hi folks, this time I reccomend miguel borga’s dead stories.
A devilish collection of tales; sadness, despair and hope all feature as each story leaves you begging for more. Lovers of gore and unexpected twists will find their thirst quenched upon reading these tales. Just when you think you have the writer figured out, he stuns you with a left hook.
Born on May 12, 1985 in Salamanca. As his main work he is dedicated to the world of images, as a photographer and cameraman. He started writing in the defunct magazine “Mombaça”, in number 7, with a story called “Reflejo”. At the time he published what would be his debut, an anthology of dark and gore horror stories called “40 Cuentos Incompletos” (editorial Amarante 2013, autoedited in 2015). He also collaborated on the anthology based on serial killers “XYY: cromosoma asesino” (editorial Universo 2014) with a story about Ted Bundy. His first novel was “Alas de Venganza” (autoedited in 2015) a dark bloody fantasy story, which chronicles the story of a war between Angels, Demons and Terrarians. His new book is “Dead Stories Vol.1″(autoedited in 2016) an anthology of twenty short tales, written only in English. All of them about darkness and death. He has a personal blog “La Biblioteca de Miguel Borgas”, in which he writes reviews about concerts and other books and same short tales.
A dull pain arising from his hands woke him up.
He looked, first a little dizzily and then saw clearly the situation in which he found himself. His two hands were placed on a wooden table, simple, dirty and old in a single room without furniture, except for a bottle of water with a straw reaching to the bottom of the plastic container, placed in front of him. He was sitting in a chair with the same characteristics. He tried to move and succeeded, but his hands did not accompany him, they stayed where they were. He looked closer and horror gripped him. He had on his phalanxes and the backs of his hands numerous small black spots; he was unable to count them. He readjusted, pulling hard and he again felt great pain. He imagined the worst. Bending down slowly to look under the table, as he descended he heard a faint sound, a small trickle, as if tiny drops were falling by incessant eternal inertia in the same spot. His eyes bulged as he saw two pools of blood, causing him to speed up his descent, ignoring the pain emanating from his hands. Once he became fully crouched he stared at his reflection in the blood, eyes following the route that the drops took as they fell and only saw a multitude of reddish tips, surprised he put his face to a height where he could see both sides of the table and a scream filled the room. The ends of his arms were viciously nailed to the table and he could do nothing to shake off those tips that passed through him and broke and tore at every centimeter of his body. He tried to move his fingers and although he did not see how, what felt like an excruciating tingle ran along his arms to nestle in his brain and his mouth spat out a terrible cry of despair. Sweat mingled with tears on the young man´s face, in his particular nightmare he did not know what to do or couldn´t see a solution to what he was going through. He sipped the water nervously and clumsily; the last thing he wanted was to move the bottle, because if he disturbed the bottle by only a few centimeters he´d lose it forever even though it was right in front of him. The pain would not let him rest and every involuntary movement his arms performed reminded him of his current predicament. At first he did not hear it but now after hours enclosed he could not fail to listen as his own blood crashed to the ground and met the puddles already created, the incessant drip was driving him crazy, an anger was growing inside him, that he did nothing but suffer without knowing why. He wanted to break something, let out the hatred that was growing in his being, inside but could not because the damn nails prevented it. Having his hands immobilised and incapable of action was something he cast from his mind, every few minutes he shouted, insulted and cursed he who had done this. An idea crossed his mind, something so fleeting and foolish that it might work, he took a gulp of water to recharge and prepare for what he was about to do. Like an animal caught in a trap, he began to bite his right arm at the biceps, at first he could not believe what he was doing, the first bites only hurt him, but when he saw a real way out of his situation by carrying out a continuous cannibal act without fear or remorse. He broke the skin causing blood to wash over his face completely and slide into his mouth, staining his teeth a beautiful crimson color. It cost little to reach the muscle that put up less resistance to the bite. He crushed beneath his jaws ligaments and tendons with overwhelming force granted by a despair and lust for life. While he is biting, he is screaming, but the sound was dampened inside his mouth by his own flesh. He felt the humerus grinding on his teeth and a doubt struck him, knowing there was no turning back, but still losing the arm, which would be stuck forever to the table. He frowned, in anger, and squeezed as hard as he could. Soon the bone yielded to the pressure and splintered
before breaking, along with several of his teeth. The feeling of several splinters digging into his gums caused him to remove his arm from his mouth and as he screamed huge tears rolled down his face. To finish removing his arm, what he did was, make several circular movements while his body suffered and emitted strange cracking noises. He swayed backwards slightly as the joint finally separated, but the nails embedded in his left hand prevented him from collapsing, as much from the movement as the pain. He looked at the arm that was still nailed to the wood, he first tried to beat it with the stump, since the bone protruded so sharply, but it was useless because it would not come apart. He had to repeat the process, but this time it cost him much more because several of his teeth´s jagged bite force was weakened. He did not know how long it took to finish, but in doing so he drank all the water he could to cleanse his mouth of blood and spit out the small pieces of meat that remained between his teeth and in his mouth. He gave a flicker of a smile of victory although the pain was incredible and it was hard to take three steps without losing consciousness. He came to the door in a triumphant pose, and looked at the old round doorknob.
—How the hell am I supposed to open this fucking door?!
He said as he looked forlornly back at the table.
Amazon.com -> https://www.amazon.com/ Dead-Stories-Vol-1-Miguel- Borgas-ebook/dp/B01KE6514E/ ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid= 1506871996&sr=8-3&keywords= miguel+borgas
Inglaterra -> https://www.amazon.co.uk/ Dead-Stories-Vol-1-Miguel- Borgas-ebook/dp/B01KE6514E/ ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid= 1506872226&sr=8-3&keywords= miguel+borgas
Canadá -> https://www.amazon.ca/Dead- Stories-Vol-1-Miguel-Borgas- ebook/dp/B01KE6514E/ref=sr_1_ 3?ie=UTF8&qid=1506872290&sr=8- 3&keywords=miguel+borgas
Australia ->https://www.amazon.com.au/ Dead-Stories-Vol-1-Miguel- Borgas-ebook/dp/B01KE6514E/ ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid= 1506872331&sr=8-3&keywords= miguel+borgas