By José María Marcos (*)
dilated afternoon heat in the humid pampas.
-storm is coming, "said Aunt Jorja, while drinking mate sitting on the chairs in the garden, we will find the salt.
The imitated when he joined, and walked toward the house. She knew some issues and I knew better than anyone else hear some voices silenced.
-I dreamed of a whirlwind and very destructive, "he explained, when looking in the cupboard jar orange staining. Here, "he said when he finally took the pot that years later someone shot at an oversight.
went to the bottom, accompanied by our dog Batuque, and I saw was a cross of salt on the ground and muttering prayers.
I tried to pay attention to what he said, but only heard his words mingle and talk with the wind.
At dawn, I looked out the window of my room and I could see the heat content of the night. My parents slept. In the distance we saw Refucilo, but no rain. Jorja
Aunt died a few years later and since then I suspect that perhaps the past is just a sad invention.
Today I feel pleasure to visit uninhabited places. No witnesses, hopefully throw rock salt.
Sometimes I perceive the gods, in a breeze or movement of trees, and smiled.
still can not decipher their signals. But I hope that the old wisdom is always there to be discovered. To reveal. At the stalking.
(*) The story is part of the edition No. 111 of Miniature , devoted to the genre shortly fantastic.
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