Blog de practica creativa Enrique

OFF THE WALL

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Tue, 02 Mar 2021 17:36:00 +0000

OFF THE WALL

THE ORGANIC COFFE SHOP

I never thought about shaving my newly brewed little mustache the day I saw them. I knew I had to go in there. I had seen these girls on so many magazines.

And because it was raining so lightly, some people sat in awe in front of that coffee shop just sipping onto their tea cups.

I figured out that, like dude, if they were older than me, of course, that if they were older they knew my intentions right there, I was just there to explore them.

Those were some intimate things dude, that feeling I had you know, that they could take my visit as a visit from someone who had never seen, or even had been near this mellow sound music and art lifestyle of a place. That they would wonder about why I just didn’t have any urges to enjoy the outside balcony, you know, sit there and wait for the waitress feeling no need to be on a hurry. I guess my only hurry was to see how long would it take them to find out I didn’t belong there.

It was a weather given by the gods that day. And for me that grinded a bit of a pressure in to my attitude choices, that small tiny noise that sometimes made me stop all intentions at the vert-ramp in the skatepark, like I was really going down to hit the concrete kind of tiny noise that tells you, “You missed a posture with speed, dude, you gonna go down, jaja.” That copping noise at the top of the ramp you heard your trucks sliding but it stopped suddenly. Dude, you have no idea!

I am fourteen, and I did go in that coffee shop, and that tiny voice that sometimes speaks to me when I’m shooting the elevator drop took over again, “If anything can go well, it will.”

I opened the glass door and stepped inside the nice smelling wood deck, in front of their counter, there they were... two of them, both sooo pretty! And one looked at me with these big blue eyes I wished I could register in to them as my hospital.

THE SKATE CONTEST

I had been hanging around for too long at the parking lot, and then I heard the

M. C. calling the skaters in my round.

I grabbed my board and made it on foot to the street course, threw my board on top of the quarter pipe ramp and climbed on top of the deck.

I settled my stare at the reality of the event. The crowd, the tents and green grass around the course, the competitors sharing thoughts with each other about their postures. Sounds of tail tabs and missed boards crashing on ramps and walls.

Clock wasn’t running on me yet, I realized, while competitors cruised the course seeming to look like forest creatures that stopped and started their ways. They were warming up inside that gap between rounds, very aware, and very cautious of their surrounding skaters.

A fifty-fifty grind over the rail was dismounted backside, during this wild and natural crossing of fast-trashing skaters, transferring in to a backside heel flip over the fly-box.

My ears where suddenly stalked by pleasant notes that remembered me about the sensibilities of projection and landing, I noted it was a skater girl, seemingly of the organic or yoga sort.

Disruption was upon my watery eyes right there and my heart hurted and burned like a locomotive engine when she rolled all over my moment of awe, just before my turn.

I came back to myself and thought that she must’ve had the whim to touch and be touched.

All was quiet when she landed the heel-flip. The trashing had stopped at this time, because those notes had the complicity of a harmony made up by wheels, metal and concrete, not common to the ears of the oracle that watched.

I was told by a little bird that she protected her tails using a couple of pink tail pads she had called the bubblegum’s…

Flurried with grace and stillness, she glided very close to me, and then inflicted a sudden snap on one of her tails bubblegum’s. She had decided a long time ago that she had to go down to the floor level, flying over the ten stairs of the course. She stared at my eyes before gravity took her away to the oblivion.

I felt like a royal stupid…

I thought of my turn in the contest with flutter of heart, with thoughts about her tightening her footing and legs, so that she could stick on top her flying carpet.

My heart wasn’t strong enough to let myself see her landing, nor did I felt the fondness to focus my earing to that moment of sudden flush with the concrete. My ego had won the battle, I knew what was coming, and I felt dead! She was the girl from the coffee shop.

My turn arose with unprecedented impetus; my precious mussing had been consumed all by the sudden stop of the music. It was my turn, and I tell you, I don’t know how, in a spark of time, my dead-self no longer felt asleep.

I guess that my heart had taken over the leadership of the physical, assuming he was a vase of glass in the process of being blown. Silence was upon me for ten seconds when suddenly I realized my name was called to go for my round.

And I just took off vertical, right off the wall.

El Aroma, la Visión, y el BMW.

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Thu, 01 Oct 2020 15:31:00 +0000

El Aroma, la Visión, y el BMW.

«No puedo vivir contigo, no puedo vivir sin ti. Que calma en este negocio, me recuerda el día después de la noche buena. He trapeado, he removido escombros y he acomodado cosas que jamás hubiera hecho a mi tiempo. Y al fin he encontrado lo que estaba buscando» —se dijo Abel.

Fantaseaba en su mente, balanceaba su tasa caliente y su teléfono en la mano izquierda, y en la derecha reposaba su mejilla. Detenido y estático en el medio del salón comedor, se sorteaba la idea de que caería sentado frente a una de sus hermosas mesas de tipo bistró, y de que no entraría nadie para ser atendido mientras saboreaba de su maquiatto.

Y así le pasaban los segundos y sus ojos ya cansados no paraban de merodear el área, una leve brisa imaginaria alerto sus sentidos, y sus piernas se liberaron de la inmovilidad y se dispusieron de la encomienda.

¡Y lo logro! Se regocijaba sentado, su equipo surround le lloviznaba las notas de su compacto “Relax September coffe Jazz, Instrumental for Autumm.

https://youtu.be/WA0BU0ek4SM

Pero es que, ¿a dónde ir con la mente en momentos como este? Si la situación le ha llevado su espíritu a lugares difíciles, donde no aparecen las expectativas para rescatarlo. Sin nadie a quien obsequiar un complemento para endulzar su alma, lo hacía compensar sus emociones el pausar la limpieza un momento. Realizar un horizonte mental despejado y así aceptar la desmemoria de los tiempos mejores.

Si algún caminante se animaba a seguir los aromas y decidía entrar al lugar, era para su intuición como el reconocer alguna estrella fugaz en una noche tranquila y despejada de nubes.

Deben saber que Abel atendía con ese mismo ánimo todos los días la terraza del café.

Regaba todos los tiestos que el viento balanceaba de sus marcos. Dejando empapado todas las mañanas el suelo y cantidades de plantas incluyendo guirlandas, helechos, eucaliptos entre muchas otras bien seleccionadas. Bautizándolo todo con el deseo y la fe de que su negocio volviera a prosperar.

Es ahí en la terraza donde hoy permanece embelesada una linda pareja, rejuveneciéndose con los visuales de esa flora. Habían reposado su piel del candente sol y sus deseos ya crecían en dirección a la aventura. Al la emoción de adentrarse en el negocio para rendirse a las delicias que pudieran encontrarse en este hallazgo.

Más adelante la pareja se movió a observar la colección de tazas mostrada en los tableros detrás de los cristales de la fachada. Sus miradas y sus gestos asentían con el ocurrir en sus paladares. Y ensimismados en la grandiosa selección, sus ojos apenas reconocían atrás el dibujo de la silueta de Abel.

Ahora todos sus corazones vencidos por el aroma, eran rehenes de la misma visión…

¿Entraron aquí? –se pregunto Abel, leía su correo electrónico, su tiempo marcado por el maquiatto que enfriaba.

Pero sus visitantes habían entrado y ya pasaban frente a la vitrina de pastelería. Se desplazaban como si fueren unos intrépidos en el deporte sub acuático scuba, muy precavidos, cogidos de brazo y observando cada Cannoli, cada Macaroon, cada Reina de Almendra como si fueren especies exóticas y dignas de fotografiar. Ni sus pasos se escucharon.

Sedado de una calma trabajada, la mirada de Abel se inclina y revela la intención de sus visitantes; se levanta en calma.

—Bienvenidos al “Café de la Via”, mi nombre es Abel. ¿Cómo les sirvo hoy? —se movió frente a ellos, les señalo una de sus mesas.

—Buenas —contesta Gerónimo.

—¿Que les trae por acá? ¿Alguna pastelería mediterránea? Puedo asar algún jugoso filete si lo desean.

—Gracias muy amable, solo dos sandwich de jamón y por favor, que sea con ese pan Francés que vimos en los canastos. Tostado por favor, y dos maquiattos.

— ¡Bienvenidos! , ¿Qué les trae por esta ciudad?

—Somos del norte, nos hemos establecido aquí cerca de esta zona.

— ¿Están seguros de lo que han hecho? — Abel les obsequia el menú—. Aquí llega gente de todos lugares por los miles —les recordó enfocado en una contestación.

Ahora más que nunca sabe que en algún momento entrara en la cocina, a realizar su rol, y no solo de dueño si no que ahora de chef. Salir en calma, sonreír y encarar sus clientes y sobre todo, olvidar su maquiatto; que espera su momento dentro de esta partitura.

—Pero lo he vendido todo, hasta compre una casa y relocalice mi studio.

—Hay que estar precavido para vivir aquí.

—Me acostumbrare, me acostumbro, y será todo bueno.

—Todos dicen lo mismo.

—Sí pero somos diferente a todos. Nos gusta el teatro, el Jazz y, ahh… las antigüedades.

—Bah, son como todos esos que se van, eso es lo que todos dicen. Todos hablan de la misma manera. No podrán con este clima el cuerpo les dirá que no.

—Nos aclimataremos.

—Ya verán, ya verán como regresan como todos los anteriores. Este clima los va a probar. Mire el chaleco que usted lleva puesto ahora mismo, ¿no le parece inapropiado?

Geronimo sonríe y se mira la chaqueta que lo identifica tantas veces en el estudio de grabación.

Abel hace un amago para regresar a su mesa donde reposa el maquiatto, pero en ese instante de ímpetu es donde recuerda que es en la cocina donde debe de concluir su imaginación, pestañea y su vista acecha el universo.

La música embelesa todo el salón mientras la compañera de Gerónimo repasa el menú.

En la cocina Abel corta los ingredientes con mucha discreción, con el enfoque de un virtuoso en el arte de la alta costura. Vela de sus planchas con el deseo de encontrar plasmado sobre sus panes, el estampado de colores marrones que a tantos de sus clientes hacía volver.

Más adelante y como un danzante del Walts marca su territorio, así mismo se ocupo de que su bandeja fuera bien servida.

Pero el anfitrión recordó su tasa, se compuso y se encomendó a su cosa una vez más. Reconoció que no era necesario ofrendar su espíritu a la faena cotidiana del servir. Ya era muy tarde, porque su espíritu estaba confiado en el amor a los acordes y las notas que temprano sonaban dentro de sí. Y por eso la decisión llego como instinto.

Ya sentado y preparado a lo que fuese, jugó su última carta y entrego su tiempo de melodías otra vez a la suerte. A unas dos mesas de su visita, que ya comentaban sobre la calidad del lugar; sujeto su tasa ya sin aromas y concluyo.

« Aquí dentro lo que me debe quedar es agua »

Y así, alegre, se dispuso a dar la oportunidad al sorbo inicial de su elixir.

—Sabe que Abel —menciono Gerónimo, todavía secando sus manos, reposa un brazo por encima del espaldar, de sesgo sin hacer contacto con su anfitrión—, también me traje el Chevy naranja del 57, es convertible, luce como nuevo.

—Nada de Chevys para mí, yo amo los BMW y ahí se refugia mi corazón —susurro frente a una tasa sin iniciar, ahora imaginaba en suspenso si a su cliente le habían sido agradables o no sus previas posturas.

—*—

Gerónimo se incorpora y devuelve la mirada a su querida, ambos asintieron al sonreír. Baja sus manos y palpa la mesa con ambas.

—Yo también tengo un BMW —recito al aire—, el que manejo ahora mismo, un A—340 I ! Y también los amo ¡

—¡Es el mismo que tengo! —concurrió Abel, se levanto de su mesa ya despejado de su misterio, devolvió la taza fría al platillo—, el mío es del 2018 serie deportiva.

—El mío es del 2014 pero convertible —volvió a recitar Gerónimo, ya sentado casi de ángulo, parecía una escultura de arte moderno echa en crepe.

Courtesy water color by: Sam

Porque si Odín y Atenea hubieren tenido que bajar las presiones a la que fueron sometidos sus fluidos, ambos se hubiesen quedado sentados observando, aceptando la manera robusta y la fluidez sin saltos con la que fueron dibujadas aquellas dos maquinas.

Abel de manera cortes les recogió la mesa, entrego un cordial y un obsequio de pan a la dama, junto con una Reina de Almendra Libanesa empacada, y le pido a su nuevo amigo que le siguiera los pasos. –Ven, vamos a cruzar a la parte de atrás del negocio que es donde tengo el mío.

Y al tempo del piano se resolvieron entre las puertas dobles de la cocina.

Painting @ Disney cast breakroom

FIN

Una vez más, bienvenidos a mi BLOG de escritura creativa.

Aquí está el enlace a mi primer libro publicado:

www.laesmeraldaysuenigma.com

Si te gustan los thrillers Sci-Fi & Fantasy, en la tradición de la
ciencia y el descubrimiento. Le gustará esta novela.

También disponible en Ingles.

www.theemeraldmystery.com

La ultima copa de Tatiana -re editado.

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Mon, 23 Dec 2019 04:42:00 +0000

La ultima copa de Tatiana

Me encontraba esperando a mi prometido. El muy pícaro se detuvo a conversar con otra chica al final de la barra y yo, mientras lo esperaba, simplemente reflexionaba acerca de mi papel protagónico esa noche. Me veo muy seria, lo acepto. Pero era lo único que me daban ganas de hacer en ese lugar. La fotografía la tomaron precisamente cuando comencé a probar el vino de mi copa. ¡Qué traidores...! Te seguiré contando lo que pasó.

Cronícas del Blues

Portada del diario donde aparece Tatiana sentada en la barra. Lleva un abrigo de terciopelo negro, y sombrero francés, sujeta una copa de vino a medias. A su lado un caballero vestido de traje y sombrero suspira palabras al su oído. Al fondo algunos hombres más jóvenes le miran de reojo.

Me preguntaba si habría seguido el libreto tal y como me ordenaron tantas veces.

“¿Habrán sido interpretados mis gestos en tarima como una burla subliminal? Eso sería un buen pretexto para no aplaudirme hoy… no es por eso, debe ser por otra cosa”, pensaba en la barra.

¡Cuánta falta me hacía un cigarrillo esa tarde! Así que mientras esperaba a mi prometido, seguí pensando más cosas, dándole vueltas al asunto.

“¿Por qué me rechazaron hoy? ¿Por qué hoy, después de tanto tiempo en este teatro?”, recuerdo que me pregunté.

Debió ser el germen de la chabacanería; sí, eso fue. Sin duda alguna, se había contagiado el público entero. Todas esas personas que me reconocen como una actriz de calidad, contagiadas ahora.

Seguí pensando... “Mírenlos hoy, ¡negando mi veteranía! Desdoblándose para ser unos simples seres etéreos que niegan la esencia misma de la belleza en un arte como el de la actuación. Solo un tonto se deja llevar por su propio mal entendimiento. Lo malo es cuando ese tonto esparce por su vileza ese sentir, contagiando a todos”.

Me sentí decepcionada cuando me retiré del escenario esa noche; sabía que mis enemigos de alguna manera ganaban la admiración de sus seguidores. Que algo andaba mal. Por eso decidí entrar en la barra, para despejar la mente. No sabía que mi prometido me estaría esperando ahí. Bueno, él tampoco sabía que cancelarían mi participación a esa hora.

¡Usurpadores, jamás podrán desarrollar mi personaje con la calidad que me distingue! Tengo que reconocerlo, esa noche fui un pretexto más para justificar sus estilos de producción. No son nadie si no tienen con quién sacar publicidad. Está bien, si la desmesura es su norte, si lo de ellos es “remover”, pronto sabrán cómo se remueven las cosas en este país.

“Son solo una banda de ineptos sin control”, recuerdo que repetí en voz baja, apenas moviendo mis labios. Lo único que hablé allí parada. Todavía a mi lado permanecía callado el otro sujeto, el del sombrero. Ya te contaré quién es.

Una copa de vino fue suficiente para olvidar que esa fue la noche que me despidieron esos imbéciles. Mi papel protagónico, perdido para siempre. No tenía ningún motivo para reír esa tarde; no sentía deseos de nada ni de ser nadie en el mundo. Y mi mundo solo era el personaje que protagonicé todas las semanas, eso era todo para mí. ¡Cómo se atreven contratar actores de baja categoría y ponerlos en mi lugar! Este es mi final, no puede ser. ¡Cómo se atreven a publicar esta fotografía en los periódicos! Sí, era lo único que pensaba mientras esperaba a mi compañero, eso era todo.

¿Sabes qué? Hoy siento que me silenciaron, porque me insinuaron que debo entender que mi personaje será interpretado por la desmesura hecha verbo, y que convirtiéndome de inmediato en una sombra ahora inservible, sería yo entonces como un adorno más en la repisa que categorizara esta nueva tendencia, sí… yo y todas las que pasen por algo similar a esto. Pero ya verán, ya verán…

Mientras rozaba mi copa con la punta de los dedos, trataba de olvidar por un segundo el sinsabor de mi sorpresiva despedida. No mencioné ni una sola palabra en esa barra. No sé de dónde sacan la noticia de que desaparecí del teatro. Si tengo hasta el boleto del estacionamiento… Pero ya verán…

De repente me habló Isidro, el sujeto que aparece parado a mi lado en la foto. Un representante reconocido, al que rechacé simplemente por egoísmo. Sí, es ese él sujeto que se posó a mi lado. Para el tiempo en que se me presentó por primera vez, también representaba a la grandiosa actriz europea Laura Miatts. Suficiente carga para mi mentalidad de estrella novata, así que lo rechacé. Y si algo no quiero olvidar de esa noche lo fue el piano bar y su virtuosa interpretación de “Blue Walk”, de Lou Donaldson. Hasta me animé a cantar. Por lo menos pude aferrarme a algo decente después de tanta locura. Mira, mira esa foto, no le temas. Mira, mira esa fotografía de nuevo. ¿No te dan miedo? ¡Dónde estaría hoy…!

—Debes montar otra obra de inmediato, necesitas nuevas funciones —me comentaba en voz baja Isidro, luego de apresurar su copa de un solo golpe—. Nadie lo hará por ti esta vez, y mucho menos te invitarán a las audiciones. No tienen tu calidad y eso sencillamente los enfurece. Tienes la mirada de una estrella, por eso te odian. No luches contra eso, acéptalo. No pienso estar aquí parado hasta que llegue tu compañero, piénsalo. Yo pondré el dinero y un buen guion.

Presté un poco de atención a sus palabras… si tan solo él supiera lo que pienso hacer. Pero ese no era el momento para negociar, solo quería pensar en mi trabajo, en el público que me aplaudía, en las luces brillantes de mi camerino. El mismo que le obsequiarán sabe Dios a qué novata; el camerino que no tendré jamás. Y todavía se atreven a decir en la nota del diario que me entrevistaba un investigador policiaco. ¡Caterva de crápulas! Pero ya verán, ya verán…

Te sigo explicando. A mis espaldas algunos hombres de negocios que escuchaban la conversación se entrometían , haciendo comentarios acerca de un posible futuro para mí. Era una voz que pude reconocer. Ese que pude escuchar era simplemente un hombre sin ideas. Solo tenía dinero, pero no el guion necesario para promover una clase de actriz como yo. Así que cuando pensaba en sus propuestas, en las obras que solía promover, sabía que no tenía nada. Y los teatros que tenía bajo su tutela eran simplemente salones de reposo para narcisistas. Por eso, sus comentarios no provocaron en mí absolutamente la mínima reacción.

—Bueno, me tengo que retirar —repetía Isidro agitando las llaves dentro de sus bolsillos—. Dime si aceptas mi oferta o no. Te prometo un guion excelente, con escenarios alumbrados por más de diez técnicos. Todo un taller de escenografía. Saldremos de gira por toda Europa. Él no te dará nada, obsérvalo, echa un vistazo hacia atrás. Míralo ahí, con el gorro que lo distingue. No te equivoques… es él, el nuevo gerente de tu teatro… ahí tomando copas luego de despedirte. Reconoce lo que es, solo una marioneta más de la mercadotecnia, esto es un simple juego de azar para él. ¿A qué se dedicaba antes de esto? A nada. Pasó toda la universidad despilfarrando el dinero de sus padres. Luego tomó un curso de fotografía. Enseguida publicó un magacín que llevó a la quiebra. Y ahora con el dinero de sus padres pretende comprarse otra personalidad más. Y en cuanto se entere de otra profesión que lo situé a la moda, dejará todo esto y a los que trabajen con él. Y estoy seguro de que va a querer producir cine. Solo compra y vende funciones a su conveniencia.

Ah, ¡qué opulento se ve! ¡Cómo se escucha hablando como todo un hombre de negocios! Pero al cabo nos manda al diablo y con el dinero que tiene se retira de vacaciones alrededor del mundo, a calmar su estrés. Mira, te digo que dura seis meses aquí. Porque el juicio del chabacano, si dado por dioses o por la gente, puede ser pospuesto, pero no prevenido.

Al terminar la súplica, Isidro optó por echar un papel con su número de teléfono en uno de los bolsillos de mi chaleco, por lo cual permanecí estática para no provocar insinuaciones. Eso fue todo lo que pasó. No quise ni mirar hacia atrás. Pero claro, ellos saben la clase de producciones que logra este productor, y por eso fue tanta la rabieta para desprestigiar más mi imagen. Por eso publicaron la fotografía. Pero ya verán, ya verán...

—Serás famosa nuevamente por tus destrezas artísticas; no vas a vender tu arte a ilusionistas de baja categoría —concluyó Isidro.

Cuando él se retiró me quedé algunos minutos reflexionando. Me percaté de la leve lluvia y de que el crepúsculo dominaba todos los colores de la calle. De hecho, desperté de mi reflexión al mirar a través de aquella puerta de cristal. En cuanto se acercó mi pretendiente lo tomé por el brazo y salimos del local en dirección a su moto. Le di un beso muy tierno y el, me cedió su casco. Luego nos retiramos. Eso fue todo, pero ya verán, ya verán…

FIN

Una vez más, bienvenidos a mi BLOG de escritura creativa.

Aquí está el enlace a mi primer libro publicado:

www.laesmeraldaysuenigma.com

Si te gustan los thrillers Sci-Fi & Fantasy, en la tradición de la
ciencia y el descubrimiento. Le gustará esta novela.

También disponible en Ingles.

The End of Line

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Mon, 23 Dec 2019 03:45:00 +0000

The End of Line

It was mulling around my head…, the thought that I was a fisherman. That I was standing on the lake, holding my fiancé on my arms while surveying my bait. But her mother and sister took me away from my musings. “Walter, what are you doing here?” said her mom. I responded that it was my duty to stand there, it was my task. Her sister caved in.

“But Walter there is no one here, why are you holding that sign?”

Well, someone will get here and while that happens, I will be here waiting for them. You could say I am the proprietor of this real estate at this moment. But you know how things change, once someone else stands here, we will share proprietorship.

“Walter!,” said my fiancé’s sister. “But there is no reason anyone will stand here, there is no business to line up for, no reason to go in for anything!”

“But I need to work, anyone looking for a job might see this space available and drop in here, and just take over my task.

“Walter, Walter…there is no need to hold that sign here, no one needs to know they are the last in the line, because there is nothing here to line up for.” I looked at her and smiled.

“Mrs. Daisy, everyone should feel what is to be at the end of the line, maybe someone who has never been in line could walk next to me just to line up, just to see what it feels to be the last. Then, that way they can go up the ranks, like many other people have done. But they need to be the last at some point, don’t you think so? It is an entry level position, which I am proudly holding. I am the owner of the title; I am the end of the line until someone walks by and stays.”

“Remember Mrs. Daisy , I was the -end of line- sign holder at the train station until that groggy Mr. Pio said that I Kept missing the last in line. Said that while he texted and snacked raw cod fish. Why not stand here? Someone may see my work system, ethics, and come by and hire me, I mean, unless they feel ashamed of having me just standing at the end.”

“Oh my God, you have impressed me Walter,” said Mrs. Daisy. I am about to take you a pic and post it on face book, you know, maybe someone really needs an expert like you at the end of the line. I will give you a nice review, a nice opinion about your craft.”

“Mom!” said my fiancés sister. “Are you saying Walter has a better shot if he is posted on face book live- than taking over a line here on the empty sidewalk, by himself? After all, right now there must be thousands of lines to be worked; because they are busy no one will care to search for a –sign holder- like him. This is the best way he can move up, being the last in front of all the public that goes by. If we publish him on book, he will then become a laughing matter.”

“Wait a minute", I said. “No one will laugh at this because there is a bunch of people that don’t even know where to line up, some have panic attacks when in a line. I can teach them to hold their posture. Where else can they be that last one at something. Just the thought of being at the end, the last one in line, will uplift their expectations. They know they are the last, and with that comes the responsibility to make sure no one comes in front of them. Think of it, as long as you hold that last position, it is only me who you can help you. I am a proud holder of my sign, yes! -End of line-.

Well, by this time my mother in law was over the fact that I was just standing here. It seemed to her that my entrepreneurial idea wasn’t the sort of thing baby boomers would be doing in these times. So she kept walking the sidewalk, I said bye to my sister in law, just waved at her and kept holding my sign. Then Douglass approached my post. Every day he walks by and says hi, but today he was eager to know what kind of discussion I was having with the ladies. He had seen us from the other side o the street.

“So, Walter, you still holding that sign... Here at the same spot.” I knew he wanted to know whether those ladies thought I was a russe. But little did he know that every time he passed by and said hello to me, he just made it to the end of the line, and today was the official day he was granted the spot. He was here and not just passing, he was talking to me. But don’t think Douglass is the kind of veteran you just throw a topic to, everyone around knows he was a collage professor. You bet I was scared when the veteran walked by. What kind of intervention was I facing? About my business? Was it his opinion about my plans after all that he had gone thru in life.

“Walter, you still a mess in this world. Do you know that? Go get a real job man, one that pays you for standing around.” At last, his complement transformed him in to the last in my line.

"Go look around for a place with some lines, get something going. Here you don’t get to find out who wants to control any lines bro. You know that man.”

Douglass arranged his cap, and walked away. His purple camo shirt reminded me about a Japanese restaurant I once saw it had long long lines. So after all, my sign came in handy; it reminded me were to look for a space were the public needed to know who the last in the line was. The weather got bad, and not because of Douglass walking by, it got gray and dark, so bad I had to run away with my sign.

The next day I dressed up very nice, just like I do at this time of the year. Walked out of the door hoping I encountered in “Yamasaki Hibashi”, a friendly place to work for the rest of the Christmas season. I made it to her place around the evening hours. The line was crazy, a dizzy smooth jazz was playing inside, and I just felt the empowerment it gave me to be the holder of the end of line signage. This was a no brainer for anyone. I forced my phase to the end while I remembered the lines I was giving these guests who kept lining up at the place.

“Here is the end of the line” “If you go away you will lose your spot” “You must fold your stroller before going in the restaurant’ “Alcoholic beverages from outside are not permitted” “You must wear shoes before going in line” Among many other important things customers need to be reminded of.

Once in the spot I started to work. Though I do not speak any Japanese, I knew these folks really appreciated the sign. Because they had no were to go man, and anyway, some just saw me and asked what was going on.

“You Sr. you know how much for table,” said one of the Asian customers just arriving. And right there just like a Christmas win win Rudolph, Mr.s Yamsaiki grabbed my sign and my arm at the same time.

“Come, come here…you a good man, you gentleman, come follow me”. Mrs. Yamasaki had taken me suddenly to the front of the line and it was there that I hoped to talk about the dollars I could be stashing later on. All was good while walking; all her good thoughts about me inspired me. But there was a sign at the front of the line that read:

“Karaage chicken out for the day, free Nigori sake with Udon purchase, arigato.”

I had blown this without noticing it, I should’ve had read her sign before planting mine at the end of the line. So, know I knew what the chaos was all about, all those in line were coming back for a second shot of Nigori , because words had been spreading like fire out about Mr.s Yamasakis intention. She needed to keep customers who came in looking for the Karaage. And that chunky chicken was gone by the afternoon hours and people kept lining up. The line looked like a United Nations meeting; she had a chaotic epiphany developing.

Out of Karaage and I hated to work lines with people under the influence of alcohol. I’m better of assisting strollers and grown up people. I twisted my head from side to side; Yamasaki pointed the sign at me.

“You stay here, greeter, me give you free sake, no sign at the end. You good man, you help me I take care of you.”

I was officially downgraded to the simple life of a greeter. Down the ranks, not even to the first in line but to the greeter, a translator of the senses, a job I hated to accept I did that night. I hated drunken people on lines and was ready to resign from my greeter position.

My first payment with the sake came in, it was cold and sweet like a tasty bunch of flowers I used to taste in my childhood. I got the sweet kick of it. By the second sake shot, the first in line told me that there was some trouble at the end of the line. People were mad about this sake. And all the fuzz was about the bottles from wish it came from.

“No Karaage chicken, Udon and sake good for you, you be careful with sake,” said the Asian man who smiled at me like he was holding a bone to a jumpy dog. He had this gleam in his eyes, and glossy cheeks that assured mystery and happiness. This was a victory for me though. Because I knew he recognized I was the man to be told about the happenings at the end of the line. Though I did not have the sign anymore, he could see I had the face of such an important job. To wish I responded:

“There is nothing different when you are at the end of the line, on any line, even if you don’t understand anyone around you"

END

Once again, welcome to my creative writing BLOG !

Here is the link to my first published book:

www.theemeraldmystery.com

If you like Sci-Fi & Fantasy thrillers, in the tradition of science and discovery. You will like this novel.

Also available in Spanish

El Fin de la Linea

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Wed, 11 Dec 2019 04:35:00 +0000

El Fin de la Linea

Estaba cierta aparición dando vueltas alrededor de mi cabeza, era la idea de que yo era un pescador de orilla. Que estaba parado en el lago, sosteniendo mi novia en mis brazos mientras examinaba mi cebo. Pero su madre y su hermana al verme desde la otra esquina de la calle se me acercaron y me alejaron de esa exquisita musa.

—Walter, ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí? —dijo su madre. Le respondí que era mi deber estar allí, era mi tarea. Su hermana se derrumbó en opinar.

—Pero Walter no hay nadie aquí, ¿Por qué sostienes ese letrero?

  A lo que respondí  -— Bueno, alguien va a llegar aquí y,  mientras eso sucede, voy a estar aquí esperando por ellos. Se podría decir que soy el propietario de esta zona en este momento. Pero sabes cómo cambian las cosas, una vez que alguien más esté aquí, seremos copropietarios.

—¡Walter! —dijo la hermana de mi prometida-—. Pero no hay razón para que nadie se quede aquí parado, no hay negocio para hacer fila, no hay razón para visitar nada aquí.

-— Pero necesito trabajar, -— respondí-— cualquiera que busque un trabajo podría ver este espacio disponible y posarse aquí, y simplemente hacerse cargo de mi tarea.

—Walter, Walter... no hay necesidad de sostener ese letrero aquí, nadie necesita saber que son los últimos en la fila, porque no hay nada aquí por lo que alinearse.

La miré y sonreí. Luego le dije. — Sra. Daisy, todo el mundo debería sentir lo que es ser el último de la fila, tal vez alguien que nunca ha estado en alguna fila podría caminar a mi lado sólo para hacer la fila, sólo para ver lo que se siente ser el último. Entonces, de esa manera pueden subir de rango, como muchas otras personas lo han hecho. Pero tienen que ser los últimos en algún momento, ¿No piensa usted? Es una posición de nivel de entrada, que estoy sosteniendo con orgullo. Soy el propietario del título; soy el final de la línea hasta que alguien pase y se quede aquí.

— Recuerde que,  señora Daisy… yo era el titular de la señal de línea en la estación del tren, hasta que ese señor Priamonte dijo para sacarme; “Y que yo me perdí a el último en la fila”. Mientras enviando un mensaje de texto merendaba pedazos bacalao crudo. ¿Por qué no estar aquí? Alguien puede ver mi sistema de trabajo, mi ética, y venir a contratarme, a menos que se sientan avergonzados de tenerme de pie al final de las filas.

—Oh Dios mío, usted me ha impresionado Walter —dijo la señora Daisy—. Estoy a punto de tomarte una foto y publicarla en Facebook, ya sabes, tal vez alguien realmente necesita un experto como tú al final de la línea. Te daré una buena crítica, será una buena opinión sobre tu oficio.

—¡Mamá! —dijo la hermana de mi prometida-—. ¿Estás diciendo que Walter tiene una mejor oportunidad de ser contratado si lo transmitimos por un “Facebook live”, que vigilando una línea aquí en esta acera vacía, por sí mismo? Después de todo, en este momento debe haber miles de líneas para trabajarlas, pero están tan ocupados que nadie se preocupará por buscar un “Titular de la señal” como él. Esta es la mejor manera de ascender, siendo el último frente a todo el público que pasa. Si lo presentamos por Facebook, entonces se convertirá en un asunto de risa.

—Espera un minuto — le dije—. Nadie se reirá de esto porque hay un montón de gente que ni siquiera sabe dónde alinearse,  otros sufren ataques de pánico cuando están en una línea. Puedo enseñarles a mantener su postura. ¿Dónde más pueden ser el último de una fila? Sólo la idea de estar al final, de ser el último en la fila, elevará sus expectativas. Saben que son los últimos, y con eso viene la responsabilidad de asegurarse de que nadie llegue y se pare frente a ellos. Piénsalo, mientras mantengas esa última posición, soy solo yo a quien puedes recurrir. Claro que sí, soy un orgulloso poseedor de mi signo, así es. “Fin de la línea”.

Bueno, al momento ya mi suegra había superado el verme así. Le pareció que mi idea tan emprendedora no era el tipo de cosas que los baby boomers estarían haciendo en estos tiempos. Así que siguió caminando por la acera, le dije adiós a mi cuñada, las despedí y seguí sosteniendo mi letrero.

Entonces Douglass se acercó a mi puesto. Todos los días pasa y saluda, pero hoy estaba ansioso por saber qué tipo de discusión estaba teniendo con las damas. Nos había visto desde el otro lado de la calle.

—Así que, Walter, todavía sostienes ese letrero... aquí en el mismo lugar.

Sabía que quería saber si esas damas pensaban que yo era un cierto mete cabras. Pero poco sabía él, que cada vez que pasaba y me saludaba llegaba al final de la fila, y hoy fue el día oficial en que se le concedió el lugar. Estaba aquí y no sólo pasaba, me hablaba. Pero no creas que Douglass sea el tipo de veterano al que lanzas un tema, porque todo el mundo sabe que era profesor universitario. Y Tenía miedo cuando pasó el veterano. ¿Cuál podría ser su intervención? ¿Sobre mi negocio? Me daría su opinión sobre mis planes después de todo por lo que él había pasado en la vida.

—Walter, sigues siendo un desastre en este mundo. ¿Lo sabes? Ve a buscar un verdadero trabajo hombre, uno que te pague por estar parado. —Por fin, su complemento lo transformó hasta ser el último en mi línea—. Ve a buscar un lugar con algunas líneas, pon algo en marcha. Aquí no se puede averiguar quién quiere controlar alguna línea hermano. Usted conoce eso hermano.

Douglas arregló su gorra, y se alejó. Su camisa de camuflaje púrpura me recordó de un restaurante japonés al que una vez percate que tenía largas colas, Yamasaki Hibachi. Así que después de todo, mi signo fue útil; me recordó que debía buscar un espacio donde el público necesitara saber quién era el último en la fila.

El clima se puso malo, y no fue por la corta visita de Douglass. Pasaban nubes oscuras sobre mi línea. Tan malo fue ese momento para continuar con mi tarea, que me tuve que ir corriendo a casa con mi señal.

Al día siguiente me vestí elegante como suelo hacerlo para esta época. Salí por la puerta muy esperanzado, esperando encontrarme en el restaurante de la señora Yamasaki, un lugar agradable para trabajar el resto de la Navidad. Llegue a su restaurante en horas de la noche. La línea era una locura, un jazz suave y vertiginoso se tocaba en el interior, y sentí el poder que me delegaba ser el titular del fin de la línea.

Esto era una tarea tan obvia que no necesitaba explicación, se caía de la mata.  Obligué mi paso hasta el final, mientras recordaba las líneas que les estaría recitando a todos esos clientes. “Aquí es la cola” “Si se va de la cola pierde su puesto” “Debe doblar el coche antes de entrar al establecimiento” “No permitimos bebidas alcohólicas que no sean de aquí” “Debe tener zapatos para entrar en la fila” Entre tantas otras importantísimas instrucciones.

Una vez en el área empecé a trabajar. Y aunque no hablo japonés, sabía que esta gente apreciaba mucho la señal. Pues porque no tenían como saber a dónde ir hombre, y de todos modos, algunos me vieron y me preguntaron… ¿Qué está pasando en este lugar?

-—Usted Sr… usted, ¿Sabe cuánto para una mesa? —dijo uno de los clientes asiáticos que acababa de llegar. Y justo ahí, como una movida rápida de “Win Win  Rudolph”, la Sra. Yamsaiki agarró el poste con mi señal y mi brazo al mismo tiempo.

-—Ven, ven aquí... usted es un buen hombre, señor, venga a seguirme. Yamasaki me había llevado con paso firme al frente de la fila, y fue allí donde esperaba hablar de los dólares que podría embolsicarme más tarde. Todo estaba bien mientras caminaba; todos sus buenos pensamientos sobre mí me inspiraban. Pero había un letrero al frente que decía:

“Pollo frito Karaage fuera por el resto del día, Nigori sake gratis con la compra de fideos Udon, arigato”.

Había arruinado todo esto sin saberlo, debí haber leído su letrero antes de plantar el mío al final de la línea. Así que, ahora sabía de qué se trataba el caos... todos los que estaban en la fila regresaban para un segundo disparo de Nigori sake, porque las palabras se habían estado extendiendo como el fuego sobre la intención del Sra. Yamasaki. Necesitaba mantener a los clientes que venían en busca del Karaage. Y ese pollo grueso y tierno se había ido ya hacía varias  horas, y la gente seguía haciendo cola. La línea parecía una reunión de las Naciones Unidas; le tendía una epifanía caótica en desarrollo. Fuera de Karaage y odiaba trabajar en líneas con gente bajo la influencia del alcohol. Soy mejor para ayudar a los cochecitos y a la gente culta en las filas. Me golpeé la cabeza de lado a lado; Yamasaki me señaló.

—Te quedas aquí, saludador, yo te doy sake gratis, sin señal al final. Buen hombre, tú me ayudas yo, cuidar de ti.

Oficialmente fui degradado a la vida simple de un saludador. Bajón de rango, ni siquiera al primero en la fila, sino al saludador, a un traductor de los sentidos, un trabajo que odiaba aceptar que hice esa noche. Odiaba a la gente borracha en las líneas y estaba listo para renunciar a mi puesto de saludador.

El primer pago con Nigori sake vino frío y dulce como un sabroso ramo de flores que solía probar en mi infancia. Comencé a envolverme en su gusto.

Para el segundo disparo de sake, el primero en la fila me dijo que había algunos problemas al final de la línea. La gente estaba enojada por la revelación de este sake. Y toda la pelusa era sobre las botellas y el destino de donde provenían.

—No hay pollo Karaage, Udon y sake bueno para ti, ten cuidado con el sake —dijo el hombre asiático que me sonrió como si estuviera sosteniéndole un hueso a un perro nervioso. Tenía este brillo en sus ojos, y mejillas brillantes que aseguraban un misterio y felicidad la vez. Pero esta fue una victoria para mí. Porque sabía, que él sabía, que yo era el hombre al que se deberían de mencionar  los acontecimientos del final de la fila. Aunque ya no tenía la señal, él podía ver que yo tenía la cara de un hombre para un puesto tan importante como ese. Y luego resolví diciéndole…

"No hay nada diferente cuando estás al final de la línea, en cualquier línea, incluso si no entiendes a nadie a tu alrededor"

FIN

Una vez más, bienvenidos a mi BLOG de escritura creativa.

Aquí está el enlace a mi primer libro publicado:

www.laesmeraldaysuenigma.com

Si te gustan los thrillers Sci-Fi & Fantasy, en la tradición de la
ciencia y el descubrimiento. Le gustará esta novela.

También disponible en Ingles.

"Tatianas last Cup" -NEW EDIT-

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Thu, 08 Aug 2019 16:16:00 +0000

Tatianas last Cup

I was waiting for my fiancé. That -cupid boy- stopped to chat with another girl at the end of the bar, and I, while expecting him, simply reflected about my character’s role as I stood on stage that night.

“The Blues Chronicles” news paper cover

Cover shot of Tatiana sitting at the bar, looking at her half glass of wine. She wears a black velvet coat and French hat. Beside her, a man in a suit whispers some words to her ear. In the background some younger men stare at them.

I looked very unhappy; I accepted that. But it was the only feeling that I had inside that place, at that time. They took the picture precisely when I started to sip on the wine that glamorized my cup. Those traitors ... I'd keep telling you what happened there at the bar.

I was wondering if I did not carry out my part of the script correctly, just like the many times I was able to do so.

“Could my gestures on stage have been interpreted as a subliminal mockery? That would be a good excuse for not applauding at me today. If it’s not for this reason, it must be because something else," I thought at the bar.

How bad was I missing a cigarette that evening … So while waiting for my fiancé, I kept thinking of more things, simply mulling over the matter.

"Why was I being rejected today? Why today after so many long nights at this theater?" I remembered asking myself.

“It must have been that germ, which flourishes over the irrational sorts of senseless thiking and talking. If it was that, without any doubt it had infected the entire audience—all those people who recognized me as an actress of impeccable quality, now infected, all of them.”

I kept thinking there, “Look at them today, denying my seniority, unfolding their thoughts on acting as completely ethereal beings, now denying the very essence of beauty in the arts of acting. Only a fool becomes carried away by his own poor understanding. The really bad thing is when that soul feels the need to spread that feeling just because of his vileness.”

I felt disappointed once I walked out off the stage that night. I knew that my enemies somehow earned the wonderment of their followers. I knew that something was wrong. So I decided to enter the bar, just to clear my mind. I knew that my fiancé would be waiting for me there. Well, he didn’t know I was getting there sooner, since they canceled my show so early that day.

Usurpers, they might never develop my character with the quality that had made me a standout. And I had to admit something before going on. On that night, I was just one more pretext to justify their production styles. They were nothing, nothing if they didn’t jump in anyone’s life just to get more publicity. OK, if they felt so moved by shaking things around, soon they would know how things in this country were really shaken.

"They are only a band of incompetents without any control," I repeated softly, just barely moving my lips. That was the only thing I spoke as I stood there at that bar. And standing still by my side was that other subject, the one wearing that hat. He remained silent. I’d tell you who he was later.

A glass of wine was enough to forget, to forget that was the night that I got fired by those morons. My role, lost forever. No reason or encouragement to laugh that evening. I didn't desire anything, or felt like being anyone in the world as I stood there ... My only world was that role that I had played every single weekend in my beloved theater; it was all for me.

But how could they dare to hire a low-ranking actress and to place her in my role. This was my end; I cannot be myself anymore. How could they dare to take this picture to the newspapers? Yes, I was just going through my thoughts while waiting for my soul mate and that was all.

You know what, today I feel arranged to shut up; because I was meant to agree and understand that my character would be played by insensibility made a verb, therefore I should be immediately turned into a useless shadow. I would then be like an ornament on the shelf that characterized this new –meritorial- trend. Yes ... myself and all of those who would pass through something like this. But they will be hearing from me. Oh, yes, they will; oh, yes, they will …

I felt my cup delicately, using my fingertips, trying to forget for one more second the sourness of my surprising farewell. I didn't mention a single word at that bar.

I don’t know where they got the idea to write that I “disappeared from the theater.” Soon they will know that I still had my parking ticket. Oh, yes, they will …

Suddenly Isidro talked to me. You know the subject who’d been standing beside me in the picture. Yes, a renowned producer, to whom I previously had declined some offers because of my pure and dumb selfishness. Yes, this was the subject that fell beside me. I remember the day that I met Isidro for the first time … that day I was told that he managed the great European actress Laura Miatts. Enough weight for my rookie star mentality. I rejected him.

And if there was something not to be forgotten that night, it would definitely had been the quartet at the piano bar. Lou Donaldson’s “Blue Walk” was played so brilliantly. At least there was something decent that my ears could hold onto after so much madness. I even got inspired and started singing. Look, look at that picture in the paper, you do not fear them? Where would I be today?

“You need to assemble another theatrical piece immediately; you need new features,” Isidro told me in a low-toned voice and then went on to gush all of his wine in a single blow. “No one, no one will do it for you this time, and much less invite you to any new auditions. They will never find your type at their castings, and that simply boils them.

You have the eyes of a star; that’s all they hate. You cannot fight against that, so accept it. I will not be here standing until your partner strolls along; think about this. I’ll put up the money and a polished good script."

I paid little attention to his dialogue … if he just knew what I was planning to do to them. But that bar was not the place to negotiate, even less my time for it. I only wanted to think about my work, and about the public that applauded me every weekend, and the bright lights that glittered around all of my dressing room. And who the hell knew what amateur could be sitting there in that dressing room where I would never sit again. And they dared to say in the headlines that I was being interviewed by a police investigator. What a bunch of lowlifes. Oh, yes, they will know from me. They will, yes, they will.

I was still explaining to you, listen. Behind my back there were some businessmen who were listening to my conversation and even made some comments about a possible future for me.

And it was a voice that I recognized; the one that I heard was simply a man without ideas. He was only about money, not about the script necessary to promote an actress as I was. So when I thought about those whispered proposals, related to works they used to promote, I knew that they had nothing. And I also knew, on the other hand, that the theaters he had under his tutelage were simply resting rooms for narcissistic people. And therefore their comments didn’t provoke my soul to resolve in any minimum reaction. “Well, I have to go now,” Isidro said, swirling his keys inside his pocket. “Tell me if you accept my offer or not. I promise you a set design of excellence, illuminated by more than 10 lighting technicians. A set design office, just for you.

“And a live band.… We will leave on tour around Europe. I will not give you anything less than a life of stardom.”

“Look at him, take a glimpse, with his folly hat that distinguishes him. Make no mistake ... he is the new manager of your theater … there taking drinks after your good-bye. Acknowledge what he is, only one more puppet of this mass marketing trend. This is a simple game of chance for him.

“What was he about before this … nothing? He spent his entire college days bouncing money from his parents. Then he took a photography course. He immediately published a magazine that he led into bankruptcy. And now he intends to buy another personality. And as soon as he becomes aware of another profession that places him as trendy, he’ll stop all this, and all of those with him will vanish.”

“And I am sure that he will go into film production. He only buys and sells shows at his convenience. Oh, those opulent looks. Hear him speaking as a man of business. But after all, he will send us away. And with the sum of money that he recovers, he may be retiring for the holidays around the world—just to calm his stressed mind. Look at him … I’ll say he lasts about six months in this theater. Because when judgment time comes for the mediocre, even if given by God or by the people, it can be postponed but will not be prevented."

At the end of his plea Isidro opted to throw a piece of paper into one of my side pockets, so I remained static, not making any insinuations. That was all that happened there. I didn't even want to look back. But of course, they knew what kind of theatrical productions this producer could pull off. And that’s why so much hate, most of it to further discredit the image that I had. That’s why they published it in the paper. But they will be hearing from me; oh, yes, they will… oh, yes, they will …

“You'll be famous again, only because of your artistic skills; you do not have to render your craft for second-rate illusionists,” and with such Isidro concluded.

After he retired, I just stood there some minutes as I reflected about this. I noticed a slight rain; the colors of the street had surrendered to the twilight spell. I snapped out of my thoughts when I stared thru those glass doors.

As soon as my suitor approached, I took him by his arm, and walked out towards his BSA. Then I gave him a sweet kiss, he lent me his helmet, and we left. That was all.

But they will hear from me; oh, yes, they will …

END

TATIANAS LAST CUP

By Enrique A. Sampayo Méndez

Proofreading: Phyllis Cox

Cover design: Enrique Sampayo

Editing: Enrique Sampayo

Cover pic provided at creative writing workshop: Universidad del Sagrado Corazón, Puerto Rico. By Prof. Emilio del Carril.

First published by: Enrique Sampayo Mendez @ http://blogdepracticacreativa-enrique.blogspot.com/

08-13-2013

right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Once again, welcome to my creative writing BLOG !

Here is the link to my first published book:

www.theemeraldmystery.com

If you like Sci-Fi & Fantasy thrillers, in the tradition of science and discovery. You will like this novel.

Also available in Spanish

I dared to be someone ...

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Wed, 28 Nov 2018 14:26:00 +0000

Translation from previous post on June 26, 2015 / Pastel color pencil over cardboard by : Tito Velez

Sometimes I get enraged when I say who I am, and after all… I treat myself very well. I always prepare myself very good meals, I’m always trying to approach the arts as much as possible and, every time nature allows me, I have much compassion for others.

I always try to dress very properly. To end my point, I can say I treat myself and others very well.

It is in that process that I call "Who I am" that I create many connections, and those will make me even more authentic, they will make who I am... But I also want to be... I want to be and do things that appeal to me. And, when chasing them, I feel vulnerable. Vulnerable to being despised, separated, ignored, and not accepted.

All for being authentic and dreaming of being something more than I am.

Because who I yearn to be is not the same as who I am, and being vulnerable is, precisely being who you are, being authentic.

END

Once again, welcome to my creative writing BLOG !

Here is the link to my first published book:

www.theemeraldmystery.com

If you like Sci-Fi & Fantasy thrillers, in the tradition of science and discovery. You will like this novel.

Also available in Spanish

AT THE BLOG 2019:

Los niños de la Navidad

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Tue, 27 Nov 2018 21:05:00 +0000

Cuento corto negro. Thriller de acción.
Fines de 1800 entre Francia, Puerto Rico.

Un día como cualquier otro Marcell Pinot y su amigo Lucas Monett decidieron sentarse a conversar como solían hacerlo durante la semana. Escogieron el negocio que por muchos años los acogió como su lugar preferido para desayunar; el Café Petite.

Un establecimiento hermoso. Todo su frente estaba construido con arcos de ratán de colores blanco y rosado. Frente a cada sombrilla amarilla de su terraza, mientras se deleitaba el paladar, se podía disfrutar del aroma de un jardín de rosas muy bien atendidas.

Era un lugar muy renombrado por su ecléctica decoración minimalista, donde todos los domingos se escuchaban las agradables melodías de un clásico acordeón. Reconocidos escritores y artistas plásticos de la vecindad tenían como parte de su rutina diaria visitarlo todas las mañanas.

A todos les fascinaba el aroma y el sabor del exótico café caribeño que solo ahí se podía encontrar, no sin dudar de la exquisitez que sentía el paladar cuando se le obsequiaba un trozo de su auténtico pan caliente, recién salido de su reconocido horno de leña.

Compartían y saboreaban su añorada taza de café matutino. Tranquilos, reclinados en sus sillas preferidas.

Pero… solo les alcanzan algunas monedas esta mañana para pagar un par de tostadas y dividirse la única taza de café que les pudieron solventar sus bajos recursos.

Conversaron por varios minutos, pero el café compartido escaseó, y las tostadas blancas calentadas a la sartén llegaron a su fin. Fue en ese momento que sintieron la extrañeza de aquellos días en los que una taza de café y una buena conversación terminaban en otra taza más, y hasta posiblemente en la inclusión de otra mesa para compartir con alguno que otro amigo interesado en su tertulia.

Ese tipo de mañana con buenos temas, a veces lograba tener tanto sentido y validez en sus vidas, como para que aplazaran la apertura de su propia repostería.

En fin, sus ánimos no andaban del todo bien a raíz de sus bolsillos. La causa de sus pesares económicos tendría que acabarse de una vez por todas. Al menos así pensaban, mientras miraban sus ojos reflejados y muy tristes en el fondo acaramelado de sus tazas vacías.

En raras ocasiones, muchas de las tertulias en esas jornadas matutinas no eran precisamente agradables. De hecho, meses antes de su falta de liquidez, Marcell logró compartir temas con un sujeto particular. Un gentleman que ridículamente intercambió información confidencial acerca de un posible contrabando de diamantes, tan solo por obtener una de sus sabrosas recetas…

Esta mañana de deseos encontrados finalmente catalizó en Marcell, para que tomase una firme decisión en su vida. Debía remediar su situación económica o esperar a que se desapareciera su imagen de virtuoso panadero para siempre.

Así que trató de convencer a su amigo Lucas para que se uniera a su plan.

Interceptar y robar el maletín de diamantes en ruta de contrabando que de manera misteriosa aquel hombre le logró ofrecer antes de que cayeran sus bolsillos por el precipicio. Su corazón palpitaba más rápido cada vez que soñaba con el asunto. Era la única opción disponible en el momento para recuperar juntos el lugar que tanto trabajo les costó construir. Y precisamente esta fue su última tertulia bajo las sombrillas del Café Petite. Un lugar inmejorable para darle sentido a sus vidas en la mañana.

—Déjame explicarte un dato importante antes de salir de aquí, Lucas. El último que intentó robar el maletín con las joyas fue encontrado asfixiado en un vagón de carga.

—¿Cómo lo hicieron? Me da miedo, solo necesito dinero para comprar algunos regalos de Navidad para mis hijos y pagar la calefacción atrasada. Me asustas… no sé si valdrá la pena.

—Bueno, olvídalo entonces, mala información de mi parte. Solo te puedo decir que nunca se encontró al posible asesino de aquel supuesto experto en robos. Eso no debo escondértelo. Lo que importa ahora mismo es que sigas las instrucciones detalladas que están en este folleto, hasta que me encuentres la próxima semana en la isla de Puerto Rico, en la estación ferroviaria del puerto de Mayagüez.

—Pero nunca he leído un folleto como este… es un texto muy serio.

—¡Pues enfoca tu mente por primera vez! Estos son diamantes… — miraba su alrededor, mientras levantaba su taza vacía mostrando buenos modales—. Ahí tienes tu identificación falsa, e instrucciones de cómo moverte de pueblo en pueblo hasta llegar al área oeste de esa isla.

—No lo hare por nada del mundo.

Al otro día, ambos amigos decidieron zarpar en diferentes barcos de vapor con dirección al Caribe.

Cansados de casi una semana atravesando el mar Atlántico vistiendo de traje, lograron verse en la isla de Puerto Rico. Y como habían acordado en su última tertulia, se encontraron frente a la estación del tren, conversando sentados en un banquillo.

Una multitud de criollos, vendedores ambulantes y oficiales a caballo les daban la bienvenida en la rústica estación costera, acompañada por decenas de almacenes y carretas de carga en continuo movimiento. Se levantaba el polvorín en la carretera y el sonido de la muchedumbre les recordó su patria en un día de pleno trabajo. Suspiran llenos de miedo, mientras que un trabajoso vistazo a la escena hacía revolver sus barrigas vacías. Pero debían continuar.

—¿Que otra información tienes, Marcell? Sabes que el tren con la supuesta maleta de contrabando sale a las cinco de la tarde, recuerda eso… a las cinco de la tarde y son las cuatro en punto exactamente. ¿Notaste que el calor y la humedad de este sitio me están matando…? Esto es absurdo… Ne pas ce que je peux supporter ¡No lo aguanto más!

—Cálmate, utilicé muchos recursos para que lográramos llegar hasta aquí desde Francia. Escúchame bien, tuve que sobornar a un grupo de militares de muy baja calaña para falsificar nuestra identidad. Después de todo, con los diamantes en nuestras manos podremos echar a andar la panadería que nos incautó el gobierno, y quizás hasta nos sobre algo para comprar una relojería.

—Perdona, pero el trabajo del robo es mío solamente. Eso fue lo que acordamos. ¿Cómo te atreves a incluir a militares o a otras personas?

—Tranquilo, todavía lo es. Déjame explicarte.

—Bueno soy todo oídos… es mejor que me digas algo con sentido porque perdí el folleto con las instrucciones durante la travesía.

—Este atraco es sencillo, subirás en el vagón donde estarás sentado muy cerca del maletín con las joyas, media hora después mis colegas cortarán las luces de la cabina.

—Eso se oye demasiado sencillo, Marcell. No me gusta para nada tu idea.

—¡Escúchame bien! El maletín con los diamantes viaja en las manos de un niñito.

—Qué bien enterado estás de todo. Me preocupa y me asombra sobre manera.

—Menos mal que sabemos este dato, si no… sería peor que buscar una aguja en un pajar en esta estación tan llena de gente. Confía en mis conexiones; después de todo, perdí mucho dinero para averiguar todo esto, arriesgué mi libertad y mis últimos ahorros. Al igual que lo hice cuando me arriesgue protestando por las calles de Francia en contra de los impuestos de doctrina clasista.

—Sí, pero en la protesta pegaste cartelones con una caricatura del jefe de impuestos con semblante de vampiro, que decían: “Que paguen todos por igual, ¡chupa sangres!”. ¡Por suerte no nos arrestaron!, pero con sus leyes nuevas estamos en la ruina.

—¡Que viva Francia libre de injusticias, lo repito donde sea!

—Baja la voz que me dicen que en este lugar se ponen belicosos al escuchar ese tema. Está bien, te creo; no estamos para malos entendidos.

—El maletín lo carga un pequeñín, como te dije antes. Es la manera más incógnita que tienen de pasar esos diamantes frente a los agentes del puerto sin despertar sospechas. Por eso llegaron por este muelle, donde hay mucho menos vigilancia militar que en el puerto de San Juan.

—No me parece sencillo frente a todos estos pasajeros.

—Calma, el niño viaja junto a su madre, atiéndeme. Ella se encargó de sacar los diamantes de Marruecos.

—Sí, de Marruecos… Si esto es un crimen internacional, ¡qué desconfianza me das!

—Escucha. Según mis fuentes —decía mientras le sujetaba el brazo—, luego de intercambiar algún tipo de documento en las Islas Canarias, la señora y el niño se embarcaron a Portugal desde donde zarparon en dirección a Puerto Rico. Tenemos que interceptarla antes de que logren escapar para las islas Británicas a depositar los diamantes en bóvedas. Nuestro único problema es que no sabemos cuántas madres están por entrar en esta estación.

—Qué pesadilla, nos atraparán. Esto no vale la pena.

—No tanta pesadilla, averigüé algo más. El niño y su madre responderán a una clave secreta. Como es diciembre, esperan que su mediador de diamantes los salude diciendo: “Regalo de Navidad”; esa es la clave para el intercambio de la información que los hará llegar a ellos.

—Pero, ¿por qué entregarme el maletín? Alguien más puede saber de este intercambio.

—Porque eliminamos su contacto para llegar a las islas Británicas mientras salía borracho de una taberna de la ciudad amurallada de San Juan. Solo necesitas estar en el vagón con ellos y cuando apaguemos las luces se los arrebatas, los diamantes serán tuyos, digo nuestros. Toma un poco de agua, ¿o quieres una taza de café? Observa, en este maletín hay unos juguetes de madera, entra en la estación y comienza tu búsqueda. Ya sabes, caminarás junto a las madres que veas con un solo niñito y les ofreces su “regalo de Navidad”. Acércate con esa conversación a las parejas, mira sus ojos, observa sus acciones y los tendrás en tus manos. Luego solo síguelos hasta el vagón.

A las cuatro y media de la tarde Lucas ya había logrado eliminar a treinta y cinco posibles parejas de madres con su niñito, haciéndose pasar por vendedor de juguetes en la estación.

Pero el tiempo fue el único aliado que nunca pudieron sobornar.

Cuatro y cuarenta y cinco… solo quedaban dos parejas posibles de madres con sus hijos.

Caminaban juntas con la intención de abordar el coche 401. Justo en el momento de su entrada al vagón, el tren se deshizo del vapor en exceso que cargaba en sus líneas, lo que creó una intensa nube de humo blanco y espeso, que Lucas tuvo que atravesar. Enseguida se escuchó el fuerte silbato dentro de la estación. El tren comenzaba su marcha.

Lucas solo necesitaba saber cuál era la pareja correcta; anhelaba tener a su colega cerca para saber más sobre la inesperada situación. Se sujetaba del pasamanos, justo en la puerta de entrada al coche en movimiento. Miraba desesperado por última vez en dirección al andén, trataba de hacer contacto visual con cualquiera que pudiese arrojarle alguna información. Por suerte su amigo reapareció corriendo al lado de la vía.

—¡Los militares no podrán cortar la luz de este vagón! Tendrás que eliminar a la mujer espía, es solo eso… otra ladrona. Por eso entraron dos parejas de madres.

—Entonces la elimino, arrebato el maletín de la pareja contrabandista y salto a correr al vagón 400. ¿Después qué?

—Exacto, cálmate. En el 400 estarán mis hombres, ahí estarás a salvo.

—¡Espera! , hay dos niñitos iguales, y ambos sabrán la clave… ¿Y si elimino a una madre inocente? ¿De dónde sacas tanta gente para colaborar con tu plan?

—No sé, invéntate algo. ¡No puedo correr más… y explicarte detalles menos!

—Pero… ¡solo me queda una bala!… ¿y si no doy en el blanco y están armadas? ¡Estoy harto de este trabajo, siempre es el mismo horror!

Al pasar más de una hora, el tren se adentró en el túnel de Guajataca en dirección a San Juan; se escuchaban los machacones de las ruedas de metal sobre la vía, y ganaba la oscuridad dentro del vagón.

Lucas encendió un cigarrillo mientras buscaba a sus víctimas entre la poca visibilidad. Lanzaba ojeadas dobles que proyectaban una intención dudosa. Cinco minutos más tarde, le entregó un juguete de madera a cada niñito, y se retiró caminando hasta el final del coche. De pronto el pasar de una esbelta azafata le llamó la atención.

—Joven, deme un trago del ron más fuerte que tenga –dijo Lucas.

—Claro. ¿Quisiera ron de papa, ron de Ponce o ron de Yauco? El de Yauco les encanta a los oficiales del puerto… —observó su mirada— . Me doy cuenta de que usted no sabe. ¿Vive apartado, en alguna finca o algo así? ¿En algún lugar… controlado?

—¿Por qué me interroga así? Ah, usted sabe... el más potente, ese. ¡Deme acá! –reaccionó nervioso.

La bella dama atendió sus reclamos, pero le pareció muy sospechosa la manera en que Lucas lidiaba con el ron. Ahora tendría que atender una situación que ni en sus sueños esperaba.

—Déjeme ver su identificación, soy agente de puertos encubierta –dijo mientras le mostraba su placa.

No parecía verse muy cómodo ahora parado de espaldas en la parte posterior del vagón, donde muy disimuladamente fue a parar. Retiró la única bala que cargaba su revólver y lanzó el arma fuera del coche al cruzar el puente elevado. La bala por el lado opuesto siendo muy disimulado.

Logró entablar una amena conversación con la agente secreta, quien comentó que recorría el vagón como parte de su rutina. Y gloriosamente sus documentos falsos lograron remediar su tensa situación. La mujer se retiró.

Lucas superó el acontecimiento, y al rato se encontraba sentado en un banquillo recapacitando, pensando qué habría sido de su vida si en aquel inoportuno momento su identidad verdadera lo hubiera llevado tras las rejas de un presidio.

Halaba de su cigarrillo mientras cavilaba sobre su propia existencia, anhelaba un café caribeño, miraba las estrellas y respiraba del fresco aire tropical muy esperanzado.

Nada en el mundo volvería a desenfrenar su vida en una gestión como esta.

Sin más noticias de su colega, regresó al muelle de San Juan, donde trabajó como anotador del puerto para conseguir su boleto de vuelta. En menos de una mes regresó a su patria querida.

Reunido nuevamente con su familia se mecía en su butaca favorita mientras disfrutaba de su pipa de tabaco.

—Ustedes son mis verdaderas joyas. Esta pipa y estas tostadas a la sartén hechas por mi amada esposa son los verdaderos diamantes de mi vida. Compartir con ustedes no se compara en absoluto con la infortunada estadía de un hombre en un presidio.

Esa tarde, casi a la puesta del sol, se paró en una esquina de la acera de la ciudad.

Comenzaban a encenderse los faroles de gas en las calles, y los bistrós lejanos se distinguían entre toda la neblina por sus diminutas luces. Caviló observando un pequeño carruaje donde vendían todo tipo de flores hermosas. Y se fue caminando por entre la multitud de la ciudad, cargando algún dinero de sobra y algunos juguetes de madera, decidido a repartirlos entre todos los pobres que se encontrara en esa fría noche de Navidad.

FIN

Los niños de la Navidad

Por Enrique Sampayo

Corrección de estilo: Martha Janneth Méndez Peña

Diseño de tapa: Enrique Sampayo

Edición: Enrique Sampayo

Foto potrada – Free Clips online Microsoft

Fotos de contenido: Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported (CC BY-ND 3.0)

http://www.descargandolamemoria.com/2010/05/pasion-por-el-tren-passion-for-train.html https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cafe_courtyard_New_Orleans.jpg#filelinks

http://frenchmarketmaven.blogspot.co.uk/2010/12/5-terrific-mostly-free-things-to-do-in.html

Primera vez publicado por: Enrique A Sampayo. Mayo 8, 2010 en: http://blogdepracticacreativa―enrique.blogspot.com/

Este libro no puede ser reproducido, ni en todo ni en parte, por ningún medio inventado o por inventarse sin el permiso escrito del titular de los derechos de autor.

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Una vez más, bienvenidos a mi BLOG de escritura creativa.

Aquí está el enlace a mi primer libro publicado:

www.laesmeraldaysuenigma.com

Si te gustan los thrillers Sci-Fi & Fantasy, en la tradición de la
ciencia y el descubrimiento. Le gustará esta novela.

También disponible en Ingles.

EN EL BLOG PARA 2019:

What about him..., he could ?

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Tue, 27 Nov 2018 20:46:00 +0000

Short story. American folk drama.

He couldn’t contain himself. He walked from aft to stern again and again inside his tug boat dark cabin. Then, he sat in front of his old folding table. He just stayed there for a while, gazing at the nice lamp as the fire kindled in it danced once more for him. He let his thoughts wander, until he had a revelation that he was some kind of mythological being. He came back to reality as he made eye contact with his police uniform, his belt, his hat and the batch attached to it.

Just to think he would wear those to the grand opening of his neighborhood park. Now that was something that put him back in a bright-spirited state. It was his park, his loyal arena for the past year. Then his eyes went back to the small bit of fire. “They make everything so difficult; now everyone is just fighting. But I will be surveying them; no one doing bad deeds will prevail in this park. I’m going to get there early. I will then go near the children’s playbox, then near the birthday gazebo. No one, no one will escape me. It is my park’s grand reopening. The villains will flee; this is the piece I will carry tomorrow. Those crime lovers will know much better. Now let’s get to sleep.”

But it wasn’t like that… Half an hour later he was still awake. Awake and sitting aft, swinging his legs in the air as he sat on top of the icebox, until the sun came out. He stared all night at a seagull, a bird that was just afraid to get near him but friendly enough to keep his company through the night. Once and once again, he tried to feed her some bread without any luck. Just to get a chance to feel her white and soft feathers was all he was looking for.

The color of the ocean looked like mild tea mixed with water. He stared at it.

In front of him, right at the dock, was the live bait store, the size of a two-story train station. It had just a few air vents near the top of the roof that would have looked well on a barn. The bait shop was covered in rotten zinc panels the color of red fire ants. Some of them were new; others were planks made of old wood. It had a huge water tank fit for a giant. Sometimes he looked at it as if it were a gushing oil rig that had just struck luck. But it was really a rusty structure covered in rotten metal, drenched by lead and bluish huge stains. He stared at it that morning of insomnia. He stared at the neon sign that blinked from its side beam: “Live Bait.”

Someone had shown the courage to line up hundreds of empty beer bottles, all transparent, around this place. Who had the courage to build this? Who had the stamina to build a cement arch, encrusted with hundreds of pieces of colored glass? With all kinds of bottles and mosaics that resembled weird-looking faces, it gave the feeling this place belonged to some kind of cult, rather than to fishermen. He also reflected on that.

The blast of the morning trawler air horn reminded him that time was moving on. He balanced his way back to the cabin that gave him shelter, and before stepping down, he spotted something in the waters.

“Nicole!” he shouted at an old lady who swam with her hat across the mild colored waters. “I will be at the park today. Bring Nicolay; you can be sure I will be looking after your safety.” But the lady continued her swimming; she did not notice the old boat and the man dressed in uniform pretending to get her attention.

It seemed to him that someone was in need of his service.

He went back to his plan. He also thought that this was the best day that the year could bring. He also thought that after all of that year had passed, after all of those vigilant days at his old park, that those visitors at the opening ceremony would reward him with a warm baked chicken pot pie. “By now they should be baking that delicious pie. It may have my name written on top, or maybe my batch number carved on top of its delicious crusty cover.”

At 1 p.m., as he always did for so many months, he strolled near the play yard. The few parents that were there didn’t care a blip about him; no one looked at him as he passed along, with the exception of a tall weird-looking man who was hiding in the back of some wild branches and who saw him from afar and jumped like a cricket out of his hiding place. As he passed near the birthday gazebo, … the same thing. Not one friendly salute for him, not one welcoming gesture, not one cup of water for the security hero. Yet, some weird-looking couple that planned to rob most of the moms’ purses, walked away when they saw the hunched figure from as far as the parking lot.

Their fertile ground for fraudulent acquisitions was no longer available for their team.

He wandered all around the park’s gazebos and picnic tables until dawn, not knowing by then that more than 10 criminals had scrammed from the premises due to his presence. The park’s inaugural ceremony was also over. “I will trap them all; leave them to me. Can’t even get the blues. … What am I going to do?” he said as he walked, swinging his club.

He had a wondrous stride. His piece, his hat, his cuffs … They all dwelled as a part of him, just as the park dwelled as part of his heart.

He made it back to the bait shop on his way home. At the entrance, he looked from side to side and wiped off his sweat, the sweat that poured out of him just like coins pour out of a casino slot machine that had struck a jackpot.

As always the enormous bait shop had only two racks of skirted jigs, only a dozen available. The showroom was empty; the kitchen was as lonely as a desert, and only an old sandwich toaster stood on top of a cutting board. “I have been on patrol for a long time today; I’ve seen all sorts of villains today.”

“Yes, yes, I know …” answered the owner, who was eating pretzels and following a NASCAR race and the PGA golf tournament. Once and once again he pressed the last channel on the remote and sipped his Yuenglin. “Take some of these coffee cakes before they are rotten; take them for free,” he suggested. And he took them, and saluted the owner while holding onto his hat. “Thanks,” he replied.

On the way to the dock, he passed under the glass bottle cement arch, full of green, turquoise and yellow ones. A gorgeous flood of brilliant yet mellow radiance that resembled the entrance of a translucent chapel.. “Hey, no one has taken care of that park like me today,” he said, gazing at the weird-looking mosaic that resembled an old Indian chief. Then he untied his small wooden dinghy, and feeling peace with himself, he made his way to his old abandoned tug boat. He entered his lower level cave, and as he stepped down the screeching wooden stairs, he started to get rid of his plastic toy gun, his hat with replica plastic badge, and his light gray plastic toy cuffs.

He stood in front of the long polished mirror and said to himself: “No one, not one of them will get out of my reach; I will get them all!”

END

What about him…

He could?

By Enrique A. Sampayo Méndez

Proofreading by Phyllis Cox

Cover design: Enrique Sampayo

Editing: Enrique Sampayo

Cover pic: Attribution-ShareAlike

http://www.clker.com/clipart-man-43.html

First published by: Enrique Sampayo Mendez @ http://blogdepracticacreativa-enrique.blogspot.com/

08-18-2013

No part of this book may be reproduced including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Once again, welcome to my creative writing BLOG !

Here is the link to my first published book:

www.theemeraldmystery.com

If you like Sci-Fi & Fantasy thrillers, in the tradition of science and discovery. You will like this novel.

Also available in Spanish

AT THE BLOG ON 2019:

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Tue, 24 Oct 2017 14:53:00 +0000

Dr. Oswald the lost Paleontologist...

If you were invited to this secret meeting, please read the telegram carefully.

If you were invited to this secret meeting, please read carefully.

SPRING 1977

ROOVER UNIVERSITY’S FIRST QUARTERLY SCIENCE REPORT-TOP SECRTET MEETING BY INVITATION

DR. WALTER PRIM AT THE MICROPHONE:

30 MINUTES PAST HIS INTRODUCTION

So it is with great pleasure that we announce tonight, at this top secret meeting, that some of Dr. P. Oswald’s log entries from his 1974 expedition have been found. As we have already discussed, most of you know Dr. Oswald as my biology lab colleague at this institution, but most of you don’t know that he was a very serious gentleman. He never laughed at anything. As a matter of fact, he went several times for psychiatric therapy for a remedy to gain back his sense of humor. Nothing seemed funny or humorous to this man. He was also a man who read Joseph Conrad’s books while he took his morning shower, ate his breakfast, and even while he washed his clothing.

Not only can we pursue science today as Dr. Oswald once did, but we also can remind ourselves of his spirit of discovery and caring for humankind as reasons why we are all here today. Let’s judge whether we will follow in his footsteps or merely take his last pages of research and exploration as another entry in a scientific magazine meant to increase sales , or else. And I will be very brief now so that you can have some more time to walk through the exhibition this evening.

Only some pages from his expedition log still remain with us today. They were found during this year inside his beloved 1950 classic black MG, a vehicle that was stolen from the parking garage for the science department laboratory here at Roover University, specifically the day before they set sail on this unforgettable exploration. Meaning that it was never seen here since 1974.

Without the finding of his log, it would have been simply impossible to know about these last days of his endeavor in his career. Now we can really grasp the importance of this grandiose discovery. We had to reconstruct many of this old notes by using the latest technologies that this institution has available. Much of these pieces were rotted by moisture and other weathering.

Some other skeptical scholars may say that Dr. Oswald and his team were led by me—without warning—to a place where toxic minerals never before seen might have been secretly mined. What a clever ruse to mislead the public from the importance of this finding! A possible dinosaur track site, filled with footprints from undiscovered species.

It is very gratifying to us that ice caps at the exact region where these logs were written have melted, but we are not joyful over the fact that they have melted because of fumes thrown in the air by the many industries located near the site—which is the subject of another theory and symposium this institution is planning.

Peak Mountain, as Dr. Oswald called it, was finally revealed this year, thanks to many top secret Air Force reconnaissance missions certifying the coordinates as written in one of the remaining logs. This event led this paleoscience department to move very quickly in order to find the resources needed for the recovery expedition to the site. It was a place where science and evolution had to meet in a very disappointing way.

And now with the full endorsement of the Oswald family, given on the day of his funeral, I will unveil to you this expedition’s reconstructed last log entries. Some were written by Dr. Oswald, though most were composed by his colleagues. We encourage you on this day to carefully examine these notes so you can approve or disapprove of what this paleoscience department is about to do at this site in the next coming months to recover the expeditions equipment or possible missing body of Dr. Oswald.

Now, if you can carefully approach the front of the stage, you will see on display a series of glass-covered frames. First of all, I would like to say something about the first frames, which hold Dr. Oswald’s exploration vest and what we suppose to be his personal pocket compass. This vest came in to the campus teacher’s mailroom stamped by the federal mail service. No signature was needed to receive the package, so, I say that we cannot relate this item to Dr. Oswald. He always wore a kaki vest not a green one. He wore long cargo green pants, soft kaki hat, long sleeve kaki explorer shirt and his beloved soft back pack, light green. No one knows what he carried in it.

I want to make clear to all of you tonight that I myself know that Dr. Oswald wasn’t wearing this vest the day he left the campus and that I am against the certification of this evidence as one that relates Dr. Oswald to the mysterious finding of his lost MG, which was found this year right here, hidden under a canvas at the science department garage. It was inside the trunk of this vehicle that the remaining logs that you are about to see were also found.

Also found inside the vehicle were tranquilizing darts, another piece of evidence that clearly shows a discrepancy with the team’s equipment checklist. A chain pin, the size of a hammer was also found. It also was not mentioned in the equipment checklist. Hair samples were taken from the vehicle and sent to the lab. An analysis led to the conclusion that a strand of hair, found lying stuck to the left rear of the car, belongs to some kind of predator never before catalogued.

Then you will see a backpack checklist, also recovered from inside of this vehicle.

One last note before you walk through these exhibits. There are reports, spoken of by people who live many miles away from this site, of a glacial river that goes under this mountain and reappears many miles away, down at the base of the jungle. We will send a team of scientists and speleologists to investigate this theory. We will do so by placing colored goldfish at the glacier’s top, and then after some days we’ll try to recover them again at the aforementioned base. It would be most interesting if we can prove the existence of a cave formation that travels downward from the mountain all the way to the base. Just imagine the millions of years without humans wandering in this habitat. Just imagine the possibilities for survival in this scenario of animals that were thought to be extinct.

TOP SECRET- COVERED GLASS FRAME #1: BACKPACK CHECKLIST

SAME ON ALL BACKPACKS

Flap pocket: maps, notebook-pencil, Swiss Alps exploration permit, U.S. exploration permit, African exploration permit, Gobi Desert and Argentinian exploration permits, world hunting license, ID card with medical allergies and restrictions

Back pocket: plastic bowl, plastic cup, waterproof matches, sunglasses, snacks and meal packs

Upper left pocket, upper right pocket: one-quart canteen

Upper compartment: mini grill, food bags, GI can opener, cook kit, sugar, coffee, tea, rubber bands

Lower compartment: foam mattress, tarp tent, 15 yards of nylon cord, underwear, socks, wind deflector jacket

Lower left pocket: toothbrush, flashlight, spare bulb, paper, filtering pot, batteries

Lower right pocket: first aid kit, sunblock, lip balm, whistle, matches, candle, pack of needles, thread, mirror for signaling, safety pins, water purifier

To be carried on oneself: knife, compass, waterproof matches

TOP SECRET-COVERED GLASS FRAME #2: DISCOVERED LOG EXHIBIT 1

DATE: 01-03-1974

SITE NAME: Arag Valley

LOCATION: Conti Alps

EXTRA DIRECTIONS: Cross valley; head to river crossing

EXPLORATION OBJECTIVE: Locate possible hadrosaur tracks, Upper Cretaceous Period, Cantwell Formation

CONDITIONS: Fair, water, 62 degrees/ WEATHER: Sunny skies with some clouds .

ALTITUDE: 1,500 feet

EQUIPMENT NOTES: Replace plaster compound with camera due to weight

TEAM MEMBER’S NOTES: No injuries, cedar forest not in map.

Exploration narrative

We had to tackle a side of the cedar forest for an hour. These cedars were giants, Dr. Oswald says they were eight hundred years old, and possibly three hundred feet tall. Each of our figures at the distance had become a mere speck. We feel fascinated by their volume, astonished by their presence at this altitude. At 10 a.m. we manage to cross the last canyon valley and that leads us right to the front of the river crossing.

All of our donkeys have been set free. For the next 10 kilometers, we carry all of the equipment by ourselves. The journey is harsh during this stretch of land. Edmund is bitten by a rattlesnake during the crossing of the valley. We use most of our antibiotics just to treat Edmund’s leg. We are also running very low on aspirin.

We stop for a meeting of team members and make sure that we have a good plan before starting the river crossing. The currents seem to settle every four minutes; they are not trustworthy. We keep Edmund’s leg dry by using all of the wrappings that were left behind when we set the donkeys free. We don’t know what lies ahead on the river. We’ve heard only short tales by old miners, the last generation who lived 10 miles away from the valley. They told us how harsh that stretch of land will be ahead—that the ground is going to be so rocky between the river and Peak Mountain that it will be almost impossible to find a spot anywhere to set up camp.

Eight hours pass; we cross the river. It is a dangerous situation for the team. My leg is stuck for five minutes under the water. We all have to reach down to loosen rocks in the riverbed to set my leg free. After some minutes, the currents are stronger. We make it to the other side of the river. Edmund’s leg remains dry. We have met the so-called rocky surface. It is not easy to stride on top of these formations. They are almost like sharp black metal boxes, the size of an icebox—all full of sharp edges thrown on top of each other. It seems a maze of traps reaching toward the horizon for almost a mile.

Four hours pass, during which we manage to hike at a very slow speed over these rock formations. All the while, we have to look forward to keep our balance and react swiftly to sudden sways of loosened rocks. Some of us fall repeatedly, so badly on three occasions, that we take several minutes to regroup before continuing on. At different points, the rock formations change into a single hallway, like trails, and we can only see our nearest companion’s shoulders in front of us, disappearing and reappearing from sight. We manage to set up just one of the tents inside one of these hallway-like openings. Mary’s leg has a three-inch cut, a bit deep in my opinion. The temperature has dropped from 62 degrees at the valley to 38 degrees past the river crossing. We cover ourselves fully with our remaining cold weather equipment.

Nighttime camp: we take a vote on whether to keep going forward, considering several questions: Do we believe in the coordinates we carry with us? Is it safe to go on with no antibiotics? At 10 p.m., before going to bed, we detect a suspicious odor around the campsite. Edmund and I stay awake for almost five hours because of it.

TOP SECRET-COVERED GLASS FRAME #3: DISCOVERED LOG-EXHIBIT 2

Exploration narrative

Breakfast, 7 a.m.: Mary feels better; there is no swelling on her leg. Edmund has to stay here at camp; he can’t walk anymore. That rare smell we noticed last night seems even more fresh and sour this morning. The second campsite ahead is a trek of about five miles over these box-like rock formations. Mary completes the equipment check and we head out to the trails. Silence strikes its wrath upon us. Even the smallest slip of a loosened rock can be heard as we make our way along the top of this river of rocks, abandoned by any friendlier signs of nature in our peripheral view. We make it to the second site.

We can see Peak Mountain from this second campsite. It looks foggy, and we can predict that it will be even colder as we get close to its base. We decide to go on.

After one hour of hiking, we can clearly see our goal, and we can estimate the volume of this snowcapped mountain; it is the size of the Great Pyramid of Giza. It is so full of snow that we decide to have a quick meeting to get ready for any possible avalanches we may face as we get closer. We also double-checked that everyone is carrying waterproof matches and pocket compasses. We decide to go forward.

At 7:30 p.m. it’s getting darker, we are 400 meters in front of the mountain’s base. Poor visibility. The rare smell is more present at this distance. An emergency meeting is called to decide who will scavenge around to look for soil samples that may lead us to this mysterious odor.

Dr. Oswald wants to be the one chosen. We decide that the team shouldn’t spare him for this purpose in case of an avalanche. After more than an hour of confrontations with Dr. Oswald its already nighttime, we decide to talk about this important matter in the morning hours. Dr. Oswald grows enraged during the meeting and demands several times, “We must find out what this odor is tonight; right now I say!”

Next day, around 7:30 a.m. we are awake and have breakfast. We decide to walk some meters around the site to see if we can spot something unusual. A couple of minutes go by, and Dr. Oswald gathers us to tell us about something unimaginable. Instead of the source of the odor, he has found some tracks. We then walk to this position and wonder at these perfectly preserved footprints, the size of an open baseball catcher’s glove. Some of them are so detailed that they reveal the creature’s skin texture. He then gets very serious and tells us, “These footprints belong to herds of duck-billed dinosaurs called hadrosaurs, which thrived in the high-latitude, polar ecosystem in the Late Cretaceous period between 66 and 100 million years ago.” He tells me to keep writing everything I can; there is more in this mountain that needs to be explored.

The coordinates take us to this old mountain mine, topped with an abundance of snow. We double-check our maps. Dr. Oswald says that it is impossible that this is the place. Now with the morning’s sunlight we can clearly see the entrance to the old mine at the base of the mountain. We don’t have the gear we need to climb even half of the distance to this site. We camped very close to the entrance of the mine without noticing last night. We take pictures of the footprints.

We decide to walk towards the mine entrance. We pack up all of the gear and hide it under some rock formations. As we get close to the mine we notice some old and rusted rails that are hidden under the snow and dirt. We also locate to the side of the entrance an abandoned 1960 Chelsea gray Range Rover. It is frozen to the side of the old wooden entrance. The entrance, rotted by time, looks very dangerous. The Rover has sunken into the wall; no human remains are inside the vehicle. It is loaded with equipment, frozen all around its body.

We can see all sorts of kitchenware on its roof racks, water and gasoline tanks on its front grill, a spare tire on top of its hood. There is a peculiar thick rope that goes all around the roof racks. On its end, it holds a big metal bucket that can easily hold more than eight gallons of liquid. We also see all sorts of mining equipment frosted to the vehicle. Huge stakes and hammers are hidden inside a red metal box below the trunk.

A dozen kerosene lamps, two shovels and two picks, and a camera tripod are tied together on top of the racks. At the end of the rack is a huge wooden chest, very old in appearance, very similar to a pirate’s treasure chest. Dr. Oswald cautions us regarding the opening of this chest and about touching the huge dinosaur teeth that hangs on a necklace from the rear view mirror.

There is also a whaling spear tied up really well to the right side of the roof racks. We have a loud discussion about this gear and the reasons that may make us rethink turning back from this exploration. Will we need this gear? We figure out that we shouldn’t waste more time opening and uncovering all that is inside the metal boxes near the Rover and decide to go on with entering the mine.

There is an airborne supply package still tied up and frozen, just outside the entrance. Decks of shoe size boxes the colors of bricks are stacked on top of each other as tall as four feet. On its base a white support plate, a bunch of frozen white nets cover the cargo. Dr. Oswald prohibits anyone from opening it.

We light some torches by using some old cloths found inside the Rover. We decide to go inside the mine for a planned 150-meter expedition. Our thoughts about climbing the peak are over for the present time. Minutes later we notice that there are no more rails or tracks along the first 15 meters from the entrance. At the 25-meter mark, we discover a huge cave formation opening on the floor, possibly 15 meters in diameter. We assume that opens into a dark saloon. There are no other saloons in this cave formation level, so we decided that it is down that we will go.

We go back to the Rover to get the old ropes and a bucket, and also a rotten pulley that was frozen inside the bucket. We warm up all of this gear with the torches; only one remains lit by the time we go back to the cave entrance. All afternoon is lost, looking for a pole or post to place on top of the opening to get the rigging down. There is nothing around the premises. So a meeting is called, and Dr. Oswald takes over again. He says that whoever is mining or experimenting inside this cave must’ve hidden a huge pole somewhere inside the mine. And that it must be lying around the dark corners of this saloon. We decide to go forward with Dr. Oswald’s plan. We put our last remaining batteries in two of our flashlights and go back to send their beams into the corners of the saloon in the hope that we will find the pole.

It is getting dark, and the team has just one flashlight remaining inside the cave. Just when all of our hopes are lost, we manage to decode Dr. Oswald’s Morse code flashing inside the saloon… “FOUND HUGE WOOD POLE…” Dr. Oswald makes it to the entrance, and we go back in, walking very slowly and gripping each other’s arms.

Then we manage to place the heavy pole with the dim light of the lone flashlight that we luckily still have, as we follow Dr. Oswald’s instructions. When we finish, we walk back the same way, very slowly, and decide to have a quick meal. Back at the camp over some rice noodles and hot tea, we discuss the many reasons this site was used for, and we realize that rumors of the possibilities of any dinosaur tracks were more than we have bargained for. We decide to talk over the matter strictly until 9 p.m. The flashlight battery is dead by then, so we open our last pack of candles and light one to discuss today’s last matter. Topics are as follows: Whose equipment is this, and what is it doing here? What is inside this air-dropped cargo? How long can we stay here before we head back to the first campsite to reunite with Edmund? Could the metal boxes have been brought here in the Rover? But there are too many. How did the Rover get here?

The Land Rover topic was much more than bizarre. Specially so as to cause in all of us an amusing interest in just exposing our own theories and opinions. At the end, Oswald had the last word. “The Rover had to be air-dropped here, or maybe was brought under the belly of a military transport helicopter. That’s why you see all those huge tie-down straps laying all over the place. But why so many? All I can say is that they needed to use this vehicle as some kind of power generator, maybe for a mini lab. And their expectations where aimed at trapping something very-very big.”

At 8 a.m. we are already at breakfast and eager to find out what is lying at the bottom of that pit. The mission is simple: to get down there and check everything inside of the planned perimeter. We are out of batteries, and there’s only one box of candles left. Mary and Dr. Oswald will lower me down, as I kneel inside the bucket found on top of the Rover. Dr. Oswald wants to stay out of the cave.

We are very afraid of the chances that the old rotten pulley will not hold for the descent. If it fails, whoever is descending to the pit may free fall on top of some sort of structure left behind by the miners, like old rotten rails, metal boxes or carts. Dr. Oswald points out the potential dangers of falling on top of broken bones lying around the area. Even possibly some with sharp points.

Around 8:30 a.m. I am wearing my all weather coat and my old desert hat to prevent any bats from exploring my flesh. I am rigged and holding onto just one lighted candle, which I grip with my bare hands. Wax drips all the way to the bottom of the cave as I dangle from side to side during the descent. Oswald doesn’t know it but I stacked some dynamite inside of the bucket.

Who knows what this is...

As I am making my way down, I notice another wave of acrid odor rising from inside the opening. And finally I touch ground with both feet. Musty old air mixes with the odor inside the saloon. It is horrible—unbearable to get used in those first minutes. I just stand stock-still, grasping my half candle. Then a strong current of cold air strikes me by surprise, almost taking the fire out of my small piece of candle.

My own murmuring echoes so loudly inside the saloon that I don’t want to speak even to myself. I know that the crew upstairs are worried, so I take a big chunk of breath and organize my thoughts to scream or shout out something to them. “Get the rest of the candles bundled up, tape them together and rig them down here before you even think about coming down here,” I yell to them. “I am walking some meters ahead to find some place where I can have a private moment; this cold is all over me.”

I walk like a man in a firewalking ritual, step by careful step. When I finish, I turn around, thinking I am now in a dark corner.

Then I realize the bundled candles are already dangling in the middle of the saloon, fully lighted still, and I also notice that I have walked some yards inside a small arched opening. I start to walk very slowly towards the lighted room again.

As the light chases away the darkness, the first thing I notice is that the floor is littered with huge locks and chains. And these locks are not common; they are the size of a grown man’s shoebox. The chains and pinlocks could easily be used to dock a medium-sized cruise ship. This is the moment I start to think about those huge tranquilizer darts we found tucked under the front seat of the Rover, and my back feels chills. I start to shrivel. I go over my thoughts about these things … about their owners … about where they came from, … and nothing else streams inside my mind. Then I see some copper helmets with candleholders attached to their front sides, and a leather gas mask with copper goggles. This gas mask also has a candleholder, but it is on top, with a small round mirror on the back of the holder. A pressurized oxygen tank with copper fittings is lying beside it; the breathing hose is still attached to the inhalation port.

Then I say to myself, “I’ve got to get the heck out of here. Raise your head and take a look around and behind you; look at the small cave opening which you came out of.” Unwillingly, I turn around very slowly, still standing in the same place, as a sense of a childish loneliness overtakes me this time around. I think then and there that I need a fully loaded firearm. Then I realize that some of the rock formations above and around me are ice. With the shining of the candlelight the saloon gleams as if I were inside a huge gem the color of artic blue ice. I finish my 180-degree turn and end up facing the small cave opening I came out of.

Then in surprise … shock … amazement, I cover my lips with my left hand, and my eyes widen. Both of my hands join together like a French love affair, sailing close to my chest, close to my heart. I see something beautiful. There is an entire T. REX skeleton frozen at the top of that transparent blue ice wall. I start shivering. I want to walk back to the rope and bucket, but I am frozen in time just like the Tyrannosaurus. And we stare at each other for some time.

When a sudden elephant-like odor strikes me again, it awakens me from my trance, and I tell myself again, “I have to walk back; I have to get the heck out of here.”

DATE: 01-05-1974

SITE NAME: Peak Mountain

LOCATION: Conti Alps

EXTRA DIRECTIONS: Go past rock formations to the base of Peak

EXPLORATION OBJECTIVE: Locate possible hadrosaur tracks, Upper Cretaceous Period, Cantwell Formation

CONDITIONS: Harsh: no water on site; skies partly sunny; temperature 40 degrees

ALTITUDE: 1,500 feet; cave opening, 35 feet down

EQUIPMENT NOTES: Replace plaster compound with camera due to weight

TEAM MEMBER’S NOTES: Tim is OK; Edmund still waits at the first campsite. I fainted yesterday inside the cave.

Exploration narrative

Next morning I wake on top of my mattress inside the camp’s tent. I have been rescued from the night’s darkness. Mary takes me out of the site. She tells me that Dr. Oswald, Panner and she met to decide who would go in for me. And they also discussed who would be first to go inside the site today to explore the interior of the cave.

The last task remaining for us is to collect and record any other findings with the light from the remaining pieces of candles before we abort the rest of the mission. I learn that the strong odor prevailed again last night and that Dr. Oswald showed the team his hidden firearm and said he is sleeping with it hidden under his foam mattress.

When we wake up today we notice that Dr. Oswald has left the campsite; he has taped a note to the side of the tent.

Dr. Oswald’s note: “After turning over my foam pad countless of times during my sleep, I realized that I had been awake for more than three hours. Not only did I stand up and go for a walk, trying to recover my sleep by taking some fresh air, but I also thought about the exploration. It was while I was out there that I felt that the powerful odor had become even more despicable. I tried to muse over various topics of science and paleontology, like the resuscitation of species through a process to be called cloning. All of a sudden a soft growling sound, such as some kind of a beast from the feline family might make, came from beyond the mine’s entrance. I decided to go inside, equipped with my firearm. I would go into the saloon without the team’s approval, not because I wanted to turn this into a personal discovery, but rather because I didn’t want any more casualties in case there was a small mountain predator trapped inside the cave. If you heard two gunshots from inside the pit, then please try to get close to the entrance and see if you can manage to see where I am and rescue me.”

Last night, Dr. Oswald told Mary how he had felt the presence of some kind of an animal—a big one—when he was cataloging some soil samples, but she laughed. What a fool he was! But who has had similar experiences?

So I go to the cave’s entrance, just to see if he wants to join us for breakfast. I ignore his instructions about rescue procedures if there are gunshots. I count my steps toward the opening as we had practiced and make it there with no setbacks. I peek inside the opening where I see a dim light. But what seems crazy is real. I see a huge tail lying in the center of the saloon, and when I lower my torch from the opening, it slips from my hands, and and I run back to the campsite.

This is what I say to the team: “We will need to get Edmund back here and all of the rope that we can carry to pull the beast or to move it away from the side of the saloon where I saw Dr. Oswald’s flashing candle. The truth is I don’t know if the monster is sleeping or simply lying dead. We will discover that as we try to put the ropes around its thick and furry tail.” I notice something else. Dr. Oswald is using Morse code by covering and uncovering the light from his candle. He is telling us: “He is sleeping; act cautiously. It looks like a living Ankylosaurus.”

Do you know what that is? A twenty foot long quadrupedal animal, bigger than a Rhino. With a broad robust body. It has two horns pointing backwards from the back of the head, and two horns below these that pointed backwards and down. Covered in armor plates, or osteoderms, with bony half-rings covering the neck, and had a large club on the end of its tail. Is thought to have been a slow moving animal, able to make quick movements when necessary. The tail club is thought to have been used in defense against predators or in combat related to food resources…

My God its tail club! … his motor ability … his feeding strategy… And if my life has to be at risk for what I will do now, it will be for the good of all. Do you hear that? Then I hear an annoyed animal growl: braahhhhhhwwwl!

Bring me the tranquilizer darts and the ropes, I tell Mary. Then I run to see what has happened. Panner is standing in shock when suddenly Mary slaps him on the face. We make it together to the danger area, Mary and I are down at the same time, using two different ropes and assisted by Panner. Our torches flare light all over the place and in all directions as we sway above the back of the creature. Mary’s rope is torn apart, and she free falls on top of the darkness. I climb up as fast as I can.

Suddenly Dr. Oswald’s candlelight, which has served as a point of recognition is lost inside the cave. The strong odor returns and takes over everything. Mary’s torch still shines light at the center of the saloon. She has not fallen on top of the tail. “I am OK, just a bit hurt!” she shouts. “I can’t see the tail anymore. I’m scared; I want to get out, please. Oh my god, I can see a big creature moving towards an opening. I think Dr. Oswald is following it. He must be crazy!”

Then suddenly there are no more signs of the creature, no more distracting odor, and no signals from Dr. Oswald …

To be continued.

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Ankylosaurus

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Ankylosaurus (/ˌæŋkəloʊˈsɔːrəs/ ANG-kə-lo-SAWR-əs[1]) is a genus of armored dinosaur. Fossils of Ankylosaurus have been found in geological formations dating to the very end of the Cretaceous Period, between about 68–66 million years ago, inwestern North America, making it among the last of the non-avian dinosaurs. It was named by Barnum Brown in 1908, and the only species classified in the genus is A. magniventris. The genus name means "fused lizard" and the specific name means "great belly". A handful of specimens have been excavated to date, but a complete skeleton has not been discovered. Though other members of Ankylosauria are represented by more extensive fossil material, Ankylosaurus is often considered the archetypal member of its group.

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Dr. Oswald

The Lost Paleontologist

By Enrique A. Sampayo Méndez

Cover art: Roy David Gonzales

Proofreading: Phyllis Cox

Cover design: Enrique Sampayo

Editing: Enrique Sampayo

Special thanks to Tattoo artist Roy David Gonzalez

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ankylosaurus

First published as "The lost Paleontologist" by Enrique Sampayo Mendez @ http://blogdepracticacreativa-enrique.blogspot.com 06-10-2010

This short story evolved from a creative writing workshop led by Dr. Emilio del Carril in 2010. The assignment was to create a short story around the phrase:

"When I woke up, the dinosaur was still alive"

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Once again, welcome to my creative writing BLOG !

Here is the link to my first published book:

www.theemeraldmystery.com

If you like Sci-Fi & Fantasy thrillers, in the tradition of science and discovery. You will like this novel.

Also available in Spanish

LA ULTIMA COPA DE TATIANA/short story Spanish. Re -edit

TATIANA'S LAST CUP/short story English. Re-edit

WHAT ABOUT HIM..., HE COULD?/short story English. NEW !

LOS NINOS DE LA NAVIDAD/ short story Spanish. NEW !

BOOGIE BOARDS & EXPLORATION ! This is my first pblished book, welcome !

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Thu, 25 Feb 2016 04:20:00 +0000

English version see bottom.

Primera obra de ficción donde se toca el tema de la aventura y la exploración en el deporte del bodyboard.

"EL QUE BUSCA ENCUENTRA"

WWW.LAESMERALDAYSUENIGMA.COM

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FIRST FICTION NOVEL ABOUT BODYBOARDERS AND THEIR WAVE RIDDING EXPLORATIONS

SEEK AND YOU SHOULD FIND...

WWW.THEEMERALDMYSTERY.COM

Yo me atreví a serlo

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Fri, 26 Jun 2015 16:11:00 +0000

Micro cuento

A veces me da coraje decir quién soy, y total…me trato muy bien. Me preparo siempre muy buenas comidas, intento acercarme al arte lo más posible y, cada vez que la naturaleza me lo permite, tengo mucha compasión por los demás.

Lápiz pastel sobre cartón por: Tito Vélez

Siempre intento vestirme muy adecuadamente. En fin, me trato muy bien a mí mismo y a los demás.

En ese proceso que le llamo “Quien soy” creo muchas conexiones, ellas me hacen ser más auténtico aun, ellas me hacen ser quien soy… Pero también quiero ser…Quiero ser y hacer cosas que me atraen. Y, al perseguirlas, me siento vulnerable. Vulnerable a que me desprecien, me separen, me ignoren y, que no me acepten. Todo por ser autentico y soñar el ser algo más de lo que soy.

Porque quien anhelo ser no es lo mismo que quien soy y, ser vulnerable es, precisamente ser quien eres, ser auténtico.

Coqui-Coqui, the little frog

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Fri, 24 Oct 2014 01:14:00 +0000

This is a children’s picture book script, about a Coqui little frog who couldn’t make his call.

The Coquí little frog, is a specimen known to live only in the caribbean island of Puerto Rico, he is the size of a nickel. Another peculiar thing is that during the night hours, the male coqui chirps to his mate. Transforming the night's silence in to a beautiful song made up of many coqui little frogs chirping the sound… Ko-kee Ko-Kee Ko-Kee

Coqui Coqui, started jumping when he saw the sun falling, then he got very cheerful and jumped to a nice Mango tree.

One coqui female called him. Coqui-Coqui , but he couldn’t sing.

Coqui-Coqui, started jumping till he saw it was mid night, then he got very cheerful and jumped to a nice Papaya tree.

One coqui female called him. Coqui-Coqui , but he couldn’t sing.

Coqui-Coqui, started jumping till he saw it was pass mid night, then he got very cheerful and jumped to a nice Kenepa tree.

One coqui female called him. Coqui-Coqui , but he couldn’t sing

Coqui-Coqui, never gave up and started jumping till he saw the rising sunlight, then he got very cheerful and jumped to a nice Bread fruit tree.

One coqui female called him. Coqui-Coqui I have Bread fruit ships…!

Coqui-Coqui got very happy and widened his eyes, and as soon he heard her he started to sing...

Ko-kee Ko-Kee Ko-Kee

La ranita Coquí-Coquí

Aquí el guion para un libro ilustrado para niños, sobre un Coquí ranita que no podía cantar su llamado.

El coquí ranita, es un espécimen reconocido por vivir solamente en la isla caribeña de Puerto Rico, tiene el tamaño de una moneda de cinco centavos. Otra cosa peculiar es que durante las horas de la noche, el Coquí varón pía a su compañera. Transformando el silencio de la noche en una canción muy hermosa formada por coquí ranitas que cantan el peculiar sonido… Coquí- Coquí, Coquí- Coquí, Coquí- Coquí

Coquí-Coquí, comenzó a saltar cuando vio el sol cayendo, luego se puso muy alegre y saltó a un buen árbol de Mango.

Una coquí hembra le llamo. Coquí, Coquí,… pero él no podía cantar.

Coquí-Coquí, comenzó a saltar hasta que vio que fue la media noche, luego se puso muy alegre y saltó a un buen árbol de Papaya.

Una coquí hembra le llamo. Coquí, Coquí,… pero él no podía cantar.

Coquí-Coquí, comenzó a saltar hasta que vio pasar la media noche, luego se puso muy alegre y saltó a un buen árbol de Kenepa.

Una coquí hembra le llamo. Coquí, Coquí,… pero él no podía cantar.

Coquí-Coquí , nunca se rindió y comenzó a saltar hasta que vio la luz del sol naciente, se puso muy alegre y saltó a un buen árbol de Pana.

Una coquí hembra le llamo. Coquí, Coquí… ¡Tengo tostones de Pana...!

Coquí-Coquí, muy feliz abrió muy grande sus ojos, de pronto le oyó y empezó a cantar...

Coquí- Coquí, Coquí- Coquí, Coquí- Coquí

MY DAY

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Sun, 23 Feb 2014 17:21:00 +0000

SHORT STORY

Although I never thought about shaving that newly brewed little mustache I had, I knew I had to go in there. I had seen them on magazines.

And because it was raining so lightly, some people sat in awe in front of the coffee shop sipping onto their tea cups. I figured out that, like if they were older than me, of course, that if they knew my intentions… to explore, where so intimate, that, they could take my visit as a visit from someone who had never seen or even been near their lifestyle of a place. That they would wonder about why I just didn’t have any urges to enjoy the outside balcony, you know, sit there and wait for the waitress. It was a weather given by the gods. And for me that grinded a bit of a noise in to my attitude, that small tiny noise that sometimes made me stop all of intentions at the –vert-ramp–, like I was really going down kind of tiny grind at the copping noise… But I did went in, and that tiny voice that sometimes speaks to me took over again –If anything can go well, It will– and as I opened the door and walked in side to the nice smelling wood deck, in front of their counter, there they were, two of them, both beautiful.

Him...he could...!

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Mon, 19 Aug 2013 03:02:00 +0000

Fiction-Drama

He couldn’t contain himself; he walked from aft to stern again and again inside his dark cabin. Then, he sat in front of his old folding table. He just stood there for a while, gazing at the nice kindled lamp as the fire danced once more for him. He just wondered in thoughts, and as a revelation ended up thinking he was some kind of mythological being.

His reality came back again as he made eye contact with his hangued uniform, his belt, his hat and the batch attached to it.

Just to think he would wear those to the grand opening of his neighborhood park. Now, that was something that got him back in to a bright-spirited state. It was his park, his loyal arena for the past year. Then his eyes went back again to the small bit of fire. “They make everything so difficult, now everyone is just fighting. But I will be surveying them; no one doing bad deeds will prevail in this park. I’m going to get there early. I will then go near the children’s play-box, then near the birthday gazebo. No one, no one will escape me, it is my park grand re-opening. The villains will flee; this is the piece I will carry tomorrow. Those crime lovers will know much better. Now let’s get to sleep”

But it wasn’t like that… Half an hour later he was still awaken. Awaken and sitting outside the aft, swinging his legs in the air as he sat on top of the ice box, until the sun came out. He stared at a sea gull all night, a bird that was just afraid to get near him but friendly enough to keep his company all thru the night. Once and once again he tried to feed her some bread, without any luck. Just to get a chance to feel her white and soft feathers was all he was looking for.

The color of the ocean looked like mild tea, mixed with water, he also stared at it.

In front of him, right at the dock, was the live-bait store. Was the size of a two story train station. She had just a few air-vents at the top of her barn looking roof level. All of the bait shop was covered with rotten zinc panels the color of red fire ants. Some of them new, some of them were planks made out of old wood. It had a huge water-tank that seemed to him like a giant. Sometimes he looked at it as if it was a gushing oli-rigg that had just truck gold. But it was really a rusty structure covered in rotten metal, drenched by lead and bluish huge stains. He also stared at that that insomniac morning. He stared at the light sign that blinked from it's side beam and said live-bait.

Someone had the courage to line up hundreds of empty beer bottles, all transparent, all around this place. Who had the courage to build this? Who had the stamina to build a cement arch, incrusted with hundreds of pieces of colored glass? With all kinds of bottles and mosaics that resembled weird looking faces. It just gave you the feeling this place belonged to some kind of cult and rather less to the fisherman kind. He also reflected on that.

The sound of that days morning tow-boat air horn, reminded him again that time was moving on. He balanced back to the cabin that gave him shelter, and before steping down, he spotted something in the waters.

“Nicole!” he shouted at an old lady who swam with her hat across the mild colored waters. “I will be at the park today, bring Nicolay, you can be sure I will be looking around for your safety.” But the lady continued her swimming, more less did she notice that from that old boat, a man dressed in uniform pretended to get her attention.

It already seemed to him that someone was in the need of his service. He went back to his plan. He also thought that this was the best day that the year could bring. He also thought that after all of that year had passed, after all of those vigilant days at his old park, that those visitors at the opening ceremony, would reward him with a warm baked chicken pot pie. “By now they should be baking that delicious pie. It may have my name written on top, or maybe my batch number carved on top of its delicious crusty cover.”

At 1:00PM, as always, as he did for so many months, he strolled near the play-yard area. The few parents there, didn’t care a blimp about him, no one looked at him as he passed along. With the exemption of a weird, tall looking man who was hiding at the back of some wild branches. Who saw him from afar and jumped like a cricket out of his hiding place.
As he passed near the birthday gazebo…, the same thing. Not one friendly salute for him, not one welcoming gesture, not one cup of water for the security hero. Yet, some weird looking couple who planned to rob most of the moms purses, walked away when they saw the hunched figure for as far away as the parking lot.

Their fertile ground for fraudulent acquisitions was no longuer available for their team.

He wandered all around the parks gazebos and picnic tables, till dawn... Not knowing by then, than more than ten criminals had scrammed out the premises due to his presence. The parks inaugural ceremony was also over. “I will trap them all, leave them to me. Can’t even get the blues…what am I going to do…,” he said as he walked, he swung his black stick.

He had a wondrous stride. His piece, his hat, his cuffs, they all dwelled as a part of him, just as the park dwelled as part of his heart.

He made it back to the bait-shop on his way home. At the entrance, he looked from side to side, and cleaned his sweat. The sweat that poured out of him just like coins pour out of a casino slot machine that had struck the jack-pot.

As always the enormous bite-shop had only two racks with only a dozen of rubber baits available. The show room was all empty; the kitchen was as lonely as a desert. And only an old sandwich toaster stood on top of its cutting board. “I have gone around for a long time today; I’ve seen all sorts of villains today”

“Yes, Yes, I know…” answered the owner, who stood there eating pretzels and going over the Nascar race and the PGA golf tournament. Once and once again he pressed last- channel at the control and sipped his beer. “Take some of those coffee cakes before they rotten, take them for free,” he suggested him.

And him, he took them, and saluted the owner holding on to his hat. “Thanks,” he replied.
On the way to the dock, he passed under the modern art , glass incrusted cement arch. “Hey, no one has taken care of that park like me today,” he said gazing at a weird looking mosaic that resembled an old indian chief. Then he untied his small wooden rib, and feeling peace with himself, made his way to his old abandoned fishing-boat. He entered his under level cave, and as he stepped down the wooden stairs, he started to get rid of his plastic toy gun, his hat with replica plastic badge, and his light gray plastic toy cuffs. And stood in front of a long polished mirror and said to himself.

“No one, not one of them will get out of my reach, I will get them all!”

This is one example of those characters that I rather get rid off in a short story before they become attached to me, my blog is full of them. Most of the time they become very short stories. This took me five days before I saw the painting at the Kissimmee's Flea Market. "Hey, I found you a home character," I thought.

Then I went to Space-Bar, in D.T. Orlando for the scene-scheme over a Brook Beer. Downloaded the story on paper while visiting Down Town Disney next day, were I celebrated the outcome with a hot churro, yes! Down Town Disney gets your creations flowing, good place full of sets. Hope you liked HIM!

Visit my: "Sundance Film Foward" post.

TATIANA'S LAST GLASS

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Tue, 13 Aug 2013 18:31:00 +0000

Fiction-Drama

I was waiting for my fiancé during that time. That cupid boyfriend that I have, stopped to chat with a girl at the end of the bar and I, while expecting him, simply thought about my character’s role as I stood on stage that night. I looked very unhappy, I’ll accept that. But it was the only feeling that I had inside that place, at that time. They took the picture precisely when I started to sip on the wine that glamorized my glass. Those traitors… I'll keep telling you what happened there.

I was wondering if I did not perform my part of the script correctly, just like the many times I was able to do so.

Could my gestures on stage have been interpreted as a subliminal mockery? That would be a good excuse for not applauding at me today... if it’s not for this reason, it must have been because something else. I thought while sitting at the bar.

I was in such a need for a cigarette that evening… So while waiting for my fiancé, I kept thinking of more things, plain and simply going over the matter.

Why was I rejected today? Why today, after so many long nights in this theatre? I asked myself.

It must have been that germ, which flourishes over the irrational sorts of senseless talking. If it was that, without any doubt, it had infected the entire audience. All those people who recognize me as an actress of impeccable quality, now infected, all of them

I kept thinking... Look at them today, denying my seniority, unfolding their thoughts into acting as completely ethereal beings, now denying the very essence of beauty in the art of acting. Only a fool becomes carried away by his own poor understanding. The real bad thing is when that soul feels the need to spread that feeling just because of his vileness.

I felt disappointed once I walked out of the stage that night. I knew that my enemies somehow earned the wonderment of their followers. I knew that something was wrong. So I decided to enter the bar, just to clear my mind. I knew that my fiancé would be waiting for me there. Well, he didn’t know I was getting there sooner, since they had canceled my act earlier that day.

Usurpers, they will never develop my character with the quality that has made me stand out. I have to admit something before I go on. That night, I was just one more pretext to justify their production style. They are nothing, nothing if they don’t jump in to one’s life just to get more publicity. Ok, ok, if they feel so “moved” by “shaking things around”, soon they will know how things in this country are really shaken.

They are only a band of incompetents without any control. I remember that I repeated softly, just barely moving my lips. That was the only thing I spoke as I stood there at that bar. And standing still by my side was that other subject, the one wearing a hat, he remained silent. I’ll tell you who he is later.

A glass of wine was enough to forget that that was the night that I was fired by those morons. My role, lost forever. Nothing gave me any encouragement to laugh that evening. I didn't desire anything, or any less felt like being anyone in the world as I stood there... My only world was that role that I played every single weekend, it was all for me.

But how dare them to hire a low-ranking actress, and to place her in my place. This is my end, I cannot be myself anymore. How could they dare to take this picture to the newspapers. Yes, I was just going through thoughts while waiting for my soul mate and that was all.

Today I was arranged to shut up, I am meant to agree and understand that my role will be played by insensibility made a verb, and therefore I shall be immediately turned into a useless shadow, I would then be like an ornament in the shelf which categorizes this new trend. Yes... myself and all of those who would have to pass through something like this. But they will be hearing from me, oh yes they will, oh yes they will…

I sensed my glass delicately, using my fingertips, trying to forget for one more second the sourness of my surprising farewell. I didn't mention a single word at the bar.

I don't know where they got the news that I “disappeared from the theater” Soon they will know that I still have my parking ticket, oh yes they will…

Suddenly Isidro talked to me, you know, the subject who’s standing beside me in the picture. Yes, a renowned producer to whom I previously declined some offers, because of my pure and dumb selfishness. Yes, this is the subject that fell beside me. I remember the day that I met him for the first time…, that day I was also told that he managed the great european actress Laura Miatts. Enough weight for my rookie star mentality, I rejected him.

And if I there was something not to be forgotten that night, it would definitely had been that piano, Lou Donaldson’s “Blue Walk” was played so brilliantly inside that tiny bar. At last, something decent that my ears could hold on to after so much madness. Look, look at that picture, you do not fear them? Where would I be today?

You need to assemble another theatrical piece immediately, you need new features. Isidro told me in a low toned voice, and then went on to gush all of his wine in a single blow. No one, no one will do it for you this time, and much less will invite you to any new auditions. They will never find your type at their castings, and that simply boils them.

You have the eyes of a star, that’s all their hate. You do not fight against that, accept it. I will not be here standing until your partner strolls along, think about this. I’ll put the money and a polished good script.

I paid little attention to his dialog, if he only knew what I am going to do to them. But that bar was not the place to negotiate, even less the right time for it. I only wanted to think about my work, and about the public that applauded me every weekend, and the bright lights that glittered around my dressing room. And who the hell knows what rookie could be sitting there, in that dressing room where I'll never sit again. And yet they dare to say in the papers headline that “I was being interviewed by a police investigator”. What a bunch of low-life’s. Oh yes, they will hear from me, they will, yes they will…

I'm still explaining to you; listen. Behind my back there were some businessmen who were listening to my conversation, and even made some comments about a possible feature for me.

It was a voice that I recognized. The one that I heard was simply a man without ideas. He was only about money, not about the script necessary to promote an actress as I am. So when I thought about those whispered proposals, related to work they used to promote, I knew that they had nothing. And I also knew on the other hand, that the theatres he had under his tutelage were simply resting rooms for young narcissistic people. And therefore their comments didn’t provoke my soul in to any minimum reaction.

Well, I have to go now. Isidro said, swirling his keys inside his pocket. Tell me if you accept my offer or not. I promise you an excellence in set design, iluminated by more than ten lighting technicians. A set design workshop on set, just for you.

A live band…We will leave on tour around Europe. I will not give you anything less than a life of stardom.

Look at him, take a glimpse. With his folly hat that distinguishes him. Make no mistake... He is, the new manager of your theater…, there, taking drinks after your goodbye. Acknowledge what he is; only one more puppet of this mass marketing trend, this is a simple game of chance for him.

What was he about before this…, nothing? He spent his entire collage days bouncing money from his parents. Then he took a photography course. He immediately published a magazine that he led to bankruptcy. And now he intends to buy another personality. And as soon as he becomes aware of another profession that places him as “trendy”, he’ll stop of all this and all of those with him will vanish

I am sure that he will go in to film production. Only buys and sells shows at his convenience. Oh, those opulent looks, hear him speaking as a man of business. But after all, he will send us away. And with the sum of money that he recovers, he may be retiring for the holidays around the world, just to calm his stressed mind. Look at him… I’ll say he will last about six months in this theatre. Because when judgment time comes for the mediocre, even if given by God or by the people, it can be postponed, but will not be prevented.

At the end of his plead; Isidro opted to throw in a piece of paper in to one of my pockets, so I remained static, not provoking any insinuations. That was what happened there. I didn't even want to look back. But of course, they know what kind of theatrical productions this producer can pull off. And that’s why so much hate, most of it to further discredit the image that I have. That’s why they published the paper. But they will be hearing from me, oh yes they will…oh yes they will…

You'll be famous again, only because of your artistic skills; you do not have to render your craft in to second rated illusionists. And like such Isidro concluded.

After he retreated I just stood there some minutes, just reflecting about this. I also noticed a slight rain; and that the colors of the street were entirely surrendered by the twilight spell. As soon as my suitor approached, I took him by his arm, and then left the premises heading on to his motorcycle. That was all…

But they will hear from me, oh yes they will…

VISIT MY: "SUNDANCE FILM FOWARD" POST

THE EVE

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 16:02:00 +0000

A SURFER'S SHORT STORY

It was a windy and cloudy morning. All of the sky was painted with gray stretching clouds that seemed to reach the oblivion of the world. A new West-North-West swell was filling in.

Waves were on their way to hit the north and west coast. I could see and smell the saltpeter that poured out of the roaring ocean before I arrived to the San Juan city area. A big isle surrounded by water where the old Spanish castle still stands. I was also in the need of some gas money for sure.

As I was checking on the incoming swell passing along “La Ocho surf spot” in that same north shore town, I got the call.

It was around 8:00am. I was told to go over to the Loiza Station print shop at 5:pm, a shop located five minutes next to the city I was roaming around checking on the waves. Was told to grab a bag full of flyers, and, to quickly deliver them to building “307” in Condado. Wish is a part of the city that is very close to all of the main tourist hotels in this region.

All that I had in my mind was the urge to go home and set up my gear for the two hour drive to Rincón, a surfer’s paradise located at the west coast of the island. A place I only hit maybe twice a year because of the powerful swells needed to rise up the wave that I like.

At 2:30 pm the rumor was that ‘Tres Palmas’ surf spot –my preferred wave there- was on the rise, and from my point of view, as I called the waves that I checked earlier, it was going to be three feet overhead (15feet set waves) by next morning. I tried to forget my wave rider lifestyle for a moment, and as I drove to the print shop I organized my thoughts as if it was an ordinary working day where no overhead waves were building up around me.

By the time I got to the print shop, my phone had rung for about four times. All calls were about the same topic when I checked in the text messages. Big waves coming in… and what about me? What was my plan for the weekend? Most of my friends asked. Ironically, I asked myself every time it rang: what type of board should I take there? Was the trip worth carrying my “gun” surfboard around? Was it getting as big as I like? Was it worth the spending of money on gasoline, food, and maybe some girls beer or café over there?

I stood there just cloud nining, -in ecstasy- when the busy kid in the shop finally arrived at the desk after I gave him my receipt fifteen minutes earlier, and finally handed over the bag with all my flyers.

-Hey, so you’re going to “307” today, Friday …you must be lucky or what?

Of course I responded with an obliging stare at his face, just letting the kid know about basics skills of behaving around a delicate environment like “307”. On the other hand, I did not let my thoughts roam free about what I had heard some others respond to the same question, claiming to predict their own luck about scoring with the girls when they walked in to 307.

That day, I wasn’t even thinking about putting some time into the girl-getting thing. And by the way, I’ve been on a bad streak lately on that topic.

But anyway, my driving got gnarly as I thought about this situation on my way to deliver the gig. My body was mutating to a 15 feet wave rider, my nostrils, lungs and brain frequencies echoed each other with their pre requirements, just as a mountain climber would yell at his partner at the other side of a cliff. I felt like stumping, going forward to attack the impossible. Felt kind of, like kind a gutsy kind of person. I almost got in to a brawl with some urban music listener dude that seemed to dislike my hurry at the stop light. Like many others, I was sure he knew how to fight, then I asked myself “Would my brain an body neglect his offering or would it react as if a twenty foot wave was approaching to be ridden” What energies was I taunting here with? But as I sometimes bail out of swimming to an unhealthy wave situation, I stopped my honking and got back to reality. It was a $50.00 dollar gig, worth a nose ding repair and gassing up the car for the weekend.

I was getting closer to the “307” building with a bag full of flyers. To my surprise, the flyers where about a rich girl that I already knew from some surf slide shows. It was her birthday, she worked up there, and these were her invitations. She was a very calmed and cool girl, worth getting dressed up for real. Man this side of the city is small and full of professional, worth to be your fiancé girls.

Waves are pounding the coast, I want to get my stuff on the car, grab some beers, pop one open and head to Rincón, west coast, to see if I could get there before sun set. Drive all the way over there just to see the pounding waves going up as the sun settles in the horizon. With a cold beer in my hand, and just let my thoughts wonder like the cold wind blows in the wondering swells. Maybe with some luck I could even score some groovy rock jam in front of some shack bar at road 413, or maybe even score some surfer girl to drink some beer there.

Building #307 was constructed by some serious young Puerto Rican architects that loved vintage and art deco stuff. It has five floors with a nice open penthouse full of marble tiles. On its side it has its own French coffee shop and also a U.K. franchise styling salon.

The matter is that, Dalianas advertisement agency "ADS-307" is located on the fifth floor of that building. Most of the time the agency is a place where I used to see people dressed well for the job, as it is mandatory to do so, but not as easy as said than done. Most of the girls wallets smoothly dissolved at the mercy of fashion, spending what could be spend to maintain their looks in front of their clients constantly.

And that was a thing that burned in my simple life style every time I had to deliver to this office on call. It was like pouring a cold bucket of water to my head when I was on the hunt for waves, or about to split to somewhere else. And in my usual surfer lay back, ready right now attitude attire, it felt cold inside that fashion place.

Almost eighty percent of the employed at “307” were girls. When I say girls, I’m talking about big girls who ruled their business around the streets and jumpy girls who could sell their soul to the ice crème man.

Beauty, walking closets, marketing, shopping, brunching around, where to crash for the weekend in the Virgin Islands, and what guy went on a rampage with what girl up on the street, who was hot, who was not. Who is bumping who and why… Plots ended on top of dude visitors like me, on some occasions I felt forced into giving my opinion about their issues.

Because those girls knew I could talk some sense in to them, and for me it wasn’t such a free spirited thing to do. Imagine the muff if I got caught talking with them by some no brained dude adorning himself there to score some night time.

When the elevator opened at the fifth floor my eyes glanced around. In just about a second I recognized again that it was Friday, Puerto Rican Friday, and the girls where not just dressed for it, they were ready for it. I felt like putting the Rincón wave ridding thing to the side… “Would this be the last time to ride those waves this season” I asked myself, I took a deep breath.

I proceeded to the desk where Rita, a curled hair, green eyes and pink soft skin girl shouted the first flirt at me.

–So what’s in the bag …your surf wax? Is it really called Sex Wax…? Maybe that is for your... best surf board isn’t it?

-Wouu…maybe you can go around and tell Daliana that her flyers are here. -I responded with both my hands crossed on top of her desk.

-You can sit right there nice eyes, let me find her…

I stared at my fifteen dollar Casio watch full of scratched paint, filled with surf board wax in every gauge and I crashed on the sofa and just meditated. It felt like I was waiting for some group reunion with some surf school. Wish was another gig I sometimes score in front of La Concha Hotel in Condado.

Anyway, I looked around the exiting art deco room and enjoyed some chilling lounge music and said hello to the girl sitting beside me. That was when something caught my attention. As it usually happens on this floor… Someone was giving some else the Friday bye bye vibe.

A “well dressed” woman walked in front of the desk.

–Ok, so still a whole year and my check is not ready …is it so wonderful to wake up at 4:00am, eat some… whatever you like me to eat for breakfast, and shoot whatever your account has to offer, and today for the tenth time I’m not getting my $3,000.00 dollars? -Rita at the counter started to press buttons on her cell phone, staring at that girl just as if she was like a ghost flying around the room.

And while that happened, the girl sitting on my side told me that Daliana was chasing that girl’s boyfriend’s tail all around the island. She told me that she even showed up at some annual meeting in Fajardo, -five star convention Hotels there- where the girl’s boyfriend had to give a speech about some economic development stuff.

-Showed right there with an obnoxious bad scent of whiskey. -She whispered at me.

Wooouu, by this time I grabbed a catalog and started flipping on pages and just knobbing at anything anyone said about anything. When my eyes came across a red haired girl inside the catalog, I decided to turn it over just to see what it was all about. It said... “Models for hiring 2011. “ADS-307 Agency”. I went back to the red haired girl page, and it was Silvia... a 37 year old beautiful girl from Poland I met on the Island of Oahu Hawaii back in 2004. Boy was I glad to be at the Foodland Starbucks that rainy day.

She had lived in Valencia Spain for ten years already. Her skin was very soft and her body was covered with some nice looking freckles. On top of that, she had deep blue eyes that gave you the chills.

She was a girl that I met on my one and only trip to the Islands of Hawaii. I needed a beer and tequila shot right there, what else could happen today?

But instead, what I got was the girls in front of the counter, going at it, giving themselves the proper signals to go on with the bad words right now dialog.

To make my urge for tequila a real emergency this Friday, the elevator door opened and “Tanca” rolled in the room in the middle of this jam and just stood there, arms crossed. She is an “agro punk” girl that survived the streets all by herself. She owned a Kish attire store, was an actress, poet, helped to build up an organic food and coffee shop with all of the goodies I like, and she was also a very important female of the island’s revolutionary movement. A girl who was equally respected by all of the government agencies and all of that gag.

She was cashing in from her art work since her early teen years and up to these days she was still creating jobs.

I tell you, if you’ve herd talks about the Puerto Rican flag respectfulness shit chat, this girl was the living flag made a verb.

Yes she was from the art scene. Well known on the streets and in the urban surf scene. She was a girl that didn’t really care about missing some bucks if she had to slap someone in their face. She was backed up by God or maybe by the devil himself, you didn’t want to find that one out.

I had seen her cut loose in some night club before. I wondered if she was also missing some art money from her pockets… from a gig here. I also wondered if Daliana -307 owner- had hunted for a punk looking dude to roam the city’s’ rock shows like every one knew she would; but… did she burn one of Tancas boyfriends this time around?

I wanted to bump the fifty dollar gig and shoot out of there, just drive away fast to Rincón far away from this time bomb. But, I had to find out if Silvia was here on the island. So when I measured one thing with the other, I decided to stay inside “307” to find out about my lost Polish girlfriend.

Daliana came up to the counter. She wore a fuchsia colored dress made out of rayon, a thick black leather belt and some fresh looking glossy black high heels.

I had to admit she knew what her looks had to be like in this business. She had the look in here eyes like... she was bound on to something...

On her hands she carried some beige colored folders.

-Ok Rita, who is the delivery boy? -Then I was signaled out.

-Hmm, so who are these two girls?-She asked.

As soon as she started talking the well dressed girl who came in first asking for money… started crying, walked beside Rita’s desk and opened her purse. “Ok, here we go…” I said to my self. I tried to feel cool and calm but next thing I knew I was looking around for a clear way to get my running skills going.

She had a trendy looking bag, full of rind stones, with belts and diamond like ornaments. When her hands came out of the bag I was just hypnotized with intrigue. Those where some big pictures she carried, followed by a big white folder. She walked beside Daliana and rammed them on top of the reception desk.

I scratched my eyes and the girl sitting besides me just took off to the elevator following that well dressed girl who was on the same path. Daliana, relaxed, talked to Rita for a while. Silence was upon the office for some minutes.

At the roaring sound of a car in the street, Daliana took off to her office, but Tanca stood right beside her on her way, giving her a low tone speech. They both argued for a moment.

–You take me right now to the ATM machine ok, that’s all I want. –Tanca entered the elevator and pressed “open door”.

Daliana walked back to the office very pretending to be very defiant, searched for something under the front desk, and then walked to me with an ice cold Medalla -local beer-, went inside the elevator and told me to join the birthday party upstairs. At this time, I guessed those invitations were for the people in the building who did not get theirs on time.

I was feeling sketchy by then, so I thought that some beer and music would help me to fix up the vibes swirling in my head. I sat there thinking… it was already 6:45pm.

-Go on upstairs, here is your money, I feel so sorry about all this mess, things are so unpredictable in this office.

-Thanks, it is ok, give me a worst place and I would still do my every day job -I replied, grabbed my money, gave the girl a Kiss very close to her mouth and went on to the elevator.

When the elevator opened, fresh air poured into my lungs and an “awe” feeling settled inside of me. It was evening by now, so under a very pale blue powdery looking Caribbean sky, I went to the open pent house bar, right away, and stood there just breathing.

Working at the bar was a tall looking dude that also was showcased in some billboards around town. Thanks to God it was this particular one, because he was very cool and always treated every one equally at the venues he worked. I didn’t know his name but let’s get on with the chase.

So I grabbed a Corona and walked all around the party trying to find Silvia the Polish girl, or someone who knew her, somewhere up there with two beers in my hands.

To the side of the bar, a long white leather sofa stretched sideways with a beautiful glass balcony on its back the length of the furniture. A big Chinese jar full of lighted flowers finished the art piece. In front of the bar, there was a big rounded table, full of girls and some guys that had also joined the party. It was Lisa’s birthday. So I scanned the area and since I felt like the party was smooth going, I decided to walk up to Lisa’s table.

Lisa’s arms opened right away, she had a face full of joy.

–! Hey friend! Thanks for being here, but, why aren’t you looking for waves at Rincón?

I gave Lisa a nice Kiss and snaked –bumped elbows- every one of her tied dressed friends, who seemed to be feeling touchy about my black high top Vans skate shoes. I jumped them to shake some other girl’s hands around the table. I couldn’t stop my brain from attacking like that at the situation.

Budha Bars ”The Garden” (Sweet Zen) started playing on the DJs corner. Who seemed to me like a dude who I used to watch ridding big waves around the island.

The well dressed gentleman appreciated my gutsy move and handed me another cold beer. I accepted.

As I enjoyed the music and the smooth talking with some of Lisa’s girl friends, I thought everything was o.k, so far.

I drank my beers and walked back to the elevator thinking about a move that might cost me the end of Lisa’s friendship. I went down to the fifth floor, stripped Silvia’s page out of the catalog and scrammed upstairs again.

The party went along pretty well. There was dancing, some couples kissed, some very happy guys dressed in pink showed up to the birthday and by 3:am all was good.

I called Lisa to the side…

-Lisa, this is something very important to me, this is Silvia, and I don’t know if she is in town or not. Just give her this phone number if you see her around, she is not an easy girl to miss out.

To my surprise, Lisa had scored a nice looking guy who came up to us and gave her a cool kiss, we all laughed at each other and the deal was done.

At 4:am, I had disappeared from the party just like a surfer disappears inside a 6:am barrel, and landed at the “Lush Bar“ just around the next corner of the building. Lush Bar was the kind of place where people looking for some free cigarettes and a mild beer would show up. The place wasn’t the type of “let’s be here for a while”. You could say it was more like a beer drive through, and then you would buy your own ice somewhere else to keep them cold.

I sat there talking to a strange looking, long gray haired and beard man who claimed to be a “retired hat” from New York. To me he looked like a banjo player from some Country music band.

He was wearing some warned out white sneakers, a very old rotten blue jean and a short sleeved brick colored buttoned shirt. I didn’t have a clue about what was his retired social status. I said to him if he had some “Moon shine” he could spare, and he laughed at me and said some strange kind of “Hill Billy phrase” that I don’t recall understanding, but it seemed to be something cool by the look of his smile and red watery eyes. He signaled at me, he smoked some of his cigarette and sipped again from his paper covered bottle.

Just when I was about to call off the exciting night off, at 5:30… my cell phone rang again.

-Hey is it you Emilio? -Someone said at the other end...I just stood there with my mouth shut.

–It’s me; it’s Silvia, from Valencia Spain,

!Vale-tio! -My eyes opened wide…

We talked for a while and for the sake of luck, Silvia was heading for the Caribbean island of Tortola for another independent shooting gig. She was in town that morning.

–So, would you be my beer partner again tonight?

-She said.

-You can go surfing all day, and then you can meet me and the crew again for dinner, you come stay with us. “Ahy mucho viento en Rincón” –Windy waves at Rincón- !Vale tío ven con nosotros! –Come with us-!Yo te auspicio !-I’ll sponsor you- Show up with your gear, 6:am at gate #8.

I stood there looking at the dude who looked like a banjo player, just shocked, my neck muscles were untangled and relaxing as I took a breather, I felt great, I whispered smoothly and just naturally said to myself !Yeaah!

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350 FEET OF MYSTERY

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 00:01:00 +0000

Summer dive in the Caribbean waters of St. Thomas U.S.V.I.

Saturday July 28, 8AM

Non-Fiction

First mate to the captain aboard the diving vessel "Day Off" finishes his last passenger call on his check list. Minutes later, the vessel disembarks away from the exotic dock provided by "Hotel El Conquistador", Marina Lanais, at the city of Fajardo Puerto Rico.

The frothy six foot vessel and its fifteen crewmembers or more, say fare well to the island of Puerto Rico, the vessels diesel engines start to growl, emotions and feelings start to spur among the passengers.

We headed out on this adventure with Jhony, my scuba instructor from Blue Dolphin Scuba , also there were other diving schools such as Scuba Dogs and Extreme Divers making this voyage. So there was another vessel with us, and it was exactly the same model as ours.

Onboard, it seemed like we all had our minds focused on the same thing. And for some of us, it was certainly a spiritual one, and there was only one thing in hour mind: Diving at two exotic locations that we knew , only could be provided by the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean Sea.

Our first location was an abandoned shipwreck that leveled at ninety feet deep at the bottom of the ocean floor, two miles away from the "Porpoise Rocks", and south of the island of St .Thomas. The second one was a frothy five feet dive; the site was formed by a coral reef, full of marine life and cave formations.

In order to get in the mood before the diveS, most of the passengers onboard the vessel socialized among themselves; also it was a means of collecting valuable information to prolong their dives in a better and more enjoyable way. For most of them, sharing their experiences was more than a way of getting self-composed for their descent; those were moments of sharing intense feelings, feelings that at some point made them glance at their vests, their masks, and at their fins. Stares that finished mooring over the ocean waves, stares that at the end, brought them joy in a breath of ecstasy.

I will start by sharing some moments during my first dive. It was over the shipwreck "Wit Concrete", a gasoline vessel that, according to tales… succumbed to the forces of hurricane Marilyn in 1995. It was a descent that lasted approximately more than half an hour.

"Day Off "was moored into the shipwreck's hull. So, I went down behind the group using the anchors rode.

As I decompressed and verified my depth using the gauges that my manometer console provided; it was only then that I realized how impressive this dive was going to be.

Then, I reached more depth, of thirty feet approximately. Very focused then, I moved my eyes around to discover the reality of what I was about to see at this site. Everything was covered by a great blue color that I will have to call "Power Blue." It paled everything around the site, then, the three hundred and fifty foot vessel started to show itself.

Enjoyable visibility at this site was only clinched when you reached over the fifty foot depth mark. In addition there was a slight under sea current carrying along some sediment particles and of course, the three hundred and fifty feet structure. From my perspective it lied at the abyss; it was sunk at the ninety feet mark on the ocean's floor. What do we have here? Well, for me, it seemed like a "Mystery "scene, I felt like I was trespassing an unexplored world.

This experience was very intense for me, and I can recall that I felt very pleasant being there.

When I reached the forty feet mark, I had to tighten my grip to the rode, the underwater current pressed on me again like it did often during the descent, subsequently I stared in the way of my fins, just to realize that my diving crew was hovering almost like in a waltz rhythm over the shipwreck's top platform. Small bubbles fled out from their backs, seeming to look like small pieces of diamonds that swirled their way up to the surface.

Finally I stared to visualize more marine life. "I made it ", I said to myself, feeling more comfortable, “I found life”

After decompressing at forty five feet, I felt like letting go of the anchors rode, and I did, slowly glancing over the wreck, I thought for a moment about the importance of wearing diving gloves.

It was an impressive experience, it roused in me a feeling of discovery, it was an abandoned structure rotten by time but rescued by every sort of marine life. Comparing this dive to a reef spot location, this was a completely different experience.

A whole football field long or more, that's the wreck's length of three hundred and fifty feet, if you put it in other words, very exciting. And, as I was floating on top of the stern (back of the wreck) I also realized that the center of the ship was out of my site, due to the ocean's deep blue colors. It was a tempting space that invited you to get into. I decided it wasn't such a good idea to go on to explore down to the bow (front part of the ship), the bow seemed to disappear in the blue colors of the abyss.

Slowly I glanced ahead, sliding into a metal structure that seemed to be a storage room, or maybe it was the lower part of the ship's commanding post.

I passed through doors that lead me into a darkish room; at the end I could see the rear structure of the ship and into the open deep blue ocean. Inside the dark room a couple of "Black Jack fish" the size of two baseball gloves each, awaited for my entrance. I felt like a cadet in front of the two captains; floating statically they seemed to stare at my slow journey.

I joint my hands under my belly moving my fins very slowly, almost like in a slow pendulum motion. I finally glanced out of the room, making it to the outside at the end of the stern. At this point I could see all the way down on to the vessels propellers and up to its platform where the dark room lied; maybe it was thirty or forty five feet in height.

Very calmly, I made my way to the side of the wreck; maybe I was ten feet away from it, looking at the size of the ship and gazing over the marine life that covered it, wondering.

It was about at this moment that I decided to join the group. At this time almost all of us ascended to the fifteen feet mark, therefore making our required five minutes decompression stop. All of us at this point grabbed on tight to the anchors rode, for some moments we battled the slow underwater current that suddenly made its presence.

Later we were all safely on board and without any one hurt, we called this dive to an end, and for me, it was an excellent dive!

Our next diving location was situated at just one mile from the island of St. Thomas, very different site when you look at the shipwreck's location; witch was situated two miles away from shore.

My dive buddy made the descent at this site, and soon enough we were claiming it as an "Exotic clear water paradise of color and marine life"

The dive site was formed by a coral reef; its base was around one hundred and fifty feet wide, and it had a height of maybe forty five feet. Small one foot waves formed at the top of the reef that made it out to the water.

On one location I passed under a coral reef arch that formed just in front of me. When I made it to the other side of the arch, my diving buddy was waiting for me, pointing me at some direction and filled with ecstasy. It was a swirl of bright colored fish that tumbled from side to side at constant speed; it gave the impression of vibrant energy and multicolored life. It was very impressive to look at; we stared at it for minutes. We enjoyed this dive site for a while, about twenty or thirty minutes.

Diving is great, what a gratifying day of recreation. Finally we packed our gear without any setbacks, and without any one getting hurt. It was a really nice moment to end our submarine adventures for the day, and it was another excellent dive. Then, our diving vessel journeyed to the island of St. Thomas.

Once we got there, and just in front of the dock, we enjoyed a delicious meal made out of grilled chicken sandwiches at "The Green House" restaurant. We also rested for some minutes, and it was there where I felt like filling out some more details on my diving log.

As noon settled on top of us, we went onboard “Day Off” again. Minutes later our vessel made its way in front of the afternoon's sun set, and it was a comfortable voyage as we headed east, just like the waves and the wind did their own thing.

Well, regarding me at this moment , I chatted with my buddy about my experiences this day , at some point I just relaxed tuning into my portable disc player , staring at the stars, and, at some moments just staring at the bioluminescent lights that poured out of "Day Offs" hull.

Going back to the diving experience, I will have to accept the importance of the logistics that involves having all of the correct gear for a dive like this. Out of this diving expedition, I also learned very important things such as; verifying that I have all of my recognition equipment for emergencies; under, and on top of the water. And no less importat is to practice the ventilation of the expanding air inside my buoyancy vest, in order that I may not have any unexpected ascensions to the surface. It was my eight and my ninth dive, so I think it went along very well for me, although I recognize I can do better for up and coming expeditions.

Diving is a very exciting thing to do, and you can enjoy it just as much as you enjoy any other recreational sport with any other person. The island natives and the underwater marine world will always be your buddies, preserve them.

License: Open Water Diver

Under Water Photography courtesy of: Ocean sports Divcers

My dive School: Blue Dolphin Scuba / facebook.

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Reseña de comics P.R. Comicon 2012

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 02:35:00 +0000

Death & Rebirth preview / The best years of my life 1 / Viki Valentino 1-2 / Gto 1

El evento fue celebrado el 26 y 27 de mayo en los predios del Centro de Convenciones en Miramar. Visite el día Domingo. Disfrute mucho con la juventud que se dio cita al lugar. Aprendí más todavía de este género del cual me entretiene mucho actualizarme.

Aquí les pongo mi punto de vista de los comics que compre en el Comicon 2012, espero les guste.

Death & Rebirth
Da’MaRojo studios
Produce: Ink Clown Studios
Historia: Dickie O. Santiago
Arte: Juan C. Estrada

Es una pequeña introducción lo que viene. Se trata del vampirismo, de los aliados que le dan el combate a estos seres. Del surgimiento del villano. El cover page da bastante idea para saber de que se esta tratando aquí. El cultismo es un tema muy abarcador, ustedes serán los que den forma mas clara sobre la historia cuando la lean.

Y para ser paneles abiertos me gustaron mucho sus ideas, es como ver un corto en el cine. Regreso con el tema del cultismo ahora para decirles que sus imágenes son las mas que podemos apreciar durante la trama. En la segunda página podemos ver como se mueve con eso, muy gótico el arte en esa pagina, muy buen estilo de líneas para este comic, va muy a tono con el género.

Bueno, el terror dentro del genero del vampirismo tiene su código, aunque acepta innovaciones, aclaro que al igual que el Ci Fi, el vampirismo tiene su código. He visto algunos clásicos del cine y me atrevo a decir que este comic va con lo contemporáneo. Se entiende bien.

La portada es gótica a mí entender, nos presenta emblema de uno de los bandos. Me hubiera gustado color en alguna parte, pero como esta se acierta también con el lector. Aqui les puse la contraportada para que vean mas de su arte.

No es fácil el arte de escenas nocturnas, me atrapo con eso el artista y me gusto mucho eso. Imágenes góticas, de misterio. ¿Que se trae el líder y lo incierto?, los contrastes de colores son buenas ideas también.

Me gusto el tamaño de las letras en los globos y que a pesar de tener espacio en el panel están muy bien ubicados y con diálogos parecidos a un prologo. Nos adentra muy bien en la dimensión de estos personajes para saber lo que viene.

No me parece a ninguna otra serie, pero sus atuendos me recordaron una serie anime que yo seguía llamada ‘El Capitán Raimar’. Me pareció excelente el grupo de personajes que presentaron y la manera de dibujarlos. Veremos lo que viene en el próximo y como son.

Me pareció muy buena su idea, el estilo del dibujo es tremendo para lo gótico, ambienta bien para ser pocas páginas.

The best years of my life
Produce: X Spin-off creative group
Concepto: William Cabrera
Historia: Jaime Negrón
Arte: Carla M. Vélez
Portada: Carla M. Vélez Tinta/Lápices
Edición: Roberto Arias
Se trata de un espacio en la vida de Noah. De la ensoñación de un joven y sus expectaciones luego de sobrepasar su primer día de clases entre otras cosas. Simple, se trata del comportamiento humano. Es esa tipo de historia la que tenemos en este comic.Y es muy funcional con lo juvenil, fácil de entender, analizar y recapacitar sobre el. Se mueve a buen paso y se disfrutan sus paneles y la trama.

El comic tiene muchos paneles en close up y en primer plano. Muy buena idea para estar frente a la confrontación que pasa por la vida de Noah. Por eso la historia es más que creíble, es parte del desarrollo de los jóvenes. De su funcionalidad con los grupos que a veces no cuentan con la madures que uno espera. Me recordó episodios de mi vida escolar.

Después de una irregular reunión con estudiantes de la Liga de arte de San Juan, donde me cole a tomar café. Decidimos que este fue el cover mejor logrado de mis reseñados. Por sus colores, intención y simbolismo con la historia. Y de hecho, su arte junto con el tema de la ensoñación me gustó mucho. El despiste de Noha lo convierte completamente en un súper héroe innovador. Al final verán porque lo digo. Muy importante en su trama.

Trae muy buena continuidad con el tamaño de las letras en los diálogos. Hay que verlos con control y comprender bien su intención.

Es muy bueno el prologo, eso siempre es bueno a mi entender. Sabemos para donde vamos, nos da un tono y caracteriza el lugar donde viven los personajes. Se comprenden bien los paneles y se entienden las intenciones de sus páginas de manera lógica. Es refrescante este ejemplar. Me gustaron los nombres de los personajes. Es un buen drama.

Viki Valentino I y II
Historia y Arte: Arturo Vilmenay
Edición: Saraí Meléndez Rodríguez
Produce: Trueno comics

Se trata de una serie de Ciencia ficción. Es un comic thriller con mucha acción. Y hablando de eso, tengo que apreciar con el arte que se entrelazaron las escenas de misterio, las pistas detectivescas, el jefe de Viki, más pistas, acción, suspenso, ciencia ficción.

Existen muchas expresiones faciales en estos dos comics, y efectos especiales de sonidos. Estos efectos muchas veces contrastan con la trama y el tipo de panel. Se trabaja mucho con el plano vaquero y segundo plano para la continuidad visual de las páginas. Y esos son elementos que le dan muy buen movimiento a cada panel. Diría que tiene un estilo NOIR.

En eso del sentimiento y su textura agrego que justifica muy bien la ciencia ficción al utilizar el tema de la egiptología.

Su arte trae muchas líneas que dan la sensación de movimiento. Algo que va muy de la mano con el personaje principal. Expresa muy bien la delicadeza y las sensibilidades de Viki. Porque uno quiere ver que este personaje tiene entre manos, que es lo que va hacer próximamente. ¿Sera tomarse un café en un bistró?, ¿sera el darle un jab en la trompa a quien mas uno piensa que se lo merece?

Los diálogos, ok me gustaron mucho porque hay intercambio de diálogos aquí. Necesarios y justificados. Datos que uno ni se los imaginaba. Importantes para desarrollar la trama, las pistas y desenredar el punto de vista de ciencia ficción que tiene el drama.

Me gusto tanto como Kolchak, y disfrute las escenas tanto como el video juego de Splinter Cell. Me recordé de la película “Desamores”, por una simple razón; el dialogo tan boricua que tenia. Tiene un poco de estilo similar a los X-files.

Y eso de “lo boricua”, da una dimensión muy buena al personaje de Viki, uno la construye según la ambientación de la escena. Y como es un arquetipo, no fue necesario poner en contexto tanto sobre ella. Uno simplemente la quiere ver aparecer.

Es difícil lograr lógica en la ciencia ficción, debes estar organizado, y aquí se logra, conectamos con las intenciones del escritor, pero recuerde que hay suspenso. Uno quiere hacer trampa y ver el fin. Con eso se los digo todo.

GTO-Great Teacher Onizuca-14 days in Shonan
Escritor: ToruFujisawa
Arte:ToryFujusawa
Produce: vertical Inc NY
Editores: H.Urita /Y. Oguri

Es un comic estilo “libro manga” que se resuelve en el contexto de la instrucción. No es para una audiencia muy joven. Pero, es que es lo cotidiano en un personaje como este.

Son sus vivencias, magistralmente contadas desde el punto de vista que nosotros tenemos que responderle a nuestro desarrollo social.

Les aclaro antes de seguir que es una serie publicada en Japon para finales de los 90, solo he leído este ejemplar y tengo el segundo. Y la mayoría de las reseñas existentes se basan en la lectura de todos sus ejemplares. Por si no les pongo algo que ya saben, no me hagan llamar a Onizuka…

Y que ha tenido mucho éxito así como es, tanto como sobrepasar ventas de millones de dólares. ¿Porque?

Conflictos y confrontaciones que nos exigen de la instrucción a la acción. A veces internalizando y recapacitando y a veces tomando acción. Y sobre todo con las herramientas que tengamos al momento.

Hay mucha acción, esas dan mucha caracterización del personaje con imágenes de movimiento. Sentimos su dolor a través de paneles. Porque es humano siente y padece y así lo dejan ver cuando se propone a tomar decisiones. Esta bien presente la tecnología y lo que esperamos de ella según nuestro punto de vista. Estas cosas lo hacen muy verosímil con la realidad.

Es una portada de pose, donde el maestro ni dice mucho con eso. Perosi nos dejan claro saber que tipo de físico tiene. En cambio la tipografía del titulo me gusto mucho. GTO me da la impresión de ser parte del nombre de un auto deportivo. De algo rápido, algo que tiene accesorios para ganar propuestas. Muy parecido al personaje principal. ¿Seria esta la intención del artista? Si lo fue lo logro conmigo, faltan ustedes por darse cuenta. Dense un trip por ahí con Onizuka a ver como les iría.

Me llamo la atención mucho la expectativa que crea el drama. Uno espera su reacción a todo estimulo. Interno y externo. ¿Que le van hacer ahora?, ¿porque hizo lo que hizo?¿Quien le trama un deslice? y ¿porque razón? Son cosas que me dieron motivos para seguir leyendo.

Hay que tomar en consideración que la traducción es de japonés a ingles. Y hablando de eso, los diálogos en los globos tienen un buen tamaño, y posiciones muy creativas. A veces se encojen pero es muy poco eso. Son muchas situaciones, y leerás el porqué de la toma de decisiones, muchas veces diálogos cortos rápidos de leer. Pero debes compréndelos bien y no pasar nada por alto.

Me recordé de Indiana Jones, pero como si fuera escolar. Nunca he visto un personaje como este en una serie de TV, cine o comics.

No tiene prologo y eso me hubiera gustado, la intención es seguir directo al principio. Aun así el pequeño resumen del back cover es un dulce para el que leyó el ejemplar.

Hay que darle taller y leerlo con calma por su lectura de derecha a izquierda y traducción.

Pero al final de cada página todo es entendible, con propósito, se disfruta mucho y se ríe mucho por el camino. Crea tremendas situaciones con los personajes, escenarios que se disfrutan mucho al ver la página. Excelente Manga, lo felicito.

Escuchando al sultán

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 15:26:00 +0000

Cuento corto

Necesitaba ver algo bello aquella tarde. Todo paso por mi mente tan rápido. Todo mientras camine entre toda la muchedumbre del mercado. Bueno, mejor seria decir que sentí ese deseo al salir de toda la muchedumbre.

    Si, así lo recuerdo , entonces fue cuando pude apreciar los canticos tan maravillosos que provenían de la mezquita azul.    Mas adelante mi espíritu se relleno de regocijo, y de paso me decidí a preguntar a un vendedor de sortijas. “ ¿Quien recita hoy las suras de manera tan bonita? ” Me respondía que era Jah-almi, el hijo del vendedor de alfombras.

   Así que decidí pasar por la tienda de su padre, a ver si la mercancía era tan bella como el recitar de su hijo.
  Termine casi toda una bolsa de maní cuando llegue frente a la entrada, donde un anciano me propuso a seguir adelante hasta toparme con unos escalones. Mientras volvía a bajarlos comencé a presenciar el exquisito aroma de incienso de sándalo que allí permeaba.
   Baje con cuidado los últimos escalones cuando poco a poco se comenzó a revelar el salón sobre mi rostro tapado. El asombro me relajo a soltar mi bufanda. Era un lugar hermoso donde pude apreciar un sultán el cual recibía opiniones de sus acompañantes.

“ Es lo mas hermoso que he visto en mi vida, y ciertamente lo mas interesante de todas las travesías que he podido hacer” . Así le repitió a todos mientras mis ojos se embriagaban de lagrimas y me decidía entrar al salón sin importar la impropia gestión que seria de mi parte hacerlo. Y las consecuencias que tendría mi intención por el arte ante toda aquella elegante reunión.

Los Leprados

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 14:21:00 +0000

Cuento corto religioso

Les contaron de un hombre al que perseguían porque Jehová le permitió resplandecer en obras grandes, y les dijeron que llegaron tarde al lugar y, que lo vieron, al hombre saliendo de un cuarto oscuro, y los persecutores le decían.

—A ver, ahora saliste de ahí con una ramera verdad, cuéntanos todo en cuanto puedas, donde esta ella, queremos verle para registrarla…

El hombre que estaba tan lleno de luz en su interior, no temió y tranquilo espero a que le dejaran explicar lo que era debido saber de su vida, y no les dijo por lo que estuvo orando.

—Y como es que estas tan tranquilo dentro de la oscuridad y no muestras síntomas de miedo al vernos —le decían los leprados— Estabas de seguro con una mujer ahí dentro, y nosotros legalmente tenemos derecho a verlos desnudos para saborearnos de esas imágenes de lujuria, para verla en desnudo y divagar.

Y les contesto a los jefes de sociedad.

—Es que su intención informática, está ligada a su conciencia animal (pervertidos), que está atrapada dentro de su ego (el odio por no lograr obras, por tener luz, por la envidia). Sus almas están atrapadas ahora en un sufrimiento porque no saben lo que habito dentro de mí en esa oscuridad. Y en cualquier otro momento intentaran trasmitirnos su contagio para su beneficio. Sea viendo o no viendo lo que persiguen…

Luego de eso los hombres desnudos decidieron ponerse los trapos que llevaban y regresaron cabizbajos a sus diversas unidades de trabajo, luego así regresando donde su s respectivas esposas y esposos, aceptando su perversión y de esa manera llegando el primer rayo de luz a sus almas.

"Cogelo lo como tú quieras"

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 18:51:00 +0000

Cuento corto
   Mientras Pérez pensaba como bajar guayabas del árbol que quedaba junto al camino, un vecino de la colina lo abordo con improperios.

   ―Oiga Pérez, quisiera recoger de esas guayabas, pero te veo tan pensativo que me pregunto si el árbol es de algún otro vecino.
   ―No, no lo es ahora mismo, no es de nadie crece silvestre en esta carretera ―le contesto sacudiéndose el frio de la tarde que sopla en estas alturas de la montaña.

   Luego de conversar y planear el método para recoger las guayabas que se pudieran, un carretero bajaba con su hija sentada a su lado. Sacudía las bridas y encaminaba la yegua.

   ―Hooo ―le decía ala yegua.

   Justo al pasar, Pérez se percato de que una rueda se podía salir a causa de la mala montura de su madero de seguridad. Y lo siguió un poco adelante para decirle.

   ―Guzmán, sé que no me habla tanto pero su rueda se nota maltrecha y pudiera salirse, aquí tengo un tronco con el que puedo propinarle unos azotes a ver si encaja el madero.

   Y Guzmán accedió. Entonces al poco tiempo, cuando se retiro la carreta, lo abordo el hombre que buscaba compartir la recolección de guayabas.

   ―Oiga Pérez, pero ese era Guzmán el que ajusta las fincas, que nunca te llama para comprarte si quiera un poco de gandules. Y ahora porque lo ayudas si de nada te ha beneficiado.

   ―Bueno Celso es que Guzmán manejaba con estrepito esa carreta y su hija hubiera salido herida si cayeran a la carretera. Pero, lo que debes entender es que más abajo esta mi casa, la que estoy terminando. Y si se esboca la yegua pa’ casa, se me quedan las nenas sin ánimo en la navida y Guzmán y su hija saldrían heridos. Mira, y yo sabía arréglala…

   ―Ah, maldita guinea, al diablo con tus ayudas. Mira mejor dime si me trepo al palo o le meto pedras aquel bejuco lleno de fruta. Dime que hago…

   Y le contesto Pérez.

    ―El bejuco, cógelo como tú quieras…yo me voy.

Federico estaba ahí pero no estaba

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 03:42:00 +0000

Cuento corto sin editar

Federico estaba ahí pero no estaba. Simplemente desvariaba vagante en sus imágenes aleatorias de éxtasis.

―Mire, usted lleva tiempo pensando’, ¿qué aros quiere para su auto?... decídase ya.

―Es que le dije que no me gustaron los que me trajo, ahora me da por ver otros estilos, tráigame este que veo aquí en el catalogo.

―Esos ya se los traje, y dijo que eran muy brillantes y que usted no quería entrar con ellos en el redondel del Caparra Country Club y causar un revuelo en Guaybnabo. Y que si visitaba el museo de Ponce no quería que pensaran que era un dentista o un diagramador de novelas. Que imaginación la suya señor. Después de todo, esos aros los tienen varios doctores y jueces amantes del automovilismo. Son construidos con aluminio grado A, de lo mejor. Pero está bien busco otros.

El hombre se retiro al almacén y con mucho trabajo encimo un modelo nuevo de aros en un carrito de estivar, esta vez tenía pensado completar su venta.

―Bueno, estos deben gustarle, son de último modelo, cuando dan vuelta suenan unas campanitas que avisan de su presencia. No son tan brillosos como los otros, sírvase a verlos.

― ¡Que insulto es este! ―respondió el hombre con ambas manos dentro de sus bolsillos, luego señalo el aro―. Pero usted me falta el respeto, le falta juicio como vendedor, usted se imagina cuando me dé por visitar a Rio Piedras a ver libros, o a darme un trago en algún lugar, cuando entre por la calle Robles sonando el Kururu, sonando así. Que bochorno, me van a gritar “Ingenuo”, las damas y los maestros se van a reír. ¿Dónde me voy a meter dígame, donde? Van a pensar que me desdoblo, que no tengo afinidad. En el Ocho de Blanco me dirán; “Mira el hombre escandaloso de los aros que tienen campanitas”. Yo quiero algo elegante, algo que me de estilo cuando pase por un lugar así. Que piensen que tengo bigote,… aunque no me vean con los papeles oscuros que traigo en los cristales. Que piensen;

“Mira, ahí va un hombre importante de bigote”

El vendedor le observa y le dice

―Señor no, pero lo suyo es serio. Venga acá y, ¿cuánto tiene para gastar en aros? Porque usted se ve que es fiel a su estilo, pero que debe tener dinero para esto.

Federico camino hasta la vitrina y mirando los carros que pasaban de lado a lado le dice de espaldas.

―Mire, yo tengo dinero, eso es lo de menos. Lo que pasa es que no me acaba de traer los aros que necesito. Búsqueme algo que me impresione, algo que la gente se grabe en la memoria cuando yo entre a Plaza las Américas, que cuando pase por Isla Verde los americanos digan’; “Wow that car looks good ”. Usted me entiende…que los productores de obras de teatro y cine me miren así como si mi auto fuera su sueño hecho realidad.

El hombre se retiro por tercera vez, se tardo un poco más, regresando con un par de aros de diferentes diseños.

―Mire Fede, estos son los que busca. Le garantizo con estos aros que cuando suba para Guabate a comprar lechón y morcillas, la gente de las lechoneras serán capaces de salir a aplaudirle y a preguntarle que de donde usted proviene. Inclusive quizás le salgan a cantar aguinaldos al frente de la calle. Son muchas lechoneras, ¿qué va usted a hacer…? Un cliente me dijo que dejo de pagarle el celular a su amada esposa por ellos y que valió la pena dejarla sin teléfono. Que subió a Casa Bavaria solo y le dieron de los Snauzer alemanes de gratis y bebió de gratis y bajo por las curvas más contento que un capitán de barco en vacaciones. ¿Qué me dice?

Federico los reviso, se reflejo en su impecable brillo, les dio vueltas y vueltas hasta que rompió su silencio.

―Perdóneme, es que, mire. Sabe que es lo que pasa, que yo quiero entrar a Palmas del Mar escuchando Cultura Profetica, o quizás al muelle de Seven Seas escuchando plena. Y, caramba esos aros, no me dan el estilo que ansió. Van a pensar que yo soy un hombre que he mantenido mi propio negocio y yo quiero que piensen que soy un hombre que se pego en el sorteo de la lotería o que soy el heredero de una cuantiosa cantidad de dinero. Me entiende usted, que no me he tenido que molestar trabajando para tener los aros. Que cuando yo visite la costa sur de esta isla a comprar pastelillos de jueyes en Patillas, la muchedumbre diga;

“Caramba, ese señor debe llevar una barra tallada en roble con espejos en el baúl de ese Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight de los ochenta, a lo mejor está nutrida con ron exquisito”. Muévalos a un lado a ver si los otros me agradan.

Vuelve el vendedor a labrar con los aros, se lleva los rechazados y con un pequeño trapo brilla los bordes del segundo aro de muestra.

―Bueno señor, me parece que ahora tengo el modelo ganador. Mire estos aros, yo le aseguro que en las elecciones del 2012 se podrá meter en los tres comités, ¿o son cuatro? Bueno, el asunto es que usted no va a parecer de ningún partido con estos. Usted con estos aros se puede filtrar con la bandera que agarre. Se le aseguran vitoreos de las señoras solteras con los autos repletos de tías, y primas y mejor aun vecinas. Después de repartir teléfonos en las caravanas son tan versátiles estos, que podrá hasta estacionarse en Isabela, en la playa jobos. Hay lo verán pidiendo empanadillas de pulpo. Se bajara y pensaran que usted es un virtuoso del Violín, que está por vacaciones en esa parte de la isla, que es un virtuoso del Conservatorio.

―Bueno, el asunto es que mi hijo se me va a graduar…y esos son muy hermosos―le respondió Federico acercándose a la vitrina por segunda vez―. Yo les veo mucho color a esos. Entonces si el primogénito se me va para el Colegio de Mayaguez podrían marcarlo como un joven frívolo y quiero que piensen que tiene unos aros de un caballero que practica el reciclaje y que quizás tiene una finca, que anda con racimos de plátano en el baúl. Si se me fuera para la Interamericana, que van a pensar, peor… van a ignorarlo y me van a sacar al joven de las tabernas donde se tertulia con las damas jóvenes y ahí se me perderá de las novias. Yo quiero que en la Interamericana piensen que lleva computadoras en el asiento, que existen periódicos guardados en el baúl y que pincha en el cenicero como veinte ticket de “Ivu loto” que todavía no verifica.

"Imagine usted que se tome la molestia un recluta de la universidad de Princeton, o de N.Y.U…y pase por frente de mi casa y vea ese auto con esos aros. Que por cierto, al emisario ni le pasaría por la mente que pudiera estar frente a un joven que escucha punk rock o uno que mantiene una dieta totalmente orgánica. ¡Que espanto, se podría imaginar que no escucha The Cure o Bob Dylan! ¡Qué bochorno, no me haga esto!

"¿Es que me ve usted cara de tonto? Es de solo verlos que uno pensaría todo lo contrario. Pero lo más importante es si me lo aceptan en El Sagrado…

El vendedor en el counter, reposa su quijada sobre su mano mientras pensaba… “Virgen santa, de donde salió este pájaro, a la verdad que yo he visto anuncios en la televisión de este país, locuras sin sentido en la prensa, pero de que este hombre le ha ganado a todos, es mas… este señor es una obra de arte si, como para exhibirlo en la campechada que viene”.

―…Si lo aceptan en Sagrado, yo quiero que tenga unos aros que no le hagan daño a su imagen al llegar ahí, imagínese si se me hospeda. Quizás en el Turabo… a mi es lo mismo, pero que quiero que piensen que mi hijo es un caballero de línea, que lleva güiros y guitarras en el baúl. Si cae en una de esas dos. Que digan; “Ese muchacho debe ser un barrista o un letrado”. O carga con calabazas, yautías y berros. O con pomarrosas , tamarindos y besitos de coco.”

El Pirata de los cuentos

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 15:45:00 +0000

Cuento corto

El Pirata de los Cuentos merodeaba por los caminos oscuros del desierto. Cargaba en su caballo un listón que sujetaba varios libros con miles de historias impresas. Era un hombre tenebroso que acostumbraba desaparecer los cuentistas para quedarse con sus obras.

Una noche sorprendió en su fogata a un escritor muy especial… y le pidió que le contara una fábula original...

―Cuenta, cuéntame algo jovencito, algo que me conmueva ―lo miraba de soslayo, cruzaba sus brazos, brillaba su espada―, mira cuantas obras he comprado, cientos de autores he alimentado pagándoles con piezas de oro por sus relatos…

―¡Muy bien, le contaré algo! ―le contesto el aspirante a escritor―. Pero quisiera que se sentara en esa roca más alta para poder verle mejor ―aludió mientras escondía su resortera.

El Pirata se acomodó sobre la piedra y escuchó con atención el relato.

―Había una vez un águila hambrienta que se precipitó a capturar un roedor. Pero cuando aterrizo se percató de que lo que había visto era sólo una vieja suela de zapatos. En ese momento, una abeja venenosa se aventó sobre su cabeza y le dijo: “Llévame a buscar las flores más exóticas que hayas visto o te picaré con mi afilada ponzoña”.

―El águila se elevó por encima de todas las nubes hasta que llegó a una gran montaña donde había un jardín solitario. Al llegar allí, la abeja se lanzó a probar el néctar de unas majestuosas flores amarillas. Para su sorpresa, quedó atrapada dentro de los hermosos pétalos de una planta carnívora.

“¿Por qué no me avisaste?”, preguntó la abeja encerrada.

“En realidad, a las aves como yo no les gustan para nada ni las abejas ni la miel”.

El verdugo estaba listo para desaparecer al muchacho y apropiarse de la fábula, pero éste, con un ágil movimiento, encontró una piedra para su resortera y la lanzó directamente a la frente del pirata. El lúgubre hombre al no poder reaccionar, cayó de bruces.

Enseguida el novato escritor logro salvar los libros que tenia cautivos, y se fue corriendo colina abajo con la intención de visitar una editorial para publicar su primera obra.

Reseña del cortometraje “Tita” -todavía puede verlo en el Fine Arts Café, miércoles 21 de septiembre.

noreply@blogger.com (enrique) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 20:30:00 +0000

Quiero mencionar antes de seguir con mi propósito, que solo pude asistir a la noche inaugural del festival -Cine Fiesta- y a su primer día de rodaje de cortos, el martes 26 de julio. Estoy seguro que durante la semana del festival participaron otras piezas muy buenas y de mucho que hablar. Por otros compromisos no pude asistir.

Así que desde esa perspectiva voy a ponerles aquí lo que pude pensar acerca del cortometraje “Tita”.

¿Porque solo hablare de Tita?, pues sencillo. Su escritor, guionista y director -Gerardo Betancourt- es un joven el cual conozco desde hace mucho tiempo. Es uno de esos amigos que uno tiene cuando uno práctica el deporte del Bodyboard, deslizándonos sobre las olas con nuestra tabla de esponja.

Dentro del mar fue donde por primara vez logre verlo. Con el pasar de los años, uno va viendo como los amigos de la playa dejan de asistir a las olas, y en otros casos continúan haciendo de este deporte uno para toda la vida, como lo escogió este amigo.

Yo llevo más de veinticinco años en eso. Así que, una de las muchas mañanas que me encontré a Gerardo verificando las olas casi a la salida del sol, le pregunte…

-Gerardo y esos tags que tienes en el cuello colgando, a esta hora… ¿dónde estabas?

-Estaba en una producción y salimos tarde, tú sabes cómo es eso.

Esa mañana recordé cuando trabaje por un tiempo en el ámbito de la filmación en Puerto Rico, y sabia de lo que me hablaba. Así lo seguí viendo muchas veces, llegando con el tag en el cuello, tratando de dar con las olas perfectas que se forman en esta isla una vez más.

¿Y por dónde va Gerardo en el cine?, un playero común que sabe deslizase en oleaje de más de diez pies. Que logro que aceptaran su corto en el prestigioso “Short Film Corner”, del Festival de Cannes en mayo del 2011. Que también fue Selección Oficial “Cine fiesta”, 2011 y selección Oficial del “New York City international Film Festival”, 2011. Pues va por ahí, lanzándose con su grupo de trabajo, como también se lanza en las olas con sus amigos. Les explico por qué.

Cortometraje “Tita” /Terminado en mayo -2011 /Drama-ficción/ Duración 16:18

Para mí que esta cinta fue un thriller de suspenso. Que toma el tema del comportamiento humano y lo presenta desde puntos de vista muy íntimos de sus protagonistas.

No es lo mismo lo que significaba ese día para Tita, que lo que significaba Tita para nosotros al final del cortometraje. Por eso creo que la historia tenía mucha funcionalidad, que fue muy convincente. Tanto así que logro hacer llorar a varias personas que tenia sentadas cerca de mí. ¿Qué logro con eso?... Atraparnos.

Las imágenes que predominaron eran de pura personificación, de caracterización de actores y del set. Se nota que su equipo le prestó mucha atención eso. Esta historia sabemos que es muy probable de suceder, y por eso da tanta verosimilitud a la trama según va rodando la cinta. Una cosa es antes y después de ver el radio… Me gusto la participación de ese radio en el afiche del corto, mas cuando me sentí obligado a escucharlo tantas veces para luego revelarse por ese medio el punto climático de la cinta. Como dicen algunos, “La historia está en el corte” Excelente prop.

Aunque no se dieron muchos diálogos, uno queda bastante satisfecho porque fueron lo suficiente como para imaginarnos de qué trasfondo social podrían venir estas personas. Y los niños fueron bien caracterizados con eso.

Su estilo de filmación no se parece a nadie, eso me gusto también. Conectáramos con él, con su intención en el set, eso es ser un artista. Porque el autor debe siempre crear para nosotros un interés por la continuidad y por lo lógico en “este tipo de género”. Existía mucho la tridimensionalidad en la fotografía. Muy buen, excelente corto.

Ahora mi rap-up de Tita

Buen sonido.

Un story line de suspenso cargado de emociones.

Lenguaje de los personajes bien justificado.

Me hubiera gustado más diálogos y algún tic nervioso en Tita.

No fue fácil de filmar.

Segundos personajes excelentemente caracterizados y actuados.

Excelentes transiciones de escena.

Como espectadores, pasamos por una catarsis al final del rodaje.

El ritmo, el tempo. No nos desorientamos en ningún momento.

Esos actores habitaron las escenas, se dejaron sentir.

Y por último, me encanto como utilizó los close ups.

Cuando vea usted a Tita, recapacite un momento y sabrá por qué les mencionaba al principio que Gerardo se lanzo como lo hace con su tabla en las olas. Solo trate de filmar en plena luz del día en la intersección de un semáforo, justifique una grúa en su guion para su cámara y logre rodar en la noche sin salirse de la continuidad de colores y tonos de luz.

Pienso que todas las películas siempre tienen una que otra cosa que se le puede mejorar. Pero como dicen los buenos; “You got to get out there and film”… Yo pensaba sentado en el mi butaca... “Boy can this crew get out there” ¡Éxito amigo!

Si usted todavía no ha visto el cortometraje “Tita”, aun puede verlo. Porque en el “Fine Arts Cinema” se estará rodando en los próximos días. Las sesiones contienen lo mejor de los cortos del Festival de Cortometrajes Cine fiesta 2011.

“Me nominaron a Lucienne hernandez como mejor actriz en el festival de Nueva York, además rodaron la cinta en una pantalla gigantesca en el Time Square. Se detuvo mucha gente a ver a “Tita”. Mientras, trabajo en Moyero Films y espero por mas contestaciones de otros festivales”

Tres oportunidades

Jueves 15 de Sept 6PM
Sábado 17 de Sept 6pm
Miércoles 21 de Sept 6pm

Fine Arts Café

Popular Center Torre Norte, Hato Rey

(787) 765-2339