guanacaste

old digital cameras are “trendy” now. i saw a video a few months ago of a girl who had found an old camera and started recording her day as if it was the 00s. it looked blurry, indeed, like a memory. god bless the dreamlike quality of old recordings.

when i told him i had dug out our old camera last year, my dad wanted to watch the footage in it. the girl in the video was playing in the sand, the remnants of crashing waves glistening in the sunset. her hair was heavy with seawater and she whipped it back with a swift movement of her neck. the highway to the beach hadn’t been built yet, so the driving there took a long time. only five more songs left ‘til we get there, my father told me. when we were returning home, the songs seemed shorter. he said it was because time passes slowly when you’re excited for something.

on one of those thousand trips to the beach, we stopped at a restaurant. it was a generic establishment with wooden toucans hanging from the ceiling and varnished tree trunks for tables. we always went on vacation when my aunt and her family visited. she was sitting next to me, shaking a plastic bottle of coke. be careful, i told her, you’re going to spill it. she set the bottle down and opened the lid a little bit, carefully. don’t worry, i’ve done this for years, she replied.

fast forward a decade, and my other aunt was preparing a tuna pasta salad because i told her i had a craving. i was far from that marble countertop, however, in the sea that was a few miles away from the place we had rented. the open sea was menacing, and i was swimming towards a mirage. i was so lost, but i hadn’t noticed.

yes, the terrible shipwreck of ‘18. i roll my eyes as the phrase crosses my mind. it was very serious to me then; i shouldn’t joke about it now.&

the sea, my aunt’s loving hands as she prepared the food. a candlestick of loving memories that melted into the woman i am now. lost, but never alone.

i can’t wait for the day when i won’t spill coke all over the table. 

 

***** 

 

hey.

it's been a while since i posted here. last time i shared one of my pieces, i was still in pure math, and with a very heavy heart. flash-forward almost five years, and i am about to get my degree in statistics! only one more year.

i am planning to post more here, but not as much creative writing. i haven't completely stopped writing, but i want to save a few pieces (which i've written here and there) for a bigger work. i am thinking of a novel title el labrador y los mangos. that reminds me that we had to say goodbye to avellana this year. my heart hurts, but i digress.

i plan on writing non-fiction here. research is my passion, so i would like to write some small essays. my next topic is george washington carver! very specific.

see you soon (i hope)! 

 

love,

nan.

mafia

Imagínense en un círculo con muchas otras personas. Toman la carta y la ven. Policía de nuevo. Ahora es momento de cerrar los ojos; ya cae la noche. El dios pasa por cada personaje y es su turno finalmente. Señalan al sospechoso, mas él no es el culpable.

Se levantan al ser de día y el dios anuncia que la víctima ha sido la persona del frente. Ya saben quién ha sido; solo una persona pudo haber sabido la habilidad del ahora difunto para desenmascarar asesinos. Entonces, al llegar la noche señalan al presunto culpable y resulta haber sido él.

Al llegar el día, logran que muera el primer mafioso, que en olimpiadas son la desmotivación y la pereza. Les empieza a gustar el juego. El primer triunfo los impulsa. Sigue así, vas por un buen camino, les dice. Sigue explorando.

Pero cuando llega la noche otra vez no tienen suerte, pues quien señalan no es mafioso. Al llegar el día, tienen el liderazgo del pueblo, así que matan al que ustedes creyeron que era. Lastimosamente, se han equivocado y ejecutado al doctor, mientras que otro civil ha muerto en manos de la mafia.

Lo mismo sucede en olimpiadas. Somos seres humanos, y a menudo nos equivocamos y caemos. Se podría manifestar en una clasificación que no se logra, una medalla que se pierde, un examen que queda en blanco. Pero cuando se tropieza n veces, hay que levantarse n+1.

El próximo sujeto que señalan es el culpable. Al despertar, están listos y listas para compartir su conjetura. Sin embargo, el carnicero les ha cortado una mano mientras dormían.

Las olimpiadas también tienen sus carniceros. La envidia, los celos, las dificultades económicas, las distancias, el poco apoyo, los intereses personales que interfieren con los colectivos, la burocracia, la falta de fondos, los aspectos negativos de la cultura,… en fin, a menudo hay más carniceros que mafiosos.

Y si son mujeres como yo, los carniceros les cortan la lengua. Pero anímense, porque estamos montadas sobre los hombros de gigantas.

Las partidas siguientes son similares y finalmente quedan ustedes con unos cuantos civiles. Entre ustedes se apoyan, defienden sus teorías, comparten su confianza. Sin sus votos, jamás podrían matar al último mafioso. Sería difícil lograrlo solo o sola. Lo mismo sucede en olimpiadas: es un trabajo colectivo. Somos parte de un equipo. Son incontables las ocasiones en las que he recibido consejo y apoyo de un compañero o compañera olímpica, lo cual me ha ayudado a continuar creciendo en la materia. De verdad que el apoyo que podrán encontrar en las personas solidarias que ya han recorrido un camino similar al de ustedes es sumamente valioso, así que no tengan miedo en preguntar. La gran mayoría de las personas que han participado en olimpiadas, o que están en la Comisión, están dispuestas a ayudarles. Muchas personas creemos en ustedes y en sus capacidades.

El último mafioso muere. El juego ha terminado, pero sigue otra partida. La continuidad de la mafia, dices tú.

Al final de cuentas, las matemáticas son un juego. Y estoy sumamente agradecida por todas las experiencias que he tenido en olimpiadas: las finales, las internacionales, las capacitaciones, los chats de WhatsApp, los chistes internos, los problemas extraoficiales, los amigos y amigas que he conocido, las risas, los exámenes, las lloradas.

A todos y todas ustedes les deseo lo mejor. Tienen el potencial para alcanzar el cielo y hasta traspasar la atmósfera (aunque los físicos les digan que no pueden). Por favor, sigan adelante, porque les prometo que su esfuerzo siempre rendirá frutos, sin importar su condición. Les ofrezco mi ayuda, de nuevo, y les deseo los mayores éxitos.

Me veo moralmente obligada a concluir con una frase pseudo-motivacional en idioma matemático. Amigues, somos series divergentes: no conocemos ningún límite. 

 

***** 

 

Hola. Escribí esto hace como dos años porque quería y lo publico en mi blog porque es mío. 

 

Con amor,

nan.

Diálogo con comillas

“No sé, Artemisa, me parece que deberías conseguirte un novio o algo”, dijo Apolo.

Artemisa lo volvió a ver con ojos de tigresa. “¿Que yo tengo que hacer qué?”

“Tranquila, tranquila, es solo una sugerencia. Tal vez así te calmarías”.

“Yo soy Artemisa, diosa de la luna, lideresa de múltiples cazadoras. Reino sobre las montañas y ayudo a las mujeres cuando tienen dolores de parto. ¿Y vos me decís que me calme?”

“Ves, de eso es de lo que hablo. Sos demasiado intensa. Tal vez con un novio te volverías más, no sé, suavecita, por enamorada”.

Luego de tomar una flecha con su mano, Artemisa le disparó rápidamente en el pie a Apolo. Se oyó un alarido de dolor y Apolo bajó a tocarse el pie.

“¿Qué te sucede, loca?”

“No sé, mi aljaba estaba muy pesada. Quería quitarle peso para así relajarme más, sabés”.

Apolo estaba sentado en el piso. Ya se había sacado la flecha y estaba tratando de parar la sangre. Miró hacia arriba, a los ojos de Artemisa, con la boca abierta.

“Sabés qué, retracto lo dicho. Ningún hombre te va a querer porque sos una maniática”.

“Uy, no, voy a tirarme de un acantilado. ¿Qué será de mí, si soy solo una mujer sin el amor de un hombre?” Artemisa se puso el dorso de su mano sobre la frente. “Sería mejor destino la muerte, o, dios Apolo”.

“Ya dejá de hacerte la graciosita y ayudame a levantarme. Vamos a ver si logro subirme al carruaje para el atardecer”.

“Podés pedirle a una de tus muchas novias que te ayude. Calmate. Estás muy histérico”. Artemisa le extendió la mano a Apolo, quien la tomó y se levantó.

“Bueno, hasta luego, que ya se hace tarde”, se despidió Apolo.

*****

Holaaa gente. Esto es lo último que he hecho. La profe nos ha dado tiempo libre. ¡Espero que les guste! Más adelante habra un ensayo acerca de la pesca de arraste.

Con amor,

Nan.

Queja sobre la pandemia

Estímulo: escriba una queja. 

 

El día de hoy me quejaré de la pandemia. La odio demasiado. Vino a arruinar demasiadas cosas en mi vida. Es lo peor que me ha pasado.

A principio de año, yo estaba muy feliz por entrar a la universidad. Yo ya había hecho algunos cursos antes, y entonces estaba muy emocionada por las clases. También estaba muchísimo más emocionada por entrar a ver a mis amigos y amigas. De hecho, los primeros días fui a almorzar con una pelota de gente. Yo era muy feliz. Me encantaba bombetear y compartir con la gente que quiero. Finalmente podía estar en un lugar, libre con mis amigos y amigas.

Pero no.

Tenía que venir la pandemia. Tenía que dejarme encerrada en la casa. Ya no podía compartir con nadie. Y estaba tan feliz de poder conocer tanta gente nueva. De verdad, hubiera conocido a muchas personas con mis mismos intereses. Siento que la UCR es un lugar muy mío, entonces podría encontrar estudiantes de los que sería muy buena amiga. El problema es que las interacciones virtuales no son iguales a las de la vida real.

Una de las cosas que más me duelen es que no pueda salir a fiestas. Antes, me encantaba ir a la Calle de la Amargura o a La California a bailar con mis amigos y amigas. Me subía mucho el ánimo y me hacía sentir muy feliz. Las luces, la música, el ambiente, todo me hacía sentir increíble. De hecho, hice un nuevo amigo que siempre hacía fiestas de principio y final de semestre en su apartamento, ya que vive literalmente a la par de la Calle. Todo eso me lo perdí por la desgraciada pandemia. Sin embargo, no se podrá volver a hacer nada de este tipo hasta dentro de un año, o incluso más, cuando todos y todas estemos vacunados y vacunadas. Ahora lo único que tengo son llamadas de Zoom.

Odio, odio Zoom. Estoy harta de las clases virtuales. Quiero ya que sean presenciales, aunque me pase durmiendo, aunque pase esperando que terminen. Estar en un aula con el profesor o la profesora y con los compañeros y compañeras es mil veces mejor que estar frente a una pantalla por tres horas. Estoy harta. Ni siquiera tengo ganas de ir, y de hecho no voy si no es obligatorio. Prefiero ver las grabaciones de nuevo.

Las desgraciadas grabaciones.

Es horrible tener que estar usando la computadora todo el día. A mí me gusta el papel, pero tristemente tengo que usar la computadora siempre. Tengo que ver las grabaciones de las clases. Tengo que escanear cosas. Tengo que tomar notas en la computadora. Ya estoy demasiado harta, en serio. Llevo seis meses estando harta.

Estoy tan harta que me deprimí. Todos estos factores, y otros, confluyeron en una depresión constante desde que nos encerraron. A veces no tengo ni siquiera ganas de levantarme de la cama. Es muy angustiante para mí tener que prender la computadora, y cuando la apago me siento libre. Siento que ya nada tiene ningún propósito y que todo está perdido. Me siento atrapada en un lugar que odio, por más que ame mi casa y mi familia.

El encierro que estamos sufriendo, más que físico, es mental para mí. Me siento estancada y sin ninguna salida. Siento que siempre estaré sintiéndome de esta manera, aunque racionalmente sepa que no es así. Y todo esto es culpa de la desgraciada pandemia.

En conclusión, estoy viviendo los peores días de mi vida hasta ahora. obvio que pueden empeorar, porque siempre todo puede empeorar, pero espero que no. De verdad no sé si aguantaría que esto se pusiera peor. Es la cosa más trágica que me ha pasado en la vida. Por última vez, estoy harta.

*****

Holaaaa esta es mi queja. Sí, me estoy sintiendo bastante mal. Lo bueno es que la profe me dijo, y cito, "Todo su texto es excelente. Brillantemente escrito. Tiene usted mucho talento para escribir".

Estoy emocionada porque ya casi tengo que hacer el trabajo de mitad de semestre. El problema es que no sé de qué hacerlo. Espero que me llegue un flechazo de inspiración y lo escriba con el corazón. Jeje.

¡Espero que les haya gustado! 

 

Con amor,

Nan.

Diálogo “en situación”

Estímulo: Escribir un diálogo “en situación”.

 

—Hola, ¿cómo estás?

—Hola. Vieras que no muy bien— respondió Ernesto.

Talía no esperaba esa respuesta. Se alarmó un poco.

—¿Qué pasó, Ernesto?

—Me siento un poco mal— Ernesto dijo, mientras veía a través de la ventana en vez de a los ojos de Talía.

—Desearía no estar viviendo lo que me tocó vivir.

—¿A qué te referís?

—Estoy harto de estar aquí, encerrado. Ya estoy cansado. Necesito verte, y ver a muchas otras personas. Ya no aguanto. Claro, llevo meses diciendo eso, y al final sí aguanto. Lo que pasa es que siento que mi alma se erosiona cada día que pasamos así. Y nada parece que vaya a mejorar.

—Ya veo. Recordá que esto es temporal— dijo Talía, con una sonrisa.

—Estoy un poco harto de que me digan eso, sinceramente. Sí, yo sé que es temporal, pero eso no significa que no durará muchísimo tiempo. Ya llevamos seis meses aquí, y creo que nos faltan otros siete u ocho. ¿Cómo voy a sobrevivir tantos meses así? Y nada está mejorando, Talía, nada. Solo está empeorando la situación.

—Honestamente, todo lo que decís tiene sentido. Sí es muy posible que dure mucho tiempo más. Sin embargo, no pensés en todo el tiempo que falta; mejor pensá en pequeñito. Sobreviví hoy, y si hoy es demasiado, pensalo hora por hora, o inclusive minuto por minuto. Yo sé que vos podés.

—Sabés qué, me parece que tenés toda la razón. De hecho, eso es lo que estoy haciendo. Si me estoy sintiendo muy mal simplemente me tiro a la cama a descansar un rato.

—Pero, ¿cómo hacés con el trabajo?— preguntó Talía.

Ernesto sonrió, un poco apenado.

—Pues, lo hago cuando puedo. Si tengo que hacerlo rápido, lo hago rápido. Si no me da tiempo de hacerlo, simplemente pido clemencia. Así es como sobreviví el semestre pasado, y con muy buenas notas, aunque no lo creás. Lo que hacía era justamente tratar de no ser muy perfeccionista, pero siempre haciendo lo mejor que puedo.

—Qué buenas ideas, Ernesto. Espero que te sintás mejor pronto.

—Muchas gracias, Talía.— Ernesto se acomodó el cabello

—Y vos, ¿cómo estás?

*****

La idea de este ejercicio es practicar diálogos con raya. Este está muy basado en lo que siento. Estoy muy harta de estar encerrada, y un poco desesperada en general. ¡Espero que les haya gustado! 

 

Con amor,

Nan.

Chica olvidada

Estímulo: Describir una misma escena primero desde un yo subjetivo (primera persona) y después desde una tercera persona (él o ella) objetivos.

 

En este asiento la tinta me mancha las manos. Los tonos negros sobre la piel blanca asemejan lo que ahora soy en tu memoria: un parchón de tinta entre los surcos del cerebro. Un tachón agresivo, un error.

Floto entre las demás manchas. Algunas de ellas son más notorias que las demás, porque ya te has lavado el cerebro con el agua del llanto alegre. Ojalá mi parchón estuviera más marcado. Sin embargo, ya has encontrado a alguien por quien llorar de la felicidad.

Entre estas hojas se escriben las crónicas de una chica olvidada. Y te juro, te juro, como dice el conciso cummings, te juro por todas las flores que mi amor siempre fue y será adulto. En el mismo respiro te admito que te odio, te odio porque somos el mismo polo. Qué doloroso es que en un solo pecho convivan fuerzas tan insaciables y antagónicas.

Me dejaste en el frío, con el alma partida e incompleta. Me dejaste rodeada de gente pero sola, tan sola. A través del hueco que me dejaste al arrancarme un pedazo de carne se desbordan los sentimientos con cada latido. Por eso es que decido escribir algo que jamás leerás.

Y así es como arranco la hoja y la escondo en lo profundo de mi bolsillo.

*****

La chica castaña sentada diagonal a mí está llorando. Mientras lo hace escribe con tal vigor que estoy segura que las letras se podrán leer incluso cinco páginas después. El bus se mueve con pesadez, y la calle desigual por los huecos hace que salte de vez en cuando. La chica con enagua está tan pero tan tensa que ni se mueve en su asiento. Sus rodillas están rígidas la una contra la otra, y sobre ellas está el cuaderno rayado de resorte.

De nuevo se limpia las lágrimas con el dorso de la mano, que se devuelve manchado de negro por el encrespador y la tinta. Sigue escribiendo con fuerza. Tanto llorar le ha dado hipo, por lo que periódicamente da brinquitos. También se está estremeciendo levemente.

Para un momento de escribir y respira hondo. Mira a través de la ventana. En el reflejo del vidrio se puede ver su expresión atormentada. Es una muñeca de ojos grandes, nariz respingada y boca roja. Su cara está manchada de negro. Sus párpados están un poco cerrados en un gesto de dolor.

Después de ver el paisaje un rato, vuelve su mirada abajo. Súbitamente arranca el papel del cuaderno y, arrugado, lo guarda dentro del bolsillo de su chaqueta negra.

*****

Disfruten de mi sufrimiento romántico, jaja. Soy tan patética. Basado en una historia real. Efe.

La profe me dijo que le gustó mi prosa poética, yay. Espero que a ustedes también les guste. 

 

Con amor,

Nan.

Mi capullo

Estímulo: Describa el lugar que más le gusta o que más odia.

 

Metida en mi capullo, las sábanas me acarician la piel como pétalos. Me sostiene el firme colchón, y bajo mi cabeza se encuentra la más suave almohada. Estoy bajo tres capas de tela que me protegen del mundo exterior. El cuarto está muy frío, justo como me gusta. Al principio no disfruto congelarme, pero una vez que mi calor se queda atrapado entre las cobijas, estoy verdaderamente a gusto.

Este es mi lugar favorito en todo el universo. Me encanta estar acostada en mi cama, lista para dormir. Me gusta que puedo pensar en paz, ya que no tengo que preocuparme en sostener mi propio cuerpo. En la cama me siento cuidada.

Con una sonrisa me vuelvo al otro lado y la luz amarilla de mi lámpara ilumina el resto del cuarto. Primero veo los libros en la repisa doblada por el peso. Tantos títulos familiares, tantos recuerdos. Entre los libros también veo muñequitos y discos que me alegran el corazón.

Bajo la repisa hay un espejo de cuerpo completo. Ese espejo está un poco sucio y viejo, pero cumple con su propósito. Lo que me gusta de esta pieza es que tiene adherido un pequeño mueble con llave. Ahí guardo las cosas más íntimas que tengo. Principalmente tengo mis cuadernos con escritos y dibujos, entre otras cosas secretas.

Frente a la cama tengo el sillón lleno de almohadas y ropa. Mi mesa de noche también está un poco desordenada, con libros y demás artefactos. Dentro de la gaveta hay más desorden.

Veo hacia arriba y en el techo se encuentran las pequeñas estrellitas que mi madre con mucho cariño pegó ahí. La estrella más grande se ve como la cabeza del cometa. Es interesante que esa estrella también se vea como la decoración de la camisa de un niño sin pelo que forman las demás estrellas más pequeñas. Ese simple torso me cautivó desde pequeña, aunque es un dibujo simple.

Apago la lámpara y me vuelvo al otro lado, hacia la fría pared. La siento con las puntas de los dedos y oigo el viento de afuera. Aquí adentro estoy segura, y me siento feliz.

*****

Espero que esta pequeña pieza les haya gustado. Me costó escribirla porque he estado teniendo problemas de depresión. No obstante, estoy feliz de que la logré escribir. 

 

Con amor,

Nan.

Clases de Taller Literario

Hola, humanos.

Les aviso que empecé un curso en la universidad que es un taller literario. Como tarea, debo escribir cada semana. Entonces, estaré publicando aquí los escritos una vez que la profesora me los revise.

Estoy muy emocionada porque la autora es Anacristina Rossi, y a pesar de que no he leído sus libros, sé que es una autora reconocida en Costa Rica. ¡Estoy muy feliz de que me diga comentarios tan bonitos! Mis compañeres son muy buenes escribiendo, también.

¡Espero que a ustedes también les gusten mis escritos!

 

Con amor,

Nan.

Día Internacional de la Madre Tierra 2020

agua

si algo somos

somos de agua,

sangre de la tierra 

cae plat plat

sobre los ríos o

los mares o

los lagos o

corre hasta el centro

y se une al acuífero 

luego extraemos

con mil vías el plasma

que ya envenenamos 

si algo somos

somos de agua

y nos estamos desangrando

***** 

fuego

somos el vidrio quebrado

que en el bosque han olvidado
 

somos la llama y de antemano

todo el gas metano

somos el mismo culebrón

que nos ha mordido el talón

y por más de agua que seamos,

vivos y vivas nos quemamos

*****

Hola, humanos.

Estos dos poemas los escribí para conmerorar el Día Internacional de la Madre Tierra. Deben ser leídos en pareja, ya que se puede decir que son poemas hermanos. Espero que les hayan gustado. 
 

Con amor,

Nan.

Charm Me

Meeting you was looking at the full moon in a starry sky. Your light hypnotized me. Under your gaze, my soul trembled, and your mouth captivated my heart with its lips and smiles and laughter. Suddenly, I was an ocean wave and gravity made sense. Adventure called. You were a wonderful forest waiting for a daring wanderer.

Then I sensed the warm depths of your bosom, and I knew I wanted to drown inside of them. Better yet, as our plainness washed away with knowledge, I learned how to breathe in your infinity. That was when I asked you to tell me the most crucial secret.

“Tell me, how can a man win your heart?”

Your look was one of mischief. You grinned and rolled your eyes. “The gentleman should charm me, of course.”

“And how could he do that?”

“For one, he should be charming. Goodbye, I am running late.”

Like that, you left me alone with your smell, that sweet scent of pearls. And, of course, a quest. One that took me half a decade to complete, but now we are here: you, me, and this rose.

And death i think is no parenthesis

The paperback was shut and beside me were a pair of dewy, fluttering eyelashes. Was my lady upset? I knew she was not when she sat up and went straight to my lips.

A slow, miniature dance of softness. You taught me how some kisses should be whispered. Your heartbeat against my chest, and you tangled your fingers in my hair. Then, with my hand cupping the back of your neck, I turned you over and gave you one last, small kiss.

The sun’s rays hit your eyes and they melted into pools of honey. Your cheeks were a faint shade of pink. Once again, I understood how beauty was invented.

When I produced the rose from behind me, your plump lips curved discreetly into a crescent. I held it to your sweet button nose, rose smelling rose. Then I tickled your lips, making you chuckle. Your rosy cheeks followed. Suddenly, the flower was an explorer in lands of milk and honey. As I gently outlined your figure (breasts, waist, navel), your laughter chimed like a bell announcing service. I answered the call, a devotee to your sighs, and kissed you again.

Once the dance was over I looked into your chamomile eyes. You raised your hand and cupped my cheek, caressing it with your thumb.

“I love how the afternoon sunshine kisses your face, darling,” she said.

I knew that in her eyes I was also full of wonders. Her look assured me that, as she was the queen of my every lovely thought, I was the ruler of hers. Oh, to be loved as much as one does.

“Can I assume, then, that I have successfully charmed you?”

She giggled. “Consider me charmed.”

*****

Hello, humans. 

Started writing again because we're being held captive by COVID-19. This piece was inspired by Heath Ledger because I love that guy to pieces (specifically A Knight's Tale and Candy). It also contains a line from ee cumming's poem since feeling is first.

Yes, this is very cheesy, I know, but cut me some slack! I'm trapped in my house, thinking about Heath (and others hehe sshh). Writing is my only escape, even if it is fan fiction-esque. Hope y'all like it.

Love, 

Nan.

Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity

“You should have seen the food, mister. That glorious, juicy pork and turkey with the best gravy I’ve ever tasted. Oh, the softest rice, the buttery potatoes, the squash, the carrots, the baked eggplant, delicious. I’d never made a feast like that. Damn, I was so proud of it. And I would’ve been prouder if he had been there, but sadly, he didn’t get to enjoy the wine. Actually, nobody did. You see, I don’t drink, mister. Well, and I guess the guests didn’t enjoy it, right?” she laughed.

That was such an eerie gesture, knowing what one officer had testified a few months ago. I played back the recording of that afternoon for her to hear.

“Your Honor, the scene was gruesome. It kept me up at night for weeks.”

“Can you please describe it to the Jury, officer?”

“Sure. Well, the bodies had their heads down on the table. They were left there just as they had dropped. Their mouths and the area around them was covered in, uhm, vomit. Their eyes were still open. She hadn’t touched them. As I said before, they were still in their chairs, and that woman was sitting right in the middle of the table, crying and eating a turkey leg. Around her were about thirty corpses, Your Honor. She minded them as much as a child minds a broken toy. She’s out of her damn mind!”

“Objection, improper lay opinion!” she shouted as she paused the recording.

“What?” I asked her.

“That’s what my lawyer said next. Come on, I obviously remember the trial, mister. You don’t need to play it back to me. Yes, I left a mess, but I was heartbroken. None of them turned out to be him!”

I looked at her, astounded, because she clearly showed no signs of remorse. She had confessed to murdering thirty men that night, and many others on different occasions.

“But, listen, you killed a lot of people.”

“Yes, but it was all in the name of love.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have the recording of my trial; I bet you must know what I said!”

“I don’t remember that, though.”

“Let me refresh your memory,” she replied.

“When I was ten years old I had the dream. There, lying in the arms of the man who I knew was the love of my life. How did I know that, mister? Because of how I felt. It was passion, mister, a warm and overwhelming passion. He would love me forever and I would too. The connection could never be denied!

“We were on a hammock at the beach, watching the sunset together. I couldn’t see his face because I was facing away from him, but my hand touched his softly. Then, all of a sudden, lightning crashed down on the sand and I felt as if my soul had gone out of my body. I dug my nails into his hand. Right after that I repeated again and again that I was sorry, and I didn’t notice that the man hadn’t even winced. I looked down and saw that there was no sign of a scratch. And then I understood: we were both made from the same mold, so we could never hurt each other physically. I instantly woke up and knew that all of that was true in real life, beyond the realm of dreams. Mister, that’s when I made it my mission to find him, because we were meant to be. And I knew that when I found a man I couldn’t hurt, he would be my soulmate.”

“And you didn’t mind killing people because of it?” I asked.

“Mister, it was all in the name of love. Of course, the first few times it wasn’t deadly. I remember my first accident: a brown-haired, sweet-eyed boy. We were in the fifth grade, and one day I got him to play alone with me in a forest that was close to our school. I took a tree branch and pretended to scratch him by accident. He bled, and I was, oh, so sad. Mister, I felt so desperate that I exploded in rage and hit him on the head with a stone. He stopped breathing, the poor thing. I threw the rock far away, wiped my hands on my dress, and went back to school because recess was almost over.

“You see, mister, I was a well-behaved and excellent student. When the boy went missing, no one suspected me. They found his body, but the case was never solved. Couldn’t find a person of interest, they said. That’s what always happened. It’s incredible what a good reputation can do.

“From then on, I had similar experiences with every boy I had feelings for. As time passed, mister, I figured that it would be faster if I just chose a random group of men and tried to hurt them all at once. That was until the banquet, my beautiful, genius banquet, went wrong.”

I watched her in awe as she narrated her story without the smallest of flinches. It was obvious that she felt that every death was a mere casualty in her quest for love. Her aura pulsed with madness and restrained anger, and I seemed to gravitate towards her incredibly consuming energy.

I now understood why she was sent here. Though honestly, at the same time it all felt like destiny— like all her small actions, her quietness, her calculations, everything had led us to this same single cell. A shiver went up my arms.

“You are not like the other patients,” I stated, “because I can still see someone in your eyes.”

“Yes, that’s because I’m not crazy.”

“Of course, a woman as smart as you would never go to jail. That story sounds so believable.”

“Excuse me, are you saying that I lied, mister?”

“Well, people would surely believe it. Female serial killers are rare, and they are easier to explain if their reason for killing is a man. A woman’s nature isn’t violent, unless love is in question.”

“Shut your damn mouth!”

“Sure, but when I look into your eyes, you’re still there.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. I’ll never find him here!”

“Quit it, you know he’s not real.”

I wished those words hadn’t left my lips, because as soon as they did the devil was set loose. The room darkened, the air around me got cold. Her eyes were fire, her expression a shadow. Her shoulders went down and it seemed as though all the hairs on her nape stood on end. She was a black cat curling up. I ran towards the door of her cell, hearing her feet hitting the ground behind me.

A couple of guards tried to help me out, but her nails were already on my arms, on my chest, on my face. She was foaming at the mouth, clawing like a rabid, hungry rat. I shut my eyes, and not seeing her was a relief. Actually, it was too much of a relief, because I couldn’t feel anything.

My partners pulled me back and shut the door. I landed on my bottom, heaving for air. The apparition and I both looked into each others’ eyes, then down at my arms, then up again, and the fury in her complexion suddenly melted.

There was not a single scratch.

*****

Hello, humans.  

This is a little piece I wrote using a Tumblr writing prompt. It's been a while since I've done one of these, and the last one SUCKED. I'm sorry.  

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this snippet. I've been accidentally starving you hehe. Even though I should ~technically~ have a lot of time to write, I don't. Writer's block rocks. If you have any ideas or requests, I'm completely open. See you in 388493 months. 
 

Love,  

Nan. 

Unreal

In this world dreams don’t come true and continuity is the only constant until the only certainty- Death.

Breathe in to fill your insignificant lungs with empty oxygen. Do it. Travel aimlessly through Time, your coveted jailer. Shackled to Saturn’s swift rings, you might as well enjoy the view.

Well, only if the dark void that existence really is could be called a “view.”

There’s no other remedy, use your imagination. Collect some cues from your environment and interpret them as well as you can. Reality is nothing but the waste product of neural processing.

Begin to worry when your brain realizes that the information that you receive from your surroundings is not realer than the one from within your own mind. In your head both sources are tangled to produce perception. Of course what’s considered “normal,” or “functioning” is when the quantity of processed information from the outside is greater than the one from within.

The problem arises when your psyche adds more than allowed to the mixture. Then, psychosis proliferates within consciousness. You are locked inside the plane that your own mind created. In there the rules change, and what is considered impossible is now happening.

You don’t need food, no water, no sleep. That’s amazing, really. Here you finally have the time to hear nothing but your own voice. The internal monologue that rips you apart.

Inside the void, your shredded remains float violently. The kingdom of physics is far away from here. Like guts in a hurricane, you fade away.

That was the long way of saying I don’t feel real.

*****

Hello, humans. How's life going?

In my case life is good, but I'm depressed. Yes, usually by this time of the year my beloved Holiday Depression© subsides, but due to the fact that life has decided to repeatedly punch me in the face for a while now, it has apparently been elongated. How great. I wrote the text above in a moment when I felt like I was losing myself. Actually, it's been quite long since I wrote this one, but I don't really have the will to do much lately. Proofreading and coding and posting seems so daunting. Yeah, and I'm working on a longer story now, so expect it sometime. Hehe.

By the way, don't worry about me. My disorder is being treated professionally, and honestly, even though my mental state is a disaster, I'm coping. I'm even talking about it, which is a HUGE thing. It sucks, but it's there. I have no other choice than to deal with it bravely, as hard as it may be. I hope that all of you ill nuggets are at peace with your thing, too.

Love,

Nan.

2018

Hello, humans.

I really didn't want to write this because I have no energy to do anything lol. My brain power is completely drained from IB and Cambridge Admissions. I'm just doing it because I've done it for two years haha. Well, let's get on to it, shall we?
OK, so the good things that happened in 2018, yeah. Ethiopia and Armenia are taking crucial steps towards freedom. Not using plastic straws finally became mainstream. Rapists are going to jail. The Thai soccer team got out of a cave they were trapped in. The homosexuals™ are no longer illegal in India. A diverse US Congress. Hurray, 2018, you had good things. Whatever.

Oh, and I FINALLY FINISHED THE IB. I'll miss it, though. It was fun, even if I lost about 57 neurons in the process from stress and lack of sleep. Geez, my brain is still trying to recover. I'm getting my grades on Thursday. Yikes, I'm quite scared. It will be nice to continue complaining about it, though. Once an IB kid, always an IB kid *a small tear runs down my cheek*.

I WENT BACK TO ENGLAND. Yes, yes, yes. AND FOR AN INTERVIEW AND EXAM AT CAMBRIDGE. Wow, it was so surreal, and AWESOME. I'll be getting the results in about two weeks. Got a good feeling about it, though. Jesus Christ, I'm growing up.

Well, I'm 18 now. Legally an adult. Only legally. I can drink and drive now, too. Of course not simultaneously, sillies.

Remember I said that my New Year's resolution was finally doing something about my mental health? Well, guess what, I DID IT. Best choice of 2018, tbh. Turns out I'm bipolar and anxious. That sucks, but at least I know what sucks now lol.

Yeah, it was an ok year. Not too bad, not too good. A lot of growth too. Feeling more peaceful, less evolution and chaos. Nice one.

And of course I'll say what I always say. 2019, come at me bro. See you at Cambridge :)

Best wishes and strength for 2019.

Love

Nan.

Here are some pictures of my best memories of 2018.

Pun intended

 

GIUSEPPE MA CHE FAI

EGMO TEAM GO GIRLS

CARDUMEN DÍA DE LOS MUERTO 11/10

Mis nerdos y nerdas <3

LionKim <3

SENIORS (I'll miss them)

Luci

Tesoro de Recuerdos <3

'




















  Happy New Year everyone!

Thunder

Ask people what they’re afraid of. Spiders? The dark? Heights? Or perhaps thunderstorms.

Rain pouring down, lighting crashing and thunder booming. The wind threatening to blow the roof off your head. You, lying under your blanket, terrified, even though you’re perfectly safe. There’s a very low chance of electricity frying your brains here, inside your house. Even outside in the open, you’d have to be pretty darn unfortunate to get hit by lighting. But still, you shiver on.

I think it’s the noise that frightens people. Not seeing the lighting first, only hearing the loud crash that rattles through the bones in your skull, shocking the iron in your veins. You still jump when you see it beforehand.

A flash of light. Hands flying up to cover your ears. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Boom.

Come on, dear, calm down. It’s three Mississippis away, it can’t hurt you. Think of it as a teacup falling. A tiny-bit-too-loud heartbeat.

But whose heart would roar like thunder? Only a spirit with enough friction, the constant action of hatred against passion, courage against cowardice, morals against desire. A soul so conflicted that it stirs up the electrolytes inside the chest and shocks the heart back to beating. Yes, they were dead before. Cold raindrops froze their entrails, and only danger could wake them again.

Reactive beings. An individual rubbing its feet against a carpet in an air-conditioned room and shocking itself with electrons transferred through touch. Or rather, parts of a collective violently exchanging electrons when there’s friction between them. Thunder heartbeats resound inside every ribcage, after all.

Great power wasted against ourselves. A force of a trillion watts directed at our own, shared body. If your right hand loathes your left eye you wouldn’t let it pluck it out, would you? Yet we’ve maimed ourselves to insensitivity, thinking our limbs belonged to another. The deal was working together, wasn’t it? Each part with a different function, making a common body grow, prosper, or at least thrive. We’ve surely carried out the the task impressively. Foolish, stubborn beings.

Darling, don’t be afraid of our thunder. Fear our spirits, for their friction results in lighting.

*****

Hello, humans. How's life going?

I wrote this little piece in the bus while I was on my way home. It was a flash of madness and creativity. Yeah. There's no explanation, really.

I've been really tired because, you know, IB. Life's been good. I got some new diagnoses to deal with (might open up about it someday). Oh, and I'm co-writing a book. So that's that. Expect it sometime.

Love,

Nan.

Fall

As he waited on the bench, he tried to describe the different hues of the leaves that flew past him. Deep reds, sober oranges, dark yellows. He knew she liked it, and wanted to leave no empty silences that would make his coffee taste more bitter. He hated it, but nowadays he often forced the unsavory excuse for a hot drink down his throat. Why did he do something he loathed so frequently? The answer was simple, the denial complicated.

    His reason arrived on a silver bicycle as usual. Light brown eyes, dark brown hair, large brown coat with big brown buttons. Draped in brown, just like the coffee he gulped out of duty. Yet when he saw her he didn’t recall its bitterness or the acid taste that it left on his tongue, but its warmth- the one thing that made coffee bearable. Yes, she was warmth, brown like home and hot cocoa.

    She dared burn him with the sweetest of smiles. “Hey, how are you?”

    In bright flames, red like autumn, his mind replied. “I’m alright, you?”

    “I’m great, thanks,” she answered, caramel-eyed, flashing another grin.

    His cheeks were scarlet, “Uh, shall we go?”

     “Sure, let me lock my bike.”

    He stood there, jumping on his heels and looking at the back of her head while she locked the bicycle next to his. Her short, straight hair partially covered her little black backpack while it shone in the golden sunlight. He remembered the day when he had to untangle a hair tie from it; her nervous laughter rung in his ears again and he recalled the smoothness of the strands under his fingertips. He snapped out of his daydream and found her standing in front of him, mimicking his hypnotized rocking.

    Her laughter anchored him to the present. “Good, you’re back. Let’s go,” she said, wrapping her arm against his. Like that, and with his stomach in knots, they crossed the road and walked into the café.

    “The table beside the window is free!”

    “Yes, let’s sit there for a change.”

    His teasing was met with a gentle push and a pout. Adorable. No. Remember it’s not.

    By now he knew how much she liked to look out the big glass window. After all, he always watched intently as the outside world entranced her; cold fingers wrapped around the hot cup as she drank the sight in like nectar through slightly parted lips and squinting shiny eyes. That’s when he stayed quiet on purpose.

    “Hello, glad to have you back.” the waiter greeted them, already writing on his notepad.

    “Hey, nice to see you. The usual, please,” cinnamon girl answered.

    The waiter gave her a quick, unbelieving look. “I know.”

    She chuckled and replied with a thank you.

    Her eyes turned to blushing boy. “When the employees memorize your order is when you know it’s time to visit other places.”

    “Sure, as if you’d ever go to another café besides this one.”

    “Yeah, this is the only one that serves real coffee, comrade.”

    “Comrade?”

    “Anything wrong with that?”

    “Nothing, it’s just odd.”

    “Most things on Earth are odd, comrade. For example, you’ve been oddly quiet this afternoon.”

    “I was just thinking...”

    “Good job. Keep it up.”

    “Thinking about the trees. They’re actually generous, you know? They give us a lovely green to look at for two seasons, and after that you’d think they’d simply leave. Instead, they say goodbye in deep reds, sober oranges, dark yellows, and warm browns. Then you think how we’ve done nothing but destroy nature since we got here, and she still gives us these simple gifts. It’s sad that few people notice, though.”

    Entranced girl’s look was puzzled. She giggled. “God, you’ve been reading my stuff, haven’t you?”

    Burning boy’s hand went to the back of his neck. “Maybe,” he said through taut lips.

    “I’m sorry, then,” she laughed. “Hey, don’t blush. That was really nice. I’m just being my sour, sarcastic self. Might even steal it some day. Watch out.”

    “Did you really like it?”

    “Oh, don’t make me say it again.”

    He smiled, muscles relaxing. “Did you just compliment me?”

    “Shut up and get used to it. You’re pretty easy to compliment.”

    The waiter arrived and set two spoons, two cups of coffee and a big piece of chocolate cake in the middle of the table. As the boy sweetened his drink, he watched her sip her coffee.

    “Have I told you why I adore it black? People have a habit of filling their coffee with milk, sugar, cream, or whatever spices they choose to saturate it with, and the true taste is gone. You can’t savor the bean anymore. The whole essence of coffee is lost, and all that’s left is a sugary bomb. Drinking it black is refreshing, simple, to the point. However, my palate is not that sophisticated, so excuse me for sweetening it a little.”

    The girl added a bit of sugar to her drink, and after mixing it she put the spoon in her mouth to lick the remaining coffee. Then she went straight for the cake, closing her eyes as she tasted it.

    “This cake, I swear- oh, I love it,” she stated.

    “I’d enjoy it too if you me left some.”

    “Hey, I always leave a piece for you.”

    “Yeah, a tiny, meager portion. We’re supposed to share it. If you don’t like that, we’ll have to order two pieces.”

    “No, I can’t eat a whole piece! Consider my figure, please!”

    “What figure?” he retorted, although he considered it quite a lot.   

    “Stop talking and eat.”

    The terrifying silence settled between them, but she didn’t seem to notice as she slowly chewed and swallowed her treat. He began to tap his fingers on the table and scratch his head. Soon his knees were jumping.

    “I don’t like this,” he shattered the silence.

    The girl froze with the cup on her lips. “What?”

    “I don’t like awkward silences like that one. I get anxious.”

    “Oh,” she put the cup down. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll try to make them comfortable for you, then.”

    He chuckled. “I don’t think you can do that. I mean, I really like talking, as you’ve probably noticed, but of course sometimes I run out of things to say. It’d be nice if you could speak a bit more, too, say what’s on your mind. I don’t really care-” he stopped when he noticed she’d gotten lost again.

    Her head was on her hand and her eyes were glued to the window. One of her fingers softly scratched her hair. He listened to her constant, soft breaths as he stared at her parted lips. They curled into a small smile and then quickly relaxed just before she ran her tongue over the lower one. Then she put her other hand under her chin and started caressing her cute little nose. Eyelashes slowly brushed squishy cheeks. The sunlight hit her  irises and made them look like two drops of caramel. Minutes, or perhaps centuries, passed as he stared at her in that beautiful captivated state.

    “See, we’ve been silent for a long while and you’re fine.”

    The boy blinked. “What?”

    “Silence is wonderful when you learn how to appreciate it. I personally love it. The universe is too loud and active. Black holes swallow stars in one corner and galaxies are being born in the other. Oh, and even when that’s happening humans are accountable for seventy percent of galactic noise. It’s been scientifically proven.”

    “Two monologues in one afternoon. See, you can also speak.”

    “Sure I can, but I love listening to you. Your voice is the one sound that doesn’t annoy me.”

    The girl quietly stared at him as he took a sip of his coffee. Even though he tried to conceal it, she noticed the disgust in his complexion.

    “Cut it out.”

    “Cut what out?”

    “Pretending to like coffee.”

    “This is a coffee shop. I’m free to drink whatever I want.”

    “That’s true. I can’t stop you from torturing yourself, but at least let me ask the waiter for some milk. It’ll make it less strong.”

    She did as she promised, and he soon had a small kettle with milk in front of him. He poured it into his cup, watching the black abyss turn into a much less menacing cream-colored liquid. Indeed, the milk softened its taste and made it better. Almost passable.

    The girl looked at him as he finished his bigger-than-usual piece of cake and his coffee. He cleaned his mouth with a napkin.

    “You’re a nice guy,” she remarked.

    “Uh, thanks.”

    “But not just nice in a polite way. You’re nice to look at.”

    He raised an eyebrow, looking absolutely clueless, and unendurably cute.

    “Yeah, there it is,” she stated.

    “What?”

    “I knew you’d prove my point.”

    His confusion immediately increased with that statement, and she raised her hand and asked for the bill. The waiter brought it, and the girl firmly refused to let the boy pay. It was her turn now, after all. Then they left and walked towards the bench on the other side of the road.

    “Why did you ask for the bill so soon?” he inquired.

    “I felt suffocated.”

    “Oh, okay.”

    “I’ll be leaving, then. Nice to see you.”

    The boy’s heart sunk. He hated watching her go because he knew that as soon as she was out of sight another week or two of longing would follow. A time period consisting of watches that would tick away too slowly and texts that left too many thoughts out.

    “Are you okay? You look like a sad puppy,” she asked.

    “Oh, it’s nothing. I just remembered an assignment.”

    The next thing came as a surprise, for he was too busy mentally wallowing in his own pity to notice that the girl’s expression was also broken. She got on her tiptoes and threw her arms around him. She hugged his neck tightly, her chin on his shoulder. The boy, completely baffled, hugged her waist. There they lingered, eyes closed, noses taking every particle in. She smelled like green tea sweetened with honey. Yes, she did. That crucial detail was finally his.

    Without letting go, she whispered, “Please, let’s see each other soon, and in another place.”

    “Where?”

    “Wherever you’re not afraid to speak the truth.”

    “Uh, sure.”

    She laughed into his shoulder and they let go. She still had a smile on her face. “You’re fascinating. Tell me when you get it, please.”

    Then she turned around, unlocked her bike, and rode away.

    The boy couldn’t move as a million questions rushed through his mind. Where did she want them to go? Why couldn’t she just say it? What did he have to get? At least she’d just called him fascinating. Yes, she just did! Wait, did she really mean that? He could only stand there, frozen, trying to process the recent events. However, one thing was certain: for all eternity he’d safeguard the sensations of that afternoon.

    An embrace warming him inside while it trekked into his tummy.

    A mellow voice softening the bitterness on his tongue.

    The sugary aftertaste of a meeting in the fall.

*****

Hello, humans. I really didn’t want to post this.

    As you can see this isn’t my usual style. Most of the time my stories somehow turn out to be depressing after I write them. This time, I was determined to write something soft and comforting, but not this soft. Excuse me while I throw up. Oh God, a friend had to “force” me to do it (she actually just proofread it and liked it). I am blushing, oh Lord. Haha. I do hope you like it, anyway.

    A little disclaimer: I know I use a lot of food-related language. Please note that I in no way intend to objectify women. They’re just metaphors to represent warmth and sweetness. It doesn’t mean that the male is trying to swallow her or something. He does want to be very close to her (as if they were one and all that romantic bullpoop) but he doesn’t intend to own her completely. Plus, she loves coffee, so I’m comparing her to something she loves. Also, most of the food is dark-colored, but I don’t promote a fetish of any ethnicity. The main metaphor is “brown=warmth”, so I used sweet, brown foods.

Love,

Nan.