Date: Sun, 7 Nov 2004 02:44:48 -0800 (PST)
From: Horacio Quiroga <horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com>
Subject: Winter Solstice/Chapter 1

Intro/Disclaimer:

	This is the firs part of a story I'm hoping to finish
in a couple months with a little of your help. I've enjoyed
writing it and thinking about it for some time now,
hopefully it will be worth reading for you. The story takes
place in Mexico (not that you wouldn't notice by just
reading) and places and people are named in Spanish. The
thing about this story is: English is not my mother's
tongue, hence the constant errors you'll find around here,
errors that I would really like to recognize and correct, go
ahead if you have the time to help me with that. In any
case, please take the time to write your comments to
horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com, why else would I want to
post my stories for?

	Well, this story has lots of things most people
never wants to read about in their life, like underage gay
sex and poor literature. If any of those are illegal wherever
you are or you just don't enjoy those things (being the
second more important than the first) stop reading and
wonder around the archive for something that suits your
tastes better.


First part______________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________

Don Antonio woke up at six in the morning, the
day was clearing. Old at last, he could never get up late.
Walked barefoot to the bathroom. The cold concrete floor
deformed his walk but also spurred him on to starting the
day. Peed. God knew how much he thanked every
morning for peeing without pain. Ever since that infection
that seemed to take a life to heal he would thank god when
urine flowed smoothly with no hitch. Still peeing, coldness
suddenly climbed from his feet and ankles to the spine and
the back of the head. It was a nice feeling that of getting
suddenly cold, made him feel warmer on his abdomen and
pubis as yellow urine flowed out. He wouldn't take the
time anymore to feel alive, but that morning the thought
flash passed his head, that once dead, being as cold as the
clearing morning, one can not longer feel that way...
medium pleasure that of peeing warm urine, placer of the
living, that is.

He was finished and the feeling was still there. He
was there, as he was every morning, old and naked.
Looking at himself from the other side of the mirror he felt
darker and skinnier then usually, framed by the faint
greenness of the bathroom walls, framed themselves by
the wooden oval holding the mirror. He felt about to sigh
and, realizing this, took his eyes away from the mirror and
carried on with his everyday routine.

Opened the water valve and the pipe complained
with a deep sound that ended with an intermittent stream
of hot water. Surprisingly hot. He sat on the edge of the
tub with his feet wetting on slowly raising water. His
hands crossed between his thighs, slight shivers visible on
the sporadic shaking of his back. Seen like that, he looked
like a child. White light from a cloudy morning pouring
down his side, it would enter through the frosted glass and
slide through his back drawing the outline of his flat
muscles and rough, black skin. Seen from the back, sitting
uncomfortably on the thin edge of the tub, in patient wait,
his nakedness emanated some sort of innocence. That old
he was.

The girl served him breakfast barely saying a word,
as every morning. She would wait for him to ask a
question while drinking his coffee, but that morning he
sipped his black coffee in silence, very slowly. They didn't
talk about Luis or the child.

-Hurry up, I have to wash the dishes, if I wait for
you all day I won't be able to do anything.

-Well, take it now -- picked up the coffee cup
offering it without looking at her.

The girl had a childish  insolence that made her
delightful. Don Antonio esteemed her as a pleased
employer the feels well served and used to smile at her
every time she called his attention. "As if she was my
daughter" he would think. She was about eighteen  and
was married for a year to Luis, who he would treat as a son
in law. They had a child under a year old, black because of
his grandfather don Jose, father of Luis, whose skin was
even darker than his.

- Don't cook dinner for me today, I'm going out.
Eat at your home and we'll see each other tomorrow.

-¿Where are you going?, if it's possible to know.

-I'm going to visit my brother, if you don't find me
tomorrow it means it was too late for me to return and
stayed there. Do the cleaning as everyday, I'll pay you on
Monday.

About to leave the house, cane in hand, before ten
in the morning, shouted good bye to the girl washing
clothes in the backyard.

-iI'm leaving Tencha!, greetings to your little boy
and to your son too.

-iHave a nice day! -- from the backyard with a
voice that gave away a smile -iSay hello to don Joaquin!

The smile faded away quickly and she was left
thinking that in the time she knew him, don Antonio had
never paid a visit to his brother.










The child cried with thick tears following each
other continuously, from his eyes to his neck. He had been
wiping tears so severely that his face was burning, now
that he was letting them flow easily he began to feel
relieved. Physically relieved.

He had chosen to cry and crying he had run all the
way from his house to the edge of the forest. The edge of
his father's terrains, that by those days had no less than
eight kilometers of border at north, marked the entrance to
the sierra. His father, don Joaquin, had no more than thirty
years and Andres, the crying boy, had no more than
fourteen.

Sitting in top of the stone wall, wrapped on his
sarape, his crying could be heard far from there, but not far
enough how to be actually heard by anyone. Sun was
setting on the valley and from red skies, his blue sarape
looked of deep darkness. His hands clutched each other, he
wanted to hate his father, but he couldn't, and then his
hands would tighten even harder. Delicate, thin hands,
childish hands, hands of his mother, redden, hurt.

Repeating it to himself, that he hated him, once and
again on his throat it would painfully form what would be
words but turned into animal weeping trough the lump of
tears tightening his neck. And he would think it loud, not
being able to say it, that he hated him. He thought it so
hard that strength began to leave his body and sleepiness
started to hit him in waves. It would hit his hands and
neck, but above all his knees. Before the first start was
visible, he was aware of the fact he wouldn't be able to get
up. Leaning against the wall  he wanted to let himself fall
on his side still crying, his legs bended, covered all with
his sarape, still crying. In a minute an image took shape on
his mind: the forest in front of him was so dark and dense
that as he would close his eyes dark images would escape
and reach him. He was afraid of sleeping in front of the
woods. He got up and walked towards it.

The pine forest rises on three mountains and grows
to the sierra at north. Vast and black, its whispers are
subtle and cold. The path across it is made of black soil.
Hundred black deaths, hundred red holm oaks. Life and
shape of the things born within it take conscience of its
nature and creates, as the night does, fear older than
mankind. The child walked slowly, no longer crying.











Joaquin got up shaking. Looked his hands for an
instant, sitting on the edge of his bed, just a moment to
convince himself it was coldness that made them tremble.
That night he opened the door to his son's bedroom,
shaking nervously, for a moment the hearth on his chest
made an audible sound. The soft groan crossed the brief
space between his aching body and the bed of the children.
Andres his nephew opened his eyes covered by the
darkness. Looked at the door, looked at him. Joaquin
opened his coat. Naked, trembling, sad. Looking at
Andres. The feeling that from his penis pulled his
abdomen and back and forth grew in strong waves. Closed
his coat, closed the door, ran to his bedroom and
masturbated ashamed wrapped on white sheets.

Past midday Joaquin smokes a leaf cigarette sitting
at the table. The children are outside, his son Omar plays
to be older, Andres his nephew plays in laughs. On his
mind their flexible bodies run, breath, spin gracefully,
joyfully. Joaquin smokes in huge puffs.

-Go over town, ask your uncle for the money he
owes me -- uncle's house is an hour away, uncle Antonio
owes ten cattle heads-.

-Andres, you're staying to help me around the
house- leaning in the door to the front yard, still smoking-.

Returning quickly, Omar opens the door and finds
no one, wonders quickly trough the rooms, looking for
them. Finds his blue sarape and puts it on. Walks towards
the creek, to look for them. Through the bushes he's able
to distinguish their figures. Close. Walks slowly, borders
the creeks fall carefully. At sunset skies turn red. Andres is
naked, laying on the ground over his clothes, Joaquin on
top of him. And his hands around his body, his hands of
man over the body of a child, soft, fragile. His mouth
wrapped around the child's penis, pinkish, erect.

Omar returned over his own steps, he chose to cry
and ran.
__________________________________________________________________
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Hey, did you like it?, didn't you?, write me to
horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com and let me know. Response
from the readers is the only fuel I need to keep writing
(and essential to keep posting). Bye now.