The fair, 2026
It is late in the afternoon. Everything goes as usual.
Nothing feels different. Then, suddenly, the parents decide.
Tonight, the family is going to the fair.
A place he has only heard about.
In stories. It almost feels like a myth.
The kind of place you are not sure really exists.
He has seen it before.
Only from the back seat of a car.
Either with the family chauffeur, or with his father driving.
From the window, just for a moment, he could see the entrance.
And there was always that statue.
A huge white figure.
A muscular man.
Bare chest.
Knees slightly bent.
Hands striking a large drum.
Frozen in motion.
They told stories about him.
At night, he would come alive.
That’s what they said.
In another version, he would eat the children who stayed too long.
The ones who got lost.
Or the ones no one came back for.
Stories like that.
But there were other stories too.
About fun.
About games. Lights. Food. Drinks.
Everything that makes a place feel alive.
A place you want to go.
The night comes.
The moon is bright.
Almost too bright.
Everyone gets into the car.
A big family.
Packed together.
No space.
Bodies pressed against each other.
Like a sardine box.
The road feels long. Too long.
Then, finally, they arrive.
They step out.
Walk inside.
And something feels wrong.
Immediately.
Everything they imagined collapses.
Not in a good way.
The place feels empty.
Heavy.
There is no joy.
No light.
Just darkness.
There are no real games.
Only bars. Restaurants.
All crowded into one large, closed space.
Adults walk around.
Drunk.
Unsteady.
Some children run here and there.
But it doesn’t feel like play.
The parents say things have changed.
That it wasn’t like this before.
Not when they were younger.
The boy says nothing. He just sits at the table, close to them.
Watching. Eating. Drinking his soda.
Waiting.
For something that never comes.
The Doll, 2026
On a hot, sunny day, like always, the family valet sits outside, washing clothes. Under the heat.
A blue bar of soap in his hand.
Rubbing fabric against fabric. Slow. Repetitive.
Meanwhile, inside the house, the air is cooler. Still.
A blind grandmother sits on a white plastic chair, right in front of the entrance.
She spends her whole day there.
Listening. Sometimes, she moves to the couch to eat.
Every day, at noon, she goes to her room to pray.
She always takes the only son with her.
For him, it is nap time.
Today feels like any other day. Late afternoon.
The father is at work.
The mother is at the market.
In the corner of the living room, the two older sisters are playing together.
Dolls. Laughter.
Soft voices.
The little boy watches.
Then he walks over, wanting to be part of it.
But he doesn’t know how.
He breaks the rhythm.
Moves things around. Disrupts everything.
The game falls apart. The laughter stops.
As usual, he gets punished by his grandmother.
Sent to sit beside her. Quiet. Still.
After a while, he speaks. Softly.
He tells her what he wanted.
Just one thing.
A Barbie doll.
The long hair.
The way you could style it any way you wanted.
The arms. The legs. Moving.
Bending. Alive in his hands. He is fascinated.
The grandmother calls the valet.
He leaves his work and comes inside.
She reaches under the African wax cloth wrapped around her waist. Unfolds it slowly.
A roll of money hidden inside.
She pulls out some bills and places them in his hand.
She tells him to go to the market.
To buy the boy a Barbie doll.
Time passes.
Maybe an hour.
But it feels longer.
Then the valet returns.
The doll is in his hands.
A pink dress.
Long white hair.
The little boy’s face lights up. He holds it carefully.
Happy.
For a moment, everything feels right.
But the two older sisters are watching.
And something shifts. A quiet jealousy.
Because his doll is real.
An original Barbie.
The Floor, 2025
It is summer.
The weather is hot, heavy, almost suffocating.
The sun kisses the skin of the kids playing outside, their voices loud, careless, full of life.
On that same street, there is a house.
From the outside, nothing looks wrong.
But inside, something no one could predict is unfolding.
The door of a bedroom stands wide open.
A woman stands in the entrance.
Small, overweight.
Her face is tense, twisted with anger.
She is screaming at the top of her lungs, throwing insults, her voice sharp and relentless as she spits out one aggressive sentence after another.
In the room, a man is on the ground.
His knee is pressed hard into the back of a young teenager, forcing him down.
He holds him in place, tight, unmoving.
He slams the boy’s head against the wooden floor.
Once. Then again. The shouting starts to blur.
The sound fades, like it’s being pulled away into the distance.
All he can see now are the rays of sunlight slipping through the curtain, cutting through the room in thin, glowing lines
. For a second, everything feels quiet.
Suddenly, but not unexpectedly, a thick, warm wetness spills from his nose, dripping down, splattering onto the wooden floor beneath him.