By Michael Sixto
I knew I was alone on this one. For many years I tried, without any concrete result, to convince myself that I was able to let go. Start fresh was always the dream, the door that it might bring at least a taste of what it could be real. For many years the shadows of those surrounding me, floated like empty plastic bags over the heads of the children in the neighborhood. It was a dead end, just like the street I grew up in. Perception of reality was disturbed by the rancid smell of fried stuff cooking… in every single h
ouse. I knew I was alone on this one, but I had to give it a try. I was trapped in the life I had to overcome just to realize that I was still there, stopped, and tied to a fraction of time that it was bigger than my whole existence. So I did what I thought was right. I found the time machine hidden in the alley and covered in trash and empty bottles. I removed all the garbage and installed new batteries. It worked, but the smell of fried stuff transported me back in time faster than the actual machine. I set the date to September 28, 2000. I hit the red botton and lights started to flash oscillating in circle waves. Nobody helped me, I did it by myself and I got there before hi did. When he arrived I was holding the knife. The expression of his face was priceless. Without letting him say a thing, I cut his throat very fast and he had no time to react. There was no need to use the time machine back to the future. A few seconds after, the rancid smell disappeared forever together with the blood, the soulless body and the knife in my hand.
e él no es un matador, si acaso un aprendiz de novillero. La cara la tiene blanquísima y las manos grandes y fuertes como su padre, de ahí le viene el apodo que él respeta pero no le gusta. Hoy es su cumpleaños y algunos lo han recordado, otros no; siempre sucede así; como las mareas que llegan, embarran un poco y desaparecen. Por la calle sombría camina despacio. La plaza de toros ha quedado detrás y la algarabía se ha tornado silencio mudo. La noche es cálida como sus manos inmensas que intentan agarrar en vano pasos gastados de ayer. El matador se quita las botas de un tirón. La sangre vieja le ha manchado los pies de un rojo que ya no es rojo. Con rabia las tira tan lejos como puede. Allá, al otro lado de la calle las ve reposar y el cuero duro ha hecho un estruendo al tocar la acera. Descalzo continúa caminado. El matador le dicen, pero mañana quizás no más.
Michael Sixto 