Surgeon General’s Warning: Train Trips can damage your health (and so can short stories)

He just reached the station in time and jumped on to the train as it was leaving. Damnit, he thought, another close one. He stood by the door for a moment, catching his breath, and lit a cigarette. Calmly, Ian Jeremy Fawkes III reviewed the uncanny happenings so far that day, only to conclude they made no goddamn sense. I mean, you wake up having a horrible dream about your ex-wife, then you almost kill yourself by suddenly and unconsciously starting to dance to a The Who song in a driving lesson (and Ian was not a fan of “Los Quien”, mind that), and to add to an overall mood of fear and paranoia, you see strange bespectacled men garbed in black trenchcoats just about anywhere (it’s midsummer, for Christ’s sake!). Anyone in his place would be as confused as he is, I reckon.

Nevertheless, Ian put out his nicotine injector and walked into the carriage. Imagine his surprise when the surrounding photons make contact with his retina, and his brain frenzily points out that all the passengers are wearing dark sunglasses and black trenchcoats. Fear and loathing in a Train? Indeed, but our friend managed to gather all his strength, and slithered past them as fast as he could. Mid-carriage he noticed something that would change that trip: a briefcase sporting a sticker saying “Sunglass and Trenchcoat Convention – Lisbon 2005”. It was that very day! Mystery solved, he threw himself onto the only available seat and proceeded to read the newspaper.

Oh, and since this is a pseudo-experimental short-story by a stubbornly-won’t-abide-to-the-rules promising young writer, there is an important fact (there is always one, usually disclosed mid-story to provide the following events with a minimum of logic) about Mr. Fawkes: he can foresee people’s deaths by touching them. As you can imagine, he doesn’t brag around too much about this, and I guess it may have something to do with the fact that when he predicted his best friend’s death, it happened five minutes later (It was a bowling ball avalanche. Unpredictable at best, as you may know). This gruesome event shocked Ian to the very core of his being, and he to this very day is a very sad, depressive and overall pitiful person.

And as usual, he was having a very bad day. To add to the morning events, he was going to visit his future mother-in-law, and we all know what a terrible prospect that can be, but Susie’s mother seemed to really go out of her way to make Ian wish he’d never been born, or even planned. He wished he could foresee HER death, and instantly would not be too soon. And a slow, agonizing one would be something Ian would eat popcorn at. You see, Ian also fantasises with deaths a lot, albeit only those of his hated ones. To make you understand that is the point of this ramble.

Presently, as the lunch trolley sailed through the corridor, something happened and the train lurched and screeched in a most horrible manner. Ian accidentally touched the trenchcoat-clad man by his side, and his uncanny power worked in his head. He could see a hellish picture of twisted steel, rivers of blood and horrible disfigured bodies floating in something white and foamy. Not your everyday conforting thought, if you consider that five minutes later the train derailed, crashed violently into a ravine, and then fell into the river, nothing more than debris and pieces of human meat. As it figures, everyone died, and poor Ian Jeremy Fawkes III with them. I told you he was having a bad day.

A writer's block

““And with a smile, he lit the piece of paper and watched it burn.” Ian dropped the pen and threw himself into the couch. Another month, another run-of-the-mill novel ready. Life isn’t easy as a best-selling author. The first successful book you publish, you become a sell out, and are forbidden to have original ideas, push forward the literary boundaries or write about what you want, for that matter. Welcome to the machine, indeed. Rising up, he went to his desk and rummaged through his manuscripts, his unpublished manuscripts. “Red Sea, Black Blood”, “A Murder of Crows”, “The Grim Journals”. The words he once thought would change the world. Ian had been considering putting a sign on his neck, probably something like “literary hooker, will write for 10% royalties”. He cast back these thoughts. No use, he thought. When you’re in your fifties nobody expects you to be original. You’re old. You’re expected to switch your inspiration to auto-pilot and regurgitate every theme you’ve written about. He had written about the great seas, the moving complexity of the universe, and all that everyone wanted to hear from him was sex. How could he have guessed writing a porn novel would restrict his creativity for the rest of his life? How could it have happened? Lost in this kind of self-pitying thoughts, he suddenly noticed the doorbell had been ringing for quite some time. Ian reached the door, and when he opened it, a cloaked figure, remarkably similar to the so-called Grim Reaper, walked in. “How may I help you, sir?” Ian asked. “I have come to warn you that you have but one day to live. In this crumpling piece of parchment you will find all the gruesome details of your horrible death-to-come, including the exact time and causes. Have a nice last day.” Saying this, he seemed to evaporate, leaving a trail of dust on the mat. Ian was stunned for a moment, and…”

Susan stopped writing. She reckoned her writer’s block was worse than she had expected. Death warning you beforehand was such a laughable concept… She had no other choice but to start anew, again. She lit a cigarette and, with a sad grin, she also lit the piece of paper and watched it burn.

Problemas Familiares

Sete da tarde. À hora marcada, Gurmindes e Aristeza tocavam à campainha de Joaquina. Cansadas, as velhotas, imaginavam com prazer a bela sala de estar e a magnífica lareira que as esperava para lá da porta. Porta essa que foi aberta por duas bolas de pelo amarelo; um olhar mais atento na direcção descendente revelava na totalidade aquilo que era na verdade Janito e Quinito, os loiros filhos de Joaquina, com oito e sete anos respectivamente. Os pequenos dispuseram-se a acompanhar as senhoras até a sala, convite esse prontamente aceite.

Chegados lá, Quinito rapidamente colocou uma cadeira por detrás de Gurmindes, enquanto Janito seguiu o exemplo do irmão como se de um acto programado se tratasse. "Ai que crianças tão bem educadas!", elogiou uma, "Deixem estar, meninos, preferimos esperar pela vossa mãe de pé", acrescentou a outra. Como se nada tivesse sido dito, as crianças foram imediatamente buscar mais duas cadeiras, que dispuseram de maneira a que um quadrado fosse formado, tendo ido buscar mais duas ainda, e passado um instante ainda mais duas. As velhotas, intrigadas, bem lhes disseram que não era preciso tanta cadeira, e que eram apenas cinco, e que não se incomodassem. Cairam os apelos em orelhas moucas, pois os rapazes trouxeram ainda mais cadeiras.

Foi tarde demais quando se aperceberam de que estavam na verdade presas num circulo de cadeiras, e ainda pior quando notaram a terrivel transformação que se operara nos jovens entretanto. Ambos ostentavam pequenos chifres na cabeça, os olhos haviam-se tornado no que parecia carvões em brasa e, o mais estranho de tudo, os seus corpos pareciam mudar constantemente de cor e forma, como se não fossem definidos da maneira que Nosso Senhor costuma definir as cores e formas das pessoas. Foi entao que se ouviu o horrivel grito daquele que minutos antes havia sido Quinito: "Vamos matar as velhas!!" As ditas bem gritaram quando os rapazes, motoserras na mão, saltaram para cima delas e as esquartejaram sem dó nem piedade. Consumado o geronticídio, as pequenas criaturas beberam todo o sangue das vitimas (excluindo aquele que entretanto se entranhara nas carpetes, claro. Era tanto que nem um detergente oxi-action o limparia numa lavagem. Só com duas, e seria preciso sorte.) e desmembraram os seus corpos.

Falta entretanto um pormenor. É preciso ver que apesar de Joaquina estar habituada às travessuras dos seus filhos, o som de gritos desesperados não lhe passaria completamente despercebido, apesar de na altura se encontrar a ultimar o seu bacalhau com natas especial, o favorito das tias Gurmindes e Aristeza. Estranhou, é claro, todo o barulho, e quando entrou na sala pode-se dizer que ficou sem pinga de sangue ao contemplar o espectáculo macabro que se estendia diante dos seus olhos. "Meu Deus!!," gritou ela, "Os meus filhos transformaram-se em gambozinos!!!". Como é óbvio, foi a ultima coisa que ela disse antes de os seus anteriormente queridos filhos lhe saltarem para cima e a deixarem, agora literalmente, sem qualquer pinga de sangue dentro do corpo. Quando decidiram que já nada havia ali a fazer, foram brincar com os seus action man. Muito sinceramente, nunca vi família tao disfuncional.