Las cenizas./ The ashes.
Mientras
escribía las últimas líneas el autor tomaba el café negro frio que su mujer
le preparó la noche anterior, después de haber terminado con la botella de
mezcal. Una mosca rodeaba la vieja máquina de escribir hasta que el sonido de
chichara en la lámpara con luz azul colgada en el alto techo indicaba que no
volaría mas. Ya era la segunda caja de cigarros que abría durante la mañana.
Las teclas estaban tan desgastadas que
costaba ver claramente las letras con las que construiría su cuento electrificante.
La historia recordaba las vivencias de
los siglos anteriores plasmando el dolor de la gente que era castigada sin
piedad por las sociedades malditas que no permitían la libertad. Sudaba
copiosamente metido en sus pensamientos mientras caía otro pedazo del tiempo
transcurrido en el cenicero rosado de vidrio gótico. El final se acercaba, el
clímax era inminente, los dedos corrían con angustia para contar el desenlace
de su obra maestra. Por fin se sabría la verdad, el herrero no era el asesino.
The author was completing the last lines while drinking a cold cup of black coffee prepared by his wife the night before, after finishing a bottle of mezcal. A fly bother around looping the old writing machine until the electric sound from the lamp with blue light fitted on the tall ceiling announced that it would not fly any longer. He opened the second 20´s box of fags in the morning. The writing machine’s keys were so old that it was difficult to read the next theclas to be pressed for building up his thriller tale. The history remind the pain of people punished with no mercy during the last century for god dawn societies that would not allowed freedom. He sweat copiously immersed in his thoughts whilst a piece of the time passed through felt in the pink gothic asher. The final was close, the climax was imminent, his finger ran with anguish to tell the outcome of his master piece. The truth it would be known at last, the blacksmith was not the murder.
posted by rubs aka rubens @ 4:46 AM
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