La maleta roja


Art work by Enrique Cropper

El viajero que bajaba del vagón de tren cargaba una llamativa maleta roja. Solo eso destacaba de él, junto a un bigote ridículo y parecido al de Hitler. El resto quedaba escondido bajo un abrigo largo, de color indefinible, que lo cubría casi hasta los tobillos. El hombre andaba despacio pero comenzó a alejarse de su campo de visión así que salió de la cafetería para seguirlo. El revólver colgado en la pistolera se apretó contra su costado cuando se cerró la cremallera del anorak. Afuera había empezado a nevar y se enfadó por tener que estar en la calle, persiguiendo a un delincuente. Le apetecía bastante más estar en casa, sentado en su sillón cerca del radiador y tomando un güisqui. Continue reading

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Les vacances de l’assassin


Mots clés: menottes, assassin, rouge, l’obscurité, couteau, neuf, strict, crépuscule, défense, Belgique, voler, panda.

Le voyageur en face de moi me regarde d’un air indigné depuis quelques minutes. On dirait que quelque chose le choque dans mon apparence. Est-ce parce que je porte des menottes ? Je sais qu’on prend rarement le train menotté, sauf si on est prisonnier et qu’on est accompagné de policiers. Mais quand même, nous sommes dans un pays libre, non ? Si je veux prendre le train habillé en costume de panda, j’ai le droit. Et je ne cesserai jamais de réclamer ce droit. Continue reading

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Photo by Jonathan Eden-Drummond

Se desliza el móvil de mi mano y siento que aún lo puedo retener, que si aprieto su contorno lo suficiente no se va a ir. Confío en mis reflejos un segundo. Imagino que alguien – ¿mi marido que está frente a mí? Pero no es su mano…- me está gastando una broma, o que el desequilibro que suele acompañarme se ha puesto en movimiento y quizá el teléfono se va a caer. Continue reading

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This is the End

The traveller awoke before dawn; he put his hat on and walked out of his room. He had been running from the law for a while now and had grown into being cautious in every thing he did. He had developed habits that were destined to keep him safe. The question was not if he was the culprit or not behind this sordid affair. Whatever the truth was, nobody cared. They had pictures of him at the scene. The only thing he could do now was run; get a safe passage into Mexico and stay off the authorities’ radar until then.

As every morning there would be no breakfast, just a fizzy drink from one of the vending machines you could find in motels’ parking lots. This morning it would be a diet one. One needed to stay light if he wanted to travel far and quickly. With his bag over his shoulder, he came down the flight of stairs that brought him directly from his motel room to his parked car below. There were two vending machines against the wall. One was out of order but the other shone bright in the violet light you got from the passage of night into day. It had been the same kind of luminosity when he had arrived last evening just before twilight.

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Fly Matthias, Fly!


Artwork by Enrique Cropper

On Sundays, with fine weather, our family loved to make the half-hour trip out of Bruxelles to Rebecq. The kids were always thrilled to hear the steamy hisses and the clunks of the pistons and see the billowing black smoke from the funnel of the tiny red steam loco, as they took their ride on “Le Petit Train du Bonheur”. The volunteers who had restored the old mining engines, who had re-laid the narrow gauge rails and who now attended to the public, as they queued for their tickets for the trip to Rognon and back, were a friendly bunch. “Nous sommes comme une famillle” repeated the jolly, coal-smudged driver, when he found himself a few minutes alone with the public, and thought he should reveal to them some of the passion for railroads he felt within.

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