Posts Tagged ‘Short story’


Posted: December 5, 2015 by jennroig in English, Fiction
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It’s coming to all, it’s a matter of when.

margo in central park

Margo’s on her way back home, walking the 5th uptown, after buying presents for Christmas. The day is fading. There’s a chilling wind but it feels nice. The colors of the autumn remind her of Peter, in college, playing his harmonica in the park. Always in the same bench in central park. Why would she think of Peter now? It’s been almost twenty-five years. She can’t quite remember his face, and that makes her stomach twitch. She can only see him sitting, in a shinny morning, with a big smile but… what was the color of his eyes again? It’s been too long, apparently, and those memories are also starting to fade.

Why Margo deviated from her way home, why did she enter the park instead of keep going straight ahead through 5th, it’s a question that not even she could have answered with entire certainty. It was rather an impulse. Maybe in the back of her head she wanted to see that bench again, although that didn’t mean anything really. That memory of Peter, so unexpected, didn’t mean more than that, an inexplicable moment of the brain, uncontrollable, therefore meaningless. The reality was at home, where Edward, her husband, was waiting with Caitlin and Mary Jo, their daughters that were visiting for Christmas.

Margo must have entered the park by the 72nd, because one of the guys from the carts in front of the Metropolitan, that kind of knows her from the distance and thinks she’s a beautiful and elegant lady, too bad that out of his league, he would remember her walking by. And he did not. Or that’s what he said when the police came asking the morning after.

sunset CP

The wind was chilling and the sun was almost set, and still the street lamps were enough to illuminate the main venues. But the bench was in a hidden spot, on top of a soft cliff, that Peter liked for the view and the peace. The bench was there. Exactly in the same spot. Because nothing really changes even after more than two decades. She wouldn’t have sit, or that’s what Edward thinks. Although he doesn’t really understand anything of what has happened or could have happened.

Margo climbs the soft hill with careful steps, not because she feels limited by her high-heel boots but rather because she has both hands busy carrying the bags with gifts. The view is amazing at that moment, with the sun down and the night starting and all the lights. Like being in an island in the middle of the city. Now the memory of Peter is much precise, his eyes were green.

And she hears a noise, something like a branch that breaks, or a step over dry grass. Margo doesn’t turn. She doesn’t have the time. There’s a shot. There’s pain and burning for a second flat. And then there’s no more.


Broken promise

Posted: May 18, 2014 by jennroig in English, Fiction
Tags: , ,

I’m back in the end of the world. There is only ocean around this rock. Just rocks, sand, wild grass, and a lighthouse that could only be built by someone desperate. Or someone looking for an excuse to go away.

No one should ever get to this place. But I grew up here, with her. She’s staring at me now as she always did, evaluating the way I walk, the way I move, the way I am. She has my face but we couldn’t be more different. She’s wearing a dress and I wear broken jeans, she traveled with a trolley and I grabbed my backpack. She keeps herself over the surface, restoring walls, and I dive down, down, deep down the sea… I have no memory of this place without her. She has my face, she’s my twin sister. Sometimes when I find my reflection in the mirror it seems she’s looking back to me from the glass. Perhaps she’s the one in my memories. Maybe I don’t exist at all.

Double Face, by Laura Zalenga

Double Face, by Laura Zalenga

There she comes, with that college-student aura that lingers even though we’re thirty. She’s always been the one, mom’s favorite. She’s the rebel, the one that speaks out her mind, the one that seems to know something I don’t, but swallows the words, as if I couldn’t take it.

But mom left, or was taken away. No matter what mom wasn’t here anymore. And everything I can remember of my life in this tiny island in the middle of nowhere, my sister is there… In the lighthouse, on the wharf, running to the wild grass playing hide and seek… she’s always there, near me, even when I can’t see myself in the memory. Maybe I’m confused after so many years away that I can’t tell anymore the difference between me and her.

Oh God she’s so tan!

Sunset with swans, by Laura Makabresku

Sunset with swans, by Mala Lesbia

– Where’s dad?

– I don’t know. The boat wasn’t at the wharf.

She must have a key, I threw away mine when I swore not to ever come back. She sits in the floor, silent, she will now stare at the sea, pretending is business as usual? She’s breaking her own promise, she must be hating herself. She walks to the other end of the portal, stepping on the wooden floor with those stupid heels. Where’s her key? Isn’t she supposed to hug me and kiss me? It’s been so many years! If she wants my key she will have to ask for it, I don’t mind to wait hours until dad comes back.

Lonely sisters, by Mala Lesbia

Lonely sisters, by Mala Lesbia

I’m not waiting here, I bet she has her key. She just wants me to ask for it, so she can wipe in my face that I threw mine and made a promise I’ve broken. And she will look at me with those evaluating eyes. Where is she going? There’s no window she can climb, this lighthouse is a fortress! What is that noise, what is she doing?!

Fire walks with me, by Mala Lesbia

Fire walks with me, by Mala Lesbia

I knew the bicycle would be there. The old man kept it in the same place, as good as new, it’s remarkable… She leaves, again. She broke the locker and took the bicycle to go elsewhere, any place where I won’t be. She’s taking the road between the wild grass, she’s going to the cliff. Mom’s cliff… She thinks I know something about mom, why did she run away in the middle of the hurricane. But I don’t. I just have more questions. The cliff is so high, so steep, and the waves break so hard against the rocks… But I don’t know, I just don’t know…


Posted: April 16, 2013 by jennroig in English, Fiction, Women don't Cry
Tags: , , ,


He draws something over her thigh with the ice of his drink. She doesn’t feel it.

In a corner of the crowded bar, they have the VIP spot. He has her sitting on his lap. He kisses her back, near her right shoulder, just over the cleavage.  She doesn’t feel it.

She doesn’t feel his touch nor listen to all the noise around them. Her mind just got silent. Only her eyes are stuck on a giant flat screen where the boxing referee is finishing the countdown for the boxer lying on the floor, covered by blood. She can only repeat infinitely the words he just said to her ear, “Would you like me to kill him?” She blinks and breathes, and suddenly sees herself in the mirror that covers the wall. She’s sitting on his lap, in the VIP corner of a crowded bar. She turns to him.

– Pardon me?

He smiles at her. He´s so relaxed, his chest is so deep and he knows so well how to touch a woman… He is as fucking confident as could only be someone with a conviction of a very deep power. He kisses her, and then repeats.

– Would you like me to kill him?

He sees her bewilderment. Actually, she knows many things about him. She had to learn it when the agency informed her that he was the best client and had picked her. She is aware that he owns significant amount of shares of the top 500 companies, he manages his corporations despite he could have someone, anyone, doing it for him and he busts his ass working.tumblr_m6eaadM4GV1qaxnilo1_500 She also knows he is a sports fan and likes to buy sports clubs. But she didn’t know that he would be asking this question to her about a boxer that just lost a fight in another continent. And she knows she’s just one more among so many others. Now she is seeing his smile, now she is feeling under her skirt his hand sliding through his inner thigh. His warm hand… She feels… She is now afraid, so she smiles back at him and listens.

– That guy either can go to a hospital where doctors won’t let him die but he won’t walk again for sure. Or we could slow everything down, the ambulance… and… that’s it. What would you have me doing?

She looks back at the flat screen, where the referee has just finished the countdown and goes to the winner to raise his hand. The frame doesn’t show the fallen man but she still can see him, face down on the ground. She holds the urge to vomit and lays back to lay on him.

– Would you really kill him for me?

Todavía más

Posted: July 31, 2012 by jennroig in Fiction, Spanish, Women don't Cry
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Tengo un cristal de sal en la punta del dedo. Perfecto, simétrico. Lo quiebro en dos mitades. Luego cuatro. Puedo fragmentarlo en mil pedazos hasta hacerlo polvo. Al polvo, bajo microscopio, aún es posible dividirlo cien veces más. Pero no desaparece, sé que sólo se pierde de vista.

Tengo otro cristal de sal en las manos. Puedo devolverlo al mar…