A Page from Alucin’s Diary: A Flash Fiction



It is a common thing to lie, and it becomes commoner when lies become necessary to survive. Therefore I have decided to be honest with the pages of my diary, and to record in it my true thoughts and impressions.

1. Last night I dreamt that someone I knew years ago licked my face from top to bottom with one big lick. I licked him right back, and I woke up.

Now it is not common to be happy about such things, but when I got up that morning, I was smiling.


In USA war is normal (Historia de un cuadro)

In USA war is normal

Encontré este cuadro fascinante junto con su pintor – Tata Angel, en Union Square, NYC. El texto del cuadro dice “En los EEUU, la guerra es normal.” El militar representado es el tío del pintor – Reubén – quién falleció en la guerra vietnamita. El artista su proprio sitio de web: angelsnaturenyc.com

I found this fascinating painting together with its artist – Tata Angel, in Union Square, NYC. The text in the painting reads: “In USA, War is Normal.” The solider depicted is the uncle of the painter, Reubén – who passed away in the Vietnam war. The artist has his own website: angelsnaturenyc.com

Inspiraciones para escribir


La caprichosa doncella llamada la inspiración es difícil en su modo de funcionar, pero al fin y al cabo es entendible y conocible. La conozco muy bien de hecho, y tiene una forma de trabajar bien definido.

Hablo de la musica.

La musica para mí es una fuente de inspiración inagotable, y siempre me ayuda a crear nuevos cuentos, idear nuevos argumentos y sugerir nuevos caminos para el desarrollo de obras de ficción. Creo que la musica me ayuda tanto en mi trabajo porque en cada canción o obra musical eficaz hay un grano, o mucho más que un grano, de emoción especifica que compone el argumento de esa musica. La emoción evocada por la musica puede ser la alegría, la tristeza o el sentimiento llamado “saudade” en portugués que se trata de cosas buenas acordadas desde una posición temporalmente o físicamente lejos.

Con esta experiencia, con la emoción que me generan las canciones, sé que tipo de experiencia emocional quiero generar en los lectores. Me da el matiz emocional.

En el cuento que acabo de escribir (star lights, luces de estrellas) me provocaron mucho dos canciones claves:  Trilogy Part 3 (Ghost/Fantasma) de Dani Shiviers que me reveló el fin del cuento  (primero) y “Compartir”  de Carla Morrison que me sugirió el sentimiento del principio de la historia (después).

Ojalá que a uds. les gusten.

Les pregunto algo relacionado: hay alguna canción que les inspira?

Si no te inspiren las canciones, que te inspira? Qué creas con tus inspiraciones? Cuentos, arte, fotos?

Borders of Heaven, Part 2 of 2


Borders of Heaven, Part 2 of 2

Previously published in B magazine

Before I knew it the hounds of war were upon me once again. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned around in my chair.

“Why Hello There!”

“Hello.” I responded.

A well muscled blonde haired high school graduate greeted my eyes; he must have been into wrestling or football. Beautiful eyes too, a clear opalescent green complete with utterly unblemished milk-white skin. I may not be on varsity but I think I’d definitely let him wrestle with me anytime. It had to be sports of some kind, something rough, like lacrosse with lots of stick play – you sure as hell don’t get that kind of physique from sitting on your ass eating brownies.

He interrupted my moment of undisguised gawking with a well-rehearsed speech, restarted from the beginning of a training tape somewhere and repeated for my edification: “Hi! Have you ever heard of the Church of Latter Day Saints?”

I did not waiver for a second. I knew my next line. The company of the nice Mormon boy would be nice to have as an art piece, but not good for much more. At this point mine was not to question why, but mine was just to do and die.

“I’m sorry.” I said to him “I’m just way to gay to be a Mormon, ever.” 
He looked shocked and confused, maybe despondent. Apparently no one had ever used this line on him. Just call him an annoyance, an unchristian heretic or an ignorant follower of Brigham Yong’s bullshit – no doubt he had heard it before and was prepared for it. But this? He had no answer. Just panic. In a daze he silently got on his bike, clad in his tight Mormon biker missionary attire, and rode away.

Nice ass.

Alex interrupted my thoughts again, nudging my side with his elbow, “Works like a charm.”

“Sure does,” I said.

We then finished our lunch in peace.

Borders of Heaven, Part 1 of 2


Borders of Heaven

Part 1 of 2

Previously Published in Issue one of B Magazine 


These days I always see them before they see me.  Not only that, but I also know all the ways and means to avoid them. In the past it wasn’t always so. In fact it was the total other way around, I would without exception walk right into it, utterly blissful in my considerable ignorance. There was no specific place to be, so lets get that out of the way. There was nowhere they could not be found, and nowhere they would fail to find me. I didn’t exactly blend in. I was a Westerner. It stands to reason they would pick me first. Why shouldn’t they?

I could be anywhere, in the street walking from one place to another or in a shop – even in a restaurant, and there they would come up to me and ply their wares. Christ! Can you even imagine? In a restaurant trying to eat your rice or drink your tea or whatever, and then this random person comes sauntering up to you. If I was in a shop or restaurant when it happened the staff was never any help, regardless of the class of the establishment. Cheap or expensive, they let it happen. I think they thought I wanted it to happen, which never failed to make me sickly uncomfortable. It would be a greasy feeling, like something nearby was wantonly dirty, but I would get over that in time though. I could see their side of it well enough; so many Westerners go to far places on the Earth just for that very reason, which apart from being unfortunate and embarrassing – is also the truth.

They were always young, very young. I only ever met one exception to that rule. Right out of High School was their normal age, faces still fresh with the last whispers of childhood. No doubt their mothers loved them very much, how could they not? They were only trying their best to do what they had to do; they might have even thought it the right thing under the circumstances. Some of them may have come from broken homes, or no home at all, and this was just a better life in comparison. I don’t hate them really; it’s just that they always made me so uncomfortable, so uneasy, so awkward that the situation cannot be allowed to pass without comment. That and the fact that, by the end, as I have already told you, I could see them coming for me a mile away.

They were without fail from the countryside, whenever I got so far as to ask where they originally came from. I never met a single one of them actually from Taiwan. But believe it or not the strange thing was though, that whatever country they came from, Russia, Philippines, Canada or the United States they always came from some rural and lonely place. Some town I imagined nearly untouched by the passing of time in other parts of the world. Their world is definitely one different and distinct from our own. Their clothes varied greatly, from the clothes of a world-weary and inexperienced highschooler in far, far over his head to suits and elegant dresses prepared with the greatest care, attention and cleanliness. The ones who knew their work well were much harder to shake, and their outward appearance reflected it.

Doubles were quite frankly the normal arrangement. It was unusual to be approached singly – unusual but not unheard of. Some pairs were both male, others both female and the remainder a combination of the two, obviously. I have been approached many times by both sexes. They always spoke English and never Chinese. I would often reply in Chinese, though I got the sense that they never understood me well when I did. The women were sometimes awkward, still too adolescent to be fully mature, but too adult and experienced to truly be children. Some of the women were to tell the truth – hopelessly ugly. What was the point of going out if you are just going to terrify your mark? The rest that weren’t ugly weren’t necessarily attractive either.

I don’t remember the faces of those women being a trip to Hollywood, so let’s leave it at that.

The men were another case entirely. Some were downright sexy by any standard. I remember this one fair-haired boy from Utah. . . What a body! I could see plenty of it through his bicycle riding clothes, or whatever you call them. Others were ugly. Hotness garnished generously with a biggie-sized portion of fugly. I have never been a fan of coleslaw.

My first line of defence is pretty obvious and often used, and It didn’t take me long to come up with “I’m gay, sorry, no thanks”. Obvious, quick and utterly devastating. There was nothing to argue with, no way to convince me. Of course there are a lot of other ways, but this one is the easiest. But just in case that didn’t work there are other useful strategies that could be equally effective.

“Dear God!” Alex interrupted my speech.

“What is it?” I looked at him intently.

“Here comes one right now!” He said in a quick and clandestine way, like a 4th grader trying to whisper before the teacher got too close. I could feel the football being passed to me at this point.