Weekly Contest, "Creating Short Story Week #15". /Concurso Semanal, "Creando Microrrelato Semana 15": Prison (Eng./Sp.)

marlyncabrera (70)Memberin WORLD OF XPILAR • 2 years ago

Hello, Steemians, especially those in World of XPilar :)

It's my pleasure to post my entry to the Weekly Contest, "Creating Short Story Week #15". /Weekly Contest, "Creating Short Story Week #10". You can click on this link to read the contest post; perhaps you'd like to participate. You just have to do it in the next 3 days and make your story no longer than 150 words :)

Thanks in advance to @adeljose for the initiative and to World of XPilar for providing a space for the promotion of literary culture and imagination.

I wrote the story and translated it. Each version has exactly 150 words :)

Prison

His arms hung between the bars, suspended like time in pause. Hope, crestfallen, like the fingers of those hands left behind, in that exile which one's own home can be.

The silence of the hallway made its way to the living room, to the kitchen..., to the backyard. Raul thought of his miserable joy. Gone at last were the cries of Sofia's annoying child, the screams of his cousin Goyo, who was a violent drunkard. Was he free now? They were walking towards a distant destination, the wind against their faces. The walls of the big old house besieged him. Those walls judged and condemned him: From 1 day to life.

With his heart pounding, he walked to the street and stared at the facade of his prison. He could stay a day, think about it, or run away like a junkie in need of his sickness, of his martyrdom.

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Prisión

Los brazos colgaban entre los barrotes, suspendidos como el tiempo en pausa. La esperanza, caída, cabizbaja como las manos que quedaban atrás, en aquel destierro que puede ser el hogar propio.

El silencio del zaguán se abrió paso hacia la sala, la cocina…, el patio. Raúl pensó en su triste dicha. Al fin se habían ido los quejidos del niño fastidioso de Sofía, los gritos del primo Goyo, que siempre andaba peleando y borracho. ¿Era libre ahora? Ellos caminaban hacia un destino lejano por lo ancho, el viento en sus caras. A él lo emplazaban los muros de la casa grande y vieja. Aquellas paredes lo juzgaron y condenaron: De 1 día a perpetua.

Con el corazón palpitando, caminó hacia la calle y se quedó mirando la fachada de su prisión. Podía quedarse un día, pensarlo, o echar a correr como un loco necesitado de su mal, de su martirio.