Health and good life to all of you!
My post for today is a translation of a previous work, En cada cumpleaños.
The seed of the following story lies in the oral tradition I heard from some young people who I taught in the Lyceum "Mariano de la Cova", in Sante Fe, Sucre State. They said these stories are well known in that area, they really took part of them and until that moment the stories stopped being only for recreation and became experiences that remained in their conscience. I have taken the basis of their experiences but, because I can´t remember the name of the people who witnessed those events, I can´t give them a proper tribute.
I hope you join this reading and drop your comments.
At Every Birthday
Reading and listening stories had always been an attractive activity to me. My parents always read me tales (not only at bedtime) because it was a daily activity and that´s why it became part of the family routine.Nevertheless, I had never heard scary stories from the mouth of the main characters.
Though, I had heard, in the meetings my father and I attended, some grown ups telling jokes and making cry to their audience. But it was sure that no one was in that funeral service to make cry to anybody. It
wasn´t only because there were a lot of people crying and moody, but also (I supposed) because of the ambience.It was terrifying looking around. The very little light couldn´t light well our surroundings or, said in a different way, made us see strange things hidden behind the trees.
Once the young boy finished telling his story, there was a little muttering among the audience and the, another young man said, trying to calm down the people:
Some time ago, my cousins and I walked by a stadium in which any child dared to play in because it looked spooky. Anyway, my cousins decided to enter and I followed them, even I was too scared.
Fuente
When we were inside, we could feel a heavy atmosphere. Despite of this sensation, we stayed because a few meters away, there were playing two other children of eight or ten years old of our height.
We approached to them to invite them to paly with us. The, I found something that any human being has: their fingers were connected with membranes. Their hands looked like fish fins.
They realized our atonishment and walked away.
Fuente
When we got home, I told my mom all the things we did in the stadium and also about those children. She made the sign of the cross and told me that, a long time ago, a woman killed her children because they had a mutation in their hands. So, at the day of their death anniversy, they appear and play alone.
Since that day, I take them flowers.
Fuente
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