Blog

To the right of the main street, on a short alley that looked like the moon, were the doors to Hell.

And since that was the name of the saloon, we jokingly would say things like «Let’s go to Hell» those afternoons when there was nothing else to do but lull the afternoon with a beer on hand and paly darts or «Come with us to Hell» to our cousins from the city or … «Why do you think I work for? To go to Hell, of course». To this joke, my grandmother, a respectable and  gray haired woman on her 70s whom always went to mass, would raise an eyebrow and purse her lips in reprobation. Her small defect of a tumour like appendage on her right side of the lips trembled.
One day, the dough was resting on the table waiting for my grandmother to finish a new table cloth’s embroidery and getting puffier when a ding dong came from the door. I wanted to scream, my nose was a leaking tap and my head was like a fluid fish bowl with my brain floating on it dead. But grandma can barely move around so I couldn’t help snorting when I saw her on her feet and opening the door to a couple of guys. Then she turned around and yelled towards my room:
—Christian were going bar crawling tonight! Get the truck ready honey
She laughed a lot when she realised I was there on the stairs, transfixed looking at the tiny tentacles around her mouth.
Then she and her also tentacled friends came up to me and surrounded my shoulders with their arms.
— Tonight we aren’t going to Hell. We’re going to all the Styx, Purgatory, Valhalla and Paradise boy…

Outside the chubby lavender villa, there was this reddish guy admiring the «On sale» board. He would press a cotton handkerchief on his nose from time to time until he wheezed like an old toy and entered the house.

Inside, an smell to old decaying money was beginning to stench. Enrico placed his hand on the stairs rail and reacted immediately. He had left his hand in a negative imprinted mark. He took off the handkerchief again and cleaned his hands.

Upstairs, there was this room with beautiful birds painted all over the walls and furniture. A tiny fat prune was looking at him with a lot of interest from the bed.
—How do you find the house Mr. Gallo?
—Big and well by the side of the highway. I can’t pay more than what I told you by the phone…Misses Loretta
—That’s ok lad. Nobody is buying anyway.
—May I ask why?
—Once you start talking to the folks you’ll know. Just… No, never mind. Saint John’s wort on the garden will take care of it

A month later, that bed was gone and Misses Loretta would be living in the nearest town’s retirement house whilst what had once been her kitchen oozed bacon and crispy bread smells. Enrico had opened an italo-dutch restaurant. His Flammkuchen would attract lots of flies with cameras hanging from their necks… Until last week. He had no idea what had happened since everything was the same. The same garden… That had changed a little. He had needed space for culinary herbs and he had decided thus, to cut off some of the patches with Saint John’s wort. Besides, the pretty girl in the green apron by the gas station’s seven eleven, had liked sunflowers. She was a lovely creature of blue eyes and a name as blue as they were.

A week later, Azure called the police. Enrico had forgotten to call her for a whole week not to say the least, he had left her alone on their date! Worst, some tourists had complained they had gone to enjoy his famous flammkuchen.

The first thing the three policemen noticed was the sulphur smell. The whole house smelled like the devil. The second was the atmosphere. Inside, there was an aquarium of light. There were butterflies dancing or swimming in that light, gravitationless kingyos in a fish bowl. The three men jumped at the same time, with a better synchronization than any Korean band could ever achieve. At the edge of the stairs, Mr. Gallo looked at them, amused.

The only policeman without crows feet started to run towards him when the oldest senior, caught his arm.

—Are you all right sir? Someone reported you missing after a week of a closed restaurant — The youngest man couldn’t help asking.
— Don’t you see he is alive and well — whispered the officer holding his arm and trying to drag him downstairs.

—Indeed, I’m fine. That bloody herb smells like heaven and I’m allergic to it. Get closer good men, I’d like to shake your hands to congratulate you in your good job.
The thin young policeman tried to get up there, but the old man; brazenly resorted to grab his arm and run stairs down and out of the villa. The other one did the same. They ran until they were
The youngest men in uniform protested by getting off the old one’s grip.

—What the heck is wrong with you two?
—Didn’t you see his shadow? — asked the one who hadn’t participated as much as fleeing too. — ¡he had had horns and a tail! He sure made his fortune.

Matins. They woke up and it wasn’t there. The body wasn’t there anymore! Fray Gère looked up to the eyes of Fray Dejan who made one of those faces.

Fray Gère put his hand inside the coffin. Sometimes, when you think you have lost your quill sharpener, it appears exactly in the same pocket you might swear it was before you lost it. Mysteries of the devil, holy mother of god.

No, the coffin was still as empty as it seemed to him before. Fray Dejan didn’t say a word but made a gesture inviting Fray Gère to follow him.

They went out of the catacombs through a spiral staircase and exited at the roses garden. Roses were good for the black Death and masking smells… Fray Dejan showed him by pointing with a very bony finger, the tracks of a pair of horses. They loam was still wet with last night’s rain. Both fryers made the signal of the cross, fearing the body to be used for witchcraft.

Some kilometres away, I can’t really tell how many since it was really dark and it was difficult to see if the horse was well fed or not; two men in black fashionable velvet, went as fast as they could. Behind one of them, there was this big blanket wrapped bundle. It was expected to arrive on time to be buried in Flores

Hi. Here I am announcing I’m going to devote this month to the Drawlloween 2022. Just that, instead of some ink, I’ll be writing something (and forfeiting the rest of my duties by showing you how to write fiction). I hope they’re stories good enough to honour my favourite holiday. No, my favourite holiday isn’t Día de muertos. I find it kind off track to celebrate the return of a soul when I don’t believe in souls… Which doesn’t help me from loving the bread and the flowers of the time. Ah… I totally forgot yesterday we were already in October (and with it an acquaintance’s birthday).