Fitting that the day before New Year's I would publish a story about summer. I actually wrote this story for a writing competition in my country (the original is in Spanish). I used a rather original method, different from what I use to write.
Have a Happy New Year 2024, and I hope you find the person that thaws the frozen walls in your heart.
Summer heat. Burning Sun. The water from the fountain splashed with a bewitching energy, the stones around it wet and cool. And yet the town's pool remained empty, the houses empty, the streets and alleys forgotten.
"Is anyone there?" Walk up the avenue, turn at the end of the street. "Is anyone there?" Repeat over and over, opening doors, opening windows. The emptiness outside fills the inside; the deep feelings buried, the soul, the heart. The Self. Run up the street, sweat coating the forehead, mouth dry from shouting. Trip and roll down the street. There are no tears, they dried up a long time ago now. Blood on the knees, blood on the palms of the hand. No, ignore it. Ignore it and it'll be fine. Up again, open Home's door, the clothes sticking to the body. "Is anyone there?" One last time, the expected silence like a frozen stake. Hand to chest, gaze forward, firm against the pain.
Can you feel it? Can you feel the frozen stake deep in your body, your innards frozen from its touch?
A shadow looms behind, following the quiet steps. "Someone, is there anyone? Someone is. Who is someone? Someone is," singing, dancing, shouting, flying.
Eyes closed. A sterile gauze. Alcohol 96º on the counter. Ignore the pain, the scrape is cured. Knee? Good. "Hello, hello! I'm somebody!" Ignore it. Hands? Good. "Can you hear me? Are you listening to me? I'm here!" Pants? Nothing broken. "Hey, here! Hey! I'm here! Why are you ignoring me?" Return to the living room. A book is open, its pages fluttering with the warm breeze. The TV is on, some random reporter talking about the heatwave. Walk out of the room, of the house. Suffocating. The summer heat presses against the chest. And still there's no one in the swimming pool. "If you want, I can jump in!" The shadow follows the steps on the asphalt. A walk around town, hair sticking to the forehead. Another walk around town, each step is agony.
Count the stakes.
One: "Me, I am here."
Two: "Here too, me too."
Three, four, five: "Here, and here, and here. Are you forgetting about us?"
Oblivion? A distant wish. No, ignore it. Ignore it and it'll be fine. Summer heat. It's summer? The cold spreads, joining the voices. "Here!" Stake. "Here!" In the frozen. "Here!" Heart. "Here, here, here, HERE!"
Shocked. There's a bed. "Here..." More softly. Relax. The door is open. "I'm here..." Sweat coats the forehead, the body. The covers are a messy knot around the legs. There's a long silence, the room dark. There aren't any shadows following phantom footprints.
Summer heat. Burning Sun, And yet your hug was the only thing capable of thawing the frozen cage that was holding my heart.
YOU ARE READING
The Lost Dreams of a Broken Poet
Short StoryA collection of poems and short stories I write when I'm bored. Most of the themes are sad, so I hope that, in a hundred years when I'm long dead, students read them as part of their Literature lessons. XD ⚠Major character death in some stories⚠
