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I was the daughter of a mighty sovereign whose realm was as old and vast as the known world, and you were just an old slave, a leathery bag of bones pulling the stones for the temple that my father demanded to reach above the clouds. I saw your body under the sun: agile despite your age, whipped by the foremen among those of your kind. Even though I saw you once and never knew your name, the image of your body remained close to my heart on my deathbed.

You were a strapping young warrior, docile and unstoppable, whose life was trekking thick forests and snow-laden steppes with your horde. I was an old monk with aching legs, almost blind, dedicated to the mysteries of the Faith, to preserving His Light in this abominable world. From the distant north you came, tearing down the walls of the monastery where my sullen life had passed, as I hid in the scriptorium praying to not be found. As I tried to save an ancient tome, our eyes met while you opened my chest with a sturdy swing of your battle-axe.

We were two sailors in a fragile vessel crossing the ocean with gold and pearls and many goods, objects we only could dream to call ours one day. We were strong and fearless, men as only the sea can make. At night, I would sing dirty melodies that made you laugh like a barking dog, or you would tell the same old tales as we shared some rum. Neither of us minded our limited repertoire since we might be as well the only ones in the world. We died embracing each other, lost at sea, after the pirates had raided and burned the only place we could call ours.

I was an aristocratic diplomat, and you were an opera singer. I suspected you read my secret correspondence after our nights of passion, a small fee for having you in my arms; when I heard you died of pneumonia, I jumped from a bridge on the coldest night of winter. You were my native wet nurse, and I was the deaf-blind daughter of a colonial officer. When war came, they took us outside to shoot us. I was so happy to feel the sun and your hand as I departed.

I was the wife of a generalissimo, and you were my estranged son. I always took it personally that you didn’t like women, and didn’t shed a tear at your funeral. You were a racist old woman from Alberta whose grandchildren never called, and I was the Pakistani phone operator trying to find your lost package. Our conversation was the longest either of us had that week.

Last time we met was in a rehab center. I was a suicidal middle-aged businessman who got rich in 20 years and lost it all in 20 minutes, and you were a lesbian teenager living from the streets who was shaking back and forth on the bunk down the hall. Despite our hating each other almost instantly, you made me wonder what kind of parent I could have been.

Now that we go again to the world of the living, I hope that this time, no matter the age, no matter the race, no matter the body, I can love you, and you can love me back.

José González Vargas was born in Maracay, Venezuela and works as a freelance journalist in Spanish and English.  He currently runs interviews for Viceversa magazine.  In 2015, he was a runner-up in Solsticios, one of the first SF/F short story contests in Venezuela.
Current Issue
26 Feb 2024

I can’t say any of this to the man next to me because he is wearing a tie
Language blasts through the malicious intentions and blows them to ash. Language rises triumphant over fangs and claws. Language, in other words, is presented as something more than a medium for communication. Language, regardless of how it is purposed, must be recognized as a weapon.
verb 4 [C] to constantly be at war, spill your blood and drink. to faint and revive yourself. to brag of your scars.
Wednesday: The Body Problem by Margaret Wack 
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