Strange Stories

R. Wilson

Description

"In Strange Stories, Wilson R. spins tales that run the gamut from stark Realism to all-out Fantasy, with a common thread running through them all: horror. Complete horror. In stories that go from a new look at classic fairy tales, through creation of myths and legendary beasts of Brazilian lore, all the way to missteps that any one of us might take, he explores fear and awe in every shade imaginable and some that I, at least, had not previously imagined. This book carries the mark of a masterful storyteller, one who can pull tales out of thin air or add an original spin to familiar storylines and get that spin to keep the reader awake at night." - Allan Vidigal Hastings, writer

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 28 février 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528948135
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Strange Stories
Wilson R.
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-02-28
Strange Stories About the Author Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgements The Spirit of the Jaguar Aleph Red Luna Just a Mirror The Lighthouse Above The London Barber Baghdad Sonnets Supreme Love Crab Island The Music of the Spheres The ’Nam The Meaning of Life Pact The Unattainable Matinta Perê The Visitor at the Museum The Artist Worms Forever Punishment “Mommy, where is Daddy?” little Angélica asks. Hummingbird
About the Author
Wilson R. is a Brazilian poet and writer. He is a member of the Literature Academy from São José dos Campos, author of 40 books. He graduated in Literature from the Instituto Claretiano do Brasil and is also a computer programmer, system analyst, publisher and entrepreneur. Father of Ariane, Wilson, Sofia and Barbara, he is also the grandfather of the small Thainá and Manuela.
Dedication
I dedicate this book to Edgar Allan Poe, Neil Gaiman, Mary Shelley and Álvares de Azevedo—masters who guide me along the path of the words.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Wilson R. (2019)
The right of Wilson R. to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788786614 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781788786621 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528948135 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
My thanks to friends Fabiano Peres and Allan Vidigal for all the help and professionalism.
The Spirit of the Jaguar

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It is called the ‘Wild Boar’ inn for two reasons: one, it is grimy and lies in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest, somewhere between Brazil and Bolivia; and two, its proprietor is large, grimy and mean—just like a wild boar. In fact, he will proudly answer to the nickname ‘Big Boar’.
The pouring rain manages a partial win against the tropical heat and the veil of night drops over the jungle. A few scores of men—prospectors, rubber-tree poachers and small-time smugglers—pass the time with drinks, cigarettes and small talk.
The rattle of the rain gets louder as the inn’s door slowly opens and a short man walks in, wearing furs and a thick grizzled beard. Despite the apparent age, the visitor walks as lightly and elegantly as a boy. He sits at a table and waves to the innkeeper. He approaches with his customary poor manners and asks,
“Have you got any money, stranger?”
“No,” the man answers. “But I’ll work for my tab.”
“I don’t need any help.”
“I could tell a story, then.”
“Who says it will be a good story?”
“You can beat me up if you don’t like it.”
The innkeeper grinned wickedly. The dozens of men there taunted.
“Well, then. Let us have it.”
“Fetch me a bottle first.”
At a wave from Big Boar, a young black girl brings over a bottle of aguardente and a glass. The old man watches the beautiful girl and his eyes well up. He pours himself a drink, takes a big swig and begins,
"Countless generations ago, when the floating islands finally joined together to form Central America, men, beasts and gods walked side by side. The new land bridge between the Americas caused all manner of change, but biggest of all was the meeting of species until then unacquainted. In those days lived Wan’sel, a mighty mountain lion, the powerful leader of his pride—all the big cats roamed in prides back then. Wan’sel had a large harem with the healthiest, most beautiful female cats of the north. His progeny numbered in the hundreds, and he was extremely content.
Still, some things intrigued him. He saw that men worshipped the gods, despite being identical to them. If there was a difference between the deities and men, it eluded the massive cougar.
He realised that there was a whole new world out there to explore and his green eyes glistened at the promise of adventure. Wan’sel then decided to go into the new land that the wandering islands had formed and went on a long journey through Central America. He roamed for months on end, seeing beings that he had never seen before. He hunted strange—and delicious—prey and drank from rivers wider than the northern steppes.
And so it went until he spotted her one night. A cat, for sure, but beautiful beyond description. The moonlight shimmered on her black fur as she licked her pads with earthly sensuality.
Wan’sel stealthily approached the beautiful black panther and asked:
“Who are you?”
“Juna’ili,” she answered.
“Why do you wear the shroud of the night?”
“Why do you wear sunlight?”
And they snuggled and loved each other. Come morning, Wan’sel woke up and couldn’t find Juna’ili. Frustrated, he continued on his journey.
One day he saw a big village of men and kept his distance, watching in horror as the furless apes made barbaric sacrifices of beasts to their gods. He couldn’t see how the death of a creature might serve any purpose, other than sating a predator’s hunger. Amid the smoke and the frantic drumming, Wan’sel saw his sweet Juna’ili being carried away, her legs bound to a stick. Clearly, men were preparing her as a sacrifice to their gods, who gazed with glee upon their followers’ cowardice.
In a surge beyond instinct and reason—one called love—Wan’sel stormed the village and charged his beloved’s captors. At first, taken by surprise, men and gods dropped, felled by the mountain lion’s fearsome fangs and claws. Wan’sel managed to use his teeth to release Juna’ili, and the two stood fiercely against the men and their gods.
But for sheer numbers and weapons soon changed the course of the battle, and overcame Wan’sel and Juna’ili. Standing among their dead, men screamed at their spiteful gods about taking revenge by immolating the cats.
“You knew we couldn’t win,” said Juna’ili. “Why did you surrender your life to try to save mine?”
“I didn’t give you anything that wasn’t yours already,” Wan’sel replied.
“I, too, have something of yours,” the panther said, looking at her bulging belly.
In a burst of fury, Wan’sel freed himself and attacked their captors. But in vain. Countless spears and arrows hit him and he dropped, mortally wounded.
Juna’ili roared in rage as she was carried to the side of a dying Wan’sel. In a gesture meant to be cruel, she was to be sacrificed next to him. The men raised their spears and the gods grinned in perverted anticipation.
Suddenly, the heavens screamed in the primal language of thunder and the towering figure of Tupan 1 became visible. The beautiful Jaci 2 embraced him, her eyes lakes of tears.
“Damned be you,” Tupan roared.
At a flick of his hand, men and gods immediately turned to ashes. Jaci held Wan’sel in her hands and stroked his fur.
“Why?” the cougar asked.
“We don’t know,” Jaci answered.
“But you are gods…”
“We are far more than that, yet the actions of men are a mystery to us.”
“Where is Juna’ili?”
The black panther approached, tenderly licking Wan’sel’s eyes. She begged,
“Don’t go. I would have you live.”
“You know that cannot be.”
“I would come with you.”
“You know that cannot be.”
“But I must be forever with you.”
Tupan interrupted,
“That may be if you truly want it.”
Juna’ili nodded in agreement.
Tupan raised an arm and plucked a star from the heavens. He removed a tiny naked cat from Juna’ili’s womb. He took the cougar’s golden fur to cover the kitten. The gashes from the arrowheads, Tupan filled with pieces from the panther. Wan’sel and Juna’ili could not bear the ravages and died. Their souls were joined with the stars and returned to the heavens, where they shine eternally.
With the little-spotted cat in hand, Tupan spoke,
“Thou, creature, are the first of thy kind. Thou shalt be as beautiful, strong and fierce as thy parents, and thy seed shall prevail over thy she-cats. But once every ten years, thou shalt walk among men as one of them, and attempt to understand what lies behind their folly. One day there shalt be many of thy kind, but thy spirit shalt be one.”
The deep silence within the Wild Boar inn overcomes the storm itself. The old man goes on,
"And so, even now, the spirit of the jaguar walks among us, every ten years, as he tries to understand how there may be creatures as foolish as men.
The innkeeper cries out, and grabs the stranger by the arm,
“Are you calling me a fool?”
The old man’s answer comes as long, sharp fangs, and a threatening roar escapes his throat. Big Boar lets him go like a red-hot poker.
The old man rises and walks to the door. Before going out he turns to the silent audience and says,
“Now cougars and panthers no longer live in prides. All mountain lions wander alone in search of their Juna’ili, and all black panthers anxiously await their Wan’sel.”
The door closes as the old man enters the wet darkness of the night.
Overcoming their inertia, a small group of men run outside. All that they can see are a cat’s footprints washing away in the rain.

Main divinity of Brazilian Indians. The Sun. ↩
Goddess of Brazilian Indians. The Moon. ↩
Aleph

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The entropic chill finally won the longest battle of all. The last few stars blacked out and lifeless darkness took over the Universe. Time had long since ceased to be measured. It completely lost meaning when they were forced to build gigantic machines to push their world in its navigation of the Infinite, seeking out the heat of star after star, like insatiable cosmic vampires.
And now, befor