If you were local enough, some bars were allowing you to buy beer on credit, since everything was out, and who carries cash nowadays. The beaches were heaving with people, cans of Estrella in their hands. There were many reasons to feel alerted. Upstairs, the neighbor, who mostly spoke Catalan, but had a smattering of English, informed us her radio reported outages all the way to Germany, also Italy and France. Outside, the people were taking it in stride. 

Gosia was visiting from Poland and was hoping for a beach break and so that’s what we did. We walked towards the beach. She brought Prince Polos. Wafer chocolate comforts. While it was still light, at least for a few more hours, it was not so unpleasant, if we could find water, since the water was also out. There was water in the Britta, but it was blinking red. I had partially prepared for it, at least in the short term, three bottles of Vichy Catalan in the closet, but who knows if we should ration it. Lola the dog didn’t mind either way. It wasn’t another dreaded fiesta. There were no loud noises, and she could spend more time digging up leftover food on the beach. 

This is a city of dogs. There are dogs on every corner. Everyone knows the city, because of the fiestas (forget about a siesta) and the tolerance, on account of the large Pride festival, but really it is ruled by dogs. The foreigners, of which there are many, but far from the majority, often speak Spanish, and some speak Catalan, although that is rarer, and they all walk their dogs. The stock market of foreigners fluctuates. There were a lot of Dutch, some English, a smattering of Polish and Russian and Ukrainian, a few Irish, but really it is the French, the French are taking over, and they are bringing their French prices with them, although with some lovely qualities, such as an increase in the quality of food, as well as better haircuts.

Lola the dog, on her daily walks, always leads us to the butcher. The butcher rolls up pig meat into all kinds of sausages. The big thick ones that bust out of their skin. The pink ones you can eat on the fly. The white ones. The brown ones. The pale-yellow ones. Lola always receives little nips of unsalted sausage, sometimes even an uncooked bone, but the butcher shop was closed, and, on account of no phone signal, I could not find my father. My father, being a father, is not always happy with my choices. My latest choice, Andre, the local rugby star, from Toulouse. Everyone knows everyone is mad about rugby in Toulouse. He was turning up the heat in these parts with his rugby ways. Not to mention his French accent, little puffs of air, it massaged my ears into putty. 

Lola sat outside the butcher shop and refused to move. She did not understand that no one was coming to open it. The sky was turning pink and orange. It was a nice sunset. The air musty. Gosia remained calm, on account of my reassurances, this happened all the time, even though this was something different, there was no storm. The local surfer, from Patagonia, passed us on the street, wheeling a small suitcase, her teenage son looking lost without his phone. Also, the bald Frenchman, with his bald boyfriend, their neatly trimmed beards and large mastiffs, also passed by on the other side. I tried to communicate with them, find out the latest information, but they didn’t know much of anything.

We walked to El Susurro, now that Lola had relieved herself, to see more locals. But El Susurro was mostly empty. There was a stage with a drum kit, some guitars on their stands, since there was supposed to be a concert. The band had obviously cancelled, even though they could have entertained us. There was only the bartender, the usual wiping cloth draped over his shoulder, and a small group of locals. They seemed frazzled, and that was rare, since they were elderly, and the elderly learned to care less, now that they had seen everything, they didn’t need to worry, no one to impress. It is something I admired, since both Gosia and I were stuck in middle age, trying to decide where to turn for the next stage of our lives. One of the locals, tall and lanky, with a full tuft of gray hair, and small soul patch, pointed to the garden behind El Susurro. Then they all left in silence.

Gosia tilted her head towards the garden, probably thinking why not, since there was light there, and darkness was falling, they probably had solar power, but we couldn’t see anyone moving. Lola wasn’t barking, so that was my cue, we could move forward. The trees were shaggy, since the humidity had ravaged them, but there were fairy lights, like it was some kind of garden party. We walked closer, and again, since Lola wasn’t barking, I didn’t sense any danger. All around us there were empty beer bottles. Empty seats around a large wooden table. The children were standing next to a large crater. I didn’t remember any kind of new construction, and, on top of that, it looked fresh, even though there wasn’t any sign of a large object that could have caused it. 

On the days of human towers, the children followed the sound of the gralla, a double reed instrument, it sounded like the shrill sound of a jackdaw, primitive and dry. They gathered around in circles to watch the human towers. One human climbing on top of another to form that great pyramid. Hola, I said, trying to make contact with the children, but the children turned and walked away from us. They were following the sound of the gralla, far off in the distance. There was something bigger than them, and it pleased them. 

Atomic Blond

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How did I become my father? We have a full head of hair, but salt and pepper beards, near the chin. Also creaking leather jackets. Blood clots: him. Me: circulation issues. Father walks the peace wall. He carries the blood of Vikings, but mostly Scots. I wanted it to matter for so long, trying to say righto, this is me. And sometimes it matters, but other times it doesn’t. Father has not moved from Belfast, but he moves a lot in his walker. To ease the blood clots. Last time I was there, I picked up a sticker for my laptop. The sticker is the side of a skull, with top row of teeth. It says, Aye Dead On! 

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When I moved here, squarely middle aged, I thought this could become my new home. My face became more angular, because of all the fruits and veggies, the so-called Med diet. Also, due to aging, my ears were sticking out. Too much time around people zaps the juice from your skin. Up at six to perform my absolutions. A little waterfall for my face. A little night cream for the night creatures and day cream for the day creatures. I have always blown my nose with toilet paper, but in the season of colds, I was hunting for soft tissues. You can make your nose raw with toilet paper. Of course, if you must use toilet paper, tear off the first, second, third pieces. On account of potential fecal matter.

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Adam convinced me Atomic Blond would lighten my load. The hairdresser dive bombed my hair with chemicals. When I walked out, my steps felt lighter, but upon closer inspection, later in the evening, I realized my outside did not match my inside. In other words, I didn’t want to come across as flighty. During my youthful days someone had called me fickle because I was not enough masculine. Now, with Atomic Blond on my head, I was recycling back to those dreaded conceptions. We went back to the hairdresser. My hair is dirty blond, bordering on brunette in parts. I told the hairdresser to give me more serious hair. I told him to dye it black. I was planning to turn more gothic. Since that would naturally lean more towards my inner inclinations. The hairdresser protested. My hair was not made to turn black, but since I was the paying customer, he proceeded to strip my hair and try to turn it the color of my crow spirit. Alas, he was right. My hair turned dark orange. Orange was not part of my inner color spectrum.

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I was sitting on the bus back from the city, contemplating shaving my head and starting over, the bus humping the bumps to knock around my spirits, when I saw the commotion.  The master of tickets was walking down the aisles. I had my monthly pass at the ready, but the anticipation of the ticket master disturbed my reading time with real paper. I used to read on the way to work, and also returning, but now only on the way. My eyes were drained at the end of the day from reading screens. 

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The ticket master stopped halfway down the bus. The people were stirring, All the phones down. Everyone had lost their precious signals. It had been over an hour since the last buzz of the phone in my pocket. That might have been a record. They say work is 40 hours per week, and technology was supposed to reduce our workload. They’ve been promising that forever. It seems the opposite. I have little faith in AI making our lives easier. Everyone thought it was their phone provider. The main one especially, since it is almost a monopoly. Then we noticed so many cars stalled on the side of the road. Also, another bus. Stopped. Engine still running. The bus was mostly full of the elderly traveling to the hospital. The elderly were staring out into space. The elderly blink less because they are afraid of missing something. Out in the water ditch, the rats were stirring. Hiding under tunnels. Dipping into the water to retrieve little ducklets. I put my hand over my heart. It was still beating. It was still swimming in its little sack of blood. My orange hair was glowing in the moonlight.

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Marcus Silcock is a high school teacher based in Sitges, Spain, originally from Portadown, Northern Ireland. He co-edits the surreal-absurd literary magazine Mercurius. His recent stories and prose poetry have appeared, or are forthcoming, in publications including Willow Springs, Maudlin House, The Gorko Gazette, Bending Genres, Broken Antler, and Your Impossible Voice. His latest book is Dream Dust (Broken Sleep Books, 2025), a collection of microfictions and prose poems. Find out more at www.nevermindthebeasts.com.

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