Tag: Wandering Bards

A good smoke by Juan Moreno Huertos

As I stood in front of the enlarged portrait, the same sensations arose, but something else revealed itself to me. Something more important that I had not noticed before, just like the image surfacing in the bath of the dark room; their gazes looked empty. Like their eyes were open but they weren’t seeing anything. Like their expressions were being hidden in the past. And so, my mission to find out about them was born, who they were and how they lived, so that their astonished gazes would suddenly light up with meaning and they would hand over their deepest secrets to me.

June 4th, 1909 by Alana Dapena Fraiz

Ever since they boarded the Baltic they’ve killed the hours with long conversations, which at times have been a welcoming respite and other times a tedious condemnation. Aquilino tends to favor silence and has little in common with these middle-aged married men. But half of the village has decided to emigrate to San Francisco, so Aquilino is resigned to the company that destiny has provided.

Cuatro de junio, 1909 de Alana Dapena Fraiz

Desde que embarcaron en el Baltic los hombres han matado las horas con largas conversaciones, lo cual a veces ha sido una salvación y otras una condena. Aquilino es de los que prefiere el silencio y poco tiene en común con estos hombres de mediana edad ya casados. Pero medio pueblo ha decidido emigrar a San Francisco así que Aquilino asume con resignación la compañía que le ha brindado el destino. 

Bloodstained Gardenias by Renzo Puntarelli Valenzuela

I close my eyes and remember the harrowing noises from the war; they are still damp with tears. I watch these memories all go by like a film; the people, the fear, that first time a bomb burst into the silence of the night. Sweet dreams shattered by a gunshot. I remember my people, the horror on their faces and the feelings come flooding back. I quickly got up from my bed and ran to find my little sisters in the room next to mine.  Everything was rumbling, the walls were cracking, the ceiling was cracking and the dust that had sat on the corners of the high walls, began to fall like snow on our heads. The smell of old, forgotten blood and fear filled the air.

La sangre de las gardenias de Renzo Puntarelli Valenzuela

Lo veo todo pasar como una película… la gente, el miedo… aquella vez, un bombazo irrumpió en el silencio de la noche, se quebrantaron los dulces sueños a golpe de fusil, recuerdo a mi gente, el horror de sus caras, se agolpan los sentires. Yo me levanté, velozmente del catre y corrí a buscar a mis pequeñas hermanas a la habitación contigua, todo retumbaba, mientras en las paredes se hacían grietas a mi paso, el techo se resquebraja y el polvo, acumulado en las cornisas de las altas paredes, empezaba a caernos como nieve sobre nuestras cabezas. El olor a viejo, olvidado, sangre y miedo impregnaba el ambiente.

Smoking kills (the story of a happy yet unlucky man) by  Clara Herrero Hernández

He smoked a lot during his first days in Germany. He smoked whilst he created a network of other foreign workers like him. He made good friends there, who he would play cards with and would go to watch Real Madrid play. He learned bits of various languages between puffs and sent money home and saved his own. He returned home to do his year of military service, where he was so well liked that they assigned him to be the chauffeur for some officials, and there too, he smoked, played cards, and told jokes. He had become the coffee machine, exhaling smoke, and providing comfort and encouragement.

Swans in the Mediterranean by Pedro Gutiérrez Ubero

I thought about my great-grandfather when I leaped into the water from the overhanging deck of the Costa Concordia. It was night, it was winter (the Cruise ship Costa Concordia ran around just off the island of Giglio at 21:42 on the 13th of January 2012) and my first thought was to find out if the water was too cold.

Cisnes en el Mediterráneo by Pedro Gutiérrez Ubero

Pensé en él -en mi bisabuelo- mientras tomaba impulso para saltar al agua desde la escorada cubierta del Costa Concordia. Era de noche, era invierno (el crucero Costa Concordia encalló frente a la isla de Giglio a las 21:42 horas del 13 enero de 2012) y mi primera impresión fue comprobar que el agua estaba demasiado fría…

EP. 33 | Yvonne battle-felton on atlantic city

My grandmother’s house in Atlantic City… this white and pink house a block away from the ocean… you just went in and it felt like home. Whenever I’m thinking about writing or where I feel both safe and comfortable enough to create and imagine anything that’s possible… I go back to that place, that house… When I think about my literary home is that house that’s no longer there.