I wrote this little story in class at a creative writing course many years ago. The original Spanish version can be found below. Versión española debajo.

Johnny left the tavern. Fucking Indian. He’d won all his money. The cards had been against him all night long. He had nothing left. He walked down the main street and out of town. The full moon lit up the dry landscape. A beautiful night if he’d been more lucky.

He went up the hill to his camp. He ate the last can of beans. Cold. Fucking Indian. His face was left printed in his mind. The satisfied smile. The feather on his head. The feather… The feather! There, behind the bushes he saw it again. The Indian was walking on the path, a bit further down. He hadn’t seen him. This was his chance to get his money back.

The Indian was walking away from the village. Johnny knew not where to. He neither cared. He wasn’t going to make it there. He followed him. Closed in slowly. Got his knife out of the belt. Closer. He saw a sudden light. An aura around the Indian. It was stronger then the moon. Soon the it lit up more than the loon. Our hero stopped. The light blinded him completely until it shut off abruptly. A falcon flew up towards the moon. Johnny could swear he heard the laugh of the Indian, mocking him. A feather fell slowly towards the ground.

Este pequeño cuento escribí hace ya muchos años en un curso de escritura creativa. Esta es la versión original.

Johnny salió de la taberna mosqueado. El puto indio, pensó. Le había ganado todo su dinero. Las cartas habían estado en su contra toda la noche. No le quedaba nada. Bajó la calle principal del pueblo. La luna llena iluminó el paisaje seco. Una noche bonita si hubiera tenido más suerte.

Johnny subió el monte a su campamento. Se comió la ultima lata de alubias. Fría. Puto indio. Su cara se le había imprimido en su mente. La sonrisa satisfecha. La pluma en la cabeza. La pluma… La pluma! Ahí, detrás los arbustos lo vio otra vez. El indio estaba andando por el camino, más abajo. No le había visto. Ahora era su oportunidad de recuperar el dinero perdido.

El indio se alejaba del pueblo. Johnny no sabía a donde iba. Tampoco le importaba. No iba a llegar. Lo siguió. Se acercó más y más. Sacó el machete del cinturón. Más cerca. De repente vio una luz. Un aura alrededor del indio. Pronto iluminó más fuerte que la luna misma. Nuestro héroe se paró. La luz le deslumbró totalmente hasta que se apagó de golpe. Un halcón subió hacía la luna. Johnny podía jurar que escuchó la risa del indio otra vez, riéndose de él. Una pluma caía lentamente hacía el suelo.

20 thoughts on “Johnny

  1. Exciting. I find it ironic that you described Johnny as the ‘hero’ when he was going to attack the Indian with a knife, but I’m guessing that was to make it ironic. I loved this short story, it’s brilliant.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Well, I don’t know… (follow-up to a previous post) after all, maybe I do like a little bit of suffering for a bad guy or psychopath.


  3. I mean… I don’t think Johnny is going to change because he ate cold beans or saw the Indian vanish [although there’s always an outside chance of change]. I don’t imagine he will be any less violent in the future (he doesn’t seem like a receptive person), so his minor “suffering” is just something that happened to him (and to some extent is simple consequence or reality). Being glad that the Indian wasn’t injured or killed by Johnny — after Johnny ate cold beans — and that the Indian could disappear isn’t violent. To chuckle that Johnny went after the Indian with a knife but wasn’t able to hurt him, the relief of that. Even if the foiled stalking did “hurt” the “poor psychopath” (in the kind of way I alluded to in a previous thread).


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