Fernando Villamía claimed the 56th Kutxa Ciudad de San Sebastián Literary Award with his most recent short story collection, Dioses de quince años, published by Algaida. The work, a warmly candid and naturally humble tribute to Vitoria, moves with a quiet grace that stands out in today’s literary landscape. Its trajectory mirrors that of celebrated early recognitions like Felipe Trigo and the City of Badajoz, and even reaches finalist status in Spain’s Setenil Prize, widely regarded as a premier honor in the short story form.
Fifteen Years of Dioses gathers twelve stories that honor the traditional arc of the short story — a clear setup, middle, and resolution — while maintaining a freshness that feels almost revolutionary in its present literary moment. These compact narratives, which resist mere suggestion in favor of rooted storytelling, invite readers to find solid ground at various turns along the way.
One of the most striking features of Villamía’s writing is its unmistakable voice, often likened to the prose of Luis Landero. In Villamía’s sentences, vocabulary, syntax, and an aesthetic sensibility fuse into lyrical discoveries. It is a writing style that feels intimate, almost musical, and one that seems to belong to a generation of authors led by Villamía’s own imprint.
Fernando Villamía The gods of fifteen years Algaida 176 pages / 19.95 euro
Another notable strength in Fifteen-Year-Old Gods is the author’s mastery of a powerful opening. Villamía compels the reader’s attention from the first phrases, delivering what classical rhetoricians would call captatio — a pull that feels genuine rather than contrived. The cultural references threaded through the stories carry real weight, never feeling pedantic, and they complement the plots by shedding light on the protagonists’ troubles with meaningful examples. The interweaving of fantasy elements with subtly plausible paranormal touches adds an extra layer of intrigue to the collection.
The vulnerabilities of the Fifteen-Year-Old Gods characters are poignant, yet their greatness rests in that same fragile space. A heart full of wind and longing; a seen-through, overweight teenager who faces humiliation in a quiet cemetery; the liberation of art from dementia; a dog navigating a mysterious werewolf world; letters from a child to a late father that begin a journey toward memory and loss; strands that connect or divert with vengeance; a photographer obsessed with capturing a vision of God; a hammer that symbolizes ending harassment; a meta-literary journey; shared silences that hide complicity; the dead returning for a fleeting idyll; and the mystery of sexuality seen through the lens of childhood. Across these tales, the name Aurora recurs, perhaps because it marks the dawn of life triumphing after long nights of suffering.