Date: Sun, 7 Nov 2004 02:44:48 -0800 (PST) From: Horacio Quiroga Subject: Winter Solstice/Chapter 1 Intro/Disclaimer: This is the firs part of a story I'm hoping to finish in a couple months with a little of your help. I've enjoyed writing it and thinking about it for some time now, hopefully it will be worth reading for you. The story takes place in Mexico (not that you wouldn't notice by just reading) and places and people are named in Spanish. The thing about this story is: English is not my mother's tongue, hence the constant errors you'll find around here, errors that I would really like to recognize and correct, go ahead if you have the time to help me with that. In any case, please take the time to write your comments to horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com, why else would I want to post my stories for? Well, this story has lots of things most people never wants to read about in their life, like underage gay sex and poor literature. If any of those are illegal wherever you are or you just don't enjoy those things (being the second more important than the first) stop reading and wonder around the archive for something that suits your tastes better. First part______________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________ Don Antonio woke up at six in the morning, the day was clearing. Old at last, he could never get up late. Walked barefoot to the bathroom. The cold concrete floor deformed his walk but also spurred him on to starting the day. Peed. God knew how much he thanked every morning for peeing without pain. Ever since that infection that seemed to take a life to heal he would thank god when urine flowed smoothly with no hitch. Still peeing, coldness suddenly climbed from his feet and ankles to the spine and the back of the head. It was a nice feeling that of getting suddenly cold, made him feel warmer on his abdomen and pubis as yellow urine flowed out. He wouldn't take the time anymore to feel alive, but that morning the thought flash passed his head, that once dead, being as cold as the clearing morning, one can not longer feel that way... medium pleasure that of peeing warm urine, placer of the living, that is. He was finished and the feeling was still there. He was there, as he was every morning, old and naked. Looking at himself from the other side of the mirror he felt darker and skinnier then usually, framed by the faint greenness of the bathroom walls, framed themselves by the wooden oval holding the mirror. He felt about to sigh and, realizing this, took his eyes away from the mirror and carried on with his everyday routine. Opened the water valve and the pipe complained with a deep sound that ended with an intermittent stream of hot water. Surprisingly hot. He sat on the edge of the tub with his feet wetting on slowly raising water. His hands crossed between his thighs, slight shivers visible on the sporadic shaking of his back. Seen like that, he looked like a child. White light from a cloudy morning pouring down his side, it would enter through the frosted glass and slide through his back drawing the outline of his flat muscles and rough, black skin. Seen from the back, sitting uncomfortably on the thin edge of the tub, in patient wait, his nakedness emanated some sort of innocence. That old he was. The girl served him breakfast barely saying a word, as every morning. She would wait for him to ask a question while drinking his coffee, but that morning he sipped his black coffee in silence, very slowly. They didn't talk about Luis or the child. -Hurry up, I have to wash the dishes, if I wait for you all day I won't be able to do anything. -Well, take it now -- picked up the coffee cup offering it without looking at her. The girl had a childish insolence that made her delightful. Don Antonio esteemed her as a pleased employer the feels well served and used to smile at her every time she called his attention. "As if she was my daughter" he would think. She was about eighteen and was married for a year to Luis, who he would treat as a son in law. They had a child under a year old, black because of his grandfather don Jose, father of Luis, whose skin was even darker than his. - Don't cook dinner for me today, I'm going out. Eat at your home and we'll see each other tomorrow. -¿Where are you going?, if it's possible to know. -I'm going to visit my brother, if you don't find me tomorrow it means it was too late for me to return and stayed there. Do the cleaning as everyday, I'll pay you on Monday. About to leave the house, cane in hand, before ten in the morning, shouted good bye to the girl washing clothes in the backyard. -iI'm leaving Tencha!, greetings to your little boy and to your son too. -iHave a nice day! -- from the backyard with a voice that gave away a smile -iSay hello to don Joaquin! The smile faded away quickly and she was left thinking that in the time she knew him, don Antonio had never paid a visit to his brother. The child cried with thick tears following each other continuously, from his eyes to his neck. He had been wiping tears so severely that his face was burning, now that he was letting them flow easily he began to feel relieved. Physically relieved. He had chosen to cry and crying he had run all the way from his house to the edge of the forest. The edge of his father's terrains, that by those days had no less than eight kilometers of border at north, marked the entrance to the sierra. His father, don Joaquin, had no more than thirty years and Andres, the crying boy, had no more than fourteen. Sitting in top of the stone wall, wrapped on his sarape, his crying could be heard far from there, but not far enough how to be actually heard by anyone. Sun was setting on the valley and from red skies, his blue sarape looked of deep darkness. His hands clutched each other, he wanted to hate his father, but he couldn't, and then his hands would tighten even harder. Delicate, thin hands, childish hands, hands of his mother, redden, hurt. Repeating it to himself, that he hated him, once and again on his throat it would painfully form what would be words but turned into animal weeping trough the lump of tears tightening his neck. And he would think it loud, not being able to say it, that he hated him. He thought it so hard that strength began to leave his body and sleepiness started to hit him in waves. It would hit his hands and neck, but above all his knees. Before the first start was visible, he was aware of the fact he wouldn't be able to get up. Leaning against the wall he wanted to let himself fall on his side still crying, his legs bended, covered all with his sarape, still crying. In a minute an image took shape on his mind: the forest in front of him was so dark and dense that as he would close his eyes dark images would escape and reach him. He was afraid of sleeping in front of the woods. He got up and walked towards it. The pine forest rises on three mountains and grows to the sierra at north. Vast and black, its whispers are subtle and cold. The path across it is made of black soil. Hundred black deaths, hundred red holm oaks. Life and shape of the things born within it take conscience of its nature and creates, as the night does, fear older than mankind. The child walked slowly, no longer crying. Joaquin got up shaking. Looked his hands for an instant, sitting on the edge of his bed, just a moment to convince himself it was coldness that made them tremble. That night he opened the door to his son's bedroom, shaking nervously, for a moment the hearth on his chest made an audible sound. The soft groan crossed the brief space between his aching body and the bed of the children. Andres his nephew opened his eyes covered by the darkness. Looked at the door, looked at him. Joaquin opened his coat. Naked, trembling, sad. Looking at Andres. The feeling that from his penis pulled his abdomen and back and forth grew in strong waves. Closed his coat, closed the door, ran to his bedroom and masturbated ashamed wrapped on white sheets. Past midday Joaquin smokes a leaf cigarette sitting at the table. The children are outside, his son Omar plays to be older, Andres his nephew plays in laughs. On his mind their flexible bodies run, breath, spin gracefully, joyfully. Joaquin smokes in huge puffs. -Go over town, ask your uncle for the money he owes me -- uncle's house is an hour away, uncle Antonio owes ten cattle heads-. -Andres, you're staying to help me around the house- leaning in the door to the front yard, still smoking-. Returning quickly, Omar opens the door and finds no one, wonders quickly trough the rooms, looking for them. Finds his blue sarape and puts it on. Walks towards the creek, to look for them. Through the bushes he's able to distinguish their figures. Close. Walks slowly, borders the creeks fall carefully. At sunset skies turn red. Andres is naked, laying on the ground over his clothes, Joaquin on top of him. And his hands around his body, his hands of man over the body of a child, soft, fragile. His mouth wrapped around the child's penis, pinkish, erect. Omar returned over his own steps, he chose to cry and ran. __________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________ Hey, did you like it?, didn't you?, write me to horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com and let me know. Response from the readers is the only fuel I need to keep writing (and essential to keep posting). Bye now.