The last act of kindness

He gave up rowing, and the boat was being rocked by the river, driving him without direction. His eyes looked at the dark waters while he wondered why he had to give up for fighting for his life. His mother’s smiles started to invade his memories, his father’s laughs started to be listened over the sound of the water… why had he done that? He tried to look for an answer, but he was not able to find it.

He raised his sight, hopeless, looking at the empty edge. He remembered when he opened his eyes for the first time and found himself in a place like that. He remembered the doubts and the fear… how long it had been since he was there? A suddenly he felt an impulse, and he started to row in order to arrive at the edge. He needed to walk on land. He needed to be in a place that was not that cave guarded by Cerberus. He could not help but feel relief when he was out of the boat.


He started to walk, leaving behind the boat, wanting to forget the work that he was obligated to accept. Was peace really hard to find? That meant to be dead, right? He sighed, knowing that all those questions did not have answers. So, he kept walking on the edge, with the sound of the water surrounding him. Nevertheless, a big rock called his attention. He got close to it, realizing the thousands of lines that were on it. He touched it, noticing the rugosity.

«Are you interested in the meaning of the lines?»

He startled at the sound of that voice behind him. He turned back, finding a young man out who smiled and was taller than him. The boy got closer, took a stone and drew another line on the rock.

«Each line represents a day. I do this in order to count the days since I arrive here».

«Caronte has not come yet?»

«You are in Cocytus, the people that you find in this river are those who do not have the amount of money in order to pay Caronte».

Suddenly, he understood the situation. He looked at him again, realizing how his face looked like it was dead. The young man smiled again, squeezing the stone in his hand.

«Wandering for eternity is not as bad as it sounds».

However, he did not believe him. His voice sounded sad. Too sad. His smile did not show any kind of happiness, in fact, it was full bitterness. The young man sat, putting his back on the rock, hugging his long legs, staring Cocytus’ river.

«I do not care if I have to wander eternally… There are worse punishments than this, like forgetting who you are, isn’t it? At least, I know who I am and who I was. I have my own memories that are by my side, no matter what… There are a lot of people who are condemned to star at Lethe’s river, do you know what it means? Oblivion. If you drink of its waters, you forget who you are… No. It is not so bad to stay here».

Why had people to stay here, wandering, just because they did noy have a coin? That was something that he could not understand. Perhaps death did not turn people into equals.

«I can help you. I can take you there so you can put an end to everything».

Suddenly, he was again on the boat, rowing with that guy who looked at the edge while his hands squeezing the stone. And, for the first time since he came to the Underground, he smiled. Finally, he felt that he was doing something good. What could be wrong with that?

Image by nighty



Everything changes in a blinking.

At the beginning, we are brave. We sink in the oceans that the rain creates on the floor, we burn down the streets in order to face up the fire. We’re not afraid of crying if we fall, because immediately we rise, even if we believe that we have all the time in our hands. Hands cover of wounds of war; they’re not important, we always have a Guardian Angel who heals them.

Our battles fight off bombs and water guns, and the conflicts are resolved with kisses and hugs. They last a couple of hours, maybe a day. However we prefer to laugh. We don’t build walls to isolate ourselves nor to destroy ourselves; the walls are canvas that are used to paint our dreams.

Because we don’t dream when we are sleeping, we never want to go to sleep, we are never tired… we want to keep living a little more, taking advantage of those ephemeral moments even if we don’t know that they will end in a blinking.

But we must close our eyes for a moment, And, when we open them, everything has changed.

Our Guardian Angel has abandoned us and nobody heals our wounds, they are no longer made of mud, they don’t heal in a day. The floor is made of pavement, the place where the world ends and keeps our feet tied.

We don’t fly anymore, we don’t conquer volcanos or universes, we walk carefully, afraid of what we can find around the corner. The time comes to an end, slipping through our fingers and is never enough.

We accumulate battles and we don’t win any of them, because we don’t want to fight and give up. Suddenly we stop, without taking another step, without wanting to know what’s on the other side

Because on the other side there is just a white wall with our dreams painted on it, now unrecognizable for those eyes that look at them.

We dream. We always dream. But, when we open our eyes, everything has changed.



Inspired in the poem 1910 written by Federico García Lorca.



The trial of the end

He had lost track of time. He did not know how long had passed since he was in that boat, rowing, looking at Caronte, who scrutinized him, smiling from time to time, while a dense fog surrounded them.

After a while, his mind went white when he saw the Underworld’s entrance, where the fog started to clear. The boat entered in that cave which was flanked with two statues, whose faces were already decayed due to the pass of time. Barely, he could assimilate what it was happening when he saw a big dog, with three heads, showing all his fangs, looking at him with his six yellow eyes and revealing his tail, which shushed because it was a snake. His body trembled and, yet he forced himself to keep rowing.

Caronte made him get off the boat, leaving him alone while he came back to his job. He looked at the place; he could see the different rivers that existed in the Underworld. He could feel how Cerbero’s eyes were on him.


He observed the stone stair that was in front of him. It led to a large door. He supposed that this was his destiny, so he decided to put an end to everything. What was beyond that door?

He closed his eyes while his hands pushed the door, opening it. An icy breeze hit him so he held his breath for a moment. However, nothing happened. Little by little, he opened his eyes. He was surprised because he found a big patio, surrounded by the different rivers and, in the background; there was a dark, large palace. In the center of the patio, there were three thrones in which three old men, dressing white tunics, were sitting. The one, who was sitting at the right, stand up, without taking his eyes off him.

“Welcome to the Hades. I am Radamantis and I will judge your soul.”

Suddenly, his life’s memories started to invade his mind. He threw his hands up in horror, feeling how the pain started to punch his body. He fell down to the flood, resisting the urge to scream. He looked at him, ready for begging to stop, but he was no longer in that patio. Instead, he was at home, surrounded by his family. He could not help but smile until he realized that every one of them were covered by the blood. He started to feel the lack of oxygen. He tried to reach his mother, touching her hand, feeling that it was cold.

I have killed them.

Radamantis was there, in front of him, looking at him with his inexpressive face. Again, the images began to appear in his retinas, the sounds began to penetrate in his ears. He could see how that man had killed every member of his family. He could hear their hopeless screams, their requests.

Everything stopped and the only thing that he was able to see was the knife that was in front of him.

“Will you kill me?”

His body did not answer, he could only look at Radamantis with his eyes filled with tears while he felt heartbroken, he felt the anger and the hated mixing with his blood, going across his body. He focused on the knife that was in front of him. He looked at it for a moment without understanding anything. He could kill him. He could be carried long and got revenge. He took the handle… But he was not able to lift it.

No. You are not able to do it.

He heard a snap and came back to reality. He was again on the patio. There was no longer a knife in front of him, only Radamantis was there.

“Interesting. Let me explain. This was a test in order to judge your soul through your actions. Your family is ok. I think that you do not deserve to come back to the Asphodel Meadows so soon. You do not deserve to go to the Tartarus… Oh, I see. You will do a job in order to clean your soul and then… I will decide.”

This was how, after that trial, he was again in that boat, rowing, going out from the Underworld, under Cerbero’s look, which showed him his fangs. His work? Taking souls to the Underworld. What would it be his upcoming trial? Would he be able to rest?

Image by jbrown67


Today, as every morning, you ask me the same question: who are you? Who am I? I would like to laugh in your face: with that gaunt face, lazy eyes and crooked lips. You, with your dirty clothes of the last night, shuffling and blurred vision, you ask me who I am. I should be the one who asks. What would you answer me? Would you recognize yourself? I know that sometimes you even do not remember your name.

But you do not know who I am, you are not interested in remembering me. You are not interested in looking back, in reliving failed dreams, the shed tears, the heartbreaking shouts, and the forgotten loneliness. You prefer to drown yourself in a clinking glass with tow ices, to pretend that you have fun with boisterous laughs and to sleep soundly in the nights, on the floor or in the bed, in a house that it is not your home. Because you have lost everything. You have lost me.

Don’t you care? No, you do not care because you do not know me. You do not know that I am able to tie a rope around your neck or to aim the gun to your head. I have the courage that you do not. For that reason, you have forgotten me.

I, with the well-dressed tie, with the perfect shirt, with a sincere smile, I look at you every morning and reproach you what you have become. Because in some place under your skin, I am still important to you. After all the wasted nights, the clarity comes, the oasis in the desert, the chair in which you rest your feet in order to not drown yourself, the deflected bullet that does not reach its destination. And there, there we are, facing each other, trying to recognize us, wondering in what we have become.

Because you always wanted to be me and I never bore to be you. For this reason, you have forgotten me; for this reason, I never give up.

Who are you?, you will wonder every day facing the mirror. And you will never find the answer. Because both, you and I, are lost in the time. Just look at yourself, look at me. Who is who? Look at us: we are pathetic.

It does not matter the answers. You will remember me just an instance every morning. Then, when the night comes back, I will be just a drop more in your melted ices.

Inspired in the poem Contra Jaime Gil de Biedma, by Jaime Gil de Biedma.

The beginning of the end

He heard the voices from the members of his family, begging for his fight, begging that he had to resist a little more, but he felt tired in order to prolong that flame in his deep inside that kept him alive. The last thing that he knew before falling into the death’s arms was that his mother took his hands, leaving something there.

He opened his eyes, discovering a sky full of dark clouds, without stars, without moon; he felt that his lungs burned, like if he had not been able to have oxygen for a long time. He breathed with clenched fists, noticing that something was being thrust into his skin. He opened his hands and watched that golden coin that his mother gave him.

He sat up, realizing that he was not alone. There were more people sat in the sand, close to the shore of what it looked like a lake. What happened? He knew that he was dead. He knew it. So, what was that place?

«He’s coming».

People started to gather on the shore. He tried to stare beyond people, realizing the presence of a small boat in which rose above an old man. People cried for his return, they pushed between them in order to reach that boat. He did not understand that behavior. He did not understand why that old man looked at them, scrutinizing for those who were suitable for the next voyage. He averted his gaze when he listened to the screams of a man who was being hit by that old man.

«You, the boy who is over there».

Suddenly, he felt that hundreds of eyes were looking at him. Little by little, he looked at people again, understanding that he was the target of all that looks full of mistrust, hatred. He looked at that man that made a hand gesture, indicating him to get closer. His mind shouted him that he did not accomplish the order, but his body started to move without its own volition, obeying the imposed order.

He felt the cold water when he entered into the lake. He felt shivers in all his body just by finding himself looking at that man, in a short distance. He could see each bone of his skeleton that his broken clothes showed. He could see his white hair caused by aging, the wrinkles in his gaunt face that looked like a skull. His entire body trembled because of fear.

«Do you have the money for your travel to the Underworld?»

Something started to burn in his hand. He opened it, watching the coin that his mother had given him. He heard a laugh that made him to shrink. He closed his eyes, maybe waiting for some kind of blow. However, nothing happened. He opened his eyes, finding the bony hand of that human being.


«We expect a long journey».

The next thing that he knew was that he was travelling with Caronte, that was how he called himself, rowing in that boat on the Styx lake to arrive to the Underworld. Then, what could it happen to him?

They loved each other, know it.

He already knew it.

He knew that life was not a bed of roses. There was no light without darkness. Nor day without night. He knew that life had any colour. There was no white without black. It did not exist the good or the evil. He knew that nothing lasted forever. There was no life without death. Nor perfect solutions. He knew that there were no smiles without tears. Nor happiness without suffering. Nor freedom without sacrifice.

Yes, he knew it. He learned it in people’s reproachful gazes. In his loved ones’ rejections. In the surrounding loneliness. He learned it in the questions without no answers. In the lonely rooms. In the devastated bed. He learned it in the blood. In the deserted streets. In the latent fear. He learned it in the immensity. In the nothingness. In the emptiness.

But he also knew another thing.

He knew that there was no word out of tone without any faltering whisper. There was no scar painted on his body without a delicate kiss that erased it. None storm that lasted forever. He knew that there was no shed blood without caress that gathered it. There was no hurtful shouts without comforting silence. Nor darkness so dense that hid the sparkle of his eyes. He knew that there was no teared skin without a protective hug. There was no place where to fall without a hand to hold him. Nor fear without something to lose.

He knew it. He learnt it in the giggles. In his body’s trembling. In the look’s warmth. He learnt it in the blunder of the first time. In the acknowledgement of the tenth. In the contained breaths. He learnt it in the shadows. In the more remote secret places. In the unknown future. He learnt it in the whispers in his ear. In the tangled sheets around their bodies. In the infinite nights. He learnt it in broad daylight. In the indifference. In a new world in his arms. He learnt it in the kisses that stopped the time. In the colours of the air. In the lip of someone else between his teeth.

He learnt that the world is not understanding. Life is not fair. However, he learnt to live by his side. He learnt to say I love you without thinking about what they will say. He had not to face anybody. He just had to love him.

Se querían, sabedlo

Never More

The sky was dark grey. From time to time, some deafening noises could be heard, followed by a sudden blinding light provoked by the lightnings. Heavy rain battered against his body, so his clothes weighted more, making his purpose of fleeing more difficult. The path was bordered by trees, whose branches were naked, whose roots came from the floor and invaded it. His heartbeats echoed in his ears. He could even feel his pulse.

«You promised».

His feet were numb and he fell on the floor. A moan let out his lips. He could not help starting to cry, mixing his tears with the rain. He could feel how the rain soaked his clothes, how mud stuck to his body, how the wet soil penetrated into his nostrils. He felt his throat burning due to the lack of air. He put his hand on his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart out of control due to hear that voice again. He wanted to get up while he looked around, trying to focus beyond the rain, trying to look for the person who had talked.

The sound of something metallic being dragged on the ground sending shivers down his spine. He felt cold. And he knew that it was not because of the rain. Little by little, he turned back. At the beginning, he did not see anything until, after a lightning, he could distinguish a figure in the distance that was dressed with a black tunic and his face was hidden.

It was in that moment when he heard a caw. He looked ahead again, looking that raven that was just in front of him, looking at him with its black eyes. He was paralyzed and his throat was dry. For some moments, he felt like if those black eyes had hypnotized him, until the sound of that metal being dragged could be heard closer. The raven cawed again and then, flew, leaving him all alone while the sound of death could be heard over the sound of the rain.


«Why do you flee?»

The fear invaded his soul, so he stood up and started to run. He did not want to look back, he did not want to see what that thing, that followed him, was. He ran looking ahead, realizing that a fine mist started to appear, obscuring the horizon. He stopped and put his hands over his head, falling on the floor again, in front of the lake’s edge that put an end to the path. He could see how the water was dark grey.

For a moment, he retained his breathing, waiting to hear that sound, waiting to feel the same cold freezing his body. However, he just listened to the sound of the rain. He closed his eyes, crying in silence. What happened? What did that monster mean?

He opened his eyes, being aware of his own reflection in the lake. He moved closer, seeing his dry hair that was on his forehead, his gaunt face, the blood’s trail on his cheek, more blood in his mouth… Blood? He opened his eyes, his body started to tremble. He put his trembling fingers in the surface of water, to the exact point where his face was and, he realized that his hands were stained with blood. He gasped when he saw both hands stained of the scarlet liquid. His eyes looked around, looking for an answer, but he only saw darkness in that stormy day.


His entire body trembled. The tears fell from his cheeks while his heart beat faster. He tried to shout, but no sound left his mouth. He tried to run, but his legs did not respond. A lightning lighted up the place and, some images about a lifeless body, stained of blood, came to his mind. He saw something metallic stuck in that body, he could even smell the blood and the stench of death.


He started to feel short of breath when he looked at the lake again, while his eyes focused on his reflection. A reflection that gave an image that he did not know: since when had he had those marks that looked like scratches under his eyes? Since when were his eyes so dark that looked like black? Since when did he smile, licking his lips for savouring the blood?


He shouted. He let that the heartbreaking pain that he felt deep inside escaped through his throat. He let that the pain and the confusion took the control over him. He did not understand. Was it real? He listened to the raven’s caw again. He could see in the reflection how there was a cycle of ravens flying over his head. Then, he knew it. He knew that the only monster was him.

«Finally you realised».

He turned back, watching the figure with the black hood just in front of him. He could not see the face, but he could see indeed that his hands were pale and that, in one of his hands, took a rusted axe. As he could, he stepped back, trying to escape from that laugh so familiar, getting into the lake.

«You cannot run away from me».

And, that was the moment when something grabbed him, he slipped on his back in the lake and he was dragged inside the lake. He tried to escape, but he couldn’t. He could only see how the surface of the water was farer, how darkness devoured him deep inside and his lungs burned due to oxygen deficiency. He felt arms around him and, the last thing that he saw was that black hood, which mixed itself to the darkness that surrounded him.

«Remember that you said that we’ll always be together».

And he remembered. He remembered being cuddled by those same arms many times. He remembered happiness and laughs. He remembered his broken heart as well. He remembered an axe. He remembered seeing the body of the only person that he loved lying on the floor.

«I’ve come to take you with me».

He felt that his conscious abandoned him while the air escaped from his lungs turning into bubbles. Would he be able to be free from the torment that he felt deep inside when death used its scythe?

«Never more».


«Merodeadoras noctámbulas»: only Luis García Montero’s quote is saved

«”THIS IS THE BEST BLOG TO PASS THE TIME!” Well, no one believes that. And, surely, “Bibliosía” will be a review about the worst  books ever written… The editor’s taste seems not very refined».

★★✩✩✩ By Celeste in Whinging Times.

«The blog Merodeadoras noctámbulas is offensive related to the good taste. The publications are ridiculous and meaningless, and the members want to look like renowned women of letters. Special attention deserves the disgusting section called “Mil y una noches”, whose editor boasts about a great undeserved self-esteem while her mind is still in the kindergarden in order to learn, fortunately, how to write before trying to show her creations to the world».

★✩✩✩✩ Por Mavichan in The Quibbler.

«Merodeadoras noctámbulas offers fresh ideas with good intentions. Thanks to the great variety, the reader can choke with the morning coffee due to the great reasons that it offers. Maybe the section “Inexperiencias lunáticas” is the reflection about that inexperienced beginner (because of the stupid tone), but without a doubt the hard work will be rewarded».

★★★✩✩ By Lunella in The Daily Prophet.

«A good blog is like a cake: excellent presentation, taste that leads to the sin and could be addictive. Well, all these things cannot be found in the blog Merodeadoras noctámbulas. It is the meaningless taken to the extreme. Special attention deserves the section “El Rincón del Cuervo”, because it could be said that Homer Simpson has more creativity than the editor who is taking charge of this and, obviously, needs therapy».

★★✩✩✩ By Rivaëlen in The Daily News.

«Merodeadoras noctámbulas is the best blog that I have found in all my life surfing the Internet. Special attention deserves the drawings that appear in each publication, they are worthy of Museum of Prado due to artist’s great skill. This is a wonder which you must not miss. By the way, I would pretend to be sarcastic».

✩✩✩✩✩ By Tinykittysoo in Brujo en Guerra.

«If you are looking for a feelings’ map or the ultimate guide to surviving corrector’s leash, then Merodeadoras Noctambulas is your place. Among its oddness, “Poeta averiada” will try to mix poetry in odd days and makes it an erotic festive comedy».

★★★✩✩ By Neis in The Daily Prophet.