Una revista de arte y literatura, sin fronteras generacionales ni geográficas
Kikimora sat by the window every single day of her life right about 4:45pm, not a minute later or earlier. Rain or shine she sat by the window, notebook on hand, jotting things down. She never spoke to anyone while sitting by the window. In fact, she seemed to be in a trance, sort of transported to another place, another galaxy almost. Her grandmother had named her and passed on many of her own gifts, including her powers in witchcraft. She had refused to use them for most of her life, but lately she relied on her grandmother’s spells to keep a certain fellow away.
Life for Kikimora seemed to be perfect in everyone’s eyes. She lived in a tidy, two story, cozy little house filled with incredible pieces of art. She had all the proper books on her many mahogany shelves. Her little house was surrounded by an English garden, which seemed to have been transplanted directly from the pages of Architectural Digest. She ate what she craved at all times, and drank enough coffee to keep her alert most nights. She had the perfect attire for every occasion, as well as row after row of Prada shoes. Yet most of the time she lounged around in a long, old, white t-shirt, which had tiny holes everywhere. Her hair was cropped short and certain signs of grayness were noticeable. She was always clean, smelling of lavender mixed with Colonia 1800. She read everything that fell on her hands, especially Marguerite Yourcenar and Philip Roth.
Occasionally she ventured out and traveled north. All alone she would drive for hours with the music playing loudly. Again, she looked completely lost, not one single clue of what was brewing in her head. From time to time she would call on a past lover. Test her waters; see how much she could still make them nervous. It always worked. Anytime she needed to feel young and wanted again, she dialed numbers, threw tiny bunches of jasmine in the air, sent out smoke signals to those she knew would jump immediately.
For a while she had a cat, but the first time the poor animal threw up in one of her precious wool scarves she got rid of it. No more cat for her. That was always her way. Anyone or anything that disturbed her, that did not agree with her at all times, those that did not smell the lavender in the fish market as she made herself believe; they were out of her life for good. Playing judge was her ideal game. Some did return at times, short intervals that did not last. She never trusted anyone, yet she made you feel as if you were the most important person in her life; forget her life, in the world.
That Sunday she sat by the window since the wee hours of the morning. Something must be happening. Kikimora was never awake that early, and she never sat by the window until 4:45pm, never a minute earlier or later. Her white t-shirt looked as if someone had finished ripping it to pieces. She had dark circles under her eyes and a long streaming teardrop hung down her cheek.
There was no music playing or TV on. An empty silence enveloped her. She walked slowly over to the balcony, and opened its sliding door. Below one could see all the wild flowers in her English garden. She paced back and forth talking to herself; a heated dialogue with herself. It went on for a while, until the sound of crashing porcelain was heard inside. She turned and faced the open balcony door. She raised her hands up in the air and shouted a long, piercing scream which finalized in… “Al fin llegó mi verdugo”… “At last, my executioner is here.” From inside a tall, dark man, with traces of having been better looking some time ago lounged forward and stabbed her seventeen times, one for every year they had been apart. Afterwards, while she lay in a pool of blood in the balcony, he kissed her over and over until her body became limp in his grotesque arms.
No one ever talked about Kikimora again. The house was sold by one of her ex husbands and now a Chinese family lives there with their five children and a Siamese cat. At exactly 4:45pm on some days, the neighbors see the shadow of a long faced woman with short, cropped hair walking about the garden, leaving a trail of lavender and Colonia 1800. As for the executioner, he is still in prison, but he has found the ways of the Lord, and a marriage proposal from a has-been novelist who had an affair with Kikimora while they were students in the University of Haiti. Of course he is not aware of this small detail, and his bride to be is not volunteering anytime soon to let him know. Another spider web of lies awaits him. Hush!
(From the unpublished book “Bizarre”)
Manuel Adrián López (Morón, Cuba, 1969) Poet and Writer. His poetry in Spanish has been published in various literary magazines such as: Anterior Review, Arique, Baquiana, Crear en Salamanca, Contratiempo, Delirium Tremens, La Peregrina Magazine, LaFanzine, Letras Salvajes, Linden Lane Magazine, Nagari, Revista Conexos, Revista Literaria Ombligo, Surco Sur y Ventana Abierta, among others. His poetry was included in the anthology La luna en verso, published in conjunction with La Noche en Blanco de Granada by Ediciones El Torno Grafico in 2013. His first book of poems, Yo, el arquero aquel was published in 2011 by Editorial Velamenes in West Palm Beach. ThWriteDeal published an EBook in 2012, titled Room at the Top, and a revised version was published by Eriginal Books in 2013, which was presented during the Miami Book Fair International that year. In August 2013, Editorial Betania in Madrid published Los poetas nunca pecan demasiado, which was awarded the Gold Medal in the Spanish Language Category at the Florida Book Awards 2013. In January 2014, El Barro se subleva was published by Ediciones Baquiana and presented during the XXXV Feria del Libro en el Palacio de Mineria in Mexico City. He has participated in the IV Festival Atlántico de Poesía “De Canarias al Mundo”, in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria and in the V Festival de Poesía de Lima in Perú, and participated in Cristina Garcia’s Las Dos Brujas Writer’s Workshop with poet Juan Felipe Herrera.
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