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A selection of short pieces by Veronica Stigger   The Bridge   Todo empezó como una broma When Pedro realised that he’d been living for a decade in the city he’d chosen to call his own, there in that foreign country, and in all that time, he’d never once crossed the weathered, old Roman bridge, he decided he never would And that’s not all: he also decided that under no circumstances would he ever cross over to the other side of the river, even if that meant taking the long way round on circuitous, almost impassable streets in order to leave the city solely by northern routes Years passed and what was once merely a childish whim, had turned into a strange phobia It was impossible to determine precisely when Pedro began to believe in the excuses he made for avoiding the bridge and that side of the city: it was dangerous, there were wolves and students and, if he crossed it, something unexpected – a bolt of lightning, a meteorite, a piece of wreckage from a spaceship – would surely strike him down Another ten years went by, and Pedro not only stood firm in his resolve but grew even stricter with regards to his established precepts: he wouldn’t go anywhere near the bridge Relatives who visited from far away resented not being able to cross said bridge in the pleasure of his company He even refused to utter the bridge’s name If it couldn’t be avoided, he would whisper it, almost inaudibly, as if saying ‘cancer’, or ‘death’ His stubbornness –  perhaps now it could more accurately be described as fear – prevented him from knowing that the bridge was covered in cobblestones and had granite walls; that on one side an imposing prehistoric sculpture of a bull watched over all those who crossed it; that in the very middle were stone benches, where, during the day, passersby would pause for a moment to admire the landscape, take some pictures, or just rest, and at night students from the university would gather there to count shooting stars; that on its other