Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
Daniel Rosado Real, born in Sabadell in 1982. He is a forklift driver by profession and an amateur writer. He is currently studying and working. He has three works published with Avant Editorial to date: Un Mundo sin Vosotros – political thriller. El andén – dramatic novel. And The War of Lies – youth fantasy.
STORIES:
MICHIRU
At the age of twelve I was taken to Jingu Temple in Hokkaido.
Becoming a Buddhist monk was the only way out for an eighth son.
My task would be to look after a capricious eight-year-old brat.
Apart from giving me all kinds of trouble all day long, all she did was pray every now and then in front of a gigantic old tree.
On one occasion, I asked her why she did it.
He didn’t answer me, he just opened one of his little hands in front of me, dropping a small reddish seed in my lap, wrapped in a transparent cap.
The priestesses of mother earth die young. Why such a fate befell them is unknown to me.
By the time Michiru died, I was already in love with her.
The day the seed finally fell from its pod and I was able to plant it, I did so as a farewell. For there was nothing to keep me in that place any longer.
-Beautiful flower, isn’t it? The seeds of rebirth only fall from the tree of life if the temple priestess knows love, and they can only blossom if it is reciprocated,’ explained a melodious voice behind me.
An adult Michiru gazed with laughter into my tearful eyes…’.
AN UNBREAKABLE BOND
‘The cool breeze caressed her smooth white skin.
She smelled of autumn, and her beautiful golden curls remained hidden under the hood of her favourite cloak.
Her hands gently ran through Hermes’ mane in a magical scene.
From the age of three she would start her day with the crowing of the cock to feed and groom the beast.
By the time he was six he was able to saddle and ride him with the only help of a rickety stool.
There wasn’t a corner of that wild forest that they hadn’t walked together.
They were bound together by an unbreakable bond.
It was as if they possessed the same heart.
As if they breathed through a single lung.
To look at them separately was like looking at the moon without the company of its faithful stars.
Tears moisten my eyes and run down my cheeks…
The picture I painted when Sara turned seven is beautiful.
I almost feel as if I am looking out of the window of a house that no longer exists.
The fire ravaged it at night and, although we were all able to escape, she went to the stable.
She couldn’t leave it, of course not.
And she didn’t.
They both died, buried by a huge burning beam…
