Our most congratulations to all participants and finalists. We have chosen six instead of five because they all seemed equally deserving of us get on the ballot.
The quality of stories has been in most cases overwhelming for our panel. Here are some samples that I hope will be liked by readers. You can vote in the poll has been created Sidebar right all they want.
Shadows open their mouths. A cry drowns after black hand savagely carnivorous springs from the womb of darkness. The reflection sheet of white soul lies gun. The meat yield. Lets himself be killed without a fight, almost uncontrollable disgust at the violence of the knife, which is made by step, slowly, as if respectfully requests permission. The shreds of clothing calm the crater of the wound, while the knife is fired with his cold lips of his beloved meat. Blood is tremulous, confused as the victim. Death, however, is old and therefore patient. Witness expects the arm that wields the weapon recite the finishing touches of his art. Biting the gloved hand, covered with saliva and fear is removed once you get to tame the last throes. The lifeless body searches earth craves rest. Representing the final scene of a choreography falls majestically, with a hint of arrogance. Infinitely spreads the floor. Intends to cover it completely in their last embrace. It is an island that is being devoured by blood incontinence capricious proceeding without a guardian. The sticky sweetness that comes from the wound conquer every inch of the dense atmosphere that surrounds the scene. A last look is to ensure that have not lost any of the gear. Have just passed a handful of seconds. Not a single moan to reproach. A few steps away monotone that will be devoured by the jaws of the newly installed dictatorship of silence. †
Dar death does not in all cases take life. My occupation is similar to the silent official who met with his office, surrounded by endless documents, without ever arise mediate their course. My work, therefore, is to start. The victim chooses randomly, lazy puts in my path. Mature woman's body that carries bags, body distracted old man stops at a shop, disoriented child's body. There is no discrimination, the east wind that previously my intention. Are simply sets of bones, muscles, tendons, organs and skin, with the only difference to those who crowd the cemeteries, which break down more slowly. Their bodies are devoid of history and therefore lifeless. There is life after me with the light reaching the succession of miseries, hobbies, fears, scars vital to drag a body. It is from then, when to death could be considered a murder. Ever before. At the end of the day, to death is only the office which is more extensive chronology.
Sometimes, in the serenity radiating walls of the house, dropped the look in the mirror, hoping to find the dark face of a murderer, the merciless gaze of the bearer of death, remnants of that scraggly beard that stigmatizes for the landless. Perhaps a glimpse of a regret, something similar to the anxiety to permeate the depths of my heart like a black hole whose cry is impossible to calm. It is what it should. Instead, the image that I spit the mirror is a priori disappointing. I can only find bits and pieces gray in my life, as the life of a nobody. Without doubt, a one more. Nevertheless, a dispassionate view and separate from the romance of my work, it should comfort me find this image of mediocre man, the one who could swim in the calm, gray waters of the crowd. I knew I was outside the archetypal profile of the murderer makes it clear that the only fault that I face is that it is to get orders to advance the clock time of my victims. My creed is the confirmation that never needed. These bodies will continue swarming after me in that anything to which they belong irretrievably.
My fear of the police is the student to the teacher who examines the same test over and over again. I have come to limit my concern to take care to leave any evidence hidden that would prove my involvement in the death of one of my victims. Because of my long career, I have found that police inquiries are strictly procedural, rude hand, tour guides from the scene of a crime. Researchers are directed, as beasts unable to get rid of your blinders, the social circle that includes family and those closest to the body. A co-worker, a lover, a neighbor, a partner, all we have stored in the back of the freezer several reasons for wanting to see the neighbor uncovered rot ground and moss. The Hound is directed to mobile forces them to act and to violate their own moral principles. Sometimes, the very passion with which you run the assassination is the main port on the filter the incriminating evidence. A shaking hand, a knife that is lost in the viscera, a cruelty that continues to consume the time limit with which we, an angry cry alerting a neighbor. There are few occasions when a petty thief, indomitable nerve dam or to a sudden noise, completes its work, leaving his victim badly injured in his impetuous flight. Instead, newcomers to the art frequently incurred in the simulation of theft camouflage as a means of reliable mobile crime, without notice, that in turn, expose the expert eye a series of tests that could be considered absolutely irrefutable.
If the relevant researchers fail to reach a mobile encounter fairly accurate, therefore, almost flying blind, the modus operandi of the murderer. Achieve your layout can provide recognizable elements in the form of action, and also reach out to separate some straw, to achieve, thus potentially intensify research on any of the suspects have been identified previously. However, to get close to the executor must find, at least one test to facilitate the relationship involvement, failure of that system has to be pluperfect death. And then, when you reach the desired final piece of the puzzle. In the last lesson of perfect manual when the researcher is now involved in naming names and collapses trying to get rid of that relic that the company is performing gun. Thus facilitating, innocent, the work of police attack dogs. That is what might be called a job well done, well that certainly deserves the pat on the shoulder of his superior.
In my case there is no moving to channel criminal action. My order is limited to a number of victims unknown fate puts my disposal. As you doctor, who in his first visit, create a medical history while typing absorbed, leaving a glimpse into the pockets of his tired eyes, a hint of revulsion at the revelation that makes a patient, devoid of any psychiatric condition and whose name, by now, must be presumed to be fictitious. Like you, doctor.
Ishual slowly lowered his hand, palm down, and smiled when the red sun continued its movement and plunged into the mountains. The sky was dark flames gradually from orange to purple, violet to purple, to acquire the deep black tone of the night. One by one the stars were appearing. The song rose to them and blinked in astonishment, a monotonous sound, serious, issued by a million throats singing for him, raising their voices to the sky in tribute to their king. His smile widened. Every day felt the same: the tension to stare at the red ball, the relief that, once again, obeyed his orders, the euphoria soaking his body at the sound of the hymn of praise. Daily felt the same, but that day, as everyone was as if I was the first time. The stars looked and bowed before him. And then it was them, his subjects, who knelt on the cobblestones of the square while singing. Ishual was about to shout for joy. The same impulse to scream I felt when I made the trees that lined the wide avenue flourished, its intense aroma, sweet and spicy at the same time, filling the night and impregnating his clothes and hair. It also caused him chills, even when the buds became branches felt the irrepressible urge to sing for joy. Always, day day. Always like the first time. Always. Power. "Oh, Ishual, God incarnate, who came to us to reward our faith ... the high priest's voice singing the invocation of the night echoed in the warm air of the plaza, in the sudden silence of the faithful who gathered at the feet of their king. There arose a gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, the light clothing of thousands of men kneeling, long hair and thin Ishual. -... and dwell with Your people, and we bendecís on behalf of Forth, Laima, of Havelya ... A sudden chill ran up his back. The gentle breeze swept Heloros her face to the winter wind. He shuddered and opened his eyes, not understanding where it came from that feeling so much like ... fear. The bombastic voice solemnly continued to list the names of the gods sharing the pantheon with him. -No. The priest was cut short. His voice broke on the paved surface of the square, bouncing between the kneeling bodies. She turned, startled, and dropped his eyelids to keep their eyes locked on the eyes of Ishual. "Always has been, Divinity. "No," he repeated. He managed to control the trembling of her voice barely. Have you always been well, he wondered. And why suddenly everything looks different ...? The High Priest needed no explanation to re-turn to face the crowd and raise his arms again. However, the gesture, which had always been of reverence, seemed like a joke more than a display of adoration. "Oh, Ishual, God incarnate, who came to us to reward our faith, and dwell with Your people, and we bendecís in Your Name ... "Better Ishual tried to smile, insecure, and confused because they can not understand why. The priest's face never changed expression. Undaunted, reverent ... scathing. "Always has been, Divinity, "replied quietly. always been that way, yes. If there was a fixed entity in the world were the traditions of the hidden kingdom Ishual adored. The words, facts, faith, devotion, and always, always. So what has changed now ...? Ignoring his own concern, and waved in the breeze calmed down instantly. A lock of hair fell over his forehead, hands free playful wind; him away with a careless gesture, and his eyes fell upon the face of one of the junior priests who accompanied the High Priest in all invocations. The young man bowed his head and pulled In view of their god. The chill returned to sink his sharp claws into his column. "I reject ...?, thought, suddenly angry, furious, incredulous. -Leo fear in your eyes, "he whispered in a tone so low that not even reached his own ears. The young acolyte, however, heard him. He raised his face and stared. Do you dare to look at me? Ishual inquired, puzzled and angry, struggling to ignore the tremor that was threatening to take over their members. Did you forget what is respect? He opened his eyes, terrified. Do you also ridicule ...? Rabies joined mistrust and shook the world. Ishual made an abrupt gesture. It was not his hand but his wrath to the priest that pushed so hard that it was drawn by an invisible wind to the edge of the platform, where he stumbled for a moment before falling into the open arms and knees of the bodies crowd. the high priest's voice did not waver and the Invocation of the Night, the longest of the Five Invocations, continued to echo in the crowded square, but Ishual noticed the subtle change in the environment, the thousands of thousands of breaths becoming staccato gasps, excitement, the lust for violence, blood. The anger of those who tore the body of a young priest down there, the wonder, the awe of the thousands of eyes on Ishual. faith came to him like a wave and shake your hair, a much stronger breeze, burning, a sea of \u200b\u200bwarm, moist skin and soaked into his body, flowing inside your veins, washing the terror and uncertainty, the power emanating from his subjects kneel in waves that converged on the throne of God Incarnate. He closed his eyes, tilted her head back and moaned. Ecstasy. keep believing, articulated in his mind, ignoring the drone of the voice of the High Priest. The feeling of faith stroking his soul was so pleasurable that he had to restrain not to scream. Keep believing, ordered, pleaded silently, clutching the arms of the throne with his hands. were the gods who made the rules. And he was one of them. If you do this I had to kill them all one by one, I would. Creed. A sneer. A whisper in your ear: But are the gods who created the world? Or the world who believes the gods? looked up and stared blankly at the High Priest. - What ...? The priest turned to hear the murmurs of the faithful and stared at the ground at the foot of Ishual. He bowed so pronounced that swept the marble floor with the long ponytail with straight hair. "Only he pronounced the Invocation, Divine. - Invoking ...? Far from being shocked, the priest bent over. "Oh, Ishual, God Incarnate," intoned, "that came to us to reward our faith ... The rest of the sentence she had no idea. Ishual squinted thoughtfully, looking without seeing the glowing face of the priest. Came to us ... Never had noticed that specific phrase. In those moments, however, he found it disturbing. As disturbing as the insolent look of the young acolyte whose blood drenched the plaza. - "Vine" to you? Asked finally unable to contain, interrupting the prayer. The priest looked at him, blinking, and lowered his arms. -Bajasteis us to reward our faith, divinity. "A new bow. Arms folded across his chest. - went down? Ishual inquired, anxiously. What do you mean? The priest bent down again. -Will reward our faith with your presence. With you, Divine. "No," murmured Ishual. No. I've always been here. I remember ... I remember. Always. The priest nodded. -Bajasteis us. You have been here forever. Always. Always has been. But there was a time when it was not, it was not ... He closed his eyes, confused. Make up the sun, the grass growing at my command ... My faithful, my subjects, their faith. So sweet, so tasty. Empowering them. Ecstasy. ... What has changed? Then he understood. And understanding fell on his head like a millstone, like everything a temple erected in his honor. He opened his mouth, but had to make a huge effort to find her voice. "It was they who created me" she whispered, terrified. It was they who believed in me. His faith made me. And his faith is wavering. He put hands over her ears, but still could hear the mocking laughter of God in his mind. Is the world who believes the gods? His own laughter. Who do you pray a god when you feel afraid? - And what happens if you stop believing ...?
I am absolutely tired of the ongoing talks with psychologists and therapists. What if life does not end here, that if there are lots of possibilities and opportunities for those with same as me ... A very big shit! For all of them. do not want hanging around my neck carrying a bunch of coupons, or participate in tournaments absurd chasing a ball with bells. until a month ago I was a photographer, gentlemen. He lived on the images. They now deny me and eventually fading away in my brain, now forced to live off the memories. not want anyone to mortgaging your life to serve me, not even a dog. I suffer from agoraphobia, and of course the blindness will not disappear. On the contrary, will deteriorate to infinity, and not stand to throw the vacuum armed only with a stick, looking desperately for a cap that puts me in space. So do not try to forcibly inject the desire to live and I have not, as blind as my eyes have been my heart and my soul. ***
Three months after my God. With all the work that had cost me find the pot of sleeping pills ... does it matter to them that I stay here or I move permanently to another neighborhood. No one believes that my loss of sight is for so desperately. Strive to try to find happiness again within I suffer from limitations. It can be done ... If it is very difficult to remain healthy, I can not think of having lost my sense find most precious. When leaving this hospital, I'll try again, this time I will make sure not to err in my purpose. ***
Thirty months after I finally finished reading the book she gave me. And I liked it, yes sir. I've finished in just one week, although I have not yet sensitive enough in my fingers like to read fluently. Now I must get going to be prepared. I want to be flawless for when she arrives. Coming to dinner tonight and I promised to cook something special. I will have about wine, and I'm sure hit with my choice. Something must be sommelier at the restaurant serve. I will candles, and despite their soft glow not penetrate my retinas, I know that his candor will be present making company. The smell of burning wax envelops the scene giving the warmth it deserves. I forget thee, my best friend. The most faithful and loyal of friends I ever had. I am blind, and she is silent. His only fault. But his company and ongoing support make me feel so safe and sound now can not imagine my life without nearby. Tan undemanding and so accommodating to my wishes. Since it came into my life, the loneliness that was lodged in my heart, fired on the run for the door. I hope forever. I can not see it when it is there, lying at my feet, but I am noticing that every movement that run, however light, she turns her head from German shepherd and provides me with caring eyes. ***
Thirty-six months after
Today my girlfriend has gone to work at the restaurant. He said not find anything good and I left lying on the bed in our flat. I will call your doctor for the visit at home. Leads days insinuating that since we live together, suffering from constant sneezing and watery eyes, and think you have allergies to the hair of my dog. I said I have one just becoming immune to the hair of his own animal, be patient, because I do not want to face this dilemma. Lucera not my dog \u200b\u200bseems to accommodate the permanent presence of Ivana. The growls as it passes him and retreats to a corner when it comes to kiss me, because I hear his footsteps away. The first night scratching with its feet on the bedroom door and cried, because I was used to sleeping on the carpet at the foot of my bed. Luckily it has stopped, but while I love to feel that Ivana is Lucera still behind the door, waiting in silence. I suppose you think that has invaded its territory and is jealous of her. I hope it will eventually end up getting used to the presence of both in the home. ***
Thirty-six months and one hour after
I have also started to feel ill suddenly. An intense grief has invaded my chest, as if something was not right in my environment. I have been forced to ask the owner permission to be absent, and fortunately I have not put any qualms. Has offered to call a taxi, because I always go along with Ivana and she guides me to our house. I've lost the habit of resolving the few hundred meters separating I live in the restaurant, as previously covered this journey together Lucera. slowly insert the key into the lock. The grief of my chest is more and more prominent and I was invited to open the door gently. not hear more than silence. Nothing moves. My hands are shaking like a leaf in the wind and dropped the baton. Ivana's name out of my trembling throat in the form of questions, but no response. Automatically covers the steps that separate me from the door of the room. And suddenly I stumble on it. - Lucera, come! I bend to it. Moves nervous when I caress the back. Snuggles her head gently on my chest sticking and drawing his long tongue like licks. Is saturated. My heart shrinks and looking frantically with my hands between his hair wound, but after a frustrating minutes, I see that seems to be fine and have nothing. - What happened, Lucera? ... What-have-done, Lucera? I have a terrible feeling. Ivana squeaky call, but still no answer. I try to enter the threshold of the bedroom, but Lucera gets in my way, not to let me pass. I try again and again, but my dog \u200b\u200bturns against my legs until they finally fall to the ground. I drag myself haunted by the ground so pathetic, while Lucera grabs me with his fangs the jersey, pulling back. Finally gives up, knowing that ultimately can not hide the truth. I feel the sound of their footsteps on the parquet disappearing from the room. I climb into bed and I kneel beside the broken Ivana anatomy. I try to put my hand on her bare belly, but it sinks in their wet entrails left in the air. I support my lips on her face to kiss her, but I find no more than a bone scraping. Her perky breasts are just bloody pustules that melt in my fingers. could not imagine the frightful scene design and bitter fierceness and rage that my dog \u200b\u200bhas torn my girlfriend. My world is crumbling and I can not help but cry inconsolably. ***
Thirty-six months to three hours after
I feel dizzy and lightheaded. I'm sitting in the living room couch and someone offers me a cup of lime juice constantly. The murmur of people in and out, that comes and goes, it confuses my senses. Odors, whispering softly, light air currents that deviate the passage of people and rub my face bringing me his dark secrets. After the accident, and I communicated that he would never see the light of day, it was impossible to think then that could suffer a worse news than that. But what unpleasant surprises in store for me life ... what comfort I can get now ...
"Sir ... sorry. I Sánchez inspector. I was deeply dismayed to have to decide this question at the moment for you so terrible, but I am under obligation to have one at the request of the preliminary report ... Did you know the other person ... which is lying naked on the floor, on the other side of the bed?
recently while celebrating the centenary of the death of a character who was considered one of the pioneers in the occult in nineteenth century France and Grand Master of Rosicrucian Order. In Spain, even today is revered as one of the greatest scholars in the congregation Rosicrucian AMORC. Unquestionably worship man and great poet of his time, he says he picked up in his own house the largest collection of books and manuscripts esoteric and occult at the time. However, legend or fact, there were some contemporaries who disagreed with the dubious ethics of this wise. Joris Karl Husymans, French symbolist poet born in Paris in 1848, openly accused and Stanislas de Guaita press the black magician, having sent the Devil to the Abbe Boullan, which the said Stanislas was a tremendous aversion. This is not a coincidence, since the ab Boullan tie was public enemy of Rosicrucianism and apparently also practiced magic. After fighting a duel of spells both magicians, Abbe died on January 4, 1893.
What is certain is that the poet Husymans retired to the Benedictine monastery after being chased by the crowd of black magicians who supported the enigmatic Stanislas de Guaita. In 1897 died the black magician, at 37 years of age. Many said that was the effect of black magic which ultimately led to the grave, because the misuse of magic he had done during his life and occult experiments. Still others say that his death was caused by bad habits that used to take the wizards dedicated to the occult: drink, drugs, orgies, etc ... Husymans, harassed by black magicians, die ten years later at the monastery, and become a monk.
Boullan tie was public enemy of Rosicrucianism and apparently also practiced magic. After fighting a duel of spells both magicians, Abbe died on January 4, 1893. 
