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Carlos del Puente: Carlos del Puente relatos
Carlos del Puente relatos

This Story Unfolds in Medieval Surrealism. Carlos del Puente Stories

domingo, marzo 30, 2025
The cathedral bells of Saint Paradoxus rang backward, their bronze tongues licking time into spirals as Inspector Abelard the Unblinking arrived in the village of Nonsensica, a place where the river flowed uphill on Tuesdays and the blacksmith forged swords from solidified whispers. His mission was simple: to investigate the theft of the Sacred Chicken of Contradiction, a fowl said to lay eggs...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

If Frankenstein descends from different fathers and mothers without the discourse of the Other received through his imaginary relationship, how was his specular image constructed? Carlos del Puente Stories

martes, marzo 25, 2025
The Voss manor stood crooked on a hill that leaned westward, as though the weight of its secrets had warped the very earth beneath it. Its walls, papered in faded maps of nonexistent continents, hummed with the static of unresolved arguments. Inside, the air smelled of burnt lavender and the metallic tang of paradoxes left to rust. The family had gathered in the...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

He plucked out one eye to see the horror in the face of his other eye. Carlos del Puente Stories

lunes, marzo 24, 2025
 The day Uncle Mortimer plucked out his left eye with a melon baller, the family was gathered around a dining table shaped like a dissected clock, its gears fossilized into the mahogany. The table, like the family, was a relic of contradictions: half Baroque grandeur, half junkyard scrap. Mortimer’s remaining eye —a jaundiced orb floating in a soup of broken capillaries— rolled toward...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

The numb eye of errance. Carlos del Puente Stories

miércoles, marzo 12, 2025
The town of Ventriloquist floated on a lake of mercury, its cobblestones glinting like misplaced teeth in a cosmic jaw. Its inhabitants, a genealogy of contradictions, resided in houses that leaned away from one another in perpetual disgust, their roofs sprouting chimney smoke that curled into cursive profanities. At the center of this delirium stood the Pándemo family, a clan whose bloodline was less...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

During the Time of an Eclipse That Lasted Several Centuries. Carlos del Puente Stories

lunes, marzo 10, 2025
 The eclipse arrived uninvited, like a dinner guest who refuses to leave and instead begins rearranging the furniture to suit its “aesthetic of perpetual dusk.” The sun, reduced to a tarnished copper coin glimpsed through a keyhole, cast shadows that pooled like spilled ink in the corners of the world. Towns dissolved into rumors. Clocks grew moss. And the Pemberton family, who had...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

An octopus that writes existential treatises. Carlos del Puente Stories

miércoles, marzo 05, 2025
 The octopus’s name was Cephalo, though no one ever used it. His family referred to him exclusively through a series of guttural clicks, which he transcribed in his journals as “the one who wastes ink on questions that dissolve in water.” Cephalo lived in a submerged Victorian parlor, its walls papered with kelp and its chandeliers strung with bioluminescent jellyfish that sighed in...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

The-Day-who-the-helping-decide-confront-impedes-at-Silence. By Carlos del Puente Stories

miércoles, marzo 05, 2025
The first notice came in an eggplant envelope. Inside, an invoice detailed the minutes of silence that I had "consumed" that week: 34 minutes and 12 seconds of uncomfortable pauses, non -monetized sighs and empty looks without declaring. "Silence is a luxury," prayed the motto of the City Council, stamped next to a logo of an ear tacted with an X. When protesting...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

He defended the homogeneity between space and number. Carlos del Puente Stories

martes, marzo 04, 2025
Alaric Numidius Thistle, a man whose beard grew up in the spirals of Fibonacci and whose left eye perpetually disclosed the smell of burnt algebra, was held in the center of a hexagonal living room arguing with a wallpaper motif. The wallpaper, an implacable ponsellation of Paisley ducks swallowing their own feet, came from the accused "arithmetic imperialism". Alaric, not discouraged, brandished a...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

Conversation between a traffic light and a pedestrian about the meaning of red. By Carlos del Puente Stories

martes, marzo 04, 2025
 The city breathed with the rhythm of a sick pulse. Between the smoke of the escapes and the murmur of the hurried crowds, the traffic light raised its three -eyed lighthouse on the corner of the avenue of the forgotten. It was not an object, but an iron and cable witness, a sentry who had learned to measure time not in seconds, but...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

At last laid to rest on the Isle of Poplars, the wayfarer adrift. By Carlos del Puente Stories

sábado, marzo 01, 2025
 The Isle of Poplars was not an island at all but a floating argument, a quarrel-shaped landmass where trees grew in the geometric patterns of unresolved family debates. Its roots coiled like the entrails of a clock swallowed whole by the earth, and its leaves whispered gossip in dead languages. Here, the wayfarer—known to his mother as *“that ungrateful echo”* and to his...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

An inflexible belief in the beauty of movement. Carlos del Puente Stories

sábado, febrero 22, 2025
In the picturesque city of Fluttersby, where the trees had the peculiar habit of throwing brightness instead of leaves, a peculiar man called Alister McFlapple lived. He was known for his unwavering belief in the beauty of movement. Every morning, Alister emerged from his little uneven house dressed in his pair of favorite mole overalls, which he according to him was the most...

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Carlos del Puente relatos

Why would someone want to go to that island? By Carlos del Puente Stories,

viernes, febrero 21, 2025
Why would someone want to go to that island? Uncle Larry mocked, stroking his wild mustache, letting grow without any abundant scissor company long years, with a fatty napkin. "It's just a lot of rocks with an unpleasant reputation, if you ask me."  The family gathered around the table, the air full of aroma of the questionable meat of aunt Edna meat. The theme...

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