Tag: chapter

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 4 (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial3 Comments

If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short(ish) story from the beginning (link here). The whole thing is supposed to be experienced in one sitting, but I didn’t want to go radio silent for about a month (or two).

The twenty-seventh of April.
With each year’s circle back to the beginning,
I accumulate a fresh pile of website designs,
Churned out at the office in exchange for pay,
And my kids hit every milestone
That most children reach at the same age.
But when the twenty-seventh of April approaches,
In my dreams, and whenever I close my eyes,
I’m yanked to that date in nineteen ninety-nine,
Like a ghost doomed to start again
From the spot where his heart gave up.

Dinner had settled in my stomach.
I was yawning on my way to the bathroom
When the landline rang.
My father’s footsteps padded to the entryway.
Seconds after the ringing ceased,
He forced his voice into a strained assertiveness,
Like a woodland critter facing a wolf,
Telling the caller that she shouldn’t have called.

As I clenched my jaw, I crept to the entryway.
The lamp’s glow glared on my father’s bald crown.
His stooped figure gesticulated
While he peered hesitantly at his wife,
Who, arms crossed, presented her back to me.
Inside the receiver, your voice sounded trapped,
Demanding to be freed.

Trying to talk over you, my father stammered,
And that disgusted my mother enough
To seize the phone
And command you to stop bothering her son.

How could anyone direct such a barbed tone
Toward you, Izar, my personal sun?
This meddling crone threatened
To sever your light from my life.

I barked an indignant “Hey!”
That made my parents whirl around
As if I had lobbed a stone.
I ordered my mother to give me the fucking phone.
When she complained about my language,
I snatched the receiver from her grasp.

Your voice was a tinny, thin string
Coated with tears.
“I need to see you. My father…”
“Where, Izar? Where are we meeting?”
“I’m calling from the nearest payphone.
I’ll park by the candy shop.”

After I hung up, I spun to confront my parents
And seethed through gritted teeth,
Punctuating my words with a jabbing finger.
“Izar didn’t call you, nor you.
She wanted to speak with me.
Don’t ever, and I mean ever,
Interfere with our relationship again.”

I stomped off to my bedroom,
Where I scrambled into some clothes,
My fingers trembling as I buttoned and zipped.
I had expected my mother to pursue me
While threatening to ground me for a month,
But I only heard my heart’s wild gallop.

My mother stood stiffly by the front door,
Her eyes welling up with tears.
She frowned like she resented life
For insisting on abusing her.

“Don’t you dare let that girl give you a ride,”
She said as I wrestled into my rain jacket.
I grabbed my keys and flung the door open.
My mother’s last words echoed through me.
“Are you going to throw away your life like her?”

That night itself, a cloak of frigid air,
Still makes me shiver.
The streetlights lit streaking raindrops
That resembled scratches on film.
The intermittent ripples on pooled water
Reminded me of piranhas at feeding time.
Down the gutters, rainwater meandered,
Churning like a serpent with reflective skin.

Sheets of rain cascaded around
A solitary figure flanked by bollards.
Raindrops drummed against your helmet,
Its visor a slab of opaque.
You were wearing your sleek red jacket,
Now adorned with a glossy layer of water.
Your soaked jeans clung to your legs.
In your gloved hand, you held my half-helmet.

When you noticed my presence,
You hurried to me,
Splashing puddles in the one-lane road,
And engulfed me with your wet embrace.

I had wrapped my arms around your waist,
I had closed my eyes as if waiting to slip into dreams.
Your Aprilia Red Rose rumbled between my legs.
The cold rain lashed my eyelids, cheeks, and lips
Through the gap in my half-helmet,
While the whipping wind threaded through
Every crevice of my clothes.

You always drove me away
From the bitter prison where I grew up.
The grip around my chest eased,
And at last I could breathe.
I imagined we were drifting through space
In a ramshackle starship,
Away from all constraints, from every society
Other than our society of two.

We were riding on a rain-drenched freeway,
Immersed in the growling of your Aprilia’s engine
Amid the rain’s patter, cars’ whooshing,
And swish-swash of wiper blades.
The scarlet smudges of taillights
Glided across the slick tarmac
As if I were peering into an ethereal world
Through tinted and warped glass.

I wished to end up stuck in a loop of then,
Plunging through the enveloping darkness
While smears of streetlight flew by.
I longed to never again see another face,
Nor be anywhere else,
Nor do or know anything else
But your presence pressed against mine.

In my embrace, your body trembled;
You were crying, or at least on the verge,
And you channeled that anguish
Igniting your steel beast’s roar
With a wrench of the throttle.
Jettison your worries to the wind,
Let speed drown out the pain,
And in this state of euphoric nothing,
Feel yourself drift into eternity.

The wind buffeted our clothes
As the downpour assaulted us
Like a barrage of liquid arrows.
I pictured the bike flipping,
You thrown and rolling,
Your helmet shattered,
Your skull crushed.
I raised my voice over the cacophony
To plead with you to slow down.

Where were we? On our left,
A navigable stretch of the Bidasoa River
Separated us from the city of Hendaye.
The haloes of streetlights revealed
Terracotta-roofed white dwellings.
“Where are we going, Izar?”
You said you didn’t know.

Maybe for me, you pulled up
By an open, desolate sports court
With faded lines,
Encroached by patches of grass.
At each narrow edge of the pitch
Stood a netless goal.

You pulled me by the hand
Toward a storage or utility building
Close to a rusted basketball hoop,
Seeking shelter from the rain
Under the eaves of the gable roof.
We plopped down beside each other
On the gritty, wet, cold asphalt.
You hugged your knees,
I draped an arm around your back.

Our breaths fogged in the night air.
Rainwater streamed from the roof.
An unseen metal fence kept clinking.
Built on a hillside past the sports court,
Rural-style, two-story houses
Stood silhouetted against the dark.
Their windows, like low-burning embers,
Glowed through the swaying foliage of oaks
While their branches rustled and creaked.

Did that place even exist?
Like a couple of astral travelers,
Maybe you and I rode out of reality,
Slipped into some liminal space.
I have never dared
To return there.

You slowly rose, turned toward me,
And lifted off your helmet.
Your face emerged, flushed, tear-streaked,
Strands sticking to your forehead.
A stark, mottled mark contrasted
The light-beige of your cheek.
Within the bruise, that bore the imprint of fingers,
Red pinpoints indicated ruptured capillaries.

I clenched my fists. The tendons creaked.
I ached to kick down the door of your house,
And bash in the teeth of that bastard
Who must have felt so mighty and untouchable
While hurting you, his own daughter.
But only through blind rage
Would I have overpowered your father,
And afterwards, how would you return home?

To calm myself down,
I took a deep, turbulent breath
Of that night’s cold, damp air.
Then, with my trembling fingers,
I pulled off my half-helmet.

“What was it this time?” I asked, my voice hollow.
You recounted that after returning home from training,
As you were cleaning the mud off your motocross bike,
Your father, on his way home, frowned at you,
Then waited at the apartment, ready to argue.
He refused to let you waste your life, as he put it,
Chasing a mirage that would never materialize,
So you would need to look into trade schools.
You matched his tone with equal fire.
After he slapped you hard,
He stood there shocked, his hand still raised.
You stormed off into the pouring rain,
And hopped on your Aprilia.

You recognized the frustration in his eyes,
And that bothered you the most.
The ever-present itch for perpetual motion
Coursed through your shared blood,
But instead of striving for a life akin to his urges,
He settled for that of a fish caught in a bucket,
Seated at a desk for eight hours a day,
Shuffling papers and answering calls,
Enduring a meaningless routine
That would drive any decent soul insane.
When the pressure mounted to an extent
That numbing it with booze failed,
Rather than delve within for elusive answers,
He cast his gaze outward for targets
To blame, to accuse, to hold responsible
For his damnable existence.

“Our parents doomed us
With their own demons.
Unless we break free,
We’ll end up the same.”

You stepped into the downpour
And paced up to the basketball hoop.
While the wind tugged at your ponytail,
You scratched flakes of paint off the pole,
Revealing the metallic core underneath.

Raindrops shone on your skin,
Linked together in a twinkling lace,
And droplets tipped off
The limp, wet waves of your hair,
When you spoke the words I had dreaded
As if you had come with a deadline:
You were set to leave the city.
My chest clenched in a visceral ache.

“Let’s go far, far away from Irún,
Where nobody will find us,
Where we will be left alone
To live and love freely.

We don’t need to follow their map, you know?
Did you ever want to become a doctor, an engineer?
Do you think we should waste our lives
Obediently conforming to our parents’ wishes?
You were born to create stories,
And I was born to ride.”

You had decided to sell your beloved Aprilia Red Rose,
And spend the money, along with your savings,
To travel on your bright-yellow Suzuki RM125.
You wanted to hit the trails at Sierra de las Nieves,
Near Marbella, whose tourism industry offered odd jobs.
You hoped to compete in the Ponts track, near Lleida.
At Jeréz de la Frontera, with its own world-famous track,
You wished to meet other riders, maybe find a mentor.
If we yearned for a secluded life,
We could buy a rundown cottage at Sierra Nevada,
Itself excellent training grounds for motocross.

Your dreamy smile dropped,
Tinged with a sudden sadness.
“I’m sorry for mom,
But one day she’ll understand.”

I pictured myself furtively stuffing
A travel backpack with necessary items,
Expecting to rough it in the wild:
Food, water, flashlights, sleeping bags,
First aid kits, maps, rain gear, spare clothes,
My sketchbook, a ream of paper, and pencils.
You and I would sneak out at night,
Leaving goodbye letters behind.

Your Suzuki would rumble through Spain
Under the weight of two reckless people,
Winding over hills and through vales,
Over bridges and through tunnels,
Past vineyards, olive groves, and orchards,
The sun’s warmth settled on our shoulders.

In a secluded forest clearing veiled by wildflowers,
We would unfold our sleeping bags over the grass
And lie embraced under the stars.
We would stroll along a rocky beach
Wearing nothing but our underwear.
In the dappled shade of an olive tree,
We would sip sangria and make love.
Seated beside a crackling campfire, hunched over,
I would sketch scenes from our adventures.

You and I would share an apartment,
A poky, one-room affair
With dusty windows and screeching plumbing.
We would cover the floor in clothes,
Pizza boxes, and video games.
We would cook noodles with seasoning packets,
Wash our underwear in the sink,
And listen to music while dancing haphazardly,
Bumping into each other and laughing.

Every memory of our love
Would hang suspended in time,
To glitter like dust particles
Spinning and spinning in the light.

My ribcage had become a butterfly trap;
Its captive fluttered, trying to escape.
You were asking me to choose
Between you and a predictable future.
Could I really leave my family,
And every expectation thrust upon me,
To throw myself into the wild with you?

On my own, would I have ever known adventure?
What if I missed the train? What if I lost my way?
What if I failed to locate a shelter before the sun vanished?
How could anyone dare to camp in the wilderness,
Engulfed by a nightmare-laden darkness?
Beyond the walls of my parents’ home,
The world awaited patiently to hurt me,
And behind every smile hid a monster.

An umbilical cord, ropelike, gnarled,
Pulsated as it fed into my abdomen.
Despite the wrenching pain,
I yanked and twisted the cord
Until it ruptured with a wet snap.
The torn end spewed a torrent
Of viscous, tar-black sludge
That befouled and corroded the ground.

Let us travel to the farthest corners of Spain,
Let us witness the edge of this world.
As long as you were with me,
I was home.

When I pushed to my feet, I met a pleading gaze:
Your chocolate eyes shimmered with tears.
Raindrops trickled down your cheeks,
And dripped from your nose and chin.
In a faltering voice, you told me to consider your plan;
You could wait the two months left until I graduated.
“For now, in this moment, please, will you hold me?”

I held your shivering form,
I inhaled the ozone of your soaked hair,
While the rain pelted down,
While your chest heaved against mine.

If making such a vow
Still means anything,
Let me promise this, Izar:
I would have chosen you.

One day I would find myself squeezed into a seat
Overlooking a dust-churned motocross track
Where a throng of racers garbed in colorful jerseys,
Helmeted like avant-garde gladiators,
Jostled and swerved for control.
Dirt bike after dirt bike, sunlit mirages, raced by,
Their frames adorned with sponsorship decals,
Their tires flinging up sprays of dirt.

The bikes would bellow and scream
Like barbarians taunting each other
As their riders crested bumps,
Skidded around tight turns,
And launched off ramps.
I would hear the thud and crunch
Of bikes landing after a jump,
And the rapid-fire crackle of debris
Striking the underbelly of the beasts.
A fine cloud of dust would hang
In that dry, sun-scorched air,
Mixed with the acrid tang of motor oil
And the earthy scent of disturbed soil.

Once again, you raced into sight:
Izar Lizarraga, renowned motocross pro,
Astride your bright-yellow beast,
Its wheels ripping through the track.

Approaching a ramp, you gunned up the Suzuki
And leaned forward, bracing for a jump.
At the peak, your bike pounced like a predator,
Soaring through the air.

A moment of suspended flight,
A full-body shot captured in posters:
The tire treads of your Suzuki packed with earth;
Your gloved hands gripping the handlebars;
And behind your visor, your chocolate eyes,
Speed-spellbound,
Fixed on the distant finish line.

Author’s note: the songs for today are “Ladies and Gentlemen We’re Floating in Space” by Spiritualized, and “Lau Teilatu” by Itoiz.

If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 3 (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial2 Comments

If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short(ish) story from the beginning (link here). The whole thing is supposed to be experienced in one sitting, but I didn’t want to go radio silent for about a month.

My mind often revisits, perhaps as punishment,
My mother’s face dominated by a scowl
That deepened the creases long etched
Through years of worry and resentment.
Her lips were pursed as if holding herself
From unleashing a hellish rebuke,
And her eyes, intense and narrowed,
Assured that wherever her gaze landed,
She would find some detail to fault.

As damning evidence,
My mother showed a tied-up condom:
A limp and deflated rubbery sheath,
Its head filled with creamy-yellow fluid.

My mother ordered me to explain this gift
I had left for her to find while cleaning my room.
I wanted to shake my head and spit out bitterly,
“Sure, Mother. After my girlfriend and I made love,
I tossed the condom aside and forgot about it
To screw with your persecution complex,
To express contempt for your brand of parenthood,
Your desire to control every facet of my life,
To mold me into the perfect son you wish me to be.”

I apologized, but suggested she could appreciate
That my girlfriend and I use protection.
My mother scrunched up her nose
Like she had stumbled upon a pile of dung.

Her voice rose in pitch and volume as she said
I shouldn’t be having sex with “that girl,”
Whom she had welcomed into our home for years.
“No wonder your grades are slipping
If you focus on pursuing vices instead of studying.
Think of your future, think of your career!”

She had called your mother to inform her
Of the grievous sin we were committing,
But your mother already knew
Because she had heard us going at it.

“How could that girl throw away her potential,
Squander the sacrifices made by her parents?
Her mother gave birth to her, nursed her,
Stood at her crib every morning,
And hoped that she would grow into a good girl,
Only for her child to become a disgrace.”

My mother referred to you as a bad influence,
A rotten soul going nowhere fast,
A walking advertisement of aimlessness
Who would end up pregnant and homeless.
She forbid me from bringing you to the house,
And added that if I were mature enough,
I’d know that I should stay away from you.

Had I foreseen such a confrontation,
I would have imagined myself yelling,
But I saw my mother for the first time:
An aging woman who followed a script,
Who needed to straighten every life’s crooked lines,
Who met my father and shortly after got hitched
Because that’s what people are supposed to do,
And ever since, they argued as often
As loving couples exchange smiles.
My parents, my life’s givers, lived trapped inside
Something too awful and intractable to escape.

Still simmering from the confrontation,
I accompanied you and your mother
To a bike dealership in Astigarraga
That smelled of leather and new rubber.
The polished frames of motocross bikes,
In screaming colors like red, blue, and yellow,
Gleamed in a line-up,
Resembling museum exhibits.
Those knobs in the bikes’ tire treads
Would dig into the dirt for maximum grip.

You fell in love with a Suzuki RM125,
Its bodywork clad in bright yellow,
Its mechanical heart laid bare
And ready to be flecked with dirt,
Its front suspension forks
Like the limbs of a seasoned athlete.
The high-mounted guard would prevent
Mud from splattering your lovely face.

At the counter, when time came to pay
And your mother pulled out her credit card,
You grinned, clasped your hands,
Let out a squeal of delight,
And bounced on your tiptoes.

You had dreaded surrendering your Aprilia
To fill the void in your hard-earned savings,
And found yourself marveling at your luck
When your mother offered to chip in.

Bless that woman, bless her heart
That beat with love for you, her little star.
I will be forever grateful
She kept opening the door of her home
Despite knowing how you and I spent our time
Whenever the adults left us alone.

Her words echo in my mind,
As clear as if spoken yesterday:
“I’ve never seen Izar this serious about anything,
And even if I tried to stop her, I know I can’t,
Because she’d just pack up and leave.
She was always the wild one:
Uncaring for the rules,
Unafraid to do whatever she wanted.
Nobody had to teach her how to be free.”

For encouraging a “ridiculous dream,”
As your father called it,
Your mother’s support opened a rift,
And now they argued more often than not,
As most couples are destined to do.

During my lunch break, you and I met
At the restaurant that faced my high school.
In a dining space that smelled of garlic and olive oil,
Surrounded by the clink of cutlery
And the chatter of youth unfolding,
You were savoring a potato omelette sandwich,
And dropping breadcrumbs on a motocross magazine.

You charted the steps to conquer the racing world:
Seek out the motocross tracks in Gipuzkoa;
Immerse yourself in racing clubs, your gateways
To structured training and expert instruction;
Compete in races and secure victories
So local scribes would ink your triumphs,
Drawing to you sponsors willing to invest.
From there, ascend to regional championships
With prize money and notoriety at stake.

You had brought a bulky backpack
Although you had the day off from work;
You needed to refine your riding technique,
So once I returned to my classroom,
To that monotony of chalk and textbooks,
You would head to the trails at Mount Jaizkibel.

I envisioned you astride your Suzuki RM125,
Navigating those winding, weathered paths
Lined with prickly shrubs,
Skirting cliff edges,
Your bike kicking up clumps of soil,
The distant roar of waves crashing on rocks
As your sole company.

In my mind, your front wheel caught
On a deceptive patch of loose dirt, twisting viciously.
Your world turned into a blur of sky, sea, and earth
As the ground vanished,
And you and your bike hung weightless
Until the rocky outcroppings below
Rushed up to meet you.

I asked you to bring me along;
I could stand around and watch you train.
If you suffered any injury,
I would run to your side and patch you up.
You told me to rest easy: you’d be careful.
Besides, you refused to let me skip class, arguing
That I shouldn’t sacrifice my grades for your sake.

You brought up my mother’s disdain,
Which whispered to me of never again
Holding you tight while lying on the bed
That my parents chose for their son,
Nor smelling your lingering scent on my sheets
As if you were sleeping beside me.

You inquired about my sudden glumness,
And after I confessed, you smirked and assured
That our love wasn’t tethered to any room.

At night, we rode in your Aprilia to Plaiaundi,
And ventured into the deserted ecological park.
In that moonlit, forest-like gloom,
Fireflies meandered like drifting candle flames.
After the rain, the earth exhaled a damp scent.

We ascended the steps of an observation deck
That rose on sturdy wooden stilts
Above the embracing wildness of foliage.
I settled upon the moist boards of the deck.
You nestled into my lap, straddling me,
And draped your arms around my neck.

Leaves whispered, rustling in the breeze,
And crickets chirred in the undergrowth.
My tongue laved over your pebbled areola.
I caressed your nipple with my lips,
Teasing and tugging on the turgid peak,
Gradually drawing it into my wet mouth.
I savored the silky texture of your skin
As it pressed against my taste buds.

Whenever you met me in the evening
Wearing your pleated, knee-length skirt,
You made the wordless promise
That our date would find us heading
To a building with a rustic stone façade,
That back then may have been a minor college.

We wound our way to the building’s rear.
It faced a desolate park and the highway.
In a shadowed colonnade, I claimed a stone bench.
You climbed into my lap, your favorite spot,
Then unzipped me and eased down my boxers.
After your panties joined my keys in my pocket,
You curtained your hips and my legs with the skirt.

I remember what it felt like in the night breeze
When you lowered your hips and slid me inside,
Engulfing me with your slick, velvety depths:
The warmth of a hearth in wintertime.

The same dude used to show up;
He stood in the light cone
Of the sole street lamp,
Drawing puffs from his cigarette
And waiting for his dog to poop.
You and I kept still, embraced,
Your inner walls gripping my length
While our hearts beat as one.

Shoulder-deep in the cool waters of Hendaye Beach,
My bare feet digging into the soaked sand,
I shut my eyes and basked in the warmth
Of the sun’s rays dancing on my face,
And of your tongue, that tasted of salt.
My fingers roamed the skin of your back,
Over the bumps and ridges of your vertebrae.

The sea rolled and receded around us.
The rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore
Blended with the cawing of gulls overhead
And snippets of conversations in French
As if coming from a gramophone in the next room.

Dark strands of your slicked-back hair
Stuck to your cheeks and neck.
Droplets scattered across your smooth skin
Caught the sunlight and glistened.
Your eyelids drooped to a half-lidded stare
As you broke into a mischievous grin.

When you leaned in, I inhaled
The coconut aroma of your sunscreen.
Your thumbs hooked inside my swim shorts.
While your wet lips brushed the shell of my ear,
You asked me to pull down your bikini bottom.

With the spandex garment bunched up mid-calf,
I cupped your firm and fleshy ass cheeks,
And you wrapped your legs around my waist.
As the tip of my member nudged your folds,
I worried about the lack of lubrication.

I wish I could remember how it felt
To make love to you in the sea,
But that memory cuts to a bald old man
Who swam in our orbit
While gawking with a smile spread wide
As if partaking in a private show,
Even though you kept glaring at him.
“What the fuck is that idiot doing?”

Beyond the scrubland at Mount Arburu,
The undulating hills were blanketed in patches
Of dark evergreens and deciduous trees,
Whose trunks had withstood storms
And decades of growth.

Seated at the rear, I clutched at the rider
While your Suzuki shuddered and jolted
Over bumps, rocking us back and forth,
While you wrenched the handlebars
To dodge rocks and bristly bushes
Dotted with yellow flowers.

We lay supine on eroded, sloping bedrock
Beside the feathery fronds of ferns.
Birds chirped in the nearby woods.
My lungs filled with crisp mountain air
That carried the scents of pine and grass,
And the sweet rot of decomposing vegetation.

The sun stretched the shadows of trees
And bathed the scrubland in gold.
Soon enough, our god would hide.
Under that ungraspable, azure dome,
Each succesive hump of the far-off mountains
Became lighter and lighter,
Watercolor washes on a canvas.

Author’s note: today’s song is “Hey Jane” by Spiritualized.

If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 2 (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial2 Comments

I urge you to read the previous part of this short(ish) story. The whole thing is supposed to be experienced in one sitting, but I didn’t want to go radio silent for about a month.

For the millionth time, I cast my memory
Back to your bedroom, my ’90s haven:
Jeans-blue walls plastered with posters
Of motorcycle idols in riding gear;
Dream bikes, like your Aprilia;
Misato Katsuragi making a V sign;
Pictures of faraway places that beckoned:
Mount Fuji rising up from the plains,
The Eiffel Tower’s wrought iron lattice,
Lady Liberty’s green patina,
A sunburnt desert stretching into oblivion;
Alongside drawings I created for you.
Worn wooden shelves covered in stickers,
Overflowing with manga volumes
And pricey figurines of EVA units.
On your desk rested your black helmet
Next to piles of VHS cassettes.
Perched on a corner of your CRT television,
A single sock.

Nestled side by side on the carpeted floor
Among a scattering of your clothes,
Facing your plugged-in Playstation,
You were guiding Jill Valentine frantically
Through a shadow-laced, pixelated attic
Of that mansion infested with zombies
As you primed and fired your grenade launcher
At a slithering, grotesque serpent
That chased Jill with nefarious intent.
But lost in a sensory trance, I kept drifting
To the scent of your strawberry body spray,
And every shift of your bare arm against mine
Ignited a tingling trail of shivers down my spine.

Once the serpent fled through a hole,
You spun towards me with a victorious grin,
Flashing your wet, crooked teeth.
What did you say? I didn’t hear anything;
That face had kindled a spark inside me,
Made me feel like a flame
Dancing in a fireplace.

I leaned in and molded my lips to yours.
They tasted of cherry chapstick.

When I pulled away, you were frozen,
Your chocolate eyes wide and unblinking.
Had I gone too far? Had I ruined us?
Blood rushed to my cheeks
And words tangled in my throat
As I tried to apologize,
But you exhaled, bit your lip,
Then tossed the controller aside.
“About time,” you said
While climbing into my lap.

Our tongues wrestled,
Our breaths mingled,
Our teeth clicked,
Our noses bumped.
Your fingers raked through my hair.
I gripped your hips,
Then slid my hands under your T-shirt
To stroke the warm curve of your back.

My thoughts dissolved in a bath-like heat.
My self, that I thought forever isolated
Inside airtight boundaries,
Seeped out to meld with you.

I don’t know when we stopped,
But I remember holding onto you,
Feeling your heart calming down
As it beat against my chest.
Your wet lips rested against my neck,
Your hot breath tickled my skin.

To your annoyance, your father had removed
The privacy lock from your bedroom door,
And that brooding overseer of yours
Invaded your space whenever he pleased,
So if we ached for some privacy,
We had to make out in public.

During your shifts as a pizza delivery driver,
Each time your rounds hinted
You might grace my area of Irún,
You called me so I would wait at a nearby park.
I stared anxiously at the traffic,
Eager to spot your scarlet polo shirt.

After you pulled up on the company scooter,
We sat on a bench, you took off your cap,
And our tongues played like two puppies
As your soft ponytail brushed my hand.
The scent of melted cheese and oregano
Still returns me to those days.

One evening, in the solace of my bedroom,
While my parents argued somewhere outside,
And the last light streaming through the curtain
Bathed our lying forms in a dusk-touched hue,
You explored my naked chest and stomach,
Mapping them with your fingertips.

I cupped the nape of your neck
And brought your mouth to mine.
I wished I could merge with you,
To live within your heart,
To breathe from your lungs,
To laugh with your voice.

One afternoon, you called from a payphone
To tell me, breathless, of an accident:
After some dickhead veered into your lane,
You swerved, but your Aprilia skidded
And bucked viciously, throwing you off.
As you slid over asphalt, it clawed at your leg,
Tearing through your jeans,
Grating against your flesh.

I had never felt such a panic surge in my gut;
I pictured your leg flayed to shreds.
While you complained that the accident
Had marred your bike with scrapes and scuffs,
I urged you to call an ambulance.
You refused; if your father found out,
He would attempt to take the Aprilia away.
However, your leg seared with pain,
So you needed me to patch you up.

I grabbed a bottle of water and a soap squirter,
Then rushed out toward the nearest pharmacy
To buy gauze, bandages, and antibiotic ointment.

When you opened the front door,
You greeted me quietly.
We had lucked out, you said:
Your father wouldn’t return for hours,
And your mother was nursing a migraine.
But that left leg of yours belied our luck:
A jagged tear in your jeans
Revealed the raw red of road rash
Caked with blood and grime.
My heart lurched.

After washing my hands thoroughly, I found you
Lying pantless on your hot-pink bedspread.
I knelt by your bedside and inhaled
The coppery tang of your life essence
Mixed with adrenaline-induced sweat.

I soaked gauze in soapy water
And dabbed it on the raw red of your flesh
To clean off the dried blood and grime.
The white gauze bloomed crimson.
You winced, your eyes watered,
But you gritted through the pain.

I squeezed a glob of antibiotic ointment
And smeared it gently on your road rash.
After I climbed onto the bed,
I started wrapping the bandage
Around your injured leg,
Unwinding the roll and draping it snug.

My throat had closed up;
I felt your pain like it was mine.
You were right, we had been lucky:
Instead of swerving,
You could have crashed headfirst
And broken your neck.
Next time I saw you, you’d be lying in a coffin,
And I would never hear your laughter again.

I leaned forward, hugged your legs
And pressed my lips against your inner thigh,
Planting wet, lingering kisses,
Longing to feel the steady thrum of your life.

In the silence, your breathing grew heavier.
You propped yourself up on your elbows,
With your caramel waves cascading to the pillows.
Your eyes were glazed over, your cheeks flushed pink.

Your sunny-yellow panties,
Their stretchy cotton material
Featuring a pattern of fern-like imprints,
Contoured to your pubic mound,
And over the cleft, the fabric was soaked.

Wordlessly, I nuzzled your vulva,
Warming my face with the heat,
And inhaled the hint of laundry detergent
Mingled with a mouthwatering musk.
Your dampness clung to my tongue
As I lapped up the salty tang,
Which made you grip the bedspread.

You arched your back and wiggled your hips,
Grinding against my face,
To slide your panties down my nose and lips.

Behold a lush, dripping flower.

Our hands were clenched together,
My face buried in your muff,
Your pubes tickling my nose,
My tongue teasing, tracing, flicking
Your moist labia and turgid nub
While you gasped and mewed.

Even if your father’s words stabbed through you,
Or school made you want to jump down a well,
I could offer my warm hands and mouth
To make you forget.
I would always be your refuge
Where you could let go and be yourself.

You pulled my hands toward you
And whispered, “Come here.”
I crawled, skin to skin, over your body
So your tongue could thank mine.

We peeled off each other’s shirts.
I unhooked your bra and kneaded your breasts.
Your fingers unbuttoned and unzipped,
Then tugged down my boxers.
You gripped me, stroked me up and down.
Pleasure settled in my groin like solid heat
As you wrapped your thighs around my waist
And guided me into your warmth.

While your bedsprings squeaked,
We breathed shallow gasps in and out,
And you dug your fingertips into my back.
The rhythm of our bodies synced together.
Something inside me cracked wide open.

If your mother had opened the door,
Ready to complain about the noise,
She would be outraged about more
Than our clothes strewn about the floor,
But any shouts, I’d boldly dismiss;
What we did and what we were
Was a cause to celebrate.
My heart pulsed with an aching joy
At the miracle of finding you, Izar,
And of being found by you.

From the day we made each other adults,
In the sanctuary of your bedroom or mine,
We spent our time huddled together,
Playing games, reading manga, watching shows,
Anticipating a knock on the door
And one of our parents to speak of some errand.
You and I would drown in silence, listening
To the sounds of our guardians leaving.

My body stirred with an electric tension.
Your eyes glittered, starlit with yearning.
Your nipples poked through the top.
Once the front door closed with a thump,
And the key turned once, twice in the lock,
We would allow a brief eternity to pass,
Counting heartbeats and hushed breaths,
Then our clothes would fly off.

When we lay in each other’s arms
On a tangle of sweat-smeared sheets,
The room melted away
To the slick friction of skin on skin.
We became the only people in the world,
Talking and laughing and making love.

Hand in hand, we strolled to the end of Meaka
On a gravel path speckled with moss
Past the hydroelectric plant of Irugurutzeta.
Shadowed by the massive wall
Made of layers of weathered, lichen-clad stones,
We came across wandering chickens
And a dog that glanced at us from its kennel.

I breathed in the rich, loamy scent
Of damp earth and decaying leaves.
We nestled on the bank of a meandering creek
That babbled as it flowed over riverstone.
A stockade of skeletal trees obscured the horizon.
To our left stood the ruins of Roman furnaces.
On the opposite bank, stacks of blackened logs
Loomed like burned tombstones.
Here, where human activity had ceased,
Leaving behind only traces,
Life sprouted, grew, and died untroubled.

Your mood hung heavy like the overcast sky,
But I knew you’d open up when you were ready.
Turns out your parents had found out
About your disastrous grades,
And lost their shit when you declared
That you were dropping out of school altogether.

I remembered how my mother scolded me
For bringing home sevens and eights
When I could, she said, easily ace tests;
Thus, if I chose to drop out,
She would probably drop dead.
I asked if you had rushed to this decision,
But your mind had known for weeks.

Algebra, geometry, physics, chemistry;
They were rusty spanners in a junkyard
To you, who had dreamed of riding a bike
On undulating dirt tracks
Through jumps, berms, and whoops.
So instead of surrendering your youth
To the hands of glorified babysitters,
You chose to chase the road forward
Before the mirror showed a stranger.

Author’s note: the song for today is “Your Hand in Mine” by Explosions in the Sky.

If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.

Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 1 (Poetry)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial32 Comments

Wide awake at midnight,
As I lie in the oppressive dark,
I stretch my arm into the abyss of my mind,
Seeking the warmth of your hand.

I imagine the apartment’s buzzer ringing;
You’ve come to take me away.
I put on clothes, kiss my sleeping kids goodbye,
And rush downstairs to join you.

Garbed in your sleek red jacket,
You’re straddling the leather seat
And resting your elbows on the handlebars
Of your nineteen ninety-four Aprilia Red Rose.
Its lemon-yellow body, streaked with white,
Shimmers in the streetlights’ glow.
The sharp beam of its headlight pierces the night.

Amber radiance outlines your caramel-brown hair,
But your face is lit by an unrestrained smile
That creases the corners of your chocolate eyes,
That shows off your crooked front teeth.

Once I climb onto the pillion behind you,
I wrap my arms around your slim waist.
You start up the beast, making it rumble,
And we roll down the road.

Streetlights blur to yellow streaks
As we rocket through the streets,
Zooming past cars and trucks,
Past darkened houses and shops.

The mechanical purring of the engine
Ebbs and flows through my bones.
The crisp wind of autumn stings my cheeks;
It smells like wet pavement and gasoline.
Your jacket and wavy hair rustle,
Your laughter rings in the night.

Life is a wild and beautiful sickness.
In this universe of racing colors,
We are invincible.
Through the darkness we soar
Like two lonesome shooting stars
Tearing across the heavens.

We reach our park by the Bidasoa River,
Where freshwater meets saltwater,
And the salty scent of the sea mingles
With the aroma of pine trees and earth.

Lonely benches line the path, facing the water,
But we sit side by side on the cool, dewy grass.
Pine trees etch their silhouettes against a night sky
Bathed in the silvery glow of a full moon.

You ask me if I’m living the life I dreamed of.
I confess that things didn’t pan out like I wished:
I never became a comic book artist.
But through designing websites for corporations,
I employ what little creativity I have left,
Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe.

You ask me if I still remember us.
I tell you all the ways I do.

I was drawing my comic strip,
Sitting at the base of an oak tree
In my favorite spot of our school grounds.
The rough ridges of the bark dug into my back,
And the sunlight streamed through the leaves,
Falling in pools of amber-orange on the grass,
Bouncing off the paper in my lap.
Suddenly, there you were, towering over me
With your wild brown waves down your shoulders,
A carefree smile playing on your lips.

You asked what I was always drawing
That kept me alone and with my head down.
I tried to hide the pages, but you snatched them.
As your eyes darted over ink and graphite,
I tensed up, bracing myself for your mockery
Of the tale through which I lived vicariously.

It tracked the adventures
Of a team of heroes for hire
That drifted through the cosmos
In their ramshackle starship.

Guybrush Threepwood, mighty pirate,
Charted stars as their cunning captain;
Redheaded terror Asuka Langley
Was their fierce-eyed, unyielding gunner;
Ranma Saotome, fluid as water,
Their covert infiltration specialist.
The rest of their motley crew was filled
With characters from games, manga, and anime
That in days of solitude and sorrow
Had brought comfort and distraction.

While you flipped through the pages,
My pulse quickened, anxiety gripped me,
But you laughed out of delight.
Seated beside me, you kept reading.
Under the canopy of leaves,
Your chocolate eyes glittered
As you pointed out jokes and references
That I thought nobody but me would get.

Days later, you asked me how come
I used characters created by others.
I didn’t dare come up with my own;
What if they were stupid and lame?
Wouldn’t that mean I was talentless?

You told me I was a special kind of idiot;
Of course my first tries would suck.
Greatness takes effort, perseverance,
And a willingness to make mistakes.
If I kept working hard and learning
From the masters we both admired,
I too would one day create art
That moved hearts and minds,
That inspired others to dream and do,
But if I gave up, wallowing in fear,
I would end up like those pathetic adults
Who believed their dreams never came true
Because they didn’t wish hard enough.

That couldn’t be right, could it?
My mother always told me
That I was an intelligent boy,
Her bright, shining star,
Who’d nail every challenge
In the first try.

You invited me to your parents’ place.
I spent my, until then, best afternoon
Playing Super Metroid on your SNES
And munching on barbecue fritos.

We recorded mock radio shows
On your dad’s tape recorder.
You acted as the host
Interviewing me, your guest.

“Hello, citizens of Irún!
It’s me, Izar Lizarraga,
Your one and only radio DJ,
Bringing you a special edition
Of ‘Izar’s Takeover,’ coming live
From the studios of Channel 52.
Great lineup today, folks!
Our very own Guybrush Threepwood,
Bonafide pirate and space pioneer
Admired by millions, loved by all,
Reports to us from the ninth dimension.
How are you doing out there, Threepwood?”

“Well, it’s been quite the thrill.
I’ve been trying to find the source
Of this mysterious pink goop
That’s been popping up everywhere.
So far, it’s led to a lot of shootin’,
Scoopin’ and lootin’ in this cosmic void.”

You showed me motocross races
From your collection of videocassettes
Nestled beside your bulky TV.
Dozens of racers clad in protective gear
Darted and wove amidst the pack
Astride dirt bikes with coil spring shocks,
Their knobby tires kicking up plumes of dust.
The racers zoomed and skidded,
They surged up series of steep ramps
And vaulted in graceful arcs
Before crashing back down to earth.

The races blurred before me,
A storm of dust, noise, and fury,
But that flickering screen illuminated
Your childlike grin.

Before I met you, I wasted entire days
Secluded in my darkened bedroom.
Now that you summoned me to your side,
We made memories out of our adventures.

At the arcade, we fed coins into Bubble Bobble.
You picked the green chubby dragon, I picked blue.
Like maniacs we jumped on 2D platforms
And trapped our foes inside colorful bubbles.
As we clutched the joysticks and punched buttons,
The warmth of your arm grazed my skin.

We hit every wooded area in the city,
Where we climbed trees
And swung from low-hanging branches
Although we kept landing on our asses.
We sneaked into construction sites
To slide downhill on cardboard.

At night, we climbed the chain-link fence
Of the primary school we had attended.
Here’s where we played hopscotch,
Here’s where I drew cartoons with chalk.
We rested our plastic buckets and shovels
Inside this little square filled with sand.
That night, we shot some hoops in the shadows
Until the custodian chased us off.

How often in comic book stores
Did I distract the cashier while you slid
A volume of manga down your pants,
Securing it with the waistband of your panties?
Remember when you lit firecrackers
In one of the toilets at our middle school?
That porcelain bowl burst like a grenade.

As we lay prone on gravel,
Your lighter’s flame kissed
The tip of a hapless leaf,
That blackened and curled.
As an orange flame rippled
Like a flag in the breeze,
A white, incandescent band
Glided down the blade,
Leaving behind ashes.

One time you brought me to your home,
Your father picked a fight, I don’t recall why.
He spoke to you like scum,
Like you were no daughter of his,
And threatened to go beyond words.
After he slammed the bedroom door,
You burst into tears. I hugged you tightly.
Your warm tears soaked my shirt
As I stroked your soft hair.
You whispered that you couldn’t wait
To move far, far away.

I had also come to distrust my parents.
How many times did I hold my breath
While I pressed my ear against the door,
Eavesdropping on one of their quarrels
In case they decided to break apart my world?

I learnt how it felt to miss you for days;
You filled your afternoons after school
Studying for your motorbike license
Or working part-time as a cook at Telepizza.

One evening, lying on the grass at Aingura Park,
As the setting sun poured molten gold upon the river
And stray cats padded over our bellies,
You confessed, your eyes alight with dreams,
That you were saving up for a bike and riding gear,
That you intended to pursue your childhood dream
Of becoming a professional motocross rider,
Traveling the globe, competing at the highest level.

You made me board a bus
To an industrial park west of town.
As I meandered aimlessly
In front of workshops and warehouses,
A solitary figure emerged
Wearing white sneakers, jeans,
Padded polyester gloves,
A black motorbike helmet
With a tinted visor,
And a sleek red jacket.

You took off your carbon fiber helmet,
Freeing your caramel-brown waves.
Your eyes crinkled into half-moons
As you let out a hearty laugh.

After I met your beloved Aprilia Red Rose,
A treasure made yours from another’s hands,
You tossed me a half-helmet;
You wanted to take me on my first ride.

Weren’t you searching for a motocross bike?
Why choose this one instead?
You couldn’t resist such a bargain, you said,
And you could save up then trade the Aprilia in.

You slipped your helmet over your face,
Visor down to shield against the bugs.
The half-helmet’s padding hugged my head
As I fastened the strap under my chin.
Once I swung onto the bike behind you,
I clung to you like a koala.

You turned the ignition key
And twisted the throttle.
The engine growled and sputtered,
The exhaust let out raspy rattles.

As we raced toward an invisible finish line,
The roar of the engine echoed down
That sun-drenched industrial thoroughfare.
The bike’s rumbling quivered through me,
From my feet braced against the foot pegs
To my fingertips curled around your waist.
Spilling out the sides of your helmet,
Wind-whipped hair danced against my face.

I found the ride exhilarating, terrifying,
Like a rollercoaster, like flying.
My heart pounded, my mouth dried up.
I wanted to scream into the void
And let the thrill consume me.

What happened to that poster-size picture
I drew of you, that you hung on your wall?
Against a backdrop of blurred lines,
There you were, an anime-style Izar,
Riding your yellow-and-white motorbike,
Your caramel-brown hair flowing behind you,
Your favorite Evangelion T-shirt rippling in the wind.
Your face beamed with an open-mouthed smile,
And your chocolate eyes stared straight ahead
To wherever the road would take you.

Author’s note: the song for today is “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison.

Now that I have determined all the plot points and imagery that I want to include in the narrative, this side project of mine will likely take up to a month.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 126: AI-generated audiochapter

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial1 Comment

A cosmic cockroach. This audiochapter covers chapter 126 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.

Cast

  • Leire: sassy thief who hangs out with rats in the east of Skyrim
  • Ramsés: a Roman general in a fantasy setting

I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I end up sacrificed to some Lovecraftian knock-off. A total of six hours, fourteen minutes, and forty-three seconds. Check them out.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 126 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial3 Comments

Ramsés swings the door open, revealing a concrete staircase that descends into darkness. He reaches to flick a switch. With a faint buzz, a bulb sputters to life in a rusty cage, casting a sickly yellow hue tainted by grime and dust. A lattice of pipes, ductwork, and wire mesh panels snakes across the ceiling in an organized fashion, save for a few rogue wires hanging loose. The pipes’ smoothness contrasts with the concrete’s pitted and scuffed surfaces. Deeper within, a chaotic collection of debris, including cardboard boxes, construction material, and old electronics, lies in haphazard heaps like rats’ nests.

My boss steps aside and sweeps his hand, motioning for me to enter.

“After you.”

As I stand at the threshold, dizziness engulfs my senses in a sudden wave. I clutch my notebook and pen as if they could anchor me.

“Have you lost your mind? This isn’t a conference room!”

“I never suggested we were heading to a conference room,” he replies in an untroubled voice.

“Do you intend to hold a meeting in a dungeon?”

Ramsés sighs. He aims his pointing finger at a doorless metal cabinet standing close to the base of the stairs, juxtaposed against a bundle of ribbed conduits. The cabinet houses network switches mounted on racks. Arrays of LED indicators blink yellow within an entangled mass of black cables resembling the veins of a cybernetic organism.

“You’re a programmer,” Ramsés says, “not a computer technician, but you should know what I’m pointing at.”

“That’s a network rack. I think.”

“Correct. Would a dungeon have a network rack?”

Ramsés’ belittling tone irks me.

“It would, if its owner required an internet connection.”

“Leire, I’ve just brought you to the basement level. Not a place for guests, but Jacqueline accompanied me here. Jordi as well. Afterwards, they both continued with their lives, and in the case of your woman, she even decided to quit on her own accord. So please, let’s proceed further. In the end you’ll be glad that you agreed to follow me.”

“Whatever. I warn you, though: if I see any cockroaches scuttling about, I’m out of here.”

“I don’t recall ever spotting a cockroach in the building, but just in case, don’t stare at the floor.”

I step onto the topmost stair, and then the one beneath it. Ramsés follows me in. As his keyring jingles, the door thumps behind me, followed by a click as it locks.

Down the concrete stairs I slog, while my boss plods after me. Our footsteps echo off the walls in a chorus of hollow thuds. I’m inhaling warm air heavy with the scent of neglect: the mustiness of decaying cardboard and the acrid tang of deteriorating electronic parts.

After I step off the final stair, I lumber toward the closest heap of junk, past the network rack and its array of blinking LEDs, as chunks of white styrofoam crunch and shift underfoot. Dust cloaks an overturned air conditioning unit, its casing cracked and its internal components exposed. Two dead flies and a paper cup rest nearby as if someone had nudged debris aside instead of cleaning up. What atrocity has Ramsés lured me into?

As my boss strides past me, the refuse warps the echoes of his footfalls.

“After me.”

We navigate along the perimeter of a junk pile made out of disassembled cabinetry and discarded light fixtures. My foot catches on a random brick, causing me to stumble.

A shimmer of movement on the wall to my left jerks my attention upwards. Near the ceiling, tubes and pipes running parallel, along with a tangle of electrical wires, delve into the pitch-black void of a gaping hole. Perched on its threshold, a blob of cosmic matter pulses with twinkling stars and nebulae, the purples, blues, and oranges ebbing and flowing like a living fragment of the night sky. As the amorphous form shimmies, the edges of the hole warp around this creature, bending inward.

My neck muscles tense up. I whip my gaze from the cosmic critter to my boss’ broad back.

We maneuver through a channel between two heaps of scrap that loom over me. I pick my way gingerly, hoping to dodge any sharp edges that could scrape my legs. My eyes itch from the particles floating in the stagnant air, and the soles of my sneakers stick to the grimy concrete. The ocher light casts jagged shadows through the masses of junk, but ahead, beyond the range of the bulb, only murky darkness awaits. My mind escapes to picturesque havens: a café overlooking a glittering lake, a gazebo in a lush garden surrounded by hedgerows, a rustic cabin with a crackling hearth.

“I can’t stress enough,” I rasp, “how much I’d rather hold this meeting of yours in a proper venue.”

“Noted. Just down this corridor.”

A sour, moist stench, like the aftermath of a urinary tract infection, seeps into my nasal passages and lingers on my tongue. My stomach roils. With each step, the stench grows stronger. I’m about to complain when I notice that the corridor ends in a plank, from a bookshelf or a storage cupboard, leaning against the wall like a makeshift barrier.

I narrow my eyes, and my words escape in a hiss.

“Hey, am I not supposed to notice that you’ve led me to a dead end?”

My boss’ silhouette, which takes up much of the cramped space, marches ahead undaunted.

“It looks like a dead end. That’s the point.”

Either he’s oblivious to my rising dread, or he’s feeding off it like a vampire.

“Sir, I demand to know what we’re doing here. What sane reason could you have for bringing me into this hellhole? Did you intend to take me down? Tell me why, then go ahead and make your move!”

Ramsés glances back, his face a shadowed outline.

“Leire, you’re getting on my nerves.” He grips the sides of his plank. “Give me a hand with this.”

I cross my arms.

“Sure, as soon as I build some muscle.”

Ramsés shakes his head.

“Well, aren’t you the comedian. Anyway, you’re right: you wouldn’t be of much help.”

With a grunt, he heaves the plank aside, and tilts it so it rests against a junk pile. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I glimpse a door. Its layer of paint has peeled and flaked off in patches, revealing the metal beneath.

The stench comes from behind that door, as if an ammoniac marsh were seeping from the crevices. What new horrors lurk in this mausoleum of rubbish and ruin?

I envision my boss as the leader of a cult, one that orchestrates human sacrifices in a chamber that gleams with tools for torture: knives, cattle prods, bone saws, nipple clamps. Robed worshippers, their garbs adorned with profane runes and eldritch symbols, chant in tongues while they chain me to an altar. Flickering torches cast a golden hue over their twisted faces, revealing patchwork scars and soulless eyes. As the acolytes’ chant crescendos, one by one they lunge at me. Their fingernails, curved into talons, rip through my clothing, tearing into my muscles and viscera. They gnaw on my flesh like ghouls. Ramsés, the high priest of this unholy congregation, emerges from the shadows and approaches with a whirring drill in hand, about to offer my brain as tribute to the Outer Gods.

My boss reaches into a pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a keycard. He swipes it across the door’s handle, and a beep sounds as two green LEDs blink in sync. The lock clicks.

Within me, a primal force screams in warning: we have reached the threshold of Hades. I’m tempted to turn tail, bolt down the corridor of junk, and scramble up the concrete stairs. Instead, risking the loss of dignity and self-respect, I reach out and grab my boss’ shoulder.

“I can feel it…” I whisper, my throat closing up, “something evil behind that door, staring at us.”

Ramsés snaps his head back, then faces me in the gloom.

“Interesting. You may be hypersensitive to electromagnetic fields. Don’t worry: nothing awaits us inside, other than a miracle.”

The door’s hinges groan as Ramsés swings it open, unleashing a fetid reek that singes the membranes of my nostrils, that crawls into the deepest recesses of my lungs, that brings to mind a mound of rat corpses teeming with millions of mucky maggots. Apart from a novel hint of burned dust that could belong to an overheated computer, I inhaled this cocktail of putrefaction before, whenever Spike visited; when professor Bunnyman intruded on my peace through the toilet where I was peeing; when Alberto, transformed into a slimy blob studded with eyeballs, came to warn me about the forthcoming collapse of the universe. Although I’ve covered my nose and mouth with the crook of my elbow, a wave of nausea ripples through my gut.

Ramsés ushers me into his underground realm. The hairs on my nape bristle. When the door shuts behind us with a resonant thump, the blackness wraps around me like a shroud of primordial night.

Author’s note: today’s song is “Stuck in the Middle With You” by Stealers Wheel. I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and nine videos. Check them out.

Fun fact: the depicted setting is based on a network “closet” located under the psychiatric ward of the hospital where I work. Anyway, check out the audiochapter.

The novel is going on hiatus for about a week or so; my subconscious has spent the last week weaving a short narrative that I’m eager to render into a free verse poem. Since I started this novel in October of 2021, it will be the first break I take to work on a different story.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 125: AI-generated audiochapter

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial1 Comment

They don’t crawl, they stride. This audiochapter covers chapter 125 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.

Cast

  • Leire: tough thief who offers you jobs down in the sewers of Riften
  • Ramsés: an Imperial general stationed away from Cyrodiil

I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or they put me in antipsychotic meds that turn me into a zombie. A total of six hours, four minutes, and forty-eight seconds. Check them out.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 125 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial3 Comments

I trudge through the hallway, past the vending machines and the bathrooms, and down a flight of stairs into uncharted territory, following a bear of a man. The fluorescent lamps spill their milky light over the shoulders of my boss’ navy-blue suit as he leads me with a self-assured strut. He’s trailed by the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with a musky cologne; yet, even if he were clean and carrying a bouquet of roses, it wouldn’t mask his inherent stink. The fabric of his slacks fits tightly over his rump, straining the vertical seam at its center. I feel like I’m stuck on the highway behind a truck, but instead of an effluvium of exhaust fumes, I risk a miasma of farts billowing in my face.

The pockets of muted conversations, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, and the ringing of phones die down, replaced by my boss’ heavy footsteps squeaking on the linoleum of a cramped corridor, barren but for an encased fire extinguisher. If Ramsés were about a head taller, his hair would brush the ceiling. Streaks of grime have marred the yellowed wallpaper, as if a janitorial cart had grazed it in passing.

Ramsés turns to speak over his shoulder.

“Jacqueline is stretching out that sick leave of hers, isn’t she?”

What’s with the resentful tone? I have betrayed myself to tail after this pig, and now I’m subjected to his rotten moods? If mommy could shapeshift into a wolf, I’d ask her to take a chunk out of his flabby ass.

“She must have her reasons,” I retort, bristling at the insinuation.

“And what are they?”

“Wouldn’t you know? You’re her boss, after all.”

“She’s been dodging my emails and phone calls. Besides, you’d know her reasons better than anyone, given how close you are.”

“Wh-what kind of relationship do you think I have with her?”

“You know, I have wondered that, how would it even work between you two. But I suppose that the term ‘girlfriend’ suffices.”

When did I let my guard down? To random strangers on the street, I might gush that my lascivious paramour and I indulge in sex rituals that would make any swinger blanch, but I have never wished to reveal such matters to my boss. Though Jordi’s in the know, I can’t picture him sharing the secret. I feel as if the pristine glass of my relationship with Jacqueline has been sullied by a greasy handprint.

Seizing my silence as an opportunity, Ramsés continues.

“So, is she expecting me to fire her?”

“No, she has realized that one must live for better things than filling Excel cells, or however the hell she spent her work hours. She’ll inform you in her own time, I’m sure.”

My boss tsks and shakes his head.

“What a mess,” he says, sounding disappointed. “I’ll have to endure the hassle of hiring and training a new secretary, when Jacqueline was managing just fine. It goes to show that loyalty has an expiration date, no matter how exceptional the circumstances. Take that as a lesson, Leire.”

A presence appears at the corridor’s end. At first glance, my mind conjures mundane imagery: a custodian, a technician. But as I focus, I realize that I’m staring at a figure unlike any other before: a ghost-white creature standing as tall as me. Its form is dominated by two backward-bending stilt-like legs, wrapped in a gauzy membrane that flows like silk. The limbs taper into blade-like talons reminiscent of sleek prosthetics. Atop the convergence of its legs perches a bean-shaped, faceless head, that gazes through a centered eye glossy and black as polished onyx.

The light from the fluorescent lamps, cut into sharp-edged rectangles, glistens on the linoleum through the creature. It’s striding with a fluid grace, as if subjected to a moon-like gravity, in a collision course towards Ramsés. When they should bump into each other, the creature phases through my boss and carries on its march.

A shiver of dread writhes down my spine and coils around my ribcage. I flatten against the wallpaper, yielding passage to this phantom. It glides silently past me. If I were a dog, my hackles would have risen.

A second alien, smaller by a third, scuttles unsteadily after its kin. As the smaller creature passes by, it pauses mid-stride to fix its onyx eye on me. In that glossy blackness, I expect to glimpse my reflection, but instead see a tangle of reeds. The creature glances at its towering companion, then scurries onward to catch up.

“Leire, what’s wrong with you?” Ramsés asks impatiently.

My heartbeat thuds against my sternum, my hands and feet have gone cold, and my brain buzzes from the rush of adrenaline. My boss has halted before a nondescript door at the side of the corridor. His keychain dangles from the keyhole.

“You saw something, didn’t you?” he insists.

I tear myself off the wallpaper. As I shuffle to join Ramsés, I manage to speak in a feeble voice.

“I was just… lost in thought.”

He squints at me, scrutinizing my features.

“I may have brought it up in the past, or at least wanted to do so, but there’s a good chance you’re schizophrenic, Leire.”

“Excuse me?”

“You match most of the diagnostic criteria: you tend to withdraw into yourself, your thinking can become incomprehensible, your grooming and hygiene have been found wanting at times, you experience hallucinations… And you’re not faking: the color has drained from your face.”

I’m tempted to confess that I was fixated on the phantasmal aliens stalking the corridor, and that I won’t dare a glance over my shoulder in case they’re standing behind me. However, while decent people might use such an opportunity to exercise their empathy, this swine’s expression suggests that my mental illness inconveniences him.

I steady myself. I can’t afford to look crazier.

“If I had a brain disorder that glaring, the therapists who listened to me prattle would have spotted it. Even if they had diagnosed me with schizophrenia, though, I’d need to keep a job, wouldn’t I?”

Ramsés shrugs with an indifference as conspicuous as the cigarette stench clinging to his suit.

“I suppose so. I wouldn’t expect any favors from the state; at the most, they’d put you at the end of the line. So, therapy sessions, huh? They must have cooked up some theories about you.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, I force myself to meet Ramsés’ gaze, although I’d find more comfort in a gorilla’s pupils.

“Sir, respectfully,” I utter, biting back the sharp words itching at my tongue, “I want to get through this meeting, finish my work, and go home. The day has been long enough already.”

He twists the key, unlocking the door.

“Good. We’re almost there, after all.”

Author’s note: today’s song is “Sloop John B” by The Beach Boys.

I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and eight videos. Check them out.

I’m sick with the flu, yet I produced this audiochapter just for you.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 124: AI-generated audiochapter

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial1 Comment

Your boss can’t lead you to a meeting if his heart no longer beats. This audiochapter covers chapter 124 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked.

Cast

  • Leire: thief infiltrator that infiltrates your heart once you meet her down at the Ragged Flagon
  • Ramsés: an Imperial general who wants to be done with this rebellion bullshit as soon as possible

I produced audiochapters for the entire three previous sequences, and I intend to continue until the novel ends or I receive a visit from Truck-kun after someone throws scalding coffee in my eyes. A total of five hours, fifty-seven minutes, and thirty-three seconds. Check them out.

We’re Fucked, Pt. 124 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial3 Comments

The front door of the office thuds closed. Once Jordi’s footsteps fade into the background hum of fluorescent lights and the air conditioning’s whir, I crane my neck toward the frosted-glass wall of Ramsés’ office. His door is open. I hold my breath and perk my ears up to detect the clatter of keyboard keys, the creaking of his leather executive chair, or a muffled fart. Instead, I hear the pulsating of my blood vessels. The last time Ramsés left the office to take a shit or smoke a cig, he must have segued into his lunch break.

Even in the haze of my caffeinated anxiety, the fist of tension that had held me tight unclenches. I lean back in my chair and exhale deeply. I have reached my favorite moment of the office hours, other than when they end: I’m free from the presence of other human beings, that as if I were a quantum system, had transformed me from a superposition of states into something definite. Now I can let my mind drift off without worrying about making weird faces or muttering nonsense as I argue with my inner demons.

I reach for my lunch: two triangular halves of bread, ham, and cheese, their natural colors peeking through synthetic packaging. I pinch the edge of the cling film and peel it back. The seal breaks, releasing the trapped aroma, a salty-sweet combination of meat and dairy. After hours of holding a computer mouse, I welcome the cool, moist texture of the bread, but when I take a bite, the sandwich’s taste reminds me of its week-long confinement inside a refrigerated machine.

Oh, YouTube has recommended a “fails of the week” video. I munch on my sandwich while enjoying the parade of mundane disasters: a teenager barrels his bike into a garden fence; a man crossing a log over a stream slips and crushes his nuts; a texting college girl face-plants into fresh cement; a pair of overambitious souls try to wedge a gigantic fridge into a two-seater; a car mounted on a hydraulic lift at a mechanic’s shop falls on its side; a long-haired dude attempts a flip on his skateboard only to shatter his teeth against the curb; a worker, losing his footing, slides helplessly down a snow-covered roof and plunges onto the street three stories below; a girl posing coquettishly in front of a full-length mirror is interrupted by the mirror toppling onto her head; a pole vaulter nails his jump, but the tilting pole crushes his nuts.

These individuals, belonging to a species increasingly adept at its own annihilation, have not vanished into the cosmos: their misfortunes have been captured on digital footage for entertainment. They serve as reminders that we’re fragile creatures prone to error, but if we laugh at our mistakes, we can mitigate their sting, unless we end up castrated or dead.

The office lights cast a glare on my boss’ receding hairline as he looms over me like a giant boulder about to flatten a worm.

I shriek.

My thoughts have scattered like panicked cats. When I gather them together, my heart is hammering against my ribs.

“You’re one easily startled woman,” Ramsés says.

He rests a hand on my shoulder, his greasy fingers pressing into the cotton of my jumper: an unabashed assault. My neck stiffens, and a wave of heat rushes to my face. I dread to glance down in case the bulge of his crotch has swollen.

I’m a flower trembling before a vast, chaotic universe that threatens to consume me, and Ramsés, a pillar of pungent humanity, is the harbinger of doom. I should shatter the veneer of a civilized society by punching him in the throat. Once my boss falls to his knees, coughing and spluttering, I’ll stomp on his hand over and over, mashing it into the carpet.

His filthy hand slips away from my shoulder, likely smearing a stain on my jumper.

“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

My tone must have betrayed my annoyance, maybe even my homicidal impulse, because Ramsés lengthens a pause. The overhead lights are emphasizing the raised mole above his left eyebrow.

“It’s time we had that chat, Leire.”

“What chat?”

“As I told you, I was waiting for the opportunity to offer you a proposal. I’m free, you’re free, and I don’t want to take up your time after work. Let’s do it now.”

A sickly yellow fog seeps through the soggy marshland of my psyche. Ramsés, always the bearer of ill tidings, doesn’t deserve a coherent reply. At best I should muster a dismissive wave of my hand, signaling the end of his unwelcome interruption. I could also let loose a string of profanities and spit in his face. Instead, betraying myself, I clear my throat and wipe the sandwich residue off my lips.

“Is this one of those things where you’ll keep insisting until I listen to your proposal?”

Ramsés’ brow furrows into a map of foreboding.

“Let’s not be oversensitive, Leire. I only discuss matters of significance, you know that.”

These days, a part of me reluctantly acknowledges the wisdom in lending an ear, on the off chance of averting an apocalypse. The rest of me, though, wants to jam a pen through Ramsés’ eye and twist until the point penetrates his brain.

“Alright then. Please proceed.”

My boss turns, exposing his kidneys to a crippling blow. Wait, why is he heading to the front door? Did he intend to show off his ass?

“Weren’t you going to tell me something?” I ask nervously.

Ramsés halts, and looks over his shoulder.

“I had in mind a more secluded spot for our discussion, concerning the proposal I mentioned.”

“Where? Do we have a conference room?”

Ramsés sighs. He beckons me with his thick fingers.

“We’re wasting time. Come along, and you’ll find out soon enough.”

After gulping down the last of my sandwich, I push myself up from the chair. He’s already holding the door open for me. Is it legal for a boss to compel his employee into having a private meeting? Instead of indulging his whims, I yearn to finish my work, go home, and make sweet love to mommy. Right now, my two family members must be strolling along Ondarreta beach, while Nairu marvels at the crashing waves and the seagulls coasting on the air. Maybe they have moved on to the Comb of the Wind, which Jacqueline was eager to present to our Paleolithic artist. I picture Nairu seated on the steps as she sketches the rusted iron sculptures integrated in rocky outcrops, or the water jets that shoot up from the platform, spraying sea mist. The pavement is a mosaic of cobblestone and foam like from a receding tide. If I could join them, my heart would be set at ease.

Should I refuse to meet with my boss unless Jordi accompanies me? He gave me his number, so he may come to my rescue if Ramsés’ behavior turns creepy. Jordi, despite having been born a man, is a clean-cut kid who listened to Jacqueline’s sexual escapades during lunch break without getting aroused, while our boss, this shithead who worsened a life that already sucked, tends to flicker his gaze toward my breasts. I have felt him seconds away from groping my butt, and I suffered nightmares of him cornering me in his office and shoving his fingers up my cunt. Nobody would have found out, because I would have kept such indignities a secret.

So what now? Will I follow Ramsés into the overcast midday until he finds a quiet corner in the park or a café? I would prefer somewhere I can order coffee. I’d warm my palms around the cup as I sat in front of my boss, and if he uttered something nasty, I’d splash the scalding brew in his face, blinding him. He would stumble into traffic and get mowed down by a truck. With his body twisted and broken on the tarmac, his last words would be, “Sorry, Leire. I’ll never bother you again.” But what if Ramsés takes me to a deserted parking lot, a wooded grove, or a derelict warehouse? Maybe I’ll end up on a torture table, lying spread-eagled with shackles binding my wrists and ankles. I picture the brassy gleam of a scalpel slicing through the flesh of my belly, his hands reaching into the crimson mess to fondle my guts.

In the darkness of my mind, the one provider of freedom rotates like a pick-up item in a video game: Spike’s revolver. Its cylinder, deeply fluted, casts shadows along the six chambers. Above its grip of checkered wood, the polished frame is engraved with a skull and crossbones. I wish I were clutching my weapon already, feeling its wood and cold steel against the sweaty heat of my palm. As the one in power, I wouldn’t hesitate to follow my boss to any secluded corner; if he annoyed me enough, I’d hold him at gunpoint until he praised or at least complimented me, knowing that with one twitch of my forefinger, a bullet would blast out at the speed of a tiny cannonball, and its kinetic energy would carve a tunnel through the delicate union of cranium and consciousness. Blood would ooze from the hole in thick, viscous streaks. A rattle would escape Ramsés’ throat, and he would crumple to the floor. Then I’d fire into his corpse until the revolver clicked dry. If I could spare the time, I would dip my finger in his blood and write on the nearest wall, “Respect to the strong.”

“Go right ahead,” I say in a raspy voice. “I gotta grab something.”

While I scurry to the office, Ramsés complains to my back.

“Go right ahead? You don’t even know where we’re going.”

I fish the key chain out my trouser pocket. As I kneel in front of my desk cabinet and I fumble with the keys to unlock the top drawer, where I keep my revolver among office paraphernalia, I hear Ramsés’ footsteps approaching.

“You don’t need to grab anything to have a conversation,” he says somberly. “Let’s go.”

I glance over my shoulder. Ramsés is looming behind me with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched. Shit, how can I retrieve my revolver when he’s staring right at me? I never asked, but I’m guessing that my boss adheres to a no-weapons policy.

“Oh, I just need my notebook and pen. I’ll forget the important stuff if I don’t jot it down.”

Ramsés unfolds one of his arms to point at my workstation.

“Right there. Next to your keyboard.”

I find myself staring at my bumblebee-yellow notebook and the ballpoint pen that rests on top of it. I swallow, grab my notebook and pen, and haul myself to my feet.

Author’s note: today’s songs are “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes, and “Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel. A total of two hundred and seven videos. Check them out.

Are you into AI-generated audio? Of course you are. Check out the rendition of this chapter.