by Thomas Sanchez Hidalgo

It’s four a.m. I have serious problems. And a Magnum in my pocket. Minutes later, dozens of crows, over a crowd of scrapyard parts (near the shoulder), take flight at our pace as if they were saying farewell, hordes of them, from the Porsche’s brilliant engine.

I ask myself if this book, the one on the copilot’s seat, is a collection of Brecht’s poems. I’m almost sure it is. Then the taxi driver turns slightly towards me and thinks, “No, it’s not Brecht. But it’s undeniable that now they’re coming for us.”

After getting out of the car, I noticed that no one is chasing me, now at the entrance to our barracks, and in the dining room I start to set down in writing all of my impressions. I’m faced with a pressing problem, deserving of considerable attention. I resolve it stretching out in my seat.

“In reality, they should be thrown down the toilet,” my response, soon thereafter, surrounded now by my people, faced with a “What do you revel in those papers?”. I reach out, as far as I can, and I take some pills out of the company’s first aid kit; I affirm, “I’m eating some planes,” after putting them in my mouth, faced with my colleagues’ increasing attention, their faces now coarse, strange, and they’re in a “But look, they’re antibiotics.”

The South

Carbon. It never stops transforming distances, or states of matter: that last breath will soon appear next to me, in the stars. Carbon. After many different appearances, after so much rain on my chest, it could be snow lighting up the shadows, or the shining magma, or light itself, at the exact speed to plow through the ocean, or a red sky, after a knife fight, brilliant defeat, my way (Dahlman’s way); that’s how I wanted it to be in my first night at the sanatorium, when they stuck me with the needle, after the fevers: to live, today, in the sand although my skull is still secret: write my last name next to celestial drops.

Brave New World

Actually, subjugation curtails bravery. Imagine the magnate of soma, so brave (and the men, more and more neurotic and isolated).

Like brains tend to economize energy, IQs would shrink to alarming levels. I think dogs would take over the Earth.

About the Author:

TS Hidalgo (45) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Brazil, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Venezuela, Nicaragua, Germany, UK, France, Spain, Turkey, Ireland, Portugal, Romania, Nigeria, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, India, Singapore and Australia, and he has been the winnerof prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in the novel category. He has currently developed his career in finance and stock-market.