In the Dominican Republic from the twenty-second to the forty-second centuries — under the relentless conditions of storms caused by the Sahara dust and the extinction of rain — in an environment teeming with robots, drones, artificial animals, birds, fish, and insects, the inhabitants of Rancho Arriba, one of the few green spots on the planet, still continue to cultivate the land and raise organic animals.

In these stories, full of nuances and Caribbean culture, Dominicans — who make the most of the island's and the planet's last resources — become the first colonizing power in the universe.

Bazga is a collection of post-apocalyptic science fiction stories, where loves are still truncated by destiny, the most incomprehensible mysteries remain unresolved, or where we suffer with forced breathing and tears from the settlers escaping from the Earth destroyed by human greed towards unknown planets. It is also a desperate call to take care of our planet, a mirror reflecting our immediate future.

Now, try reading these three paragraphs from bottom to top.

When Men Die will transport you to a universe where the past and the future intertwine in an unprecedented cosmic dance. This Dominican science fiction novel weaves a web of intergalactic stories that will captivate you from the first page.

Every word, every line, is a portal to an unknown universe pulsating with magic and cunning. Prepare yourself for a mind-bending journey that will challenge your imagination.

When Men Die is a must-read for lovers of science fiction, fantasy, and adventure.

Milagros González Rodríguez, M.A., Ph.D. (c)

What was falling was water, or at least that's what I thought at first. I couldn't resist the temptation. When the stream was enough to gather it in my fist, I tasted it. It didn't taste like anything I had tried before. The five flavors were evident in it, yet it wasn't a mixture. Each one had its individual form. How I wished I had a thermos or something to preserve part of that unknown substance. Finally, I could see where the noise and the liquid came from. Fascinated—without thinking about where it came from—I drank as much as I could. Further up, some sort of pulsating tunnels shot pipes of liquid with incredible precision. The pressure was so high that even though they traveled about three hundred meters—the hollow space between the end of one duct and the beginning of another—very few sparks jumped. The rain occurred because being thousands or perhaps millions of these flying jets, the particles precipitated into rain. The strangest thing was the color change they underwent in the air. I thought that was the reason for this phenomenon. Probably the contact with the air causes the mutation. Those that came out of the ducts were red, but when they entered the other end, they were blue, and vice versa. My guide knew the way he was taking me with such pressure that I didn't doubt he had passed by there hundreds of times. He knew when to cross each artery to not be knocked down by a jet or to not prevent me from entering the corresponding duct. What happened if a jet didn't enter? A stroke? The noise was deafening, but I didn't care. I was facing one of nature's miracles, and I would enjoy it.

The black dots filled the blank rectangle until the decoded figure was complete. Excitedly, he pressed the enter key, and a blue circle appeared on the screen, spinning to the right as a sign of approval.

He had finally achieved it. It wasn't in vain that he had spent all this time studying every movement of his internet accounts. He read one article after another, trying to find any clue in them. The task was exhausting, but it had paid off. Ten seemingly random digits.

Finding it by chance, among millions of possibilities, would have been a miracle he would never see. Without his dedication, a hundred years would not have been enough to try all the options. So, it was worth it. Now he was inside the personal computer of the most influential woman in the country. A green button, blinking next to the monitor, indicated that access to the files was open, and below it, a digital clock in countdown assured him thirty minutes for his maneuver.

There are mistakes in life that are not paid for even with death, and mine is one of them. I don't know why I killed her, I believe she didn't know either, I've never been an aggressive type, not even at the moment of the crime. I behaved coldly, without nerves, indifferent, as if it wasn't me or as if I wasn't there. I know it wasn't entirely me, because with my calmness and ability to reason, I wouldn't have the courage to face the impending guilt.

In August of the year 2000, I was working on a report for the Dominican Navy, and one day, by one of those chance encounters that life brings, I found myself at the Enlisted Club, and I don't know how, an old man who worked there as a cook sat at my table.

I don't remember how we started talking or about what. I also didn't know why he stared at my face so much while we talked. Later, he told me, with melancholy, that my constant smile had reminded him of an event that had happened there many years ago.

The strangest thing was his farewell. "If you come back tomorrow to this same place and at this time, I will tell you a story that could change your career as a journalist."

The next day, I was there before the agreed time. I don't know what drove me. I think everyone knows that if there's something that catches a journalist's attention, it's the unknown and mysterious.

He showed up right on time. His greeting was: "What motivated me to tell you this is the brightness of your smile, so never stop smiling. That's why I thought you should know that in this place, the Naval Base, many years ago, there was a human being who never smiled."

And he began to tell me a story, as strange as it was fascinating. He told me I should meet the person who had the details of it. And if I was interested in investigating it thoroughly, he would put me in touch with the uncle of the character he had told me about and whom he knew.

He warned me that if I ever published this, his name should remain anonymous, as the institution had never dared to publish it, and he declared it confidential, without giving a reason for it. "But let the people be the judge, whether or not it was justified," he added.

A week later, I was meeting with the mysterious guardian of the secret, Maximiliano García, who agreed to let me publish his name. "Nothing, not even the grave, scares an old man when he's tired of life," he replied.

"But first, tell me, what do you plan to do with my nephew's memory and my family's surname?"

I told him that in honor of his nephew, I would like the world to know his story.

He seemed to doubt my words, and then continued, "I'm not sure if that was Antonito's will, that's what we called him; you'll see, when you know the story, why I say this."

He took a copy of the manuscript he had been keeping from his coat pocket, and before handing it to me, holding it in the air with his elbow on the table, he added, "You can only publish this or a part of it, if you don't change, not a single word of what's told here."

I promised I would, and with the firmness of a mountain, he dropped the writing into my trembling hand.

Years later, when I decided to publish it, I called Maximiliano to invite him to the presentation. He told me, with a weak voice, that he could no longer get out of bed, but that this news was the merciful hand that closed his eyes to death.

I don't know how long it took us to finish La Mejiquita. At first, we savored every word, but after several Wednesdays, the story took a back seat. I tried with Yuri a relationship that I knew was doomed from the start. So, when we finished the book, everything ended. It was logical that when we reached that point, all my characters disappeared, so as not to condemn them to something worse (except for Vander who, although from a distance, occasionally appears).

I imagine Alessa returned to Mexico, and Yuri returned to painting the afternoons with his brown eyes. It was hard to leave them all behind. I thought about it for hours. I'm one of those people who, when we pull a thread of thought, we don't cut it for anything; otherwise, it becomes impossible for us to put it back together. But it was settled. I invented a thousand excuses, as if they needed them. I tried to explain my absence to them, and how the idea of losing them made me tremble. Life had once again erased the dreams I wanted to live. So, avoiding another failure, I gave up, and again fell into the routine of leaving work and immersing myself in my books. The end of a book is a door always open to paradise, but you have to get there to discover it. With this thought, I spent months "flipping pages to the left," until resigned to failure, I condemned it to the eternity of my new heaven.

Play
"Death," said the Creator Program. The sentence came through the speaker. The announcement was followed by the alarm. We had to leave the planet. It was the 5th phase of 099.

The main axis was worn out, and according to the report, the Greater Phosphorescence had only a few hours left. 099 had been in orbit for three seasons. It was probably the last dump site the Creator Program was leading us to. The entire system was corrupted. The few circuits left to travel were interrupted in the least expected places. How many worlds existed within the game? No one could know.

Technological Visions: Dominican Popular Literature Renewed with AI is a revolutionary anthology that merges Dominican literary tradition with advances in artificial intelligence. This book is the final project of the Master in Editorial Design and Digital Publications at the Barcelona School of Design, where the author collaborated closely with artificial intelligence to bring to life worlds and characters that had never been explored in the Dominican literary environment.

Each story, poem, recipe, and aphorism you will find here is the result of a unique collaboration between the human mind and artificial intelligence.

The images accompanying the stories are also the result of algorithmic creativity, creating a complicity between words, images, and author that will immerse you in an unforgettable journey.

Technological Visions challenges the boundaries of what is possible and redefines what is conceivable in the world of writing and machines. Get ready to embark on a unique adventure, a literary feast that will captivate you from the first page.

If I don't speak, this story will be lost - and it would be regrettable. I know many won't believe it because of my intervention - what happens is that no one else saw its outcome - I don't even know why I decided to break my silence - Why speak to... when I hadn't spoken to anyone else? Perhaps because of his boundless mind... didn't authorize me to theorize - He hates long principles, but I must be fair - especially if my judgment will mean a before and an after - That's why when I saw him working so hard on a story that seemed brilliant to me, I asked him to let me help him with the last part - I'm not a storyteller like...

A shared heart belongs to no one. And even less when divided into a hundred. Because one out of a hundred is zero point zero one, an infinitesimal amount for something significant. Although, to be honest, I'm not sure about this statement, but I don't give a damn, just like mathematics. Maybe I do it for distraction, because distractions are not always bad. As long as patience is not abused with them. Well, whatever, what I'm trying to say is that since that moment I hate women. I feel repulsion towards them. A hatred born out of excess, rather than nature. Yes, because I can't explain how I came to hate what has been the motive of life for so many years. But before you go off on a tangent, understand that this phobia doesn't apply to my mother or friends, I mean women as sexual symbols, and it's not like I've turned gay. No sir, not at all, you'd have to kill me before I laid a lascivious hand on a man. But it's not the same anymore.

My love is far away

My love is far away
distant like Mexico.

Planted in the land where noise doesn't grow.
That's why it's pure
slender
like the line that divides genius from madness.

My love loves me so much that it impregnates WhatsApp
and Facebook with emojis.

Sometimes I get lost in the hair that escapes from his photos,
admiring his black eyes
or the contrast they make with his thin skin,
devoid of melanin.

His lips are thin
like his laughter.

They enchant without touching you
without saying a word.

My love loves from a distance the perfect shapes.

It gives me kisses of circuits
(informatic saliva)...
it disintegrates the soul on the keyboard.

My love is an orgasm of words,
an idea that exists without prejudices.

My love lives far away for a reason,
then it will be so mine
that it will consume me with the flames of its eyes.

Then the digital era will have disappeared
and the states of happiness
and those prolonged "mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm"
—representing nonexistent things—
will mutate into kisses of water.

No more will be needed...
from that passion two naked angels will fly
condemned to the immortal suicide of happiness.

Last night we already knew where the city was. We were joyful. We set up camp as best we could. We ate like we hadn't since we left. We prepared the weapons. The next day we would take it by surprise at dawn, when no one expected us. We would find most of these harmless beings sleeping. The order for the assault was three shots followed by a phrase everyone knew. We packed up camp at 3:00 in the morning. By 4:00 we were ready for the attack. Roosters could be heard crowing. Cows and other animals bleated, but no voices were heard. As we imagined, everyone was asleep. It was the opportune moment.

These are my books that I still allow to be read. There are others whose ghosts no longer wander.