Selected stories
A selection of short fiction exploring memory, time, identity, and the fragile boundaries between reality and the extraordinary.
The Nonexistent Book
by José Antonio Marino (Oniria)
A fictional book review
I will begin this rather unusual review by recounting a curious—perhaps even extraordinary—incident.
A few days ago, a reader of this publication sent me a sealed parcel containing a collection of short stories. The volume, recently published by Oniria Press—a publisher previously unknown to me—had been graciously inscribed and signed by the author himself. There was no accompanying letter; only the book, as though its mere presence were reason enough for its arrival.
Moved by such unexpected generosity, I settled into the armchair in my living room and began reading before starting my workday, which, as it turned out, was delayed by several hours. It soon became apparent that this was no ordinary collection of stories, but an unstable narrative structure in which each tale seemed to fold back upon the previous one, revising it, contradicting it, or quietly erasing it.
The stories form a remarkable compendium of fantastic fiction whose true protagonist is, paradoxically, the book itself. It recounts its repeated attempts to escape each time it is given to readers incapable of holding on to it. The Nonexistent Book is, without question, a singular work—one that appears to contemplate so many kinds of readers that they might well be infinite, as are the countless stratagems the book devises to evade categorization, classification, and the critical judgments from which it almost always manages to slip away.
In this respect, Marino's proposal does more than engage with the tradition of the fantastic; it quietly subverts it through remarkable formal ingenuity. The book ceases to be a mere physical object and becomes a narrative agent that resists every attempt at fixation. The result is a text that glides away, eludes capture, and ultimately denies the very possibility of being fully contained by criticism.
Certain passages suggest an affinity with aspects of contemporary metafiction, though the work never exhausts itself in self-referential play. What is truly at stake is the possibility of the book's own existence. It escapes not only its readers, but also the ordinary circuits through which books circulate, as though its natural condition were that of a fleeting apparition, destined—inevitably—to disappear.
Editor's Note
Following the numerous complaints received from readers of this publication—many of whom, in the hours after this review appeared, crowded into bookshops in search of a copy of The Nonexistent Book by José Antonio Marino—I feel obliged to clarify that the review was received, edited, and published by me, and that the book itself had been delivered to me personally by the author late that same day.
This morning, prompted by our readers' inquiries, I attempted to verify the book's publication. However, no record of either the author, the publisher, or the work itself could be found through any of the usual channels. Furthermore, the copy that had been delivered to this editorial office—and which, until yesterday, remained on my desk—is no longer to be found anywhere on our premises.
The Decision
A short story
I arrive late to the funeral with a strange feeling, as though everything around me had been suspended in time. For a moment, I picture what came before. I imagine finding him standing beside his father's coffin, surrounded by relatives and friends, yet somehow apart from them all, as if he were somewhere else entirely. His face would have carried that familiar rigidity that appears whenever he is trying to hold too many things inside at once. He is not there simply to say goodbye to his father; he is confronting something within himself that I have suspected for a long time.
I approach him carefully. I try to offer a quiet presence, something that might help him breathe beneath the weight pressing down on him. Gently, I tell him to throw the apple lying on the floor into the bin while I take another from my handbag. It is a small gesture, because sharing an apple in the middle of the morning has long been part of our routine. He accepts the fruit with a mixture of distraction and caution, as though he cannot decide whether the gesture is meant to comfort him or unsettle him even further. I watch him in silence, aware that the simplest gestures sometimes say more than a thousand words.
As we stand there together, I sense that Jonás is divided. His body is present, but his mind seems to be somewhere else. There is a deep tension within him, perhaps a struggle between memory and the relationship we share—a relationship I know to be fragile, though deeply significant. I want to ask him so many questions, yet I understand that this is not the moment. Instead, I choose to remain quietly by his side and let him decide how close or distant he wants me to be.
I am certain that Jonás is standing before a decision. It is not merely a question of whether or not to remain with me; it is also about deciding who he wants to become after this death. In his silence I sense a fracture, as though losing his father had reopened an old wound. I watch him struggle between loyalty to the past and the impulse to move forward. Within that conflict, I occupy an uncertain place: at times a refuge, at times another complication.
When we finally speak, we go on talking for hours, well into the night. Something in him has changed. He carries himself like someone who has made a decision, even if he is not yet ready to understand it completely. Only then do I realize that this farewell is not only for his father, but for an entire chapter of his life. We remain there, looking at one another, knowing that this day marks both a loss and the beginning of something new and unknown. Sometimes loving someone also means remaining still while they walk through a doorway that no longer includes us.