The Maze Vol. 1, 2022

Vol. 1, 2022

¿Qué es The Maze?
Es un proyecto que nació en
2018 con un enfoque en escritura
creativa y literatura inglesa.
Ahora, en 2022, toma un giro
drástico apuntando a darle
una plataforma, más allá de la
Academia, a todo tipo de arte
producido por personas adultas
jóvenes que residen en Costa Rica.
Consejo Editorial
Natacha Bonilla @asphodesu
Ian Rojas @iancrojas
Andrey Paniagua @andreypagui0630
Adriana Salas @adri_salas21
Celeste Díaz @celeste_dj22
Arte y Diseño
Jerson Sáenz @jersaenz
Agradecimientos especiales
Leonardo Chinchilla
Verónica Campos
Roberto Saravia
Ilse Bussing
Fabián Elizondo
Concurso de Escritura Creativa en
Lenguas Extranjeras ELM - UCR
POESÍA
Contenido
Roots Lost...............................................................................................................................................2
Camino sin Andar...................................................................................................................................3
Sonnet Labyrinthique de Lettres.............................................................................................................4
Waiting....................................................................................................................................................5
¿Qué es un laberinto? .............................................................................................................................6
Reloj........................................................................................................................................................7
El Brinco del Carbunco...........................................................................................................................8
Melancolic Despair.................................................................................................................................9
A Poem for Those Young Colleagues Who Glorify Themselves During Crisis...................................10
My Slaughtered Americas.....................................................................................................................11
PROSA
The Demonic Thomas...........................................................................................................................15
Don’t Follow Me...................................................................................................................................19
Fragments of Our Inner Orchestra........................................................................................................21
Oblivion.................................................................................................................................................23
Te quiero a ti.........................................................................................................................................25
Amar al mar..........................................................................................................................................26
Acheron in Lethe ..................................................................................................................................27
Acheron in Lethe ..................................................................................................................................27
The Price of Gold..................................................................................................................................29
Death in Madrid....................................................................................................................................31
Cries from an Old Sapling....................................................................................................................34
I Hear a Symphony................................................................................................................................35
Comment on To Kill A Mockingbird: A Timeless Text........................................................................37
Literary Labyrinths...............................................................................................................................38
A Woman’s War....................................................................................................................................39

POESÍA

Roots Lost
I grieve the loss of a culture
I never knew I had.
I wonder if its now too late
Too try and get it back.
From Malta came my grandma,
The one I never met,
With language, food, and ways of life
I yearn for with regret.
But I don’t need to go so far,
The same thing happens here.
Erased by years of Spanish rule
To which native groups adhere.
I thought I knew my roots,
English and Spanish too.
But those were nothing more than
lies
When thinking lineage through.
Angie Loveday Solano
Where has it gone? Where do I go?
How do I get it back?
Erasure comes much worse than death
And there’s no changing track.
So when people ask me
Why do I want to write?
It’s so that we’re not forgotten,
Hope to stick like parasites.
My way of life. My hopes and dreams
Are nothing more than thought,
But i don’t want to lose my ways
Even if I’m just a fraud.
1 2

Camino sin Andar
Estefany Valverde Rojas
Sonnet Labyrinthique de
Lettres
Il est dit qu’au commencement c’étaient les Lettres,
Estoy cansada de todo y nada
De vivir y no hacerlo
De no llegar al cielo
De no oler su pelo
Ir sin sentir ni amar
De tocar y no erizar
Cansada de no tener las olas a mis
pies
Ni el cielo al revés
Ni mi mirada en la tuya
Ni tu cintura en mis manos
Ni tus besos en mis labios
Cansada de andar trotando
Sin dejar huella
Sin marcar vidas
Sin tener heridas
Sin sentirte mía
En un lieu dont je veux taire le nom fameux
Quoiqu’en paratexte il passe pour lumineux :
Labyrinthe de textes, d’escaliers et d’êtres.
Dédale architectural d’intertextes maîtres,
Nouvelle Babel, creuset de langues glorieux.
Se perdre à droite, à gauche ; être, ne pas être ; aïeux,
Studieux d’à présent : on la voit toujours renaître.
« Où suis-je ? », te dis-tu, oh jeune âme sensible !
Peux-tu donc fuir ces lieux charmants et paisibles ?
Connais-toi d’abord, goûte des mots les caresses,
Perds-toi dans ce monde en miroirs et mimesis,
Paradoxes, dilemmes, mixités ; puis dresse
Des doux mensonges ut pictura poesis.
Homenaje a la Facultad de Letras,
ínclita nueva Babel
Francisco Guevara Quiel
Decano
3 4

¿Qué es un
Waiting...
laberinto?
You are alright for a while
You could joke for a while
You could smile and laugh gaily,
but choke back to tears.
You could have lived life like a carousel:
Beau after beau after beau.
All decked out head to toe,
you wait for someone to notice you.
But some nights you look to the future,
forgetting that you have been shedding
tears
as if green smoke got into your eyes,
making you lose your stability.
Not a soul to tell your troubles to,
eagerly you wait for the phone to ring
yet the stillness gives no token
and the world goes ‘round.
You may think about someday, one day
but never think right here, right now.
You climb the stair and never knock
knowing nobody’s there.
Your heart is too much in control
the lack of romance in your soul
will turn people gray
so you stay away from them.
Shaia JaCor
People might hold your hand so tight,
too close to say any word,
to wish you well but couldn’t tell
that you’ve been crying, crying.
Everything may seem to be going well,
and be surrounded by people,
yet is just you and your shadow
all alone and feeling blue.
Shades of night could be falling and you
are lonely
Lonely, crying and waiting
Just waiting...
Always waiting...
Fabián Elizondo
Los laberintos son palabras:
Son muros que se construyen
Que se enervan con el tiempo.
Los significados nos eluden;
Las grietas en sus ruinas
Se lamentan en el viento.
En su búsqueda primitiva
De encontrar la salida,
Las palabras olvidan su ministerio.
Los laberintos son palabras:
Son muros que nos construyen
Donde nos refugiamos en retraimiento.
You make common cause
with people you don’t like,
people who had betrayed you
to feel that is not only you and your
shadow.
5 6

Reloj
El Brinco del Carbunco
Estefany Valverde Rojas
Kevin Flores Solís
Era tan ingenua que creía que si su reloj se detenía, el tiempo también
lo haría
Que la luna entonces ya no se escondería
Que el sol nunca más saldría
Que nunca amanecería
Que sus brazos jamás le soltarían
Que sus labios siempre la besarían
Que los recuerdos de su mente no se esfumarían
Que todo seguiría como el primer día
Donde la ilusión le daba vida
Cuando el corazón tan fuerte le latía
Temiendo de que un día de su pecho le saldría
Pero el reloj se paró y la noche continúo
La luna se esfumó
El sol por la montaña salió y ella como siempre
Sola despertó…
Pocos son los sonidos
que nos retroceden la sangre:
el brinco de un carbunco,
el chasquido quebrado de la tiza,
o el brusco cuero contra la piel.
Pocos son los sonidos
que nos recuerdan aquellos cismas
donde los viejos coros
se quitaron las máscaras
y crearon la tragedia contemporánea.
7 8

Melancolic Despair
N.M. Castillo
A Poem for Those Young
Colleagues Who Glorify
Themselves During Crisis
Kevin Flores Solís
“Wherefore if earthly glory hath so great power over the
strength of body and mind, that men despise the sword, the fire,
the cross, the beasts, the tortures, for the reward of the praise
of men, I may say, these sufferings are trifling in the gaining of
heavenly glory and a divine reward.”
-Tertullian
A hazy darkness
Overflows with memories
Withering inside.
Don´t make yourself a martyr.
It’s not about becoming protagonists
(like those who cry
surrounded by romantic corpses).
Now,
give a sincere look at your clock:
tic
tac
toe
Sorry,
three circles in your bank account.
This time,
math won’t solve problems.
Neither your past,
nor your hope.
I know,
time is a daltonic car that only sees
the road.
I know,
its travels are overdosed sleeps
of enslaved horses.
I know,
it ends up in little bags of bones, flesh, sex
falling over
and over
and over
and over
the same staircase.
But,
Please,
Don´t make yourself a martyr,
In acceptance you won’t find redemption.
9 10

My Slaughtered Americas
J.E. Sáenz
Just like Columbus,
You invaded my Americas.
You slaughtered,
Outraged,
And enslaved.
You deprived my land
From its riches.
With your foreign armies,
My sacred temples you profaned.
You conquered a continent
you couldn’t maintain.
You evangelized
With an addictive creed.
And with no mercy,
You judged my sins.
You raided,
Poisoned,
And oppressed.
In your search for spices,
You took the gold not even I had
discovered.
You beheaded,
Depleted,
And destroyed.
In ruins,
What enriched you the most,
You left.
11 12

PROSA

The Demonic Thomas
don’t lie to me, John! I know
you’ve just come from that
horrible place! You know I had
“Oh,
forbidden you to see Eddy and
come to his house as well!” John’s mom said while
seeing him all wet that stormy afternoon getting
back home.
John Mathews wouldn’t believe that Edward
Smith’s house was haunted, although everyone in
his neighborhood would say so; his mom included.
She had prohibited him from even walking nearby
it, and of course, she didn’t agree with John being
friends with Eddy. All people in town knew creepy
things would happen in that house. It looked like
any other, but they knew that a weird couple used
to live there. They had this child who suspiciously
died in the Summer of 1960 at the age of 9. Months
later, his father died in the same unclear way. The
story tells that the lady stayed living in the house
until 1990, and one day no one saw her anymore. It
seemed as if she had been abducted from the inside
of the house. Some would say that the lady killed
both her son and her husband and then committed
suicide, but nobody was ever able to prove that
theory. However, they all believed something
was wrong with that house; something dark and
unexplainable.
“I swear I was not inside the house, mom!
I just stopped by to give back some books to Eddy!
Esteban Sanabria
We were talking on his porch, only. Anyway, I don’t
see how this house could be creepy or haunted at
all. He has lived there for years and nothing has
happened to him or his family. Besides, he’s the only
friend I have at school. Please don’t take us apart,
mom” replied John with the watery, persuasive eyes
that would always characterize him.
The next day at school, John and Eddy
talked about this eerie situation: “Hey Eddy! You,
know, rumor has it your place is hunted. I know
it’s silly to ask but is it true at all?” asked John
spontaneously.
“Wait, what? Of course not. I can’t
understand why people say such a thing about my
house. It is like any other!” replied Eddy upset.
“Sorry, my friend. I know this is crazy, but
my mom keeps telling me that I’d better stay away
from your house or something very bad will happen
to me, something ghostly she says”
“Why don’t you come tonight to prove her
wrong, huh? We can play video games and stuff.
Maybe watch a movie. What you say?”
“You know what? Let’s do it! expressed
John. The only thing is my mom will kill me if she
realizes that I was at your house.
“You come up with an excuse or
something”, said Eddy. “And of course, I won’t tell”
That night John did exactly what he and
Eddy had planned. Around 10 pm, when John’s
mom was already asleep, he opened his window and
silently escaped. At the corner of the street, in his
house, Eddy was waiting for him. They both got in
the house and shut the door quickly before anyone
even noticed.
After having a lot of fun together by playing
games and watching fun movies all night, both
kids fell asleep, but at 3 am, John was woken by a
tremendous bang inside the room.
“weo, weo, weo, weo” was the sound that
John was hearing. He could see a light that was
spinning on the floor. John got really scared. After
some seconds he realized that the noise came from a
toy patrol, which had most likely fallen from Eddy’s
shelf. He took the patrol and turned it off as quickly
as he could. John’s heart was beating so fast that he
could almost feel it leaving his body.
After this incident, John couldn’t get back to
sleep. In fact, he couldn’t believe how deeply Eddy
was sleeping, as he didn’t even realize the noise.
Minutes after, John suddenly felt an
irrepressible need to go to the restroom, so he,
though still scared, got up and headed towards the
door. He knew Eddy’s mom was unaware he was
staying at their home. Thus, he sneaked into the
bathroom as silently as he could. On his way back to
the bedroom, one of the rooms’ lights turned on. He
could see a shape coming out from the room’s door.
The first thing he thought was that Eddy’s mom was
in that room, so he hid behind a big sofa that was in
the living room. He waited for about 10 minutes for
Eddy’s mom to come out of that room so he could
continue approaching Eddy’s room. However, not
even the minimum noise was heard coming from
that room. The shape was also not there anymore.
“Eddy’s room is right there, my friend,” said
a voice behind John at the time he felt a hand placed
on his right shoulder. John jumped and screamed
so loud that he could have woken up everyone in
town. He got shivers, and his first reaction was
immediately turn around himself to see who had
said that, but he couldn’t see anyone.
“Mrs. Smith is not in that room if this is
what you are thinking. You can go and use it if you
want to” said again that unknown voice.
When hearing these new words, John he
started running to Eddy’s room. He suddenly knew
how to get there, although he could see nothing in
the darkness of that house. When he was about to
open the room’s door, he heard again that voice:
“Wanna play with me for a while, my
friend? Now the voice was not just that. It had a
body or at least some sort of a shape. It was a kid
that John was seeing despite the darkness, a kid with
white clothes. It was in fact some sort of a ghost.
All the lights in the living room turned on
by themselves out of nothing. John was now able to
clearly see that “kid” who was telling him things.
John was speechless. He couldn’t stop seeing him
or start running again. He was paralyzed. The ghost
had his head down as if he were bowing. Little by
little, the ghost started to lift his head. John, on the
other hand, was trying to put down his; however,
he couldn’t even move, so he stayed looking at that
ghostly apparition that was talking to him. He, the
ghost, had blue eyes, and very red lips. His face
was cute and smooth. He looked like a real kid, but
different.
“Who... who... who are you?” asked John
stuttering.
“I’m Thomas, son of the old owners of
this house. My mom killed me out of nothing, and
I was never able to leave this house. Thus I come
out to play at night, or actually at any time I want.
15 16

so, wanna play football with me?” replied the ghost
euphorically.
Just as he asked that to John, a football came
down from above and made the typical noise that
it does when bouncing. John immediately turned
around to see where that noise came from, and he
saw the ball. Unconsciously, he blended and picked
it up. Then he turned back to the position he was to
see the “kid” again, but he was not there any longer.
“Boo!” heard John. He got goosebumps
again. “Here! Above you!” shouted Thomas. “You
wanna play or not?” he shouted. When hearing
this, John realized that he was not holding the ball
anymore; Thomas now was.
“Here it goes buddy, you must be the
tackler!” said Thomas while he was somehow
throwing the ball to John. All John could do was run
to Eddy’s bed.
“I gave you the chance to play with me,
and as you refused, I’m now gonna play with you
my way, whether you want it or not,” said Thomas
while his pointing to John with his finger. He looked
furious; he looked evil.
“You now lift John!” the ghost said. In the
blink of an eye, John was placed against the ceiling.
The hit was noisy and also painful for the poor boy.
He couldn’t move any part of his entire body; the
ghost had control over him.
“Help! Help! Put me down! Please, anyone,
help me!” yelled John with the loudest voice he
could produce.
“Don’t be so fool, John. I told you no one
can hear you, it’s just you and me in this room. Eddy
sleeps deeply and won’t wake up until I want,”
pointed out Thomas, now with a devilish smile on
his face.
move his limbs; he was actually able to do so.
“One, two, three!” counted Thomas. “Block
me if you can, you fool!” shouted Thomas at the
time he approached to John’s right with the ball.
As John was now able to move, he tried to block
Thomas as a tackle would do, but he passed quite far
from him. He knew what it would imply.
“Sorry John, better luck for the next one”
pointed out Thomas. “I’m not gonna stab you… you
will. I have decided that you stab yourself. Sounds
like fun, doesn’t it? In fact, take a look at what you
are holding in your right hand” In that exact instant,
Thomas snapped his fingers, and made a dagger
appear in John’s right hand in a second.
“Well, hurry up, my friend. I order you to
stab your leg with that dagger now!” When saying
this, John’s right hand was forced to lift, and rapidly
stabbed the dagger into the depth of his thin leg.
He knew he was dying. He just half-closed his eyes
and asked God to forgive her for having disobeyed
his mom. He wished his mom were with him at that
moment. Then he just surrendered and passed out.
“John!, John! Hey John, wake up! You gotta
come back to your place!” whispered Eddy to John’s
ear. As soon as John heard this, he stood up faster
than ever before. He touched his legs and head to
sense his wounds. There were none. He was fine; he
was alive.
“Oh, God! I’m alive! That was just a
horrible nightmare, wasn’t it Eddy, wasn’t it?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,
John. But you’d better go home or both of us will
have trouble. Go, go, and see you at school!”
exclaimed Eddy at the same time he opened the
window for John to get out of his bedroom and go
home.
“Eddy! Eddy! Hey Eddy! Wake up please!
Wake up please!” John shouted desperately while
shaking Eddy.
“He can’t hear you while I’m here, you fool!
Don’t even bother…” were the words that John
listened to when he realized that Eddy was deeply
asleep.
“I can make people sleep, and I also have
the power to keep them awake if I want,” said
Thomas, now sitting in a chair located next to the
bedroom’s door. His gestures had changed. He now
looked upset and not very friendly as he did outside
the bedroom.
“You have made me upset, Jogn! How dare
you not want to play with me? Who do you think
you are?” said Thomas standing up from where he
was and floating directly to John.
John was terrified. He couldn’t stand up to
even try to escape from the angry ghost. He was
completely frozen.
“I’m gonna be the quarterback and you the
tackle. I’m gonna run towards you with the ball and
you gave to block me. If you don’t, I will stab you,
just like my mom did to me. I will start by stabbing
it into your right leg. Then, if you don’t block my
entry the second time, I will stab you in the stomach,
and finally, if you have no luck with the third one,
I will stab a dagger directly into your head, so
you better are a good tackle” said Thomas with a
demonic voice now.
At that precise moment, John started to cry
inconsolably. He knew all that was happening with
that ghost was his fault. He totally regretted having
escaped from home that night and was sorry because
he knew he would die without saying goodbye to his
mom.
“Be ready John. Here I come” said Thomas
by looking fixedly to John’s position. “I will be nice,
and I will allow you to move your hands and feet;
though you will continue to be stuck to the ceiling”
When Thomas said this, John reacted and tried to
“Wahhhhhh!” shouted John with lots of tears
on his eyes because of the pain. “What have you
done to me, freak?” said John while his leg dripped
blood uncontrollably.
“If you had played with me when I kindly
asked you to, this would not be happening. You now
follow my rules and shut up, understand?” screamed
the demonic Thomas.
“Please take me down, Tomas, I beg you,”
said John while he seemed to be passing out. “I can
no longer stand this”
“Oh shut up, you coward. Kids have become
weaker and weaker with time. This sucks!” said the
ghost
“You know what? End of game. Bye, bye,
John! See you in hell, you fool” said Thomas while
stabbing a dagger into his head.
The last thing John saw after receiving that
dagger was himself falling from the ceiling. He also
saw how Thomas left the room and closed the door.
On his way to his home, John was hugely
relieved to see that everything seemed to have been
a bad dream. He promised he will never disobey his
mom again. Suddenly, he realized he was barefoot.
Because of the excitement, he had forgotten his
shoes at Eddy’s. He quickly came back to the house
for Eddy to give him his shoes through the window.
“Hey! Eddy! My shoes! I forgot to pick
them” Immediately after saying this, the window
was opened, and the shoes leaned out. All of a
sudden, the curtains aggressively dropped, and
Thomas showed up. His smile was demonic, and his
forehead was traversed by a black dagger. He was
holding John’s shoes.
This story is inspired by a true event.
17 18

Don’t Follow Me
-Good. I think I will probably finish it tonight.
-Still thinking about it?- she asked, noticing his enduring absent tone.
A.S.P
-No. Not really.
-Are you alright?
-Yeah.
Soon after the art teacher instructed the students to “get creative” with their still-life pieces, Ben
began to paint a plain rose. The initial composition was simple, fooling Zoe into believing he
was deliberately disobeying the professor. -What’s your gameplan?- she asked as she began
painting her subject: a red onion.
-You’ll see- he said absently, he was clearly focused on his rose.
-Okay, secretive as usual then.
-Don’t mean to. Just don’t know how to describe it. It’s better if you see.
-Alrighty.
They kept painting in silence. Just the two of them kept quiet, however, as the rest of the
classroom was in a ruckus.
-Oh my God did you see this? Mistki is coming to town!- yelled a group of friends with
unparalleled excitement. Zoe liked Mitski quite a bit too; so did Ben.
-Wanna go see Mitski?- she asked while continuing on her piece. She was trying to make the
onion a cube that had layers comprised of more cubes.
-Sure, when is it?
-Not sure, probably in a couple months.
-Oh. I see.
As they continued painting in silence the classroom continued to roar. They went from Mitski
to the uni football team winning the qualifying game, to the local government elections, and even to
the recent kidnapping in the neighboring town. That interested Zoe; true crime was fascinating to her.
She thought about commenting on it with Ben but she knew he did not enjoy that sort of thing, not to
mention she had interrupted him more than enough for a session.
After a few hours, the class ended. They both packed their tools and left for the dorms.
-How’s yours coming along?
-You sure? You seem odd.
19 20
-I’m sure.
-Well okay. If anything happens let me know, okay?
Ben suddenly stopped walking. Zoe did too and they locked their sights toward one
another. Zoe’s concern was transforming from a mere phantom into a palpable entity.
-Zoe -said Ben in an uneasy, cracked voice- be kind.
-Be safe
Ben kissed her left cheek.
He kissed the other.
-Don’t follow me.
-Ben, what-
He kissed her forehead.
-Come over for breakfast- he said as he smiled faintly.
Ben then left Zoe to go to his dorm. Zoe was rooted to the ground like a small and weak
sycamore. She felt sick with dread, a feeling that didn’t leave her even when she slept that night.
Breaking the habit of waking up later than usual, she went to Ben’s dorm at 7:00 am
sharp. She was going to knock on the door until she noticed it was open. She then barged in to
find an empty room. One that was way cleaner than it was two days ago when they had eaten
some taco bell while binge-watching horror films. The bed was neatly made, all the books
arranged according to size, and sitting in his newly organized desk lay a small envelope, and next
to it, sitting in the chair was the canvas of his painting. Zoe opened the envelope and read the
contents as fast as she could.
Dread and confusion grew healthily as she read, and they were strangling her once she
was done. Hastily, she unveiled Ben’s painting. Zoe then beheld the sight of a blue rose that
inhabited the entire canvas. The design and composition were so elaborate and intricate that they
seemed alive. Zoe was staring at it, and the rose seemed to stare right back. It seemed to talk too.
Zoe stared and listened as she held the painting and soon after she flooded the dorms from
top to bottom with her dread-filled screams.

Fragments of Our
Inner Orchestra
My ears were comfortable with the sound
of the piano and the violin together. I thought
they had the purest connection in the world of
music, and I wondered how humanity got to build
something so perfectly accurate for our brains to
feel okay while we listen.
The pianist was playing with his eyes
closed. My eyes were looking at his eyelids. He
looked passionate and in love with the sound
of the piano keys. The movement of his fingers
was effortless; his brain had acknowledged and
learned every single detail the piano contained,
but his heart was the one making others feel pure
sensations. One had the theory while the other one
had the emotion. He knew the piano as if was the
inner part of his soul. He knew the keyboard as if
it was the only way to communicate his feelings.
His feet knew when to press the pedals of the old
white piano. He knew about the notes as if they
were a diagram where life was enclosed. Not only
did he know about the chords, but he also seemed
to know about the majestic of their sounds. He
was playing each melody with the rhythm of his
inner voice, a voice that was made up of A major,
and D minor. Each song he would play seemed to
be a way to express what words couldn’t explain.
It was certainly his way to let others know that he
was screaming his truth without even speaking,
and that was captivating. I wondered if he knew
that, along with all the pianists in the world.
There were a group of women playing
the violin, which was my favorite instrument; I
Mariana Camacho Ruiz
believed it was the greatest invention of all time,
and maybe of all parallel lives, and universes.
The technique, the movements of the strings, the
fingerboard, the tailpiece, the fine tuners, and all
its parts; every single corner of it was significant.
The sound that would impact someone’s ears
was lovely: the music coming from a single
thing. My eyes were sparkling while I was seeing
the scenario as if I were proud of what I was
watching; as if I had a kid who had rehearsed for
months to finally present their work and effort
to others to the world somehow. I felt connected
to these people, and what they were doing, even
If I did not know how to play anything. I knew
that part of their work was to make people feel
like they were experiencing their humanity, and
that they were generating genuine, and intense
emotions in their insides. Listening to them would
make people feel that we were walking through
a path to experience what we constantly forget in
our daily lives. Making people feel alive was part
of the art.
I did not want to walk away from the
sensation it provoked in me.
My ears and eyes wanted to stay there for
a lifetime.
I wanted to freeze the scene with the music
playing in my memory. Forever.
I think what has always pleased me about
art is the fact that it has given me a great diversity
of explanations for the events in our lives. When
things happen, and they penetrate our souls in one
way or another, there are so many forms to see
it: In poetry others have written, in the tones of
the violin, in the abstraction of paintings, in the
melody of the instruments, in the drawings on the
wall or presented in a museum. What I love most
about art is that, when life becomes chaotic, there
are ways to see beauty in it. A beautiful tragedy,
may I add.
We can literally read something in a book
that grabs us completely, that speaks to us in some
way as if we needed it. What captivates me most
about art is that even if there is life everywhere,
we still need it. We need the existing coherence it
has about what we may experience; we need the
sensations it captures about something beyond
what we could ever understand by just simply
breathing.
We need it to understand what a simply
living human being cannot comprehend.
I reckon art is the most authentic and
transparent window to see people through;
sometimes it will be about listening to orchestras,
and being in silence. Other times it will be about
discoveries inside us while we make “ugly”
draws, cry over songs, sing our pain, and scream
our fears and passions.
Sometimes it will be about art saving our
21 22
lives.

Oblivion
N.M. Castillo
It was as though she had never existed.
All trace of her was erased in an instant; gone, removed completely until all she left behind were
bitter memories and pain in his heart. It was hard. It was hard to pretend that he was okay. It was
hard to pretend that he, like the rest of the world, had moved on.
That he, one day, would move on.
He wouldn’t. The memories were too heavy on his heart, burnt permanently into his mind. They
may forget how tall she was, the pitch of her voice, maybe even her face... He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t
forget the way she laughed on that swing, fearlessly, loudly. He wouldn’t forget how she embraced him;
the warmth of her hands warming him all the way to the top. He wouldn’t forget how she whispered her
secrets to him, how she cried, how everything she ever felt, she always said. How could he forget when
she had been everything? When she had been the only one to ever care for him?
She was gone. Her children would move on, just like her husband did, and so would the rest of
the world. She would become just another soul. She would become another tragedy, another number
lost in records.
Her belongings would be sold or discarded to oblivion as if they were throwing out their
memories of her. They would succumb to silence instead of grief until all they felt was numbness, and
then a vague sense of nostalgia.
They would move on. He wouldn’t.
He would still watch that swing stay still on sunny days; watch it dance with the rain on stormy
days. He would watch it and imagine her there again, while she told him all about her husband and her
new life. He would stay there, imagining her, with that warm cup of coffee she always had early in the
mornings.
But the coffee was cold. The swing was still and quiet.
And he was there, an old and empty oak, stuck forever in that backyard, withering in memories.
23 24

Te quiero a ti
Amar al mar
Estefany Valverde Rojas
KUMA
Perdida en el tiempo, navego sin rumbo por un océano repleto de enormes olas que me
dificultan llegar a mi norte, tú lo eres.
Perdida en mis pensamientos, sin entender lo que pasa dentro. Guíame. Dime, ¿a dónde debo
ir? Trázame el sendero; deja huellas que me ayuden a encontrarte; no te alejes de mí porque
siento que no podré encontrarte nunca, y es lo que más deseo en el mundo: tenerte y descifrarte.
Sueño bajo el frío de la noche; las estrellas me alumbran pero aún así no logro ver lo que
necesito. Mis ojos están empañados por las lágrimas que salen de mi interior. Las mimas humedecen
la tierra seca que me rodea, y ella, muy de prisa, la absorbe porque es lo único que la ha tocado en los
últimos días. Siento su sabor salado, y no puedo entender cómo siendo yo tan dulce. Y en ese instante,
pienso que la tierra es como yo; necesita tanto de algo que, cuando por fin lo tiene, no lo disfruta y
termina por acabarlo.
Vivo esperando encontrarte, y pienso tanto en ese momento que olvido buscarte. Perdóname.
¿Lo ves? Estoy realmente perdida. Yo solo quiero sentir tus labios susurrando sobre mi oreja que todo
estará bien. Quiero que tus manos me toquen donde nadie más lo ha hecho. Quiero que me inundes la
mente con tus ideas extrañas. Quiero que todo tu ser viva junto con el mío, y que un día la vida se nos
haga tan fácil que ya no sepamos como respirar el uno sin el otro.
Y aunque esté muy perdida, sé que quiero y lo que no quiero; vivir un día más sin saber dónde
estás. Siempre he dicho que soy mi propia luz pero quizás a veces necesito que tú enciendas una parte
de mí que ni yo misma puedo.
Me encuentro contigo una vez
más, en tu hora favorita, antes
que el sol ilumine la costa y los
pescadores vengan a interrumpir
nuestro encuentro. Hoy tu rostro luce más triste
que antes; tus ojos lloran más que antes y tu
garganta esta más cerrada. Sin percatarme, yo
también comienzo a llorar en silencio; por ti y tu
melancolía y por este amor prohibido que nos une
y nos separa al mismo tiempo. Tus ásperos dedos
rozan la humedad de mi piel y me estremecen,
mientras encuentro nuevamente esa calidez que
me hizo enamorarme de ti. Aunque tu calidez
es distinta esta vez. Tus brazos me rodean con
fuerza, con tanta fuerza que empiezo a perder
la respiración mientras intento forcejear, pero
un ser del mar como yo no podría vencerte en
tu elemento. A continuación, alcanzas la bolsa
en tu costado y tomas el cuchillo con el que
despojas a los peces de sus entrañas. Tu mano
izquierda cubre mi boca e impide que grite por
ayuda, aunque sabemos que eso sería la perdición
para los dos. Entonces el cuchillo se desliza
limpiamente en mi piel. Su filo, pese a ser tan frio
como el hielo, se siente como hierro ardiente en
mi piel expuesta. Desesperada, muerdo tu mano y
siento el cálido carmesí fluir por los costados de
mi boca, pero no te detienes hasta despojarme por
completo de mi piel. Pronto el sol se asoma por
la costa y los pescadores salen de sus hogares. Es
entonces, y solo entonces, que me sueltas, y caigo
entre las piedras y la arena. Con la poca fuerza
que me queda, me doy la vuelta para encontrar tus
ojos aniñados empapados de lágrimas. Aunque
me despojaste de los más importante para mí, el
amor que siento sigue tan intenso como el primer
momento que te vi. Suavemente, te escucho
pedirme perdón mientras aprietas mi piel con
fuerza, antes de darme la espalda y mostrar a los
pescadores, que recién se habían acercado, lo que
arrancaste de mí. Mientras tanto, una ola se acerca
a mi espalda y la sal que contiene quema mi carne
expuesta, pero pronto, su calor me envuelve como
si mi madre el mar se estuviera despidiendo de mí,
dándome un último regalo al curar mis heridas.
Entonces, regresas a mí y, con una piel que no
me pertenece, cubres mi desnudes y me ayudas a
levantarme. Tus compañeros pescadores sonríen
al verme de pie y elogian mi belleza mientras
pasamos a su lado. Sus ojos me miran de arriba
abajo, recorren mis curvas con miradas libidinosas
e intentan acercarse, pero me empujas para
impedir que me alcancen. Los hijos de la tierra
como tú y las hijas del mar como yo no somos
compatibles, ya lo sabía. Mis hermanas las selkies
me lo dijeron hasta el cansancio, pero ignoré sus
palabras solo por ti. Esa mañana me arrancaste
de los lazos con mi madre y te perdoné solo por
nuestro amor. Así fui tuya como nunca seré de
nadie más y en tus brazos recibí consuelo hasta
que mi corazón sanó casi por completo; pues una
parte de mi siempre se quedara con mi madre, el
mar.
25 26

Acheron in Lethe
Msalasv
Normally, wind is to sway the garments
the particles of mold that linger in the stagnant air that
which a person wears, but how is it that
was now typical of the household, those dark oxfords
one’s vesture sways and crumbles in
patted down the stained rug with loving fondness on
a closed space? Footsteps echo in the
their way down. The old walnut had started to splinter
empty halls; the grime accumulating on them does
and crack under the weight of its age (truth be told,
not dissuade their owner from finishing their aimless
it was not the only one). Skin’d be prickled like toes
journey. They keep on going, keep on walking. Every
rushing to the sea on a summer day in a shelled-filled
crevice, every dent, each spot of moss, every tiny
beach, but it was whispering to its holder about all
particle of dust and spores, they know by name. It’s
those times it had been stroke by caring and flirty
a turn to the right, where the late master had ripped
hands dressed in gloves and glistening jewels.
the garnet wallpaper with his newly acquired wooden
Downstairs the view was afflictive, to
horse while running from lady Catherine and her
say the least. It did not shine with the light of a
impatient invitation to yet another of her infamous tea
thousand fireflies caught in the carefully threaded
parties. The shredded paper had long been discolored
floss of a crystal spider, nor were any colorful flower
by the rays of the midday sun and the growing
arrangements adorning the heavy double panel doors.
mold that infected the house with silent sickness.
The foyer was as lifeless as the rest of the building,
Sir Emmett had slowly perished at the hands of the
the only arachnid that weaved anything now were
troublesome pests that are termites; their hungry jaws
but those hairy eight-legged creatures that had taken
had taken him apart, piece by piece, until all that was
upon themselves to redecorate the ceiling with white
left were the leather of his head and strands of yarn
silk. No high-pitched giggles could be heard as they
that had disintegrated long ago. The jaws of time were
ran around the place. No drunken dazed laughs would
ever hungry, and they feasted themselves better with
carry past the staircase into the heart of the house. No.
memories.
All there was were peeling walls, stuffy air, and the
It had become too quiet; the lack of sound
whispered mumblings of long-gone ghosts.
was deafening. The absence of clicking heels and
The thumping sound kept its deceleration. The
creaky old wood beneath one’s weight was a hunting
void of the carcass that harbored that old drum kept on
experience. No, better to keep on moving. Don’t let
growing like a black hole. Its owner feared for the day
yourself get caught.
the thumping would stop all together. The marching
Brushes of air swept dear old Emmet’s
band would take an eternal breath, the drumsticks
crumbly hair into newfound places as those black
would crunch and clatter; at last, there would be
dressing shoes kept on moving. The currant rug that
nothing. All would be lost; all would be forgotten. No,
had adorned the hallways now dressed a wine color
it must go on. They must be remembered.
due to all the loess and grit that had descended on it
With a quick shake to get rid of all those nasty
like the flowing rivers of the underworld. Following its
thoughts, well-dressed feet carried themselves across
dirty woven threads to the staircase and shushing away
the foyer. Focused on what lay ahead: The exit. No
memories would command the owner of said black
painting of a mansion.
shoes to get lost in the memoirs that played mournful
Just like in the afterlife, there is suffering
memories in its path. No matter how tempting it was
and pain and lamentation, but there might also be
to stop and rejoice with the rest of them, they kept on
forgiveness, or, if worse comes to worst, oblivion.
walking; their pacing escalated as the moving pictures
Call it a blessing or a curse, that is up to the beholder
turned grimier with each step they took. The house
to decide, but for trapped souls walking, aimlessly in
was no home, not anymore. Not alone.
a forgotten tale of what used to be and never were, it
The doors were pushed open with avid force.
ain’t nothing but a cruel punishment; the lord knows
A smack on the nose of the chilling air would’ve been
there is no need to be so cruel to the dead.
welcomed, so would have snow or an obnoxious leaf
that might disarray one’s hair; anything that might
exceed life, change. Anything that would supply the
tiniest of feelings to a dying soul. Then again, as
Pandora taught, hope is the last thing one loses. Or
perhaps, it was no hope, but delusion that which had
allowed him to dream of grass and swings creaking
in the wind. After all, the game went on. This sick
game, which drained one’s very being; a game that
no one in their right mind would ever sign themselves
up. No. It started back where it ended and ended right
where it started; in a room with stained sheets, broken
glass, and the spot where a boy had once been. It
started in that cursed room whose air was like poison,
suffocating one’s lungs until tears were shed.
And so tears fell, and a whispered-out name
was exclaimed in a broken sigh. Of course. On and on
the carousel goes.
It’s often like this. There’s pain and laughter,
boredom and amusement, patience and annoyance;
after all what would life be without them? Is what
makes us real our memories? Is it our feelings? Could
it be both?
Some people spend their lives hunting for
emotions. Some are haunted by the remembrance of
unwanted events, and some live their lives without
knowing, without ever noticing how others might
be trapped. Trapped inside their minds, inside their
uneventful lives, in a marriage they did not want, in
a loveless house, in a song, in a cave or inside an old
27 28

The Price of Gold
N.M. Castillo
What had he done?
Horror gripped his limbs as the
realization of what he had lost settled
in. Deep within him, something
seemed to take hold of his heart, squeezing every
ounce of blood out of it. He could feel the paleness of
his skin, the cold sweat on his back, and all he could
do was curse himself and the gods. Himself, for his
greediness, naivety, and all that had cost. The gods, for
all their tricks and lies; their selfish favors.
Did he really need more? Was it necessary?
Was this loss worth all the things he had won? All the
things he could not do anymore? He did not think so.
Not now, when the most important thing was gone.
Gone. Forever.
The King shook his head in an attempt to
focus once more on the present. On what he could
do, instead of on what could have been. The golden
hue of the sunshine almost blinded him as he looked
around the garden. Roses shining with the shame of
greed looked back at him accusingly. It was not as if
they could hate him more than he loathed himself; they
could not. They could never.
He stared at his hands for a few more
seconds, letting the terror travel through his body. The
memories were vivid in his mind through the frenzied
panic that seemed to control him at the moment.
He remembered the feast; how cocky he had been.
However, that had not been his first mistake. The
King knew he had acted wrongly the moment he had
been kind to that strange creature he had found in his
garden; it had long and pointy ears, as well as what he
thought looked like a horsetail. The strange creature
had the torso of a man, but its face was that of a beast.
A satyr. That should have been his first warning to stay
away. The second one had been the strong wine odor
that came from the old satyr. That should have been
enough, he thought, to find an excuse not to bring him
in. That should have been enough.
As he thought about this, images of the past
ten days drowned his mind. It almost felt as if his
conscience was slipping away from him, but the horror
and guilt kept a strong hold on him. They were the
only things grounding him. He remembered all the
songs the satyr had sung for them. He could almost
see the way his own daughter had laughed at the sight
as she had never seen anything funnier. The thought
brought another needle of pain that stuck in his heart;
she would never laugh like that again. She would
never laugh.
“My King,” A man said.
It took him out of his musings violently, and
it took him a moment to focus his eyes again. His
mind seemed to grasp the remnants of his memories
as if that would make everything okay. As if he could
change the past. He could not.
When he found himself back, the first thing
he saw was his daughter’s face forever stained in
anger. A quiet reminder of his mistakes. He grimaced
at the sight and averted his eyes. Then, he finally saw
the servant. The man was standing in front of him, a
few steps away, with his skin turning paler with each
passing second. Yes, he thought, I did this. This is my
fault. This is what my avarice has caused us all.
However, he did not voice those thoughts. He
couldn’t even find his voice.
“My King,” He repeated, though this time his
voice had lost its thunder. “The Princess-”
The King gaped like a fish. He opened his
mouth. He willed the words to come out. Nothing did.
Silence, dry and rough, was the only thing they could
hear. It embraced them as if to remind them of what
had been lost. It almost felt like an echo of what they
29 30
felt.
At his lack of words, the realization seemed
to weigh in on the servant. His wild eyes went from
the unmoving figure of the Princess to the King and
back again to the Princess. His gaze dropped, then, and
focused on his hands. The King felt shame for a few
seconds, and although he had wanted to hide them, he
did not. His cursed hands would not be hidden. They
would be out for the world to see, to judge, to punish.
“Is there not a way?” The servant’s voice was
quiet and fragile, yet powerful in the silence. Like a
hairpin dropped on the floor. “If we pray to the Gods,
maybe-”
“To the Gods?” The King repeated. It was like
a clap of thunder, and he wondered for a second if,
perhaps, Zeus himself had finally learned of his crime.
“Why would I? Wasn’t God the one who gave me this
curse?”
Another glance at his hands. In doing so, the
tinge of gold he caught from the corner of his eyes
resembled the golden sun, but it could have been the
golden skin of his daughter. Treacherous, he thought.
What a treacherous hue.
The King still did not comprehend why he
had been so drawn to this power. What had possessed
him to ask for it when deceitful Dionysus had offered
a gift? Greed. Avarice. Selfishness. It had been a
naive gift to ask for, even in his mind it had been
brilliant. A golden touch, so that everything he touched
would become gold. Infinite wealth. Had it not been
the perfect plan? The perfect gift to ask for? His
daughter’s face answered his question in silence. No, it
had not been. She had never been happy with it. Mere
moments before, she had been here, arguing about him
ruining perfectly good red roses.
Now, she stood still.
Still angry. Still shouting.
She had been cursed by a golden Medusa.
Her beautiful eyes, unmoving. Her skin,
shining. Her hair, impassive.
Dionysus had not given him the gift he had
thought of; he had given him a curse. A curse for a
greedy man. His touch was indeed golden, but it did
not discriminate. His food had turned to gold although
he had been starving. His wine had solidified in his
touch with irony.
He was cursed.
Damned.
And so was the Princess.

Death in Madrid
Shaia JaCor
Have you ever felt like you have been
searching for someone or something
your whole life?
I have been living for almost four
hundred years in order to achieve my first love.
I have witnessed every important moment of
history. I have been in every type of body, from
men, women and even animals and still, I did not
find my first love. Until on a winter afternoon
of the year 1955, when Europe lay under such
threatening weather, I found him. I had set
out alone from my apartment in Pekin, for a
daily lonely walk as my doctor recommended.
Agitated by the trying and precarious feeling of
the forenoon—which had demanded a maximum
wariness, prudence, penetration, and rigour of
my will— I had not been able even after the noon
meal to be productive, and I had not attained
the healing sleep which, with the increasing
exhaustion of my strength, I needed in the middle
of each day. So I had gone outdoors soon after tea,
in the hopes that air and movement would restore
a forty five year old man like me. It was certainly
the beginning of the weary November, and from
here, as the sun was sinking and reaching by
quieter and quieter paths, I waited for a taxi that
would take me directly to the city. It happened
that I found no one there or its vicinity. There was
not a vehicle to be seen, there was no sign of life;
and for some time as I stood waiting, I found a
grave diversion in my reveries. When returning
from them, I noticed by the rusty trees and near a
dusty fountains a man whose somewhat unusual
yet marvelous appearance gave my thoughts and
an entirely new direction. I was taken by the
youthful, androgynous look of the man. I, without
applying myself especially to the matter, was
inclined to believe that he was special. Of medium
height, thin, with delicate facial features, and
noticeably pug-nosed, the man belonged to the
black-haired type and possessed the appropriate
fresh milky complexion. He was too thin, and his
ears stuck out, his teeth were crooked and his neck
was much too long, a quite exotic appearance but
I loved the way it all hung together.
Obviously, he was no Queen of Sheba, since at
least without makeup his face gave his appearance
the stamp of a foreigner young man. It is quite
possible that I, in my half-distracted, halfinquisitive
examination of the stranger, had been
somewhat inconsiderate, for I suddenly became
aware that my look was being answered, and
indeed so militantly, so straight in the eye, so
plainly with the intention of driving the situation
through to the very end. So then I had turned
away uncomfortably and began walking along,
deciding casually that I would pay no further
attention to the man since I could not give myself
the pleasure of falling for someone when I’m
surely aware of my chaotic and sick situation.
But perhaps the exotic element in the stranger’s
appearance had worked on my imagination since
I found pretty interesting the way that his face
started to remind me of someone important for me
in the past that couldn’t let myself forget about
him. So I when back to find that the stranger had
already gone. Perhaps he was busy with work and
had to leave, or perhaps he noticed my astonished
self, that noted a youthful longing after far-off
places: making feel a sensation so vivid, so new,
or so long dormant and neglected, that, with my
hands behind my back and his eyes on the ground,
came to a sudden stop and examined into the
nature and purport of my silly emotion. It had
been weeks since the day I saw him. I went to the
same place every day, but still he did not show up.
It was nothing, just the feeling of finding someone
interesting and new, nothing more; although, to
be honest, it had attacked me violently, and was
heightened to a passion because I kept thinking
that I knew him.
To forget about this unfortunate event and
fill all the twenty-nine things of my to-do list
before I die, I embarked myself on a journey
for approximately six weeks. I first traveled to
London and met a brief affair but we did not
hit it off. Then I stepped out from the Arch of
Triumph to the Petit Palais. I also bombed out in
Brussells, in Mallorca and Venice, until I found
out that this trip did not satisfy my longing for a
“fantastic mutation of normal reality”; so ten days
after my arrival, I left for Madrid. Maybe that
was the happily chosen destination I was looking
for. A splendid city of irresistible attractiveness
for a forty-five man like me. The sky was gray,
the wind damp and soon all land was lost in the
haze. Bundled up in my coat, I rested while the
hours passed unnoticed. Soon I had arrived at
the balling Madrid, having felt driven outside to
look at the sky, to see if it showed signs of being
brighter above Madrid. Nevertheless, the sky
remained dreary and leaden, and at times a misty
rain fell. I found the sky over Madrid to be heavy
with clouds, making it appear a “different Madrid”
than before. Once at the hotel, I settled into my
room and then went down to wait in the parlor
until dinner. At a nearby table, I noticed three
ladies and a man, all speaking Portuguese. The
man appeared to be around twenty-eight, and his
face was so familiar. With astonishment I noticed
his face, pale and reserved, framed with blackcoloured
hair, the straight sloping nose, the lovely
mouth, the expression of sweet and seriousness,
and the complete purity of the forms was
accompanied by such a rare androgynous charm
that I, as I watched, felt that I had never seen
anything equally felicitous in nature. To finish
up this mystery, I approached their table, not too
close and not too far, but the right distance. He
was sitting, half profile to this humble observer.
Certainly the man was the one I was looking for
these three past few months. Another old lady
appears to lead them into the dining room; her
fancy clothes and jewelry suggest that her family
possesses great wealth must say I; as the man
exits behind her, his eyes meet me. Just one look
at his eyes made me think of the heavy-hearted,
enthusiastic poet for whom hopes and love of my
dreams had once risen out of these waters and
made writers create stories of secret romances. It
truly was him. The man I once met four hundred
years ago. The one I have been searching for
these few lives I have lived. The person that in
too many mornings, made me wake and pretend
I didn’t reach for him. Thousands of mornings,
dreaming of mon couer. All that time wasted,
merely passing through, time I could have spent
so content with you. All the days that I thought
would never end, and the nights thinking of the
next day to spend. Times I’d look up to see if he
was standing at the door, or moving to the bed.
Too many love letters I had written and left in
every place I had been, so that he could find me.
All that time wasted, finally brings him back to
me.
I started trying to make Elisha spend time with
me before my departure right on the next day.
Honestly, at that time I didn’t know his current
name, but when I first met him four hundred years
ago, he went under the name of Elisha. I began
to see him constantly whether inside the hotel or
around the city. This routine brought meaning to
my days. I’m certainly not a stalker, but you must
understand my difficult situation. My thoughts
worshipfully study the most intimate details of
Elisha’s physique and movements; I felt like I was
gazing at Beauty incarnate. Or it’s like Socrates is
wooing Phaedrus in Athens, teaching him about
31 32

desire and virtue. Perhaps looks and charms may
be the only form of the spiritual beings that may
be perceived by our own senses, and is, thus, the
lover’s line to the soul. To my joy, I soon realized
that Elisha had become aware of my admiration.
He seemed to walk past my room purposefully,
and our eyes often meet; I was finally able to
feel my emotion, but in Elisha’s eyes there was
a look of sweet curiosity. Did he finally come to
the understanding that I’m his lover? Could he
possibly realize that I am his Amadeus?
One night, after noticing the absence of people
near my lovely Elisha at dinner, I encountered
him returning from the pier; caught unprepared, I
was unable to mask my affection and he bestowed
on me a smile described as that of Marlon
Brando or Paul Newman, or even the exquisite
look of Dulcinea, inquisitive yet troubled. I felt
the smile to be a “fateful gift”; feeling delirious
and overwhelmed, I hurried off to sit alone, and
little did I know he followed me. And I, full of
pleasure, felt his whispers declaring his love for
me. I soon approached him, and I did not dare
gaze full upon his countenance, lest I be blinded
by his beauty. But I implored him to speak once
his name “Marcel”
“Ah, sweet sovereign of my captive heart,” said I
“I shall not fail you, for I know it’s him...
I have dreamed of him for too long, though I
have never seen him or touched him before that,
but had known him with all of my heart. He had
always been with me, though we had been always
apart. “Marcel”, “Marcel” I saw heaven when I
saw him, and his name was like a prayer and an
angel whispers. I have sought him, I have sung of
him, dreamed of him, my Elisha! Or should I say,
Marcel?
I had little time left, three months to be exact.
You could say fate is cruel to my soul. I had
finally found the Helen of Paris, the Dulcinea of
the man of La Mancha, the Juliet of my Romeo,
but like dust I shall fall.
No longer content to let the sightings of man
depend on chance, I began to send him letters to
meet us every midnight under the clock of the old
church of Madrid. My head and heart were drunk,
and my steps followed the dictates of that dark
god whose pleasure it is to trample upon man’s
reason and dignity. Word seemed to have leaked
out about my disease, and hardly any feeling of
health is left, but my man remained. I must say I
was a little bit ashamed since for some minutes
I fantasized about everyone else dying or fleeing
but me, leaving me alone with him. The state of
panic in my heart caused such preoccupation in
me that I no longer had to fear suspicions of my
leaving. I had suddenly become more extravagant
than ever. If I was going to die, it should be by
my own means. Seldom have I let anyone tell me
what to do. My aging body, however, became a
source of deep shame. He was 28, I was 45. But
one is only as old as one feels and my gray hair
can, therefore, be “further from reality”.
One day, I lost my way in the labyrinth of
alleyways; I am exhibiting the symptoms of death.
To quench my terrible thirst, I asked Marcel to
buy a bottle of wine. And here is where the story
must come to an end because both knowledge and
beauty have led to the abyss. Marcel walked away
and he was about to open the door rebuffing my
attempts at going with him to buy a bottle of wine.
Reaching the door handle, he turned and looked
back at me, and his eyes met me for the last time.
My head sinks down upon my breast and several
seconds later I collapsed in the chair. Often I think
my poor old heart had given up for good. But then
I remember his brand new name, and I glimpse
something new: No matter how many years I
should wait, and no matter how many lives I shall
live, I will always search for you until we meet
again.
Cries from an Old Sapling
Msalasv
L
ife is born. A seedling may become the greatest voyager, traveling through miles of forest,
deserts, or even fly in the blue sky via a winged or a fury friend. Then it falls, bedded in a
brown home filled with vitamins and minerals from where they will get all they’ll ever need
in life. Bathed in petrichor they grow — they grow tall and in width. The circles accumulating
in their center are proof of the life cycles they’ve come to witness; how many others lived and died
while they kept on flourishing.
Some seedlings don’t get to this point, lost in environments not fitted to their needs or drowned in
bodies of water. There are saplings that are stomped over by bigger organisms, chopped away for being
in the way of troublesome adventurers, or overshadowed by his eldest peers. That is why, for the great
warriors that survive through thick and thin, through harsh winters and burning summers, these heroes
are beloved and looked up to by all living things. Their power is raw yet patient, nonviolent yet strong
like few others. That’s their biggest beauty.
However, times change, and the food chain changes; people grow stronger, smarter, and, the most
fearsome, in number. These tall warriors are killed without an ounce of regret or mercy. Great-great
grandparents who had lived through plagues and catastrophes, now were nothing but logs waiting to be
torn apart and transform into something new.
That’s the story of the old oak tree; he had once been respected by all breathing and growing beings,
but now he was permanently frozen in an abnormal state, an irrational position. Now, all he was useful
for was putting a cup of cold coffee on top of him. In this new state, he wasn’t respected, he was just
another piece of furniture, slowly being corroded by the droplets of his once friend, water, as they
melted from the glasses that stood over him. He was no longer tall and magnificent. He was less than.
He was nothing.
33 34

I Hear a Symphony
It’s a collection of slow movements flowing
with the fluidity of the waves nuzzling the
sun-kissed sand; when it retracts to further
waters of deep blue colors, it brushes the
sand with a gentle pull. That’s how the ivory
slipped its smooth surface against the cold
fingertips of a trained musician.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
It started with a spark. With a thousand lights that
erupted in the wonder-filled eyes of a child. Like a
night painted with fireworks on New Year’s Eve.
Just like the Starry Night, the clouds of dust that
fogged a mind began to collapse under the beauty
of what the eyes had landed upon, and – as many
other stars before – a dream was born.
It was the overwhelming boom of the pitter-patter
on such a large stage. Feeling the vibrations of
each instrument resonating inside the bottomless
building that amplified each note and chord being
struck. It was the way their garments floated
like a jellyfish in the vast, vast ocean, gentle and
uncaring of what happened around them; just
focused on how it felt to be free. She had cried,
unexpectedly so, at the marvel of a figurine
levitating in the air with their legs spread out like
a flower blooming in mid-spring after they had
jumped like deer do over the tall grass.
It was foretelling. A shooting star at night, a child
squeezing their eyes shut as they do what you’re
supposed to do when you see a shooting star.
Yes, the foreshadowing had started there because
stars don’t shine; they burn, and a shooting star
is nothing but a piece of burning space matter
that will eventually disintegrate or crash and burn
itself to an agonizing end.
‘I want to be a ballerina!’
Msalasv
It was a wish, so full of good intentions… that’s
what started the last five minutes of screen time
before the credits rolled. It was the last call before
the curtain fell on what would become a tragic
accident for a few weeks, and, then ‘one of the
bunch’ after a couple of months.
Children are pure, so pure; they aren’t weighed
down by the knowledge of one’s weaknesses.
They love so whole-heartedly that, if those
around them aren’t careful, the children will push
themselves to the limits of their painfully young
beings to fight for their dreams. To clutch the
seedling of hope they buried in their soul with
their little hands as they push past obstacles and
comments that try to divert them from who they
wish to become.
She was no different. She’d smiled the brightest
of smiles when she’d managed to land her feet
on the right position after pirouetting around the
house. Hurrying to grab his arm and drag him to
the living room to show him the newest move
she had learned; she radiated happiness for years
as she grew wiser and stronger. Her movements
matured with her until she leaped and spun with
agile grace. All wrapped up in netting and lace,
he watched her become that which she wished for
when she was small.
But she had been wrong. That jellyfish was no
more than one of the many plastic bags that
polluted the basic element for all life. It was
befitting really; she had fooled herself into a
dream of freedom and instead was met with more
restrictions than she would’ve had faced in her
entire life. He had realized all of this when it was
too late.
She grew. Her limbs stretched like a flower in
winter trying to reach for the sun, but her body
shrunk; size after size, bags of clothes were given
away. She fixed her diet and a routine of exercises
to maintain her form. She denied simple pleasures,
like sleeping in or the sweet smell of chocolate or
staying up late munching on chips while enjoying
a movie marathon with friends. It was her Finale.
The spotlight had been too blinding, the pressure
too great even for the most magnificent of
boulders, and she was crushed under the shining
light of her wish.
Rudolf Mikhail Williams Copeland was the
newest youngest composer to be awarded. The
critics had agreed that his music “evoked so much
emotion that you’ll feel like you’re being reborn
and learning what being alive means for the first
time”. Running Away from Memories of You was
the piece that made him famous. He wanted to
laugh when he received awards for it. All of those
pats in the back made him want to snap at them.
‘Fools. They hear but they do not listen’
He’d glare at their backs, and, damn to the Hades,
the music sheet that had cursed him with fame.
He’d give anything to bring her back; lose all
ability to move the digits that played for her
and her only whenever he sat down on a piano.
Perhaps they missed her too; missed her dance
to the beat of the vibrations coming from the
drummed down strings; missed her giggling
whenever he would curse when he’d falter and
miss a key.
The air was chilly, nitpicking at his cheeks and
nose. They were wet. They always ended up
like this when he’d come to visit. He stared at
the bouquet of flowers — they were supposed to
symbolize childhood innocence, simplicity and
joy, all of which were taken away in a blaze of fire
that smothered his beloved. He swallowed and
sniffed, brushing his runny nose with the back of
his coat. He kneeled beside her. With two of the
digits that carried her legacy by dancing on the
smooth black and white surface, he kissed them,
then gently pressed the dark stone in front of him
with them.
“Love you, sis” he grasped out through a choking
throat and crystalized eyes.
His hand stopped caressing her tombstone (the
same way he used to stroke her hair after passing
out from training) to place the yellow and white
flower on the ground, beneath her birthday and
beneath her name.
Daisy Margot Williams Copeland
1994 – 2009
(In loving memory to all those stars that didn’t
get to shine and the dreamers who were forced to
wake up.)
35 36

Comment on To Kill A Mockingbird:
A Timeless Text
Ian Rojas
The creation of a character for a literary work is always a difficult task, and even more so when
the story is being narrated by a character; that is, when it has a first-person narrator. As if it
was not enough, Harper Lee wrote a book for an audience that does not immediately identify
with its main character, and that deals with topics that are still relevant to the 21st century’s
society. To Kill a Mockingbird is a book that needs to be on everyone’s “to read list”.
First, the fact that the story is narrated by Scout and no other character allows Lee to develop
this character in more depth. Despite being a child, Scout comes out as a rather complex character
who questions the reality that surrounds her, although, it is not shown in a typical way. Scout is not the
archetypal smart girl with the best grades in the class and a hunger to learn more about her academic
studies. In fact, Scout is way far from being archetypal. She breaks every gender role that aunt
Alexandra tries to impose on her, she does not like school, but she is way ahead of all her classmates,
and she always learns from what she hears and sees. Because of this, Scout changes and grows
through the narrative and understands the social injustices that occur around her better than most of
her neighbors. The author dedicates the first part of the book to developing Scout and building up the
necessary elements for Tom Robinson’s trial, which is the most important part of the book, but not the
climax. As Scout breaks gender roles, Lee breaks the conventional characteristics of narrative structure.
As a second point, but directly related to the previous one, as Scout is such a well-developed
character, having her as the narrator allows the author to expose topics that would not be exposed from
any other character’s perspective. If Atticus were the narrator, it would have been a book just like any
other, but the fact that Scout has a limited amount of information about a subject that she clearly cannot
yet understand creates an unbiased perspective. The author is not directly telling the reader what to
believe or think, but showing the situation and offering the opportunity for the reader to take a position,
just as Scout does.
Finally, many subjects related to the raising of children would not even be present in the book
if it were not narrated by Scout. Through the reading, I constantly thought about how children are
excluded from important discussions, and how they are treated as if they were not there when adults
are talking about their situation. I found it interesting that this happens in the book itself. Very often the
conversation about the book is related to what Scout sees, for example, the mediocrity of the education
system and racism, but it is never about Scout herself and how people talk around her as if she were
not there. People talk about the Radleys, rape, war, and xenophobia, but they do not talk to Scout about
it. Scout’s interpretation of the world is based on information that was not meant for her. To Kill a
Mockingbird offers the opportunity to talk about these issues, but also offers the chance to talk about
children, which is often wasted. As I mentioned earlier, this book offers a child’s narration meant for
teenagers and adults to understand not only several social injustices that are still present in our societies
but also to understand where they came from.
Harper Lee takes full advantage of the
story she tells in To Kill a Mockingbird by
deeply developing the characters, especially
Scout, taking her time to build up the setting,
addressing historically relevant subjects, and
properly breaking the rules of the literary genre.
She created a work of art that, as with every
masterpiece, leaves the conventional to opt for an
interesting and definitely more complex text that
became timeless.
Literary Labyrinths
Ilse Bussing
It is impossible to discuss or approach Gothic
literature without addressing architecture
and setting. The term Gothic literature in
fact arose from Gothic architecture, since the
inaugural texts of British Gothic fiction, emerging
in the eighteenth century, employed medieval
settings boasting this architectural style. The
Oxford English Dictionary confirms this matter
by defining the “Gothic Novel” as an “English
genre of fiction popular in the 18th to early 19th
centuries, characterized by an atmosphere of
mystery and horror and having a pseudo-medieval
setting.”
Gothic literature is undoubtedly framed
and shaped by setting and space; one could
go as far as to affirm that the essence of this
literary mode is spatial, since the castles, haunted
houses, asylums, and even external settings
(forests or overgrown fields of Southern Gothic
or Folk Horror) all magnify the main sensations
showcased by the genre, mainly those of terror,
horror, and a sense of unease or uncanniness.
Notice how in Gothic Literature (2007), Andrew
Smith defines this genre by placing this mode’s
common settings alongside its main tropes:
“Despite the national, formal, and generic
mutations of the Gothic, it is possible to identify
certain persistent features which constitute a
distinctive aesthetic. Representations of ruins,
castles, monasteries, and forms of monstrosity,
and images of insanity, transgression, the
supernatural, and excess, all typically characterise
the form” (4).
If we dig deeper into these recurrent stages
or settings that are showcased in the Gothic, we
inevitably encounter the trope of the maze or the
labyrinth. In Gothic (1996), Fred Botting declares
that “Labyrinths, like novels, seduce, excite,
confuse and disturb; they lead readers on ‘fatal
paths’” (84). The ancient element of the maze
is an archetype, a symbol employed in diverse
civilizations, to denote a sense of confusion,
disorientation, and entrapment that individuals
feel when faced with important challenges, the
most important of these being the journey of life.
From the Minoan labyrinth in which Theseus
defeated the Minotaur, to the mazes portrayed
in the Gothic romance The Monk (1796) by
Mathew Lewis, the labyrinth has been persistently
employed to depict primordial feelings of
vulnerability, disorientation and entrapment that
are potent and universal. Mazes, however, also
offer the possibility to emerge victorious from a
terrifying trial or a journey, from the labyrinths
shaped into medieval catacombs, urban alleys,
or frightening woods that we encounter in
fiction. After all, the final objective of traversing
these threatening paths is to find a way out, to
ultimately emerge out of the dark recesses of our
own mind and the nightmares it projects.
Works Cited
Botting, Fred. Gothic. Routledge, 1996.
Smith, Andrew. Gothic Literature. Edinburgh U P,
2008.
37 38

A Woman’s War
N.M. Castillo
Uncertainty was, perhaps, the worst
experience of these times of war.
Shizu supposed she would be used
to it by now, but she was not. Every
time her husband went to the front with the army,
she stayed behind. Each day and each night was
spent in an infinite loop of questions and prayers;
hope that he would still be alive... That, wherever
he was, he was also thinking of her.
However, uncertainty was not kind, as this
war wasn’t, either.
She could lose herself in that misery
for months depending on how successful the
campaign was, but the worst part was not praying.
The worst part was the rumors in town; constant
whispers of whether the campaign was successful
or not, whether they were coming back or not.
Shizu hated rumors only because they fed the
flames of hope, and she knew how dangerous
hope was for the poor. Hope, as her mother
usually said, was a weapon. It was a luxury for
the powerful lords fighting to unite Japan, but for
the families left behind it was a sharp weapon
ready to draw blood. It was a double-edged sword,
and most wives did not like it. Uncertainty was
already damaging enough to let hope take the final
blow.
“Have you heard?” A woman said in the
stall to her right. “They say Lord Oda 1 has been
quite ruthless in this campaign. They might be
coming home sooner than expected.”
Shizu tried not to pay attention as she
looked over the azuki 2 beans, desperately trying
to focus on what she could cook with them rather
than the possibility of her husband coming back
home soon… or not coming back at all. Perhaps
it was quite cold of her, but Shizu had become
friends with pain ever since she got married, and
she had no desire to deepen that bond. She had
already given pain so much power over the years
that it made no sense to give it any more.
“If that is true,” Another woman added,
looking somewhat concerned. “this campaign was
very short, don’t you think?”
“That can only mean one of two things,”
Continued the first one. Shizu reached into the
sleeve of her kimono for her purse to look for the
coins. She proceeded to pay for the beans as she
listened, her hands shaking as she took the bag
from the vendor. “They overpowered the Takeda 3
1 Oda Nobunaga: Japanese daimyo (feudal lord) and one of
the most famous and leading figures of the Sengoku period.
He is known as the first Great Unifier of Japan.
2 Azuki beans: Also known as adzuki beans, aduki beans,
red beans or red mung beans. It is a widely common variety
of beans cultivated throughout Asia. It is commonly
swettened before eating, particularly boiled with sugar that
would later produce a red bean paste named anko in Japanese.
3 Takeda Clan: Japanese samurai clan historically based in
army and most of them are coming back, or-”
Shizu gave one last bow to the vendor and
then turned back almost violently, as though she
was telling the women to stop their gossiping.
They didn’t. The whispers grew louder, if
anything, and Shizu only begged her feet to take
her home quickly enough.
Perhaps, she thought, this was what her
mother meant. Maybe this was the pain she
always talked about. After all, it did not matter
how much you loved your husband... All that love
could never protect him from war. Her mother had
always said that a woman’s life was full of pain
ever since she was born; it was in our nature, she
would always tell her, and there was nothing one
could do to escape it. When Shizu was younger
and dreamed of castles and valiant samurai, she
thought that her mother was exaggerating. She
never thought that a life of pain would indeed be
what was waiting for her.
However, Shizu knew that she was being
ungrate ful. Her husband was alive. He had come
back in one piece after every campaign. Fortune
had not blessed other women that she knew in that
way. This life of war meant that they had gotten
used to the routine these fearsome lords had
forced upon them, and the women were the ones
who had it worse. Yes, the men went and fought
for their lords; they lost their lives in a dream
that their children might not even live to see.
Nevertheless, the women stayed at home, praying,
hoping... weeping.
Uncertainty had a way to sneak into one’s
heart and break it apart from the inside. When
you had spent so many nights wondering if your
husband was alive, it was easy to break down
crying at the slightest hint that something might
be wrong. Shizu had seen it. She had felt it.
Kai Province (present day Yamanashi prefecture). It reached
its greatest glory under Takeda Shingen’s rule, one of the
most famous lords of the Sengoku period.
She wondered if these lords could feel
that. If they even knew that fear as strong as that
one even existed. They possibly did not. How
could the great Lord Oda Nobunaga even fathom
what fear felt like? There was a reason why he
was called the Lord of Hell 4 . Shizu had always
pictured him as some sort of demon who broke
apart families for a dream of unification that had
yet to come true.
“Shizu,” A woman approached her.
It took her a few seconds to recognize her,
but she realized it was Chifuyu. Another woman
whose husband was away fighting another man’s
war.
“I was wondering where you were.” Her
tone was grave, and it sent a chill down her spine.
Shizu swallowed hard, in a useless attempt
to remove the knot in her throat. “Did something
happen?”
The woman shook her head. She looked
somewhat older than she had the week before, but
that was what these wars did. They sucked the
lives out of everyone, even those who survived
them. Shizu had met her years ago when her
husband had just bought their house. They were
neighbors at the time and spent much of their time
together.
At least, before these wars broke out.
“No, no,” She shook her head. “I didn’t
mean to spook you. The messengers came back
with letters. I think they had one for you.”
Zenzo had sent her a letter. Although she
should have felt relieved, she did not. It was quite
common for men to write letters to their wives
and send them if they died. Shizu felt her knees
weaken, and it took her all of her self-control to
4 Lord of Hell: Referring to Oda Nobunaga. He acquired
nicknames such as “Lord of Hell” and “Demon King”
thanks to his reputation in war
39 40

stay on her feet.
“Did Hikoyori send you one, as well?”
Chifuyu gave her a toothy smile, one of
those that would normally not be displayed in
public. Shizu knew, then, that at least one of their
husbands was alive and well. Chifuyu did look a
bit older and tired, but raising five children during
the Lord of Hell’s campaigning would do that to
anyone.
Shizu had no children. She couldn’t, and
that was one of the reasons she felt so horrible
about all of this. Her husband was usually
ridiculed for his lack of sons, and Shizu felt all
those comments deep within her soul. She had
been ashamed. She had felt as though she had
betrayed him somehow.
Yet, her Zenzo did not mind. That was
what he always said. He loved her, and that was
enough. It did not matter how many times she had
repeated that he had a right to leave her, to loathe
her... He never did.
“In that case,” Shizu cleared her throat
awkwardly. Tears were stinging in the corner of
her eyes, and a sad smile on her lips. “I better go
home.”
“I will walk you home.”
Although Shizu did not say it, she
was quite grateful for Chifuyu’s kindness and
company. She knew that Chifuyu could see
beyond her forced composure. She knew because
Chifuyu had been right where she was. Perhaps
this was the only good thing that came from
these campaigns; the friendship formed among
lonely women, who worried about the future of
their families. They were a team, or that is what
Chifuyu used to say. Shizu believed it.
No woman could survive these wars alone.
They walked in silence the whole way
home. Well, the whole way to her home. Chifuyu
was not her neighbor anymore, after all; they had
moved a few years back when she had her third
son. Hikoyori had realized that they would need
more space, so they looked for a bigger place.
Shizu missed them quite a bit; having the children
around made her forget that she had failed her
husband in the only way that mattered to men.
“Do you want me to go in with you?”
Chifuyu offered.
Shizu did not reply. She was hesitating to
open the gate, to walk to the door and look for the
letter. Uncertainty was, perhaps, the worst thing
to ever happen to them. It meant that there was
hope, but there was also doom. Shizu did not want
doom.
“I think I can do it,” She finally whispered.
Her voice was shaky, and Chifuyu looked at her
with sympathy. “Would you wait for me here?”
The woman nodded, and Shizu walked
through the gate. Each step felt as though she was
walking towards her end, and she did not like it
at all. Anxiety had a strong hold on her heart as
it squeezed the blood out of it with excruciating
pain. It was taking hold of her lungs as well, as
it was getting harder and harder to breathe. The
letter was there, right behind the door, as ominous
as it could be.
With trembling hands and holding her
breath, she opened it. Shizu expected to find
silliness in the letter; silliness that was the norm
for her husband; silliness that would be masking
the truth of his demise. The weight of the hairpin
on her obi 5 was almost crushing as she read over
the lines; it was that one hairpin he had bought for
her when they met. She had stopped wearing it
in her hair a few years back, feeling as if she was
not as youthful to wear it… and still, she always
5 Obi: A belt of varying size and shape worn with traditional
Japanese clothing and uniforms for martial arts.
carried it around as an obi pin 6 . Now, as she
read the letter with the knot in her throat, it felt
heavier with the memories of all these years, and
she dared not touch it. It might burn her. It might
break her.
When she reached the end of the letter, she
41 42
cried:
‘Do not worry, my love. I will be home by
the next full moon.’
He was fine. He was alive and safe. She
felt such relief that her knees buckled slightly,
and sent her directly to the floor. As she wept
and Chifuyu ran to her, Shizu wondered if Japan
would ever be united. If these lords could make
it. If, by any chance, this suffering would end
someday.
The next full moon approached at full
speed, and Shizu spent every day anxiously
waiting for the unmistakable marching of the
army, of their horses. Chifuyu had visited her with
her children a few times during their wait, and
Shizu welcomed the distraction gladly. It was nice
to see how the kids had grown up since the last
time she saw them. It was nice to feel young again
while she played with them.
However, the more days passed, the
more she worried. Anything could happen, after
all. If the Takeda army had not killed them, a
bandit could. It did not matter how many times
Lord Nobunaga repeated that his city was safe,
everyone knew the truth; he had many enemies,
and all of them were patiently waiting for a
chance to take him down once and for all. The
people lived in fear, and so the women feared their
return home even more than the battle itself; they
could attack them now that they were bruised and
injured, and it would be an easy victory.
The marching startled her two weeks later,
6 Obi pin: A decoration for the obi
while she busied herself preparing rice cakes 7 with
the leftovers. She had dropped the bowl with the
dough in it, but paid it no mind as she rushed out.
The kimono restricted her movements, and Shizu
wished she had listened to Zenzo when he offered
to get her a hakama 8 that would have definitely
made running easier. When she finally reached the
front door, there he was. He was standing there,
looking at her with that loop-sided grin of his
that made her cry immediately. He had bandages
around his right arm, but he was in one piece.
“I’m home.” He said and opened his arms
for her.
Shizu did not need any prompting. She
approached him and let him cage her in a hug; it
was as if he was trying to heal both of them at the
same time, to erase all the suffering this campaign
had caused.
“Welcome home, Zenzo.”
7 Mochi: Mochi, or rice cake, is a Japanese rice cake made
of rice flour and some other ingredients such as water, sugar,
and sometimes cornstarch. Traditionally, the rice is pounded
into a paste, then molded into the desired shape
8 Hakama: A type of traditional clothing. They resemble
modern day pants. They are tied at the waist and fall to the
ankles

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