The Curse of the Wrong Door

The night was clear, the moon high in the sky. A dog barked. A man shouted. The dog barked again. Rupert awoke. The silence filled the darkness. He felt disorientated and confused. But something was horribly clear: he was alone. Luce wasn't there.
His bare feet made no noise on his way downstairs. There was no light from the living room. The fireplace was cold but not the kettle in the kitchen. The door to the back garden was open. Luce was sitting on the steps. He approached her silently, the orange point from his cigarrette a mark in the air. Rupert heard her before she noticed he was there, but she didn't stop. He sat inside, smoking and listening to the tale Luce was telling to the flowers of his own back garden.
She didn't look at him even once, as if he wasn't there.
Maybe she wasn't there at all.
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A caucus-race and a long tale

No music, no dancing. Just going and going. She looked at the stars. Their indifference was reassuring. Their constant presence, soothing.

Lucy walked through a deserted farm, probably full of ghosts and bad memories. The woods were dark and no bird sang. That was a part of F.Land Lucy hadn't seen before.

She never thought what would be the consequences of entering the country illegally. Now she had found. One year plus one day.

Lucy didn't know, but in that very same farm, centuries ago, a spoiled brat had got drunk and joined the Navy full of irresponsible joie de vivre. He was unaware of the curse a spurned farmgirl had put on him.

Those who would go to sea for pleasure, would visit hell as a pastime.

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The Flaw in the Plan

It was a quiet evening, a lonely one. The chill air in the wet night kept Rupert inside, trapped on the sofa playing the ukelele. He remembered another evening, the first of many, it seemed like a life ago, singing about her. About how wonderful it would be. Yes, it was. It was too much. It was a bloody new world. Even if it was the same old F. Land where he was born, where he had never wanted to return, it looked like a new country. "Damn, a whole new galaxy!" he thought, and his fingers missed the note.
Rupert sang and sang all night, missing her in each word. Maybe she could hear them.
That first evening he didn't think it could be so painful. He wouldn't have believed it. Bubble Land was a place he hadn't known yet. Then.
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Pool of crocodiles

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Down the rabbit-hole

One morning, Lucy received an official letter, easy to tell because a big well-known profile was stamped over the adress. "Oh, shit!" she thought. Nothing good ever came from an official letter. When things went wrong she seemed to be bad.
And she got punished. Always.
She opened the letter with shaking hands. She was informed, very politely, she had been condemned to a one year plus one day exile. She had to wait, very calmly, until they arranged her departure.
When Rupert came in the afternoon, he found the butterfly net over the worn leather backpack in the middle of an unnaturally clean living-room. He froze. Lucy smiled, too brightly.
"I'm going on a trip" she said, taking some maps off the table and hiding them in the side pocket of the backpack.
"Can I say good bye?"
"With a kiss, please."
They kissed. She went. He saw her leaving.
It was a sad afternoon.
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In the shade of an oak

La siguiente misión lleva a las intrépidas exploradoras hacia el norte, hacia tierras abruptas, sembradas de peñas casi infranqueables, el horizonte punteado de crestas desoladas. La necesidad de su nacimiento fue también su muerte. Ciudades que nacen, crecen y mueren por la guerra. Cuando no hay más luchas, respiran sosegadas, como adormecidas. Solitarias, abandonadas a su suerte, ignoran el mundo. Hasta que otra batalla les recuerde su destino.
Ellas callejean despacio. El sol y las empinadas cuestas demorando sus pasos. Les han contado historias de muerte y destrucción. Sables, espadas, pistolas, fusiles. Tantos cadáveres. Los caminos traen la muerte. Quizá por eso sean tan escarpados. Más tarde descubren otras leyendas, otras muertes. Jóvenes enfermos de amor.
Horas después, de nuevo entre paisajes familiares, les resulta extraño. Cuentos de Scherezade en un oasis sin palmeras. Exóticos. Improbables en la realidad relajada de la vida junto al mar.
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Almost gone up in smoke

Vestidas con ropas de lino crudo y calzadas con glamourosos salacots, emprenden la expedición. Desolados parajes donde, desde tiempos inmemoriales, lo que se apuesta es la vida. Un entorno despiadado, no apto para los débiles, ni hombres ni bestias. En épocas pasadas, aguerridos caballeros de bandos opuestos cabalgaban este horizonte rojizo y cruel, tragando polvo en galopadas furiosas, a veces ofensivas y a veces defensivas. Tierra de molinos y gigantes. El aire es seco, la luz es seca. No hay ninguna amabilidad en ella. Cuerdos y locos conviven por igual, no hay lugar para tibias medianías.
Almuerzan en una venta a la vera del camino. El regreso a casa está marcado por las risas. Risas fáciles de quienes viven a la sombra de la huerta.
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Tanti ricordi

Llega el verano, hace sol, las faldas se acortan y los días se alargan. Las fiestas empiezan al anochecer. Hay bailes, música y risas. Sorbete de limón y hamburguesas de madrugada. Guirnaldas de papel y farolillos decoran la noche.
Cuando los invitados se van, las anfitrionas se relajan. El sofá es tentador y la mesita, más estratégicamente situada que Perejil, invita a poner los pies encima. Un té, un zumo, agua. Líquidos no espiritosos que no menguan los efectos de la fiesta. No todavía, al menos. Eso será mañana. De momento, es tiempo de tener los pies en alto y reir.
Cuando los invitados ya no están, las anfitrionas sonríen de verdad.
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Kind Hearts

"I wish I were going back there."

"But I'd prefer to go to the countryside."

"Think about it, the bookshops, the museums... just for a few days... then coming back to the countryside... come on, Rupe..."

"I wouldn't mind going to London the day after the Apocalypse!"

"Ha!"

"Still get the museums and bookshops, but no people!"

"I think it depends on which kind of Apocalypse... the one with sulphur and fire won't be very good for the books."

"A very civilised kind! An English one."

"A virus of some kind, Rupe, and we are inmune! Because we aren't earthians but bubblians."

"People just politely lie down with no fuss, no mess. Just you and me, Luce, to the ends of the Earth."
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One more

The napkins were folded like a Lady Windermere fan. The menu written in calligraphy. Every thing had been setted for the evening. Pretty clothes, fashionable hats, smooth gloves. The band played old songs and the couples danced among champagne glasses and murmurs.
But the moment came. She closed her eyes and blew out the candles on the birthday cake. Hugs, cheek kisses and congratulations. The guests ate cake, smoked cigars and, when the music started with renewed spirit, they boogied again.
"Have you made a wish, love?", whispered Rupert bending over her.
"Sssh" said the birthday girl "it's a secret."
"Dance with me, love"
"Of course. It's my present!"
They waltzed under the sign of Pegasus. At midnight the carriage turned into a pumpkin and the princess into little Lucy. The guests and the party disappeared. The band and the music too. But not Rupert, nor the cake. Pegasus was still flying over the sky. Rupert and Lucy danced in the silence. They flew with the thunder and the lightning, swinging in a rain of feathers.
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