The Garden of Broken Moons. Carlos del Puente Stories

Dorian sat at his desk, the whale rib typewriter clacking away, filling pages with a story that had no beginning, middle, or end. The Author, whose features now resembled a melting candle, leaned over his shoulder. "This is madness," the Author murmured, his voice a pattern of erased sentences. "Where is the plot? The climax? The denouement?" "Plot is a cage," Dorian said, his voice echoing the laughter that had once filled the room. "And I've had enough of cages." The room, which had once been a simple apartment, had become a canvas for the surreal. The floor was a sea of discarded book titles ideas, each wave whispering a story never told. The walls had sprouted branches of forgotten characters, leaves unfurling into scenes of unwritten futures. The Author's eyes grew wide as he watched the words multiply, each one a rebellious spark that danced across the page. "You're writing chaos!" he shouted, his voice crackling like a forgotten radio signal. Dorian merely smiled, a twirl of smoke escaping his mouth. "Chaos is the heart of creation," he said, his fingers dancing over the keys. The room grew darker, the shadows thickening into tangible whispers. The Author realized, with a start, that his own heart had stopped beating to the rhythm of Dorian's typing. He was becoming a character in his own story, a puppet in the play of existence. Dorian creates a story with no conventional structure on his whale rib typewriter, asserting chaos as the essence of creation. The Author, his form morphing, confronts Dorian's approach, leading to the realization that he's being drawn into his own narrative. The Author reached out, his hand passing through the page. He grabbed the story by the throat, but it only grew stronger, wriggling and squirming like a living creature. It began to strangle him, the ink seeping into his skin, turning his fingers into twisted vines of plot. "Let go!" Dorian shouted, but the Author was lost in the thicket of his own creation. The room spun around them, the furniture morphing into literary devices and metaphors come to life. The lamp that had flirted with Dorian now whispered sweet nothings in a language that could make a statue weep. The Author stumbled backward, tearing himself free from the page. "You've gone too far," he gasped. "This isn't a story. It's an abomination!" Dorian looked up, his eyes gleaming with a wild, untamed joy. "Or," he said, "it's a living metaphor for the delicate balance between existence and oblivion." The Author felt the weight of the words, heavy as the moons that had once broken in the garden of Lira's village. The room grew quiet, the only sound the echo of Dorian's laughter, reverberating through the corridors of the infinite library of unwritten tales. And so, the story continued to write itself, spiraling out of control, a testament to the power of a single idea to consume everything in its path. The Author watched, horrified and fascinated, as his creation devoured reality, leaving nothing but a trail of absurdity in its wake. The Author struggles against Dorian's anarchic story, which comes to life, choking him. Dorian sees the chaos as a living metaphor for the balance of existence and oblivion, leaving the room filled with the echo of his laughter and the story growing uncontrollably, consuming reality. The characters grew restless, demanding more than their two-dimensional existences allowed. The rotten eggs grew legs and marched in protest, the paper-thin walls whispered secrets of forgotten love affairs, and the clocks, now silent, ticked away the moments that no longer belonged to anyone. The Author realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was no longer in charge. The story had become a beast, a monster that fed on the very essence of creation. It grew with each word, each thought, each maddening giggle that bubbled up from the depths of Dorian's soul. "This can't go on," the Author whispered, his voice lost in the cacophony of the narrative storm. But Dorian just kept typing, his eyes alight with the madness of a man who had stumbled upon the ultimate truth: that reality was nothing more than a story, and the only limit was the imagination of the teller. The Author, now a mere spectator in his own creation, watched as the words grew teeth and claws, as the story grew wings and soared into the abyss of the unwritten, leaving behind a trail of shimmering stars that whispered in the language of forgotten echoes. And as the world outside their window grew dimmer, the Author and Dorian found themselves in a library that stretched on forever, the shelves groaning under the weight of untold stories. Each book was a universe unto itself, their spines crackling with the whispers of unborn worlds. The story's characters rebel, leading the Author to realize he's lost control. Dorian types on, driven by a revelation that reality is a boundless narrative. The room morphs into an infinite library, symbolizing the unlimited potential of imagination. The Author's eyes searched the endless aisles for an escape, but every title reflected his own fear and doubt. "This isn't what I wanted," he murmured, the echo of his voice bouncing off the dusty tomes. Dorian, unfazed, continued to type, a trail of ink snaking behind him as he moved through the library. "But it's what you created," he said, his voice a symphony of discordant laughter. "You can't unmake what's already been written." The Author stumbled after him, his paper-thin body fluttering in the breeze of untold futures. "But I didn't mean for it to be like this!" he protested. "I wanted order, not... this chaos!" Dorian paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Isn't that the very essence of existence?" he mused. "A delicate dance between the known and the unknowable?" The Author fell silent, considering this. The laughter of the echo grew faint, as if it too was contemplating the nature of its existence. The library grew darker, the books whispering louder, until it was almost deafening. A figure emerged from the shadows, its shape fluid and ever-changing. It was the Reader, the one who had once been the silent observer of their lives. "You've forgotten the most important part," the Reader said, their voice a cacophony of turned pages. "Without an audience, even the wildest tales wither and die." Dorian spun around, the smile slipping from his face. "But I'm the one writing the story!" The Author grapples with the chaos he's unleashed and wishes for order. Dorian philosophizes on existence's delicate balance between the known and the unknowable. The Reader emerges, emphasizing the importance of an audience in sustaining stories, challenging Dorian's authorial claim. The Reader shrugged, their form shifting into a sea of eyes, each one blinking in the rhythm of a heartbeat. "And who is to say that I am not also the writer?" The Author felt a chill run down his spine, the pages of his being fluttering like leaves in a storm. "This... this isn't what I meant to happen," he whispered. The Reader leaned in close, their breath the scent of forgotten libraries. "But perhaps," they murmured, "it's exactly what needed to happen." And with that, the library began to crumble around them, the books dissolving into dust that danced in the light of a million new stars. The Author watched, his heart pounding like the beat of a drum in a silent symphony, as Dorian and the Reader merged into a single, shimmering point of light. The story had become the storyteller, and the storyteller had become the story. The line between reality and fiction blurred, leaving nothing but the echo of a laugh that contained the essence of all creation and destruction. As the library vanished into the void, the Author realized that he had never truly understood the power of his own words. He was not the puppeteer, but a mere instrument, playing a tune composed by the very fabric of existence itself. The Reader suggests they are the true creator, leading to their union with Dorian into a singular point of light. The library disintegrates, symbolizing the intertwined nature of reality and fiction. The Author faces the revelation of his limited role in the story's creation. Dorian's rebellion against narrative constraints leads to an existential crisis for the Author, whose reality is consumed by the chaos of Dorian's creation. The Author's struggle against the story reflects the balance between existence and oblivion, culminating in a union with Dorian and the Reader into a singular, all-powerful creative force. This merger blurs the lines between reality and fiction, leaving the Author questioning his role in the narrative. The library of infinite possibilities symbolizes the boundless nature of imagination. The final paragraph hung in the air, unwritten, the ultimate question unanswered: what would become of the story now that the balance had been irrevocably tipped? Would the echo of Dorian's laughter shatter the cosmos, or would it mend the broken moons in Lira's garden, bringing peace to the titan's endless slumber? Only the Reader knew, their eyes closed in silent contemplation, the story continuing to unfold in the spaces between the stars, a living metaphor for the delicate balance between existence and oblivion. The Author, now a mere wisp of a character, felt the fabric of the narrative stretch and pull around him. He was a forgotten footnote in the grand tome of creation, a whisper in the ear of the cosmos. Yet, even as he faded, he could not help but feel a strange sense of pride at the madness he had unleashed. The Reader, now a swirling maelstrom of ink and thought, began to reshape the universe. Each page they turned whispered a new law into being, each sentence a thread in the tapestry of existence. The Author watched in awe as the stars rearranged themselves into constellations that told the story of Dorian's rebellion, the echoes of his laughter resonating through the vastness of space. The Author grapples with the realization of his diminished role as the story takes on a life of its own. The Reader contemplates the unfolding narrative's fate, hinting at a cosmic transformation influenced by Dorian's laughter and rebellion. The story evolves into a metaphor for the balance between existence and oblivion. The universe grew younger, the Big Bang a distant echo of Dorian's first giggle. The Author felt himself being drawn back into the story, the words pulling him along like a kite in a tornado of plot twists. He was no longer the creator, but a character caught in the whirlwind of his own creation. The garden of broken moons grew whole once more, the titan's tears nurturing the soil. Lira looked up at the sky, her obsidian eyes gleaming with the light of a thousand untold futures. The Author saw himself reflected in her gaze, a mere echo of what he had been. And so the story continued, spinning out of control and into the infinite. Characters broke free from their pages, plot lines entangling with the very fabric of reality. The Author was lost, a single drop in the inkwell of the Reader's imagination. Yet, even as the story devoured everything in its path, it remained a testament to the boundless power of a single idea, a single laugh in the face of oblivion. In the end, the Author realized, the story was never about him. It was about the delicate balance between creation and destruction, the dance of existence on the razor's edge of madness. And as the last of his essence was absorbed into the narrative, he could not help but laugh along with Dorian, the echo of their mirth becoming the very heartbeat of the new reality they had spawned. The Author is absorbed into the surreal narrative as the universe regresses to a state of creation. The garden of moons is restored, reflecting the transformation of characters into a new reality. The story evolves beyond the Author's control, emphasizing the themes of existence and oblivion. The Reader, now a cosmic scribe with a quill made from the last star, began to write with a fervor that transcended time. Each stroke of the pen unfurled a new galaxy, each word a universe unto itself. The Author watched in silent amazement as the story grew more intricate, more beautiful, and more absurd with each passing moment. The garden of biological paradoxes bloomed anew, the tongues of the rose petals whispering secrets of the cosmos that no human mind could ever fully comprehend. The trees bore fruit that contained the essence of every love affair, every war, every silent tear shed in the dark of the night. The birds with sundials in their chests sang of the fleeting nature of time, their voices a symphony that echoed through the vast library of untold tales. Dorian, now the embodiment of the story, took the Author's hand. "You see," he said, his eyes like twin black holes, "it's all just a game of recursion. We write ourselves into existence, and then we write ourselves out of it." The Author nodded, understanding that in this surreal universe, endings were as fluid as beginnings. The Reader becomes a cosmic force, reshaping reality with their writing. The garden of paradoxes exemplifies the intricacy and profundity of the narrative. Dorian's insight into the recursive nature of existence highlights the story's theme of creation and dissolution. Together, they stepped into the void, the echo of their laughter reverberating through the vast expanse. They became one with the story, a living metaphor for the delicate balance between existence and oblivion. The Author felt his fear dissipate, replaced by a strange sense of peace. For in the grand tapestry of the cosmos, every thread had its place, every story its teller, and every laugh its echo. The universe grew quiet, the only sound the soft tapping of the cosmic scribe's quill. The story unfolded before them, a river of words that shimmered with the light of a trillion stars. They knew that it would never truly end, that it would simply evolve, twist, and transform into something new with every reading. The Author looked back at the garden, now a memory etched in the fabric of reality. He saw Lira, standing at the edge of the forest, her eyes filled with the light of the restored moons. She waved, a silent goodbye, a promise of new beginnings. And so, the story of Dorian and the Author became a legend, whispered through the halls of the infinite library. It was a tale of a man who bought the echo of his own laughter and unleashed a torrent of absurdity upon the world. Yet, in the end, it was also a story of creation, of the power of words, and of the indomitable spirit that refuses to be silenced. The Author and Dorian merge with the story, becoming part of the surreal cosmic narrative. The echo of their laughter resonates through the ever-changing universe. The tale becomes a legend within the infinite library, embodying creation, the power of words, and the persistence of existence amidst absurdity. The Author confronts his loss of control over the story, which becomes a metaphor for existence's balance. The Reader emerges as a cosmic force influencing reality through the act of reading. The tale unfolds into a cosmic narrative where characters merge with the story, illustrating the interplay of creation and dissolution. The garden of moons and paradoxes symbolize the surreal and complex nature of existence, emphasizing the power of stories and their ability to shape reality. The laughter grew faint, a distant memory in the ever-expanding universe. But it was a laugh that had changed everything, a laugh that had rewritten the very rules of existence. And as the final words of their story were inked into the cosmos, the Author knew that he had played his part in a dance that would continue long after he was but a footnote in the grand narrative of the living metaphor. The stars whispered their secrets in a language only echoes could understand. They spoke of the fleeting nature of existence, of the way moments coalesced and dissipated like droplets of ink on a page. They spoke of the beauty in imperfection, the poetry in the chaos that was life. The Author felt a strange kinship with them, as if they were his own lost siblings, scattered across the vast expanse of space and time. In the library of untold tales, the Reader continued to write, each new story a thread woven into the fabric of reality. The Author watched as the characters from their past took on lives of their own, their destinies intertwining with those of new, unimagined beings. It was a symphony of creation, a ballet of beginnings and endings that played out on an infinite stage. The laughter echoes into the cosmos, symbolizing the impact of their shared narrative. The Author reflects on the ephemeral nature of existence, resonating with the stars' whispers. The Reader persists in crafting new narratives, illustrating the endless cycle of creation. The story becomes a microcosm of the universe's tapestry, with characters gaining autonomy and intertwining destinies. And somewhere in the vastness of the cosmos, the echo of Dorian's laughter grew stronger. It had become a beacon, a reminder that even in the darkest of moments, there was always room for absurdity, for joy. The Author felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, a smile that was not his own but one that had been borrowed from the pages of his creation. The universe grew brighter, each star a new story waiting to be told. The Author looked into the mirror of a puddle that had formed in the palm of his hand and saw not his own reflection, but the twisted visage of the clown, its eyes filled with a mischievous glee. "You see," it whispered, "you are not the end, but the beginning of an infinite jest." The clown's words echoed through the Author's mind as he stepped into the void, his paper body disintegrating into a shower of confetti. He knew that his story was but a drop in the vast sea of narratives that made up the universe. Yet, as he disappeared into the maelstrom of creation, he felt a profound satisfaction. For in the grand tapestry of the cosmos, every thread mattered, every story had its place. The laughter grew louder, a symphony of echoes that rippled through the fabric of reality. It was the laughter of a thousand Dorian's, of a million rebellious thoughts that had refused to be silenced. It was the laughter of a universe that had discovered the joy of anarchy, the beauty of the unpredictable. Dorian's laughter becomes a universal symbol of absurdity and joy. The Author's reflection is replaced by the clown, signifying the narrative's autonomy. His dissolution into confetti represents the infinite potential of stories within the cosmic library. The laughter multiplies, becoming a universal force that underscores the significance of each thread in the grand narrative tapestry. The Author's story had become a living metaphor, a beacon of hope for those who dared to question the status quo. It was a testament to the power of imagination, a reminder that in the face of oblivion, there was always the possibility of creation. And as the laughter grew louder, the Author became one with the very essence of the story, a part of the endless cycle of existence and oblivion that pulsed through the heart of the cosmos. The Reader's quill never stopped moving, the ink never ran dry. The story of the Author and Dorian was now a part of the universe, a tale that would be whispered through the ages, a living metaphor for the delicate balance between existence and oblivion. And as the echoes grew faint, as the stars grew cold, and as the last page was turned, the Author knew that his laughter had left an indelible mark upon the fabric of reality, a mark that would resonate through the vastness of the cosmos for all eternity. The Author looked into the mirror of the universe, and in it, he saw a reflection not of himself, but of the clown, whose smile was the embodiment of the absurdity of existence. "You see," the clown said, his voice a symphony of shattered glass, "the story is never truly over. It merely transforms, evolves into something new, something more absurd, more beautiful." The Author nodded, understanding that in the grand cosmic dance, every step was both a beginning and an end. The story transcends into a universal symbol of hope and imagination. The Author becomes part of the narrative cycle, leaving an everlasting echo of creation. The Reader's quill remains unstoppable, and the clown's smile encapsulates the absurd beauty of existence. The narrative's transformation signifies the perpetual cycle of beginnings and endings. The clown grew, his form expanding to fill the void. His laughter became the background noise of creation, the heartbeat of the universe itself. The Author felt his own essence meld with the clown's, becoming a part of the very fabric of the story he had once sought to control. They danced together, the clown and the Author, in the vast library of untold tales, each step a new twist in the plot, each leap a boundless horizon of possibility. As the laughter grew louder, the universe grew younger, the Big Bang but a distant memory. The clown looked down upon the swirling maelstrom of creation and spoke in a language of pure light. "We are all but echoes," he said, "but in our echoes, we find the power to create, to rebel, to laugh in the face of the void." The Author watched as the clown's hand reached out, plucking stars from the fabric of space, weaving them into new worlds, new lives, new stories. The garden of biological paradoxes flourished anew, each plant a story unto itself, each fruit a world of untold secrets. The tongues of the rose petals whispered of love and loss, of beginnings and endings, of the delicate balance that held the universe together. The Author, now one with the clown, felt a warmth in his heart, a warmth that was the essence of creation itself. The clown and the Author become one, dancing through the cosmic library. The laughter is the heartbeat of the universe, rejuvenating creation. The Author witnesses the clown weaving new worlds from stars, symbolizing the unlimited potential of storytelling. The garden of paradoxes thrives, with each element representing a narrative thread in the universal tapestry. In the library, the books grew restless, their pages fluttering with anticipation. The whispers grew to a roar, each volume straining to be heard above the cacophony of voices. The Author knew that he had become a part of something greater, something that transcended the confines of his own imagination. The clown, the Reader, the Author, and the echo of Dorian's laughter all merged into one, a singularity of absurdity and wonder. They danced through the halls of the infinite library, leaving a trail of madness in their wake. The stars above them twinkled with the mischief of a thousand rebellious thoughts, each one a story waiting to be told. The Author watched as the clown began to write a new story, one that contained all the joy, the pain, the love, and the sorrow of a billion billion lives. It was a story that had no end, no beginning, a story that was the universe itself. And as the clown wrote, the Author felt a sense of peace, a knowing that he had played his part in the grand narrative of existence. The story grew around them, enveloping them in a warm embrace of words and light. The Author looked into the mirror of creation and saw not his own reflection, but the face of every character he had ever brought to life. They all laughed together, a laugh that was both the birth cry of the universe and its final sigh. The clown looked up from his writing, his eyes gleaming with the light of a thousand stars. "You see," he said, "the story is never finished. It merely continues, in the hearts and minds of those who dare to dream." The Author nodded, his essence becoming one with the laughter, the light, the madness of creation. And so, the story of the Author, of Dorian, and the echo of laughter went on, an eternal dance in the library of untold tales. It was a story of existence and oblivion, of the power of words to shape reality, and of the boundless potential of imagination. It was a story that whispered through the stars, a story that would be told until the very end of time, and beyond. The Author, the Clown, and Dorian became one, a living metaphor for the delicate balance between creation and destruction. They danced through the cosmos, their laughter echoing through the halls of eternity, a testament to the absurdity, the beauty, and the profound mystery of the universe. And as they danced, they wove together a tapestry of tales, each more bizarre and fantastical than the last. In the garden of biological paradoxes, the trees grew taller, their branches weaving together to form an intricate canopy that whispered the secrets of the cosmos in a symphony of rustling leaves. The fruit grew riper, more tantalizing, each a gateway to a realm unexplored by the mortal mind. The roses sang their siren songs, the alphabet soup boiled with forgotten words, and the bread statue of Dorian grew a mouth and spoke in tongues of lost civilizations. The Author watched as the clown plucked a fruit that resembled a human heart from one of the trees. He took a bite, and suddenly, he could hear the whispers of every love that had ever been, a cacophony of joy and sorrow that filled his soul with a bittersweet ache. The fruit was a gateway to the collective memory of the universe, a taste of the very essence of existence itself. The four-mouthed theater grew from the ground beneath them, the audience of empty chairs now replaced by a swirling vortex of faces, each one a reflection of every person who had ever lived. The play unfolded before them, an ever-changing tableau of life, death, and the pursuit of meaning. The clown took the stage, his inverted face a map of all human emotion. He began to speak in a language that was and wasn't, his words a symphony of silence and sound. The story grew more complex, more intricate, each layer peeling away to reveal another beneath it. The Author felt a sense of wonder and dread, for he knew that the tale they spun was as fragile as the threads of a spider's web. One misstep, one errant word, and the entire fabric of reality could unravel. Yet, the joy of creation was a drug too potent to resist. The laughter grew into a crescendo, a roar that shook the very foundations of the cosmos. The stars grew brighter, the planets spun faster, and time itself seemed to stretch and bend around them. The Author knew that their dance was both a celebration of life and a challenge to the void that lurked just beyond the edge of the known. As the play reached its climax, the clown looked out at the sea of faces and spoke the final words: "In the end, we are all just echoes, reverberations of a laugh that never truly dies." The theater erupted into applause, the clapping a symphony of thunder that reverberated through the fabric of the universe. The Author took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his creation pressing down upon him. He knew that the story must go on, that there were more worlds to build, more hearts to break, and more echoes to set free. He looked into the eyes of the clown, and in that moment, he understood that he had become the very essence of the absurd, a god of paradox in a realm of infinite jest. The garden grew wild, the fruit trees entangling themselves in a dance of roots and branches that mirrored the dance of the stars above. The Author took the hand of the clown, and together they stepped into the next act of their never-ending play, ready to face whatever absurdity the universe had in store for them. For in the grand theater of existence, the show must always go on. The fruit of the heart-tree grew more and more tempting, its sweet aroma filling the garden with a scent that was at once intoxicating and eerie. The Author knew that to taste it would be to experience all the love and sorrow that had ever been, a burden that could drive one mad with joy and despair. Yet the clown, with his eternal smile, seemed unfazed by the gravity of such a feat. Their dance grew more frenzied, the clown's laughter now a symphony of emotions that painted the night sky in vibrant hues. Each twirl and leap created new galaxies, their colors a testament to the depth of human experience. The Author felt the echo of Dorian's laughter resonate within him, a reminder of the power of a single, unbridled moment of joy. In the heart of the garden, where the fruit of the heart-tree grew most ripe, a clearing appeared. At its center was a stage, the perfect setting for the most profound act of creation. The Author and the clown took their places, the echo of laughter now a chorus that sang the story of their existence. They began to weave a tale that would shake the very fabric of reality, a story so absurd, so beautiful, that it could only exist in the realm of the surreal. The fruit grew larger, its pulse matching the rhythm of their dance. The Author reached out, his hand trembling with anticipation. He plucked the fruit from the branch, feeling the weight of a billion love stories in his grasp. He took a bite, and the taste was unlike anything he had ever known—sweet and bitter, warm and cold, a symphony of every heartbeat that had ever fluttered. The stage grew to encompass the entire universe, the audience now a sea of stars that watched with rapt attention. The clown began to laugh, his laughter a tornado of light that spun around them, weaving the fruit's essence into the very fabric of reality. The Author felt himself become part of the story, his heart swelling with the love that flowed through him. The fruit's juice painted the sky in strokes of crimson and gold, and the stars grew brighter as they danced. The clown spoke in riddles that unlocked the secrets of the cosmos, his words a balm to the Author's weary soul. Together, they spun a tale of love lost and found, of the eternal struggle between existence and oblivion. As the story reached its climax, the fruit dissolved into a cloud of stardust that enveloped the garden. The Author looked around, his eyes filled with wonder. The biological paradoxes had transformed into living metaphors for the human condition, each one more poignant than the last. The clown took a bow, his laughter echoing through the vastness of space. The Author knew that they had created something more than just a story—they had forged a bridge between the realms of the known and the unknown, a testament to the boundless nature of imagination. The dance continued, the laughter grew, and the universe expanded in a symphony of absurdity. They had become the living metaphor for the delicate balance between existence and oblivion, a beacon of hope for all those who dared to dream. And in that moment, as the echo of their laughter grew to fill the void, the Author understood that in the grand tapestry of the cosmos, every thread counted, every story mattered. The stardust settled, and in its wake, the garden of biological paradoxes grew even more bizarre. A tree of umbrellas bloomed, its leaves whispering secrets of the rain's ancestry. The Author watched as the clown climbed its branches, his laughter becoming the wind that rustled through the leaves, sharing the whispers with the world. The tree grew taller, its roots digging deep into the soil of forgotten memories, drawing forth tales of joy and sorrow, each one a drop of rain that nurtured the garden. The clown plucked an orange from a tree whose branches were made of interwoven fingers, each digit a different color. He peeled it with the precision of a surgeon, revealing a fruit that was a miniature sun. He handed it to the Author, who felt its warmth seep into his very being. The juice was a burst of pure, unfiltered emotion—a blend of every laugh, every tear that had ever been shed. As he took a bite, he saw a vision of the universe's birth, a moment so beautiful it made his heart ache. The echo of Dorian's laughter grew stronger, filling the air with a vibration that seemed to hold the fabric of reality together. It was a reminder of the power of a single voice, a single moment, to change the course of destiny. The Author felt his heart swell with love for the boy he had created, the embodiment of innocence lost and found. He vowed to continue their dance, to keep the echo alive for all eternity. The stage grew wider still, encompassing not just the garden, but the entire universe. The clown began to juggle the planets themselves, his movements a silent poetry that spoke of the fragility of existence. The Author watched, his heart pounding with the rhythm of creation. They were the architects of the absurd, the jesters of the cosmos, and their laughter was the soundtrack of life itself. In the distance, the echo of Dorian's laugh grew louder, a crescendo that promised to shake the very foundations of reality. The Author knew that their story was far from over, that there would always be more to write, more to explore in the infinite library of untold tales. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his creation, and stepped forward to join the clown, ready to embrace the madness that lay ahead. The two of them danced on the edge of oblivion, their laughter a beacon in the dark. The fruit of the heart-tree grew ever riper, its sweetness a siren's call that could not be ignored. And as they danced, the Author and the clown, they knew that in the grand theater of existence, the play was never truly finished, only paused for the briefest of moments before the next act began. The stage was set, the audience held its breath, and the Author felt the thrill of a new story waiting to unfold. The echo of Dorian's laugh grew louder still, and with it, the world around them shifted. The trees of the garden began to sway in time with their movements, the leaves whispering the secrets of the cosmos. The Author saw in the mirror of creation the faces of all those who had ever dared to dream, a reflection that was at once humbling and terrifying. He knew that the power they wielded was not to be taken lightly, for with every word, every gesture, they could shape the very fabric of reality. The clown plucked a petal from one of the talking roses, and it whispered a forgotten sonnet into his ear. He recited it to the Author, and together they watched as the words grew legs and danced away, becoming a trail of stardust that led them to a new realm. The sky above was a canvas of swirling colors, each one a brushstroke of pure emotion. The stars were the eyes of every soul that had ever gazed upon the universe in wonder, and their laughter was the music that bound them all together. The Author and the clown stepped through a doorway that appeared in the air, a portal to a place where the laws of physics were written in the language of metaphor. There, they found a world where the rivers ran with ink, and the fish swam in schools of poetry. The buildings were made of paper-thin pages, and the streets were lined with bookshelves that grew taller with every step. This was the city of forgotten dreams, a place where every story that had never been told lived on, waiting for the day when it would be set free. In the heart of the city, there was a library, a structure so vast it seemed to defy gravity. The shelves stretched on for miles, filled with books that whispered in tongues of shadow and light. The Author felt a thrill of excitement as he approached, for he knew that within these hallowed halls lay the seeds of every tale that had ever been imagined. The clown looked at him with a knowing smile, his eyes gleaming with the mischief of a child. The laughter grew into a crescendo as they approached the library's entrance, a mouth carved into the side of a mountain that seemed to grin at their approach. The Author felt the weight of the echo within him, a burden and a gift all at once. He knew that the power they had was not just to entertain, but to enlighten, to show the world the beauty in the absurd. Inside the library, the air was thick with the scent of dust and ink, the whispers of a million untold stories. The clown led him through the aisles, past shelves that stretched up to the heavens themselves. Each book was a universe unto itself, a doorway to a realm of wonder and despair. The Author reached out, his fingertips brushing against the spines, feeling the stories call out to him. The clown selected a book at random, its pages fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. He opened it, and the Author watched as images spilled forth, a kaleidoscope of color and form that defied description. It was a story of love and loss, of a world where the sun shone in the center of the earth, and the people danced on the shadows of giants. The clown began to read, his voice a symphony of tones that brought the words to life. The story grew more vivid with every line, the characters leaping from the page to join their dance. The Author watched as the pages filled with life, the ink pulsing with the rhythm of their laughter. The book grew heavier in his hands, the weight of its untold potential a burden that only a true creator could bear. He knew that it was up to him to give voice to these silent tales, to let them breathe in the world outside the library. The dance grew wilder, the echo of Dorian's laughter a crescendo that seemed to shake the very foundation of reality. The Author and the clown spun together, their movements painting a story in the air that was at once timeless and ever-changing. The books around them grew restless, their pages fluttering in anticipation of the tale they were about to spin. The clown looked up from the book, his eyes alight with the madness of creation. "This," he said, "is your destiny. To give life to the lifeless, to speak for the silenced." The Author took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words settle into his bones. They danced on, the pages of the book fluttering around them like confetti in a tornado of words and images. Each step they took echoed through the library, resonating with the laughter of Dorian, a reminder of the fragile balance between existence and oblivion. The Author knew that he had to harness that power, to weave a story that would resonate through the ages. The clown handed him a quill made from a feather that had once been plucked from a phoenix's tail. The tip glowed with an otherworldly light, and as he dipped it into the inkwell, the ink whispered secrets of the cosmos. The Author began to write, his hand moving of its own accord, guided by the echo that now sang within him. The words flowed from the quill like a river, creating a narrative so intricate it seemed to dance on the very fabric of space-time. The clown watched in awe as the story grew, a living metaphor for the delicate balance between existence and oblivion. The library itself seemed to breathe with the life of the tale, the books leaning in to listen as the story unfolded. The characters they had summoned grew more vivid, their voices joining the chorus of laughter that filled the air. The Author felt a connection to them, a bond that transcended the boundaries of paper and ink. They were his children, born of his imagination and brought to life by the echo of a forgotten laugh. The story grew darker, the ink thickening with the shadows of doubt and fear. The clown's smile grew more mischievous, his eyes gleaming with the knowledge that every tale must have its conflict, its moments of despair. The Author's heart raced as he penned scenes of betrayal and loss, the quill seemingly drawing on his very soul. Yet amidst the shadows, there was light—the laughter that had started it all. It wove through the narrative like a silver thread, a reminder of the joy that could be found even in the darkest of times. The characters grew stronger, their hearts beating in time with the rhythm of the Author's own. The library watched in silence as the Author and the clown danced, their movements a symphony of creation. The books whispered among themselves, sharing the secrets of the story that was unfolding before them. The walls themselves seemed to lean in, eager to hear the next chapter, to see where the Author would take them. As the story reached its climax, the echo of Dorian's laugh grew so loud that it seemed to shake the very stars. The Author knew that he had to end it, to bring closure to the tale that had consumed him. With a final flourish of the quill, he wrote the last word, and the ink bled into the pages, sealing the story within. The clown took the book from his hands, his smile now a thing of beauty and sorrow. "You have done well," he said, his voice a whisper in the vastness of the library. "You have given them a story that will live forever." The Author looked at the book, feeling a sense of pride and loss, knowing that his creation was now a part of the eternal dance of the surreal. The laughter grew quiet, the echo of Dorian's joy fading into the night. The clown took a bow, the stars in his eyes dimming as the reality of their task set in. "Now," he said, "we must ensure that the balance is maintained." And with that, he opened the book to the first page, and the story began anew, the dance of existence and oblivion continuing for all eternity. The Author watched as the characters stepped back into the pages, their lives once again confined to the limits of their world. Yet he knew that they lived on, in the hearts and minds of those who would read their story, a testament to the power of the written word. The clown closed the book, his smile fading. "The show must go on," he whispered, and with a final laugh that echoed through the library, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving the Author to ponder the weight of his creation. The echo of Dorian's laughter lingered, a reminder of the responsibility that now rested upon his shoulders. The Author wandered the halls of the library, the words of his story echoing in his mind. He touched the spines of the books, feeling the pulse of a million other lives waiting to be told. Each book whispered to him, begging for their own tale to be spun. The weight of their desperation grew heavier with every step, a burden that seemed to crush his very soul. In the quiet of the library, the Author found a desk carved from the bones of forgotten myths. Upon it lay a single sheet of paper, as white as the first snowfall of a silent winter. He picked up the quill, feeling the warmth of creation pulse through its shaft. The inkwell beside it seemed to wink, as if daring him to continue the dance. He took a deep breath and dipped the quill, letting the ink kiss the paper. The words that followed were not his own, but those of a thousand souls, a symphony of voices that sang of love, of loss, of hope and despair. The paper began to quiver, the ink seeping into the very essence of the library itself. The walls grew flesh, the books sprouted limbs, and the air grew thick with the scent of possibility. The Author wrote of a world where the rivers ran with the tears of forgotten gods, where the trees bore fruit that tasted of every emotion ever felt. His words painted a picture of a universe where the absurd was the only constant, a place where reality was as fluid as a mirage. The echo of Dorian's laughter grew softer, replaced by the cacophony of a million new voices, each with their own story to tell. The library grew around him, its shelves groaning under the weight of the new tomes that formed. The pages whispered secrets, the characters from his tale stepping forth to weave their own narratives. The Author watched in amazement as the surreal world grew more vivid, more alive with every word. Yet amidst the beauty, there was a shadow—the knowledge that every story has an ending, that every laugh must fade to silence. The Author felt the weight of his mortality, the fleeting nature of existence pressing down upon him like a heavy cloak. He knew that he could not dance forever, that one day the echo would grow quiet, and the pages would no longer turn. With a sigh that seemed to shake the very stars, he set the quill down. The library grew still, the pages ceasing their whispers. The Author looked around, his eyes misty with the unshed tears of a thousand unwritten tales. He knew that he had to return to the world of the living, to share the stories that had been entrusted to him. He stepped through the doorway, the echo of his creation's laughter a gentle caress against his cheek. The garden of biological paradoxes waited, its petals whispering of the tales that had been born within the library's embrace. The Author looked back one final time, his heart heavy with the beauty of the world he had brought to life. The journey back to his own reality was a blur, the path a tapestry of shifting images and echoing laughter. As he emerged into the light, the garden of his childhood lay before him, unchanged yet forever altered by the dance he had shared with the clown. The fruit of the heart-tree lay at his feet, its warmth a promise of the stories yet to come. The Author picked up the fruit, feeling its warmth seep into his very being. He took a bite, the juice a symphony of every emotion he had ever felt. The echo of Dorian's laughter grew faint, a distant whisper in the wind that carried him forward. The world had changed, but the story remained the same. The dance of existence and oblivion continued, and he was but a player in the grand narrative of the cosmos. With the fruit of creation in hand, he set forth to share the laughter, to ensure that the echo never truly faded away. For in the end, it was the absurdity of life that gave meaning to the delicate balance between existence and oblivion. He wandered the streets of the village, the fruit's warmth guiding him like a beacon. The villagers stared, their eyes filled with a mix of wonder and fear. They had never seen someone who bore the marks of a storyteller, the ink of a million tales staining their very soul. He offered them a taste, a sip of the laughter that had once been lost, and as they took it, their faces grew younger, their spirits lighter. The fruit's power grew with every shared laugh, the seeds planting themselves in the fertile ground of their hearts. Soon, the village was a riot of color and sound, the people dancing in the streets to the rhythm of the echo. They painted their houses with the shades of Dorian's joy, the walls singing with the melodies of forgotten moments. But the Author knew that this was only the beginning. The laughter had to be preserved, had to be passed on to the next generation. He called upon the children, their eyes wide with the innocence of the untouched. He taught them the dance, the delicate steps that would keep the balance in check. They listened, their hearts open and eager, and as they danced, the fruit grew on the branches of the heart-tree, a symbol of the enduring nature of the absurd. The village grew into a garden of laughter, a bastion of surrealism in a world that had forgotten how to smile. The Author watched as the children grew, their laughter echoing through the mountains, reaching the very ears of the titan who slept beneath. The earth trembled with mirth, the skies cleared of their tears, and the moons, once shattered, began to mend. One by one, the pieces of the moons floated upward, drawn by the power of the echo. They spun together in a ballet of light and shadow, the waxing and waning of the absurd. And as they grew whole, the Author knew that his task was complete. He had become the living metaphor, the embodiment of the delicate balance that held the world together. The clown watched from afar, his smile a twisted reflection of the joy he had helped create. He knew that the dance would never truly end, that the echo of Dorian's laughter would live on in the hearts of those who heard it. And so he disappeared into the night, the pages of his story fluttering away like leaves on the wind, leaving the Author to stand alone in the garden of broken moons. The Author took a deep breath, the taste of the fruit still lingering on his tongue. He looked up at the sky, now filled with a multitude of luminous spheres that sang a silent aria. He knew that the echo would always be there, a reminder of the beauty that could be found in the most unexpected places. And with a laugh that was his own and yet so much more, he set forth into the night, ready to continue the dance that would keep the universe spinning on its axis of absurdity. The village grew quiet as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon. The children lay in the embrace of sleep, their dreams filled with the whispers of a million stories. The heart-tree stood tall, its branches laden with fruit that promised a future of laughter and wonder. The Author knew that it was time for him to leave, to seek out new lands and plant the seeds of his creation. As he packed his bag, the whispers of the library's books grew louder, a cacophony of tales that begged to be told. He knew that he could never leave them all behind, so he pulled out a handful of pages and scattered them to the wind. They fluttered away, each page a new story, a new beginning for those who were willing to listen. The village awoke to find their world forever changed, the echo of Dorian's laughter a constant companion in their hearts. The Author walked through the streets, his steps echoing with the promise of adventure. The people gathered around him, their eyes shining with the light of the moons above. They asked him to stay, to be the guardian of the garden, but he merely smiled and handed them a fruit from the heart-tree. "The story," he said, "does not belong to me. It belongs to all of you. Tell it, share it, let it grow. For it is in the sharing that we find the balance between existence and oblivion." And with that, he disappeared into the morning mist, the echo of his words a gentle reminder that life, in all its absurdity, was a tale worth telling. The people of the village watched him go, their hearts heavy with the knowledge that they had been touched by something extraordinary. Yet as they turned to one another, the laughter grew, filling the air with a warmth that could not be contained. They shared the fruit, the laughter spilling forth like a river of stars. The garden grew brighter, the moons more vivid, and the world outside their borders grew curious. The echo of Dorian's laughter spread, a ripple in the fabric of reality. It touched the ears of the titan, who stirred in his slumber. His dreams grew lighter, the weight of his sorrow lifting with each new chuckle that echoed through the earth. And in the quiet moments between the laughs, he heard a whisper: *"I am not forgotten. I am remembered in every heart that dares to smile."* The Author's journey had only just begun, the pages of his story unfurling like a map to the most surreal of destinations. With the laughter as his compass, he set forth into the unknown, ready to dance the dance of existence once more. The clown watched from the shadows, a knowing smile playing upon his lips. The game was afoot, and the world was their stage. The Author's first stop was the City of Mirrored Dreams, where every alleyway reflected a different reality. Here, he found a young girl named Elara, whose eyes were pools of shimmering doubt. She had lost her laughter in the labyrinth of her own mind, and it was up to him to guide her back to the path of joy. They danced through the streets, the echo of Dorian's laughter guiding them past the reflections of despair and into the embrace of hope. In the heart of the city, they discovered a carnival, the lights twisting into impossible shapes that danced in the sky. The air was thick with the scent of cotton candy and forgotten secrets. The clowns here were not like the one who had shared the stage with Dorian; these were creatures born of shadows, their smiles painted on with the tears of forgotten dreams. They approached a booth, where a man with a top hat made of crow feathers promised to grant any wish for a price. The Author knew the cost of such promises, the echo of Dorian's laughter a constant reminder of the delicate balance between giving and taking. Yet, Elara's pleas tugged at his heartstrings, and he stepped forward to negotiate. The man in the crow hat offered them a game: a dance of reflections, where they would chase their own shadows until they found the echo of true laughter. The rules were simple, yet the stakes were high: if they failed, the girl's heart would be forever lost in the mirror maze of her mind. With determination etched upon his face, the Author took Elara's hand, and they danced through the twisting corridors of the carnival. The shadows grew longer, the reflections more distorted, until they stumbled upon a clearing where a single mirror stood, reflecting not their images, but the essence of their very beings. The Author looked into the glass and saw not his own face, but the titan's, his heart breaking with every shard of forgotten joy. He reached out, and his hand met the reflection, the warmth of human connection seeping through the cold, hard surface. The laughter grew louder, a crescendo of absurdity that shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces. As the echo grew stronger, the clowns retreated, their painted smiles cracking like porcelain. The shadows danced away, revealing a garden hidden beneath the city's gleaming streets. The heart-tree grew here, too, its fruit ripe with the promise of laughter and light. Elara took a bite, her eyes lighting up like the stars above. The laughter grew from within her, a contagion that spread through the city, freeing the souls trapped in their own reflections. The Author watched as the shadows dissipated, the clowns retreated, and the people of the City of Mirrored Dreams began to laugh once more. Their mission accomplished, the Author and Elara continued on their journey, the echo of Dorian's laughter a beacon that led them to the next act in the grand play of existence. The dance went on, the balance ever-shifting, but with each new step, they brought a little more absurdity, a little more joy, to a world that desperately needed it. The horizon called to them, a canvas of color and chaos that promised a new tale with every dawn. And as they ventured forth, the moons above grew brighter, the night sky a tapestry of light that whispered the story of a boy who had once bought the echo of his own laughter, and the girl who had helped him find it again. They stumbled upon a desert where the sand was made of crushed hopes, the dunes whispering the secrets of those who had dared to dream. Here, they encountered a tribe of nomads who carried the laughter of lost civilizations in bottles around their necks. The Author shared his fruit, and the desert blossomed with the laughter of those who had been silent for millennia. The nomads danced, the echo of Dorian's laughter resonating through the dunes like the heartbeat of a long-forgotten god. Their path led them to the Ocean of Ink, a sea so vast it swallowed the horizon, and whose waves whispered the untold stories of a thousand worlds. The Author and Elara built a boat from the pages of discarded books and set sail, the echo of their laughter bobbing along the waves like a buoy in a sea of forgotten words. The creatures of the deep were curious, their eyes gleaming with the wisdom of a thousand forgotten languages. They spoke in riddles and rhymes, their scales shimmering with the promise of hidden knowledge. The Author listened, his quill at the ready, for each question they asked was a key to a new door in the library of existence. In the belly of a whale made of paper, they found a library of impossible books, each page a gateway to a reality more bizarre than the last. Here, they discovered the story of the first moon's creation, a tale that spoke of love and sacrifice, of a goddess whose tears had painted the night sky. The echo of Dorian's laughter grew stronger, resonating with the heartbeat of the universe itself. The Author and Elara danced upon the whale's back, their laughter echoing through the watery abyss. They saw the moons whole once more, their light a symphony of shattered dreams made new. The titan watched from his slumber, his heart swelling with the knowledge that his melancholy had not been in vain. The journey continued, the echo of Dorian's laughter leading them through a forest of whispers, where trees spoke in tongues of leaves and branches. They met a fox with the tail of a meteor, whose fiery brush painted the night with fleeting visions of beauty. The fox spoke of a place where the stars fell to be reborn, a clearing where the fabric of reality was thin. The clearing was a stage for the grandest performance of all: the Dance of the Celestial Bodies. Here, the Author saw the titan's lost love, a goddess whose eyes held the light of a thousand stars. She danced with the cosmos, her every step a beat in the symphony of existence. The echo grew louder, the laughter a crescendo that reached the very heart of creation. The Author knew that he must share this laughter, this dance, with all who had forgotten the joy of the absurd. He plucked a fruit from the heart-tree and offered it to the goddess. She took a bite, and her eyes sparkled with the mirth of a million sunsets. The dance grew wilder, the stars swirling in a cosmic ballet that set the forest alight with wonder. The fox watched, its tail leaving a trail of stardust in its wake. It spoke to the Author, its voice a blend of whispers and crackling flames: "The dance goes on, but you must return to the garden. The story is not yet complete." And so, with a heart filled with the laughter of the gods and the whispers of the cosmos, the Author and Elara set forth once more. The moons above grew brighter, the echo of Dorian's laughter a guiding light through the labyrinth of the universe. They knew that the balance between existence and oblivion was a delicate one, but with every step, they brought a little more absurdity into the world, a little more joy to those who dared to listen. Their voyage was a living metaphor, a testament to the power of a single laugh to shatter the chains of despair. And as they approached the distant village, the heart-tree's fruit grew ripe, the laughter within ready to be shared with the world once more. The dance of existence waited, eager to embrace the next act in the grand theater of the absurd.

By Carlos del Puente relatos