WHY SHOULD YOU READ EDGAR ALLAN POE? LISTEN TO A BUNCH OF REASONS...
NOBODY´S TALE
In 2 hours I will be dead. Do not feel sorry or distressed for me, who would not give anything to know how long they have left to live? How many restless souls roam the underworld without having said goodbye or without having said their last I love you? That's why I'm writing this letter, not to pronounce my last I love you, don't belittle me, I’m writing but to settle my last outstanding account.
Let me introduce myself, my name?…..My name doesn't matter, the only noteworthy thing about my biography is my last name, or at least that's what I learned from all those unhappy people I met but who never got to know me. As a sign of the fortune that marks my destiny, I was adopted by the most powerful family in Boston. My family did not need to get involved in politics to manage every movement in the city from the shadows. I know what you are thinking....why have you omitted details of his biological family? Because I don't know them, I only know that they were wandering theater actors and if you asked me if I harbor any kind of feeling towards them, I would answer that I can´t yearn for what is unknown.
Nobody ever expected anything from me, which for some would be a great frustration and for me was the best gift that nobody could give me: the freedom to be who I am, supported in turn by my family's fortune; as an eraser, every crime I committed disappeared with a good wad of bills. My criminal career began with irrelevant crimes, shoplifting, fires in kindergartens, which a priori irreparable, turned out not to be such after a good blank check. You will think that my behavior is disgusting and it is, but perhaps it is not more disgusting to put a price on the death of your son? Those children are better off than with their miserable parents. My adoptive parents attributed these behaviors to a burden of my age. Who hasn't done some mischief at their age? I heard them say, they knew as well as I did that my behavior had nothing to do with my age, but they would rather look directly at the sun than look in the mirror.
I soon got bored of the all-you-can-eat buffet that Boston was for me, plus the tactic of pretending nothing was happening was affecting my parents´ relationship, they were arguing more and more. My mother was still convinced that this "rebelliousness" was typical of my age, my father, on the contrary, decided to mortify me by spending more time with me. He planned a special weekend in a hut on the coast. He believed that being away from the city and in contact with nature would be good for me. During those days I played my best role as a devoted and affectionate child, I had to win the public's trust to end with a tremendous ending and that's how it was; the second day when my father was dozing in the living room, I killed him.
I'll spare the unnecesary details, I don't know who suffered more , he with his agony or me when I saw that he resisted. I called my mother immediately to tell her what had happened but surprisingly she was not surprised or scared, she told me not to worry, that even if I told her otherwise it was surely an accident. I tried to explain to her that no, that's how I was , that my behavior was not something typical of age and that with time it was only going to get worse; she insisted over and over again: "we all make mistakes honey, don't do anything until I go and talk calmly". Her cynicism and stillness made me want to vomit, I wanted to yell at her: “I am the mistake mom!” but I refrained and hung up instead.
I hear her car idling from outside. Two hours separate Boston from the hut, the same time it will take this letter to reach the Boston newspaper and the police. I was never good at tellin' jokes, but the punch line goes: my powerful family will be remembered for... a nobody.
By Mª Luisa Navarro
THE BIRD
Quiet silence. A slow-paced heartbeat, as my breath leads me to a peaceful, indescribable peace of mind. Never had I felt as close to God as in this precise, unique moment; a drop of self-conscious existence in an ocean of hectic, unpredictable waves. Ironically, I was in Hell just a few minutes ago, haunted by the Bird: that cursed, dreadful Bird that I was intextricably obliged to kill!
It was a sunny, gorgeous morning. My psychiatrist had told me to visit uplifting places in order to be able to feel, if not mine, the happiness of others. So I gave a shot at the fairground in the outskirts. Proud parents and their happy children were all around the park, having funny rides, playing, laughing.
Suddenly, not being sure if benzodiazepines had taken their toll, the wide bright sky turned into dark gray as a huge flock of birds flooded the former blue heaven. Deafening squawks muted any possible sense of joy. What’s worse, the crowd of people got stuck, motionless indeed, when one of the birds, the leader I guess, perched on the big wheel, gazing unequivocally at me.
My fear grew limitless when I realized that I was mimicking the movements of the ghostly Bird, as if hypnotized by its mere presence. I began to walk with bended knees, moving my neck frenetically on both sides, my long arms up and down, ready to fly!
There was only one chance to end the haunt and finish the trance: killing the Bird. In order to achieve my deadly purpose, I began to climb the big wheel, disobeying the bird commands. Once I trapped it, the animal tried to escape flying, so I couldn’t help but open my arms in the same way, falling down irremediably.
Quiet. Silence. People screaming surround my last seconds of human existence, while the Bird, that cursed, dreadful creature, flies away with a priceless reward: my soul.
By Rubén González
Little did I know that our adorable and innocent creature would die in such an unpredictable way when I bought one of my indispensable tools to ease and improve my work as a lumberjack.
Having been married to a loving a caring woman, my happiness reached the highest level when my first son was born. Both my wife and I were eager to arrive home, a cozy cottage in the countryside, to be together and enjoy ourselves.
Everything started to thoroughly change when I bought a brand new axe which would be tremendously useful in my work. Since the very first moment it became the perfect excuse for a plethora of arguments with my wife on the grounds of her apparrently absurd superstition about that tool.
The shining blade hanging on the wall, she said, seemed to be a threatening eye which was the premonition of dreadful events in our lives. Such were her inexplicable fears that I decided to fervently convince her of the nonsense of those dark thoughts by making her focus on the rewarding benefits we would obtain by means of working with the new axe. I never could see it, but she claimed that when she looked at the axe, it glowed and shimmered for a few seconds, which made her feel utterly uncomfortable.
No sooner had I succeeded in allaying her fears than a tragic accident shook our lives for ever. While my wife and I were busy cooking dinner and laying the table, our little son, when trying to reach a fluffy toy, moved an old piece of furniture which bumped the wall and, unfortunately, made the axe fall down with extreme violence, killing the little boy. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I can’t find the strength to describe how deadly our beloved child was injured by the evil axe, I won’t live enough to eradicate this distressed feeling of guilt. Had I trusted my wife’s gut I wouldn’t be telling this atrocious story.
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