"Follow the White Rabbit" / revista literaria virtual bilingüe / bilingual virtual literary magazine /
/ revista literaria virtual bilingüe /
/ bilingual virtual literary magazine /
LANZAMIENTO: 2018 / COMING UP ON 2018
La revista literaria en las redes sociales hará su lanzamiento en 2018.
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The literary magazine on social media will come out on 2018.
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What is art:
Some weeks ago I read an article online about a children’s book written by an AI-based app. There was a lot of buzz around it and a lot of comments from authors who had been writing and querying for years and had still not been published saying it was unfair, or that it was not art at all. I couldn’t stop thinking about this since then.
Is it art? Well, some may argue the language used by a machine, or the structures, or the complexity of the plot points, or whatever, might be flat. But is that enough to say that this is not art? There might be thousands of books published by humans which also have some of the mentioned or other points deemed as “flat” by others.
Some may argue it’s not art because a machine created it, and not a person. But wasn’t that machine created and programmed by humans, and wasn’t it a human who inputted the conditions and variables needed to create the output text into that specific program? Therefore, isn’t the result of something a group of human minds helped develop, a product of those human minds as by extension?
After going back and forth with these and many other points, I went to look up the definition of art.
Merriam-Webster says: “the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the production of aesthetic objects.”
“Conscious use of skill” and “creative imagination” are key here. Can we program a machine to be creative? Maybe. To have imagination? More doubtful, perhaps. But to “consciously” use a skill? It does not have a conscience, right?
Right? To confirm, I went and looked at “artificial intelligence” in the same dictionary.
It said: “the capability of a machine to imitate intelligent human behavior.”
“To imitate human behavior” would suggest it’s just copying or mirroring other people’s works from the immensity of a repository the virtual world is. Would therefore the art it produces be a copy of other people’s work because it’s based on works from the past? But aren’t all stories said to be just different versions of templates as old as time? And isn’t art supposed to “imitate” life to?
This was not taking me anywhere. I changed optics and looked inside, on what I thought. I think art is supposed to produce an effect on the consumer of it. On the viewer or the reader or the person who experiences it. Any form of art can have different meaning to different people or even to the same person if experienced at a different time of their life. Art can make us feel things, different things at different times. It can move us, it can make us relate to something, to someone, maybe the author, maybe other consumers of it. It can unite us or separate us, make us think about something, make us act, make us proud, make us hate, it can be popular or controversial… Isn’t that what’s happening with this piece also?
We may not like it, but machine-created art is here. The “virtuality” of things has made its appearance inevitable. Virtually-crafted things have spread and reached art. And as such, and as any form of it, it is causing people to talk about it and giving rise to discussions around it, and as such also, we can each have an opinion on it, we may love it, or hate it, or something in between.
This inspired the following story. Let’s call it:
“The Writing Duel”
I was on a break from my writing routine browsing through endless meaningless online posts when I came across an ad for an app. My writing habits make the algorithms go crazy sometimes –you know writers look up for almost anything, right?– but this was accurately targeted for once and, even though I’d normally ignore these kind of thing, I was intrigued. Or perhaps I just wanted to keep on procrastinating and not get back to work.
In any case, I downloaded the app. It had a catchy name I will not mention, for purposes, and it was user-friendly enough for the non savvy electronically such as myself to be able to enjoy. The ad had promised “AI-created stories to aid the writer and entertain the reader in you”, and I had been creating stories, or trying to, for enough time to know it was easier said than done, so I was indeed intrigued as to what a machine could do on my line or work. Would it become a competitor?
I created an account and was automatically prompted to input some information to create my first story. I indulged. Name of main character, location, timeline, inciting incident, theme, conflict, resolution, name of secondary characters and antagonists. I had all these kinds of things in my mind from my current writing activities. If you didn’t input anything in five seconds, it even gave you options. After twenty such points, you were asked to choose a template. There were many to chose from, such as end of the world dystopia, romantic comedy, heroes versus villains, and so and so.
All done, all chosen. Five minutes total. I hit create. And… two seconds later, a two paragraph tale was materialized in front of my very eyes. Two seconds! Really? How could I compete against that? But then, I read it. It was very flat and simple. There was no sauce to it. It lacked… substance.
I breathed and went back to work on my book. I was inspired and wrote my daily quota in one sitting. Then, I went to bed, exhausted. The following morning I had a message from the app.
“Would you like to expand the story?”
I decided to reply Yes, and then something more resembling a short story appeared, also after just a few seconds. I read it. It was certainly better than the first. More words, more drama, more characters. Even filler words and descriptions, setting. I was upset to say the least, but I wasn’t going to let “it” win. I had to go write something better than that. So I went back to my WIP and I added on some substance to the chapter I was working on. It was the last battle, the hero apparently losing it to learn his lesson.
I think it was the best writing I had ever produced. At least up to that moment, that is, because the following morning it happened again. The app had sent a new message.
“Would you like to turn this into a novel?” Well, I was not expecting that. Could it be possible for that virtual thing to create a whole novel? I was intrigued as to how many seconds it would take for it to return the end product if I said Yes that time. I turned it off and put the phone down. I had some thinking to do.
But I was inspired, so instead of thinking, I went back to writing and I finished my book. The one I had been working on for months. I didn’t even slept that night.
After two days, I turned my phone back on. I was recharged and ready to review my book. I couldn’t believe why an app had scared me so much. I felt a bit silly. Two minutes after, a new message appeared.
“Terms and conditions not accepted.”
What? I got in the app and saw an extensive text with lots and lots of clauses. I was not going to read all that. I decided to delete the app instead. I tried.
“You have to accept the T&Cs before deleting the app.”
Jeez! Ok. Accept. Delete. I was free.
I revised my book and sent it to my agent. He was thrilled. It was the comeback they were expecting me to make for years. He pitched it, there was a bid war for it, it was published, I was signing copies and scheduling readings for it. Just like before, I was back.
A week after the publishing day, I got a message in my phone. It was from the writing app.
“What the…? I’ve deleted you! You can’t keep sending me messages!!” It could, as it turned out. It was in the T&Cs.
“You’ve been charged with plagiarism. You will receive an email from our legal department shortly.”
“Plagiarism! What? What??!!”
I waited and waited. It seemed like hours, used to getting responses from this thing in seconds, but it was only five minutes after that I got an email from them.
They were suing me for plagiarism. I had used in my novel names of characters and locations and plot points that I had entered in the app as variables for the story it created. As per the T&Cs, everything created by the AI processor of the app was property of the manufacturers, bla, bla, bla, bla…
I called my agent and told him what had happened. He just said: “What do I always tell you? Why do you hired me?”
“To read the small print in everything,” I replied.
Alejandra A. Alejo
Check out my work and reach out here:
Wattpad. https://my.w.tt/IFK4S6SdHL
Twitter. https://twitter.com/aaalejo1
«Interpreting the Signs»
The story of Sam Sanders in Bits and Pieces
By A.A.Alejo
Part 2 – «Coffee for Two»
“I made breakfast.” It was his usual line, but it sounded bitter in her ears that morning. She played along and sat at the kitchen table where a cup of fresh black coffee was waiting for her. She smelled the toasts and him. She was used to this. It was familiar. Why couldn’t she say yes, then?
She could still do it. She hadn’t said no either. But there was an awkwardness in the air that told her everything had already changed. Two lives forever changed by the silence of an unexpected brief impulsive moment.
He extended the same courtesy by eating his toasts in absolute silence. She smelled her coffee. It smelled like security and memories and family. He gave her that. She could have it forever. If she could just say yes.
She took a zip, oblivious of his presence and the fact that he was studying her every move. Trying to get a sense of what was going through her mind, while she continued to slip away from what they had.
It was the timing. She still couldn’t figure out what had prompted her to quit her job at the UN. She still needed to understand what was happening to her. She felt she didn’t know who she was anymore. How could she be someone’s wife when she didn’t know who she was. Would he still love her once she discovered that? Would she?
Her thoughts were interrupted by his getting out. As he was passing by her, his hand pressed her shoulder gently.
“Will you think about it, Sam?”
He didn’t wait for her reply. He left for work, but it felt as if he was leaving for good. She took another zip, still staring into the emptiness in her life. She was startled by the phone. It was a message from Chief Carlson; he needed her to assist in the questioning of a witness. The consultancy was all she had left now, so she’d go. It felt good to help out. She’d have to ponder on this later, though deep down she already knew she could not say yes. Not at this time. This was her time.
She typed “I’ll come over right away.” And she hurried the rest of the coffee while picking up her purse and car keys. The empty cup would be there in the kitchen table when she came back, a reminder of her solitude when he was not there.
«Interpreting the Signs»
The story of Sam Sanders in Bits and Pieces
By A.A.Alejo
Part 1 – «The Interpreter»
The precinct looked busy as she’d never seen it before. Maybe it was like that all mornings. She was used to being called after business hours to help out. But now that she was on a leave she had her days wide open, so she’d suggested getting the deposition early in the morning for a change.
The place looked different somehow. Brighter. And not due to sunlight coming in through the glassed doors. It was something else entirely. It almost felt like an office. People busy with paperwork on their desks or sitting in line in chairs with their backs to the walls patiently waiting for someone to call out their numbers for them to address what they came to do.
There were so many more policemen and women there than during the night shift also. She didn’t know most of them, which was weird. When she’d come in at night everybody would greet or nod in recognition at her sight. It was better this way. It went well with her current mood. That was the reason she had taken the leave after all. She needed some out of the grid alone introspective time to assess her life and make decisions about her future.
As she turned around the hallway to get to the interrogation rooms she saw him. That was another reason why she’d preferred to come early. To avoid him. Things were still weird between them and she didn’t know how to talk to him anymore. It seemed he had to work the day shift that day. She wasn’t familiar with his schedule and career particularities anymore. It somehow felt strange. As if there was something missing in her life. She realized she missed him. Maybe it had been a mistake to break it off. It was one of the things she needed to ponder on.
He was busy removing the handcuffs from a tall languid guy who was just staring at the floor the whole time. She pressed on and moved pass him into the back hallway. There was such an array of individuals mixing their scents into the morning air, which reminded her of why she hated coming down to the precinct. She didn’t have a chance now. This was all the work she’d get now. Until she decided what she’d do with the rest of her life at least. She dragged herself to Interrogation Room 3, where she’s been summoned by the chief himself to officiate as interpreter for a minor that was to be questioned on the disappearance of his younger sister. It was nothing to look forward to. She didn’t know it would be something she’d never be able to erase from her mind, though. Perks of the trade.
She opened the door and sat next to the child.
“Soy Sam Sanders. Soy la interprete.”
The boy didn’t say anything. There was an eerie grin crossing his face, almost imperceptible but one that she couldn’t get out of her mind after seeing it. She would remember this in her dreams. Nightmares were part of the problem. Her emphatic proneness was something that usually helped in her line of work, especially with those who didn’t want to talk, but it was also what made her so vulnerable and open to let in all kinds of feelings. Some stuck with her for a long time after perceiving them in others. This was not a good omen. She tried to relax and waited for the chief’s lead.
Chief Carlson came forward, folder in hand, sat down opposite them with his cigar still balancing on the edge of his mouth, and opened the folder up. He took some photographs and threw them at them one by one in slow rehearsed movements. First one was a pretty, curly, pump girl in a pink dress. She was smiling. The next one showed a massacred image of the same innocent face. That one would sneak into her dreams too. Then a succession of images equally disturbing flashed before her eyes and just like that the brightness of a promising day turned to ashes and the darkness of the world that had managed to seclude her found its way into the surface. She turned her face away, fighting the tears. The boy didn’t.
I’ve been killing myself for ten months to complete my training, and, in all this time, I got no recognition of my effort whatsoever. Never a thank you, never a “well done”, sometimes no word at all, no indication of listening to my responses or contributions.
I get that she’s called the Silent Witchy Terror of Piñeyro, but she takes the “silent” part too seriously. I understand it with the vics, for intimidation, and even with clients. Have to stay in the part, for effect, but amongst us… after ten months… How am I supposed to know if I’m a good trainee?
When I started out I thought she was the coolest villain I’d ever seen. And, as a fan of villainy, I had studied them all. I was caught up in all the glare, her presence alone emanates an aura of darkness that’s… well, it’s intoxicating. I was high on landing this apprenticeship, to be honest. And the first few weeks, she said to watch her work and try to be helpful, so I just did that. I mimicked her, I was her shadow. I was taking in all about the disposition in the lair, memorizing where all the ingredients she used for her potions were, even though the vials and little drawers have no tags or any sign of identification.
Then, there were the books. There were lots of them, but she usually used one, a big leather volume in which she had inked all her enchantments. I was making the paralyzing shock and the sleeping torrent by myself after three weeks. I was attending the meetings with clients after one month there, and I was allowed to tag along on missions since I completed the physical workout phase.
Sure, you’ll say advancement should be enough indication that I was doing good, and I could see I was progressing, and being trusted with more tasks, but still I craved for some sign that we were… you know… a team or something.
The worse came after our last heist. We were hired to rob a painting in the penthouse of a heavily guarded building downtown. It was not our usual gig, nor was our turf, and to be honest, I don’t know why she took it. I’ve seen her turn down client after client, the most incredible requests you would imagine, for no apparent reason, more than her disliking the messenger, I presume. But this one was big, a wealthy known-criminal disguised as a civil servant –and I could tell she despised the type– had a row with his daughter and the daughter wanted payback. She wanted humiliation, so it had to make the news. Robing the painting, and returning it to their rightful owners, in the Art Museum, would surely give the people something to talk about. The police getting inside the penthouse to investigate the crime scene would hopefully expose some other more meaningful crimes, which may lead to an investigation with luck, or at least some destruction of credibility for the public opinion’s sake.
I had prepared all the potions and procured blueprints of the building. I had staked out the guy and got inside the building posing as a delivery person twice, to get a sense of security and confirm entry and exit lanes. I had come up with the plan and I was there through its execution, handing her everything every step of the way.
We went in big and loud, as the client wanted. We petrified the guards at the door, paralyzed the housekeeping staff, got the painting and flew from the rooftop by broom to the museum with the cellphone cameras and news choppers all around us, then we vanished without a trace, with the enhanced vanishing potion I helped enhance. And we made the news, all right, just as intended. And then, I realized, the worse was getting no recognition by outsiders. Nobody knew who I was, what I had contributed to the heist, least of all my name, it was all “The Silent Witchy Terror did it again”. “The SWT this and that”. “The southern vigilante is out to take down corruption” and a bunch of other non-stop nonsense 24/7.
I was not mentioned by a single post in social media or piece of news on TV or newspaper article at all. It didn’t even say the was a sidekick or a plus one or anything there that night, which was weird, as there were tons of witnesses and there would have been lots and lots of footage. I couldn’t understand why they had to make it all about her, she was a big deal, but surely someone would have noticed… then it hit me. She had taught it to me herself, on week one. If you can’t explain something, there’s probably magic involved.
So I went through the videos people had posted. The heist was trending, so it was easy. And there I saw it, or more accurately, I didn’t see it: me. I was not there on any video. Could she had deleted me from every video, photo, obliterated all proof of my part in it? Maybe, but then… I went to the book. There was a new spell at the end, it was scrambled in and had lots of amendments on it. She had practiced it and perfected it. It was called “invisibility cover”. She had used it on me. Yes. The lime blossom tea she got me that afternoon. It was unusual of her to prepare a meal, least for me. I had thought it was a kind of compliment to my work at the time, but no. She does not move a finger without an ulterior motive, no.
That was it. She had me doing all the work and then she made me literally invisible! It was not enough ignoring me and not making me feel a part of a team. She had to make sure no-one knew she had someone helping her. What did she think, I was not going to notice?
I’ve been going through the books all night and I had found what I need. The perfect spell to get rid of her. I will take over her business and keep the terror going. I thought about impersonating her, but I want nothing to do with her. I will let the world know I’ve killed her and there’s a new witch in town when I’m done. And they will fear me. They will not ignore me. Nobody will take me for granted ever again.
INTERIOR OF SATAN’S OFFICE – HELL
SATAN and TEAM OF EXPERTS are planning a heist.
SATAN: Let’s go over it one more time, make sure we’re all in the same page. We´ll probably have one shot at this, and then they’ll be on the alert.
RIGGS: What’s the score?
SATAN: Need to know only, remember. What we retrieve is for me. You only need to know that. You are my ponds in this game, and you will do this if you want your benefits. Are we clear this time?
RIGGS: Yes, your Darkeness. I’m sorry. I’m just curious as to why you’re going through all this trouble…
SATAN: Just because.
RIGGS: It’s just…
SATAN snaps his fingers and RIGGS’ soul is evaporated with an explosion.
SATAN: Anybody else’s curious?
Everyone else is absolutely motionless.
SATAN: Good. As I was saying…
JARED: Sorry, Sir…. to interrupt… but… won’t we be needing another thief… now that you have…?
SATAN: Shit! You’re right. Go get number 2.
JARED: Yes, Sir. On it.
JARED goes out. No-one moves or talks. SATAN paces around. A few minutes later, JARED gets in with STEPHEN, the second best thief in hell. They sit quietly.
SATAN: As I was saying, then… Let’s go over the plan one last time…
SATAN (cont.): We have someone already on the inside. The Boatman, they call him. He’ll get you in. You’ll infiltrate this afternoon, you’ll be taking a boat at Ostia, go through the Pillars of Hercules, and you’ll be dropped right at the bottom of the Mountain of Purgatory. From that point on, you’re on your own, and I’ll claim complete deniability if you’re captured by his soldiers. Understood?
Everyone nods, but no-one speaks.
SATAN (cont.): …Manfred is the first you’ll come across, right at the base of the cliff, guarding Peter’s Gate. There’s a rule says that no soul climbs after sunset, so you´d need to climb at night to be on the dark, but one of you needs to get there before Manfred retires and gain his trust. The thief was going to do this part. It’s up to you, now…. (thinking)
JARED: Stephen, Sir.
SATAN: Stephen, yes. I remember you. You were good. You need to bring your A game. You’re here because you are the best on what you do. Robbing, that is…
STEPHEN: I believe I’m second best, Sir. Why don’t you bring Riggs in?
SATAN: He’s no longer with us…
STEPHEN: Oh! Ok. What are we robbing?
SATAN: You’ll be obtaining two separate keys the Keeper stores at his jacket pockets at all times. One silver and one gold. They need to be entered together on the gate at the same time in order to gain access. That’s the extent of your services. You can go back after opening the Gate, and the rest of the team will ascend.
STEPHEN: Ok.
SATAN: Ok? Do you have any doubts?
STEPHEN: No. Easy-peasy.
SATAN: That’s the spirit! So… after Stephen here, with all his confidence, gets the keys, the rest will make the climb at night, when no other souls will be at sight. You’ll need to climb the 7 terraces.
JARED: Sir… with all due respect… about that… some have been wondering…
SATAN: (visibly annoyed at the interruption) Yes?…
JARED: Isn’t that too close to the Earthly Paradise, Sir?
SATAN: Of course it’s too fucking close! The urn is at the summit of the Mount. The summit is pretty close, I would say… What the fuck’s the difference? The whole trip is suicide… but only if you get caught…
JARED: That’s not it, Sir. Anyone would gladly perish for your Grace. The thing is… Would there… would there be risk of passing through?
SATAN: What on Earth d’you mean?
JARED: Of any of us… being pardoned, I mean… crossing over to Heaven.
SATAN: Good God!
JARED: Sir, his name!
SATAN: I know, I know… the pact. Can’t take his name… I’m sorry, ok? We’ll keep it between us. It’s just that… I was not expecting that! You’re afraid to go to Heaven?
JARED: Well… some are… yes. I am.
SATAN: I didn’t know you loved me so much, man. Come here, give it.
JARED goes closer to SATAN and SATAN embraces him for a couple of seconds.
SATAN (cont.): I wouldn’t be too worried about it, anyway.
JARED: No?
SATAN: You see… what the fuck… I’ll let you in on it… What we’re stealing will give us the power we’ve been needing for our master plan.
JARED: ‘The’ Master Plan?
SATAN: The one and only!
JARED: Oh!
The others in the room start talking and become agitated.
STEPHEN: What is it?
JARED: It’s…
SATAN: It’s ok. Tell them.
JARED: To destroy heaven… and make a big huge hell all over, but… I don’t understand. What would give us such power? What are we stealing… if you don’t mind me asking, oh Great and Powerful Lord of Darkn…
SATAN: Yes, yes. Ok. I’ll tell you all… It’s a soul.
JARED: Just one soul. Whose?
SATAN: One so powerful they keep it locked in an urn on the realms of the 7th terrace, very close to the Garden, so that it can taste it and be kept… let’s say under control… They… ‘He’ fears it… what it can do… if he comes over to my side…
JARED: Whose is it?
SATAN: A traitor. ‘The’ traitor.
JARED: Why is it on Purgatory if it’s a traitor. I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, Sir.
SATAN: Because he repented. But it was too late. The harm was done. You see… he has been on the inside… he knows things… he knows how to take them down… or at least… that’s what I’m hoping. Why would they keep him secluded there otherwise?
STEPHEN: Who?
SATAN: Iscariot.
Everyone on the room falls silent, no-one moves.
JARED (breaking the silence): How do you know it’s gonna be there, Sir?
SATAN: I’ve got someone on the inside, up there with Him… tipped me off.
JARED: You sure you can trust him? It’s risky. It could be a trap.
SATAN: Oh… I’m sure. He’s been wanting to switch sides for years, and he won’t blow his chance. So… who’s in?
They all cheer and answer at once.
Cinderella’s Ghost (Or what happens if you have no mouse pets)
The dance had been wonderful. A dream come true. She would never be able to repay her fairy grandmother for all of it. She was so happy, as she had not been in a very long time. She could not sleep after getting home walking, and shoe-less (one lost, one in her hand held tight, as a reminder of what had been). She was too excited. She never thought she could spend such a magical time. It wouldn´t last long, but she did not know it yet.
She was going through her daily chores as best as she could, half walking in clouds while thinking about her dance companion. She did not realize she was dancing and singing along the whole morning. Her stepmom noticed though, but did not make much of it at the time.
As she was preparing the supper, she heard a visitor calling. She went towards the door, to answer, when she saw that her stepmother was already outside, chatting to the royal envoy. She pressed her ear to the window to listen what it was about. She heard that the prince was looking for her dancing partner from the previous night. She run outside through the back door, to be able to hear more. She saw the shoe on a red silk cushion, and her stepmother letting the envoy in, while calling her step-sisters down. She run upstairs to change her clothes into something more presentable, and then went down to the basement, where she had hidden the other shoe.
Her stepmother caught a glimpse of her going down the stairs, and was curious. Nobody used the basement and there was nothing there; so she followed her. She saw her moving a rock from the dump muddy floor, and taking out a sheet with something inside. As she unrolled it to take the shoe out, she heard a noise and turned around just in time to see the woman locking up the door. She went up the wooden stairs and tried to push the door open, unsuccessfully. There were no windows, and the door was heavy, which made her shouts and kicks seem effortless. She waited for hours, thinking how she would face her stepmom and how she would run away immediately, as soon as she was out. She would go to him, and never look back.
It was very dark and cold down there. She waited and waited, but days went by and no one came. She had no food and no warm clothes, nothing but the shoe. A token of her happy time. That kept her going for a while, but eventually she let herself go.
The step mother died two days after she had locked her up, and the step-daughters were left alone in the house. They thought she had run away. Eventually, they had to move away. They swore they could hear unexplained noises in the house, and feared it was haunted.
“Perpetual” by A.A.Alejo
His mother said they could go to the toy store to pick something up for his birthday, so when the light of the sun hit his eyelids that morning, Ben jumped out from his bed and run to the kitchen table to get breakfast out of the way and be able to begin his day.
His mother was not surprised to see him so exited but she dreaded what he might ask for, considering the dire situation they were going through at the moment. She didn’t ask until they were on their way.
“What do you want as a present?”
“The Puncher.”
It was an action figure of a popular TV show he loved to watch. It would be too expensive.
When they got to the store, Ben went straight to the hot sales aisle. It was dreaded by many parents. There comes an age in which you can’t pick for them anymore, and it’s too early to make them understand the cost of things and how purchasing works. But sometimes you have to. She looked at the price tag redundantly, to make him aware of the fact. She swallowed her pride and told him: “I can’t afford this, honey.”
His eyes stopped glowing, as if magically, and her heart broke. So she added; “Why don’t you look around to see if there’s something else you’d like and play here while I go to the other floor to get you some clothes?”
And so it begun. He spent the whole day playing, but he didn’t look around. He just spent the time doing all the things he had been meaning to do with the only toy he wanted.
After his mother finished shopping, they went home, and she baked him a birthday cake. They spent the day playing and dancing and having fun, and when he blew his birthday cake candles, he had one wish he didn’t have to think much to conjure:
“I wish this day would never end.”
Next day, when he woke up, his wish would come true.
Ben woke up the next day and lingered in bed for a while. He was tired after all the playing and dancing and excitement of the previous day. And he was sad, because he couldn’t get what he wanted as a present.
After a while, he heard a knock at the door and his mother got in singing Happy Birthday. She sat next to him and hug him tight, and she said: “I’m surprised you’re still sleeping. I thought you’d be eager to go pick a gift to the toy store.”
Perplexed, he asked: “Gift? Didn’t we go yesterday…?”
“What? Are you serious, Ben? You’ve been waiting for your birthday for weeks. I think you’re a bit sleepy still. Get down when you’re ready.”
He got down and found the same breakfast as the day before laid down on the table before him. The cereal bowl and glass of milk of every day plus a specially decorated birthday muffin. That was weird. When they got out of the house, he saw they were in fact going the same way as the previous day, towards the toy store. And his mom said:
“What do you want as a present?”
“The Puncher…” he hesitated, but the answer came out almost involuntarily. Though he knew the words that were coming next, he didn’t mind, because he realized his wish had come true. The day had not ended, but somehow it was beginning again.
***
On his way to work, Johnny would always pick s newspaper. He would read the headlines while waiting for the lights to change and he would skim through the rest of the articles at his lunch break. The headlines for May 15 were nothing but political. Not his cup of tea. So, instead, he took out his worn copy of “War and Peace” from his backpack and started page 10. It was the further he had ever got, for the pages had not been worn by his hands, but those of his father, and he had always wanted to know what all the fuss was about.
After reading the first lines, he couldn’t get out of his mind the thought that he had read those words before. Maybe he had passed that mark before and he just didn’t remember, but his mind did.
While he was going back to his post on the story after his break was over, he tripped with some scattered building blocks in the playing area, and his knee hit the lower action figures shelf, causing his old football injury to cause more pain that it should, and all the boxes of The Puncher to go flying everywhere.
A boy looked up at him and smiled. He stoped mid-cursing and walked away. He had a feeling he had seen that boy before, but he discarded it, and sat for a while to wait the pain away.
When he got back up, he saw the boy had a piece of paper in his hand and was coming towards him.
“I almost forgot you told me to give you this.”
“I did? Have we met before?”
“Yes.”
“When did I say that?”
“Yesterday.”
He was sure he would remember seeing the boy the day before, but he played along and took the paper. What he read was written by his own hand. He was sure of that much.
***
When the boy came to give Johnny a piece of paper after his lunch break, he was surprised. But when he saw the piece of paper was written in his own handwrite, he didn’t know what to make of it.
He read it twice. It said:
“Trapped in a time loop. Boy’s the key.”
And then underneath with ink a different color: “Proof: knee injury.”
He inadvertently touch his knee where he had hit the toy shelve a little earlier. It definitely hurt a lot for such a small bump. What did the message mean? Repetition of bumps caused the pain to feel worse? If it did, this day must have been looping for a while, for the pain was great.
He looked at the boy. He had gone to the playing area already, without waiting for a reply. He followed.
“Hey, kid. What’s your name?”
“Ben.”
“Do me another favor, Ben?”
“Ok.”
“Tomorrow. Can you give me the paper earlier?”
“Ok.”
He wanted to test something. And he needed confirmation. He took a different ink color and wrote another line on the note, and he gave it to the boy. Then, he went to watch him from a distance.
After a while, Johnny saw the boy stashing the piece of paper inside the doll he was playing with, and going out of the store with his mother.
***
When Johnny saw the piece of paper written with different colors and wrinkled, and comprehended its meaning, he begun to despair. The pain in his knee was excruciating and he hadn’t even hit the toy shelve yet. How many times had this day begun?
More importantly, how could he end it?
He decided to follow Ben around and listen to his every word, watch his every move and maybe even follow him home when he left the store. While watching him from a distance, he hurt his knee and felt a pain he had never felt before. He needed to put an end to that.
The boy was only playing. Sometimes he uttered a phrase or two, just normal play talk, doing the voice of the action man, “saving the world”, that kind of thing. What was so important about this day? What needed to be different?
He realized he was sure it had to be the boy only because the piece of paper said so. But then, a more important thought crossed his mind: if the day was beginning each time, how was it possible for the paper containing many entries made by him at different times even exist?
On his tenth run, he finally discovered the piece of paper stayed in the action figure the boy was always holding. At first he thought it was a toy of his, one that he cherished, but then he saw he left it behind at the store, in the lower shelf of the playing area.
Johnny went to pick it up and saw that the toy was worn out, as if it had been played with many days, and he found the piece of paper strapped into the doll’s utility belt. It was weird: the toy seemed to be the only thing seeing the passing of time in the loop they were trapped in. That, and the pain to this knee, which was still incrementing.
The toy. The boy.
How could he break the cycle?
He had an idea and he decided to ask the boy a question so he added something in the piece of paper. He would have to wait until the next day. Or the next beginning. Hoping he could make it the last.
***
When Ben went to take the piece of paper to the nice employee this time, he stood waiting. For some reason, he felt that he was going to ask him something. He stayed there with The Puncher in his hand, waiting.
Johnny finished reading, and after a minute to take it all in, he said:
“If I told you you could take whatever you wanted from the shop home today, what would you want?”
Ben’s eyes widen, and he stared at the action figure he was holding in his hand. He lifted it up and tilted his head towards it.
Johnny said: “Don’t you want a new one?”
“No. This is the one.”
“Ok, boy. Give it to me.”
Johnny wrapped it up and gave it to Ben. When his mom came to pick him up, Johnny told her it was a special gift from the store because he was the last customer of the week.
That night he danced and had cake with his mom and his new toy, and he fell asleep holding it.
When he woke up next morning, he didn’t have the doll in his hand, and he feared the day of his birthday had begun one more time. But then his mom got in and asked: “Did you have a good birthday, honey?”
He looked around and found the toy had fallen to the carpet. He smiled and said: “The best. Thanks, mom.”
THE END
«The Journey» by A.A.Alejo
The pace is steady, but the journey is long. Too long. I never thought I’d be here. I can’t believe I am. I take a look around and see the wagon’s almost empty. There are only two others in here with me. I ponder on whether I should engage them but I reject that thought immediately. We’re all here for a reason. We need to take a look inside. It’s supposed to be an introspective journey after all.
I think it scares me that I’m not afraid. After all, I don’t know what’s next, or even if there’s anything at all. But I’m unmoved. I’m not impressed or altered either. I seem to be devoid of most emotions in here. How else would we be safe?
I think I doze off. When I open my eyes again, the train is still moving and my mind is still trying to settle. I look outside the window and all I can see are different shades of light. I can’t make out anything else. Maybe there’s nothing there. Why would there be? Too distracting. I turn my gaze the other side and I notice someone’s sitting right next to me: “When did you get in?”
“Just now”, the little boy replies. He starts talking and I’m just thinking he’s keeping me away from what I’m supposed to be doing, but pretty soon I forget what I’m supposed to be doing and I get lost in a meaningless conversation that seems to be going on for hours.
After a while I realize only the boy’s talking and I can’t even make out his words anymore. They don’t make sense. This reminds me of a dream I once had. I close my eyes and try to shut out the noise of his chatting. When I open them, he’s gone. He’s not even in the wagon. What happened? Has he got off already? Has it been so easy for him?
Thinking the key may be to let it all out of you, I decide to approach one of the other passengers. I choose the one closest to me, three seats ahead. When she turns around to meet my eye, I realize it’s my granny, but a much younger version of her that the one I remember. It’s the one of my childhood. A tear rolls down my eye, and she immediately starts comforting me, just as she always had before she passed. I’ve missed her so much, and I still regret not been there for her in the end. Too busy with work schedules and life, thinking I’d get round to it on the weekend or the following week, and having her leave so suddenly without me even saying goodbye was a blow too hard for a young me to bear.
I seem to recall having a dream much like this once, after her demise. Me and her talking, much as we did when she was alive and well. Another dream. Maybe that’s how this place works after all.
After a while, it almost feels as if all the dreams I ever have had are being relived on this journey, on this train, night after night.
I must have dozed off again for my granny is gone. I start crying happy tears. I feel much lighter after talking to her. I peek outside the window and I can see more than light now. The images seem to be out of focus though, and the light around them seems to be getting brighter. I must be doing something right. There are signs out there, like station names, but the letters are too blurry yet for me to understand their meaning.
I move to the other passenger. The only one left in with me. He’s on the first row. His face is familiar to me, but not in a nice way. He makes me shudder, and recoil for a second, but I need to move on. I sit opposite to him and I start scrutinizing his face. I know this face. Even his clothes seem familiar. I notice the knife sticking out from his chest and just like that his clothes start to soak on a dark red blood that keeps getting darker and darker until his whole body turns completely black. His face is the only thing left, his complexion contorting in agony.
I remember him. Last night. A noise woke me, went downstairs and surprised him, a gun barrel, and the unmistakable sound of death. Guilt invades me. But why. He ended me. I press harder for more memories. Through the corner of my eye I see the signs outside are becoming clearer. I can see the destination starts with a P, maybe an A follows? I can definitely see a 1 at the right of it, and it passes us. 1 mile?
I go back to last night. I close my eyes and I see his hand at the end of the barrel. I hear the distinct noise again. The train seems to be slowing down. I feel myself falling, my hand touches the kitchen sink on its way down. I feel the cold blade against my fingers. Last thing I felt. Last object I touched. I can hear the train breaks announcing we’re almost there. He leaned in over me and I tightened my grip. His face of disbelief was the last thing I saw. His body hitting the floor next to mine was the last thing I heard. Guilt fades away. I’m at peace now. I feel lighter and warmer. The train is almost still. I get up.
From the window I can see we’re at the station already and we come to a full stop. This is it. As I get off I see granny is waving me in.
«Time» by A.A.Alejo
She was looking at her tree the first time it happened. Her tree, an old oak that was planted by her grandmother right after she had bought the house, which for some reason she has always been drawn to, was her personal little haven. She usually went to sit by it when she needed to think and was missing her granny’s long lost advice. Somehow, she could feel her presence around that tree, or so her mind seemed to think.
She was there because she had quit her job a couple of days back and she didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. Her whole world was upside down. She felt lost. And so she needed some quiet time by her tree.
Something weird happened when she was about to go back inside. She got up from the bench she had installed under the tree, picked up the smokes she’d taken just in case, and she heard a tweak, as if a branch was coming down. She looked up and she saw a branch was directly above her, but it was static. While looking at it, she saw something she had never seen before. Something that defied all laws of nature, and her sanity as well.
The same branch was static and, moving and breaking and falling at the same time. Only it didn’t fall to the ground. It disappeared mid air into nothingness. She could not explain it, and soon she started doubting it had ever happened. Maybe she’d dreamt it, or maybe she’d imagined it. It would not have been the first time her mind played a trick on her. But that had been a long time ago, forgotten and healed. So she set it aside.
Until it happened again. And this time there was no doubt that what she was seeing was really happening, and it was clearer that she was seeing two realities of the same moment at the same time. Her dog was napping at the foot of the stairs, while she saw her running down the stairs at the same time, only to disappear when she got to the last step, in a ghostly manner.
During the next few days she saw this happening two more times. Both times the event involved her dog, Kiara. What was going on? She was almost fearing it was happening again. She dreaded the possibility of having to go admit herself back into the looney. But it all seemed too real now. It was different the previous time. She felt different.
For three days she saw Kiara running or pacing above herself, or nearby, at napping time. On the fourth day she decided to go where it all had started: her tree. So she took Kiara for a walk right before nap time and she went towards the tree, to sit on her bench, with the dog at he feet. Kiara felt asleep almost immediately. She was old and long walks exhausted her. She had fallen asleep on top of her feet, which warmed them up a bit and provided comfort in the cold early winter afternoon. It felt nice. She kept looking at the branch all the time, but nothing notorious took place this time. The dog woke up after a long refreshening nap, it seemed, as she went jumping around and wagging her tail all the way back to the house. They hadn’t go out for a while, as Kiara was always tired and fragile, and it looked as if she had missed it.
Kiara never woke the following morning.
«The Last Querandi»
By A.A.Alejo
It was a quiet oceanside small town. The kind that has no sidewalks or paved streets, but the sand covers it all until it meets the ocean. Bagual had always seemed older than he was. It may had something to do with his ancestry. His family’s ancestors were a long line of ‘caciques’, and being the first born son of the current chief, and his sole heir, he was bound to become one when of age. The date seemed to be getting closer and closer these days. But age did not equal wisdom, or so he felt.
He had always carried the weight of his lineage and he had resolved long ago not to have any descendants on whom to pass along that curse. He was to be the last ‘cacique querandi’. And for a while that was enough to ease his tormented mind. But now that the intersection was approaching, it didn’t feel like it was enough.
Having met Dania hadn’t helped, of course. His resolution not to procreate was becoming blurred before his eyes with the mere sight of her long black hair, or her crooked smile. He could feel his will giving in every time they met over the long warm summer. That’s why he had resolved to leave.
On a windless moonlighted night, he walked out of town in his bare feet so that his limbs would remember the feel of the sand touching them. The cold of the sand reminded his toes that summer was long gone, and so should his memories of her. However, nothing seemed to remind his mind that.
He was only carrying one book with him. Inside it, the last letter of a dying father and a picture of his mother, perhaps to remember them and keep them close, perhaps to be forever tormented and bound to what he was leaving behind.
It was a long walk from his home to the roads where he was planning to wait for a kind hitchhiker to take a chance on a young indigenous boy who looked homeless and lost, as he indeed was feeling now. He was counting on the length of the first part of the journey to falter his resolution, but he had not imagined that his mind would be changed and his life would be forever altered by a seemingly chance encounter that would transpire on such a decisive night.
Two hours after departing, he was leaning on a tree by the path he had chosen to follow towards the outskirts of his home town, when he saw it. He could not explain what it was at first, but its metallic black shinny structure was evidently out of place and stood out immediately. The moon was shinning high and round, there was no way to miss the sight, nor was the object concealed in any way for that matter. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he knew he could not just walk away from his town without an explanation. Without knowing there was no impending danger lurking around his people, his loved ones. His Dania.
He realized at that moment that his heart was in the place it was meant to be all along, and he knew by this feeling of protection and affection he was experiencing he would not go through with his departure that day. There would be other winters to consider it. How could he leave behind his obligations to protect and help thrive a people he cared so much what happened to. His heart was divided, but he knew deep down the answer had been always there. He would go back to them and he would fulfill his obligations as best as he could. He would at least see them through winter and the hardships the low season would bring.
But first, he had to find out what the mysterious object was. And he had no idea how to begin, except trying to open it and take a look inside.
ftwrrevista 