Hot shit splattered on Mayor Correa’s shoulder, as Professor Márquez escorted him to a waiting black Volkswagen. It incensed the mayor enough to threaten the professor with the loss of his post should he not resolve the town’s pigeon overpopulation.
“It’s getting darker earlier,” says Nora, dragging on a dying cigarette. It’s five in the afternoon. Stillness and smoke fill the room I’ve slept in for 15 years. Nora and I are both sitting on the edge of my former bed.
It happens that youve decided to walk around like a woman. You think this will be fun, but what exactly do you mean? Its crazy, but already you feel like a fraud.
I know already what your response to this letter will be: that my time is too valuable to be spent speculating about the exact type of irony that is evident in my undertaking this latest translation project.
We wanted to spend the night. We were displaced. The city was blinking and winking. In restaurants, in the street, illuminated bodies carried unseen heads. The house suited our needs: it was free, the rooms were largea red kitchen, down the hall rooms, rooms we went exploring until.
Boxing was a game of inches. That’s what Billy Farts said. He heard it from Whitey Bimstein, the legendary trainer. A fighter only had to move an inch to slip a punch. Step one inch to the right, and you are not where the other guy expects you to be.
T. Motley is a core contributor to Cartozia Tales, a fantasy mapjam comic for all ages.