1

staffPaula Rueda

Daniel Hernández Sofía Benitez

Derek Chase María del Lourdes Govea

Art Credits

Diego Abad Brambila — p. 17, 32, 49, 71Constanza Aceves Rodríguez — p. 66Juan Ignacio Alarcón Chagollan — p. 53, 73, 75Sofía Benítez Villanueva — p. 3, 13, 36, 43, 45, 82María Contreras Palomar — p. 42, 79Esteban Gómez Alarcón — p. 20, 35, 47, 65Montserrat Haro Gómez — p. 40María Inés Ibarra Caballero — p. 8Camila Igartúa Obregón — p. 24, 56, 60Luciana Masciarelli Vilchis — p. 29June Misuhashi — p. 11Jennifer Nicole Taylor Hernández — p. 52, 85Oscar Quirarte — p. 23

© 2014 by the American School Foundation of GuadalajaraColomos 2100Guadalajara, JaliscoMexico ADPO. 6280

All rights reserved.

No parts of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any other information storage, and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover art by Miri Nai ParkDesign by Sofía Benitez

Miri Nai ParkJulieta Hernández

Luciana MasciarelliDajeong Yoo

María ContrerasNicole McCann

Sofía BenitezJune Mitsuhashi

Alan AriasFrancesca Cornero

Nicole ÁlvarezEduardo Ramírez

p. 32, 76p. 7, 45, 47, 54, 64, 70, 72, 74p. 8, 21p. 17, 19, 26, 57, 61, 67p. 34p. 24, 30, 36, 37, 39, 49p. 52, 62, 69p. 42p. 14p. 79p. 22p. 50

Sofía BenitezAdrian Marín

Nicole McCann

Sofía BenitezAdrian Marín

Derek ChaseMaría de Lourdes Govea

Student Editors

Layout Editors

English faculty advisor Spanish faculty advisor

Editors' Note“La literatura no es más que un sueño dirigido.”- Jorge Luis Borges

Literature is nothing more than a guided dream.

Once thoughts transcend the boundaries of our minds and transform into a creative work, they have entered the world of expression. They can take many forms, from a concept in graphite, to a moment in film, or an experience in melody. This edition of Sin Fronteras reveals what it means to create. What it means to reflect and respond to the world as we know it. To tell the stories we are compelled to share, the memories we must keep alive, and the words that may have never left our lips, that we dare to expose on paper. All it takes is for us to surrender to the oneiric spell which drives us towards creating.

We are proud to present an edition that stays true to the world of dreams. The collaborative work between artists and editors gains a momentum that has kept this publication flowing for more than two decades. Commitment, passion and effort characterize the process that allows for the reader to delve into the minds of many, and ultimately, their own.

Dream, write, create, always.

Sincerely,Sofía Benitez, Adrián Marín & Nicole McCannStudent Editors

table ofcontents

Francisco Aguirre

Eleazar Santiago

Adrian Marín

SuZanne Curtis

Aldo Lamas

Itzel Rodríguez

Michael Hogan

Nicole McCann

Rafael Sánchez

Nicole McCann

Lourdes Govea

Eduardo Ramírez

Yunbum Kim

Julián Alberto Flores Díaz

María Inés Aranguren

Paloma Calderón

Poppy Teens

Recurring Spirits

The Tape Recorder

The Unspeakable

The Acclaimed Grendel

Thirteen Empty Bottles

Morning Walk

Wasteland

{IDLE|LIED}

A Sonnet for the Cicada

Hubierósfera

Frígida Eternidad

Physics

Venerable Señora de la Tierra

Jailbreak

Never Let it Burn Out

6

8

14

16

18

20

22

24

26

31

32

34

37

38

44

46

Alma Vázquez

Adrian Marín

Sofía Benitez

Michael Hogan

Isabel Riojas, María Contreras e Itzel Rodríguez

Francis McCann

Sofía Benitez

Paula Aranguren

Adrian Marín

Nicole McCann

Marisol Castro

Luis Fernando Rodríguez

Darío Carrillo

Sandra Lukac

Camouflage Boy

The Scariest Weapon

Recuerdo

Aftermath

El Ladrón de Sueños

A Broken Pencil

Tiempo

To the United States of America

Naufragio

Este amor a noche fría

Esta es la Hora

En el río de Tormes

Apariencia

Suffocating Thoughts

48

50

52

54

56

60

62

64

68

70

72

74

76

78

8

Francisco Aguirrepoppy teens

Thorns and stones levitate gracefully,Over the sleepy and loose grass,While I tread on the simplistic ideaOf never growing rife and wild.

Meager and trivial I amCompared to the world that awaits me,Huge is the desire that impedesMy minuscule body from budding.

Because I’m a little seed With a sober mindAnd a keen mouthRelishing the cozy grounds.

Life and death are split apart,By the thin borderlines of survival,Experiences are said to enrich the roots,Ending just in sodden remains.

A stem and leaves I don’t want to grow,Fresh in youth and beauty,A gift of nature, later ripped,Decaying love followed by cyclic agony.

9

No ripe fruits I want to grow,Mouthwatering and gorgeous at first sight,If they crumble like treasures or affairs,Seasonal affairs, deceitful and calumnious.

And that’s why I don’t want to sprout,To be surrounded by fantasized misfortunes,I want to live innocence in the mushy brown,And nurture my essence in firm ground,

I want my dreams to rest softly and warmly,And evade the sufferings of resignation,Temptation lingers, but fate must resign,For I dread the day I shall face the world.

And yes, I’m a little seed,With a sober mind,And a keen mouth,No blossoming petals I want to spring,To avoid the bitterness of the world above.

10

Eleazar Santiago

recurringspirits

11

It’s difficult to put into words how I felt the first few years following my fiancée’s death. I was living, barely. I coasted from day to day, craving the highs and lows, but feeling only bitter numbness. I eventually got over her–as much as someone can get over having the love of his life cruelly ripped from him–but it took five years of longing and misery. Five years of craving extreme joy or loathsome fear, because that’s the only way to feel alive.

I’m better now, except for one day every year when the stupor returns and seizes control, one day when my body aches for a morbid rush of adrenaline like a street-corner junkie. Halloween.

I was twenty-four when we got engaged. My fiancée and I bought our first home, and six months later she was dead. The cancer tore through her like a locomotive. She died suffering in our bed, the same bed I would leave for only a few hours each day after she was gone. Nothing made me happy, not my favorite books or movies, not visits to Acquerello, not my family. The movies I used to love now sicken me, I despise the happiness I see in people, why can’t that happiness belong to me?

On the first Halloween night after the tragedy, I got my wish.

I was lying in bed in the middle of the night, engulfed by blankets and staring into nothingness when I heard a window smash downstairs. I listened closely, and I heard someone climb into my house, shoes clanging on my kitchen floor.

The phone was inches away from me on the nightstand, yet I didn’t make a move for it. Nor did I pounce out of bed, push in the lock and barricade the door with my dresser. Instead, I focused on the footsteps that cautiously moved from room to room downstairs. A familiar feeling began to spread through my body; it pulsated through my veins, and I relished the coldness. It was fear. And I welcomed it.

I latched onto the feeling, savoring every ounce. I hadn’t felt anything that exhilarating in months, and I isolated the rhythmic beats as they pounded my insides, willing my heart to explode out of my chest. The footsteps echoed closer, lightly dancing up the wooden steps, the squeak of the sixth step told me the intruder was halfway up. It moved down the hallway towards my bedroom, and my door creaked open.

12

Even completely under the covers, its presence was overpowering. It moved towards me, and I sensed it at my bedside. Only a thin layer of ratty wool separated us from each other. The intruder pulled back my covers, and I braced myself. My body quivered with terror, but I lapped it up, desperately craving even more.

The presence moved its face directly over mine. I caught a slight hint of whiskey in the air. My nostrils flared, and I then detected a faint whiff of cereus scent, which caused my stomach to drop in a pure blast of nostalgic recognition. My fiancée’s perfume. I longed for her in that moment, so much that my eyes nearly shot open, thinking the deceased love of my life would be standing over me.

But opening my eyes would have ruined that sustained rush of fear, it would have shattered that sense of anticipation. My eyes stayed firmly shut. The intruder’s smooth hand then felt my face with its fingertips, and yet my eyes stayed tightly closed, even as a sharp fingernail gently prodded my right eyelid. The hand pulled back, the figure whispered something quietly, so light that it barely escaped into the air at all, and I felt the presence leave the room. The steps moved down the hallway and descended, the middle step again softly squeaking.

My body slumped onto the mattress and my muscles surrendered in exhaustion. I remained there for what felt like hours until I remembered the intruder had not left my house. It was still somewhere downstairs and my body yearned for more fear. I got out

of bed and cautiously crept down to the first floor. There sat the intruder - a withered old man in a dingy, red flannel shirt and jeans waiting silently in the dark at my kitchen table. The table was set for two.

The moonlight reflected off his thin, white hair, and shards of glass from the broken kitchen window sparkled on the linoleum floor. He sat silently, merely muttering to himself and pulling at the cuffs of his right sleeve. He looked up at me in the darkness, startled by my presence. He grimaced, and then he touched his hand to his chest, slowly breathing in and out.

I took a seat across from him, intrigued by my unexpected guest. “I thought you might be my wife,” he said, his voice raspy and ragged with age. He chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

“That’s funny,” I said, summoning the trace of my fiancee’s perfume. “For a second I thought you were mine.”

That was the first time I had ever referred to my dead fiancée as my wife, and I was taken aback by my own words. I caught the stranger’s smile through the darkness, as if somehow he knew.

He laughed again, more hoarsely than the last time. I wanted to ask him if he was lost, and I wondered if he had accidentally wandered into the wrong home. I preferred not to know. The mystery and fear were keeping the numbness at bay.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he continued, “but,” he trailed off,

13

muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. “Ah!” he suddenly exclaimed, his frustration oozing out of that single syllable, and he banged the table with his fist. “I really thought I had it this time. Damn superstitions. I’m not the kind of person that usually believes in this hocus pocus garbage. But it had me there, boy. When you walked around that corner, I swear excitement was gripping my heart with two strong hands. I must be getting old.”

I said nothing, content to let the elderly stranger do all of the talking. It didn’t really feel like he was talking to me at all. Just talking out loud, to anyone that would listen. And I was the only other person in the room.

“Halloween,” he muttered, almost like he was disappointed with himself. “Would it be okay if I stuck around for a while longer? I can let myself out, if that’s okay with you. I promise to use the door this time. And I’ll come back in the afternoon to fix that window, if you like. I’m still surprised I managed to squeeze my old bones through there anyway. I’d be damned if I could climb my own stairs anymore.”

The fear was dying. The old man seemed harmless. Confused, but harmless. His eyes met mine, and they were strong and knowing, and I reconsidered my initial assessment. He didn’t seem like the type of person that would mistakenly break into a random house. He had a specific agenda in mind. I opened my mouth to speak, but he was already a step ahead of me.

“You’re probably wondering why I broke into your house, right?” he said. “Well, being that there’s only two of us and I’m the only one doing any of the talking, I guess I’ll let you know. And hell, I’ll be here next year, and the one after. Only next time if you leave the front door unlocked you’ll make it a lot easier for me. Lord knows I’m not getting any younger.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled white envelope. He tossed it across the table and it landed squarely on the plate that was neatly set in front of me. The old man waved his hand at me, motioning for me to open it. I did, and pulled out five or six strands of long, white hair.

“Don’t you be keeping those,” he said. “That’s my wife’s hair, and I’m gonna need those back. They aren’t a part of the hocus pocus, but I figure they can’t hurt, right? I’ve been bringing them just about every year, all except for the first two years I think. And I’ve been coming back for, what is it now? Nine years?”

His eyes floated towards the ceiling, and he counted in his head.

“Nine years,” he repeated authoritatively. “I’ve been coming back to this house on Halloween night for the past nine years, just sitting in this very kitchen and waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I stammered, my voice dry and my interest piqued. I placed the hairs back in the envelope, and the old man beckoned it forward. I tossed the envelope back to him, and it bounced off of the table and fell to

14

the floor. He grimaced, and grunted as he leaned down to pick it up. He kissed it before returning it to his pocket.

“Waiting for my wife, of course,” he said. “It’s been almost ten years now that the good Lord decided that she wasn’t fit to walk on this earth any longer. I disagreed, but there’s no arguing with the man upstairs.” He paused and sighed. The old man looked around my dark house.

“She died right here,” he said, his voice cracking and dropping to barely above a whisper. “Right here in this very house. And where my family comes from, they say on Halloween night the souls can return and visit their homes. Setting their places at the table is supposed to help them come back.”

He chuckled sadly to himself. “I know it sounds crazy. But it’s all I have.”

He turned his gaze down. I focused on the quiet breeze outside and the soft hum of my furnace as it clicked on in my home–which was once his home, and for a second I felt like the intruder. My fear had gradually subsided, replaced by a deep and mournful sorrow for the hopeless man sitting across from me. That too replaced the previous void, and I felt selfish for gloating on his misery.

The stranger suddenly straightened up, wiped his eyes with his left hand, and laughed uncomfortably. “You don’t want to hear the sob story of some lonely, old curmudgeon, I imagine. You can leave me in peace,

but would you mind if I just sat here for a few hours?”

I shook my head in denial.

“That’s awfully kind of you. I promise to be quiet. I just want to wait for my wife, just a while longer. I have a few things I want to say to her, that’s all. I’d hate to miss her if she showed up.”

The stranger gathered his words, and he exhaled before speaking again. “Hocus pocus, right?” he said and smiled broadly, the cracks stretching wider across his face.

I returned his smile, and I got up from my chair. I crossed the kitchen, past the grieving man who just stared ahead into the darkness. I reached the staircase, and then I turned back.

“Can I fix you a drink while you wait?” I called back, “I always keep some good whiskey in the cabinet.”

The old man shook his head. “Thank you kindly, but I’ve never touched a drop of the stuff in my life, and I intend on keeping it that way.”

I returned to my bed, threw the covers over myself, and my thoughts stayed fixed on the old man and his long-dead wife. I wondered what their lives were like in this creaky old house, and I longed for his hocus pocus to actually work. He deserved to talk to his wife one last time.

And then I thought of my own wife: I thought of that lightly floral perfume I still craved. I remembered her soft and smooth skin, the memory of her

15

kissing me after a sip of whiskey. She’d blush and refuse to confess it drove her absolutely wild. I closed my eyes, and I honed in on the silence. And at that moment, I knew where I’d be every Halloween night for the rest of my life. I would be right here in this house, setting another place at the dinner table, waiting for her soul to return. Maybe I’d be sitting across from the old man in the darkness–just a couple of lost souls believing in ancient superstition.

And all at once it dawned on me. That person that hovered over me while I

cowered in fear–that presence with the beautiful scent of whiskey and flowers–it wasn’t the old man. He never drank whiskey. He couldn’t climb stairs. I considered walking downstairs and asking him, but I felt better not knowing for sure. It shot my numbness with a little hope, and I latched onto it. Next Halloween, I remember thinking as I lay there, I’ll always be waiting for next Halloween. Because I couldn’t have missed my only chance. That just wouldn’t be fair. Next year, I’d be ready. I’d hate to miss her if she showed up.

16

Adrian Marín

the taperecorder

17

The tape recorder continues, “Happy workers are good workers. Happily living to work. Sad workers are bad workers. Don’t be a sad worker. Sad workers are dead and useless. The payday for happy workers has been suspended indefinitely. The payday for sad workers has been revoked.” The tape recorder continues.

It’s a sunny day, out in the field. Or so I like to think. I like to think I’m out in the wild, breathing the fresh air without dust, feeling the sun rays caressing my skin, hearing the birds singing.

“Happily living to work,” the tape recorder continues. I know that will never happen. But I like to pretend. I like to pretend we

could go out. I like to pretend like this will someday end.“Sad workers are dead and useless,” the tape recorder continues. I like to imagine I won’t die alone. I imagine I can have a happy family.

I imagine my house. A nice two floor, brown house. Sometimes, I argue with myself, whether I would have a dog or a cat as a pet. Then, I like to imagine I have both.

“Payday for happy workers has been suspended indefinitely,” the tape recorder continues.

I like to fake the fact that I am not sad. To fake my happiness and excitement on the dullness of mining diamonds day after awful day knowing that I will never find anything and, even if I do, nothing will change.

“The payday for sad workers has been revoked”, the tape recorder continues.

I like to act like I’m not a slave. I like to act like I am still alive, while I know that I’ve been dead for such a long time that my insides are slowly rotting into madness. But suddenly the tape recorder stops. Broken into fragments just like my memories were years ago. Crushed to pieces like my hopes and dreams were. Shattered into shards like my sanity. And then the mine was imbued with a deep silence.

Or so I like to imagine, as the tape recorder continues…

18

SuZanne Curtis

Theunspeakable for Yusef

Sitting on an ice cooler, taking a breather.

Soon the others will arrive, ready to hear you, cheer you.

But now, here, in the quiet shade of a gravelly back entrance

to Canyon Road Art Gallery you ask if I’m writing.

“Some, a little,” I reply.

“You should keep writing,” you tell me and the words cross

my mind and lodge somewhere deep, deep inside.

Little did we know on that sunny day in Santa Fe

that your wife would take your son’s and her own life

Slash his tiny three-year- old throat, then bleed herself away

on your kitchen floor.

All her pretty words of white elephants, jasmine, trains crossing India,

yet she could not tell us of her sorrow, her pain, her (unspoken) agony.

Somewhere deep, inside, your words and hers collide

and now I write of the unspeakable.

19

20

Aldo Lamas

the acclaimed

grendelPlagued scavenger, we welcome you into our humble glen.Blessed be your soul shadow stalker.Take what you must, unholy creature of the dusk We are willing to sacrifice the heads of our arch-warriorsAnd as many shield-bearers as you wish,But we beg: leave our revitalizing golden mead behind.

We sense your presence in the soggy mistGrasping the gold-shingles tremble overheadOh honorable creeper, we salute you!The glistening treasure-trove is at your disposition,Feed on our most precious heirlooms, and fulfill your lust.God-cursed rogue do not leave us, the Ring-Danes welcome you!

Not enough heads to end your thirst? Is our doom imperative?

Our mead-benches leak with the blood of our men,Stink with the blight of your paws and the imperviousness of your lustrous hide.Fiery beast we are guilt-steeped; we do not deserve you!Take us all, and honor our death with your existence.Son of the moon, thrive in this world of hate; aloneLong live the high-born of the dark!

21

22

Thirteen empty bottles aligned on the window.

Each one of them used to have wine. Carlo Rossi, Beringer, Mezzacorona.They used to have life, they used to be venerated. Thirteen empty bottles can’t collect light in the day, or stars in the night.They collect memories and air, and the nostalgic breaths that the past exhales. The corks keep the essence within them alive, keep their true colors and identitiestogether.

Thirteen empty bottles aligned on the window.

They have been there for thirteen years. Times of grief and times of content; times of misery and geniality have all passed through the vacancy of their silhouettes. Humidity makes them collect the tears that have been spilled. When heat arrives, they become untouchable, powerful. They have been by my side for so long, looking after me, that their sole presence gives me a feeling of safety.

My thirteen empty bottles are aligned on the window.

They don’t have a special assortment or follow a specific pattern.They are free, no order can contain them, for their contents are unpredictable and sudden. They have collected memories. They have been on my window through the rough and heavy moments, they have witnessed my accomplishments and glories. They have been gradually filled with a fine, complex, bitter, vinous sample of my life.

These thirteen bottles that I’ve collected for the past thirteen years know more about me, than I do.

Itzel Rodríguez

thirteenempty bottles

23

24

Michael Hogan

morningwalk

25

Pale and lifeless as a Byzantine coin

the moon lingers in the morning sky.

Everything we had or hoped for

unraveling like the contrail from a passing plane.

The dog pulls on her leash, anxious to be moving on,

and I cannot not tell her why we stopped.

To meditate on the moon when it is only metaphor?

Or on Life, an abstract noun?

Or Love, another with no correlative

unless it be pale bracts of bougainvillea blown by the wind

or a lake in Chapala dried to mudflats and festering lilies.

The dog tilts her head as if listening

to some far away voice she once knew.

So we head home, passing through the garden

where I cut a newly budded rose

and place it in a vase by our bedside.

What use is poetry anyway, if it cannot break your heart?

26

27

There is a wasteland where the dreams and expectations of humanity go to die. It watches the world with eyes akin to those of eternity, collecting broken hopes wherever it moves, and the pieces of our mind start to gently flake away under the collective weight of discarded humanness. A wasteland littered with the scraps of ingenuity and the ruins of visions. Before us the dunes shift, ever restless, ever lonesome. Stripping the flesh of humanity’s desire to create, killing off the frangible visions of grand futures held by us all.

The wasteland, whose heat scalds the soles of wanderers’ feet and whose wind carries the faint smell of roses and liquor on its back. Dragging the sound of children’s laughter and lovers’ sighs, drowning them through sand and emptiness. We watch these dreams flounder, twitch and gargle in the last moments of their lives, knowing the wretched finality that awaits them, so similar to our own. Staring mystified at their abandonment to the heat and the sand, where time will desiccate their bodies, preserving them as curious artifacts to be revisited over photo albums and dinner conversations.

We see the wasteland, shifting and changing and growing, like a beast undulating beneath a thin cloak of earth. Devouring that which we have to offer, draining the vitality of our beings, making adults of children and

ancients of us all. As it infects our bones, creeping through rivers of blood in an intravenous flow of deception and possession, it gnaws away at the heart of its prey, convincing us of our perceived insignificance. The beast that weighs of a thousand broken peoples, a million crushed hopes, of fallen empires, and eternities of disappointment, turning the air of its desolate home into sap and lead. Eating away at ambition, toying with minds, clasping its veiled fingers around the throat of resolution. This beast that feeds upon that which is hidden in the soul, that which fear of judgement hinders us from exposing to the sunlight, to grow and nurture and hold, that which we eventually kill in fear of failure. So that the beast may keep our souls as prisoners in its own notion of existence.

So we rip our hearts out. Rip our hearts out and hang them on hooks for the beast to see. Pull the very soul from our chests. For when the soul is unhinged from the body, it is impermeable to the weakness of the mind. And in a voice that reverberates across the sun and the dunes and crashes against the horizon, we declare our hatred to the beast. Taunt it with impenetrable hearts, stronger than our bodies, our minds, stronger than the very time the beast employed as its nest. The beast’s demise is my heart, our hearts, bleeding into the sand, beating wildly against the storm.

Nicole McCannWasteland

28

29

Rafael Sánchez}IDLE|LIED {

He looks happy doesn’t he? He looks happy doesn’t he? Punch a mirror. You can’t see his face behind the net. You can’t see his body behind the silk. You can only experiment with the art, but what is art with no artist? What is a painting with no painter? Dance with no dancer? Theater with no actor? Film with no director? Book with no author? What is art without humanity and what is humanity without a body? Incorporeal, ethereal, some might even say unreal. To him it became the finest of the fine arts. Not existing, that is. Why, may the viewer ask, should an artist die while his art lives? When pop culture obsesses over one’s existence to the point where the idol is no longer in control of itself, there comes a moment in which the icon must cease to exist altogether. That is exactly what happened to him, he was no longer in control of himself, of his privacy.

“You are a victim of tragedy,” an apprentice of his biopunk declared. “Not at all. I am nothing but the muse of life.” But he believes the previous statement to be true as well. His humanity, long gone beneath the Burqa, was a victim of tragedy. His art, the value by which he created a world of entertainment, was the muse of life. Magazines, newspapers, reports, blogs, gossip, all of it trying to get a glimpse at his skin. Idle hid any trace of beauty with his many veils. A universe that was only interested in seeing the emotionally distorted version of him deserved nothing more. Behind the scenes, behind the outfit, behind the art, behind the public knowledge there was a human. What to do when you are not the gold that they expect but the diamond that they fear? Two personages of very different worlds had grown inside of Idle. Letting one live meant letting the other perish. How could he have

30

privacy in the public eye? He had to cut his very existence in two and to remove one of those halves from the spectators, he had to create a Burqa. “Why do you wear it then?” The pupil asks. “Everyone knows that.” The artist takes a copy of some tabloid and throws it at his student. “You are mourning.” The student said, reading from the cover. “But for whom?” Idle questions. “The prince.” The eyes behind the net turn to the window. His student has yet to live art. “Biotechnology could be, not the result of humans playing with the structure of things, but the modification of dark energy as it makes what lives evolve,” he whispers. A marriage, an assassination, a revolution, when art goes too far. The monarchy and the guild tried to unite under the most “sacred” power. It was reason for heated debate and womanly chatter. An avant sexually oriented marriage to take place under the church. A social progression, which as always, is met with supporters, skeptics, haters and fanatics. A tormenting past.

At the entrance arch of Westminster Abbey they killed Harry. A widowed royal of artistic nature flees the scene in a town car. There is a moment of hope in the hospital and then, the prince dies. A blood stained artist in his wedding suit stands by the Queen who delivers the news. Pictures of that late hour are the last the public is ever to have of his pain driven expression. The human died in the company of his royal partner. All that is left is a Burqa releasing seventeen lyrical compositions post-mortem. None of those musical stories disclose any private aspect of the royal life briefly lived by the artist.

There it is, the chain of messy events linked to gossip and public opinion, all written down on the tabloid magazine. Idle was to be the king of Albion, to reconstruct the second Troy with art and medicine from beyond. The artist was set to marry the prince but Azrael took the prince away along with Idle’s human heart. All that is left is an artist who likes to play with plastic anatomy and an apprentice that is trying to understand. Not family, not the fans, not the servants, not the friends, no one

31

but the artist has seen his own face. Twenty five years of mourning a lost prince. Five of teaching pupils, forty years of planning his magnum opus. The art he taught his biopunk student consisted of giving life to sculptures. His final piece will be the revival of the prince through art. “Was there anyone, anyone else?” The pupil asks, the air gray with clouds of discomfort.

“You mean after or before?” “After.” “No.” “Will there ever be?” The pupil insists. “What makes you think I would tell you?” “Nothing, I guess that is why you have torn the artist and the human apart.”

32

33

Nicole McCann

a sonnet forthe cicada

Vapor rises with the morning heat In an air that boils over humid ground

Caressing the world in a song too sweet Pouring nature into divining sound

Through my window, singing through the trees Drowning the very words I have to think

In a song more beguiling than birds’ or bees’ Diffusing in air like water and ink

We lay in a dream, skin close, cheek to cheekAnd listen to the whirr of life unseen

For in wonder there is no need to speak The chirping of wings in a sea of green

In an ancient call for the wild and freeA cicadian song that speaks to me

34

Lourdes Govea

HUbierós -fera

35

Es un dolor extraño.Morir de nostalgia por algo que no vivirás jamás.

-Alessandro Baricco

Transitan despistados los deseosque se enredan con suspiros

de añoranzas imposibles

unas flores cuyo aromano arropó la agonía de un enfermouna visita postergada, luego inútil

un café un día de estosnos llamamos… no es cierto

un obsequio no entregado

que se empolva en el armarioo quizá quedó solo en el intento

en el deseo o en la promesacomo letra en el tintero

las frases no pronunciadas

de amor y desamorde perdón y de gracias

de aliento y de reprochede felicitación y de adiós

la gloria no alcanzada

el sí y el no a destiempolas respuestas que se traban

y llegan luego retrasadassin sentido… sin efecto

las elecciones que fueron,¡quién sabe!, equivocadas

Y aquí estamos sin saber

cómo seríamosde haber sido de otro modo

36

Eduardo Ramírez

Frígidaeternidad

37

Sentí cómo la rata monstruosa

encajaba sus fríos y afilados colmillos

en mi cuello. No me resistí. La sangre

corriendo por mis venas se heló,

primero en el área de la mordedura y

luego en el resto de mi cuerpo. Mis

músculos se entumieron y mi piel

palideció. Sintiéndome aturdido me

llevé la mano al cuello, lugar donde

mi sangre salía como por aspersor

de jardín. Me dieron náuseas. El

denso líquido, salpicado por todo el

auto y escurriéndose por mi ventana,

emanaba un olor repulsivo. Comencé

a perder el conocimiento. Vi los ojos

blancos de la bestia postrados fijos en

mi herida. Mis pestañas se volvían

más y más pesadas. Bajé mi mirada un

poco, hasta divisar una serie de filosos

y puntiagudos dientes manchados de

sangre roja y cuajada. La criatura

sonreía malévolamente, como si mi

dolor y destrozo le causara un placer

enfermizo. Sentí un escalofrío. Mi

mente se resistía, pero mi cuerpo,

ya debilitado, empezaba a ceder.

Sabía que mi derrota era inminente.

Moví mis labios como para decir

algo importante, pero no logré emitir

sonido alguno. No quedaba más que

esperar mi sometimiento a la horrible

pesadilla que era la inmortalidad de

un vampiro. Di un último suspiro y

finalmente concreté mi anunciada

rendición.

Entré en un estado como de

trance difícil de verbalizar, en el cual

se llevó a cabo la evanescencia de

mi pensar y sentir. Tuve la sensación

de haber penetrado a la inexplorada

dimensión del vacío. Sin saber si

había alcanzado la paz o la máxima

“Me fui acercando al coche estacionado. Algo se movía dentro del auto. Una figura borrosa. Cuando al cabo la distinguí, grité de horror y júbilo mezclados. Me llevé las manos a los ojos, oculté mi propia mirada y sólo pude murmurar: - No, no, no…

-Carlos Fuentes, Inquieta Compañía

38

turbación, mi subconsciente comenzó

a incomodarse por el sonido de unas

gotas de agua estrellándose contra

el piso. De repente desperté de mi

sueño, aturdido y desconcertado,

como si un tren acabase de arrollarme.

Por la humedad y el chillido de los

murciélagos me di cuenta que estaba

en una cueva. Me sorprendí al notar

que, a pesar de la total y absoluta

oscuridad, mi mirada podía verlo

todo. El mundo estaba al revés.

Repentinamente, viniendo de no sé

dónde, salté con vigor hacia el suelo,

entendiendo entonces que era yo quien

estaba de cabeza. Me encontraba

totalmente deshidratado. Una fuerza

se apoderó de mí, guiándome hacia

el cuerpo inerte y casi putrefacto de

un venado yacente sobre una piedra

helada. Con furia y salvajismo, y

para mi sorpresa, con apetito, tragué

la sangre y las tripas del animal.

Lentamente saboreé el vaivén del

elixir, amargo y suculento. Cerré los

ojos y me hundí en el abismo.

39

Yunbum KimPhysics

My mind filled with frozen-dustMy forehead streamed waste-souseI glanced at the constant-sentinel in the doldrumsThen hasted back to motion-conundrums

Sum of the forces is equal to maSum of the forces is equal to ma

An inclined planeangle-facilitator must cut inA whirling wheelmotion-definer must be examined

Three brain-drainers untangledThirteen times a tall tick in torqueSlow but high accuracyRational but low efficiency

More brain-squeezers to solveLess incessant-rotations to revolveInundated handsStagnated head

40

Julián Alberto Flores Díaz

venerable señora

dela tierra

Perdido en medio de la selva y pasando desapercibido como un cerro más, se hallaba escondido un volcán majestuoso y bello que todos admiraban, del cual nadie sospechaba que pudiera ser una amenaza. Para las comunidades indígenas que habitaban en los alrededores, no era un cerro más, era “La venerable señora de la tierra”, que había sido desposada con Yanuén, un príncipe de la tribu consagrado a ella como su único sacerdote. Desde el día del ritual del desposorio, Yanuén vivía plenamente enamorado y al servicio de Ixmucané.

Un día, a mediados de la primavera, y poco antes del amanecer, Ixmucané, sin previo aviso estalló destruyendo todo cuanto se hallaba a su alrededor. Fue uno de los mayores desastres volcánicos de la historia. Para los habitantes a su alrededor, todo había acabado. Muy pocos sobrevivieron a la furia de Ixmucané. Uno de ellos fue Yanuén, quien amaba profundamente a su tierra, a su gente, a su pueblo, a su familia, y quién lo había perdido todo, como resultado de la violencia destructiva de Ixmucané. El destino o los dioses quisieron que el día de

41

42

la erupción, Yanuén se encontrara lejos, buscando ofrendas de Pauch (ámbar) para el ritual que cada año celebraba en la cima de Ixmucané, en donde le reiteraba su amor y devoción, renovando su juramento de amor eterno. Yanuén sintió cómo Ixmucané lo había rechazado y alejado de su gente, cuando él buscaba ofrendas que darle y complacerla. Se dio cuenta de toda la furia que manifestó Ixmucané, sin comprender porqué destruyó todo. Corrió con suerte, porque encontró refugio en las cuevas de Pauch y ahí permaneció por largo tiempo. La soledad y el aislamiento lejos de derrotarlo, lo fortalecieron en espíritu y voluntad, con la firme intención de no ser vencido por la angustia. Un día, decidió iniciar su penoso peregrinar para ir a ver a su amada Ixmucané y observar por cuenta propia la destrucción que había provocado. Yanuén vestía únicamente su túnica y su calzón de manta. Con una cinta roja de algodón ceñía sus cabellos negros y lacios que le caían hasta los hombros. Calzaba sus pies con huaraches. No pendía de él ningún adorno extra. Caminó por varias jornadas con dificultad sobre la arena que no dejaba rastros de vegetación, ni de animal alguno, mucho menos de las comunidades indígenas, y llegó hasta las faldas de Ixmucané. A punto de desfallecer,

escaló hasta la orilla del cráter que se había abierto en la cima del volcán, y pudo ver en el fondo la lava en bloques de roca incandescente, de donde brotaban vapores y gases con fuerte olor a azufre, que le irritaban los ojos y la garganta. Se paró sobre un alto peñasco, desde donde pudo observar todo ese panorama de destrucción y muerte, dirigiendo su mirada al centro de Ixmucané, que estaba irreconocible, gritó con todas sus fuerzas: - ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué, amada Ixmucané? ¿Por qué? – al tiempo que se hincaba y se ahogaba en llanto, llevando ambas manos a su cara. Después de desahogar su impotencia y su dolor, se secó las lágrimas con sus manos y prosiguió, con voz más suave y amorosa: - Yo te amaba Ixmucané, con todo mi corazón y estaba consagrado a ti. Viví para demostrarte mi amor incondicional y mi fidelidad, y quería ser feliz al lado de tus hijos, tu pueblo, quienes también te amaban. - Desde el primer día que me entregué a ti, no viví para nadie más. Tú eras mi todo. Un verdadero motivo había en mi razón de existir, vivir para hacerte feliz, Ixmucané… –su voz denotaba un profundo dolor y nostalgia. Sonriendo un poco, le dijo –en veces respondías a mi amor y me hacías feliz; pero otras muchas te mostraste indiferente y altiva.

43

Eras soberbia y orgullosa, mi amada Ixmucané. También eras celosa, muy celosa, porque si alguna hembra me volteaba a ver, me hacías sentir tu enojo – decía viéndola de soslayo y moviendo la cabeza. -Pero tú eras todo para mí. En mi corazón nunca existió nadie más. – Y agregó con tono de reclamo -Lo demás eran puras figuraciones tuyas, porque yo no quería a nadie más que a mi amada Ixmucané. - Entonces… –hizo una pausa para preguntar con profunda tristeza - ¿Por qué destruiste a tu pueblo? ¿Por qué me destruiste a mí? - y las lágrimas llenaron nuevamente sus ojos. Yanúen vivía con mucha austeridad material; sin embargo, tenía una elevada riqueza espiritual, que lo distinguía como un personaje cabal, íntegro, de una sola pieza entre la comunidad, que le había valido el honor de ser consagrado como el sacerdote de Ixmucané, un privilegio que únicamente podía ostentar, aquel que demostrara valores y principios de fidelidad, lealtad y honradez. El único que pudo apreciar un comportamiento extraño en Ixmucané, fue Yanuén, cuando las aves dejaron de trinar, el verde de las plantas dejó de brillar, lo fértil de sus tierras dejaron de producir abundantes cosechas y sus aguas cristalinas cambiaron su sabor. Nadie le hizo caso a Yanuén cuando

advirtió que Ixmucané iba a cambiar. Muchos decían que Yanuén estaba equivocado y que lo que sucedía alrededor de Ixmucané era pasajero. Por más que Yanuén les advirtió, no le hicieron caso. Le decían que buscara Pauch para un ritual y que con eso Ixmucané iba a estar tranquila. Yanuén presentía que no iba a ser suficiente y que algo catastrófico estaba por ocurrir. Y así fue. Por largo rato Yanuén lloró en silencio, sintiendo dolor en su corazón. Cuando el Sol se ocultaba en el horizonte, erguido respiró profundamente y mirando hacia el fondo del cráter, hacia las rocas incandescentes, dijo: - Tu corazón es de piedra, es duro y no te dejaste amar. Preferiste acabar con nosotros que éramos tu familia, en vez de permitirnos ser felices a tu lado. Me voy amada Ixmucané. Ahora decido caminar hacia nuevos horizontes. No puedo reconstruir lo que haz hecho; pero quiero empezar de nuevo, con espíritu renovado y fortalecido. Estoy decidido a encontrar la paz y la felicidad que merezco. Adiós Ixmucané – dijo Yanuén al tiempo que con su mano derecha, enviaba un beso hacia la boca, el cráter de Ixmucané, que le respondió con una fuerte exhalación de vapor, que se elevó alta y vertical hasta que fue dispersada por el viento.

44

45

Yanuén descendió con mucha seguridad por las ladera de Ixmucané, sin voltear la vista, y caminó dejando atrás el panorama de tristeza y desolación. En el silencio fue guiado por el espíritu de Hunnab ku que en suave brisa llegaba hasta él. Paso a paso fue encontrando vegetación fresca y agradable, ríos de agua cristalina, abundantes aves de colores que entonaban alegres cantos, todo un nuevo ambiente que le ayudó a recuperar el ánimo y la fe. Yanuén se estableció cerca de un manantial de agua fresca, en donde se fue fortaleciendo física y espiritualmente, confiando siempre en Hunnab-ku y en sí mismo. Una mañana que salió a pescar, escuchó a lo lejos un bello canto, con una voz y una melodía que lo embelesaron. Empezó a buscar de donde provenía tan dulce sonido y llegó hasta un

hermoso lago color turquesa. El canto llenaba todo el lugar, con potencia y suavidad, haciendo que entrara por sus oídos y llegara hasta su alma. El canto cesó y ante sus ojos se presentó una bella doncella que le dijo: - Hunnab-ku me ha enviado para hacerte compañía. Él nos creó para el amor y la felicidad. Soy Zazil-ha y ahora las aguas de nuestros cauces se verterán en un mismo lago. Yanuén, príncipe de agua, y Zazil-ha, princesa de agua, unieron sus destinos creando un nuevo paraíso lleno de vida y de paz: verdes bosques y bellos lagos con diferentes tonalidades turquesa y esmeralda en una extensa región que llamaron Áak’al-ha, sitio de lagos, y en donde el espíritu de Hunnab-ku se manifestaba siempre entre ellos como una suave brisa.

46

I scurry,

Scamper along the dirt road,

The same one on which, long back, I arrived.

Moving towards an unknown zip code

At last a breath that had been deprived.

Heart thuds as this is almost unprecedented.

Could this be a figment of my imagination?

Free from circumscribed walls of red,

Exhilarated, like never before,

What I longed for now a reality,

I am driven by the promise of home.

But then,

I am stricken with heavy apathy.

Mixed feelings leave me in a pressure dome.

Time I thought frozen has weathered

these outside walls.

Now, more than ever

I am utterly lost.

María Inés Arangurenjailbreak

47

48

Dreams are food, they are oxygen,

They are light, essential for life.

A dream nourishes our soul,

It is what becomes our reason of existence every day.

People dream the undreamable.

A picturesque house in the woods, a small town life,

A buoyant career, a thousand shoes.

Most dreams do not get accomplished,

How strange it is, on most occasions:

We fall asleep, ten thousand kilometers away

From the distant dream

But why are dreams worth fighting for?

Because a dream is a candle that illuminates one’s soul.

It starts off with radiant light,

Inspiring and luminous, hopeful.

A dream, just like the candle whose light begins to fade,

Exhausts itself with the daily struggle to reach its purpose.

Paloma Calderón

never let itburn out

49

Dreams are fought for, later deferred and lost in oblivion.

But new dreams come

For they are necessary.

Dream! reader, dream!

Never starve your soul to death,

For if you do,

Your journey through life will be nothing but confusion

There will be no candle to light your way.

50

It was only scotch and me that nighttequila laughs vibrated through the wooden barNavy men washing their homesickness.One approached me.

There is something about the way he wore the uniformthe way it hung from his angles That spelled out a pick up line.

He is oblivious that that camouflage patternhas been soaked in more blood than dye.

That unlike him,men with that uniform don’t have gel in their hair,but strained dirt.

Those colors hold death in their very essence.Those colors torment families,stand against the machine gun chests of the men in the front line.

Alma Vázquez

camouflageboy

51

The fabric is woven with last breaths.He doesn’t understand the implications,the burden of the ensemble.

He’s only a boyHe’s only a boyHe’s only a boy

boasting a freshly ironed army uniform.He is not at all provoking but rather looks served fresh to death.

52

Adrian Marín

the scariestweaponThe scariest weapon is not a saber,It is not the swishing, the crippling,nor the slashing nor the gashing.The scariest weapon is the pen.With its scratching and its scribblingIts etching and its sketching.

A sword is fast and deadly,it can cut the flesh.But a pen...a pen can stab the mind.They both may reach the heart,but only one can open yoursto indescribable woes.

Being held at knife pointonly affects one individual,while ballpoints can be usedto turn the masses against you.You live with the scars ofslashing and piercing,from bashing and thrashing,or scorching and slicing.But can you cover,his cursing or swearing?Her crying and shouting?

You see, the secret is its appearance.A dagger will always seem lethal,whether it’s rusty, or if it’s shiny.If it’s lengthy or if it’s stubby.

Yes a sword is rather scary.A pen on the other hand,is tiny, it’s venial,it’s petty and it’s deadly.

53

54

Sofía Benitezrecuerdo

55

Mi abuelo se sienta en silencio mientras lee a través

de las páginas de su pasado. Un libro que evoca su

mocedad, un internado repleto de la juventud atrapada

en la incertidumbre de la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Es

extraño cuando menciona esos tiempos, los años lejos

de su país. Cuando compartía las provisiones con los

soldados que ocupaban su escuela, o tenía sólo una

cobija para protegerlo del largo invierno francés. Estas

historias residen en su corazón, en lo más profundo

de su esencia. Recae sobre sus manos la historia de

Francia; su historia. Nombres y lugares comienzan a

emerger de los rincones de su memoria, y a lo largo de

trescientas páginas, es un niño de nuevo. Extraña a su

madre y siente miedo. Recuerda.

Michael Hoganaftermath

56

57

What is it about the sun

on a late summer afternoon

that speaks of loss

even when the day has been more than expected?

The water gently cool

somebody else’s children playing in the sand

elongated features of waders.

Everything sparkling as if

one’s soul were connected to the angle of light.

Then the sky darkens a deep purple

like the velvet lining of an ancient music box.

Rolling waves carry the day away:

the last green light flashing into the sea.

And you are still gone.

58

El ladrón caminaba por las umbrosas calles sumergidas en niebla y fétido vapor de las coladeras. El sucio pavimento hacía un sonido hueco al chocar con la suela de sus botas creando un eco macabro. Las casas se escondían detrás de sus elegantes rejas soldadas para hacer dibujos y figuras con el metal. Las flores de los jardines danzaban la sinfonía del viento bajo el rocío de la naciente madrugada. Cargaba consigo un bolso de cuero viejo lleno de frascos de vidrio de diferentes tamaños, colores y texturas, organizados meticulosamente dentro de los miles de pequeños compartimentos en el interior. Buscaba de manera telepática a su siguiente presa, visitando con

su mente el interior de las casas de la calle. La víctima consistía de un pequeño individuo de carácter infantil. Los niños a los que buscaba tenían esperanzas, sueños, y deseos. Caminando bajo la complicidad de las estrellas, dio media vuelta y se encaminó hacia la calle Princesa. Muchas de sus víctimas eran originarias de esta calle, famosa por sus niños, los más imaginativos. Ya que era una calle de alcurnia, en ella vivía la gente de sociedad y los niños con sueños y esperanzas irreales al resto del mundo.

El ladrón encontró su ventana a la riqueza. Entró sigilosamente por la ventana de una bella casa blanca, el piso del cuarto era un tapete

Isabel RiojasMaría Contreras

Itzel Rodríguez

el ladrónde sueños

59

colorido. Como todos los cuartos de sus víctimas, tenía juguetes, ropa y zapatos por todas partes. Alguna que otra vez se había encontrado con un inocente animal que no presentaba molestia para un maestro de las artes soñadoras. Se acercó lentamente a la

cama del infante y cuidadosamente sacó un frasco de su bolso. Este era de color amarillo y tenía estrellas doradas y plateadas insertadas en el vidrio. La tapa era de color rosa. Los frascos siempre se parecían a los dueños. Abrió el frasco cuidadosamente y lo

60

colocó frente a la boca de la niña que plácidamente dormía entre peluches y cobijas. Su mano se posó firmemente en la frente de su presa y esta dio un último suspiro de niñez, exhalando por su boca todos sus sueños, esperanzas e inocencia. El ladrón rápidamente cerró el frasco, capturando así la juventud de la pequeña. Al mirar de nuevo a la niña que dormía frente a él, notó la diferencia, ahora tenía un aire serio, lleno de preocupaciones y realidades, ella había dejado su infancia atrás gracias a él. Guardó el frasco cuidadosamente en su bolso; el último de la noche.

El ladrón, ya cansado, regresó a su morada. Su negra caverna estaba cubierta de estanterías con frascos de diferentes colores y tamaños, cada uno reflejando de alguna manera al dueño de la juventud que contenía. Acomodó los frascos llenos en sus estanterías, y se sentó en una vieja silla de madera. El pensador, por estar sumergido en sus pensamientos, no se dió cuenta de que un cliente entraba por la puerta.

-Hay alguien en casa-, susurró con miedo y angustia una voz femenina. Era una mujer alta, se veía vieja, cansada y desesperada. Sin

desperdiciar palabras, el comerciante le entregó un frasco morado decorado con pequeñas flores a su alrededor. Ésta a cambio, le entregó un fajo de papel impreso. La mujer abrió el envase lentamente y aspiró su contenido. Sus ojos volvieron a brillar, la piel se le veía joven y saludable a pesar de sus arrugas y su corazón latió con fuerza una vez más.

-Gracias-, fue lo único que musitó ella antes de salir por la puerta sin mas palabras. El comerciante no se molestó en contestar. Otro cliente satisfecho y una vez más sus bolsillos llenos.

Las pocas personas que le pedían juventud eran siempre las mismas, pero jamás había tenido el placer de atender al cliente al cual se encaminaba. Este era un hombre viejo, muy viejo, y tal se decía entre los nobles, también de mucha fortuna. Claro, mucha fortuna económicamente hablando, porque en el interior este hombre estaba completamente seco. Ya no podía imaginar un paisaje, o una situación, ya no podía revivir recuerdos, ya no podía retener memorias; era una persona vacía. Cuando llegó a la casa del cliente, se impresionó. Era

61

la primera vez que hacía consulta a domicilio, pero los tiempos eran difíciles y el dinero era necesario. Jamás en su vida había visto una casa más lujosa, un jardín más floreado, una puerta más grande o una banqueta más limpia. Se podía percibir la personalidad de este viejo a través de su hogar; un hombre fuerte, pero debilitado por el tiempo. Cuando tocó el timbre, una canción clásica sonó a través del altavoz. Abrió él mismo, el cliente. El contacto visual entristeció al vendedor. Así como jamás había visto una casa más hermosa, jamás había visto una mirada más ausente. Perplejo, el cliente lo saludó y se presentó. El vendedor simplemente volteó la mirada y entró a la mansión. Tenía detalles rojos y dorados en los muebles de madera, y el terciopelo abundaba en las cortinas y los sillones, mientras que las ventanas eran inexistentes. El viejo no hizo intento de conversación, y simplemente fue al punto.

-Quiero una juventud especial, un sueño maravilloso, y no me conformare con la vaga imaginación de algún niño rico.

-Qué puedo hacer por usted.

-Quiero su juventud.-Usted sabe que eso no es

posible, ya que yo ya no tengo una.-Busque bien. Inténtelo. En ese momento el viejo

comprador sacó de un cajón una barra de oro sólido.

-¿Esto será suficiente inspiración?- Preguntó sarcásticamente el cliente. En ese momento las pupilas del vendedor se expandieron a tal punto que no se podían distinguir la pupila de su iris, su sangre corrió más rápido que nunca y su codicia sacó lo mejor de el mismo.

-Eso bastará.En ese momento sacó de su

bolso un frasco que esperaba nunca usar, pero dadas las circunstancias, era esencial. Era un frasco diferente a todos los demás, era transparente, sin color, puro, y con una tapa de color blanco. Lentamente abrió la tapa de este y la colocó frente a su boca. Soltando un último suspiro, llenó el frasco de su propia juventud y lo tapó. Lo entregó con los ojos muertos, y el alma apagada.

Dentro del hombre, algo había cambiado.

62

The metallic graphite tip moves elegantly across the paper,

With each bob of the yellow shaft, a number takes form on the white landscape,

The utensil’s efficiency is on the verge of perfection,

With no interruptions everything was moving accordingly,

Each movement a progression towards a goal,

To strike swiftly and deal with all the questions,

Suddenly a violent snap resounds through the air,

Thousands of thin anthracite colored shards explode across the sheet,

The lead gray path that had become routine,

Begins to fade like the sun setting at a beach,

The impenetrable line that was in construction sputtered and died,

Leaving nothing but the eerie sound of splintered wood rubbing against

paper.

In this dire situation, a single hope remained,

A majestic blue sharpener sat gloriously upon the desk,

With three sharp turns revival was attempted,

The fragmented wooden tip dwindled to a stub,

And as the pencil was drawn forth failure was apparent,

For the sharpener’s treacherous blades only succeeded in

destroying all hope.

Francis McCann

a brokenpencil

63

The metallic graphite tip moves elegantly across the paper,

With each bob of the yellow shaft, a number takes form on the white landscape,

The utensil’s efficiency is on the verge of perfection,

With no interruptions everything was moving accordingly,

Each movement a progression towards a goal,

To strike swiftly and deal with all the questions,

Suddenly a violent snap resounds through the air,

Thousands of thin anthracite colored shards explode across the sheet,

The lead gray path that had become routine,

Begins to fade like the sun setting at a beach,

The impenetrable line that was in construction sputtered and died,

Leaving nothing but the eerie sound of splintered wood rubbing against

paper.

In this dire situation, a single hope remained,

A majestic blue sharpener sat gloriously upon the desk,

With three sharp turns revival was attempted,

The fragmented wooden tip dwindled to a stub,

And as the pencil was drawn forth failure was apparent,

For the sharpener’s treacherous blades only succeeded in

destroying all hope.

64

65

A veces pasa que las manecillas no dejan

de correr. Se apresuran con ansiedad,

persiguiéndose desesperadamente,

moviéndose en círculos en una

coreografía obsesiva. Buscan recorrer

largos tramos de existencia y se

encuentran exhaustas al darse cuenta

que los segundos transcurren a su paso,

indiferentes hacia los estragos de las

inquietas gemelas. Más seguido de lo

que les gustaría reconocerlo, el tiempo

permanece inmerso en un hechizo

letárgico. Las horas se extienden

eternamente y la vida misma es una

perpetua somnolencia. Nuestro tiempo

está compuesto por estas intermitencias.

Momentos que se prestan a saborearse,

situaciones súbitas que pueden cambiarlo

todo. Mientras pienso esto contemplo el

reloj a distancia.

Hace años que no marca la hora.

Sofía Beniteztiempo

66

Paula Aranguren

to the united statesof america

67

Dear colleague,

I hereby encourage you to

finally examine the issue that you

have been postponing for an extended

period of time. I would deeply

appreciate it if you could finally let

me know what your expectations

consist of. We both know that you

cannot live, function, or progress

without me, yet, you constantly

manifest your daunting desire to

watch me leave for good. I am

tremendously confused and honestly

disappointed that all my hard work is

not appreciated, let alone rewarded. I

am the main executor of the labor that

no living soul in your states would be

willing to do: work that is essential

for your economic continuity. If I

were to abruptly vacate your lands,

the immediate chaos would wreck

you. There is no alternate option.

You are evidently stronger

in this relationship and therefore

underestimate my power, but judging

from your way of “solving” this

problem, it is clear that you are not

the best at communicating an idea as

a “united” nation would do. Do all of

your “united” states know my story?

Do they know I have given all of

myself to them? It is my hands who

wash off the pesticides from their

crops; it is my eyes that see how

everybody lives with dignity, with

respect, except my kind; it is my feet

that walk miles through the desert

only to cross into a country which

I benefit immensely, only to receive

more discrimination than payment; it

is my face that automatically labels

me as “inferior.”

Of course I am not to be

noticed broadly, as I don’t run a

hugely innovative business company,

but do these peoples of yours know

that multiple companies of theirs

would close due to my absence?

Obviously, every sense of

inequality and unfairness towards

me is accounted for, because I am

not a “rightful citizen” of the United

States. Yet, I believe that anyone who

does as much for a country as I do

deserves to be welcomed inside its

borders. Wanted inside its borders.

68

You know the solution to this

problem as well as I do: I live in your

lands, I work for you, you benefit

from me and I benefit from you. It

all comes down to three options:

You could take no action and keep

pretending you are genuinely trying

to rid your lands of me. Keep lying

to yourself, to me, and to the world.

You could gather your

vigorous forces and indeed purge

your territory of me; do keep in

mind that you haven’t done so for a

reason, not because you are unable

to.

Or finally, you could merely

call this relationship official.

Declare new, coherent laws to deal

with me, and future cases like mine,

and consequently leave out the vast

controversy that currently dominates

the issue.

I am as aware as you are that

this third option is by no means a

step that would regularly proceed

in a situation like this, but rules and

laws were enforced for a reason, in

order to deal with a circumstance;

if the circumstance changes, the

rules shall modify themselves

accordingly, depending on the needs

of the current situation. As said by

your own dear American writer, Kurt

Vonnegut: “We have to continually

be jumping off cliffs and developing

our wings on our way down.”

Note that all that is written in

this letter is information that you are

already familiar with, yet choose to

ignore, as well as this predicament

in its entirety. You can take it as a

reminder, or simply as a message

stating that turning a blind eye to

any issue, will not make it go away.

Choose wisely.

Regards,

Your “illegal” partner

69

Hace algunos años se encontró una carta

en uno de los antiguos barcos españoles

usados para transportar recursos entre

los continentes. Se cree que dicho

barco fue interceptado por Pizarro

para detener las Cartas de relación del

Capitán Hernán Cortés. El destinatario

es desconocido.

Amada mía:

Ha pasado tanto tiempo desde

que llegamos a estas nuevas tierras.

El Capitán Cortés se vuelve cada

vez más peligroso para él mismo

y aquellos a su alrededor. Ya no

sé cuánto más podremos aguantar.

Tenemos miedo aunque muchos no

lo queramos admitir. Uno a uno, la

locura nos alcanza. Algunas veces

dejo de estar consciente, pierdo

la noción del tiempo, me pierdo

en mí mismo. Y no soy el único.

Perdemos poco a poco la cordura

de formas distintas. El Capitán, por

ejemplo, pierde la cabeza pensando

en las riquezas, calculando números

inconcebibles por la mente humana.

El condenado fraile se pierde en sus

oraciones, un Padre Nuestro que en

algún punto se convierte en un Ave

María. Algunos de mis compañeros

enloquecen pensando que morirán de

hambre y secretamente se tienen el

uno al otro en la mira.

Yo, por otra parte, me vuelvo

loco por ti. Los días se me van

pensando en tu hermoso rostro que se

aparece entre la bruma del inevitable

atardecer. Si tan solo pudiera verte

una vez más. Tenerte entre mis brazos

y así permanecer hasta la culminación

de esta pesadilla. Lo que no daría por

poder besarte. ¡Cuánto pagaría por

Adrian Marínnaufragio

70

71

poder tocar tu suave piel de nuevo!

¿A quién no mataría por poder pasar

una última noche contigo?

Ojalá pudiera escribir más,

pero como bien sabrás, sobrevivir es

una tarea de tiempo completo. Espero

que esta carta llegue hasta ti, y lo que

yo más quisiera es que la tomes en tus

manos como último testimonio de mi

incansable devoción hacia ti.

Pase lo que pase, te he amado y

lo haré por siempre. Espero que quién

esté a tu lado pueda ser todo lo que

nunca fui por ti. Aún a días, semanas,

meses de distancia, te amo con el

mismo fervor que el día primero. Me

alejé de ti en contra de mi voluntad,

cediendo ante tu insistencia. Sabiendo

que no regresaré jamás, desearía no

haberte obedecido.

Por siempre,

Antonio

72

Nicole McCann

este amora noche fría

73

Te amo a oscurasA ciegas, en lo fríoEn una eterna penumbrade lo que no es mío

Te amo en venenoen rencor y en envidiaDe tú ser lo que quieroY aún así no ser mía

Porque te siento en el almaEnganchada y distendida Por ver lo que me faltaEn esos ojos que no miran

Y yo a ti, querida,te escondo en la mentePorque nada me protegede tu corazón que no siente

De perderme en el “querer” en este amor a noche fríaPor un sueño que no veQue no despierta al día

74

Marisol Castro

esta esla hora

75

Abrir los ojos, despertar un díay darte cuenta de que es el momento. Es el momento de hacer algo, crear un cambio.Revolucionar tu mundo, perseguir tus sueños.

Es tiempo de levantarse, caminar y correr,para luego caer. Será doloroso, habrá heridas profundas y cicatrices, pero servirá para aprender la lección,volver a levantarse, avanzar un poco,y repetir la historia.

Es tiempo de arriesgarse, sin miedo a lo que podría pasar.Estar consciente de tu meta, de tu destino, de lo que quieres alcanzar.El tropiezo no significa derrota, solo te vuelve más fuerte e inmune a caídas.

Es el momento. Ese momento no fue, es ahora. Ese momento no será, es ahora.

Es el momento de perseguir tus sueños.

76

Luis Fernando Rodríguez

en el río detormes

En el río de Tormes,Lázaro nacióHijo de viuda pobre,que a un ciego encomendó

Lázaro, Lázaroastucia te enseñó

Sufría maltrato y hambre,lo cual luego vengóAl ciego avaro y viejo,contra un poste estampó

Lázaro, Lázaroel clérigo peor te trató

Forzado por el hambre,robando subsistióEl clérigo esto descubre,y al pobre despidió

Lázaro, Lázaroen la calle te dejó

Nuevo amo un escudero,muy rico al parecer

77

Pero su apariencia engaña,pues no puede ni comer

Lázaro, Lázarosu honor más le importó

Aceptado por un fraile,que caminaba sin cesarAcabó con su calzado,y sus ganas de continuar

Lázaro, Lázarocansado te dejó

Muy bien con un buldero,Lázaro la pasóPero él vivía de engaños,por lo cual se marchó

Lázaro, Lázarotu corazón bien te guio

Finalmente un amo bueno,de panderos fue pintorQue a Lázaro pagaba,con lo cual compró su honor

Lázaro, Lázaroindependencia te obsequió

Él, de vinos pregonero,una esposa consiguióE ignorando los rumores,desde ahí feliz vivió

Lázaro, Lázarotu historia se escribió

78

Al mirarme al espejo no me reconozco.

Encuentro un titilar

llameante en mi silueta

y lucho por hallar

a tientas el matiz en que discrepo.

Tengo una imagen mía

que no vislumbro por ninguna parte,

que logra sustraerse de las fotos

y se apuntala en años

como si fueran bienes.

Soy el constructo de un vaivén ajeno.

La existencia que brindan o arrebatan

tus miradas, o no, sobre la mía.

Darío Carrilloapariencia

79

She wore a blue collared dressIt was worn and torn at the bottom.

She didn’t care about the eyes people laid on herThey almost seemed to be normal.

Her hair was worn flat on her shouldersThe strands coming out of her scalp mourned their mistreatment.

A constant knocking echoed in her earsBanging the walls of her consciousness.

She tried to evade the noiseBut the waves of sound followed her every move.

Slouched over in her seatShe could feel her feet magnetized to the ground.

An attempt to get up would be foolishHer hulking feet would prevent it

She was reminded of her motherOr at least of the mother she had always imagined.

Although hundreds surrounded her on the trainShe felt utterly lost and undesired

Her reasons for leaving were to escape the lonelinessBut now, more than ever, she felt completely deserted

She closed her eyes in an attempt to breathe outBreathe out the pain within her soul.

Nothing came out.And the suffocated thoughts started to haunt the girl once again.

Sandra Lukac

suffocatingthoughts

80

81

82