Ilusión novelesca

Road Accident

2009-06-08T14:33:00.000-07:00

Another shot of whiskey hadn't been enough to kill the pain. But it had been enough to turn my car into the roaring monster it was, faster than a speeding bullet, and even more deadly. Everything happened in a blink of an eye... the impact of my truck crashing into her car was quickly followed by the image of her lying dead on the airbag, her hair, yellow like wheat only an instant ago, was now dyed in red, a result of the bloody shower that had come from her head and sprayed her eight-year-old daughter's doll face. The little girl was as still as her mother, staring at her from the distance, her round blue eyes unable to grasp the concept of what they were seeing. Her look showed the mirror image of her mother's corpse. My horrified eyes couldn't keep away from this tragic image, feeding my guilt at the sight of her injured and bloody teddy bear hanging from her hand.

“Excuse me, mister” she said suddenly coming towards me, with the youngest British accent I had ever heard, “could you wake my mommy up, please?” Another shot of whiskey had been enough to shatter an eight-year-old's world.

Fate is what is written

2009-05-15T14:49:00.000-07:00

“Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

'How treacherous talent is. It really is the most curious thing', he thought as he made his way through Bond Street. Just when he had taken it for granted, just when he had dared to consider it a constant companion, it left his side, leaving him alone with his now empty thoughts, with the debries of a magnificent burnt down building. Without it beside him, what could possibly come from being inside his own head anymore? He was disgusted by his rookie self. 'At least I shall have a good laugh now', he thought as he got closer and closer to the fortune teller's home, with nothing but the sound of his worn out shoes as they stomped the street beside him. The stomping seized. This was it. Why he had agreed to come to this dump was a mistery to him. He had been persuaded by an old friend who swore on his life this woman's accuracy was frightening. But, then again, not a lot of people would call someone who foretold a life filled with amazing wealth and spectacular women a charlatan.

With the slow and cautious movements of some one entering an unknown place, he took off his hat as he made his way through the courtain and into the over-perfumed and dark room. Placing his hat on the table where the tarot cards already lay waiting for some one to lie to, he streched out his hand and introduced himself as Harry Hunders Jr. The fortune teller looked at him with the most penetrating look he had ever encountered. Her eyes ordered him to sit down, which he instantly did.

'A writer, are you?', she said as she brushed her dark oily hair from her face.
'Yes, I suppose... I find the term 'repressed poet' to describe my situation much more faithfully. I am actually an accountant. How did you know I write?'
'Ink in your fingers. Dreams in your eyes', she murmured quickly.

Her hands travelled acrossed the table swiflty and quickly found their prey. She expertly shuffled the deck of cards, the quickest of movements interrupted by a sudden change of pace, her fingers carefuly laying the cards on the table as if she were putting them to bed. But what they revealed were far more than just dreams.

'I see... a smile. A sincere smile. Your face beaming with absolute bliss. Your eyes shining even under the darkest of hats. You are not alone. A huge family walks beside you in the most exotic of lands. An almost magical forrest that doesn't know of winters or summers or springs, and where leaves are always dyed of bloody red. Peace shall always reign in your confined bubble. Happiness is so powerful it blinds me... nothing else is on sight. Just absolute bliss. Only that, and nothing more.'

Her words had captured the young poet in a way he did not believe possible. His eyes stared at the cards, amazed, and smiled at the possibility of ever smiling truly. His look overflowed of hope. This oniric state was quite brief, as the mystical fortune teller did not take long to announce that $250 were to be paid for her servicies.

Clocks' hands turned round and round thousands of times. Thousands of suns set, and other thousands of moon rose. But none where enough to erase the fortune teller's already dusty words from Harry Hunders Jr.'s memory. Was it possible for a woman to be so right and so wrong at the same time? His face did gleam, and his eyes did shine under the darkest of hats. Everything was dyed of bloody red, and he did live in a confined bubble. But the gleam was that of bitterness, his eyes shone thirsty for life, for true happiness. His home did work as a confined bubble, since he hadn't spent time with another human being for so long that he couldn't even remember the face of the last person he had seen. He had somehow managed to drive everybody away, and had found that no one was next to him when he had turned round looking for a shoulder to cry on. To cry, I mean, because of the bloody tragedy that had overcome his family: car crash; mother, father and sister dead faster than a clock's hand can even try to move. One sunset they had all been there... when the moon had risen, they had been gone.

Really, he owed his life to Mr. Gary Gigglemot, PhD. Yes, it was quite necessary to add 'PhD', Gary detested it when Harry didn't include it. Mr. Gigglemot, who spoke in a very funny southern accent, took him to his only shelter. He sofly whispered seductive sentences, spoke the exact words Harry needed to hear... after he had succumbed to the deepest of depressions, to the darkest of oceans, Mr.Gigglmot extended a pen and said “Here's your lifeguard, Harry. Come ashore with me”. And Harry indeed followed him. He jumped into the page. Mr.Gigglemot's cabin was deep inside the forrest, between the third and fourth line; he knew the path by heart, and covered it quickly and joyfully, stomping on fallen leaves in the way, immersing himself in the peaceful pleasure of wondering around a surreal forrest. And then the time came for him to put on his hat and close his eyes, enjoying the fresh breeze that caressed his face and savouring the delicious and inexplicable smell that filled the air. In the distance, his son's sweet laughter was heard, and sang in symphony with his wife's melodic whistling. He just sat in the cabin's porch and quietly waited... he waited for the pen to continue moving, for the ink to bring the happiness he had been promised, for the story to procede with the grand event that that woman had fortold, that he knew should come – would come – infallibly. He just waited.

On a particular Friday, Harry recieved a phone call informing him that his brother, the only family he had left, had passed away from a heart attack half an hour earlier. He thanked the nurse for the information, put his unfinished and unknown novel in a drawer, turned the key and headed out. He knew the path by heart. His feet stomped the hard cement as he made his way violently towards Bond Street. He enterted with the quick movements of someone who remembers a place all too well and put his hat on the table.

'The repressed poet', said she.
The fire of wrath burnt in his eyes.
'You owe me $250... and my life. I want my life back. You got everything wrong, you crazy charlatan! No bliss, no magical lands, no loving company, nothing! I have nothing... I did nothing with my life because I counted on your words, I counted on the promise that my life would improve and so waited for that to happen... and now that I've waited my whole life for happiness I have to come to the end of it to find out I am not happy!', he blurted out.
'Are you so sure of that... Mr. Gigglemot?'
'How... how?', he asked with the thread of voice he could rescue from his amazement.
'What you are waiting for has already come, Gary... it is in the porch of the cabin, between the third and fourth line of the pages lying in the living room drawer.'
He had not a second to lose. He knew how to spend the rest of his days. He put on his...
'Hat! You almost forgot your hat', she said.
'Thank you, ma'am', a lovely southern accent replied.

Alcatraz

2009-01-23T21:31:00.000-08:00

“Here's the smell of blood still! All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.” (Macbeth, Willian Shakespeare)

Había logrado lo que ningún hombre había hecho antes. Había escapado. Estaba a salvo. Las sirenas habían dejado de sonar, y se convenció a si mismo de que nada podía perturbarlo ahora. Tenía la frente empapada de sudor y sus ojos rebalsaban en lágrimas de susto. Respiraba trabajosamente, con la dificultad de quien estuvo cerca de dar su último respiro. No quería dormirse por miedo a lo que le esperaba acechando en la oscuridad de su inconciente, así que se levantó y puso a hervir el agua para preparar el café que había comprado pocas horas antes. Se sentó en el sillón a la espera de que el agua hirviera. Trató de convencerse a si mismo que no había cometido ningún crimen, que esa basura se lo merecía, que después de lo que le había hecho ningún otro castigo era más adecuado que el que había recibido. Pero su cuerpo se rehusaba a creer aquellas palabras vacías, y le empapaba la frente de sudor y los ojos de lágrimas. Sus piernas se movían sin descanso al compás de su acelerado latido, y su cabeza podría fácilmente haber explotado en aquel preciso instante. Cerró los ojos, tratando de respirar profundamente, y fue entonces cuando lo vio. La cara agonizante de su hermano moribundo, su boca borboteando súplicas y sangre, se presentó ante sus ojos. Oyó las mentiras que había pronunciado éste antes de morir, que cómo podés pensar que yo hice eso, no sabés lo que decís y ¿cómo puede ser que no confíes en tu propio hermano? Pero él sabía, con la misma convicción con la que sujetaba la navaja, esperando en su mano para cometer su propósito, que su inocente hermanito lo había traicionado, que había compartido el lecho que el consideraba sagrado con la mujer de su vida, que se habían revolcado en él como cerdos. La imagen de sus cuerpos sudorosos abrazados y de su esposa gimiendo de placer en los brazos de su hermano fue más que suficiente para impulsarlo a hundir la navaja es su pecho siete veces. Poseído por la ira y los celos, llevó a cabo dicha tarea con la meticulosidad y el detalle de quien hace lo que se propone. Había dejado el cadáver de su hermano atrás, pero el vívido aullido de dolor que éste había emitido lo aturdía ahora. Abrió los ojos y, al notar que era la pava la que chillaba, la sacó del fuego y se preparó un café.

El intento de mantenerse despierto con la ayuda de la cafeína de los seis cafés que había bebido fue en vano. Su cuerpo estaba exhausto, y latía suplicando un descanso. Con las pocas fuerzas que le quedaban, se levantó del sillón y se dirigió al cajón de su cómoda. Sin saber muy bien por qué, tomó de su interior la navaja con la que había asesinado a su hermano menor, y, sosteniéndola fuertemente contra su pecho, volvió a tomar asiento en el sillón. Aquel instrumento que había cogido con tanta convicción y rapidez se le antojaba ahora apenas más pesado, 21 gramos más pesado, el alma de mi hermano, pensó. La sonrisa satisfactoria y de placer que solo alguien que sabe cuan atroz es el pecado que está a punto de cometer que se había dibujado en su rostro al tomar la navaja aquella noche se había ido completamente mientras la contemplaba en la oscuridad de la sala de estar. Finalmente, con el arma letal en sus manos, cedió al peso al que estaban sometidos sus párpados y cerró los ojos, durmiéndose al instante.

Los hechos de aquel día se le presentaron es sueños como una película antigua, muda y en blanco y negro. Las escenas de aquellos acontecimientos desfilaban ante su memoria como recuerdos rotos, como partes de un todo que todavía no lograba comprender. Primero, la navaja en sus manos, los gritos de su hermano, la sangre en el arma, en sus manos, en sus ropas. Después, las sirenas policiales, su cuerpo camuflado en sus ropas negras y ensangrentadas arrastrándose dentro del coche. La esquina de la celda en la que yacía acurrucado, y el agua amarilla que bebió sin ganas horas después en aquella mugrienta cafetería. Las miradas hostiles de aquellos a su alrededor, y el metal frío de la navaja contra su cuerpo que había logrado mantener escondida en su ropa interior. Como última imagen, el sueño le mostró a él mismo como yacía ahora en el sillón, durmiendo, con la navaja, las manos y las ropas ensangrentadas.

Despertó empapado en sudor, su corazón luchando por salirse de su pecho. Observó la navaja, impecable y brillante, sin una gota de sangre en ella. Solo un mal sueño, pensó, sin darse cuenta que toda su vida estaba a punto de convertirse en una pesadilla perpetua. Fue al baño, prendió la luz, y se mojó el rostro, respirando profundamente, como si un poco de agua se pudiera llevara su pesadilla por el desagüe. Alzó la vista para ver a un extraño devolviéndole la mirada en el espejo. Sus ojos estaban hinchados y cansados de tanto luchar contra sí mismo, contra su culpa y su remordimiento. Observó su reflejo detenidamente, y vio que las ropas de éste estaban manchadas con sangre. Su mirada se alternaba, mirando su buzo y el reflejo de éste, confundido ante la diferencia en ambos. Él estaba limpio, mas su reflejo, el que le devolvía una mirada arrepentida desde el otro lado, estaba empapado en sangre. De repente, el extraño que lo miraba fijamente sacó una navaja, idéntica a la que el había dejado en la sala de estar, y la alzó con una sonrisa de venganza. Sobresaltado ante tan horrible espectáculo, se lavó la cara nuevamente, más exageradamente esta vez, y se sentó nuevamente en el sillón. Se llevó las manos a la cara, diciéndose a si mismo que todo era producto de su imaginación, que no volvería a ver aquellas imágenes luego de un tiempo. Temía abrir los ojos por miedo, mas tampoco se atrevía a cerrarlos. Habiendo llegado a la extraña conclusión de que la única manera de no volverse loco era escaparse de si mismo, de lo que había hecho y de la culpa que lo torturaba, oyó el ruido de una carta deslizarse bajo su puerta. La cogió, y vio que el sobre provenía de su esposa, que estaba viviendo en la casa de sus padres. Al abrirla, lo único que encontró fue una fotografía y una pequeña nota donde se leía: “¿Querés la verdad? Sí, te engañe, pero no con quien vos creés, y acá tenés la prueba. Perdonáme. Por todo.” Tomó la fotografía con manos temblorosas, y se maldijo a si mismo al ver a un extraño besando a su esposa. Un extraño, no su hermanito, no a quien él le había quitado la vida. Un extraño, como el que él mismo se había convertido. Rompió la fotografía, y la carta, y se tiró al suelo golpeando sus puños contra él, y lloró, y lloró más. Comprendió que no había logrado lo que ningún hombre había hecho antes, no había escapado y no lo haría nunca. Se levantó, se cambió y, despidiéndose de su hogar para siempre, se dirigió a la comisaría.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Día número 152. Como todos los otros. Se levantó, desayunó, hizo lo que le pidieron, recibió algún que otro golpe, y se acostó. Todos los días era iguales en aquella celda. Todavía recordaba la primera noche que había dormido allí, y como su compañero de celda lo miró extrañado y le dijo: “Escuché que te escapaste cuando te quisieron agarrar, y que después te entregaste, vos solito... ¿Estás mal de la cabeza? ¿Por qué hiciste eso?” a lo que, sin pensar, contestó: “Nunca me escape. Nunca fui libre. Siempre estuve acá. Solo que tardé en darme cuenta... y vine cuando lo hice.” Sin comprender las palabras del nuevo reo, murmuró “Pelotudo” para sus adentros y se durmió. Mientras tanto, su compañero de celda yacía despierto en su cama. 151 días y noches habían pasado, y él yacía en su cama, exactamente como lo había hecho aquel día, con algún golpe más aquí y allá. Todavía temía cerrar los ojos, pero finalmente se sometió el cansancio.

Los hechos de aquel día se le presentaron en sueños todas las noches, tal y como lo habían hecho aquella noche en su sala de estar. Las escenas de aquellos acontecimientos desfilaban ante su memoria como recuerdos rotos, burlándose del remordimiento que finalmente había logrado comprender. Primero, la navaja en sus manos, los gritos de su hermano, la sangre. Después, las sirenas policiales, su cuerpo camuflado en sus ropas negras y ensangrentadas, arrastrándose como parte de la oscuridad por aquella calle escondida, y su cuerpo, que temblaba y latía a más no poder, metiéndose como si nada en su coche. La esquina de aquel lugar que se le antojaba tan pequeño y hostil como una celda en la que yacía acurrucado, aquel sótano de la casa abandonada en la que había decidido esconderse al escuchar las sirenas que chillaban y lo culpaban de asesino, apartando a todos en su caza. El agua amarilla que bebió sin ganas horas después en aquella mugrienta cafetería cerca de su casa, donde compró un poco de café que habría de prepararse pocas horas después. Las miradas hostiles de aquellos a su alrededor, quienes él juraba que sabían todo de su crimen, quienes lo acusaban con los ojos y lo culpaban en murmullos indescifrables, y el metal frío de la navaja contra su cuerpo. Como última imagen, el sueño le mostró a él mismo como yacía ahora en su cama, durmiendo, con las manos y las ropas ensangrentadas, como habrían de permanecer para siempre.

Tanderlain

2009-01-20T16:17:00.000-08:00

Tanderlain era un taxista en orlando. Tanderlain le preguntó a un cliente llamado Tom ¿qué hora es? Son las 12:00 contestó Tom. Tom se quería subir a un árbol y Tanderlain le dijo ¿dónde dejamos a tu esposa? Está bien, no voy a subir al árbol contestó Tom. Bueno es hora de desayunar está muy rico dijo Tom. Se fueron de viaje y empacaron animales y fueron al museo de dinosaurios. ¿Cuántos huesos hay acá? preguntó Tom. Hay 350 le dijo el papá y se le cayeron todos los huesos encima.

Childhood

2008-11-13T08:36:00.000-08:00

10.00am. Break-time. Freedom. The joy shines through every one's eyes as they run about laughing and giggling. The more athletic boys are the stars of the soccer team, and announce triumphantly the goal they have just scored, or bounce the ball against the wall powerfully. The others toss their tazos hoping to snatch their opponent's, and celebrate when they hit the jackpot and take it home.

I'm sitting down playing cards with my best friend. Her two pony tails move about as she desperately looks for her missing card, and her eyeballs could easily pop out when she comes to the conclusion that I am the one who stole her card. She is so certain of this and accusses me so surely that I come to believe I actually did it. The sight of her so angry at me makes me cry, and I go to the foot of the stairs to talk to another friend. Suddenly, she comes to me and says "Well, I found the card, I had sat on it... but it's still your fault!" Strangely, I feel more relieved than angry.

An Alternative World

2008-10-06T10:15:00.000-07:00

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." (As you Like it, William Shakespeare)

Her footsteps echoed across the New York city apartment. She dragged her night gown as she walked round and round. She was waiting for him. She was known to be very romantic, too romantic at times, so romantic that she was often impulsive and would do anything to keep love once she found it, once she found him. And she had found him. She felt she had power in her hands as she played with the hammer in the gun. Because that was love to her, a game, one she had lost one too many times. She quickly shifted the gun from on hand to the other, an ability she had gained through practice. She kept walking round and round. She was very much used to it, and knew how to handle this perfectly. She knew what to say so clearly in her head, that she could even write a script.

The slam in the door started her and interruptued her walking ritual. He walked in with a radiant, perfect smile and out his briefcase down as he exclaimed:

'Honey, I'm home!'

'Boy, aren't you a walking cliche!' she responded angrily, giving his back to him.

' What? Sweet heart, what's going on?' he said, his naivity seeming palpable.

'I was waiting for you, baby. How was work? I bet it was very... exciting!' she said, her irony seeming palpable.

'What do you mean?' he asked as he got nearer her. 'Baby, are you okay?' he was now practically holding her. As he caressed her arm up and down, he felt something in her hands. He looked down, and before he could distinguish what it was, she turned around and pointed the gun at him. 'Serena, what are you doing?'

She looked at him with resentment, her face that of a wild woman. Her intense blue eyes revealed her true nature. She tried to keep her temper and quietly asked him to sit down and have a drink with her. She then went on and on about how he had cheated on her and how she had found those pictures of him and that woman and after all she had done for him! He pretended to drink the scotch she had served him. He did not mean to anger her. He exaggerated his every gesture, and sput out the lines he was so familiar with, I am so sorry, I was drunk, it was just one night, she didn't mean anything to me.

'Oh shut up! You cheat on me and then you insult me by lying to me? Please, I've heard it all before, you should really work on your acting skills.' she said with a cruel sarcasm.

He frowned, as he didn't expect her to say that. Before he could tell her how he wasn't lying and how he loved her and how could she not trust him after all they'd been through and all those insignificant lies, she pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground with a thud and remaind still. She smiled, put the gun away in the underwear drawer, and served herself some tea. The lights went off. Exeuent. The curtain dropped. The theater burst in applause and the audience gave a standing ovation to the genial play they had just witnessed. The curtain came up again and the actors appeared saluting the audience.

'You put a good show tonight' he said, his love for her palpable.

'I always do' she replied amusingly, her love for him palpable.

'True' he said with that perfect smile of his. 'By the way, what was that about me having to work on my acting skills? That wasn't on the script.'

'I know. I just thought I'd include a personal opinion.'

They held hands as they bowed in front of the audience.

La Lluvia

2008-07-29T20:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-29T20:29:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-29T20:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-29T20:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-29T20:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-28T20:17:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-26T17:00:00.000-07:00

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.