It's 4:30 in the morning in my country. I've been awake for hours, I can't and I don't want to sleep. We have had five hours without electricity. The nets have been down almost all day. I worry not to hear from a colleague at my university who was shot in the stomach on this May 1st march. He underwent surgery and was stable, but there have been problems getting painkillers. However, I write. I complete my entry for the weekly microfiction contest organized by @jayna (bases here).
I think about this and I find it a banal task to be writing stories. There is also some weariness: I have been writing for years with feelings of guilt. When the reality of the country where you live is so harsh, not only economically, but politically and ethically, it seems very frivolous to use time and language in fiction. In these moments I have to make use of what I have preached so many times to my students in my Theory of Fiction classes:
Fiction educates us in laterality, in the usefulness of marginal reasoning, in the construction of alternative realities. If we can imagine the world as it is not, we can imagine a different reality for ourselves and for the world, we can be different... and why not think that we can be better?
I dedicate this story to Professor José Luis Sánchez, from the Universidad de Oriente, in Venezuela.
I am grateful.
Source
For men
When my beard began to grow, my grandfather initiated me into the mysteries of shaving. He was from the old school: razor, soap and cologne... but he was assisted by an arsenal of finisecular gadgets: porcelain jar, brush, scissors and beard comb, cologne water and his elegant steel razor with a silver and cedar handle. All this treasured in the chamois of your toiletry bag.
He was a great grandfather. A tough guy.
Grandmother kicked him out of the house when they were both in their sixties, fed up with his drunkenness. By then I was making my own demons in an alcohol-bursting marriage.
I had been away for two years. No calls. No contact.
Today was a sober year.
My grandmother received me with fresh caresses. A little later she gave me the toilet bag.
I uncovered the bottle of cologne (for men) and its lemony aroma (and, behind it, the unfolding of an untouched forest, breathing in the rain...) opened my heart.
Grandpa's eyes in the bathroom mirror were bright, smiling with my clumsiness. However...
A small cut: A small alarm in his pupils.
His calloused hands scattered cologne water. It burned.
Grandfather had died in July. Hepatic complications. He lived his last year with my grandmother. It comforted me to know that he was not alone, that they both knew about me and decided to respect my distance...
But that box burned my hands.
Freedom for my country!
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : http://adncabrera.vornix.blog/2019/05/03/for-men-a-microfiction-weekly-micro-fiction-contest-promoted-by-jayna/