Bastian Writes Stuff

“The sun sets, we ride!”

And so they did, for a while, then they stopped because they couldn’t see anything.

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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“For the twelve days of Christmas my lover gave to me a bunch of birds. Whole lotta’ em.”

“Really? How did that turn out?”

“I stepped on toucan shit this morning.”

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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“If a person looks up at the sky, and imagines a better world, a better way of being for all things, a less brutal condition of existence for all creation — is that person flipping the universe off? Or is it the other way around?”

“Well sonny, that’s kinda the problem with human imagination, ain’t it? It’s a little bit of both, it’s always a little bit of both.”

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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“Why wouldn’t you assent to this? That’s just ego!”

“Damn right it’s ego. And not just any ego, but MY ego —which is superior to ALL egos.”

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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“We’re sorry son, we couldn’t get you a new liver for Christmas. At least—” The man ran his hand through his boy’s hair. “ At least another kid will get a new heart.”

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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An empty suit of knightly armor decorates the halls of a forgotten mansion. A sticky patina of dust, cobwebs and soot has embalmed the surface of its whilom shining metal.

It’s inhabited by the ghost of a peasant child, that once dreamed.

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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“What is the meaning of life?” the sentient pebble asked.

“Depends on what you mean by meaning,” the pointy rock — its sensei — answered.

“You mean to ask me what meaning means?”

“That’s exactly what I meant to do.”

“You’re making me confused!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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“Are you ready for another adventure?” Ms. Frizzle said.

“Yes!” the children yelled.

“What are we learning about today?” Dorothy Ann asked.

Ms. Fizzle stepped on the gas. “The great beyond!”

The magic school bus swerved onto oncoming traffic.

The children yelled.

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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“This is fantastic!” the man said, adjusting his monocle. “I’ve never seen Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece before.”

“...”

“What is it darling?”

“I’m sorry, I think I should’ve been clearer. This isn’t a showing of The Nutcracker, it’s the Nutcracker!” the woman said.

“That’s somewhat disappointing, no wonder we have front-row seats. Is this some sort of different version?”

“Well, in a way.”

The lights went down, the curtain rose.

Twenty ballerinas glided onto the stage, tiptoeing in perfect synchronization with the music. The melody swelled. The dancers weaved a tapestry of movement — pas de quatre, grand jeté, double cabriole derrière — inducing a state of dream-like awe in the audience.

The lead ballerina spun forward until she was caressing the very edge of the stage. She leapt— face first, mouth open — onto the front row.

The man screamed.

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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The living always smile,

The dead never do,

I may be a little bit of both,

I only smile when I see you.

 

— Bastian Espada

 

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