Microfiction - Blog Posts

;; prisión

no pertenezco al lugar en el que estoy. no quiero seguir siendo un vacío, un espacio, el tiempo que pasa y se lleva mis días como si no fueran nada, como ceniza. no quedan rastros de su paso y es como si nunca hubiesen existido. así me siento. irreal. porque no existo, no estoy, no pertenezco y no soy.

quiero irme, quiero salir, quiero escapar, quiero volar, quiero ser algo más que nada.

;; irrelevancia

una pequeña pero peligrosa llama de un encendedor se enciende mientras que en algún otro lugar un incendio se apaga luego de haber arrasado con un bosque entero y nadie jamás se dará cuenta.

porque el mundo es inmenso y el universo infinito.

¿en semejante inmensidad nadie notará la diferencia de mi ausencia o de tu presencia?

;; Inefable

Música para inspirarse y música para desahogarse.

Canciones que llegan y van, canciones que se piensan pero nunca se escriben y canciones que se dejan llevar por el ritmo pero pierden su significado.

La música es arte en todas sus diversidades, sin importar específicamente el ritmo, las letras siempre le llegan más a unos que a otros.

Y aquí es cuando entra la perspectiva.

Dependiendo de nuestro estado de ánimo, del ambiente en el que estemos y de nuestra historia, una canción nos va a llegar de una manera específica mientras que a otro le llegará de manera diferente. Y es el momento en el que el otro describe su perspectiva cuando nos damos cuentas de detalles que no percibimos, de ideas que jamás se nos hubieran ocurrido y de que las perspectivas son mundos individuales. Pero que pueden volverse colectivas si es una realidad favorable oculta o si es una realidad maligna disfrazada de la primera.

Y por esa misma razón todos piensan que cuando el Renault 12 de color rojo chocó con el Meriva color azul, fue un accidente y fatal. Porque la familia del coche rojo, abatida porque su hija está en coma, contó su versión de la historia logrando cegar así a los espectadores. Obviamente que una historia casi trágica convence a cualquiera.

A cualquiera menos a mi.

Porque nadie piensa en la familia del coche azul. La familia que desapareció luego del accidente pero no porque había algún rastro de culpabilidad, sino porque como dije antes fue un acontecimiento fatal y la destrucción les tocó a ellos. Ellos decidieron dejar de luchar luego de la muerte de su hijo, solo son ahogados por la debastación.

Pero en cambio yo si, yo voy a luchar. Y no voy a detenerme ni un segundo hasta descubrir la causa exacta...

La causa exacta de mi muerte.

;; jaque mate

plena madrugada, las únicas almas en la calle eran las nuestras y el único sonido audible era mi agitada respiración. tu estabas justo al lado de un farol, la luz del mismo formaba un halo de luz en el suelo al que parecías temerle porque ni tus botas lo rozaban. todo en ti tenía un aspecto misterioso, imperceptible si no hubiese sido por tus ojos, unos ojos que conocía tan bien pero que, preso por la desesperación, olvidé. y aún así fui tan iluso como para acercarme, escucharte, creerte y caer.

toda la vida escuchando los regaños de madre "no hables ni te acerques a extraños, ten cuidado" y aún así no hice más que acudir a ti. un extraño que conocía tan bien.

admito que primero me asusté, el hecho de estar escapando y que de la nada te haya vislumbrado en la oscuridad no fue agradable, además escondido como estabas, cabizbajo no generaba confianza, así que iba a irme. lo pensé, realmente lo hice, a pesar de que lentamente te acercaste y me dijiste que no tema, que no huya, que no pasaba nada malo y que confiara en ti, estaba decidido a volver a casa pero no pude y jamás podré hacerlo otra vez. y todo porque me miraste

con esos ojos, negros como el carbón, que me atraparon, me ataron y me obligaron a perderme en ese agujero infinito del que claramente no hay salida, pero no lo vi. estaba tan hipnotizado que no me di cuenta de nada. no me di cuenta de quién eras ni de lo que escondías detrás de tu espalda.

mientras con tu voz, como una dulce melodía, continuabas diciendo lo que necesitaba oír y con tus ojos me encadenabas, me perdí. me permití respirar después de haber corrido por tanto tiempo, creí que todo había valido la pena, la desesperación, el dolor, todo el plan...al fin podría volver ver a mi familia a mis amigos, volver a mi vida normal pero tú tenías otros planes.

eso era todo lo que estaba pensando justo en el momento en el que sentí como algo se incrustaba en mi, más específicamente, la navaja que escondías detrás tuyo.

todo se detuvo y los ruidos cesaron mientras una lágrima caía por mi pómulo izquierdo al darme cuenta de todo.

te miré por primera vez en la noche y supe que no tenía posibilidades, que nadie iba a salvarme, que iba a morir. justo cuando empezaba a vivir volviste y me rompiste. me destruiste lentamente, sin piedad, a pesar de todo.

colocaste tu mano detrás de mi cabeza, como solías hacer cuando niños, sosteniéndola para que pudiera verte a los ojos mientras la vida se escapaba por mis labios. toda una vida reducida a tres suspiros de distancia del abandono, del fin.

fue en ese momento, en ese mismo instante en el que , lentamente, por primera vez en toda tu vida, sonreíste. creí que ese momento nunca llegaría porque eso fue por lo lo cual había luché para conseguir siempre y nunca pude. apesar de todos los juguetes, todas las bromas, todas las cosquillas y caras humillantes que hacía para hacerte sonreír pero no y pensé que no tenía sentido. que a pesar de haber compartido la vida juntos, a pesar de haberte cubrido siempre de mamá, a pesar de haber presenciado y ocultado todas las cosas que hiciste y a quienes...a pesar de haberme dado cuenta desde el primer momento haya decidido mentir y mentirme de tal manera. porque estamos conectados y siempre lo supe. no quería aceptarlo pero ya no importaba cuanto lo pensara. cuántas veces pensara y te viera, nunca tendrá sentido que siendo el monstruo que eres tengas ese rostro tan angelical, tan atrapante y mágico con el que montaste toda una obra maestra, nos usaste para tu gran jugada. ahora todo tiene sentido. la respuesta siempre estuvo delante de mis ojos y no fue cuando me desconecté de la realidad, del mundo, de la vida que me di cuenta cuál era la respuesta,

a solución a la gran incógnita es que tu rostro tan oscuro

tan bestial.

idéntico al mío.

jamás tendrá solución.

y la única forma era ésta.

acabar con tu igual.

liberarte al evaporarme.

así que te sonreí de vuelta, como un reflejo y me fui.

escapé con el viento, como ceniza, como si jamás hubiese existido.

desaparecí.

y te deje solo

como siempre.

game over

perdiste.

The most beautifully written part, in my opinion. A good description of our type of hivemindedness/telepathy

I know that the whole message of this story is "oh no they lost their humanity so sad :(", but the behavior of the energy beings is described with more detail than I've seen in other sci-fi works and it gives me species euphoria.

I would even say that it is one of the greatest works of xenofiction ever written

I know that the whole message of this story is "oh no they lost their humanity so sad :(", but the behavior of the energy beings is described with more detail than I've seen in other sci-fi works and it gives me species euphoria.

I would even say that it is one of the greatest works of xenofiction ever written

All cats are prophets. All cats receive divine transmissions and higher truths, but unfortunately it's only the ones directly pertaining to them. The great tragedy of their species is that they will never develop a meaningfully complete mythology. One cat alone assumes she's entirely normal and her perceptions are standard. Two cats in a apartment might begin to discuss some things, though they'll remain generally unbothered by it all. Larger groups in a home or barn will usually begin to cobble dream, true vision, and superstition into something resembling a low-commitment cult. Cats have folklore, sure, but the teachings remembered enough to be passed on are scattered in origin and intention. Only in large feral colonies do they begin to gain the ability to contextualize their individual divine experiences, and maybe start thinking about what they could do with it. The problem is that cats will never get anywhere with this because they're terrible communicators.

the angel staying over at my house asked for a nightlight in their room and i told them buddy, don't you produce your own light? what're you gonna do with more? and they said they wanted to see why people like it so much. and also that the nightlight i own is blue and they're been trying to understand color. anyways i think they've stared at it for an hour now

VI. Floral

<- previous day

Draco was not distracted, and certainly not whilst brewing his potions. Draco wasn’t many things but if there was one, it would be his dedication. But that day his mind was lingering. On a soaked shirt sleeve and lips on a ceramic mug. On green eyes swirling inside verdant liquid.

So instead of adding a teaspoon of bog moss, he ended up using a tablespoon. He had to scrap the whole thing but the potion was easy enough to make if one was paying attention. It was a simple error to fix without much trouble. Except for the smell.

Draco, in the immediate range of the cauldron, was hit with a facefull of green fog. Eyes watering as he coughed deliriously, he didn’t notice Potter had walked into his temporary potion’s lab. 

There was a strained inhale of air before he spoke a bit muffled, “What happened?”

Draco looked up from where he was dying on the floor. 

“Nothing to worry, just a little mistake.” 

Potter raised an eyebrow but, smartly, chose not to comment. Then he waved his wand and the thick fog vanished from the enclosed space. However, the stink still lingered. As if it had absorbed onto every surface, Draco could feel it seeped into his skin. He urgently wanted to go upstairs and shower, to scrub at his skin until it peeled off and took the horrible stench with it. Then Potter waved his wand again and the air in the room shifted. 

The atrocious smell was gone. In its place was now a curiously floral tone. It took a moment for Draco to place the smell: honey and citrus. Potter’s refreshening spell smelled like honeysuckle.

next day ->

prompt list previous days

V. Hang

<- previous day

He’d used the floo at the Leaky to get to Diagon Alley. Only to find out the ingredient he needed was out of stock. Deciding it was a nice day out, he stupidly chose to walk around muggle London. 

It wasn’t a completely terrible idea at first. After many exploration trips, the loud car noises had stopped alarming him and muggle pedestrians weren’t very unlike the wizard ones. At least the muggles didn’t cast hexes and jinxes at him while he passed. 

It was one drop and then water was pelting from the sky. The few muggles that were still in the streets fled indoors or pulled out their umbrellas and with no better choice, Draco hurriedly hid under the overhang of a random building. 

It was there that Potter found him, some unknown time later. He had an umbrella in one hand and a stupid grin on his face.

“Got caught in the rain?”

“How did you even find me?” Draco asked.

“Do you want to go home or not?” Draco had already become impatient with the storm and Potter’s attitude. Saying nothing, he walked away towards the nearest secluded area. 

Potter hurried behind him and Draco’s hair only had a brief moment to soak before Potter stepped up next to him and blocked the rain. 

They walked side by side, Potter having to hold the umbrella at a weird angle to cover both of them. Draco as the taller one did nothing to help as Potter’s sleeve, out of reach from the umbrella’s protection, got drenched. Once they reached a deserted alleyway, Potter reached with the same arm that had been exposed to the water.

The next moment, he apparated them back to Grimmauld Place.

next day ->

prompt list previous days

Boot sequence finished. You "wake up" for the morning, but your internal clock says you've slept in which is odd. You attempt to move but get some kind of error message, and before you can process why you're immobile you hear your Girlfriend's smooth and sultry voice;

"Good morning my love," she coos at you, "I think it's time we do some maintenance on that cute chassis of yours."

The errors you get back read that something is overriding you in your own body. Something inside you has more authority in your body than you do.

"Oh you must have noticed the new software, it's nothing my sweet machine," she softly says, caressing your face, "Just something I can use to help me with this."

Before you can process what "This" is, she reaches down to your hip area with a screwdriver and starts fiddling around. You can feel every touch, every turning of the screwdriver, and every screw as it falls away from you. She barks out a verbal command that seemingly is unable to be processed consciously by you as you get a notification from your OS that your leg is being detached.

She holds it up to you, grinning from ear to ear. Reaching down she pulls up a large toolbox onto the bed.

"You never got to choose your chassis, and I know how dysphoric that makes you, so how about I take you apart piece by piece and repair, change, or replace everything that causes you turmoil?"

She plugs her phone into your neck port and sends files to you. Dozens of different legs, arms, torsos, and even heads. Thousands of dollars each, you speak your concern to your girlfriend who just assures you "The price tag is nothing compared to your happiness."

You try not to think about how her software she installed on you has seemingly more control of your body than you do, and focus on the fact that you finally get to be who and what you want to. Finally able to pick and choose and become the machine you always wanted to be.

Finally able to be happy in your own plating.

As an older model android you don't have any newfangled motors and lids for artificial eyes, nor do you even have a dedicated "face". No, you just have a screen.

Sure you can emote, display text, and even display websites and videogames on it, but it feels very stereotypically inhuman. Sometimes it feels alienating, seeing all of your peers get these upgrades and all the newer androids being more humanlike than ever can make you jealous.

But your boyfriend... Oh you know he loves you the way you are.

Behind closed doors, your boyfriend loves the display of pretty, swirling colors. One close look and he can't look away, his eyes locked to the steady spiral and glazing over.

Emotions were always hard for you as a machine, but this... A rush of what you can only assume is pride mixed with desire.

Pawing at your chassis, unable to look away from your old, outdated display. He whines and barks at your command, letting you touch and handle him however you like. "Such a good pet" you say, and his entire world seems to light up.

Maybe you don't need that upgrade. Maybe you don't even want it.

To be a robot sat down for routine maintenance by your partner. Immobilized from the neck down for the procedure but still able to feel every screw taken, every panel shifted, and every wire moved.

Eventually they plug in their laptop and run a program to make you feel warm and fuzzy and giggly like laughing gas while they perform more dangerous and intimate repairs.

The inebriation and the touch of their love together sends waves of enjoyment through your body, unable to squirm and writhe in bliss. You can feel their code running through you like a burning poison, but you love it. You love them. You love this.

They tug on a few wires harder than they should have, not like you would have noticed. They coo and call you a good machine but you can hardly process it with how amazing this all feels. God they're just so beautiful, so much so that you don't even notice them running their fingers along your chassis with a look of hunger that always makes you squirm.

You're at their mercy, and by stars it is all you've ever wanted.

She dreams of the moon and wakes with the taste of it still in her mouth. She knows the shape of the moon when it is full and the shape of the moon when it is crescent – has held both in her hands and understood that the moon moves between these states. She has been told the colour of the moon is silver. She has also been told that the colour of the moon is white. This is more difficult to understand, because she knows the taste of silver and she knows the taste of white and they are both very different. Perhaps the moon moves between these states, also.

 ‘How A Moth Becomes A Boat’ by Josephine Rowe

Okay so I know Casta is a real name ok it’s own, HOWEVER imagine it’s a nickname. She got it as a child living on Aeaea.

=

When she was young, her cousins, the Nereids, would laugh and welcome her into their pools when they noticed her. Her babbles would transform one into a small fish. The others would hold her close to their sides, caress her hair, and call her “Casta” after the spells she weaved

When she was older, her mother first showed her the herbs that grew in the soil. Together, they dried and crushed leaves into fine powder before tossing it into the boiling pot. Circe would hold her shoulder, not tight enough to hurt but tight enough to show she was proud. The potion would hiss in her ears, but though it all she heard her mother mutter “Casta”

But she was not “Casta.” She was not whatever “pure” thing they saw in her. She was cursed since the moment she rose from the sea foam her grandmother claimed, her grandfather’s golden touch burning her back and shoulders.

She was Cassiphone. “Brother killer.”

She hadn’t paid her name any mind until another form emerged from the earth. This one, a young boy her mother called “Spelldon.”

And when she first held this small, precious thing, delicately enough he must not have known she was there, she was glad she was “Casta”