Rat Boy talks to Star. Illustrated poem

Dear friends, some time ago I wrote a series of poems starring the character Rat Boy or other characters from the universe of Rat Boy.
I don’t know if these are totally adult poems, or if these are for particular (existing) children. I don’t know if I speak in any way there to the girl I was and who hides until today in a vegetable cave in my grandmother’s garden and pretends, among plant roots, that she is in a time machine. It is possible that they are all those things at the same time. I guess I’ll know when I finish the book.
I usually illustrate them.
Today I leave the English version of “Rat Boy Talks to Star.
I am grateful.

Rat Boy talks to Star

What are dreams made of, Rat Boy?
They are made of down,
Of the summer fire,
Of the juice of a lemon…
They’re made of gauze
Of a cloud,
Of a reef,
Of gold
Of a flash,
Of a pearl,
Of a feather,
Of a flower.
What’s the afternoon made of, Rat Boy?
Of ice-cream and coffee.
What are the mountains made of, Rat Boy?
Of very old bells
That they were deaf.
If you hear them resound
It’s because a cold
It makes them sneeze.
What’s the wind made of, Rat Boy?
Of the soul of little birds.
Of the solitude of the leaves.
Of molasses.
Of a flea that wanted
Play the saxophone.
What’s the night made of, Rat Boy?
Of scopendras,
Of cold,
Of a kiss.
Of a silver thread woven over a very distant heartbeat.
Of a lullaby.
Of secrets.
Of shadows.
Of roots.
Of a memory.
Of fear.
Of the voices of dreams
Running on the ladder of heaven.

“Bon Voyage, Rat Boy,” said Star.
And his echo of lights spilled out.
But Rat Boy was already going far away,
Going up the Milky Way.


Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.

En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!

Soy miembro de @equipocardumen
Soy miembro de @talentclub

My end for Finish The Story Contest – Week #52

Well, dear friends. Another publication from the hourly desperation.
The day before yesterday and yesterday the incompetent dictatorship that subdues us with the power of its bayonets rewarded my neighborhood with some fifteen hours of power cuts and the usual associated chaos.
But I have written. I have continued the hallucinatory story that opened @f3nix. A challenge to maintain the tone and reach the unleashed opening of the universe that collapsed on the text.

I leave then, friends, my final for Pointy Eyes Shine In The Dark, the story that begins @f3nix for edition number 52 of Finish The Story Contest (bases here).

And it was fun.
And I am grateful.


Beginning of the story by @f3nix

Pointy Eyes Shine In The Dark

“Auntie Masha‘ n the God’s Mistakes / every day on FRINGE -FM! / We will lure them, interview them / fun and tortures never end! “

The radio anchor’s words glide over the frantic notes of the jingle like an old rusted Cessna.

“We’re still here! I know, my lobotomized listeners, you too are amazed that your beloved auntie is still broadcasting on the frequencies of… ”

“Stop with the preambles, old wino!” The voices of the three God’s Mistakes recall a misplaced cross between Smeagol and the Chipmunks. In the studio, plastered with purple sound-proofing cones, the three animated puppets stare at Masha with lusty and murderous eyes. In a quick flash, the radio host instinctively thinks about the many crossroads of her life.

“Let’s all welcome the most annoying and useless voices in the whole history of radio broadcasting from Edison to nowadays. Don’t interrupt me, at least not at the beginning of the program, damn puppets…”

“…Cursed the stoned producer who wanted you,” the host adds a quick note in her mind.

“Hey granny, we are co-hosts, not voices.” The felt creatures stand assertively.

“As we said, my bizarre radio listeners, here we are at our usual appointment with Masha’s spicey interviews. Today we have an exceptional guest who certainly does not need introductions: directly from Berlin, Kurt Kükenvernichter, the one who returned metal music to the wide public. You know, Kurt, that auntie won’t allow you to exit this studio without you having confessed at least some sordid and succulent secret.” The presenter begins to press. “For starters, we want to know how you managed to convert post-millennials around the world to your music.”

Meanwhile, it seems that Kurt has decided to ignore the presentation. The round sound of his flask’s stopper popping is not even captured by the microphone that already the singer has gulped down a sip of grog, dark and thick like tar. He slowly approaches the loudspeaker and greets his fans – especially the female ones – with a bronze baritone voice.

“Anyway, I never converted anyone. In these shitty times, I saw an empty throne and sat there.”

“Aha. Sure. On thrones, photos of you collapsed on a toilet have been leaked from the net in the last few days. It is said to have been an exclusive party in Miami. Not exactly an image in line with the Kurt we all know. Do you want to deny or give us some clarification?” If radio frequencies could take shape, listeners would now see a scythe.

“They are all … I was saying … hhhhh … it’s all a pathetic charade!” The shrill voice of a clown who sniffed early-morning helium extrudes from the singer’s throat as from an occluded sphincter.

“What the fuck was that?” Auntie Masha leaps in shock from the chair. The God’s Mistake for once are silent, overwhelmed by a more absurd voice than theirs and looking at each other with lost pointy eyes.

Time is strange on radio and silence represents an abomination against nature. Five interminable seconds pass before the host manages to recover and decides to send the advertisement break. Kurt has already thrown himself out of the studio, making shrill desperate blows. In fading out, a coarse puppet’s laugh resounds.

In the loft, the thick curtains are still those of the old printing works. The late rays of the sun filter through the large dirty windows together with the sounds of the offices being emptied. A man wrapped in black leather and studs is spread on a padded velvet chaise long while, at the end of the room, another figure sits composed giving him his back.

“You see, Doctor, my voice is everything, why did it start to betray me? I can’t understand what’s happening to me. I feel violated by a dark and perverse part of myself. Under this thick layer of metal, there is a sensitive heart and I don’t think I can stand this anymore.”

As he confesses, Kurt hears a little music coming from behind the back of the chair. It looks like something already heard.


“Isn’t this riff I just invented beautiful?” Asks the therapist to the air with a gloating triumph note in his voice. Kurt pokes his head out and sees him fiddling with a tiny electric ukulele.

“Actually I think it’s Smoke On The Water, Doc.”

The chair snaps in a flash of lightning.
“Kurt, I have the solution but it won’t be easy and requires your blind trust in me.” Dr. Machete smiles as a strange light moves through his eyes. Struck by dusty beams of light, he looks like a sly Cheshire Cat.


My End

Meanwhile, in the studio, ads are repeated in an infinite loop. Auntie Masha has melts in her chair and her face is a rubber stain in front of the microphone. The puppets have fled through a wormhole sometime between ads for canned soup.
The ten o’clock presenter, who opens his agnostic space today, I don’t know if I don’t believe in anything, is suspended in the time loop with Masha. The strident laughter of a clown smelling helium in the morning resounds on the jingles. The agnostic presenter finally understands what God’s mistakes are.

(Pointed eyes shine in the darkness of the wormhole. And they look at him).


Dr. Machete keeps his ukulele. He kisses it, wraps it with his blanket and carefully closes the lid. He searches the closet for his black gloves as a murderer or as a double agent of the Cold War.
Check with Kurt: He’s K.O. He has drunk his grog with hydroconone. Doctor Machete drags Kurt to the toilet and lets his head hang inside the cup. He takes a photo of him with his mobile phone.
He takes the keys to Kurt’s convertible and throws himself down the motorway, violating all speed limits. He tunes in to the radio wishing to hear the premiere of an agnostic space that promises, but he only hears white noise and the echo of a clown’s laugh that smelled helium very early that morning.
The astute light behind his pupils abandons his eyes and settles in the back seat to scratch one leg with his big yellow Cheshire cat teeth. He smiles at the cat, as he has done every time he makes an important decision since he made it when he was five or six years old. Press the accelerator hard. He thinks he already has a clear clue to follow. The astute light behind his pupils abandons his eyes and settles in the back seat to scratch one leg with its big yellow teeth. He smiles at her, as he has done every time he makes an important decision since he made it when he was five or six years old. Press the accelerator hard.


Next to the motorway, a traffic control point picks up the red blur that is the convertible of Kurt Kükenvernichter. The monitor shows the registration of the vehicle and automatically opens the form of fines.
The duty officer mentally checks the list of infringements. He discovers that he cannot move. One of his boots melts and stretches through a hole in the floor. Later (or in a non-significant negative dimension later) he will remember that it was a space-time coagulation in another dimension. Radio transmits static. Someone laughs behind his back. It sounds like the laughter of a drugged-up clown.

(Pointed eyes shine in the darkness of the wormhole. ).


Meanwhile, on Anzola Street in the center of a city in a country in the North of South America, María Conchita Piedad de Cortez Cetes listens on local radio and waves her flesh to the rhythm of Héctor Lavoe’s Esta risa no es de loco. She scrubs the floor vigorously.
The beer cools down in the freezer.
Héctor Lavoe laughs from the radio.
A yellow-toothed cat enters through the balcony and dirties the floor with mud.
María Conchita Piedad de Cortez Cetes fits him, with mortal aim, a mamporro with the mop and continues with her life and her saoco.
She has nothing to do with this story.


Dr. Machete enters the studio.
Tía Masha’ n the God’s Mistakes / every day in FRINGE -FM! / We’ll attract them, we’ll interview them / the fun and the tortures never end,” repeats the recording. Auntie Masha is a little less Auntie Masha. She slips through the wormhole.
Dr.Machete launches the cell-phone in the rubber well.
He laughs.
He imitates Kurt’s fucking crybaby by denying everything.
His laughter goes through a space-time loop.
Like a sniffer clown.
Like a clown who sniffs helium.
Like a clown sniffing helium very early in the morning.

(Pointy eyes shine in the dark).


Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!
Soy miembro de @equipocardumen
Soy miembro de @talentclub

Singularidad del instante y un haikú para Mizu No Oto – Cada Imagen Tiene Su Haiku – Edición #28

haiku 28.jpg
Fotografía de @calluna (¡Una belleza! Gracias)

La convocatoria de la vigésimo octava edición de Mitzo (bases aquí) trae consideraciones que son un regalo para la reflexión de cualquiera que esté haciendo escritura literaria, y aunque estas consideraciones se refieren a la práctica del haikú, me parecen válidas para afinar los sentidos de la escritura de cualquier género.

Se suele banalizar el discurso en torno al momento presente, el aquí y ahora, pues se tiende a pensar que es una percepción que surge espontáneamente y que no requiere, por tanto, de ningún tipo de entrenamiento. Nada más lejos de la verdad. Y me parece, además, que es una de las disposiciones del ánimo más difíciles de alcanzar, sobre todo para la mentalidad occidental. El problema adicional de transmitir esta disposición a través de la escritura no hace sino volver el asunto más complejo, porque lo convierte, además, en un problema de comunicabilidad ligado a la lengua (y a cierta disposición del espíritu del idioma en el que nos comunicamos, y del cual no podemos sustraernos). Me refiero, para decirlo desde un ejemplo que ilustre mis torpes explicaciones, a que no es el espíritu que anima, por ejemplo, la lengua poética que ejercita Luis de Góngora, y, a su vez, su disposición poética está muy ligada a cierta manera de ejecutar el español en su poesía, con espíritu barroco.

Veamos ese ejemplo con el poema Mientras por competir con tu cabello…:

Mientras por competir con tu cabello
Oro bruñido al sol relumbra en vano,
Mientras con menosprecio en medio el llano
Mira tu blanca frente al lilio bello;

Mientras a cada labio, por cogello,
Siguen más ojos que al clavel temprano,
Y mientras triunfa con desdén lozano
Del luciente cristal tu gentil cuello,

Goza cuello, cabello, labio y frente,
Antes que lo que fue en tu edad dorada
Oro, lilio, clavel, cristal luciente,

No sólo en plata o vïola troncada
Se vuelva, más tú y ello juntamente
En tierra, en humo, en polvo, en sombra, en nada.


Hermoso, ¿cierto? Y aunque el tema es, precisamente, vivir el presente, su modo de comunicar esta idea no se ajusta al tratamiento del aquí y ahora.

Sin embargo, la disposición al “aquí y ahora” es ejercida, sin perder la fisonomía de su español latinoamericano, por un autor como Octavio Paz, quien dedicó muchos años de su vida al estudio (y ejercicio) de las estéticas literarias orientales.

Veamos un ejemplo de ello, precisamente, en un haiku. A pesar de lo que dicta la preceptiva clásica, Paz titulo su texto Alba:

Sobre la arena:
escritura de pájaros.
Memoria del viento.


Estar presentes y hacer presente el verbo en la escritura es una aspiración de perfección poética a la que ningún autor debe renunciar, pero que ningún autor debe dar por sentado, como un hecho espontáneo o una derivación fortuita de la escritura. Requiere, por decirlo de algún modo, de una disciplina del alma y de los sentidos.

El texto de banafish para esta ocasión es una joya, todo él, pero destaco este fragmento clarificador para el enriquecimiento de todos:

Escribir un haiku significa deshacerse de mecanismos constructivos y emocionales, abandonar los recuerdos del pasado y las proyecciones hacia el futuro, para prestar una atención plena, desinteresada y sin superestructuras, al momento presente, hasta fundirse con él.
En un haiku, el tiempo y el espacio son siempre “aquí y ahora”.

(El momento presente)


Una liberación tal, desde el lenguaje, el ánimo y el pensamiento implica un aprendizaje de la percepción y su procesamiento desde otros parámetros, más transparentes, desde los cuales sepamos escuchar a los sentidos en una diáfana singularidad del instante.

Difícil. Pero esa es la tarea. Y la hermosa fotografía de @calluna capta, entre otras cosas, un momento presente, el instante en que la abeja se posa en la flor.

Así que ahí vamos:


En la alborada,

un beso iluminado.

Abeja y flor.

At dawn,

an illuminated kiss.

Bee and flower.

Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.

En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!
Soy miembro de @equipocardumen
Soy miembro de @talentclub

Un haikú para Poker Alice. VDux’s Haiku Contest About Poker

Una de las últimas fotos de Alice (AssoPoker)

Un haikú para Poker Alice

El poker no es precisamente una presencia en mi vida. Sí lo son ciertos contextos asociados a este juego, que es más que juego: el azar, el control, la estafa y la trampa y, por supuesto, el salvaje Oeste.

Esta edición de VDux’s Haiku Contest (bases aquí), promovida con constancia y simpatía por @Vdux, ha traído a mi memoria un personaje realmente salvaje de Oeste salvaje: Alice Ivers Duffield Tubbs Huckert (17 de febrero de 1851 – 27 de febrero de 1930), más conocida como Poker Alice.

Durante su larga vida (murió con 79 años), se casó tres veces, tuvo siete hijos y fue trabajadora de saloons y dueña de uno con su respectivo burdel asociado. Llevó su vida la filo de una navaja; llegó a matar a un hombre, estar hundida en deudas y a sali a flote jugando poker, a cumplir condena de cárcel; fumaba tabaco y, al final de sus días, parecía una abuelita dulce, que no perdía los modos mientras desplumaba a más de uno en la mesa.

Sobre Alice Poker hay información contradictoria en internet y algunas fotos muy buenas. Dejo esta, para que puedan contemplar mejor su rostro su dulce rostro, pero no se engañen, era una buena pieza forjada en la vida dura de los pueblos mineros y de las mesas de juego desde sus muy tempranos veinte años.

Pueden revisar más información biográfica
aquí y aquí.

Poker Alice Ivers.jpgFuente

Mi haikú para Poker Alice en español:

Juega su mano

y su As lleva la Muerte:

Es Poker Alice.

Versión en inglés (libre, sin ajuste métrico)

She plays her hand

and her Ace carries Death:

She is Poker Alice.


Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!

Portals. Micro-fiction contest (promoted by @jayna)

Dear friends, I leave for the wedding of your readings a microfiction as entry to the contest of very short stories promoted by @jayna. It is truly an attractive contest, in which, in a maximum of 250 words, you must tell a story from or inspired by a word. This week the word was “portal”. I leave the bases here for those who cheer up. There is still time.
I am grateful.



She ran to the subway station. And although he noticed something unusual (but indefinable) along the way, she didn’t stop. She was late.
That day, it was as boring as it used to be in the office, including the desire to send everything out for a walk and go to a lost South American coastline. Her days were like this. The crises worsened with the certainty of losing days.
It was not until she crossed the two clean columns of the portal of her building that she evoked that other portal, that of the flower shop next to the station. That morning the old woman who sold flowers, Esther, with whom he talked frequently, was missing. She was sweet. She had a grandson, Miguel, who helped her. She had not remembered another day, for three years, in which she had been absent.
The next morning she went to the flower stand. That she was gone, Miguel told her (her voice was muffled). She just didn’t wake up. The young man gave her a small flowerpot.
“It’s a narcissus. I think it’s for you.”
“The night before she left us, she told me she wanted to give it to the girl who wanted to live on the coast, so she wouldn’t forget her dream.”
Lena took it with wet eyes. She hugged Miguel.
That afternoon she resigned.


From the garden on this coast of a South American town, she often remembers how she began her long journey to this other sea.


Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!

The Alley of the Winds. A horror story.

En el callejón

The Alley of the Winds

My house was very close to Windy Alley. It was narrow, dark. A surviving stone construction from ancient days. It was part of another building, but no one remembered it. There was talk of a fort, a convent or a church. When you looked out at the passage, you heard the murmur of the air, a distant litany. Those who had entered claimed that the currents were fierce, that you might lose your clothes in transit. We made bets on who dared to go through it. My friends walked through it many times. I didn’t.
All sorts of legends about the Alley circulated in the town. My grandmother had told me about the dog that ate children’s bones and the black men that stole organs. I had also heard the stories that my friends told: the vampire, the unborn, the ghost mother who kidnapped children and took them to hell. I had collected others at school; so I became a collector of alley stories. With time, this hobby came to interrupt my sleep and created within me a fear that until then was unknown: the fear of darkness. My mother was exasperated. I didn’t understand how, when I grew up, suddenly I couldn’t sleep without lights. “Daughter, you’re ten years old,” she said.
But the stories were repeated in my head. And it got worse.
A day came when I couldn’t even sleep with the lights on. I began to consume myself, while my mother was wearing herself out, taking me to doctors who couldn’t cure me. And it happened, predictably, that one day I had to face my fears, but it wasn’t because of a silly bet, but because of the Gentile Lady. She saved me from despair.
When she came for me, I was with my mother. She cradled me like a baby and sang to me. The lady looked out her pale face and the room was filled with a fresh, vegetable breeze. “Girl,” she said, “come with me to the Alley”. I remember my mother’s light eyes, exorbitant. She nailed her nails to my side, to my shoulder. But I knew I had to go, and I told her. Her hands became weaker.
When I crossed the threshold, my mother sighed. It was relief.
There is no exit to the other side when you cross Windy Alley with Gentile Lady. She carries you by the hand and you only walk on the fragrant air, on the murmur of the wind.

Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!

Cradle 3000. A story for Tell A Story To Me

Dear friends, I leave, with the hope that you can enjoy it, a futuristic tale. In this occasion I attend the seductive call of @calluna, inTell A Story To Me (bases here; and cheer up to participate!), the contest that she promotes together with the @bananafish team. It is about telling a story in an environment where the domestic environment is intelligent. I have imagined a dramatic possibility around this basic situation. You will tell me what you thought.
I am grateful.


 Cradle 3000


If there was anything more boring than reading instruction manuals, it was reading instruction manuals. So she put it aside and let herself be won over by the brief advertising directions on the package.

Laura took the Cradle 3000 out of its box. It was very light. Magnificent. It was pretty, light-colored, and looked luxurious and practical. The electronic board was attractive, futuristic but warm at the same time. She had chosen the pink version for her little Rosa Ellen, who had already turned three months old. Much like a car seat, the Cradle 3000 was equipped with sensors underneath its “ergonomic plush upholstery that makes the baby feel embraced by his favorite teddy bear,” according to the box. It also had easy-to-program functions: all you had to do was enter the necessary numbers and permissions (“just press a few buttons!”). The Cradle 3000 was associated with its own emergency service. In the event of any eventuality, warned by the sensors that monitored the baby 24 hours a day, the emergency service would be in your baby’s own room in a few minutes.

And you’ll work calmly

And you’ll sleep happily

For your baby will be cared for, hugged, stimulated

For his Cradle 3000.

She had a variety of options to develop early intelligence: classical music, holograms for visual stimulation and supply of food, hydration and medication, hygiene; not counting the traditional lullabies and movement functions to rock the baby according to anxiety levels.

Oh, wonder! A small device could also provide gentle caresses, and from her cell phone she could download wonderful applications that expanded her functions and fit seamlessly into the intelligent home network.

Laura congratulated herself mentally. It had been a huge expense, but she sensed that the Cradle would be worth every penny.  Of course, even though she was very tired, she did not plan to delegate all the care of her beautiful Rosa Ellen to a machine, no matter how intelligent she was. She loved being a mother.

Laura’s mother had told her (and more than once) that she should temporarily move in with her or hire a nanny, as she would not survive “even a month” raising her daughter alone. Her mother belonged to that archaic (and quite hypocritical) generation that could not conceive of female independence. It didn’t matter what feminist discourses she wielded. Deep down, her mother was convinced that no woman could raise a child without a husband (she said without the support of a typical or atypical consolidated family network), and, for her mother, the only truly equivalent substitute for a husband was herself, Laura’s incredibly efficient mother.

To tell you the truth, she was pondering as she removed the biodegradable supports from the Cradle, and her mother had been far more useful than Paul, whom she had not seen since childbirth. She was perfectly capable, at the age of seventy, of carrying the pantry, the bills, the family celebrations, the repairs of her old car, and all the household chores without Alexa. Just with her horrible magnet notebook stuck to the door of her old-generation refrigerator. Laura, on the other hand, could not conceive of domestic life without her beloved Alexa, her beloved GPS, her beloved cell phone, her beloved intelligent toilet (which had been so useful to her during her pregnancy)… Perhaps to contradict her, it was that she had finally made a career in design and was desperate to make a name for herself in the field of technological creativity. His mother had always been reluctant to incorporate these advances into his life. Laura’s adolescence had been desperate to live in the retro home of a dogmatic ecological activist, permacultor and detractor of industrialization, as the world advanced and Laura was more than ready to run with it.


Little Rosa Ellen loved her Cradle from the moment she tasted it. In fact, after the first week, she began to prefer drinking from the bottle without leaving the Cradle rather than feeding on Laura’s chest, and she had willingly consented, as her work in front of the computer caused her almost continuous back pain. In addition, the baby looked happy. All the health monitoring values were perfect.

The Cradle was all it promised, and more. Soon Laura felt the ease of taking a half-hour for morning coffee. She could take a good nap in the middle of the day. Take a long shower without carrying the Cradle to the bathroom. Back pains had subsided. Even so, she never dared to go out and leave Rosa Ellen in the full care of the Cradle (yes, she had a Total Mommy application, programmable for 12 hours).

Rosa Ellen had adopted regulated schedules. She slept. She calmed down with the music. She paid impressive attention to holograms. She pressed the right buttons to get the prize of a caress or a song from the Cradle. And what a sweet voice the machine had been programmed from Laura’s voice pattern! And yet Rosa Ellen had developed such a good ear that she couldn’t confuse her; the baby perfectly distinguished Laura’s voice from the voice from the Cradle 3000.

In the middle of the day, Laura went for a walk around Rosa Ellen’s room. She stood at the door contemplating the happy romps of her daughter, who gurgled and feigned babbling conversations with the Cradle. Rosa Ellen laughed out loud and showed off her first pair of little teeth. Frequently, after a few minutes, Laura would return to work in her study on the lower floor without interrupting the games, as she had noticed that when she approached the Cradle, the voice of the machine would be silent and this often caused Rosa Ellen to start crying and become irritable the rest of the day. As a result, the warning loudspeaker next to her monitor kept beeping, turning on little lights and brief reports on the screen that distracted her.

It was her custom to program the Mommy Total application during the day and approach it from time to time at a prudent distance.

Rosa Ellen blossomed. She was beautiful and healthy. Of course, Laura’s mother was not happy. She came less and less to visit, and when she did, her insistence on carrying Rosa Ellen ended in small battles that ruined her day and left the baby irritable.

On their last visit, things had gotten a little out of hand. Her mother accused her of not wanting to assume her “maternal role” in those sociological terms that had stuck to her activism since the middle of the previous century. After the first onslaught of rage, which had lasted until the night, she understood that her mother could not understand the present times or their advances. Her problem was dogmatic, cultural, not affective. And this certainty became clearer in that instant, standing on the threshold of the room, silent, contemplating her daughter’s games with the Cradle.

Rosa Ellen and the Cradle were trying out a new application, and it seemed like a lot of fun. The hologram animations were made in the style of the old cartoons, angular and colorful. A Monkey Mom was running to try to get a Baby Monkey out of a Cradle 3000. Rosa Ellen pressed a red button with the palm of her little hand on the extendable board. She would burst out laughing every time she hit Monkey Mom  with a banana missile. Then Monkey Mom would stagger, slip, and finally fall on her ass and a funny poing was heard!

Rosa Ellen gave enthusiastic cries every time the Cradle reproduced fervent cheers and the sound of applause.

“Shoot Monkey Mom” the Cradle cheerfully and sweetly encouraged her.

Rosa Ellen was exultant.

Laura was happy.

She would go back to work and in a few hours, or tomorrow, she would go for another ride.

Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!

Heavy day. Micro-fiction for the @jayna Micro-fiction contest

Dear friends, I leave for you a micro-story for the @jayna contest (bases here). The word chosen for this edition is rainbow.
It’s not a word I use much, but it worked as an inspiration to produce a plot… nothing romantic. It was fun.
What more can I ask for?
Like the protagonist of my story, I had a hard day today. We had two power outages that added up to six hours of frustration and unproductivity, and heat, and big mosquitoes like prehistoric birds. However, except for the day the little joy of having another story.
I greet the constancy of @jayna to produce these opportunities at the end of the rainbow.
I am grateful

A rainbow at DallySource

Heavy Day

Like his father, and like his father’s father before him, Alvin was going to fulfill his guard. The cold was killing him and he was stunned.
And he had a dog mood.
In fact, the pot he was guarding had him up to his ass.
He remembered that, as a child, there was nothing else he longed for but to become a guardian and live adventures like his grandfather: one day, he told, an old man kidnapped him and wanted to steal his gold, but he was more astute… Another day, he managed to lose some thieves in the mountain… Another, a fairy drugged him with magic dust (story he told in whispers; grandmother couldn’t stand the episode)… An exciting working life. He, on the other hand, for fifteen years had only seen cows graze…
Suddenly, there was the pot revered by generations…
Alvin never dared to look inside.
Why so much reverence? He felt like shit, so he’d better find out why he was trying.
He did. He uncovered the pot. Inside there wasn’t much: the end of the rainbow melting gold coins.
Grumbling, he swallowed a flu shot, unfolded the newspaper and set out to fulfill his day…

Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!

Tambien eres tú. Poema

Estimados amigos, dejo par la bondad de sus lecturas un poema en verso libre.
Hace tiempo no publicaba poemas enteramente en verso libre, pues tiendo a enmarcarlos en alguna forma de metro. Este poema que presento hoy quiso atender a su propio ritmo y hablar desde una voz interior, cosa que tampoco hago frecuentemente, pues prefiero el discurso reflexivo o trabajar voces de personajes.
Tampoco está concursando, pues quise hoy descansar del ritmo de la competencia. Es divertida (en estos momento es para mí necesaria y no solo por el estímulo pecuniario), pero exige.
Espero que disfruten este interludio brevísimo.

(No crean, hoy trabajé dos historias de Ciencia Ficción.)

Quedo agradecida.

Fotografía propia. LGPhoenix3.

También eres tú

La gracia que sospechas
magnífica como el oro traído desde lejos,
la gracia que crece soldada a las almas,
brotando de la tierra,
eres tú también.
(Con su dolor de costado,
con los dientes roídos,
con el pelo revuelto).

Un tigre matutino,
un sol abrasador,
una casa que arde de furia
y la gracia de un cielo roto.

Eso también eres tú…

Mermelada de naranja
derretida por el calor de mayo,
alimentando a las abejas…
alguien que colecciona caracoles
con plumas y estrellas,
demasiado joven para saber que es una idea cursi.
(A lo lejos, el padre y la madre
con los ojos de halcón.
Hay una fotografía ligeramente desenfocada
que cuenta esta historia).

También eres tú

la luz del mediodía,
cerrado azul del este,
parvadas de loros
y cola de gallo…
alguien que habla en la oscuridad,
alguien esperando un arco iris,

eres tú también…

una fina hoja de papel
mancha de café
esparciendo de palabras como disparos
y manchas de color…

eres tú también…

alguien que cruzó el Puente del Buho,
en una isla desierta,
para desenterrar un tesoro español….
(fuera, lejos o demasiado cerca,
las olas del mar mece
su angustia de tierra perdida).

Eres tú también…

una mirada ciega
a la luz de un paraíso inventado,
cambiando perlas por espejos encantados….

Sí, eso también eres tú.

Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!

Captain Quirón (1/2). Symbolic Entry? SCI-FI “RPG-Writing Contest” #1

Dear friends, I am serious when I say that I love Science Fiction and that I find the Nexcolony experiment very exciting.
I’m going to tell a second story. It may go against the rules of the SCI-FI “RPG-Writing Contest” and, if so, I plead with the organizers to take it as a symbolic entry (@art-universe?).
I wrote this story thinking about the universe the contest opens up, and I like the character. I would finish developing it (the character, not the story) into one more part.
I won’t go into more detail in this introduction. I leave the bases and another link for you to see more of this project.

  • https://steemit.com/nextcolony/@art-universe/nextcolony-the-sci-fi-rpg-writing-contest-1
  • https://nextcolony.io/
I am grateful.

Planeta, Sol, Estrellas, Espacio, La Astronomía


Captain Quirón



Quirón was tired. His lungs were burning. The tunic let in the sand of the gray Zyklop desert. In the distance, a flat landscape, rarely interrupted by some unusual flowering scrub (red flowers with tender petals that harbored humidity); no settlement was visible in the distance. He kept the antennas upright, recognizing movements on the ground, for although he had not seen superior life in several days, he had been stalked by small hungry creatures, very similar and no bigger than a terrestrial dog, but with poisonous and sharp teeth. They were fast and beautiful. Possessing a toasted and shiny coat dotted with white spots, with fine snouts and chestnut. He had managed to spit acid on them, but he had not been drinking for a long time and was not sure he could salivate enough.

On the trip he had lost Kera, the partner he had bought, and had to ingest both of their larvae in order to survive. The abdominal gonads contracted instinctively and reminded him that the mating season still lasted.  He would have to be careful when he found his swarm. He had lost his genetic contribution to the colony (and all his fortune in the investment for this trip), and even if his companions were willing to mourn his loss and celebrate that he had survived the collision, none would be willing to give him a female, let alone overlook that he had had to feed on the offspring. For sacrificing a calf, he would be condemned to sulphur mines, until he died slowly from toxic syndrome. On the other hand, as a male with neither female nor calf, victim of fatality, he would be destined for the recognition and fertilization of the fields, until he languished (with dignity) and his genetic contribution was extinguished, far from the military glories. Thank you very much.

Although for the time being he would keep the story of the victim and, thus, at least, he would have a chance to steal some young female, and once fertilized, his cell would not dare to leave the larva without a progenitor to incubate it.

Quirón was immersed in these calculations, while his antennas worked frantically. He consulted the compass again. The sensors had gone mad. By a similar phenomenon they had crashed. The navigation instruments had been guided by a sandstorm front and the advance chalupa had not been able to deal with that hell. Faced with this evidence and the days he had spent wandering, he had to admit that he was stranded. Zyklop was big. He could succumb without finding the swarm, even if he was supposed to be moving in the right direction.

Before discouragement finally took hold, the nicest odds were repeated: there were numerous land camps and trilobites in the northern quadrant of Zyklop . Xador had commercial dealings with all of them. They were bound by Nexcolony’s Diplomatic Treaties of Commerce and Colonization. In addition, he was a catastrophic victim and Captain of an advanced exploration vessel that had lost its genetic contribution. They were bound.

He would definitely keep the victim’s account.

Then he saw the dome. Far away still, its shines could be confused with a mirage caused by the incandescent sun. He looked through the telescope. The indicators informed him of a rather small settlement, judging by the organic mass measured by the sensors. He adjusted the viewfinder and could clearly see the sentry box with the symbols of the Earth. It was good. Humans were easier to persuade.

He took a minute to straighten his back, trying to adopt a martial posture beneath the ragged tunic. The antennas were moving frantically and he knew he could do very little to calm them. He unfolded the forearm spikes; they were in good condition, but dry. Useless until he could drink. There was nothing he could do for his feet. He knew that they were full of bleeding blisters under his boots, in a more pitiful state than that of his skull, which he used to wear polished and oiled, as was military use, and which he now had shelled by the harsh sun.

He walked straight, martial, until he perceived the laser sight light on his face. Then he stopped and waited.

A reconnaissance drone landed at the height of his face. A metallic voice asked for his identification:

“Xandor. Nurse Sipus-I. Captain Quirón Iustus. Advance Mission Quadrant 9. Zyklop . I request refuge from a catastrophic victim under the Nexcolony Diplomatic Trade and Colonization Treaties.

The laser light continued to dance between his eyes and occasionally interfered with his vision. He listened to the static of the microphones.

“Friend Quirón…” heard a familiar voice. How did you know that voice?

Earth, of course.

The Great War had left deep scars. The ancient days were remembered by the force of catastrophe, but they wanted to be forgotten. The earth had broken up into a few republics that barely survived between ecological calamities and free peoples that had moved into the few territories less affected by radiation. These territories (and their resources, which included a slave hand that could be hunted in the absence of states) were coveted.  A large portion of the depleted terrestrial population had gone into exile from colonization, but fundamental resources for building colonies in sometimes very undomesticated territories still came from the Earth.

Quirón, years ago, had taken advantage of his detachment in a merchant ship to do some private business. And from there came the voice: Marcus; his associate in a brief financial agreement.

“Friend Quirón…”, he repeated. “What a pleasure to have you visit…”

That wasn’t good, Quirón thought.

Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.
En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.
¡Libertad para mi país!
Soy miembro de @Equipocardumen
Soy miembro de @TalentClub