This may come as a surprise to many, but I sometimes write. Lately I've been working on a short story I started long ago, of which I can't declare myself the original author in absolute terms, and which until now had no title but I now almost know will respond to the name of Manos huesudas or, if my Spanish pride permits me, Bony hands. And it starts something like this:1
There was no skin or muscle to hold on to. The whole human frame, yesterday forgettable or hidden, now inevitable, forced. That usually hidden, of wich only a couple of incisors or the arrangement of vertebrae are familiar, now on the surface and for everybody to see. A handful of cold distal phalanges, white as the sun, hard from the dry, capriciously tightening or loosening the three pistons of a trumpet. Carpals and metacarpals accommodating to the sweet or hostile shape of a violin bow. The uncomfortable humerus welcoming the unconquerable volume of a guitarron.There were four skeletons dressed as mariachi, with their big hats and colorful clothes, still as the silence emanating from its four dumb instruments, waiting for nothing, already resolved in their honorable and perhaps eternal purpose of decorating my desk. The shortest of the four played a double bass, I never understood why. The higher, the violinist, measured less than the cigarette Celso had just accommodated in the ashtray. [...]
Nice, ¿right? I know, I love it too. Although it's more likely that tomorrow when I reread it I'll think it's shit. That happens to me, and I think that happens to a lot of people too. For now, I like this I'm writing. Now we have to see if I finish it someday.