«27|9|18

The World Will Never Be the Same After Reading This

You just did it. Did what? What every advertising agency aims to attain – your interest; because once you are hooked in, it has a chance to sell. Now streets, visual media and our phones are simply crammed with ads, we all know they are unavoidable. But what about that sneaky ad you almost didn't recognise as one? The title of that interesting article you are about to read, that incredible video you will watch, that amazing online sale you just cannot miss?

Clickbait at best, will call to your attention many products or pieces of information you were already interested in anyways, and present them at the tip of your fingerclicks. Customers get what they want quick and easy, businesses make money, win-win situation, everyone is happy.

Yet clickbait also presents itself through less innocent ways. While in the first case the product is only harmlessly buttered up for the sake of desirability, there are other cases where it is awarded qualities it does not have. There is a promise that will never be fulfilled completely; in reality those second-hand boots are not good as new, that dog's fur is not naturally blue, and no, that alien-looking flower shown in the video's thumbnail does not really exist. But hey, you did learn something about the other ten fairly strange-looking flowers! However, the absolute worst kind gives 0% satisfaction, 100% dissatisfaction. The dreaded virus, disguised as the ultimate solution for your crow's feet. The consequences of clicking on these links are as undesirable as the bodily disfunctions they claim to solve: these virtual trojan horses can and will damage or destroy files and infect system areas of a computer or router's hard drive. Well, the saying goes, if it is too good to be true... better not click it, just in case.

Wherever money plays a part all around the world, a sort of clickbait is used, trying to entice the public. They're in shops, restaurants, billboards, hotels, and even in respected institutions like schools, hospitals or churches. Sometimes clickbait takes a friendlier form, and in other cases it is deliberately deceptive. To avoid being reeled in, bear a critical eye on what is presented through it. That is the key exercise to skirting many dangers in life. Who is thinking for you? yourself, or someone else trying to profit off you?

#Prose

«27|9|18

Who hasn't had a mini crisis when asked to write an essay? I bet you have, and I definitely have as well, until I realised the solution to this situation had been right in front of me all along. Various teachers kept insisting for donkey's years that the key to writing a proper essay was planning it beforehand. I turned a deaf ear to this valuable piece of advice. “No planning needed!” I thought, “I shall take a trip on the wild side!”. I applied the same philosophy to cutting my own hair, and after many attempts, I found out that in both cases the result was not quite what I had expected. Why? Because writing an essay is just like cutting your own hair. You must look into how to do it properly.

First things first: what do you want your hair to look like, and how do you achieve the exact shape and length you desire? You will realise that this step is unavoidable, and the same is also true when planning an essay. You must know what it is going to be about. A helpful tip is to brainstorm some ideas and see how you can connect them. When your decision is made, investigate as much as possible and gather the necessary information so that your writing is ideologically coherent. This information, added to your knowledge of the language, will be your most important tool, without which you can do nothing – just like scissors and mirrors are essential for hair cutting.

Now is the time to put your knowledge into practice. Yet to cut hair properly, you must first split it into parts and then get at them one by one. So must you do with an essay. Have in mind that the reader ought to be introduced to the subject in order to read all about it in depth later, and of course there's also the conclusion, a great excuse to finish your work off with a bang.

Calmly, boldly, grab your scissors and pen and go snippety-snip, scribbly-scrib. It will not look ideal at the beginning, but remember, your work is not done yet. Once you have gone through all the layers, there is the crucial part of going over what you just created, and correct anything that seems off or askew. Keep doing this until it is an even, coherent, harmonious and satisfactory piece of work, beautiful in your eyes. For these final touches make for tidiness.

Last but not least, enjoy your creation! Rejoice in the wonderful work of your hands, be proud of it, go and flaunt it and show all your friends your gorgeous work of art – be it your essay, your haircut, or both.

#Prose

«9|10|17

Sheffield's Graveyard

The graveyard was part of a church high on a steep hill, surrounded by low stone walls. As soon as you crossed the iron gates you found yourself confronted with mossy, laden stone crosses taller than you were. Every thing was made of chipped, ancient stone, somewhat corroded by time. Many shades of grey met the eye. It was high evening, not too dark, but dark enough to justify a lonely Narnian-looking lamp post being lit by the side of the stone pathway. Its dim yellow halo was bright enough to be seen from afar, but it seemed to me that it couldn't serve any further purpose than that of being a feeble miniature lighthouse. I walked up to the lamp-post, dedicated a moment to admire it and feel like Lucy Pevensie, and made a turn to the right.

Broken stone steps, made even more unsteady by the constant drizzle that had been falling, took me to the presence of yet more tombs. Row after row of chipped gravestones, some bearing unintelligible epitaphs, either because the surface had smoothed out with age, or was half-buried in the ground... or both.

It really was an old, massive graveyard. A sign outside its grey walls stated, somewhat proudly, that it held more than ten thousand graves inside, where naughty badgers and radioactive red foxes had made their homes, or so I had been told. I had barely walked through a fifth of the whole place and was already amazed by the amount of bodies that were decomposing underground. No wonder, I thought, the grass is such a bright green, and daisies bloom so profusely.

#Prose

«9|10|17

Cian leaned on his arm, not even daring to look at the time, for he just wanted to admire Anne from afar. He was unable to actually see her but for a dark silhouette cut against the moonlit sky, yet he remembered what she looked like with such exact precision that he could picture her now as if she was under broad daylight: bony, yet with a full-breasted chest, to where her sandy hair reached, almond shaped and coloured eyes, curvy lips, a wide grin of slightly crooked teeth, sharp cheekbones and a round-edged nose, and she smelt of fresh cotton and virginal naïvety, even though her rosy skin betrayed a tainted glow. And one wondered how could a mouth with a voice so dry also have a tongue so wet.

#Prose #Strangeland

»15|3|17

Her curly hair never tangles, her amber eyes glow with joy only when around the people she loves, and sometimes not even then. She may either stand aside and keep quiet, or be the centre of attention while telling everyone about her last cause of happiness or distress; but at all times she observes and keeps everything that's going on in her heart and mind for later use. She may not want to admit it, but she's a hopeless romantic, and I know she'd love to know that I'm thinking of her now. Through thick and thin she will always be my friend.

#Prose

«3|1|14

The painting stood in front of us. In front of everyone, actually. August had painted it. It was not time yet to admire him or his skills; not ever, in fact. So this was it. Mendoza. I went through and into the painting and then I actually was there, in the actual Mendoza. I was there a long time. Then I went back. August waited for me. It just made sense that he was leaving his living painting behind before he left. To Mendoza, of course. He would miss me. “I remember”, he said, “I remember when my brother brought his girlfriends home. He would kiss them in front of me. Like this.” Before I realised, I was of course in his arms and being kissed. “August”, I mumbled. I felt annoyed. Now he was taking me in his arms, before he left. “August”, I repeated. I felt anguished. If he had only shown his feelings before... “August”, I begged. I felt pleased. He kissed me, he liked me, just as I liked him. “August”, I whispered urgently. I felt awkward. Our friends were watching. Just that. Watching. Not uttering a word, not making a sound, not moving an inch. As if they were our own special cardboard friends. August let go of me. That was just it. We would miss each other.

#Prose

«3|1|14

Well, where were we going? I can't remember, or maybe I never knew. The old car seemed to be moving at a fast rate, but if you looked out the window, you'd see it really had only moved a few metres. She sat to my right. She had a pen in her hand. She took my hand and hers, and she wrote in both of them; “you and me,” and she read it aloud as she wrote... “best friends...” I repeated anxiously, “...best friends...”, and she wrote the final word, “forever.”, she said. “...forever...”, I said in a hush, amazed. Her tone had born no feeling at all, she had spoken dragging her words monotonously, and then she turned to watch ahead of her. But I, my eyes were almost in tears, though they didn't feel the least wet. My heart, yes it beat fast, fast, fast. Friends again! How could that be? Best friends once more? I didn't even think about the boyfriend that had set us apart. No. He didn't exist. Didn't cross my mind once.

#Prose

»22|7|15

Habían tenido una guerra de barro. Obvio, el sí estuvo. Obvio, fui a pellizcarle y a reclamarle por qué nadie me llamó. Mis lágrimas me cegaron la vista y no vi nada más. Estaba harta de que todo sucediera sin mí. Lo próximo que sé es que estaba tirada en el piso, con un cuchillo a mi alcance, y su figura se recortaba contra el sol. Él dijo que no era culpable de nada de lo que me pasaba, pero por alguna razón seguía coleccionando cicatrices de mis pellizcones en su brazo. Le hice saber que yo lo sabía. Lo sabía, y le pedí perdón. Pero no era suficiente para mí, porque también sabía que había cometido actos tan injustos contra él, que nada podía borrarlos de nuestras mentes o nuestros corazones. Tendría que vivir para siempre siendo consciente de todo el mal que le hice a esta sola persona. Me frustré. El cubierto de cocina seguía a mi lado, pero luego estuvo en mi mano y luego su punta estuvo cortando mi piel, en un intento de atravesármelo por el corazón. Igual... no pude. Él nunca habría creído que yo fuese capaz de hacerlo. Yo, en un momento, sí.

Unas manos tomaron mi cara y acercaron mis labios... eran sus manos... y eran sus labios. Entre un beso mojado por lágrimas, de a poco volví a sentir eso... que tu corazón se hincha de felicidad, de paz, de... amor. Sólo eso nos unía, nuestros labios, pero eso era todo lo que habíamos necesitado para que nuestros corazones estuvieran unidos también. Sin embargo, él tuvo que aclararme algo: “Estamos enamorados, no juntos.”

Eso estaba... muy bien. Reí del alivio. Estaba muy bien. Era todo lo que estábamos dispuestos a dar. Él me confesó que estaba enamorado. Dios sabe cuánto soñé con esas palabras. Yo aporté mi parte al acuerdo al resignarme a no poder llamarlo mi novio. O llamarlo en absoluto. Permitir que él me buscara cuando me necesite. En un momento surgieron mis dudas, en cuanto a cuántas libertades se podía tomar, porque después de todo, no estábamos juntos. Ni necesité que él me tomara la mano para ahuyentar todas esas incertidumbres ridículas. Confiaba plenamente en él. El seguiría jugando con sus amigas, y seguiría olvidándose de mí, y seguiría yendo a lugares a los que yo no puedo ir. No quiere decir que no me duela, pero quiere decir que yo ya no le iba a recriminar por eso. Porque el me quería a mí. Él estaba enamorado de mí, y nunca va a sentir algo ni remotamente igual con otra persona, y pobre de él, eso es justo lo que quiso hacerme entender, desde hace tres años, y yo no le creí- que me ama. No sólo eso. Sino que a nadie más.

Lo próximo que recuerdo es andar en bicicleta de la mano, cada uno en la suya, debajo de árboles otoñales con hojas teñidas de rojo y amarillo. Pero obviamente, eso ya no era creíble como todo lo anterior, porque yo no sé andar en bicicleta. Luego de darme cuenta, le dirigí una última mirada, y desperté.

#Prose