Alberto Laiseca -The Sorias chapter 1 part 1

THE SORIAS

To César Margini, who is for me what
Oscar Wilde called the critic as an artist
Alberto Laiseca

"The world is sustained only by
Four things; the science of the wise,
the justice of the great
the prayer of the righteous
and the courage of the brave »

Almanzor [1]

CHAPTER 1

---The room enemies---

When that morning Personaje Iseka opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a Soria. But not Luis, the one who was close, but the most distant: Juan Carlos Soria.

«This Soria, when he gets up in the morning —Iseka thought—, he does it in the form of a master class, without colloquium, the kind used in the faculties in the past. Optimistic, one jump. I do not. I take as many minutes as I can: very lazy in bed.

He creates all the inertias forward, necessary to start the day. Uses as a bugle and music, respectively, the yogurt and the breaths. It is only when he wakes up from his nap that he lets us down. A kind of paper down jacket has been built so that the light does not prevent him from sleeping. I said that after the nap he disappoints. In fact: he no longer jumps up but, at that moment, with his eye cover over his tow hair, he looks like a defeated tufa chief on the way to reduction or reserve.

He gives me advice».

When Iseka started to wake up, in the interval between the Soria and unconsciousness he saw, as through a kaleidoscope, the whole process and its ebbs, with twists and turns: unconsciousness, subconsciousness, walls of the room, Soria; and vice versa: Soria, walls of the piece, descent into the interior, until almost falling into the deepest subliminal abysses. Thus, in his chaotic mix of wakefulness and sleep, he was able to observe:

Batrachians with yellow backs / cathedrals with gray stained glass windows / central concentrations of material / peripheral concentrations / a rowdy fly that bounced a thousand times on the mirror moon belonging to the wardrobe of the piece.

A filthy edge of the same wardrobe to share.

Iseka's half-veiled eyes traveled to the left and down, touched the wall and, as his head accompanied the movement of the eyes, obliging them, they continued in free fall until they reached the farthest of the two Soria. His vision, then, singed back into oblivion of sleep, like the horn of a snail touching a red-hot iron.

«A guy is going to dig up someone and invites me to follow him. We take out a coffin that has others, successive ones, as chinese boxes. Each cover has strange drawings reminiscent of voodoo. We ripped the last one, extracting from the final sarcophagus a living man, of bronze, who writhes between his bonds».

The other horn of the snail —the eyelids were once more parted in a repeated attempt to reach consciousness— touched the face of the nearest Soria and, as it also burned, fell back in disorder to sleep.

«He does not make a single sound, but the bronze man's face denotes that, for the moment at least, he has gone mad with pain. His phallus, large and erect, is tied to his belly — by ropes, like everything else— so tightly that the cords must do him enormous damage.» / rocket planes / red-headed flies / great planes of black dream color / glazed batrachians / flowers in liquid air / stone plateaus / elemental jewels / the face of the one I still love despite the Goddess of the Abyss / earthquakes / nucleus decay.

As the snail no longer had eyes at the tip of its horns, it was moved, similar to an earth tremor, to wake up despite the Soria.

And Iseka woke up.