta threw up his arms and struck the checkers board. One piece flew through the air and landed in Garzín’s eye. Garzín screamed, overturned the table, and began stamping the floor in a fit of rage.

Chaos erupted in the mess hall. Pieces flew, benches toppled, and Narizrara’s drool continued spreading everywhere. Patachueca flung himself backward to avoid being struck by a sticky piece, and at that very moment the mess-hall door burst open.

Captain Mascachueco appeared in the doorway, surveying the disaster. At that instant, a piece flew straight into his face and struck his forehead, leaving a trail of viscous drool. The Captain, who had always been a patient man, remained still for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed. Then he shouted:

—Attention, scoundrels! To your stations!

The pirates tried to stand, but the floor was so slippery they could barely keep their footing. Just when it seemed the chaos could grow no worse, a mighty blow shook the ship’s hull, sending everyone tumbling once more into a jumble of mucus, checkers, and drool. Captain Mascachueco, now utterly enraged, went out onto the deck. From there he saw something that left him speechless: in the distance, beneath a gray sky, rose the famous Island of Cortapescuezos.

—It cannot be!—he whispered. He knew well what that island meant.

He had heard legends in taverns while drinking milkshakes. ‘Those who encounter the Island of Cortapescuezos will meet a finicky fate, like pirates of filthy water,’ the old sailors said. But the Captain could not turn back. He knew that every good pirate’s destiny is to face the unexpected.

The crew, still covered in drool and in disarray, tried to compose themselves. Mucus continued sliding down their faces when the Captain ordered them ashore.

Landing on the Island of Cortapescuezos

Bare-Toe Beach was everything its name promised: a strip of white sand without a single trace of shoes or civilization. Upon arriving, they were greeted by a wind carrying a peculiar scent… Flat-tu-las! Strange bats and monkeys propelled through the air by powerful gases.

—What a strange place!—Narizrara said while trying to wipe the mucus from his face.

The team advanced toward a large cave, which showed signs of having been a bustling place long ago. Upon entering, the pirates found a feast: endless minty morsels waiting for them!

Hungry, they did not hesitate to throw themselves upon the food. But something strange began to happen. Before long, their stomachs filled with an odd sensation, and what had once been beard began to transform into minty tubes that grew and coiled around them.

—This is not normal!—Patalcaso cried as he tried to pull away one of the tubes hanging across his face. And that was not all: their heads transformed into cheese-covered skulls that melted beneath the sun and dripped through their ears. Unable to move, the pirates fell one by one, victims of their own gluttony.

All except Patalcaso.

A New Adventure: Descabello Island

Seeing that his companions had succumbed to that transformation, the valiant helmsman decided to flee. He ran back to the beach, where waves of orrines—not urine—broke along the shore. With two leaps and a turn in the air, he hurled himself into the boat and began rowing furiously to escape the curse of the Island of Cortapescuezos.

After his escape, Patalcaso reached Descabello Island, where a furious marrasno—not a pig—waited, ready to devour him. But the marrasno had not counted on one thing: pirates taste bitter with walnuts!

Determined to survive, Patalcaso drew his sleep-inducing chocolate shotgun and, after a couple of shots, the marrasno fell asleep. Its final words were:

—Mint chocolate? I wanted the liqueur kind!

Relieved, Patalcaso continued on his way, accompanied by his faithful monkey Flipper. Together they explored the island, finding stranger creatures and, naturally, many more challenges. Along the road they were joined by Rafus the Rascalón, a small, cunning ferret who would become their new companion in adventure.

At last, the three reached an abandoned fast-food shop. To open the door, Patalcaso recalled the wise words known to every good pirate: ‘May an anvil fall on you before you eat my hamburger, because no one messes with it.’ The door opened by magic!

More infernal mints awaited them inside. This time, however, Patalcaso was prepared. With the help of his new friends, he overcame the challenge and freed his crew from the minty curse.

I did not always know it, but one day my son showed me a stone. It was small, yet something about it felt familiar. Then I understood: it was pure Neuromite!

From that moment on, I felt happy to remember where I come from. Now that stone always keeps us company at home. There it is, small and pink, with its white veins and delicate grooves, always possessing infinite patience. It seems to fill with life each time we touch it or look at it together.

No matter where we leave it, it always appears again. And whenever it does, it reminds us how special every encounter is.

Although it is not alive, it makes us feel that every moment fills with life.

When the sun touches it, the stone seems to glow from within. It never looks the same, and each time we gaze at it, we discover a new landscape.

It is as though it were a thousand worlds in one. It is my world, the place I come from and the place to which I can travel whenever I wish.

Best of all, I do not need to close my eyes to arrive there. All it takes is a smile and, as if by magic, I am in my world.

How fortunate that my son helped me rediscover it. It has always been with me, but now I can share it—not only with him, but with everyone.