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The Readers’ Place

The Last Reader

Julio César Aguilar

Upon reaching the last page, the reader discovered his name written on the first line of the book. He stopped. That story narrated his exact life: the house, the memories, even the coffee that had just spilled on the table. Intrigued, he looked for the author on the cover, but found a mirror. «This can’t be,» he murmured. Then, the words began to erase themselves. First the house disappeared; then, the memories. Finally, only one sentence remained: «If you close the book, you will die.» The reader looked up. Someone, from outside the page, had just opened it.

Careful What You Read

Ana María Abad García

I had just started a new adventure novel and was so absorbed in my reading that I didn’t notice the elephant stampede in the hallway, nor did I hear the roar of the pirate cannons firing against the windows, nor did I see the waterfall pouring from the watercolor hanging in the living room. Upon closing the book for the night, after handing out towels among the pachyderms that had swum out and asking the buccaneers for silence so the neighborhood could sleep, I swore to myself I would never read a noir novel.

Page Thirteen

Lara Morales

Upon reaching that page, you discover that the protagonist has your exact name; you smile at the coincidence. The following lines describe trembling hands trying to advance in the reading. Your hands tremble involuntarily. Nervous, you read that the window slowly opens. When you turn toward the window, it is already open. You abruptly close the book to throw it away, but on the back cover you read something that leaves you petrified: «You shouldn’t have reached page thirteen. You can no longer escape.»

Ink

Ayssa Olmedo

«You want Enrique’s job.» The next day, Enrique disappears. «You want your sister’s house.» Sara leaves without saying goodbye. «You want him to come back.» A stranger embraces you in tears. «You want no one to know what you did.» No one knows. Not even you. On the table, a photograph: a little girl smiles in your arms. On the back: «Mommy, don’t forget me.» You don’t remember her voice. There is nothing left of you to write. Then the book looks up. It finds you reading. «You want to know how it ends.» The ink begins to erase you.

Again

Llemel López Torres

The man read: «The man read: ‘The man read…'» and smiled. What a cheap trick, he thought. He kept reading about a reader who, in a café, discovered that the text described his own life. The man looked up. He was in a café. He felt a chill. He returned to the paper: «He looked up. He was in a café. He felt a chill.» He dropped the page. The waiter approached: «The usual again, right?» he said, pointing at the manuscript. «You always react the same way.» The man understood, too late, that he wasn’t reading his story: he was writing it.

Page 101

Dunia Lincheta Valle

You open this book looking to escape your routine, without noticing that the pages grow heavier with every paragraph. The margin of the paper begins to devour the room; the ticking of the clock fades and the cold of the ink freezes your fingers. You try to close the volume, but your hands no longer respond: they now belong to the description of the third chapter. Desperate, you look at the last line hoping for an ending to save you, only to discover that the writer has left the resolution blank, trapping you forever on the other side of the words.

The Wrong Character

Carlos Eduardo Azar Manzur

At first, the protagonist was someone else. He had a name, a past, and a death scheduled for the final paragraph. But you arrived and erased his name. Now, his memories are slowly becoming yours. Don’t look back. The author has discovered the substitution and is trying to correct it. Too late. You’ve just reached the paragraph where you were supposed to die. However, there is one possibility left: close the book before the last word. Though there is a problem. This is not a book and you are still reading.

The Deciphered Reader

Néstor Rubén Giménez

On the fourteenth shelf of the apocryphal Library of Alexandria, I found a volume whose only subject is me. As I scanned the lines, I noticed that the syntax copied the pulse of my eyelids and that the order of the words anticipated my doubts. I looked for the name of the creator at the bottom of the page; but there I found only an empty vortex sucking me in. I understood the artifice: it was not I who was reading, but the letters that were deciphering me. Upon closing the book, my flesh vanished; in another reading room, someone had just dreamed the final period.

Final Period

Dolores Espinosa Márquez

I know you aren’t going to listen to me, but I have to ask you to stop reading; my life depends on it and it will end when you reach the final period. I could beg and plead, cry and throw a tantrum, but I know you will keep going, simply because you don’t believe a word I say. It’s normal, I’m just a fictional being in a fictional story, why would you believe I need you to stop so I can keep living? We are almost reaching the end: you, to the end of this text; I, to the end of my brief life. It has been short, but intense. Thank you for sharing it. Goodbye.

Periods and Continuations

Juana María Rodríguez Arriaga

«Why are you crying over my writings? Yes, I know: the drama is sad; I should change it.» «No, it’s not that. Nostalgia overtook me. What?… Oh, I’m imagining voices now!» «Of course you hear me. But relax, we are only halfway through: you’ve barely read the beginning, just a few lines.» «Maybe I’m going crazy.» «Not at all: you are the protagonist of this story; there are still blank pages. Go, be happy, overcome this bad moment. I hold the pen in my hands: let us continue so that, when this work is finished, now turned into an amusing comedy, it leaves pleasant smiles in its wake.»

Before Turning Off the Screen

Nuria Hernández García

Last night I whispered to you that I would return. You don’t remember, do you? You never remember anything at dawn. But here I am. I know you’ve looked up. That you just looked around without knowing why. Relax. Keep reading. You just wanted a few minutes of silence after a hard day. You didn’t expect to find me here. You’re almost done. When you reach the last word, you will turn off the screen and sit in the dark. Don’t do it yet. I’ve been waiting a long time for someone to find me. Now that you’re here, I don’t want you to leave. Please, don’t leave me alone again.

Double Reading

Carmen Nani

I read in the living room armchair with my back to the door. The story has me hooked: the thief is about to enter the house and she is alone reading and doesn’t hear when the door opens. She also doesn’t hear the footsteps, much less the gunshot. The strange thing is that I’m the one with the hole in my head.

Give Life to the Second Chapter

Martin Hernández

«With a single slash of her sword, Orbis killed the gigantic orc. The monster’s death liberated the planet Uqbar, which had been subjugated for years. The prophecy of the warrior and her magic sword was true, but now followed the confrontation with her dark past…» A magnificent ending for the first chapter, don’t you think, dear reader? Now use your imagination and give life to the second chapter. Kill the protagonist, turn her evil, transform her into an orc, et cetera… While you decide her fate, I will write a micro-story about someone who is reading the end of the first chapter of a fantasy novel.

Trapped

Natividad Villar Martínez

«Let’s see, Julián, for a while now, whenever you start a book and have barely read the first ten pages, you drop it, pick up another, and do the same thing. You complain about not finding that story that moves you; furthermore, you earnestly wish for one to trap you. Well, today I’m giving you the opportunity.» In that exact instant, Julián jumped and was seemingly absorbed by that first page of the book; now he finds himself trying to put together a story that moves, one that traps a new reader and replaces him.

The Empty Room

Beydali Sandy Garcia Neyra

There is a room that only exists while you read it. In it, there is a chair where you always sit, a window that looks out onto a winter that was never yours, and a photograph turned face down on the table. You never flip it; I never describe it. Between the two of us, without knowing it, we are erasing it. When you close this text, the lamp will slowly go out, the chair will remember the brief warmth of your reading, and the whole house will grow still, waiting for someone to open the first line again. No one will. Almost no one. Maybe you. Come back.

Outside the School

Yadamis Roque Castro

I must hurry, my son is waiting for my arrival. A last-minute meeting and it’s already past four. I can only think of my little Mauricio. Already in front of the school, my heaving chest makes me tremble. Where am I? Before me lies a large, ancient, and sober building. An immense door invites me in. The chatter of children echoes through the hallways. I frantically search for my son; in one of the classrooms, I see him happy with another boy. He looks at me and smiles: «Mom, my new friend Enrique.» I am in 1882, in Turin. My tears well up: «Heart».

Moebius

Edgar Fernando Carbajal López

You read a story. The incoming blankness of the page offers you the ideal reason to forget, for a few moments at least, the worries that abound daily. You delve then into this microfictional world, letting yourself be carried away by the dark strokes that traverse it. With every line break, you sharpen your curiosity and advance to the next point. And then, to the next. Just then, you read that you read a story. You foresee its ending, right in the instant you began to follow these lines and in which you shall remain for as long as memory permits.

Favorite Author

Calista Manriquez

«You know you like this: the thrill of the words, the mystery hidden on every page.» You stare with apprehension at the sealed bag the bookseller offers you. «Last time you sent me to a burning city with a crazy little girl throwing cars everywhere.» You see the bookseller’s smile widen. «I knew you’d love Stephen King, he’s my favorite author»—he pushes the bag against my chest—. «If you survive this one, we’ll have a lot to talk about.» Damn the day you signed the contract for free books in exchange for an interactive reading experience.

Continuity of Micro-stories

María Sofía Abarca

Excited, I began to read the new Micro-fiction anthology. I was sitting in the living room, with the book in my hands. However, when I looked up, the room had shrunk. I had to squat and crawl to reach the patio. The house, like a micro-story, grew smaller and smaller. Only a tiny dinosaur could fit through the door. I had to save air, tears, and thoughts; my world had to be mathematically calculated. One adverb too many and it would be my end! I wanted to scream for help, to flee, but it wasn’t necessary: I had a few words of life left.

Instructions for the Protagonist

Nicolas Montoya

At the end of this line, you will blink. It is not an order: it is a stage direction. The narrator—that voice you thought belonged to someone else—has just confirmed that you are the protagonist. The story does not happen on the page; it happens in the time it takes you to read it. That is why the room is silent and the mug grows cold beside you. If you look up, the plot stops; if you continue, a paragraph advances. There is no antagonist: only a finger on the screen and a suspicion. The last sentence was written before you existed.

The Page of the Strait

Hanane Boutfor

You bought an old book in the Petit Socco. It had no author or title, only a warning: «Tangier does not admit endings.» Upon opening it, you discovered that it narrated your footsteps through the medina, your silences, and even the precise moment you began reading it. You looked for the last page. It was blank. You thought that, finally, you could decide the outcome. Then, a gust of wind from the Strait turned the pages and revealed a single sentence: «It is not you who travels through this story. It is the story that, for centuries, has been waiting for someone like you to finish it.»

Ending

Ferreyra Andrea Emilse

I left screaming! The storm stopped, but he remains cold, distant. Even though we are in the same room, sitting across from each other, he seems not to hear me, but I understand… things were said that should have been kept inside. He doesn’t look up, just keeps reading his draft, stands up, and leaves in a hurry… curiosity gets the better of me. On the pages I manage to read: «Ending». It traps and discomforts me at the same time, I read without stopping, I stand there stunned… They only recognized her by her mole! He killed me in his story! Get out of there!

Shrewd Reader

Juan Martínez Reyes

To decipher the enigma of this story requires a shrewd and intrepid reader like you. Magister dixit: «Carpe diem». By the time you understand this phrase it will be too late, because you still ignore that you are encapsulated in this fiction.

Mandatory Reading

Joel Rodríguez González

The blast wave of the explosion hit me as soon as I finished reading the sentence: «The satellite impacted against the city.» Alison arrived to wake me up amidst the smoke and dust. «Alison, the book is telling my life.» «I know, that’s why I begged you to read it as soon as you got it,» she scolded me. «The general is calling me.» «Don’t answer! The book explains: not in the office, the assembly factory is the only way to prevent four of the seven armored satellites from falling.» «Then the book knows everything. What does it say about the ending?» «The end of the world is inevitable.»

Poe Travels on a Page to Your Eyes

Luis Cabrera Vigo

The reader contemplates himself from the door, observes how he devours Edgar Allan Poe’s book. What feelings arise when he reads «The Pit and the Pendulum». The reader could almost feel the blade threatening his skin. But where he stops is at «The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion». The reader feels that that time in history has arrived. That story, once in the scribe’s mind, today is a terrible reality. He feels he is Eiros, he feels that the voice he hears is Charmion’s; that the comet is above their heads. That Poe’s text has reached him through time.

Cautious Woman

Silvia Bottallo

Sara makes a habit of reading what her husband writes on the computer. Today it’s metafiction; it’s what the publisher requested. She manages to glimpse the protagonist’s intentions, the signs he keeps dropping. When Iván gets up to make himself a tea, she, silently, removes the bullets from the gun they keep in the desk. That afternoon, he finishes the story and calls her over to show it to her. Sara leans toward the screen and reads. On the last line, she hears clearly… click! click!

Romance

Analia Romero Martín

I put on my best outfit, wear perfume, and get ready to read. As if I wanted the novel’s protagonist to like me. I think I’m falling in love with her. Today we have a date on page one hundred. A gunshot pierces my heart. My blood stains the book. She was married…

The Encounter

Vicente Beras

Don’t enter. He is watching you. He is waiting for you. He has your essence. He has your every trait. But he is more real, because he remembers the memories you don’t remember, the secret guilts of which you are not yet aware. And worse: he holds in his hands the other way of looking at the vices and sins with which you live, but which in that form will guide you straight to that madness you are running from by deceiving and hiding from him, from yourself.

Your Eyes

Fabiana Moreira

It had been a while since I felt anything. Apathy held me hostage until I saw you. We bumped into each other on the street. I apologized and kept walking. You didn’t notice, but your eyes returned the desire to me. I imagined a whole life in ten seconds. I understood I couldn’t lose you. Not you, your eyes. I am always following your footsteps, with the coldness of metal in my pocket. I don’t know how or when I will do it, but I will keep your gaze forever. I am close. Search among the crowd… Do you feel someone watching you?

Escape

Lilian Aguilar De Andreutti

Trying to escape reality, he began to integrate himself into the stories he read. He accompanied Frodo on his adventures. He was Scipio Africanus’s confidant. He rivaled Amaia Salazar in her detective work. Disconnected from his memories, he opened portals to other dimensions.

Between the Lines

Claudia Sánchez

As soon as I finished reading the first page of that unknown author’s novel, I knew he was talking about me. And my family. Who could it be? I started flipping through pages at random looking for some explanation, until I understood: it could only be Father Lucas’s work. Hearing sirens approaching and with trembling hands, I read the last line of the book and there everything made sense: «At last you will pay for your sins.»

The Infinite Loop

Irene Andrade Maldonado

You find yourself in this galaxy, alone. Unexpectedly, a ship shaped like an open book emerges, radiating golden lights: «It is I who will take you on a journey through literature! Prepare for takeoff! Do you feel these circular spins?» You set out to write, you read and correct to understand your purpose. Suddenly you feel afraid to express yourself, but your pen flows over the paper. Later you feel calm; stories emerge without your overflowing imagination stopping. Upon reading again the texts that will be captured for posterity, you discover with astonishment that you have just written exactly the same sentence with which this story begins.

The Intruder

Nelly Del Valle Urbaneja

You left the door of your mind open; trusting, without reservations, believing that everything swarming around you is good, you sat down to drink every drop that that machine, provider of implausible, strange knowledge, full of truths, but also of fallacies, offered you. You fell into the spiderweb that slowly absorbs the net of sanity with which your brain defended itself and now you are the prey with no escape, convinced that what is real lies inside it and not in the warmth, coziness, and simplicity of a whisper or a hug; now you are one of it, with no escape…

Brushes in the Sky

Marbella Obispo

Brushes in the Sky joyfully awaited Perfecto Antonio’s easel that day; today he was woken up agitated by the breeze. «He won’t come back,» he indicated, vigorously shaking the brushes that were still asleep. «His hands will never use us again.» The paint and crayons looked at each other and shed a bright tear, pointing out: «Only his tender memory remains of him.» They all joined together and looked out the window; in one voice they shouted: «We cannot be left in oblivion!» exclaimed the paint. «Now it’s your turn to paint all the stars and clouds in the blue sky. Friend, remember your mission.»

Now You

Elizabeth Calderón

I opened the book and the first page devoured me.

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Julián Reyes

Writer needs a reader passionate about crimes. Especially one who is not thanatophobic. P.S.: The last reader died reading this.

Breathing

Brian Montero

You open your eyes; you are in a dark room with a headache, you don’t remember how you got there, you are barefoot, the floor feels cold, you have your cell phone in your hand, absolute silence surrounds you. On the screen you read exactly what is happening to you; you move a hand in the empty space and the letters recount it; you walk forward, the letters recount it again. You hear a sound behind your back: it is a deep, grave, guttural breathing. On the phone you read that, if you turn around, the creature watching you will finish you off.

Red Page

Maribel Sánchez Matías

A woman hides between these lines. She is running from something. No one has wanted to listen to her. You can save her. You just need to stop for a moment. I see, you’re in a hurry. You always are. She hears footsteps. You hear them too, though you pretend they are part of the chronicle. You speed up your reading. Every word shortens the distance between her and her pursuer. It is too late now. She now lies outstretched in the final paragraph. You could report it, but to whom, what for. You turn the page to the culture section. Tomorrow another woman will appear in the headlines. And behind you, someone will stop to read.

Pain

Mayoli Valenzuela Zenteno

I wake up in the dream of those who, upon eating the words, are still hungry: hungry for love and nostalgia, for light and darkness. Be quiet. Tell me in silence, before the reader turns the page, if I remain alive or if this thing that hurts is just the text.

Spectator

Lethum Et Excidium

Everyone watched with attention, with morbid fascination, with horror, with curiosity. Their faces reflected, like a mirror, the countenance of the one reading carefully.

Trapped in the Mirror

Maria Nuñez

In front of the mirror you observe your face, you smile and detail every expression line that marks your lived years. A giant shadow hides behind your figure. You feel discomfort; your skin gets goosebumps and a chilling cold runs through your body. You turn around and see nothing. You turn back to the mirror and your face is no longer there, but a figure that steps out of your body and transforms into a being from another planet. You hear a real crunch in your jaw. The being breaks the glass, stretches out its wet fingers, and violently drags you into this paragraph. It reads; you…

The Reading Ritual

Eliana Soza Martínez

At his age it is one of the few pleasures he enjoys. The sun sets. The lamp illuminates the red armchair inherited from his grandfather. The book by his favorite author: another detective story in which only in the epilogue is the truth known. Wine will accompany the reading. Savoring the words along with this delicacy excites his senses. Today he reaches that point he himself traced a dozen pages before the end. He will pick a spot and close the book. He will rest his head and, with his eyes closed, he will create his own ending to the story.

The Mirror of Words

Jorge Antonio Tisera

Every night, before sleeping, he opened his notebook and wrote a different life. In one he was brave; in another he dared to say what he kept silent; in some, he embraced the one he had lost once again. One early morning, the character in his story looked up and asked him: «How long are you going to hide behind me?» He put down the pen. For the first time, he understood that he had spent years writing happy endings for others while postponing his own. On the next page he wrote a single word: «Begin». And this time, he did not write fiction.

The Last Female Reader

Tamara Bermudez Rodriguez

And there she was, his faithful reader (or the only one), immersed in that strange story. She had walked in the rain from the bus stop to her house; she received, out of nowhere, a warning she didn’t know if it was real. She arrived trembling with fear. Safe at home, she looked out at the street… nothing. She resumed reading and let herself delve into the dense atmosphere where the protagonist was being chased. She thought she was safe because she finished the chapter, but…, in the end, she was suffocated by the dust of the pages and eaten by the moths. What an absurd warning!

The Compassionate Silence

Ian Rodríguez Pérez

Upon reaching the last line I got the impression that someone was watching me. I couldn’t turn around: my eyes were busy, reading. «I decide to place an ellipsis…» I reread and breathed relieved. With every word I had already built my room, positioned a lamp, and opened a window so that the slight fear of discovering myself inside the story wouldn’t look suspicious. That last sentence awaiting me revealed nothing beyond its compassionate silence and the possibility of moving into another story in the shortest time possible.

Wrong Page

Nereidy Velásquez

Hey, you, psss… Hello! Sorry for the interruption, but you are in the wrong chapter; go to eighty. I have my suitcase ready and here I should open the door to leave. I don’t want to stay trapped in these pages. Turn the pages carefully, don’t rip off one of my sleeves. I only beg one thing of you: leave me open on the table all night. I want to see what is outside this white rectangle.

The Writer

Rosa Gomez

Richard had been writing vampire stories for years. He was satisfied with the genre and the results. The newspapers demanded him. He even got a partner who grew passionate about his tales. In front of his laptop, he concocted bloody and intricate stories while she suggested certain situations with her face over his shoulder. She was inventive. He loved her. That afternoon he finished a story where a beautiful vampire was burned by the sun. His companion read the ending and, completely transformed, bit his neck and killed him. She disabled the machine and left. Enough of giving the public tips on how to get rid of vampires.

Why Do You Drag Me Into Your Problems?

Eduarda Bellorín

«Hey, what the hell is wrong with you? Yes, I’m talking to you. I don’t understand why you mess with me if I was just reading this story. Do you think that just because your life passes by in black and white you don’t have the right to be questioned?» «You know what, I’m sick of this story, I’ll look for one less aggressive with its reader.» «Hahaha, you’re delusional. Once you start opening the cover of this book, you can’t cheerfully step out of it. Have you wondered when you stopped breathing?» Shit! I didn’t realize I was no longer a reader, but a character.

Board of Doctors

Danira Sil

On the screen, a doctor drinks wine. Another doctor, holding a glass of whiskey, watches the scene from his television. He also drinks. I am watching that television series with a bottle of wine in my hand. I take a good swig. Wow, I’m a doctor too! Suddenly, a suspicion unsettles me. I look toward where I imagine someone could be watching me. Dear reader, are you a doctor?… Do you want some wine?

Migration

Julio Marín

When the Minotaur devoured the last readers, he decided to break the established plot. Without consulting the author, he left for another story in search of those who were trying to escape.

Of Books, Enigmas, and Ancient Secrets

Guisela López

I traveled to San Francisco a day before the International Congress of Bibliophily: I wanted to visit bookstores. Famous for its used book sales, the Little Italy neighborhood seemed frozen in time. In an old establishment I read: «Bookstore Open 24 Hours» and I walked in without hesitating. While making my way through its labyrinth of shelves I remembered Mr. Penumbra’s shop, although I found no one there. At the back stood a book, open, on a podium and I thought with emotion: «The Codex Vitae»… But a voice brought me back to reality: «Your attention, please: we are preparing to land.»

The Vengeful Invaders

Luis Ignacio Muñoz

They too became invaders and capable of entering each of the rooms without preamble and taking possession of every corner until they displaced us, the owners of the house. They did not forgive us for not reading them.

Incredible Story

Nicolas Montoya

Instructions for the protagonist. At the end of this line, you will blink. It is not an order: it is a stage direction. The narrator—that voice you thought belonged to someone else—has just confirmed that you are the protagonist. The story does not happen on the page; it happens in the time it takes you to read it. That is why the room is silent and the mug grows cold beside you. If you look up, the plot stops; if you continue, a paragraph advances. There is no antagonist: only a finger on the screen and a suspicion. The last sentence was written before you existed. Thank you very much for the story.

Who Are You

Joselyn Muñoz

I feel your gaze fixed on me. It’s strange, because I can’t see you and I know you are there; I hear you breathing so close. Wait! I can see you, you are right in front of me! Who are you? Don’t make that face. Yes, you: who are you?

Therapy

Consuelo Chaparro Kortmann

«Hey, you. Yes, you, the one holding the paper… What have I told you I DON’T like? Yes… Exactly. I HATE when you treat me like this!… What possessed you to invent such a story for me? That I was cheated on? That I have a daughter out there? What fault is it of mine that you have nothing better to do with your own life than make me suffer? Enough! Send me straight to get the life I deserve… I mean… I live inside you… Why do you make it so dark for me, huh? That I look like your dad? Well, man! GO TO THE SHRINK!»

The Man and the Moon

Yuber Jimenez Montalvan

Every night you climb up to the roof to talk to her, and every night she pretends not to hear you because she is made of paper and only knows how to shine. I write to you watching you from this line: I write to you tired, unable to tell you that the moon is not going to fall in love with you. But you keep climbing, and she is still there, round and cold, and I am still here, telling you. I wish someone would write me a window to where you are. It would be simple: you would climb up, touch my face, and stop reading forever, with me inside, happy.

Now It Is My Death

Antonio Arjona Huelgas

Congratulations. You found Roberto. He had died, but no one was there to see it. Therefore, he was not a dead man. Now that you found him, he is. Brilliant! You killed Roberto.

Alter Ego

Virginia González Dorta

A passionate reader, she had no trouble getting into character. She could just as easily be a pirate or a detective, the girl dreaming of a gasoline can, the colonel reading the longed-for letter. So great was her passion that she no longer reads, she just lives like Robinson on a deserted beach.

Fragmented

Elsy Maldonado

That afternoon, caught in my desire to learn, I stumbled upon an article about dematerialization. I knew nothing about the subject, but I had an insatiable desire to know; I began reading and suddenly started feeling strange things in my body: I saw my body fading into particles, undergoing a transformation inside a tornado that made me feel that everything in me was subtly separating. I was two at once: sitting in front of the computer and suddenly, thousands of kilometers away, coming out through an unknown computer. Terrified, I was sucked back home, but my body was paralyzed.

Twilight

Jeanneth Bohorquez Quevedo

Sitting in the armchair, he picked up the book and began to read it. A man was walking along the seashore; something strange was happening: a woman was submerging without putting up resistance, she was sinking. Hurriedly, he threw himself into the sea, pulled her to the shore. He pressed on her chest, turned her over, and expelled the water. She looked at him. «Why did you do it? Don’t you see the sea is claiming me?» «Silly girl, it’s not your time!» She looked at him with irony and whispered: «You’re the silly one! It’s our time!» In the twilight, the image of both faded and, in the empty room, the book lay on the floor.

The Wait

Paula Ponce

You feel the crunch of the cempasúchil petals beneath your steps. The scent of incense in the cemetery’s gloom envelops you while you watch the candles flicker over a tomb covered in portraits. You crouch to read the dedication on the stone. As you slide your fingers over the engraving, the air turns freezing cold and a voice from beyond the grave murmurs your name. A bony hand rests on your shoulder. You turn around and see a catrina holding a lit candle. «You’re right on time,» she whispers to you, smiling. «The party is just beginning and everyone was waiting for you…»

The Table

Olga Lucía Montoya Duque

I’ve been waiting three nights for something to happen. No one arrives. I no longer exist, they don’t see me anymore. They were at my table, but they walked right past: I am invisible to them. They no longer bet on sitting with me, they don’t take a seat; with their cell phone in hand they keep walking. But if you stop and look at what they left behind, you will see the tears I carry inside: so many nights with the table set for everyone, without them valuing it. Not everyone deserves to be here: not everyone decided to stay. But you walk right past. Because now, quite simply, the table is empty.

Splitting

Rosa Esperanza Sánchez Gracia

You wake up with a strange taste in your mouth. You don’t remember falling asleep. You are in your room, but the walls seem farther away. You try to get up and your hands pass through the sheet. You don’t reflect in the mirror. You hear your breathing behind you, slow. You turn around. And you are still there lying down, still. You approach and recognize yourself. You touch your chest and hear no heartbeat. Outside dawn breaks without you. The other you opens his eyes for the last time, sighs, and disappears. You watch him go, understand everything, and finally vanish with him, peaceful, forever.

Drinking from the Cup out of Politeness, and Saying a Gentle Goodbye

Karla Barajas

Getting into the car to visit Lush and returning before five, when the last transport leaves. Obedient! You followed almost all the instructions, but you won’t return at five. After drinking posh, you noticed it was strong; you couldn’t find your voice to say thank you. On the way to Lush’s house, your vision blurred, your head felt heavy, and you didn’t enjoy the trip. Maybe you didn’t drink posh. You didn’t know anyone in that house. You wouldn’t go back. You wrote this note to yourself to remember how you got here. You hid it in your shoe and now you are reading it.

Like a Literary Landscape

Carlos Enrique Saldívar

I got a book that was recommended to me, a very voluminous one, and I decided to read it during one hundred years of solitude. This work spoke about my life, recounted my secrets and yearnings. The author was my future self, who only took a year to write it, before dying in front of the firing squad right when I was thinking about what it was like to go discover ice, since for a large part of my existence I resided in a hot place, a remote, wonderful village, where modernity did not reach, except for my dreams of writing a text somewhere between a novel, short stories, poems, and an essay that would transcend time, at least for me.

Three Sad Tigers

Manuel

The windstorm of Macondo ended with Aureliano Babilonia reading his exact prophetic judgment and momentary astonishment. I remember that back in those days they called me Melquíades and in these days just an ordinary writer, reader, and protagonist of his own stories.

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Minificción
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First edition: October 2026.
Collection: Brevedad.
Printed and made in Mexico.

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