La Lluvia

Ella amaba la lluvia. Cada gota de agua le parecía tan maravillosamente simple y a la vez tan llena, tan perfectamente completa en su circular transparencia. Ese olor tan particular que tiene, tan difícil de poner en palabras, era lo único que la tranquilizaba, que callaba las risas burlonas que se repetían como un eco en su cabeza, incesantes, perpetuas. Cuando llovía, su mundo se detenía, para dar lugar al más maravilloso de los fenómenos. Decidió salir a caminar bajo el agua, y sentir las gotas acariciar su rostro y su alma. Caminó y caminó, en círculos por la oscura Barcelona, camuflándose en la oscuridad. Sintió que su vida era así, un círculo de risas y muertes y sangre, llena de callejones sin salida de los que ella no podía escapar. Pero en su centro, se encontraban la lluvia, la paz, la armonía.

La Guerra

El mejor lugar para poner en práctica los sentidos. Se oían los gritos del comandante, el brusco caminar de las botas de los soldados, que arrastraban el sol con cada paso que daban, y dibujaban la tierra con sus sombras, los gritos de energía y odio de estos, todos sonidos que indicaban que estaban listos para la batalla. Todos seguidos por el sonido de un uniforme amortiguando ligeramente una bala, los gritos de dolor del hombre herido por ella, los llantos de desesperación de los que han perdido a un hermano, el aturdidor sonido de una bomba cayendo sobre aquel peletón, los sollozos y maullidos de aquel inocente tigre ahogado por el humo de las armas de fuego.

Se olían los hediondos y putrefactos cadáveres, se perdía la esencia de aquella flor que la destrucción marchitó, se sentía el sudor de los hombres, y de alguna manera increíble se sentía también el olor de sus lágrimas y el campo de batalla apestaba a odio y a guerra y a lucha, todos olores tan intensos que prácticamente se saboreaban.

En toda aquella oscuridad, una mano estirada podría encontrarse con un rifle, o una granada, o con el cadáver de un hermano tendido en el suelo. Y todos estos sentidos daban lugar al último de ellos; en dicho clima de oscuridad y maldad, se veían los ya mencionados soldados, protagonistas de esta horrible escena, vivos los afortunados, muertos los no tanto, o, a los ojos de muchos, al revés. Esa nube de humo permitía ver muy poco, y a la vez daba una clara imagen de lo que estaba sucediendo a través de ella.

At a Café

The bell in the door tinkled yet again. The businessman sat on the first table at sight, looking anxiously at the waitress from the moment he found his seat. He opened his suitcase, revealing a laptop as black and new as his suit. His cellphone shouted in a classic and executive ringtone, to which the businessman responded with a sudden and almost instinctive snatch. His voice was as rasp and hoarse as that of a long time smoker, contrasting with his baby face.

The waitress finally approached him, dragging the unique and undescribable smell of coffee along with her. The sweet smell of cinammon bathed the small and cozy cafe, a fragrance as sweet as the bubbly and smiley face of the girl looking back at him. The businessman demanded a cup of strong and unfiltered coffee, cutting off the suggestions of the waitress and her small talk about the lovely weather.

The businessman was annoyed. He swept the café with his transparent, light blue eyes, which gave away the core of his restless personality. His leg wouldn't stop trembling as he felt the room and the crowd sifling him. The rattling noise of the coffee machine. The little girls shrieking histericaly. The rumbling laughter of the stranger next to him. He wanted his coffee. He had become addicted to it, as well as to that which kept him up all night, that which made him talk on three phones at the same time, that which had his leg shaking and his nerves at the edge of breakdown.

The waitress handed him the coffee, which he drank in the blink of an eye. The businessman did not even savour it, and only felt the strong bitterness of it running down his throat. The café which had so many times before woken his senses now contributed to the numbness of them. The overwhelming smell of cream and chocolate, the never endind murmur of the crowd, his finger siwftly moving across the keybord, the empty cup of coffee, and the sweat running down his face.

Hide and Seek

The little girl looked around the house where she had been born as she listened to the naive and somewhat sinister music that played from the music box her mother had given her. The house did not recongnize her. The place which had once upon a time been the setting of so many childhood memories was now the scene of such horrid events. No matter how much she cleaned up the walls, they were still stained with her cat's blood, that loveable kitty which had purred in her lap so many times, and they always would be. Charlie had killed it, along with all the joy that had once lived there. Although her father didn't believe her, she was sure of this. Her father was convinced that Charlie was just another of her imaginary friends, but he was way off. Charlie was now so powerful and had taken over her father's body so effectivly, that he was out of control. The night had taken over the house and over her mind, which was sleepless and relentlessly recreated the awful murder.

Suddenly, she heard a thud coming from her dad's office, the melody of the music box playing in the background. She walked slowly towards it. Every step she took was accompanied by the creek of the loose floorboards. The more she approached the study's door, the faster her heart pounded in her chest. Her long, dark hair covered her bulging, sinister eyes. Her shaking hand pushed the office's door, which opened with a screech. She distinguished her father's figure in the dark study. “Daddy?” she called for him innocently. He turned around slowly and disturbingly, in a way that made her shudder. The eyes that looked at her young and naive face didn't match this descrpition at all. They were deeply threatening; she could tell, even through the bottle glasses, that they weren't her father's eyes. She looked at his reflection in the mirror, which also illustrated the dead tree outsied, as he evily replied: “Your daddy's gone now”.

He was right. That was no longer her dad. It was Charlie. She ran as fast as her skinny legs allowed her to, as he heavily pronunced each step behind her. She ran outside the house, and made her way through the forest, which now seem haunted and wicked. Her bare feet bleed as they cut themselves with the twigs along the way. He walked behind her, and as he drag the blood of his daughter with his expensive shoes, he became ever more thristy for her blood. The axe he carried in his right arm slowed him down. Even the ravens were scared of this terrifying character, and they flew away as he advanced through the woods, announcing his aproach in a hoarse voice. She ran swiftly and dodged the trees in her way, but her young body became more and more tired. Unaware of it, she started to reduce her speed, panting harder and harder every second. She turned around see if Charlie was still behind her, and realized that he wasn't as far as she had hoped. This second of distraction was enough to make her trip with one of the trees' roots. She turned out in the floor, only to find the horrible monster that had followed her right next to her. She tried to escape, and dragged herself through the floor. She was out of breath, and terrified to her very bone.

Having to protect herself from the figure which had raised her seemed diabolic. But then she realized that man was no such person. He was some one else, some one who was determined to murder her. He laughed in satisfaction, and looked like a fierce animal who had finally cuaught his prey. He closed his eyes and threw the axe down, as he evily said “Goodbye, baby girl”. The little girl screamed, and then the everything was quiet. He felt the blood in his face as it splashed from the dead body. He smiled. He opened his eyes again, only to find a dead bird with an axe in its body.

Back in his house, the music box still played.

A Waking Nightmare

The snow slapped him in the face. The cold made him ache, but he knew he had to keep going. He was only a few blocks away from his old home. He wasn't very eager to see what had been of that place, but he felt the only way to put his past behind him was to face it. The neighborhood wasn't at all like he remembered. The snow wasn't the coldest thing around, for the hostile look of unfriendly strangers made his blood freeze in his veins. It was like they were kicking him out of his own home town with their eyes. The buildings were small like he remembered, but the grey and melancholic color of their walls he didn't recall. The landscape was monotonous and boring. He felt as if he were part of a black and white movie, as if every one was going to a funeral. His life had always felt like a constant funeral. He pushed these thoughts away, and tried to put his mind off the terrible tragedy that had taken place there as he went deeper into the town.

The weather got even colder, as the snow hit him harder and harder. It seemed to push him away, but he tried to push back as he kept going. He had wandered off the track that led to his old home. The snow grew stronger as he grew weaker. When he looked around he realized he was no longer surrounded by buildings. He had crossed town, and got to the beginning of the forest. There, all he could hear was his ticking watch, which seemed to be telling him his time would soon be up. All he could feel was time go by, slowly. Quite scared, he begun to head back to meet his family.

A deep and stabbing howl made him freeze. He looked around, to see where that awful noise had come from. He turned around several times, hunting with this creature with his eyes. Out of the blue, he felt a warm body in his back. Its fur had made him shiver. He turned around, but there was nothing there. Then, he heard the beast screaming once again. He saw what seemed to be blue lights. There was a blizzard, which made it hard for him to see what it was that he was facing. He stared, in the hope to see it clearly. The lights got now close enough for him to make out they were the eyes of a wolf, jumping across the white sky. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest, he ducked, and avoided this fierce mammal. He stood and ran as fast as he could, stumbling across the way with roots, until he tripped with one. He quickly turned around, panting from his run, but he saw nothing. He ventured to believe the animal was gone.

However, before he could complete this thought, the animal growled again, and he saw it running at him again. In the distance, he discerned a pile of snow, and hid behind it. He covered himself with it, which had hurt him before and was now providing him shelter. There was silence once again, as he didn't hear the wolf's steps. He came out, only to find it cleverly waiting for him to come out. It jumped once again, as if it were determined to kill him. Desperately, he reached out for a sharp twig he saw nearby, and stabbed the animal which was suspended in the air. It cried in pain, and fell on top of him. As he lay in the snow with the corpse on top of him, he couldn't help but feel guilty. He threw the creature which was now getting colder to the ground. He observed, for it didn't have any blood, and the wound that he had inflicted upon him was now gone. It looked as if it had frozen to death, just like he almost died when he first saw the scary beast. The man's clothes were clean too, and his hands looked as if they had been washed.

Corpse Bride

The legend says that Victor was so flabbergasted when his parents informed him that he had to marry some rich, spoiled girl to be accepted in that hypocrite society, he ran away from home.

He went to the woods to find some peace of mind, and carelessly tossed away the wedding ring his parents had given him. Suddenly, he felt and presence and turned around to find himself facing a dead woman, wearing a wedding dress. The sweet nose-cleansing odour of the woods was replaced by the rotting and disgusting smell of death, and the sound of the birds was now silenced by the screams of this corpse bride.

Emily explained to him that while waiting for her fiancée to show up to their wedding, she had passed away. She had been buried in the woods, and according to an old spell, whoever placed a ring of her hand would make her the bride she had always wished to be. She didn't know Victor didn't mean to do so, but he had no intention of telling her, for listening to her talk about the land of the dead, he realized it had more freedom and somehow more life than the world he was living in, where attending to boring dinner parties and getting married to keep up appearances was more than usual, and could hardly be called a life.

Therefore, he decided to run away with Emily, to the land where there are no worries and no pretending, and where they lived, or should I say died, happily ever after.

El Espantapájaros 21

Que cuando fascinado por el fuego quisieras jugar con el, éste quemara y callara tu alma. Que al dejarte llevar por la ambición el sol derritiera tus alas cuando volaras demasiado cerca de el y que la lluvia deshiciera tus días soleados. Que al mirar a la luz que te diera esperanza ésta te cegara, y que cuando te sumergieras en el río te vieses bañado en lodo.

Que de tu boca salieran ratas cuando quisieras expresar tu felicidad a través de la melodía del canto; que al leer Shakespeare no oyeras la cadencia de sus versos y que al buscar una escapatoria y un alivio a tus problemas, no soñaras cuando durmieras.

Que todas las alegrías de tu vida fueran meramente una ilusión; que tus propios sentimientos de soledad encerraran tu alma en una celda de odio y que así perdieras la preciada libertad. Que la cura a tus problemas creara otra enfermedad, y que al tocar la rosa más bella y perfumada, te clavases sus espinas. Que quedaras desamparado y sin hogar y tuvieras que tomar un tren sin rumbo. Que la persona que más amaras te abandonara, y que no reconocieras al mounstro que te devolviera la mirada en el espejo. Que la culpa de tus irreversibles pecados te carcomiera. Que ninguna alegría ni consolación pudiera llenar el vacío que te dejara este poema.

La Casa de la Abuela

Aquella mañana, él camino ansiosamente por un sendero cubierto de hojas doradas y recuerdos pasados, por el camino que ya conocía tan bien, el que llevaba a la casa de su abuela. Amaba jugar entre las hojas del otoño, revolcarse en ellas y sentirlas, ásperas y la vez delicadas. Amaba arrastrar sus pies entre ellas, y sentir sus puntas acariciar suavemente sus desnudos tobillos. Amaba dejarse caer sobre aquel colchón de hojas, extrañamente cómodo, seguro, único. Amaba recogerlas, examinar sus formas, seguir sus líneas, que como por arte de magia formaban aquella maravilla, tan simple y tan compleja, tan natural y tan ajena a lo que realmente conocemos. El otoño, época de cambio, abundancia e increíble belleza, siempre había sido su estación favorita.

La casa de la abuela siempre había sido mágica para Federico. Apenas cruzaba la puerta, la dueña de casa lo recibía con un cariñoso abrazo. Una de las cosas que más amaba de su abuela era que en sus brazos nada podía molestarlo; se sentía seguro, contenido, protegido, como en un colchón de hojas secas. El dulce aroma a té de canela, el olor a galletas recién horneadas y el acogedor y anticuado perfume de la abuela eran todos olores que abundaban en esa humilde morada.

Las galletas y el té llenaron rápidamente el vacío que Federico sentía en su estómago, como las caricias de su abuela, que satisfacían su alma. Vio de reojo en el noticiero de la televisión que extrañas situaciones climáticas se estaban dando alrededor del mundo, ya que había habido terremotos por primera vez en la historia en Argentina, y no solo llovía en España, si no que en todo el continente Europeo. A pesar de la preocupación que se dibujaba en el rostro de su abuela al escuchar dichas noticias, Federico estaba agradecido, ya que la lluvia era una de las cosas que más disfrutaba. Amaba ver llover desde aquella vieja ventana. Mientras la ciudad se camuflaba entre la niebla, sumergida en un manto de oscuridad, las nubes parecían navegar por el cielo. El niño miraba con fascinación mientras caían las gotas, tan maravillosamente simples y a la vez tan completas, puras, únicas. La lluvia caía y caía sobre las calles de Barcelona, incesante, perpetua.

Sus pensamientos se vieron interrumpidos por un comentario de su abuela, algo así como que el mundo tenía extrañas maneras de vengarse del daño que le hacíamos. Federico la miró extrañado, y al recordar que aquellos comentarios no despertaban gran interés en niños de 9 años, su abuela le sonrió y lo retó a un partido de ajedrez. Pasaban las horas, y ellos seguían entretenidos en el mundo de aquel ingenioso juego, aquel reino de piezas de madera, donde desde los pequeños pasos de los peones hasta los grandes saltos de los caballos y los hábiles movimientos de una reina, pueden hacer del que los controla el ganador, siempre y cuando sepa como manejarlos sabiamente. La audaz mente del niño chocaba con la sabiduría y la experiencia que su abuela había obtenido con los años, por lo cual los partidos solían ser largos y reñidos.
En aquella ocasión, Federico la miró a los ojos y le preguntó:

- Abuela ¿cómo es Dios? Todos hablan constantemente de él y he escuchado a mucha gente hacer muchas cosas en su nombre, pero parece que nadie sabe quién es realmente. ¿De dónde vino todo el poder que la gente parece atribuirle? - preguntó con la curiosidad e inocencia que solo un niño de aquella edad puede tener.
- Esa es una de las muchas preguntas que nadie ha podido responder todavía, cariño. Y es muy probable que nadie nunca la pueda contestar. Pero la verdad es que no es importante. Lo importante es que sepas que Él siempre está.
- Pero, ¿cómo sabes que siempre está si ni siquiera sabes quién es?
- Federico, Él es lo que tú lo haces. Tú decides quién es, tú eliges en que creer. Siempre hay algo allí, dándonos todas las cosas que tiene la vida, buenas y malas. Depende de ti saber hacer lo mejor de lo que se te brinda. Y depende de ti saber dónde mirar para encontrar a Dios cuando lo necesites.
- Federico pensó en esa respuesta por mucho tiempo. Tenía perfecto sentido para él, y siempre lo tuvo. Completamente satisfecho con la contestación de su abuela, siguió jugando al ajedrez, aquel juego tan parecido a la vida misma, en la que Dios nos da las piezas y los casilleros para moverlas, pero depende de nosotros querer y saber encontrar las jugadas para ganar la partida.

En otro lugar y en otro tiempo, otro pequeño niño jugaba con un globo terráqueo. Amaba tener al mundo en sus manos, se sentía poderoso, invencible. Lo hacía girar una y otra vez, siguiendo con la mirada todos los países y sus maravillas. Sentía que había visto todo y que nada era desconocido, con lo cual nada le daba miedo, ni le resultaba misterioso. Sin embargo, nunca sentía nada nuevo, ya que al haber visto todo, no quedaba nada para sorprenderlo y recordarle que estaba vivo, y que había un verdadero mundo más allá del que él podía controlar, del que él tenía en la palma de su mano. Luego de haber derramado agua sobre Europa, limpiaba frenéticamente el globo, esperando que su abuela no se diera cuenta de su accidente. A sus ojos, aquella área se veía más oscurecida y triste. También había roto el soporte de dicho objecto, con lo cual la parte de Argentina se movía constantemente. Se le cruzó por la cabeza que debía echar algo de luz sobre aquella área sombría, como si fuera un poco de sol luego de un día lluvioso, o que tenía que arreglar el soporte para evitar temblores en el país latinoamericano. Sin embargo, salió de su fantasía en seguida cuando oyó una voz dentro suyo que le decía que dejara de pensar pavadas, y siguió limpiando el mundo con su trapo.