Out Of Place

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 I once met a girl that didn’t look like the others, especially when she was among others. She seemed to be there but, at the same time, she looked like she was far away. People would think about her as shy, sometimes even distant for she usually stayed quiet, listening to what others had to say, smiling from time to time or nodding when she agreed, but she rarely spoke when there were more than two or three people around. If she was just with you, she was a little more different, not in her character, but, apparently, she felt more like talking. And when she did it, you discovered that she was quite smart, and funny, and she knew lots of facts that weren’t useful at all for your daily life but, that were interesting anyway. However, when surrounded by people, she seemed to slowly vanish among them, trying to become unnoticed. Sometimes, using that ability of disappearing in plain sight, she would actually escape from the room, trying to find a quieter place, a hidden space where she could stay for a while, away from the noise. Most of the people thought that was weird but she really needed it. In one of those occasion in which I found her alone, I asked her about it and she told me that she just felt out of place most of the time. I told her that everybody around seemed to like her and enjoy her company but she replied that it was something that she really couldn’t help, that it was beyond her control, feeling she didn’t belong there, she didn’t fit. “I guess that when you don’t feel comfortable with yourself, there is no way you can feel comfortable with others”.

Libertine till I die

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This Saturday, one of my youth dreams became true; one of those I though it was only a chimera because ten years is a long time. I’m talking about seeing The Libertines in concert. You can read my post about the concert itself in “Mind The Gap” but what I wanted to write about here is my feelings about people reactions after the concert, either people I don’t know that give their opinion in the social networks (mostly being quite disrespectful) or people I know that seem surprised (even disapproving) when I tell them I was there.

About the concert, if you have read my post or some news, you already know that it was a kind of chaos because a mix of the behaviour of the crowd and the most than disappointing organization. But the funny thing is that I’ve been reading comments about it from people that weren’t even there but, somehow, they have a wonderful and very well documented opinion of what happened, and freely blame the band for it. How can you blame a band (this one or any other) for the behaviour of the crowd that attend to their concerts? Especially in this kind of festivals with dozens of bands in a day, with liters of alcohol (supplied for the organization itself) being drunk from 12 in the afternoon, people of all kind and conditions… you know that things can go (and usually will go) wild. But why to blame the artist/s (if they don’t clearly support and encourage that behaviour) for it? In this case, the band was more than professional and tried to help the security staff to calm down the audience, stopping their performance even three times (can you imagine how annoying can that be for a band trying to make a remarkable comeback?) to ask the crowd to take it easy. But those “I_have_an_opinion_for_everything” blame the band and the whole crowd as well, pointing at the fans as drinkers, nutters, “druggies” and savages. I’m a huge fan of this band and I can assure you that I’m nothing of that: I didn’t even drink a drop of alcohol (I never do at concerts since I want to remember every single moment of them); and many of the people around me (some teenagers under 14 with their parents, young couples, groups of friends drinking just soft drinks…) were there trying to have a good time and enjoy one of their favourites band, probably for the first time. Because these people are so closed-minded that they just assume that as a fan of their music, you have the same life the artist you like has. So, that’s mean that if I like Rufus Wainwright I am gay (I like him, but I’m not); if I like The Smiths, I am an extremist vegetarian (I love them but I love meat as well, shame on me!); if I love Virginia Woolf’s books, I approve and support suicide; and if I love The Libertines I am an alcoholic and drug-addict. Well, let me explain you that being a fan of their music and their work doesn’t mean that I encourage, not even approve, their style of life. On the contrary, and always keeping in mind that everyone is free to do with their own lives as they please, I’m always scared of the possibility of such a talent being spoiled and destroyed by the use and abuse of alcohol and drugs (as it has happened before in the history of arts). And it’s really upsetting when you have to justify yourself because you are being judged for others’ behaviours, not even for your own actions.

I would like to ask people to be respectful with others’ likings, especially when they’re the opposite to yours, but I know it’s not going to happen, more now than you can spread your opinion freely and hidden behind a nickname on the social networks.

Anyway, I will continue to claim my love for this band and to defend this feeling against those who despise me for it, because “Libertine till I die, Libertine till I die, I know I am, I’m sure I am”.

The Libertines

That summer / Aquel verano

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It’s funny how music can make us remember things we thought forgotten, or make us relive moments of our past that happened long time ago. Or at least that is how music makes me feel. Even if the song I’m listening to is one I don’t like. And that’s what happened to me today. I was working with Radio Paradise as background music when the played a song I don’t like from a band I don’t like, but suddenly, hundreds of memories and feelings hit me, leaving me stunned for a couple of seconds.

I’m not a supporter of trying to relive the past but if I had to, I would probably choose the summer of 2006: the summer I spent with you two, guys; the summer of our first Summercase; the summer of nights out from dusk to dawn, dancing and laughing on private jokes; the summer we spent knowing each other till we became the best friends; the summer of our late youth. And it’s funny that all that wonderful memories have been awoken by a song none of us like.

So, after eight years and many, many changes in our lives, I come here today to say thank you for sharing with me some of the best days of my life, for giving me those moments that I’ll keep with me for the rest of my life. Thanks very much Ali and Patty for that summer. I miss you so much…

By the way, the song is this one: “This Picture” by Placebo.

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Es curioso cómo la música os hace recordar cosas que creíamos olvidadas, o nos hace revivir momentos de nuestro pasado que ocurrieron hace mucho tiempo. O al menos es así como me hace sentir a mí. Incluso cuando la canción que estoy escuchando es una que no me gusta. Y eso es lo que me ha pasado hoy. Estaba trabajando con Radio Paradise como música de fondo cuando han puesto una canción que no me gusta de un grupo que no me gusta pero, de repente, cientos de recuerdos y sentimientos me han atravesado, dejándome aturdida por un momento.

No soy partidaria de revivir el pasado pero si tuviera que hacerlo, probablemente elegiría el verano del 2006: el verano que pasé con vosotras, chicas; el verano de nuestro primer Summercase; el verano de salir por la noche desde el anochecer al amanecer, bailando y riéndonos de bromas sólo nuestras; el verano que pasamos conociéndonos hasta que nos convertimos en las mejores amigas; el verano de nuestra juventud tardía. Y es curioso que todos esos maravillosos recuerdos los haya despertado una canción que no nos gusta a ninguna!

Así que después de ocho años y muchos, muchos cambios en nuestras vidas, vengo aquí hoy para daros las gracias por compartir conmigo algunos de los mejores días de mi vida, por darme esos momentos que llevaré conmigo durante el resto de mi vida. Muchas gracias, Ali y Patty, por ese verano. Os echo tantísimo de menos…

Por cierto, la canción es “This Picture” de Placebo (video arriba).

Nice to meet you / Encantado de conocerte

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Hello again!

This is another of the assignment I’ve had to write for my online course. This time, I had to create (and describe) a character either from someone I know (even myself) changing a physical appearance (male to female or vice versa, younger or older…), or create it just from you imagination. So let me introduce you to Andy, my character.

Andy was small, even for a seven years old kid. And he hated it. His elder brother, Lucas, was a lovely boy of twelve, intelligent and mature… and tall and skinny, one of the tallest among his schoolmates. Everybody loved Lucas, so they loved Cristine, their little sister. The almost five years old girl was stunning at her age. Her big green eyes framed by long red eyelashes caught people attention as soon as they saw her. But that was only a part of her charm. When she smiled, her round freckled face seemed to illuminate all around her. Andy couldn’t understand why they loved her so much if she was only a stupid chatterbox with a pretty face. And what about Lucas, that damn know-all… 

He used to look at his reflection in the mirror and wonder why he had been given the worst characteristics among his siblings. He was not only small but too skinny which made him look as he was a couple of years younger. His short thick black hair made her skin look yellowish and dull. His thin lips and small black eyes, too close over a straight nose, gave him a severe look, despite he always tried to smile. A smile that barely reached his eyes. ‘But what does it matter when you have the brain?’ he used to said to himself. He might not be as intelligent as Lucas, but he was clever, and cunning. His marks at school were just average, with no special talent for any subject but for lies. He knew how to charm his teachers. At the end, his tiny body was quite helpful when he needed to make use of his “weakness”. Adults always tended to feel some kind of pity for him, as they felt the need to protect him though he wanted neither their compassion nor their help. 

His schoolmates were another thing. They avoid him as much as possible. Most of them had suffered some of his tricks and didn’t trust him at all, but even though, they were still so easy to cheat. Those fools! How could they be so stupid? Lies came to his lips as easy as water comes down from a tap: he only had to open his mouth and…

That’s what he was doing now in front of the headmaster and his English teacher. With a trembling voice he explained them how Jo, that kid from the next door class, had make him give him his new rugby ball under the threat of being bitten. The boy raised his voice to deny it, claiming that it was Andy itself who asked him to take it. ‘Why would I give him this ball if it’s one of the most valuable things I own?’ he said to his teachers. Jo was speechless as he looked to Andy, who looked him back, almost pouting. But his eyes shinned with joy, as saying ‘You might think twice before laughing at me again’.

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¡Hola otra vez!

Este es otra de mis “tareas” para el curso on-line que estoy haciendo. Esta vez tenía que crear (y describir) un personaje, bien a partir de alguien conocido (incluso yo misma) y cambiar algo fundamental de su aspecto (de hombre a mujer o viceversa, más joven o viejo…), bien totalmente a partir de mi imaginación. Así que permitidme presentaros a Andy, mi personaje!

Andy era bajito, incluso para un niño de siete años. Y lo odiaba. Su hermano mayor, Lucas, era un encantador niño de doce años, inteligente y maduro… y alto y delgado, uno de los más altos entre sus compañeros de colegio. Todos querían a Lucas, y también a Cristine, su hermana pequeña. La niña de casi cinco años ya era preciosa a esa edad. Sus enormes ojos verdes enmarcados por unas larguísimas pestañas rojizas captaban la atención de todos en cuanto la veían. Pero eso sólo era una parte de su encanto. Cuando sonreía, su carita redonda y pecosa parecía iluminarlo todo a su alrededor. Andy no entendía por qué todo el mundo la quería tanto si sólo era una estúpida charlatana con una cara bonita. Y qué decir de Lucas, ese maldito sabelotodo…

Él solía mirarse al espejo y preguntarse por qué le había tocado la peor parte de entre los tres. No es que fuera bajito sino además demasiado delgado, lo que le hacía parecer un par de años menor de lo que en realidad era. Su pelo corto, grueso y negro hacía parecer su piel aún más cetrina y apagada. Sus labios finos y los pequeños ojos negros, demasiado juntos sobre su recta nariz, le daban un aspecto severo, a pesar de que él siempre intentaba sonreir. Una sonrisa que rara vez alcanzaba sus ojos. ‘Pero ¿qué importa eso si tienes cerebro?1 solía decirse a sí mismo. Puede que no fuera tan inteligente como Lucas, pero era listo, y taimado. Sus notas no pasaban de la media, no tenía ningún talento especial salvo para las mentiras. Sabía cómo ganarse a los profesores. Después de todo, ese cuerpo canijo le resltaba bastante útil cuando necesitaba hacer uso de su “debilidad”. Los adultos siempre tenían tendencia a sentir pena por él, como si sintieran la necesidad de protegerle, aunque él no quería ni su compasión ni su ayuda. 

Sus compañeros ya eran otra cuestión. Le evitaban todo lo posible. La mayoría de ellos ya habían sufrido alguna de sus artimañas y no se fiaban de él, pero aún así, eran tan fáciles de engañar. ¡Menudos idiotas! ¿Cómo podían ser tan estúpidos? Las mentiras acudían a sus labios como el agua a un grifo: sólo tenía que abrir la boca y…

Eso era lo que estaba haciendo ahora en frente del director del colegio y de su profesor de inglés. Con voz temblorosa es explicaba cómo Jo, el chaval de la clase de al lado, le había obligado a darle su nuevo balón de rugby bajo amenaza de darle una paliza. El chico le interrumpió negándolo, afirmando que había sido el propio Andy el que le había pedido que lo cogiera. ‘¿Por qué iba a darle el balón si es una de las cosas más valiosas que tengo?’ dijo a sus profesores. Jo permaneció mudo de asombro mientras miraba a Andy, que le devolvió la mirada, haciendo pucheros. Pero sus ojos brillaban de alegría, como diciendo ‘Puede que la próxima vez te lo pienses dos veces antes de reírte de mi’.

The local library / La Biblioteca municipal

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This is a short story I’ve had to write as an exercise for a course online. I had to write a short story based in the first thing I listened to on the radio that morning. And it was a song called “Her name was Audre” from Maxïmo Park. So here you have the story and the song at the end of the story. To Patty.

– ‘I must look creepy’ he said to himself.

He had been messing around those shelves for more than 30 minutes and taking books but putting them back without even opening them.. But he didn’t need any of them actually. He was there for her. He had visited the local library more times in the last month than in his 26 years of life. But it was because she wasn’t there before. She seemed to be so concentrated: her right hand on the book keeping it opened in the right page; her left hand on the back of her neck while playing unconsciously with her short hair; her brow slightly furrowed… Then, suddenly as she had notices she was being observed, she raised her eyes, directly to his; eyes like liquid copper. His heart stopped beating for what seemed to be minutes and started moving again when she smiled at him.

  • ‘It’s not a good idea’ she said in such a very quite voice that he could hardly hear her.
  • ‘Pardon?’ he replied trying to guess what did she mean. ‘What is not a good idea: staring at you, thinking about you, falling in love with you..?’
  • ‘Whatever you are looking for, I’m pretty sure you won’t find it in that book’ she said making a light movement with her head pointing at him.

He stood there looking at her as paralyzed, then he looked at the book he was holding and looked back to her.

  • ‘Oh’ was all he was able to say.
  • ‘It’s not that is a bad book, or maybe it is, but anytime I’ve tried to read it, I’ve ended up bringing it back the next day.’
  • ‘Ah!’
  • ‘Maybe I can help you if you tell me what are you looking for…’ her smile even wider.
  • ‘I’ve been looking for you’ he would had liked to reply, but he said ‘Well, mmm, I’m not sure, to be honest.’
  • ‘Oh, ok. No worries. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
  • ‘No, no! Of course you didn’t disturb me. I really appreciate your help!’ Was that color on her on her cheeks?
  • ‘Is this seat free, by the way?’ he asked her.
  • ‘For you? Always’ she said winking at him, ‘but if you don’t mind…’
  • ‘If you don’t mind…! If you don’t mind…!! I need a book from that shelf.’ Mark looked at the man who was standing in front of him and who seemed to be running out of patient.
  • ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, moving at the same time he looked at the girl. She hadn’t moved at all, she was exactly in the same position. Then, the girl next to her – a friend he guessed-  touched her arm and asked her:
  • ‘Time for a coffee break, don’t you think?’
  • ‘Yes, let’s go. I need some fresh air. Besides, that guy is making me feel a bit uncomfortable; he’s been there for ages, staring at me,’ she said trying not to be heard.

But he did though he’d rather not; his heart broken into pieces for it was easier to be ignored than to be rejected.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Este es un relato corto que he tenido que escribir como ejercicio para un curso online. Tenía que escribir una historia basada en lo primero que escuchase en la radio esa mañana y fue una canción titulada “Her name was Audre” de Maxïmo Park. Así que aquí tenéis la historia y la canción (justo encima de este párrafo). Dedicado a Patty.

– ‘Debo parecer un bicho raro,’ pensó para sí mismo.

Había estado merodeando entre las estanterías durante más de 30 minutos, cogiendo libros y volviéndolos a poner en su lugar sin ni siquiera abrirlos. Pero en realidad no necesitaba ninguno. Estaba allí por ella. Había ido más veces a la biblioteca municipal más veces en el último mes que en sus 26 años de vida. Pero era porque antes ella no estaba. Parecía tan concentrada: su mano derecha sobre el libro para mantenerlo abierto por la página adecuada; su mano izquierda jugando inconscientemente con su pelo que apenas llegaba a la altura de la nuca; el ceño ligeramente fruncido… Entonces, de repente como si hubiese notado que estaba siendo observada, levantó la mirada, directamente hacia la de él, sus ojos como cobre fundido. Su corazón dejó de latir por lo que parecieron ser minutos y empezó a moverse otra vez cuando le sonrió.

  • ‘No es una buena idea,’ dijo ella en una voz tan baja que casi no pudo oírla.
  • ‘¿Cómo?’ respondió intentando adivinar a qué se refería. ‘¿Qué no es una buena idea: observarte, pensar en ti, enamorarme de ti…?’
  • ‘Sea lo que sea lo que buscas, estoy segura de que no podrás encontrarlo en ese libro,’ dijo dirigiéndose hacia él con un leve movimiento de la cabeza.

Él se quedó allí mirándola como paralizado, luego miró el libro que sostenía en sus manos y volvió a dirigir su mirada hacia ella.

  • ‘Oh,’ fue todo lo que pudo decir.
  • ‘No es que sea un mal libro, o puede que sí, pero cada vez que he intentado leerlo, he acabado por devolverlo al día siguiente.’
  • ‘¡Ah!’
  • ‘Si me dices lo que buscas, lo mismo puedo ayudarte…’ su sonrisa aún más amplia.
  • ‘Te buscaba a ti,’ hubiese querido contestar, pero dijo ‘Bueno, mmm, no estoy seguro, la verdad.’
  • ‘Oh, vale. No pasa nada. No pretendía molestarte.’
  • ‘¡No, no! Claro que no me has molestado. ¡Agradezco mucho tu ofrecimiento!’ ¿Era eso rubor en sus mejillas?
  • ‘Por cierto, ¿está libre este asiento?’ le preguntó.
  • ‘¿Para tí? Siempre,’ le dijo guiñándole un ojo, ‘pero si no te importa…’
  • ‘¡Si no te importa…! ¡¡Si no te importa…!!! Necesito un libro de ese estante.’ Mark miró al hombre que tenía en frente y que parecía estar impacientándose.
  • ‘Lo siento,’ dijo, apartándose al tiempo que miraba a la chica. No se había movido ni un ápice, seguía exactamente en la misma postura. Entonces, la chica sentada junto a ella – una amiga supuso – le tocó el brazo y le preguntó:
  • ‘Hora del café, ¿te parece?’
  • ‘Sí, vamos, Necesito algo de aire fresco. Además, ese chico me está poniendo un poco nerviosa; ha estado ahí siglos, mirándome,’ dijo intentando que no se la oyera.

Pero él lo escuchó aunque hubiese preferido no hacerlo; su corazón roto en pedazos ya que es más fácil ser ignorado que rechazado.

The moment / El momento

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Everything was tidy and clean. It looked as she had been doing some cleaning. Even the bed had been made. But she was lying on it, immobile, her head on the pillow, one hand resting upon her stomach, the other along her body, on the edge of the mattress. She looked peaceful, maybe happy. Her eyelashes drew a tiny shadow under her eyes making her look more fragile. The last rays of light from dusk coming through the window caressed her skin, trying to warm her up. But it was too late. She could be asleep, but the paleness of her face proved that she wasn’t there anymore. She wouldn’t wake up, she wouldn’t open her eyes or say a word anymore. She had decided that was the moment to die for she had never been so happy and she wouldn’t be that happy again. She wanted to leave now that her heart was full of joy and love. She didn’t want to wait until it was too late and all those feelings became just memories to keep her only half alive. And so she did. She left this life as she did everything else, calmly, carefully and trying to be unnoticed. Just a little piece of paper fallen from her inert hand was left as the last show of her love: “thank you for the life you gave me”.

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Todo estaba limpio y ordenador. Parecía como si hubiese estado haciendo limpieza. Incluso la cama estaba hecha. Pero ella estaba allí tumbada, inmóvil, la cabeza sobre la almohada, una mano descansando sobre su estómago, la otra a lo largo del cuerpo, al borde del colchón. Parecía en paz, puede que feliz. Sus pestañas dibujaban una ligera sombra bajo los ojos haciéndola parecer aún más frágil. Los últimos rayos de luz del atardecer atravesaban la ventana y acariciaban su piel, como intentando calentarla. Pero era demasiado tarde. Podría haber estado dormida, pero la palidez de su rostro confirmaba que se había ido para siempre. No se iba a despertar, nunca más abriría los ojos o diría una sola palabra. Había decidido que era el momento de morir porque nunca había sido tan feliz y nunca lo volvería a ser. Quería dejarlo ahora que su corazón estaba lleno de alegría y amor. No quería esperar hasta que fuera demasiado tarde y todo esos sentimientos se convirtieran en recuerdos que la mantuviesen sólo medio viva. Y así lo hizo. Dejó esta vida como hizo todo lo demás, tranquilamente, con cuidado y tratando de pasar desapercibida. Sólo había dejado un pequeño trozo de papel que se había deslizado de su mano inerte, como una última muestra de su amor: “gracias por la vida que me disteis”.

My funny Valentine

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Would it happen again this year as it did the previous one? Next day would be Valentine’s Day and Adele was feeling nervous and worried at the same time. She had always felt annoyed by that day and all the stuff around it. For her it was not a celebration of love but a reminder of her loneliness. She felt embarrassed and sad and guilty at the same time when she had to admit in front of others that she had no plans or dates for the 14th of February. And she felt angry as well when people tried to patronise her with things like “oh, well, you’re still young” or “it’s just an invention to make you spend money”… She usually smiled and bowed trying to make them change the subject when what she really wanted to say was “go to hell and, please, don’t come back”. But she knew what they thought “a woman in her thirties and no boyfriend or partner or special friend? She must have some fault… probably a serious one”. Why? Why was it so strange to be alone? Why people saw it as a failure? And what is more, why did she ended up feeling as she was a failure for being alone on Valentines’s Day?

But last year was different. It had been a week day, as any other for Adele. Well, as any other but for the everything-red heart-shaped around her: shops, restaurants, markets, the underground?!?! All the morning at work had been a nightmare, listening to plans and presents and love messages, and she was getting grumpier and grumpier. So she thought she needed a reward for all that “suffering” and after work, she went to her local cafe, a very small one, quiet, kind of a vintage, with nice coffee and lovely cakes. She was a regular customer for she used to go there at least two or three days a week. However, she was not one of those well-known customers due to her shyness. So she went there, smiled at the girl serving and asked for a cappuccino.
– Would you like to try our Valentine’s special cappuccino with cream and cherry topping and chocolate bits? It’s double size to share, as well, for the same price.
– No, thank you, just a regular cappuccino – she said calmly despite in her mind she replied ‘thank you very much but my invisible partner is allergic to cherries, chocolate, coffee and, actually, allergic to life as well’.
– Would you like some chocolate on top?
– Yes, please. Thank you very much – she said while she changed her mind to leave any tip as the girl sprinkled the chocolate in a perfect heart on the top of the foam.
She slowly walked through the cafe to her favourite table, in a corner next to the window and she sat down there ready to enjoy her coffee after taking wickedly half heart with the teaspoon.
She had been hardly 10 minutes there when the bartender came to her and asked her:
– Sorry for bothering but are you Adele?
– Yes, I am.
– Then, this is for you, I think – she said as she offered Adele a bunch of white marguerites.
– It must be a mistake, this must be for another girl.
– The instructions were to give them to the brunette girl called Adele with a cappuccino, seated at the corner table looking thought the window while biting her lower lip. It’s quite a precise description, I think.
– But… How? Who?
– My colleague, who was the one who was here when this arrived, just told me what to do with it, he didn’t tell me anything else, sorry. I have to go back to work.
She smiled at Adele and went back to work while Adele looked stunningly at the flowers. There was a small card, with a very simple message: Happy Valentine’s Day; but no clue of who was the responsible of that present. She looked around thinking that maybe that person was still there, watching, but there were only a few customers, all in groups and none of them seemed to be paying any attention to her. She waited there, for a hour, but nothing happened, nobody spoke to her or show any interest in her.
So after nearly two hours, she decided to leave. She took all her belongings and the bunch of flowers and went back home with just a single thought on her mind: who?

The first thing she did when se arrived home was to put the marguerites into water. Then she checked her mails – no personal letters, her e-mail – nothing special, and had a look at her profiles on social networks – nothing. She still had no idea about the person who bought the flowers for her. And how was she supposed to figure it out? There was no way to get any clue! Maybe going back to the cafe to speak to the guy who received the bunch? Wasn’t it a bit weird? She was so confused… But she had to focus for the next day she had a very important meeting at work and she needed to read and write several notes for it. And that’s what she did until late in the evening when she went straight to bed in order to get some rest despite the quiet voice inside her head still talking about what had happened in the cafe.
The next morning, when she got up and saw the flowers in the living room, she remembered the previous afternoon but tried to get rid of that thought and went to work. It was such a busy day that she had not time to think about the incident and only on her way back to home the idea of going to the cafe passed her mind, but it was late and she was tired ‘maybe tomorrow’ she thought.
But tomorrow never came and sometimes because it was late, or she was tired, or just because she felt more and more difficult to ask the guy about it as the time passed, she just let it go and try to forget it, and only when she saw again a marguerite, all those feelings came back to her.

And now, 364 days later she still had no idea about who wished her a Happy Valentine’s day.and what’s more, she had no idea about to do. Should she go to the cafe next day? Did she really wanted to go? And what would she do if she was given another present? Or what would she do if not?

Five o’clock. She has just been in the cafe for 5 minutes, as usual, cappuccino, corner table looking through the window… when the boy who had made her the coffee approached her. And her heart started to beat faster and faster. And a storm of feelings hit her, and she started thinking that maybe it was not such and awful day…
– Excuse me, are you Adele? – she nodded.- Then this debit card is yours, I think. You dropped it when you payed your coffee.
– Oh, – she said trying not to sound disappointed- thank you very much.
– You’re welcome.
She waited until 6:30 and then she left. Nothing happened. Well, actually, something happened. A car passed her by while she was walking home and for it had been raining the last 48 hours, it just splashed all the water accumulated on the road and left her wet and full of mud. So that was what she needed to confirm what she already knew, she thought as she get into bed: Valentine’s Day sucks.

Note: this story has been written as response Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge 

Would you?

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 Would you notice if I disappeared? If I vanished into the air like the mist in a sunny morning. If I turned the corner without looking back. If I faded away like a dream, would you remember me in the morning? Would you miss anything of me, a look, a smile, my perfume, the sound of my voice or… my silence? Would you feel that silence around you is noisier without me? Would you ever think of me again? If I never touched your arm again, would your skin miss the warmth of my fingers? Would you want for that look in my eyes if your face didn’t meet mine again? Would your heart realise that it is less loved if my heart stopped beating for you? If I left you without saying a word, would you spend a single moment wishing I could come back?

 Would you notice If I disappeared? Would you?

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

 ¿Te darías cuenta si desapareciese? Si me desvaneciera en el aire como la niebla en una mañana de sol. Si girase en una esquina sin mirar atrás. Si me evaporase como un sueño, ¿me recordarías por la mañana? ¿Echarías de menos algo de mi, una mirada, mi sonrisa, mi perfume, el sonido de mi voz o… mi silencio? ¿Sentirías que el silencio a tu alrededor es más ruidoso sin mí? Si no volviese a tocar tu brazo, ¿echaría de menos tu piel el calor de mis dedos? ¿Anhelarías esa mirada en mis ojos si tu rostro no volviese a encontrarse con el mío? ¿Se daría cuenta tu corazón de que es un poco menos querido si mi corazón dejase de latir por ti? Si te dejase sin decir un palabra, ¿pasarías un solo momento deseando que volviera?

 ¿Te darías cuenta si desapareciese? ¿Lo harías?

The End Of The Tunnel

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 fort-point-arches

  What would she find? Did she really want to know? Did it matter in the end? She didn’t think so because she was going there anyway. She couldn’t help it. She kept on walking through the tunnel, towards the darkness. Step by step, she was leaving the light behind her. As she passed by the arches, the rays of the sun became less and less bright, less and less warm. The darkness in front of her seemed to be alive, to move around her, whispering in her ears in a language she couldn’t understand. But she knew what it wanted. It wanted her body, her mind, her soul. And she wasn’t strong enough to fight against it. She just abandoned herself to the impulse of walking forwards.

  She knew she was nearly there. Closer and closer with every step. She could hardly see the floor under her bare feet. Those flagstones worn down by many other feet that followed the same path. But she didn’t need to see it as she could feel it. So she closed her eyes and keep on walking. Thrilled and scared at the same time, willing to know the truth but frightened of what she could find.

  And then she stopped. She was there. She had reached the end of the tunnel. She knew it because the air around had changed. She took a deep breath, to get some strength. And she opened her eyes, slowly, and looked straight into the darkness. And what she saw took her breath as she saw something she had never expected to see. She saw the face of fear, the face of cowardice and guilt, the face of shame. She saw her own face because at the end of the tunnel there was nothing but a mirror.

Note: this short story is been written as part of the Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  ¿Qué encontraría?¿Realmente quería saberlo?¿De verdad importaba? No lo creía porque se dirigía hacia allí de todas formas. No podía evitarlo. Seguía caminando a través del túnel, hacia la oscuridad. Paso a paso, dejando la luz tras ella. A medida que pasaba por los arcos, los rayos de sol se hacían cada vez menos brillantes, menos cálidos. La oscuridad delante de ella parecía estar viva, moverse a su alrededor, susurrándole al oído en una lengua que no podía entender. Pero sabía lo que quería. Quería su cuerpo, su mente, su alma. Y no tenía fuerza suficiente para luchar contra ella. Así que se abandonó al impulso de seguir caminando hacia delante.

  Sabía que estaba casi allí. Un poco más cerca con cada paso. Apenas podía ver el suelo bajo sus pies desnudos. Esas losas desgastados por otros muchos pies que siguieron el mismo camino. Pero no necesitaba verlo porque podía sentirlo. Así que cerró los ojos y siguió caminando. Emocionada y asustada al mismo tiempo, deseando saber la verdad pero atemorizada de lo que pudiera averiguar.

  Y entonces se detuvo. Allí estaba. Había alcanzado el final del túnel. Lo sabía porque el aire a su alrededor había cambiado. Respiró profundamente para coger fuerzas. Y abrió los ojos, lentamente, y miró directamente a la oscuridad. Lo que vio le cortó la respiración pues vio algo que jamás había esperado ver. Vio la cara del miedo, la cara de la cobardía y la culpa, la cara de la vergüenza. Vio su propio rostro pues al final del túnel no había más que un espejo.

Nota: esta historia se ha escrito como parte del reto semanal del Daily Post

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Rag dolls/ Muñecas de trapo

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Inspired by Patty and Ali and, therefore, dedicated to them. 

  Sick and tired of porcelain dolls, always asking for help, always needing to be rescued. Sick and tired of porcelain dolls made to be in a showcase, to be admired from a distance, but not to play with them because you can break them. They are so delicate… But if they break, their true nature will be reveal. You will realise how cold they are when you try to pick up the pieces, and how sharp they are – they can cut your flesh as knifes; and inside… they are hollow, empty, nothing to discover inside of them.

  That is why I prefer rag dolls. They are difficult to break, ready to be a loyal companion for your adventures. They are warm, they can be cuddled, they can be mended -though they will never be the same doll again because of the scar. They keep the aromas; you can smell the perfume, the scene of the last person who held them. They might not be so beautiful, so perfect or sophisticated, but they are made to enjoy life with them, to life, to be love.

  Unfortunately, the world still prefer the porcelain dolls. Despite their forced postures, their dramatic gestures, their emptiness… they always win.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Inspirado en Patty y Ali y, por tanto, dedicado a ellas.

  Harta de las muñecas de porcelana, siempre pidiendo ayuda, siempre necesitando ser rescatadas. Harta de las muñecas de porcelana, hechas para estar en un expositor, para ser admiradas desde la distancia pero no para poder jugar con ellas porque se pueden romper. Son tan delicadas… Pero si se rompen, se descubre su verdadera naturaleza. Te darás cuenta de los frías que son cuando intentes recoger los pedazos, y lo afilados que son – pueden cortarte la carne como cuchillos; y por dentro… están huecas, vacías, nada que descubrir en su interior.

  Por eso prefiero las muñecas de trapo; difíciles de romper, dispuestas a ser una fiel compañeras de aventuras. Son cálidas, se dejan abrazar, se pueden remendar si se rompen – aunque nunca volverá a ser la misma muñeca, queda la cicatriz. Atrapan los aromas, pudiendo oler el perfume, la esencia de la última persona que las sostuvo en sus brazos. Puede que no sean tan bonitas, o perfectas, o sofisticadas, pero están hechas para disfrutar de la vida con ellas, para vivir, para ser amadas.

  Por desgracia, el mundo sigue prefiriendo a las muñecas de porcelana. A pesar de sus poses forzadas, de sus exagerados ademanes, de su vacío interior… siempre ganan.