He arrived in the early hours of the morning. He had waited for a bus on the edge of the asphalt, for any truck that would pick him up, stiffened by the cold stinking breezes of the nearby sea-drainage.
It had been a nine-hour journey, standing still, squeezed in among the other passengers with no fare and no solvency. And then two more hours on foot, guessing the road in the middle of the darkness, besieged by doggy devils - the kind that charge tolls payable in hard cash - and rascally ghosts, the kind that make you lose your way.
But he arrived smiling, suspecting the surprise his precious cargo would cause the children.
He was carrying his briefcase of a wanderer, of a distant worker, of a wasted labour.
And he was carrying a jar, a jar without a lid, full of water and in the water he: a little blue fish that swayed with every step, as if distracted.
Do you like this story?
Continue reading it in the book of the Network:
El hombre que curaba (The man who healed), by Alfredo Mires Ortiz
No comments:
Post a Comment