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She Would Not Believe How Good She Was

Some people, after having created a nice piece of work, will claim they don't really think it's actually good. They may say it out of false modesty, they may be truly humble, or maybe never in their life did they accept themselves and believe they were good enough. This is sadly the case of Sally Summers.

Sally had always been deeply surprised whenever someone congratulated her art. She either thought people said it out of kindness or pity, or because they didn't have a critical eye for art. However, even if she thought she wasn't up to the mark, she still strived to be the best.

That may be the most admirable thing about Sally. It is tough to fight one's inner demons and go for what you're passionate about. It was this noble determination that gave her success. Of course she was helped by Simon, who insisted Sally created art worth looking at, and buying too.

Sally's experience gives us a great example to follow. Working hard and passionately, surrounding oneself with supportive people and never ceasing to aim for the highest will very likely help us meet our goals without cheating, but solely by our talent and determination.

#Prose

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My Friend Is a Gold-Digger · version II

Consuela and I have been friends for many years now. We were both models from the same academy, and for a time we used to appear together in lingerie ads. From an early stage of our careers we found that we both agreed that marrying a billionaire and not having to work much was a most agreeable lifestyle for us. So that's what we did. However, Consuela soon took it to the next level.

I settled for one marriage only. Had three children. Got too fat to model anymore, though I'm working on it. On the other hand, Consuela looks as dazzling as ever, and plans to keep taking advantage of this for her own profit. Already she has her eye on a fourth husband. I wonder if she's taking it a little too far, because her attitude truly reflects that of a gold-digger, and everyone knows, that is not a job one can take for too long.

So for her own sake, I hope she finds someone nice to settle down with. Whether we like it or not, we all grow old, and it will happen to dear Consuela too. She won't be able then to keep on catching big fish. She will need someone loving to take care of her.

#Prose

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My Friend Is a Gold-Digger · version I

(Look at them both. Acting like they were already married.) “My goodness! That necklace lights up the whole party!” (In front of all these important people.) “It puts the stars to shame!” (She must always be the star.) “I say, why don't we take a stroll down to the...” (Always the centre of attention, the little schemer, the..) “...the beach! Why don't you come along, Maria?” Consuela reached out her hand to her.

Maria snapped out of her thoughts and instantly pulled her most charming smile. “Why of course, darling!” She took hold of another crystal glass of rosé and joined her friend and her little group of admirers.

They walked along arm in arm, a little behind the rest, alone. (Scrawny little arm.) “What a wonderful evening!” Consuela sighed as she breathed in the sea breeze. (Mine is thrice as thick.) “Indeed it is, dear. You're looking like a million dollars.” Agreed Maria. (As is the rest of my body.) Consuela cracked out a laugh. “Far more, actually.” (Obviously). “Birthday present?” “Obviously.” Consuela beamed. (Obviously.) “I really must congratulate you, honey!” Maria gave her friend's hand a friendly squeeze, which the other returned. “How ever did you manage it?” (I have a fair idea of how you managed it.) “Oh.” Consuela flashed a victorious grin. The brightness of the jewels around her neck dimmed out her perfect nacre teeth. “It's all a matter of being and looking smart, really.” (And I weigh five kilos more than the last time you saw me.) Consuela kept on explaining how her plan was carried out, smoothing out some intimate details which Maria could well imagine anyway. Maria praised her. (I really didn't expect such cleverness from her.)

Consuela laughed merrily along. Their stroll was done and they were back at the party. Mr Carvallo was waiting for her. Maria watched as her friend joined her lover and kissed him on the lips. His arm went around her tiny, fit waist. (My friend is a gold-digger.) Consuela looked dashing in that black mini dress and necklace. All eyes were on Consuela. (How I envy her.) Only a fool wouldn't want to look at her. (Only a fool wouldn't want to be her.)

#Prose

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Lost in the City

It is always suggested to investigate about the city you're travelling to. I did not use to give much thought to this advice before, but eventually, I learnt there's a reason why everyone gave it to me, and I learnt it the hard way.

I had just come back from a weekend trip to Belfast. The ferry arrived at quarter to six in the morning to Beatles city. I was meant to take a train from Liverpool to Sheffield in two hours' time, so I looked up the way to the station in Google Maps and went my way.

After twenty minutes of walking and carrying two heavy bags,, I stopped in my tracks in the middle of a small park. I realised aghast that I had to cross the Mersey. Fear gripped my heart when I saw there were no ferries crossing from side to side at that time of day. Anyway, I had no money to pay for it either, I had less than £15 cash on me. Perhaps I could call a cab and ask if I could pay with my credit card.

By this moment I was already sobbing desperately, looking up for transport services. I called a cab company, but I could not tell where I was, and they did not accept cards anyway. Maybe, I thought I could walk along the Mersey bank to reach my destination. However, that would take me three hours, according to Google, and I needed to be at the station in less than one.

As I miserably walked back to the dock, through the tears I identified an Underground sign. Intrigued, I walked through the door underneath and scanned the stations it travelled to. One of them was Liverpool Station. Apparently the tube went all the way under the river. I praised the Lord under my breath and paid my £2.50 ticket. I did not miss my train. Experience is a hard teacher, but oh, do you learn.

#Prose

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Maté Time

Now that my journey is coming to an end, I noticed, looking back on my notes, that I have barely mentioned maté. Argentinians claim to be the copyright bearers of almost anything, including God. Maté, of course, is no exception, even though neighbouring countries have it as well.

So what is maté? That I asked my companion, Tincho. He raised his eyebrows in astonishment and decided I should find out for myself. Firstly, he took a hollowed out squash and filled it with yerba maté, which is a mixture of dried herbal leaves. Along with this he introduced a bombilla into the recipient, which is like a glorified metal straw, but with a wide sealed end with little holes so that the yerba maté doesn't enter the straw. Then Tincho poured in water heated up just before boiling point.

My companion took two long sips from the bombilla. He said he had to drink first, for if anyone but the cebador (the one pouring in the hot water) drank first, they would have bad luck. Then Tincho refilled the maté and passed it over to me. In horror I understood we were meant to share the same bombilla.

I fought back my sanitary standards and took a sip. The taste was strong, wild and bitter. That was my first and last sip of maté. Tincho kept pouring the remaining litre of water out of his thermos very happily, just for himself.

All over the country people carrying thermos and matés can be seen, just going about their life drinking it and offering some to their friends. It would be crazy to imagine oneself walking around with a kettle under one's arm, but it's quite the normal thing here. Well, each to their own, I for one found that maté is not my cup of tea.

#Prose

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The Day I Suspected Michael Had Cheated on Me

It was late in the evening, and the smell of cooking stew filled the house. Michael had just left for work, leaving me on my own with the kids. This was part of our daily routine, nothing out of the ordinary, until a phone call interrupted our dinner.

A policeman, it was, asking if a certain make and plate number matched those of the car we owned. A little disheartened, I had to agree with the police officer, who continued to inform me that it had been found parked at a double yellow line, just in front of a theatre. It was the theatre close to the restaurant where Michael works at. I thanked the policeman, trying to hide the dissatisfaction this unpleasant news had caused me.

I returned to the dining room, thinking about the ghastly sum of £100 that was asked as a fee for collecting the car. I finished my meal in silence, resolving to call Michael's work after the kids had gone to bed. There was something fishy here. The fact that the car was found by the theatre was no coincidence.

Indeed, when I called Michael's boss, he said in so many words that Michael was fired and that he had been seen flirting and having a jolly good laugh with a stunning girl at a theatre. Again, I thanked him, but hurriedly this time because the knot in my throat loosened up when I burst into tears.

I had suspected for a while that Michael was being dishonest. There was nothing much I could do now, I thought, but wait until my husband arrived and reprimand him. It was high time he faced the consequences of his actions.

#Prose

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Dilema de una no escritora

¡Miércoles! ¡Qué terrible situación, pasarme a mí, alguien muy lectora, con firmes y múltiples opiniones, creo yo, en su mayoría razonables, que justo me vengan a pedir un artículo para Aguafuertes! ¡Justo a mí! Ironía total, leo tanto, escribo tan poco... y con lo que me gusta. No, profe, me duele confesarlo, no soy ninguna gran escritora, menos que menos Roberto Arlt, tragaré libros de tapa a tapa, pero eso de nada sirve, sigo siendo una no escritora.

¿Por qué? ¿Qué hace el escritor? Sabe expresarse en el papel. Qué caradura de mi parte, pretender hacerme pasar por uno con mis torpes palabras. Moría de horror frente a esta página en blanco, sólo imaginá, si el bloqueo del escritor es odioso, ¡cuánto más lo será para una no escritora! Innumerables ideas agolpábanse y bullían en mi pobre cerebro, sobre la falsedad, la despreocupación, la timidez, el abuso de insultos y muchas más, y frustradas, sólo podían permanecer ahí, no podían viajar a mi mano derecha, sosteniendo una birome que ni se animaba a tocar el papel. “No puedo, no puedo”, parecía decirme, y yo la observaba compasivamente. “Yo tampoco, yo tampoco”, le contesté. Quizá, ella no quería colaborar con una no escritora. La muy engreída.

En fin, no me tildo de idiota ni tampoco de muy modesta, así que reconozco que esta obra salió realmente bien, pero ¿de qué me sirve si yo habría preferido expresar otros pensamientos y sentimientos? ¿Significará esto entonces un fracaso de escritora o un éxito de no escritora?

#Prose

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Tobito

En los Krats, ok. Hay un capítulo que es de... que está en ¿Cómo se dice? Con una... con una mamá chita y y el hijo chita y que, que, que una, una chica que le gustan los animales y que... que no le g- que no le gustan los animales, que se llama Rosita... em... los quiere hacer como... y que en ese capítulo quería hacerlos como... ropa con los animales entonces eligió a la mamá chita, la congeló primero... con un control, así... para que se quede quieta. Entonces de... pero ella no se pueda mover, pero los humanos sí que los pueden mover, entonces se la puso a la mamá chita eh... al... que le... di... el que dicía todo lo... que hacían todo lo que ella querían entonces... em... púselo – dijo que se lo pongan en en los hombros, en los hombros, después em... lo dejó así y puso la cabeza para atrás, digo, puso la cabeza acá y y le agarró la cola y se la puso acá y y y... querían... ma- entonces también querían ma- agarrar al hijo, sacarle el pelo y usarla como gorro y y después hicieron una trampa, pero los Krats, uno, uno fue que... absorbió el traje de... con el traje que tocás a los animales se te hace todo un traje de animal... bueno, tocó al hijo chita y se, y se hizo todo... todo el traje de chita para cuidarlo. Y le puso... de coso... de nombre Manchas. Y y y, y tenía como termina, y después se vino un... un eh... ¿Cómo se llaman los que... ts los... rollos de miel, ¿No? Los... ciervos... de miel, no me acuerdo cómo el... no, de miel. No, un animal que se llama, “Bla bla bla” miel. Que es muy fuerte, con una raya acá, como la cría de los guepardos, y que era todo negro, con una raya acá blanca. Que ya te dije, “bla bla bla” miel. ¡Ay tengo que ver el capítulo para eso, si no, no me acuerdo cómo se llama...!

#Prose

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“Attention please, ladies and gentlemen-” thud. “-We're experiencing-” thud. “-Minor technical-” thud. “-Problems”. Thud thud. “Please remain calm!” Screams. “Fasten your seatbelts ple-” The plane lurched, the flight attendant too, head and armseat met, and no more words were heard on behalf of IntAirlines. Not until one read all about the plane catastrophe in the newspapers, that is.

The vehicle was faulty. There had been no storm, no hurricane, hardly any disturbance in the air, in fact. Funny, isn't it. The only falling water in the sky came from the passenger's eyes, the only violent gusts of wind from their praying throats. Outside this tinned hell, heaven was sunny, blue and white.

Blue were their faces, blue their gripped hands, sunny had been their hopes of having a wonderful honeymoon.

The plane lurched again. Another flight attendant reminded passengers of emergency measures and the importance of keeping their seatbelts on.

“What are you doing?!” An answer came, but the screams muffled it. Her trembling hands fumbled with her seatbelt until she finally unclasped it. “But your seatb-” “You'll be my seatbelt.” She cried as she swung herself on top of his lap and held fiercely onto his chest, his heart, his every fibre. His dismay faded as he understood it was each other they needed to hold on to for dear life.

The plane lurched for the last time, vertiginously pirouetting downwards.

“Love.” “Love.” Sobs. Kisses. A tightening hug that turned their hearts into one. Ear whispering they could miraculously hear above the desperate screams and anguished moans. “Will we be together?” “Up there?” “Yes, dearest.” “Yes, dearest.” “Thank you.” “Love.” “Love.”

They died kissing, and the explosion caused their clothes to burn, and their bodies to merge together into one flesh statue in honour of love.

The shape of most passengers was indistinguishable, but there was one particular charred couple in a recognisable position. “Chief, over here.” “Tch.” “As soon as they suspect their death is certain...” “They start fucking. I know. Typical.” “Typical.”

#Prose

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C.S. Lewis Quotes from “The Four Loves” Re-Translated from Spanish.

→ “It is true that language is not a flawless guide, but it contains, even with all its defects, great deposit of knowledge, reality and experience. If one starts to distort it, language ends up taking its revenge. It is better not to force words so that they mean whatever one pleases.”

→ “Every Christian has to admit that a man's spiritual health is exactly proportional to his love of God.”

→ “What's close to Him by likeness, will never, only for this fact, be closer than that. But closeness by approach is, by definition, a closeness that can increase. And while on the one hand likeness is given to us – and can be received with or without thankfulness, or use well or make abuse of it – approach, on the other hand, although initiated and helped by Grace, is of it something we must achieve.”

→ “If we don't take into account that truth that God is love, that truth can mean to us the opposite: all love is God.”

→ “All human love, in its peak point, it has a tendency of demanding for itself the divine authority; its voice tends to sound as if it was the will of God Himself; tells us not to consider what it costs, asks for our full commitment, pretends to run over any other demand and claims any action sincerely done “for love” is legitimate and even worthy of merit. That sensual love and patriotic love can really “turn into gods” is something generally agreed; and with the affection for family the same can also happen; and, in a different way, it can also happen with friendship.”

→ “A person can act accordingly to these appetites, but he cannot worship them, in the same way a man that scratches himself cannot worship the itching.”

→ “Likeness is something splendorous; this is the reason we confuse likeness with equality. We can give our human loves the unconditional closeness that only God we owe to, we can turn them into gods, into demons. This way they will destroy themselves and they will destroy us, because the natural loves that turn into gods cease to be loves. We continue to call them as such, but in fact they can turn out to be complicated forms of hatred.”

#Prose