How to write fiction


Published in this blog December 19th, 2020
Translated September 2023

Continuation and part 3 of 3. Tear it apart.

clear glass terrarium with white petaled flowers
Photo by Katarzyna Modrzejewska on


—Those… I haven’t been able to reproduce them. There’s only one seller… — Actually the words I’m about to say might not be the same thought by the «parakeet» nose, though the feeling is the feeling one gets when thinking such things. «Fuc#$&_ bitch».
The cup went resting upon its plate and the hand that has done the action goes to the healthy snack on a bowl on the table. It takes a strawberry.

—Maybe you can introduce us… I’d like to support their art…
—Hihi— the hand of the other nose, covers the mouth.
—I don’t know them… Ingrid gets them buying online. He has his own catalogue online. Posts on a blog or something like that. Poor little ones, they won’t last more than a week — the hand caresses the flowers. There are five and its roots haven’t been snipped so they can rest in the special plant gel… something is missing. The flowers look a bit withered.

— They’re so white; they’re called «ghosts»

The «parakeet» nose gets the shivers. «Nonsense» thinks her rational mind to put aside her fear, yet she can’t help the sarcastic comment.

—Pretty much fed on blood, eh?

She wears black, crosses the orange peasant bridge in the dark and stops at the curb. He has said he will come to pick her up. It’s 2 am, the best time for the orchids.

—One must feel an idiot feeling jealousy towards a bunch of stupid plants — she mumbles while jumping a little to keep cold, nervousness and feet cramps at bay.
— Just because the formula is a secret, he doesn’t have why to behave this mysterious… — she looks at the highway, hopeful. She has already left her house in secret and walked 2 km so no one would suspect.

A «mushroom» * I’m sorry to say the author, me, distinguishes with great effort a Volkswagen beetle from a Mini cooper (old ones) but definitely will confuse a Tsuru and a Versta.* baby truck gets close in a funny way. Like an old man with a cane, very determined but very slowly.  It comes up to her and stops. His nose gets out a little from the window and stares as soon as he opens the co-pilot’s door.
—Ah… —her heart stops for a second; the sound is relief and ecstasy at the same time.

She gets herself in the vehicle and her wishes come true. A hand on her neck and lips on hers… he thinks nothing else but his beautiful babies. Anything else is just to feed them, to keep them alive. He licks his lips and remembers the little body on the back seat.

Happy, she allows herself to be ushered to the first story, to the bath with a shower, filled to the brim of a suspiciously red and smelly thing… Her instinct springs up, too late to process the data.

— Easy, it is just a mix of tomato and fertilizing — sweet protective smile, as he surrounds her waist and takes her closer to the bath, kissing her neck and whispering:

— Come, you can open the tap — Again, the voice is innocent, hurt, intention heavy.
She nods as they go closer and she bends over the tap on the side leaning on the wall. Both manipulate the flux of time from that moment on. The tap, a round dented one allows the flow of something as dense so easily.

The flowers downstairs are hungry, they don’t feed on sun. They’re parasites, truly gorgeous parasites. Underground, their roots move towards the nurturing liquid filtering into. They’re ambitious and they’re hungry. Their roots pulsate to every drink like veins and arteries from a famined heart.

—Oh! — It is time to kill the character, when the readers expect it and know she will die? Probably… She waits and smiles.

tiempo de desgarrar
— Si la dejo, volverá

ahora, ahora, ahora…

A bunch of thoughts swirl in his brain. It’s not as he doesn’t want to kill her, he wants intensely to do it but, quality and available flesh of the kind is almost never at hand. It would be a pity not to save some for later. The prettiest ones become prettier flowers…

A tall and slim but attractive man waits outside the movies. She, 14 y.o., with a body with instincts and appearance enough to forget about the brain (more than skipping usage, one that skips calculating consequences); gets to it in a rush of self-steem.

— Hey do you have fire?

He holds his cigarette as an answer. Both of them get closer to each other and she aspires so the hot air gets inside the edge and lits the tobacco.

— Are you waiting for someone? — A hand brushes off the rebel hair ironed till it became a uniform curtain. Eyes staring at eyes.

— Mi novia.. I think she … dump. She stood me — Sigh/lonely smile/slightly shrunk shoulders, the flutter of a winning happy butterfly in her brain, thinking the score you get for getting a foreigner (no, not a red neck, a foreigner).
— Ditch her, come with me — she takes his arm in between seduction and reticence.
—Yo… love this country — he bends his head. He really loves the country, you can fuck someone’s life and if you do leave traces behind; you never have to worry about el forense (coroner) and detectives. Even better if you look like a failure. No one says anything about how you live your life.

She sleeps on the co-pilot’s seat. The road has been long but the promise of new experiences has never stopped people like her. Besides, the previous was more than enough to dare.

He opens his door and gets out from the vehicle —Almost there — he whispers when she opens her eyes and looks at him pleased… The princess and her prince ( don’t laugh, whomever writing this can’t help princesses invading 0-12 y.o. feminine mentalities).

He takes her to the bath in the first story. He introduces her inside and undresses her little by little. There’s no point in getting dirty clothes you will remove to make use of the flesh.
— Cold— she’s awake but will let the other do. She ain’t scared and the hands over her body are true. He stops and hugs her. It’s a hug wrapping her around, like a boa before the final squeeze. His mouth on hers and his chin on her shoulder (technically I made a mistake there; it shouldn’t be the shoulder but the blade bone). She won’t have air or time to scream. The knife has been there from before, under the bath and the cut is so exact that the blood comes out in a gush. The lack of air from the kiss and the bleeding are a drug, a one use drug. Later, beauty will consume itself, with its more tortuous peak cycle being in the kitchen.
At dusk, they are bright in ghostly light as the wind rocks them and the sister schooless moon rises to the moving shadows. They’re small spectres forgotten among the green tribe. Only rhizome of desolated milky green and a whiter flower atop. Despite the red labellum.

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