RIO GRANDE REVIEW (RGR)

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

dossier:

literatura

infantil y juvenil

Jorge Luis Peña Cleo Gordoa Lesbia de la Fe Byron Sun y

otros…

poesía

Aarón Rueda Frank Castell Paul Guillén Jorge López Misael Duarte

ensayo:

Martha M. Montejo Trilogía sucia de La Habana

MFA Programa Presencial

Creación Literaria de las Américas Única en su género, la maestría en creación literaria (MFA) de UTEP ofrece un programa totalmente bilingüe de cursos que cubren las áreas de ficción, poesía, dramaturgia, guión cinematográfico, ensayo y crónica. El programa requiere que los alumnos tomen 48 créditos académicos que normalmente se completan en el curso de tres años. Nuestras materias cubren un amplio rango de tópicos que incluyen la traducción literaria, escritura de libretos, novela corta y prosa poética, entre otros. Nuestros estudiantes también pueden elegir materias en otros departamentos, tales como Teatro, Inglés y Lengua and Lingüística. Nuestra revista literaria, Río Grande Review, es editada exclusivamente por los estudiantes de la maestría.

Situado en el Desierto de Chihuahua, donde confluyen dos naciones, nuestro programa está en constante proceso de cambio para satisfacer los intereses de estudiantes que vienen de toda América Latina, España, Estados Unidos y el resto del mundo. Ofrecemos trabajo en el campus universitario a la mayoría de nuestro estudiantes. El éxito de nuestro programa se refleja en el éxito de nuestros estudiantes, quienes han ganado importantes premios literarios, tales como el Premio Tusquets de Novela 2012, Premio Clarín de Novela 2006, el Premio Nacional 2005 de Cuento de Colombia, el Premio 2005 Chicano-Latino de UC Irvine, el Premio de Poesía Andrés Montoya 2004, el Premio Binacional Frontera de Palabras / Border of Words 2003, convocado por Conaculta, el Premio Nacional de Poesía Joven Elias Nandino 2002 y el Premio bienal Copé de Poesía (Perú 2002) Contacto: Department of Creative Writing University of Texas al El Paso Liberal Arts 415 500 West University Avenue El Paso, TX 79968 (915) 747-5713 mfa@utep.edu

contenido Río Grande Review

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Revista bilingüe de literatura y arte contemporáneo Primavera 2014.

Número 43 Director Editorial Jago Molinete Editores Marco Antonio Murillo Gianfranco Languasco Bellido

Directora de Arte y Diseño (invitada) Malena Villar Obras de Portada Helier Batista Díptico Viajeros. 2014 Óleo en masonite 16 x 12.5 pulg.

Comité de Lectura Rosa Alcalá Abby Carl Klassen Tafari A. Nugent Jésús Silveyra John Neils Joseph M. McBirnie Riley H. Welcker Sam Calvin Brown

Juan C. Recinos Frank Castell Paul Guillén Jorge López Missael Duarte

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ensayo

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crónica

a

ficción

Editor Invitado Joseph Michael McBirnie Asesora de la Facultad Rosa Alcalá

poesía

Martha M. Montejo

Wendy García

Miguel Coletti Luis E. Álvarez

a dossier:

literatura infantil

a

traducción Sylvia Aguilar

a

poesía

a

reportaje

Adán Echeverría Jorge Luis Pena Cleo Gordoa Lesbia de la Fe Dotres Wendy García Ortiz Byron Sun Itzel guevara

Jorge Paoloantonio Diego Lazarte

Leticia Solares

Agradecimientos Especiales Lori de los Santos John Fahey Liz Murcia Perla Chaparro Río Grande Review es una publicación bilingüe de literatura y arte contemporáneo con fines no lucrativos.

Tiene una frecuencia bianual y es rectorada por el departamento de Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Texas en El Paso (UTEP). Este proyecto es editado en su totalidad por estudiantes del programa bilingüe de especialidad en Escritura Creativa de la Maestría en Bellas Artes. RGR ha estado difundiendo la creación literaria en El Paso, en la frontera México-Estados Unidos y a nivel mundial por más de 30 años. Su sostén financiero corre a cargo de los Servicios de Comisiones Estudiantiles de UTEP, además de ventas de publicidad y los contribuyentes privados. Damos la bienvenida a intercambios de anuncios.

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

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Hay secretos m铆os que el r铆o se ha llevado, y lo que me pidi贸 lo voy cumpliendo poco a poco en la tierra.

Pablo Neruda

Michelle Bord贸n.

Fish. 2013

editorial

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Ir de una orilla a otra: cruzar el río, chapaletear en sus aguas… siempre tiene sus riesgos. En este número 43 de RGR fuimos (a ex profeso) tras no pocos. El mayor de ellos fue intentar un dossier dedicado a la literatura infantil y juvenil.

Cuan grande fue nuestra sorpresa al descubrir que narradores, poetas, fotógrafos, ilustradores de la región Paso del Norte y un poquito más allá, se aventuran a lanzar su “barquito de papel” a las corrientes del río. Lo cierto es que, como creadores al fin, ellos, no miden consecuencias.

Y lo interesante es que dentro de ese grupo de aventureros, encontramos novatos, autodidactas, profesionales. El esfuerzo fue grande, pero valió la pena conocer esos secretos míos (suyos) que el río se ha llevado y que trae y seguirá trayendo consigo para bien de las letras y las artes. También, fue un lance conciliar en un sumario otras manifestaciones artísticas (música, escultura) y propuestas comunicativas (reportaje, crónica), sin desestimar la versatilidad del diseño. Ojalá que los pedidos del río puedan ser cumplidos poco a poco en la tierra, de algún pecho ávido de dialogar con el quehacer de los creadores reunidos en la presente edición.

poes铆a

Michelle Bord贸n.

Fenix 2013

Malena Villar La Cogida de Neptuno Oleo, 2010

Aarón Rueda

Mitos y grietas

I Observo en una banca, el río que atraviesa la ciudad, camina fijo, sin miradas para ilustrar el torrente, no hay quien palpe los pies sucios de su trayecto y nadie se da cuenta de ese llanto.

El sueño vive sin darle la cara al cielo, los remansos son luciérnagas apagadas y el crepúsculo que colorea las mejillas lo han pintado de gris: sus ojos hoy no están para la urbe.

II ¿Dónde está la ciudad y sus risas, dónde se perdieron los pasos de los niños? Ahora un murmullo desconsolado se escucha, y lo único que se impregna en las calles es el olor a rancio de los parques envejecidos.

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

Los edificios se han enfermado de soledad, rostros grises como si el crepúsculo, vacío, los hipnotizara, y se espigan con el pasar de las horas, esperando la luz.

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III La ciudad derrocha lagrimas que se escurren entre pétalos de flores brisadas por el smog quitándole el alma a los colores; los cuervos se apoderan de la brisa como amantes de la calle moribunda y caminan picoteando la herida de la urbe sin memoria.

Aarón Rueda (Las Choapas, México. 1986). Ha publicado en revistas y antologías de España, Perú, Colombia, La India, Chile y México. Tiene publicado los libros Remos de sal (2012) y Arrullo de la Tierra (2013). En 2012 obtuvo el Premio Nacional de Poesía Rosario Castellanos convocado por la Universidad Autónoma de Yucatán. Es promotor de lenguas originarias y creador del FIP Salvador Díaz Mirón.

Juan Carlos Recinos

Inscripción Toda la noche inicia aquí. En este sitio que arde, que nos hunde, que engendra el primer relámpago. Crece como un eco. Nos devora. Ignora quien la nombra en este mundo que guarda tu ardiente corazón. Todo se renueva en un instante.

Al centro de la noche, la blancura de la luna refractada sobre el agua, revela las huellas de tu carne palpitante. Ha caído la lluvia en la ciudad y un espejo ha nacido en el asfalto, mientras la luz se consume en silencio

XI

La terredad de un pájaro es su canto.

Eugenio Montejo.

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He aprendido a decir las cosas en silencio, a respirar ante el tiempo que nos abandona en la sombra del año. Ya no somos aquellos de la infancia. Yo era una voz sin remedio, un eco en el agua. En el jardín de la casa, la maceta con albahaca filtra su aroma enmarcada en el verdor de aquellos árboles. Nada se reconoce en esta noche. Puedo decir tu nombre, decir que mi hermano ha muerto, que mi padre es el abono de esta tierra, que mi madre es un augurio en la tormenta. Mayo se abre a tientas, se derrumba al fondo del tiempo hasta fundirnos. Nosotros ya no somos los de antes, apenas un alfabeto del mundo, una melodía que el pájaro defiende en su canto.

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Decir amor es recordar tu nombre.

Alí Chumacero.

He observado en tus ojos el mundo. La justa distancia de nuestros cuerpos cada día. He soñado que naufragaba junto a ti con las manos llenas de silencio. He duplicado mi vida para andar tu rumbo discreto y de todo esto nada queda; ha sido un largo viaje. El mundo es triste, desde luego, está incompleto en alguna región donde la noche todavía no es espesa y alguien, por un instante, canta una larga canción que aligera esta forma primitiva de nombrarte.

Juan Carlos Recinos (Pichucalco, México. 1984). Poeta y ensayista. Autor del poemario Cantos Peregrinos (2008). Incluido en las antologías Panorama de la poesía mexicana (2009), Poemas al padre y a la madre (2011) y El festival de la palabra (2011). Ha colaborado con medios impresos a nivel nacional e internacional. Es miembro del consejo editorial de la “Revista Morbo”, editada en Campeche.

Frank castell

La calle, el odio y las mentiras rotas Odio los días sin morir.

Lejos de la página soy un paseante que pierde la fortuna.

Es la ciudad, me digo, es el ritmo o el trazo en la pared vacía.

Van las preguntas, las horas de un futuro.

Van como una ola mientras recuerdo este lugar.

A veces me asusto del monstruo que me habita.

Realidad

Bajo este salmo oscuro

Fotografía

Bajo este salmo oscuro vive mi verdad.

Los autos pasan y el polvo me dice márchate, deja este sitio de naufragios que no te pertenece.

Busco la noche, su aroma, e insisto en no mirar las grietas.

Oh, Dios, ¿qué debo hacer?

Tanto mutismo asusta.

Tanta verdad sin rostro, ni huella, ni celebraciones.

No hay tiempo y mi sangre fluye como un disparo, cansada de besar las cicatrices.

Mi sangre se estremece y grita al sentir las hojas caer por siempre en el vacío.

Bajo este salmo oscuro vive mi verdad: horrorizada.

Cuerpos estáticos, felicidad de un segundo.

Así estoy mientras se pierde todo a la deriva

La muerte no me reconoce aunque la he visto acariciar mis manos.

Sé que lleva sus cabellos manchados de dolor y de cordura.

Es una madre sin el hijo en el borde del alma solitaria.

La muerte es un poema inevitable.

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Los signos que atraviesan Nunca digas fuego si tu verdad es náufraga, ni sueñes con el agua si defraudaste el himno que te nombra.

No insistas.

No implores.

La soledad es como un pájaro sin alas.

Táctica No me limito a huir del disparo, ni de la jauría.

Tampoco anhelo su perdón.

Es preferible caer en la trampa a la inocencia de la espera.

Frank Castell (Las Tunas, Cuba. 1976). Poeta y narrado. Ha publicado los libros El suave ruido de las sombras (décimas, Sanlope), Confesiones a la eternidad (poesía, Sanlope), Corazón de barco (poesía, Letras Cubanas) y Final del día (décimas, Sanlope). Ha obtenido premios en concurso nacionales e internacionales. Es miembro de la UNEAC y de la AHS.

Paul Guillén

Malevich tatuado por una visión de Fuseli «Lo inesperado es vínculo del viento» José Miguel Ullán

No nos engañemos Malevich traído por el viento en un cuadro de Fuseli el caballo esa especie de gnomo la bella angelical todos capturados por el viento No nos engañemos el que Malevich ronde el cuadro de Fuseli solo quiere decir que lo inesperado es vínculo del viento

La historia del Perú se resumirá a cómo se destruye un poeta Peire Vidal canta o florece entre los campos de almendros y el viejo grita desde su escritorio Papiols Papiols lets to the music! Y tú cantabas en la Alameda, donde arreciaba el viento y el tren pasaba haciendo ese ruido catastrófico - tú cantabas como el viejo Loomis - y yo escuchaba como salían de tu boca - esas sílabas - ese fuego - y esos gallinazos - que revoloteaban cerca - de la Catedral de Lima - y a un paso de convencer - a la gen te - en volvernos asaltantes escuchamos el rumor de los ciegos - que se aproximaban como marejadas de hielo - decidimos asaltar a los cerdos de la banca - y todos los bares abiertos - y cerrados - caminaríamos por las calles - para encontrar una moneda - y así no sentirnos tan solos - o desvalidos: Yo, Pierre Rivière, habiendo degollado a mi madre, mi hermana y mi hermano…

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En esa calle no hay lobos Al costado de la negra pared del sueño que separa mi mundo del mar corren las prostitutas y los fumones. Y al frente otra pared (más negra que el rocío) que separa a los huérfanos de sus violadores. Nunca encajé en ningún mundo, pero al despertar tirado en esa avenida pienso en la fragilidad de mi cuerpo. Mi padre murió, no lo conocí y solo tengo recuerdos de estallidos de bombas e insultos. No conocí su mundo, no sé si pueda describirlo. La extraña estructura del arma, cuando se rastrilla en la noche, después de ingerir una botella de whisky en un bar policial, las escenas del crimen, el sonido de la máquina de escribir redactando atestados, más insultos, la cercanía de la primera bala en el cráneo materno. Solo hay un niño que escucha todo ese ruido, y se levanta en la madrugada, trata de hacer un ruido mayor, nadie lo escucha, toma valor, pero no puede defender a su madre. Estoy viendo cómo el mar revienta contra mi cuerpo y cómo mi corazón quiere escapar y arrojarse en un clavado desde el despeñadero. Detrás de una columna veo a un niño. No se anima a acercarse, solo juega con el gatillo y mira el mar mientras aún tiene vida.

Paul Guillén (Ica, Perú. 1976). Licenciado en Literatura. Publicó los poemarios: La transformación de los metales (2005), Historia secreta (2008), Ese algo que nos es esquivo siempre (México, 2012), y las plaquettes La muerte del hombre amarillo (2004) y Ningún limbo bajo el sol (Chile, 2011).

Ha sido antologado en México, Inglaterra, España, Portugal, Argentina, Brasil, EE.UU., Canadá, Suecia, Ecuador y Colombia. Cursa la maestría de Creative Writing en la University of Texas at El Paso.

Jorge López Landó

Viernes de falsas esperanzas De nada sirve planear la muerte en una noche de junio, porque esta ciudad fantasma donde el verano pasa lento y las noches de fiera y jaula son la única razón del deseo, advierten que el silencio del otoño cercano habrá de ser la última carcajada de un dios ciego que nada concede.

El desierto bajo mis párpados Esta mañana caminas frente a mi al dirigirte a la iglesia donde hincada habrás de suplicar olvido a tus culpas, y abandonarás ese orgullo de semanas sin temor a saberte débil que tanto daño nos hace.

Recordarás que eres mujer de lento mar cuyo oleaje produce secretos de fuego y lluvia capaces de perder a cualquiera sin la precaución de utilizar paracaídas al momento de escribir su nombre en tu espalda.

Cuando Art Blakey murió Llegó sin avisar, así de repente, con el otoño.

Estaba sucio pero vivo, roto pero con fuego.

Dijo que su nombre era Art Blakey, que venía de Pensilvania para dar un mensaje sin tiempos que terminaría en Nueva York luego de viajar hacia África y convertirse al islam.

Nunca le creí, era muy rápido.

Sus manos eran cuchillas de marfil al sentarse a tocar la batería con su banda.

Porque ellos eran rufianes sin temor a la vida, igual devoraban años que noches en Túnez cuando estaban en el gran escenario de nota azul ejecutando un tema de Dizzy Gillespie mientras los pies del público ardían bajo la mesa en la cuna del ave que les indicó el camino.

Dictó las leyes de la improvisación junto al ritmo veloz de su voluntad mientras construía un paraíso de virtuosismo a base de melodía y estructura armónica.

Trajo desde su infierno trompetas, saxofones, bajos y pianos que obligaron al mundo a tronar los dedos y escribir versos medidos por la inocencia de una generación urgida de algo que despertara conciencias.

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Fueron su mezcla de blues y funk la receta a golpes contados en una canción que todavía no ha sido escuchada y que nos mantiene esperando ese disco que ha de tocarse mientras recordamos al líder de la manada de leones jóvenes.

Jorge López Landó (Ciudad Juárez, México, 1973). Periodista y poeta. Cuentos, ensayos, crónicas y poemas suyos, aparecen en varias publicaciones de su país y del extranjero. Tiene los poemarios D ¨ e Mónica o el revolver¨, M ¨ ónica odia el bossa nova (pero los fines de semana baila swing)¨ y M ¨ ónica abre el rompecabezas de fuego (y descubre que aún hay jazz)¨. Y es coautor de la colección de cuentos L¨ upus¨.

Missael Duarte Somoza

Nocturno

_Terraza de café por la noche_

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I Azul el cielo que cubre la noche el bullicio de la calle alumbrado por una lámpara de gas naranja-amarillenta y desde el fondo _desde la oscuridad_ extraña diligencia se acerca en el centro del cuadro: carruaje del tiempo: eco oscuro del pasado: veo tierra telúrica y de tránsito, donde la piedra y los versos defendieron tu libertad, ingenua y salvaje, explotada y desdichada, romántica y valiente (los periódicos del mundo te recuerdan por el General y su pequeño ejército loco), deshabitada e intensa, de héroes y mártires, de políticos como piratas y ratas con sofismas, tu capital doblegada, postrada, olvidó el nombre de sus calles, algún día fuiste quizás “… limpia bonita y serrana…” pero tu historia tiene abismos y sangre: avenida Roosevelt, la sangre es la historia,

la sangre que corrió por esa avenida que las mangueras de los bomberos limpiaron con toda la presión posible pero la sangre no se limpia: su voz grita en las páginas de la historia.

Y los cuerpos-cadáveres arrastrados a los camiones de basura del Distrito Nacional (dicen los periódicos que hasta hoy no se sabe el número exacto de muertos pero se calcula que hubo entre 1000 y 1500) para enterrarlos en las fosas comunes pero cada cadáver es una estrella que dice, grita, denuncia, el pasado de la sangre, que late en la historia, y señalan las manos que apretaron los gatillos y la voz que dio la orden por el teléfono.

Los gritos, los amores inconclusos, los sueños oscurecidos, la mano vencida en la cuneta por la gravedad, para qué por qué: Kupia kumi se lee en los libros: círculo maldito de nuestra historia donde sólo cambian los nombres y las fechas.

Campesinas recogendo turba Quieta en sí misma el ave sobre la inmensidad del día Las mujeres inclinadas confunden sus cuerpos con la turba o de la turba parece que sus cuerpos se forman En la plenitud terrosa son dos sombras de tiempo que recogen el humus ancestral de la existencia

Missael Duarte Somoza (Juigalpa, Nicaragua, 1977). Poeta, maestro y promotor cultural. Ha publicado los poemarios Líricos instantes (Leteo, 2007), Lienzos de la otredad (Foro Nicaragüense de Cultura, 2010) y Canvas of the Otherness (Leteo, 2012, edición bilingüe). También ha sido publicado en México y en la revista Hispamerica de la Universidad de Maryland. En la actualidad, cursa la Maestría en Creación Literaria, de la Universidad de Texas en El Paso.

Michelle Bordón.

Traveler. 2013.

Michelle Bordón.

(Cancún, México.1990). Ilustradora autodidacta. Se especializa en las figuras de animales inspiradas en lejanos veranos de Campeche a un lado de su abuela. Las piezas presentadas en esta edición de RGR pertenecen a la serie Animalia, su primera exposición personal realizada en 2013 en la Cafebrería El Pabilo, en Cancún.

Trilogía

Martha M. Montejo Pizarro

sucia de

La Habana Manual para descanonizar

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Pedro Juan desanda las ruinas de Centro Habana y su mirada se convierte en singular primer plano de la desmitificación de una utopía, de casi cincuenta años de desmemoria socialista.

Transeúnte de los escombros y la decadencia, devela escenarios, circunstancias y personajes que nunca son titulares de la prensa cubana, al menos no desde esta perspectiva realista y descarnada donde la ciudad que se derrumba es una imagen palpable del sistema. Hambre, sexo y violencia conforman la trinidad sagrada que mueve los hilos en La Habana de Pedro Juan en medio de la búsqueda constante de sobrevida hacia el día siguiente sin mayores expectativas que seguir respirando.

Estas desolaciones humanas y arquitectónicas son las principales protagonistas de Trilogía sucia de La Habana (Anagrama, 1998) de Pedro Juan Gutiérrez. Contadas mayormente en primera persona por un alter ego bien cercano al autor y con una gran carga autobiográfica, narra historias de la realidad cubana en los años más terribles del llamado periodo especial. Dividida en tres partes, Anclado en tierra de nadie, Nada que hacer y Sabor a mí, la recopilación de relatos breves y crónicas propone una de las zonas más oscuras de La Habana de la década del 90, etapa inhumana y difícil de la propuesta del socialismo cubano.

El viaje formulado por el autor a través de estos años carece de retoques. La historia avanza de manera cruda y directa de forma que el lector puede percibir la opresión, el hedor y la cercanía de una realidad que ha sido trasladada prácticamente a la página sin mayores elementos ficcionales. Para el escritor es suficiente girar la cabeza, mirar a través de una ventana maltrecha o desde lo alto de la azotea donde vive en un viejo edificio de la calle San Lázaro.

Con un sencillo gesto encuentra que los límites entre sus historias, argumentos, personajes y ambientes son fáciles de confundir con el ruido exterior. …lo mejor es la realidad. La tomas tal como está en la calle. La agarras con las dos manos y, si tienes fuerza, la levantas y la dejas caer sobre la página en blanco. (…) Ese es mi oficio, revolcador de mierda. (…) Eso es todo. No me interesa lo decorativo, ni lo hermoso, ni lo dulce, ni lo delicioso (…) El arte sólo sirve para algo si es irreverente, atormentado, lleno de pesadillas y desespero. Sólo un arte irritado, indecente, violento, grosero, puede mostrarnos la otra cara del mundo, la que nunca vemos o nunca queremos ver.

(Gutiérrez, 1998: 103)

Precisamente en estas líneas está contenida una parte importante de la poética de Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, revelada de manera iniciática en Trilogía. Su modo peculiar de tomar la realidad y dejarla caer sobre la página en blanco le permite reconstruir una Habana miserable, plagada de escombros. En

los recorridos en busca de subsistir ya sea recogiendo basura o locos, vendiendo marihuana, langosta, carne de res, exhibiendo su miembro para turistas de avanzada edad… aparece la ciudad en la mirada de un ‘flàneur’ tropical de la decadencia. Este sujeto es contrario al ‘flàneur’ de los textos de Baudelaire, caracterizado por Benjamin como el personaje que realiza paseos perezosos por la ciudad, a través de largos bulevares para encontrar la multitud, confundirse y disfrutar de la vida urbana y sus mercaderías.1 Por su parte el ‘flàneur’ habanero carece de los escenarios y atrezos de la modernidad que acompañaban los paseos de Baudelaire. En sus caminatas no hay ocio, sino desesperación, muchas veces no sabe a dónde va, ni siquiera imagina si llegará a sitio alguno. En lugar de bulevares, Pedro Juan tiene el Malecón que además del salitre corrosivo exhibe una galería de personajes también famélicos y desesperanzados. Igualmente la mirada incisiva a los interiores de los solares o cuarterías, como si la vista volara sobre detalles difíciles de representar en materia de miseria humana, lo convierten muchas veces en ‘flàneur’ de espacios cerrados, sin fronteras posibles para cruzar, como la Isla, rodeada de agua por todas partes.

Hasta el momento de la publicación de Trilogía ningún escritor dentro de Cuba se había atrevido a mostrar la realidad de la decadencia circundante con tanto rigor de representación.

Casi a veinte años de su escritura y a 14 de su primera edición por Anagrama, continúa siendo la novela por excelencia del periodo especial cubano. La fuerza de una primera persona transfigurada en escritor, protagonista, mirada total del ocaso social entre las ruinas palpables de una ciudad en destrucción desde sus propios cimientos, le confieren un lugar único. En sus páginas existen varios elementos extraliterarios a la hora de la escritura y por más que duelan y lleguen a perturbar a lectores con nobles conciencias, la miseria circundante es quien sostiene el pulso de la narración.

El propio autor lo ha afirmado varias veces: “Yo tenía mucha furia, rabia y frustración personal, ideológica y política cuando empecé a escribir Trilogía sucia de La Habana en septiembre de 1994.

Llevaba cuatro años pasando hambre, hambre, hambre, y mucho más. Esa energía ayuda a trabajar como un poseso.” (Izarra, 2001) Y son precisamente esas fotografías del hambre con un excelente primer plano de la miseria humana, la falta de capacidad y de poder de decisión de los habitantes de las ruinas, y la sensación de que sólo queda el cuerpo como último estandarte de la propiedad privada para malgastarlo en sexo y viscosidades, las evidencias de una literatura de la dilatada transición cubana.

Muchos creyeron que llegaba el fin después de la caída del campo socialista europeo y que la transición hacia un sistema democrático era inminente en Cuba. Sin embargo, quizá sólo asistíamos al

1 Benjamin describe el ‘flàneur’ como el sujeto que le permite Baudelaire mezclarse en la multitud. “El boulevard es la vivienda del flâneur que está como en su casa entre fachadas, igual que el burgues en sus cuatro paredes. Las placas deslumbrantes y esmaltadas de los comercios son para él un adorno de pared tan bueno y mejor que para el burgués una pintura al óleo en el salón.” (Benjamin, 1972: 51)

principio de uno de los procesos de conversión más demorados de la historia del que Pedro Juan Gutiérrez fue protagonista en primera persona -por esos tiempos era periodista de la revista oficial Bohemia. Después de perder las provisiones del CAME (Consejo de Ayuda Mutua Económica) y en especial de la antigua Unión Soviética, en lugar de una apertura del régimen hacia a la realidad económica internacional, el gobierno decidió cerrar las puertas y fortalecer las murallas de agua de la Isla, decretó periodo especial en tiempos de paz. 2 Asumir la literatura desde la parte más baja de la sociedad cubana, revertir los órdenes, protagonistas, intereses, espacios, es una muestra de la transición literaria presente en Trilogía sucia de La Habana. El propio autor lo reconoce en una de las primeras historias de Anclado en tierra de nadie. …cuando comencé a abandonar ‘cosas importantes’, las ‘cosas importantes’ de los demás, y a pensar y a actuar un poco más para mí mismo, entré en una fase dura. Y estuve muchos años así: al borde de todo. Haciendo equilibrio. Siempre en el precipicio. Me metía en otra etapa de esta aventura que es la vida (…) Yo me estaba endureciendo. Tenía tres opciones: o me endurecía, o me volvía loco, o me suicidaba. Así que era fácil decidir: tenía que endurecerme.

(Gutiérrez, 1998: 29)

Todo el proceso definido por Pedro Juan como endurecimiento, no es más que un cambio de perspectiva en madurez a la hora de asumir la realidad circundante, en medio de las ruinas de la ciudad que son las ruinas de un país, de un sistema condenado al derrumbe y perseguido por los escombros desde su nacimiento. Con sólo narrar lo que respira y ve, el autor descanoniza no sólo al sistema y su utopía, la ciudad y sus postales, sino a una tradición literaria de la Isla que se empeña en ver la hermosura de la vida entre derrumbes, el sentido transgresor de la resistencia. Juega, casi sin saberlo, la trastada cuestionable de profanar la literatura y crear híbridos en zonas imprecisas entre la crónica y el relato corto, la realidad inmediata y la ficción.

Resulta curioso, pero el papel de abogado del diablo, de poner el dedo en la llaga, le tocó a Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, periodista de formación autodidacta, alejado de círculos intelectuales y tendencias literarias. En el panorama cultural del fin de siglo cubano, su proyecto entra en relación con los presupuestos de La condición postmoderna, de Jean Francois Lyotard, quien reconoce la existencia de una crisis cultural como consecuencia de la pérdida de la fe en las metanarrativas. Este teórico comparte la tesis de que la novela ha prescindido de sus grandes héroes, grandes peligros y grandes viajes, propone un discurso de horizontes múltiples y un juego con la lengua. Ihab Hassan, otro teórico de la postmodernidad, asume en The question of Postmodernism una extensa lista de temas de la postmodernidad como indeterminación, fragmentación, descanonización, falta de identidad, lo irrepresentable, ironía, falta de representación, carnavalización, actuación, construcción e inmanencia.

Independientemente de la relación directa entre el capitalismo y las tesis postmodernas, los efectos de la tendencia se han dejado sentir en Cuba a pesar del sistema socialista regente.

Aun por caminos diversos una zona importante de la cultura cubana, especialmente de la narrativa, ha llegado a puntos donde la condición posmoderna rige los discursos y se abren paso impulsos

culturales muy diversos si tomamos en cuenta las hipótesis de Fredric Jameson en su Teoría de la Postmodernidad donde es fácil reconocer manifestaciones de sus postulados.

Una nueva superficialidad, que se prolonga tanto en la “teoría” contemporánea como en toda una nueva cultura de la imagen o del simulacro; el consiguiente debilitamiento de la historicidad, tanto en nuestra relación con la historia oficial como en las nuevas formas de nuestra temporalidad privada, cuya estructura “esquizofrénica” (siguiendo a Lacan) determina nuevos tipos de sintaxis o de relaciones sintagmáticas en las artes más temporales; todo un nuevo subsuelo emocional, al que llamaré “intensidades”, que se comprende mejor regresando a las antiguas teorías de lo sublime; las relaciones constitutivas de todo esto con una nueva tecnología; y un nuevo sistema económico mundial. (Jameson, 1991: 28)

Trilogía sucia de La Habana descanoniza no sólo una ciudad arquitectónica, sino la tradición de los espacios narrados en la literatura cubana. Después de su aparición La Habana es un lugar fácil de profanar con el verbo para mostrar sus grietas y miserias.

Los postulados de la postmodernidad se ajustan a la poética narrativa de Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, no sólo Trilogía descanoniza, carnavaliza y deconstruye a través de un personaje marginal y marginado al propio tiempo. Las entregas posteriores como El Rey de La Habana, Animal Tropical, El insaciable hombre araña, Carne de perro, y otras obras, continúan poniendo en crisis un sistema de relaciones establecido que rompe con la tradición de una literatura en función de la reverencia al sistema social.

Uno de los primeros mitos que enfrenta Trilogía es el de la Habana de Alejo Carpentier quien con frecuencia reitera una ciudad colosal como símbolo certero de la supuesta identidad cubana. Leído en la actualidad, El amor a la ciudad parece hablar de otro espacio en una dimensión distante. “Todos los elementos de la perfección coexisten en La Habana: un malecón comparable únicamente con los de Niza o Río de Janeiro, un clima que propicia flores en todos los tiempos; un cielo que no cubre los pavimentos con lodos grises; una situación geográfica que pone decoración de mar, nubes o sol, al final de cada calle...”. (Carpentier, 1996) La otra Habana de Pedro Juan no nació con su propuesta, tiene orígenes en escritores como Guillermo Cabrera Infante, Severo Sarduy y Reynaldo Arenas. Pertenecientes a una generación posterior a la del autor de El siglo de las luces, interactuaron con otras perspectivas de la ciudad que poco a poco avizoraban la deconstrucción que llegaría en los finales del siglo XX. Cabrera Infante, por ejemplo, es quien propone la mirada hacia una ciudad del placer nocturno, bares, cabarets, cines y todo lo que generan estos espacios de la oscuridad, sexo, alcohol, drogas. Mientras que Sarduy llena la ciudad de seres grotescos, prostitutas, drogadictos, travestis, monstruos… Su propósito es dinamitar la Habana monumental que sólo queda ya en algunas páginas de la literatura cubana.

La Habana de Sarduy se compone de diversos “estratos” que, aparentemente, no se mezclan [...] Pero pronto se descubre que estos “estratos” tampoco tienen límites definidos y estables, sino que están sometidos a constantes transformaciones que impiden reconocerlos e identificar a sus habitantes, ellos mismos sujetos de incesantes metamorfosis que, al igual que la ciudad, transitan fluidamente entre cualesquiera de las épocas o espacios que el lector cree identificar en sus novelas. (Álvarez-Tabío, 2000: 365)

2 “¿Qué significa período especial en tiempo de paz? Que los problemas fueran tan serios en el orden económico por las relaciones con los países de Europa Oriental o pudieran por determinados factores o procesos en la Unión Soviética, ser tan graves, que nuestro país tuviera que enfrentar una situación de abastecimiento sumamente difícil. Téngase en cuenta que todo el combustible llega de la URSS, o y lo que podría ser, por ejemplo que se redujera en una tercera parte o que se redujera a la mitad por dificultades en la URSS, o incluso se redujera a cero, lo cual sería equivalente a una situación como la que llamamos el período especial en tiempo de guerra (...) No sería desde luego sumamente grave en época de paz porque habría determinadas posibilidades de exportaciones e importaciones en esa variante.” (Castro 1990)

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En la misma línea evolutiva de réplica contra la gran ciudad, Arenas coloca la Habana en uno de los escalones más bajos. La escritura en desafueros homosexuales en medio del desastre y la demolición de los espacios. De estos tres escritores es uno de los que más se acerca a la imagen lograda por Trilogía, su propuesta funciona cual pitonisa de un futuro que no podría presenciar pero que se revelaba ante sus ojos inquisidores. “Casas apuntaladas, paredes derruidas, edificios reducidos a escombros, latas y cartones que tapaban un hueco, charcos de aguas putrefactas, enormes montones de basura acumulada en las puertas de los edificios, y sobre todo aquella polvareda y aquella impresión de deterioro general” (Álvarez-Tabío, 2000: 337) Nada más cerca de los ambientes perturbadoramente putrefactos que los espacios de las cuarterías o solares habaneras de los años 90. Decadencia de una arquitectura, de un país, de un sujeto que creció y envejeció convencido de tener el papel del triunfador. Como figuras isométricas, país y cuartería funcionan articuladamente en las páginas de Trilogía. Uno de los pasajes más elocuentes de estas convergencias es la descripción del espacio donde vive el protagonista.

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El edificio es de 1936 y en sus buenos tiempos imitó esas moles de Boston y Filadelfia, con fachadas de bancos sólidos y eficaces.

En realidad conserva la fachada […] Pero adentro se está cayendo a pedazos y es un laberinto increíble de trozos de escaleras sin barandas, oscuridad, olor a rancio y a cucarachas y a mierda fresca.

Y habitaciones añadidas, restando espacio a los pasillos y broncas y fajazones de negros. Llegué a la acera y allí al frente estaba el letrero viejísimo, ya casi ilegible: ‘Una revolución sin peligro no es Revolución. Y un revolucionario sin capacidad de asumir el riesgo no tiene decoro’. […] En la esquina había una valla nueva y enorme.

Con letras bien grandes, de colores brillantes, decía: ‘Cuba, un país de hombres de altura’. […] No sé. Era incomprensible. (Gutiérrez, 1998: 82)

La ciudad como testigo y víctima del desastre socialista, la ciudad como herencia literaria de un canon cubano entrenado en desandarla, enaltecerla, ofrecerla como excusa para intimar con el lector o simplemente provocarlo. Esta misma Habana de Pedro Juan Gutiérrez –que antes ha sido la de otros- también es escriturada por contemporáneos que la desandan, entran y salen de las ruinas con perspectivas narrativas diferentes. Entre los que más resaltan con una poética de la ciudad durante los años difíciles del periodo especial están Abilio Estévez con obras como Tuyo es el reino y Los palacios distantes; Ena Lucía Portela con Cien botellas en la pared; Antonio José Ponte con varios géneros como la novela Contrabando de sombras, los ensayos de Las comidas profundas y El libro perdido de los origenistas, los cuentos de Corazón de skitalietz y Cuentos de todas partes del imperio y el legendario Un arte nuevo de hacer ruinas.

Sin embargo, Trilogía sucia de La Habana emerge con una fuerza incuestionable de la extensa lista de obras que tienen el periodo especial socialista como telón de fondo o en primer plano.

La potencia de un sujeto que niega el redil del hombre nuevo, que pone en dificultades estructuras aparentemente inamovibles con sólo ejercer la mirada, que revierte los discursos, que cuenta lo que respira y lo que no come, lleva a la crisis a personajes prototípicos de la literatura cubana.

Sin dudas, el estilo directo, groseramente punzante del autor es uno de los mayores cómplices en esta eficacia. Él mismo ha confesado que se siente muy lejos de los creadores de la Isla y que sus afinidades viajan al nuevo periodismo y al ritmo de contar una historia sin mayores retóricas impuesto por maestros como

Capote, Hemingway, Faulner y Calver. Por otra parte, la crítica lo ha asociado con Bukowski y Henry Miller, ambos como maestros de una versión tropical del más desaforado realismo sucio. Pero de alguna manera, en su literatura se respiran resonancias de todos los mencionados y de los cubanos que se empeña en negar. Por el simple hecho de ir en contra de sus tendencias deliberadamente, marca un punto de salida hacia una meta en sentido inverso. “No tengo puntos de contacto con la literatura cubana (…) José Lezama Lima jamás se refirió a su realidad inmediata y si lo hizo fue de una forma muy parabólica. No me interesa el barroquismo del idioma, ni repetir cosas que ya se han dicho. Quiero experimentar mi propio camino y arriesgarme. Quiero contar los años que me tocan vivir y vivirlos como una aventura, sin perder el sentido del humor.” (Gómez, 2002) El sentido de originalidad en la mirada y la escritura en la obra de Pedro Juan, lamentablemente atrofiado en varios de los autores contemporáneos de la Isla, llamaron la atención de Roberto Bolaño cuando lo incluyó en Entre paréntesis en un pequeño artículo, “El Bukowski de La Habana”. El autor chileno da crédito a las similitudes no sólo entre el producto literario del cubano y el clásico Bukowski, sino encuentra puntos de contactos en sus formas de sobrevivir. “Una vida de múltiples trabajos, la mayoría aparentemente no relacionados con la literatura, un éxito tardío, una escritura sencilla, aunque aquí hay que tener muchísimo cuidado, unos temas comunes, como las mujeres, el alcohol y la lucha por sobrevivir.” (Bolaño, 2004: 213) Pero el propio Pedro Juan Gutiérrez asegura que escribe para obligar a los otros a sentir la fetidez circundante. “Hay que bajar el hocico y obligar a otros a oler la mierda... Así aterrorizo a los cobardes y jodo a los que gustan amordazar a quienes podemos hablar.”(85) Las cercanías con Bukowski no las desestima del todo, pero está consciente que en el trópico y especialmente en Cuba cualquier tendencia o estilo adquiere otro matiz, más agudo, punzante. “Y yo creo que ese libro está dentro de una línea muy fuerte de realismo sucio, entendido como una manera de llegar siempre al límite de la literatura, al límite de los personajes, de no esconder nada de los personajes. Eso es lo que yo entiendo del realismo sucio.” (Clark, 2000) Como otros narradores de la década del 90, Pedro Juan Gutiérrez siente que los mecanismos del Boom Literario Latinoamericano para contar una historia y representar la realidad son insuficientes en una etapa donde no hay espacio para la utopía. Estas grandes narraciones parecerían falsas en los horizontes finiseculares de una Isla que siente la condena del agua por todas partes y al mismo tiempo un sistema social que hace mucho no genera ilusiones, sólo privaciones. Su discurso va a las antípodas de escritores grandilocuentes anteriores, a los que Bolaño se atrevió a apuntar con el índice acusador. La generación de escritores latinoamericanos destacada por Bolaño y en la que de alguna manera convergen tendencias diversas como las del propio Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, Alberto Fuget, Horacio Castellanos Moya, Rodrigo Rey Rosa, Mario Bellatin, Rodrigo Fresán, César Aira, Santiago Roncagliolo y otros, se ubica por la naturaleza de sus obras en un punto divergente del Boom. Nada más alejado de sus propuestas que las aproximaciones a la literatura de los años 60 que hiciera Gabriel García Márquez, emblema del Boom, cuando recibió el Premio Nobel en 1982. “Me atrevo a pensar que es esta realidad descomunal, y no sólo su expresión literaria, la que este año ha merecido la atención de la Academia Sueca de la Letras.

Una realidad que no es la del papel, sino que vive con nosotros

(…) y que sustenta un manantial de creación insaciable, pleno de desdicha y de belleza.” (García Márquez, 1982) En las antípodas de esta exaltación mezclada con morriña y grandilocuencia, se ubica Bolaño junto a los autores congéneres de Pedro Juan Gutiérrez.

Como escritores hemos llegado a literalmente a un precipicio. No se ve forma de cruzar, pero hay que cruzarlo y ese es nuestro trabajo, encontrar la manera de cruzarlo. Evidentemente en este punto la tradición de los padres (y de algunos abuelos) no sirve para nada, al contrario se convierte en un lastre. Si no queremos despeñarnos en el precipicio, hay que inventar, hay que ser audaces, cosa que tampoco garantiza nada. (Swinburn, 2003)

Pedro Juan Gutiérrez mantiene la audacia para cruzar los precipicios de Bolaño y se vale de todos los recursos posibles al alcance de su mano. La invención para conseguir la sobrevida natural, aparece en Trilogía sucia de La Habana no sólo como camino literario, sino como opción de existencia de un periodista que escribe para no enloquecer, para no dejarse caer con la multitud y lograr subsistir de forma magra, aparentemente al margen de la tradición literaria de la Isla, experta en barroquismos.

En medio de estas pulsiones y bajo un ritmo narrativo incansable, constantemente estimulado por el hambre y las penurias que padecía el autor en los años más crueles del periodo especial, aparece el cuerpo como único espacio de propiedad posible. Narrado con la intensidad que merece un templo de su estirpe, el cuerpo emerge como escape, herramienta de trabajo para el sexo y consuelo para soportar un día tras otro en medio de las ruinas. En las páginas de Trilogía el sexo es un personaje más, una escena cotidiana, un punto de giro y de eterno retorno siempre de la manera más cruda, ya sea en soledad, en pareja o en múltiples compañías; en la mañana, la tarde o la madrugada; con hambre, calor, sudor; bajo techo o al aire libre; con drogas y alcohol, o sin ellos. Los escasos segundos de un orgasmo son el auténtico escape de los cubanos de estas ruinas, el resto del miserable tiempo es parte de la lucha diaria por sobrevivir.

La representación del sexo en las obras de Pedro Juan Gutiérrez va más allá de las posibles definiciones de erotismo y pornografía, sugerencias y muestras. Los niveles de escritura del acto sexual llegan a puntos obscenos por la crudeza de los detalles con que son narrados. Para el autor el sexo es “un intercambio de líquidos, de fluidos, saliva, aliento y olores fuertes, orina, semen, mierda, sudor, microbios, bacterias. O no es. Si sólo es ternura y espiritualidad etérea entonces se queda en una parodia inútil de lo que pudo ser” (Gutiérrez, 1998: 11).

Sus personajes se entregan a faenas sexuales como si gozaran de su última posibilidad sobre la tierra. En verdad es prácticamente la única decisión propia que les queda. Enfebrecidos tras la búsqueda de orgasmos sucesivos todos conspiran con la teoría de la voluptuosidad descrita por Bataille cuando asume que la imagen perfecta de la felicidad es alcanzar la voluptuosidad como un bien incomparable ya que se trata de la simbiosis entre la resolución y el deslumbramiento. “El placer de los cuerpos es sucio y nefasto: el hombre en estado normal –aclaremos: el hombre de la actividad cotidiana- lo condena o acepta que sea condenado (…) La voluptuosidad para el hombre es la animalidad, no es más divina que caduca, y su caducidad es su condición.” (Bataille, 2001: 88) Ya sabemos que ningún personaje de Trilogía es un hombre en estado normal. Todo lo contrario, viven en circunstancias de marginalidad extrema donde la ciudad cede espacio a lo repugnante con facilidad asombrosa. Para ellos es fácil no cuestionar la

búsqueda de la voluptuosidad con sus propios recursos sexuales y vivir en una orgía eterna sin códigos de conducta ni valores que los limiten.

La Habana aparece como una más de las ciudades malditas, Sodoma, Gomorra o Babilonia, donde el pecado es el rey y no existen los límites entre lo probable e improbable en materia de placer. Ni siquiera el tríptico religioso cubano -catolicismo, religión africana y espiritismo- puede detener los cuerpos sedientos de sexo y profanación. Los bajos niveles de miseria han llevado a los personajes de Trilogía al comportamiento de la selva infrahumana, a vivir entre sus propios desechos y alimentarse de carroñas para llegar al día siguiente. Nada más cercano a la debacle bíblica en algunas ciudades donde el pecado regía el sentido de sus hombres. “La miseria destruía todo y destruía a todos, por dentro y por fuera. Ésta era la etapa del sálvese quien pueda, después de aquella otra del socialismo y no muerdas la mano del que te da la comidita. Así que al carajo la piedad y todo eso.” (Gutiérrez, 1998: 173).

La búsqueda de la felicidad en estas páginas puede ser desoladora, al extremo de terminar en la muerte por cualquiera de las vías de los pecados capitales, el suicidio o el asesinato. Ambos están presentes en la obra y forman parte de la cotidianidad de las calles de Centro Habana como si se tratara de un acto más, otra manera de sobrevivir a través de la muerte.

En esta versión tropical de una ciudad tomada por las fuerzas del demonio, casi todos los personajes que mueren, sangran, sufren y tratan de sobrevivir son negros. Este detalle se ha convertido en punto cuestionable para Trilogía. ¿Por qué todos son negros y mulatos? ¿Acaso no hay blancos en las ruinas de Centro Habana?

O peor aún, ¿los blancos fueron absueltos del periodo especial, de la condición de vivir entre ruinas y de la imperiosa necesidad de resistir la sordidez de los años 90? Para un lector no cubano es fácil encontrar sintonía entre estas páginas y la imagen comercial de la Isla, derrumbe y gozadera, hambre con sexo, negros sensuales, santería, tabaco, ron, marihuana, malecón habanero, carros de los años 50’… Pedro Juan escribió el algoritmo perfecto, hizo coincidir su realidad inmediata con los afiches de publicidad cubana fuera de la Isla y con un periodo especial asfixiante como uno de los personajes más intensos, capaz de fatigar a la mulatas rumberas.

De alguna manera le facilitó el trabajo a los editores y al mercado europeo –en especial a España donde fue publicada esta novela y toda la saga siguiente sobre La Habana-, uno de los países que más turistas aporta a Cuba. Al mismo tiempo de estas coherencias discutibles con ciertos estereotipos del marketing, cuida sus páginas de alcanzar una madurez política capaz de enfrentar abiertamente al sistema de gobierno cubano. Desde el inicio de Trilogía… hasta la última página, todos los negros, incluido Pedro Juan –que es mulato y en la novela se hace pasar por uno de los pocos blancos que aparecen- están tratando de resistir. El verbo resistir, en Cuba, tiene connotaciones especiales. Hace más de 50 años el país resiste, desde la perspectiva del gobierno, los embates del imperialismo; desde el pueblo, el totalitarismo del gobierno.

No es casual que el slogan del periodo especial fuera precisamente ‘resistir y vencer’. Resistirlo todo y vencernos a nosotros mismos, mitigar la necesidad de cuestionamiento, de búsqueda de libertad y nuevas posibilidades económicas, sociales y políticas.

A pesar de estas sintonías con el sistema, el autor nunca ha publicado Trilogía sucia de La Habana y las novela siguientes como El Rey de La Habana (1999), dentro de Cuba. Las políticas

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editoriales no lo permiten, demasiado negro, sexo, mugre, derrumbe, hambre… Pero según el autor eso no le incomoda, aunque después de presentar Trilogía… en España, en 1998, las revistas donde trabajaba, Bohemia y Habanera, lo despidieron sin mayores argumentos.

Otro puntos cuestionable es la curiosa insistencia del autor en desmentir que Trilogía sea una novela política, en más de una ocasión le han preguntado ¿en ese retrato hay críticas al sistema? Y su respuesta no varía: “Pero no de manera directa, no me interesa.

Lo que pasa es que un escritor es siempre un rebelde, está en contra del poder establecido, lo mismo en Cuba y en Estados Unidos. Cualquier escritor es un crítico en potencia, no queda otro remedio. Sin embargo, regreso siempre a Cuba. Amo mucho a mi país y sigo viviendo tranquilamente.” (Gómez, 2002) Y de alguna manera, los personajes y el espíritu de Trilogía entran en concordancia con la visión ‘apolítica’ que pretende Pedro Juan. Resulta curioso como después de una lectura y análisis este punto no se torna criticable porque en realidad tanto el autor como sus personajes están muy ocupados en un momento anterior al pensamiento, la madurez de criterio y acción. Simplemente se ocupan de acciones primarias, inherentes a la especie humana, comer, beber, tener sexo y sobrevivir un día tras otro en la selva que les ha tocado, prácticamente como animales. Habitan una especie de vida primitiva, despojada de poder de decisión, capacidad de análisis o contrapunto de la realidad circundante. Viven en un país que a pesar de ser soberano no sabe qué hacer con su soberanía y se consume entre sus propias de paredes de agua.

Los habitantes de estas ruinas de Centro Habana guardan mucho en común con los sujetos que no han tenido otra opción que vivir la vida desnuda, como propone el pensador Giorgio Agamben en sus tratados sobre biopolítica. El teórico italiano define el término Estado-nación como el Estado que hace del hecho de nacer, de la vida humana, el fundamento de la propia soberanía. En naciones con un régimen totalitario, como la cubana, los derechos del hombre ya no son derechos del ciudadano. En Cuba, las leyes sociales giran en contra de las leyes naturales de la

soberanía que aseguran –según Agamben- que el hombre se hace verdaderamente sagrado, en el sentido que tiene este término en el derecho romano arcaico: consagrado a la muerte.

Ni el autor ni sus personajes encuentran en la disidencia del sistema un punto sostenible para desarrollarse dentro de la representación literaria de la Habana de los años 90. Primero tienen que sobrevivir, subsistir al día tras otro. Casi al final de la novela, una de las descripción de un solar o cuartería habanera confirma que el sentido de vivir entre las ruinas es resistir y vencer, justo lo que propone el decadente sistema cubano.

Cuarterías con miles de personas hacinadas como cucarachas. Personas delgadas, mal alimentadas, sucias, sin empleo, tomando ron a todas horas, fumando mariguana, tocando tambor, reproduciéndose como conejos. Gente sin perspectiva, con un horizonte demasiado corto.

Y riéndose de todo. ¿De qué se ríen? De todo. Nadie anda triste o quiere el suicidio o se aterra porque piense que los escombros pueden precipitarse abajo y enterrarlos en vida. No. Todo lo contrario. En medio de la debacle la gente ríe, sobrevive, intenta pasarlo lo mejor posible y aguza sus sentidos y su olfato (…) Ya que nacieron en las ruinas, se trata entonces de jamás abandonar o permitir que los golpeen tanto que al fin tengan que tirar la toalla y levantar los brazos.

Todo es posible, todo es válido, menos la derrota.

Trilogía sucia de La Habana no será nunca la gran obra de la literatura cubana, ni su autor tendrá todos los elementos intelectuales ni la erudición necesaria para convertirse en un consagrado de las letras. Los críticos literarios dentro de la Isla no le darán el lugar justo que se merece, no sólo porque fue escrita por un periodista que quiso convertir crónicas de prensa plana en ficción, sino porque trata temáticas escabrosas y sus personajes no tienen mucho que ver con la tradición literaria cubana. Sin embargo, su lugar fundacional en la literatura de la dilatada transición en Cuba, su manera singular de irrespetar espacios sagrados y la descanonización de falsos mitos socialistas presentes en sus páginas, la ubican en una situación excepcional, privilegiada a la hora de trazar el mapa literario cubano de las últimas décadas.

Bibliografía Álvarez-Tabío Albo, Emma. Invención de La Habana. Barcelona: Editorial

Casiopea, 2000. Impreso Agamben, Giorgio. Medios sin fin. Notas sobre la política. Valencia: Pre-Textos,

2001. Impreso Bataille, Georges. “El erotismo o el cuestionamiento del ser”. La felicidad, el

erotismo y la literatura. Ensayos 1944-1961. Selección, traducción y

prólogo de Silvio Mattoni. Buenos Aires: Adriana Hidalgo editora S.A.,

2001. 338-362. Impreso Benjamin, Walter. Iluminaciones/2 (Baudelaire). Taurus Ediciones, Madrid,

España. 1972. Impreso Bolaño, Roberto. “El Bukowski de La Habana”. Entre paréntesis. Barcelona:

Editorial Anagrama S.A., 2004. 212-214. Impreso Casamayor, Odette. “¿Cómo vivir las ruinas habaneras de los años noventa?:

Respuestas disímiles desde la Isla en las obras de Abilio Estévez, Pedro Juan

Gutiérrez y Ena Lucía Portela.” En Caribbean Studies, julio-diciembre de

2004, año/vol. 32, número 002. Universidad de Puerto Rico, San Juan,

Puerto Rico. Visto en http://www.pedrojuangutierrez.com/Ensayos_

ensayos_Odette%20Casamayor%20(ruinas).htm. Web Castro, Fidel. Discurso pronunciado el 28 de enero de 1990. Visto en

http://www.cuba.cu/gobierno/discursos/1990/esp/f280190e.html. Web Carpentier, Alejo. El amor a la ciudad. Alfaguara. España, 1996. Impreso Clark, Stephen J. “El Rey de Centro Habana: Conversación con Pedro Juan

Gutiérrez” en Delaware Review of Latin American Studies, Vol. 2 No. 1, Diciembre 15 de 2000. Visto en http://www.pedrojuangutierrez.com/Entrevista_ ES_Librusa.htm. Web García Márquez, Gabriel. “La soledad de América Latina”. Discurso de

aceptación del Premio Nobel 1982. En Ciudad Seva. Visto en http://www. ciudadseva.com/textos/otros/ggmnobel.htm Gómez Bravo, Andrés. “Pedro Juan Gutiérrez: Mi escritura es un strip-tease”

en Revista La Tercera, Santiago de Chile. Abril, 16, 2002. Visto en http://

www.pedrojuangutierrez.com/Entrevista_ES_Tercera.htm. Web Gutiérrez, Pedro Juan. Trilogía Sucia de La Habana. Anagrama, Barcelona,

España. 1998. Impreso Hassan, Ihab. “El pluralismo en una perspectiva postmoderna”. Revista Criterios

29 (junio 1991): 267-288. Impreso Izarra, Hugo. “Pedro Juan Gutiérrez: Factótum a su pesar” en Ruinas

incompletas. Junio, 29, 2011. Visto en http://hugoizarra.blogspot.

com/2011/06/pedro-juan-gutierrez-factotum-su-pesar.html. Web Jameson, Fredric. Teoría de la postmodernidad. Editorial Trotta, S.A. Madrid,

España. 1996. Impreso Lyotard, Jean Francois. La Condición Postmoderna. Madrid, Ediciones Cátedra,

1987. Traducción de M. Antolín Rato. Impreso Swinburn, Daniel. “Catorce preguntas a Bolaño.” En El Mercurio, 2 de Marzo de

2003. Visto en http://www.letras.s5.com/bolano010403.htm. Web

Martha M. Montejo Pizarro (Bayamo, Cuba, 1974). Periodista y editora. Licenciada en Comunicación Social en la Universidad de La Habana en 1996. Ha publicado artículos y ensayos en periódicos y revistas. Actualmente cursa estudios de postgrado, Ph. D. in Hispanic Studies, en Texas A&M University, con intereses en estudios literarios, en College Station, Texas.

cr贸nica

FOTOGRAFIA: DIANA CARRILLO. 2014

La esperanza es de

Cinco Puntos Press

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colores

ucho antes de venir a El Paso, hice una búsqueda en Google para darme una idea de la ciudad; al pedir exclusivamente imágenes, me llamó la atención la fachada de un negocio: Cinco Puntos Press. Era obvio que había un diseño detrás del tipo de letra, de la selección de los colores (rosado, amarillo, morado, anaranjado…), una intención planificada para resaltar en medio de un distrito casi gris y solitario. En especial mi ojo se enfocó en la palabra PUBLISHER que se puede leer sobre una de sus ventanas. Ya que soy escritora, y soy centroamericana, y venía a El Paso específicamente a escribir, de inmediato pensé que la ciudad tenía mucho qué ofrecernos a quienes nos hemos sumergido en esta subestimada profesión. La foto me dio esperanzas, me hizo sonreír.

Un acto de equilibrio Desde que puse un pie adentro Cinco Puntos me sentí como en casa. Lee Byrd, responsable junto a su esposo de la fundación de esta compañía, me recibió con esa sonrisa que sólo proviene de aquellos que aman su trabajo. Me contó que empezaron en 1985, cansados de trabajar para otros y deseosos de publicar a sus amigos escritores cuyo trabajo no era del interés de otras casas editoriales.

Tanto ella, como su esposo Bobby, son escritores y se mudaron a El Paso atraídos por la cultura fronteriza de una ciudad como esta.

Yo le pregunto a Lee ¿cómo ha sobrevivido por 27 años un negocio así de independiente en el competitivo mundo del libro y en un país como Estados Unidos? Y ella se ríe y me dice: “Mostly by the grace of God”.

Volteo a mi alrededor y veo esos mismos colores de allá afuera, aquí adentro. Apenas hay estanterías en las paredes, más bien hay mesas llenas de los libros que han publicado; las portadas son así de vivas y arcoíris, como

Wendy García Ortiz

todo lo que tiene que ver con Cinco Puntos; como la sonrisa de Lee y el cariño de Bobby, a quien conocería minutos más tarde.

Un secreto dividido en tres es lo que ha mantenido a esta editorial en pie: 1) que los libros que publican los promocionan en concursos, y los premios y reconocimientos que reciben, atraen la atención de casas distribuidoras; 2) que siempre están publicando, no se cruzan de brazos ante sus logros; 3) que han aprendido que este negocio es un acto de equilibrio, “las ganancias de un libro pagan por la publicación de otro”, explica Lee. Objetivo, adulto joven La mayor parte de las historias que le interesa publicar a Cinco Puntos está dirigida a los lectores jóvenes, especialmente a la comunidad latina. “Latino teenagers don’t see themselves in books”, me cuenta Lee. Y entonces me muestra un ejemplo: Maximilian, una serie de libros acerca de las aventuras de un joven luchador de lucha libre. Es una especie de cómic escrita en inglés y español. Depende del componente cultural de la historia, esta casa editorial decide si es necesario hacerla bilingüe o dejarla en su idioma materno.

Uno de los libros que más éxito ha tenido, y que aún siguen imprimiendo en diversas versiones (incluso en DVD), es La Llorona. Está escrita por Joe Hayes, un storyteller norteamericano que decide rescatar esta leyenda latinoamericana sólo para confirmar que la tradición oral nunca pasa de moda.

Y, mientras hablamos de jóvenes, un grupo de alumnos de El Paso Community College se hace presente junto a su profesor para conocer la casa editorial. Así que Lee los atiende y yo observo cómo les repite lo que ya me ha dicho a mí, con el agregado de una plática exclusiva que les explica paso a

paso cuál es el camino que recorre un libro, hasta que llega a manos del lector. No es una ruta fácil, más o menos cuesta entre $7mil y $20mil y puede tardar entre uno y tres años, pero ella describe el proceso con una pasión envidiable; responde preguntas e invita a los alumnos (miembros de un club de lectura) a que recorran la tienda y se interesen por los autores.

La ventaja de ser fronterizos A los pocos minutos conozco a Bobby Bird, esposo de Lee. Me ofrece un café y una divertida conversación acerca de Cinco Puntos, claro. De tanto en tanto nos interrumpe el profesor de aquel grupo de alumnos para preguntarle si asistirá a la Feria del Libro en Tucson, para pedirle un autógrafo, o para agradecerle el tiempo que la editorial le ha dado a sus alumnos. Lee y Bobby ya están acostumbrados. Después de atender a estos lectores, tienen programadas dos citas más durante la semana, una con 15 niños y otra con 50.

Mientras los jóvenes recorren las mesas de exhibición, Bobby me explica que haber asentado esta empresa en El Paso representa una ventaja y a la vez una gran debilidad.

Me dice: “Nobody in New York would have published a story like La Llorona” y sin embargo, asegura que tanto ese libro como la gran mayoría de los que publica Cinco Puntos, son libros reconocidos en todo el territorio nacional.

La gran paradoja es que en El Paso venden únicamente el 5% de sus publicaciones, lo demás está recorriendo otros estados e incluso otros países.

Recientemente vendieron los derechos de varios libros para niños a casas editoriales de España, Italia y Alemania.

“It’s an act of self-discovery”, confiesa Bobby, este negocio continúa sorprendiéndolos.

Ya cuando los alumnos del EPCC se

han ido, Lee toma un descanso y se despide de Bobby y de mí. La veo tomar su bolso y una canasta de mimbre con cuatro o cinco sobres manila. Son los manuscritos de escritores que le interesan a la editorial, es material en bruto que Lee ha pedido a sus autores porque lo ha leído en algún lugar.

Así sucedió con el primer libro que Cinco Puntos le publicó a Benjamín Alire Sáenz, profesor miembro del Departamento de Creative Writing en Utep: Bobby leyó uno de sus cuentos cortos en El Paso Times, le pareció que valía la pena convertirlo en un libro ilustrado para niños, así que se comunicó con él y acordaron llevar a cabo el proyecto. A partir de ese hecho, la relación entre Sáenz y la editorial ha sido muy estrecha, publicando novelas, libros de cuentos, poesía, y les ha valido a ambos diversos reconocimientos como el Pen/Faulkner Award for Fiction en el año 2013. Y esto mismo está sucediendo con otros autores como Xavier Garza y Luis Crosthwaite.

“A lot happens because we live here in El Paso”, cuenta Bobby, seguro de haber tomado la mejor decisión al mudarse a esta ciudad en la década de los 70, feliz de haberse lanzado a la aventura de este negocio y orgulloso del legado que están construyendo para las nuevas generaciones de lectores.

Al salir de Cinco Puntos Press mi corazón está salpicado con esos colores que revisten sus paredes, que destilan de sus libros… Es inevitable sonreír después de hablar con estos escritores, de haberlos visto en su ambiente de trabajo, que también es su casa.

Difícil no prometer una próxima visita, otro café, fabricar juntos una nueva esperanza.

Wendy García Ortiz

(Ciudad de Guatemala, Guatemala, 1977). Perio­ dista y escritora. En 2011 y 2013 obtuvo menciones honoríficas en dos certá­ me­ nes de cuento corto or­ ganizados por el es­ cri­­ tor nicaragüense Ser­ gio Ramírez y por la edi­­ to­ rial centroamericana Ama­ nuense. Actualmente cursa la Maestría en Crea­ ción Literaria en la Universidad de Texas en El Paso. También trabaja en su primera novela pa­ ra niños titulada El diario de Abi.

Fotos: Diana

carrillo

(El Paso, Estados Unidos). 1989. Fotógrafa y periodista. Graduada de Periodismo Multimedia en UTEP. Ha participado en proyectos con National Geographic (Caída de las torres de ASARCO). Tiene publicada sus piezas en el libro ‘Ilustración de las familias de México’ (con instantáneas de hogares de Ciudad Juárez). Expuso en la ‘Semana de la Tierra’ en The Union Gallery de UTEP. Actualmente forma parte del equipo de fotógrafos de El Diario de El Paso y el tabloide ‘Vamos’.

Niños de Anapra.

Juan Torres. 2013.

Juan Torres (Ciudad Juárez, México. 1973) Heredó la pasión por la fotografía de su padre Luis Torres. Dos de sus hermanos mayores y un sobrino también son fotógrafos A los catorce años agarró la cámara en sus manos para jamás soltarla. Desde entonces busca dejar constancia de la realidad “no oficial” en la cual viven los residentes de la frontera El Paso-Ciudad Juárez. Ha trabajado en varios medios de comunicación.

Miguel Coletti

La reja

Fue en la inspección submarina de la malacosa playa de La Reja-un refugio costero sitiado por cuevas naturales y una reja de metal que separa a los bañistas por clases sociales- donde recogí unos salvajes ejemplares de cangrejo que cortaban con sus filosas tenazas la red de pescar que extendí en el agua picada. Colectados los “crustaceos”, pasé por sus antenas un cordel de pescar caliente que resultó en un hermoso collar de cangrejos vivos que hacían sonar sus filosas tijeras alrededor de mi cuello salado, haciendo mucho ruido y calando mi piel hasta las heridas. Mientras ellos zurcían barrotes sobre mi epidermis, recordé por asociación y sorpresa, mientras volvía por el camino de la playa hacia mi cobachas, las conversaciones alturadas que flotaban en la mente acuosa de hace 13 años y me conducían por un sendero faite de la calle Cochrane en el centro del Callao detrás de una reja de mercado , conversaciones serias para mi espíritu aprendiz, charlas gruesas de asaltantes de puerto y bultos de madrugada que se escondían debajo de las tapas de desagüe, de baile con discusión y cuello dispuesto, plomazo entre vaporinos y oilers, boletos de muerto con falso al amanecer en el rumbo de la adivinación y la brujería porteña, la desconfianza del pintao y del charly contra el rencor del trinchudo que reclamaba su lugar en el puerto choro, la angustia de la madre chalaca, castradora y la espera de malas noticias, el desprecio por la vida del hijo ladrón, el cuerpo baleado del semejante, el cerebro del Callao gobernado por la vaina.

Estas conversaciones antiguas me trasladaban por una máquina del tiempo boba, hacia años remotos e indescifrables cuando me fue presentado a muy temprana edad por un pariente ahora perdido, el genial viejo Federico Mutis, célebre guardián del mercado central del Callao. Llave principal. Cunda discreto, siempre de camisa diamantada y léxico picante. Era famoso su dicho perdido en la memoria colectiva: Adelante, parroquianos de Cajamarca En su época de ser había llegado a boxeador profesional de barrio, noqueador de quijada fuerte, partidor de almas, valiente, un recio estibador del TMC. Era ágil y aguerrido como todos los de su especie a la hora de circular la chaveta y hundir el frío metal en la carne, dejó sus mejores años entre la cárcel y el muelle, viviendo del laburo atracador y desaduanado, primero con grúa, luego con pato, reunía al final de la jornada ganancias excesivas de los buques mercantes que en la mayoría de casos dejaban un “solidario” óbolo en sus bolsillos. Don “Fefefifo” y su corte de galifardos, puntos y contrapuntos, siempre ganaban precio en la balanza de la vida.

Anduve un tiempo de larga soledad frecuentando a estos viejos amigos que de alguna manera me acercaban tercamente

al recuerdo de mi pariente perdido hace poco tiempo, iba planchando a diario las calles del centro del Callao con botas de obrero americano, perdonando la envidia de los lacras que aguaitaban siempre el buen vestir y el andar “limpio”, rozando los hombros como zombi de los seres oscuros del Callao nocturno.

Estas conversaciones del final de la tarde que procuraba siempre escuchar y recordar, se producían apenas cerradas las grandes puertas del mercado. Durante esos años contradictorios logré acumular valiosa información sobre la historia del corazón del Callao antiguo, que luego fue escrita en un diario como este, sobre mi amistad con los viejos vigilantes nocturnos, patrimonio ahora extinto del antiguo Mercado Central del Callao, personas misteriosas en su vestimenta afranelada con desprecio por la moda, una facha “necesaria” para soportar el intenso frío de la madrugada. Ellos eran poseedores de una imaginación sorprendente y creativa para la narración oral de la magia porteña y el contrapunto de noticias fúnebres; estos señores siempre departían desde su cómodo puesto de vigía que era un sillón despanzurrado que alistaban para iniciar los monólogos, yo desde afuera del mercado asistía como un invitado y saludaba del otro lado de la reja, a veces llevaba un lonche o a veces les alcanzaba cigarros por entre los barrotes a estos sabios nocturnos: Mutis García, Prada y Marín, quienes soltaban espontáneas y profundas charlas sobre la estampa de los chalacos de antes y sus tradiciones perdidas, sabían historias muy antiguas que provenían de la época cuando se construyó el mercado, sobre los desfalcos millonarios en la Tesorería del recinto con el cuento del plomo y las balanzas des- calibradas de los carniceros, la famosa tragedia del cargador de bultos Tomás Tapia, un estibador puneño quien tuvo la mala fortuna de ser atrapado, en la cámara frigorífica mientras “colgaba” una res, por un mal viento o una mano siniestra que selló la puerta de acero y lo sentenció a morir congelado, pues ni ellos, los vigilantes nocturnos pudieron escuchar los gritos de frío del recio cargador esa madrugada. Sus conversaciones eran extensas y con datos precisos sobre fechas, locaciones, horas del día y descripción de “rostros señalados” de los principales de sus historias. Siempre eran los mismos temas pesimistas, la misma chola pero con otro forro, muertes imprevistas y heroicas, inmensas plagas de ratas e insectos que brincaban toda la noche sobre los alimentos que serían rematados al día siguiente al público, las tétricas “penas” o apariciones de almitas, frecuentes en la zona de los pescadores y marisqueros, y algunos otros temas de fantasía correspondientes al Callao antiguo , perfectamente narrados por ellos, historias que en ese momento deslumbraban mi imaginación de adolescente y que continuaré recordando.

Abrí la reja y salí…

Miguel Coletti (Puerto del Callao, Perú. 1975). Estudió lingüística en la UNMSM. Es pescador de redes en la caleta de El Aromito en Chucuito-Callao y experto en rescate de lenguas muertas. Es editor de la no revista Manofalsa. Ha publicado el libro objeto “El viaje sin retorno del Primo Luk”, en 2008.

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Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín

Veteranos (Fragmento de la colección de relatos La sonrisa de Ares) 29 de Junio de 2002

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Estoy horrorizado. Hoy, en la sala de espera de la clínica psiquiátrica, vi de frente un rostro que mi oficio había mantenido oculto. Trajeron a un señor en silla de ruedas que tenía los muñones de las piernas fijados con vendas blancas.

Entró con un aire altivo y orgulloso, como desfilando un uniforme imaginario lleno de condecoraciones. Buscó intimidarme con su presencia, con su mirada de militar viejo y curtido de malas palabras. Después de que se fuera la enfermera, inició una conversación rutinaria.

“Soy el Cabo Márquez, tengo tres condecoraciones por mi heroísmo, hago parte del batallón de alta montaña”.

No sé qué diablos esperaba que le respondiera. Repitió la misma arenga una y otra vez, posiblemente buscando mi aprobación. Como en la sala sólo estábamos los dos, me puse en pie e hice el respectivo saludo militar, no solo por respeto a su veteranía y aparente heroísmo, sino para que me dejara tranquilo de una vez por todas. Yo no quería entrar a mi consulta aún más paranoico de lo que venía de casa. De cualquier manera para mí fue ridículo hacer honores después de tantos meses alejado de tratos y costumbres militares.

Fue patético: dos veteranos en un espacio deprimente, buscando la oportunidad para repetir las antiguas formas del poder. El cabo Márquez se reconoció en mi gesto y por un momento permitió que la tranquilidad y el silencio ahogaran la sala.

De repente, con la fuerza de un tornado, el cabo Márquez comenzó a mover los brazos hacia la parte baja de la silla, como tratando de acomodar o buscar algo. Yo no entendí su propósito. Hizo un gesto de placer, como cuando uno se rasca donde le pica… y efectivamente, se había rascado. El problema para mí fue entender que estaba rascando el aire. Se rascó las piernas que no tenía, unas picaduras que no existían. Con más morbo que curiosidad, no pude parar de mirar el gesto de goce y la imagen incompleta de su cuerpo dándose un placer donde yo sólo encontraba vacío.

Repitió su historia: nombre, condecoraciones, lugar. Soy el Cabo Márquez, etc., etc. Era como si, ya lejos de la montaña, necesitara recordarle al mundo quién era. Cansado de la letanía, decidí mirar hacia otra parte y así regresó el silencio por unos minutos.

En un movimiento inesperado, se escurrió de la silla de ruedas apoyándose con las manos. Cayó al piso y continúo arrastrándose dentro de la sala de espera, emulando un caminar desbaratado,

incompleto. Dijo dos o tres cosas sobre las picaduras de serpiente, sobre el color de las que deben mantenerse lejos, de cómo resistir la fiebre, del olor de la selva.

Hablaba para sí mismo como un poseso.

Invocó de nuevo su historia. Aumentó el ritmo y la intensidad de su voz.

“Cabo Márquez, tres condecoraciones, alta montaña” Yo estaba atolondrado, perdido en la escena. Me agarré a la silla con fuerza y bajé la mirada tratando de evadirme.

“Deben saber que soy un gran estratega, por eso me enviaron acá, lejos de mi batallón. Con esa maldita excusa me eliminaron y ahora estoy hecho un inútil” dijo el cabo Márquez cambiando de tono.

Asentí con más miedo que convicción. Él se acomodó de nuevo en su silla y volvió a rascarse la comezón de sus piernas

imaginarias. Pasaron algunos segundos de calma. Luego empezó a gritar que era el Cabo Márquez, que tenía tres condecoraciones, que venía del batallón de alta montaña y que llamaran rápido al doctor para que le sanara la picadura de serpiente. En el forcejeo del ataque de rabia se cayó de la silla, quedando de espaldas sobre el suelo. Parecía un escarabajo patasarriba, se retorcía como una lombriz. Injurió todo. Comenzó con blasfemias, palabras gruesas. La algarabía hizo que vinieran las enfermeras de la unidad psiquíatrica. Un tanto desubicadas, me miraron como si yo fuera el del escándalo. Me reclamaron no sé qué cosa sobre la consideración y la impertinencia. Yo les aclaré que el de la escena era él y me quedé agazapado en un rincón viendo cómo le ponían un tranquilizante para llevárselo de la sala.

Estuve allí un rato más, sin saber qué hacer. Luego salí estrellándome contra las paredes. Me hubiese gustado vomitar en una esquina, como en las películas de acción, pero era un gesto demasiado distante de lo que me producía la escena del Cabo Márquez.

Decidí no regresar a mi cita con el psiquiatra.

Caminando por ahí me di cuenta de que el conflicto que vivimos tenía sus modos y sus maneras. Me senté en la acera y me dediqué a observar por largo rato la cicatriz queloide de mi brazo. La guerra nos había dejado marcas en toda la existencia.

30 de Junio de 2002 Estuve toda la noche y parte de la mañana pensando en el Cabo Márquez.

No sé cómo hacerle frente a ese episodio.

Me gustaría saber qué paso con él. Me gustaría también escribir una historia que no fuera tan real como la que tuve que presenciar. ¿Cómo se le resta fuerza a la violencia que perpetuamos? ¿De dónde me agarro para que la historia no nos desajuste la vida ni a Márquez ni a mí? ¿Debería darle otra oportunidad a la ficción?

Miembros fantasma Despertó. Consiguió escapar de la segunda detonación. Una serpiente cruzó por encima de la columna de piedra.

Tenía miedo. Tocó su pecho. Era cierto: aún estaba vivo. Quiso desamontonarse de aquella trinchera humana, pero le faltó impulso.

Intentó de nuevo y por fin cayó (libre como un saco de plomo con ínfulas de pluma). Justo en el aire pudo ver que aquello que caía, era sólo la mitad de sí mismo.

Sin embargo, sintió una mordedura en el pie derecho. Y nada, ni siquiera el estar desprovisto de piernas, le impidió salir corriendo.

12 de Julio de 2002 Tuve que regresar a terapia.

Márquez se atravesó en mis desvelos… le hizo zancadilla a mi mente. El Doctor dice que debo tener calma, que olvide mi vida militar, que ya es tiempo de que regrese con mi esposa, que me reinvente la vida, que esto y que aquello. Órdenes, sugerencias inútiles. Nada desatascará los engranajes contrahechos de mi mente.

Me pide que no me deje afectar tanto por lo del Cabo, que ya lo catalizaremos en la terapia, que no hay problema. Yo no tengo mucha esperanza en ello.

Me pide seguir a otro episodio de mi pasado, uno menos abrumador, sangriento o relacionado con la muerte.

No se me ocurre nada. Todo lo que tengo es tedio, violencia y culpa en las paredes de mi cabeza. Si tuve identidad de mercenario durante tantos años ¿Qué historia bonita podría contar?

Perdí mucho tiempo. Es patético entender que de todos estos años, no me queda ni mi propia historia.

La guerra nos ha dejado rotos, desintegrados.

ILUSTRACIONES: Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín. MERCENARIOS I Y II. (2014)

Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín (Bogotá, Colombia, 1982). Narrador y dibujante. Licenciado en Educación Artística de la Universidad Distrital Francisco José de Caldas. Vive de los oficios de la lectura y ocasionalmente de la educación.

Graduado de la Maestría en Creación Literaria en la Universidad de Texas en El Paso.

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Jane: un asesinato

Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny

de Maggie Nelson

Maggie Nelson publicó Jane: A Murder en 2005 y en él se reconstruye la historia en torno a Jane Mixer. Jane fue la tercera de siete víctimas de un asesino en serie a finales de los años 60. Jane, además, era tía materna de la autora. Este libro investiga la figura de Jane sin Jane. Maggie Nelson lo escribió preguntándose ¿puede una colección de pequeños poemas líricos contar la historia de un terrible asesinato? Mi premisa es: quiero traducir esta serie de pequeños poemas líricos bajo la declaración de que un caso como el de Jane Mixer continúa ocurriendo en México. Deseo que el lector hispano reconozca cómo la poesía de Nelson –no los medios, no las redes sociales- aborda un caso que es todos, Una y todas las Janes

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Spirit

The Box

The spirit of Jane lives on in you, my mother says

My mother says she won’t leave Michigan without it.

trying to describe who I am. I feel like the girl in the late-night movie who gazes up in horror at the portrait of her freaky ancestor as she realizes they wear the same gaudy pendant round their necks.

For as long as I can remember, my grandfather

But when her father goes down to get it, all he comes up with is a slim packet of ruled paper, bound by a piece of twine.

Jane’s Diary—Private it says on the cover, Private twice underlined.

She didn’t always like her sister, and she didn’t like her parents much either, he warns my mother, who says she doesn’t mind. She packs it in her suitcase, tells me we’ll look at it in due time.

About a year later, she sends me a copy.

has made the same slip: he sits in the kitchen, his gelatinous blue eyes

The diary starts in January, 1960, when Jane was thirteen, and runs to October of 1961.

fixed on me. Well Jane, he says, I think I’ll have another cup of coffee.

At this moment in my life hate is so fierce that I would give anything to kill my mother she begins, already on her way to becoming a woman.

Vea la traducción al español en las páginas 26 y 27 de nuestra sección en inglés

translation

Spitfire While growing up, Emily and I tried not to ask questions about Jane; we didn’t want to make our mother cry. But if Jane ever came up in conversation, we tried to coax her into telling us what she was like.

She was a spitfire, my mother always said. She obeyed for years, then started to talk back.

I went down to my room and looked it up in my thesaurus.

“Spitfire: Big, tough woman; Amazon; giantess.”

The Gift The next morning, about fourteen miles outside Ann Arbor, a boy found a bag on the gravel road by his brick house on his way to school.

There was a gift in the bag, along with a folder thick with typewritten pages.

Dearest Mom—Sorry I’m late for your birthday, but in one hundred years, you’ll never know the difference, read the card on the gift. The boy brought it in to his mother, who noticed blood on the side of the bag. She went outside to look around, and soon spotted what looked like a body propped up on a grave in the little cemetery across the way.

Position

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Right arm stretched above her head, left arm over her eyes.

One shoe on her abdomen, one shoe set beside.

Her raincoat laid out over her body, her head on a stranger’s grave.

Some later called it “a reverential display”.

Inside the box was a pair of fluffy blue slippers.

But who opened it later? Was it a policeman who read I love you, Janie then undid the ribbon on the gift?

Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny (Sonora, México, 1973). Licenciada en Letras por la Universidad de Sonora. Hizo una Maestría en Estudios Humanísticos en el ITESM y una Maestría en Escritura Creativa en la Universidad de Texas. Es autora de los libros de cuento: Gente Menuda (Voces del Desierto, 1999), No son gente como uno (ISC, 2004), Nenitas (Nitro-Press, 2013) y de la novela Una no habla de esto (Tierra Adentro, 2008).

poesía Jorge Paoloantonio

sirena austral Revisitando Helsingor Death's dateless night ________________________Sonnet XXX La almena es la esencia de la duda. ¿Dónde estarás mañana si de verdad te falla la razón?

Fingir es privilegio de actores consumados y por este muelle envuelto en gasa tenue puedo pasear mi cuerpo sin sombra ni estatura Vengo de praderas enajenadas en seda verde donde la gente hace pastar su pensamiento y escupe palabras rumiadas al mediodía Aquí los vientos meten hielo por el hueso de los peregrinos y algun príncipe que fingió ver el sol antes que la luz de su razón aparece muerto en brazos de su mejor amigo Voy a esconderme en la noche sin tiempo Voy a trepar a la torre más azotada de Kronborg Desde allí veré pasar mi propia muerte

en el mar hay una torre y en la torre una ventana y en la ventana una niña que a los marineros llama vulgar sirena hambreada de pechos redondos como hemisferios y cabellera cobriza de río revuelto donde ningún pescador gana apostada entre sueños de especias

y frutos y bayas los convida los incita los atrapa y los lanza sobre sus muslos de pampa bárbara y ajena y les pone gendarmes y les da sexo gratis si la preñan de torres y ventanas altas donde seguir llamando más pescadores de perlas hasta inundarse de mascarones de proa sobre ese río de sueñera y de barro (*)

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para Pia Tapdruf, poeta danesa.

La muerte no hará alarde _______________________ Sonnet XVIII Una puerta pequeña se abre a mi derecha.

Me lleva a un huerto yermo rodeado de zarzas Un cuervo apenas inclina su cabeza para mirar mi cámara Elevo la mirada hasta un blasón casi oculto bajo el musgo Y la hago descender por un pendón tiznado Ahí está esa tumba Imagino el epitafio: "Ofelia me llamaban" Y mis ojos la devuelven a la vida

Jorge Paoloantonio (SFV Catamaca, Argentina, 1947). Escritor. Catedrático universitario. Ha publicado doce libros de poesía -el último es “baus o la lenta agonía de las especies migratorias” [MonoArmado, Bs As 2014]-, y cinco novelas –dos de ellas traducidas al inglés [Ashes of orchids; New York, 2010] y al italiano [La Fiamma; Milano, 2014]. Incluido en antologías bilingües en Argentina, Bolivia, Brasil, Canadá, EE.UU., India, Italia y Sudáfrica así como en publicaciones on line.

avistador

(*)

asoma entre la bruma ese apenas sendero que se retuerce como saurio doliente para mirar osamentas de mulas despeñadas de antiguo grita a la tropa y su voz rebota en los farallones copiada por un espejo gigantesco no quiere mirar atrás -le asusta su propia historiani mirar adelante -el terreno acaba en filoy un cansancio lo lleva hasta un reino apagado de agua y tundra ese que ve caer no es él ni éste su canto (*)Arcaísmo para designar a los que, desconociendo el terreno, se aventuraban,nprecediendo a las tropas conquistadoras hispánicas.

Jorge Diego Lazarte

Niño calavera II Niño calavera I Travieso, silencioso, Aún con dientes de leche, Juega a las escondidas El niño calavera.

En las noches de apagones Suplica con azules ojos de tiro, Hace pucheros a sus muertos padres, Quiere salir a la calle.

Los muchachos de la calle Ataúd Se citan para las rondas, Se ocultan en callejones, Detrás de portones leonados.

La misma mano huesuda Que gasta bromas a los adultos Es rey de las canicas Y los tocatimbres.

En el tambo de Montero, Todos conocen su puerta Y a pedir favores acuden Al niño calavera.

Jorge Diego Lazarte (Lima, 1984) (Lima, Perú. 1984). Estudiante de Derecho de la Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. Ha escrito y dirigido los documentales Nelly Fonseca: La que mira el mar (2009), En tren: Homenaje a Antonio Machado (2012) y La destrucción o el amor: Homenaje a Vicente Aleixandre (2013).

Ha editado Manchas Solares (2007), La Edad del Ámbar (2008), Anticuario (2008), Diario de Navegación (2009) y Mares (2010).

Tañen campanas de Santa Ana. En la oculta capilla Una gringa curiosa Ha encendido una vela.

El niño va mudando los dientes, Le ha crecido el cabello, No le caben las sandalias.

Se golpea la crisma Al volver a su hornacina.

La gringa se ha dormido, Arrullada por olor a eucaliptos.

Con traje nuevo y bien peinado, Desciende el niño la cuesta Con ramo de lluvias.

Y aparece en su sueño Con estáticos ojos A cobrarle el favor A la incrédula durmiente.

Olvidados quedaron los juguetes Y las ofrendas de caramelos.

El niño pide cigarros, Cerveza y barajas inglesa Día de muertos Tengo que darles una noticia negra y definitiva La muerte se está divirtiendo.

Mis muertos la muerte de ojos verdes Color de pomos de cerveza o del ajenjo Infernal y delicioso.

A la muerte se le hace agua la boca.

Olor a pan recién horneado, Platillos humeantes.

Días de campo En los cementerios.

Y se canta a dúo con la muerte.

Brindar y bailar Y no solamente llorar Y hasta reír sin que nadie te mire feo Ni siquiera la mismita muerte, La dueña del santo, Bella como los floripondios, Luciendo un traje de chapitas de chela, La muerte de ojos verdes y dulces, Besando desconocidos, Subiéndose el vestido, Ebria y satisfecha Hasta el próximo año.

Cortapelo Cuando cumplió tres años Su abuelo hizo traer a la vieja yerbera Del mercado de San Pedro.

Mando a llamar a la banda y a los amigos.

Tenías malos sueños Y un collar de guairuros.

Jugarías seguramente Con los torpes espíritus Cosechados en festejos recientes, Esos que hacen ruido en la chala, Entre vasos de caña.

Bajo zaguanes y lluvias de verano.

Con tijera de plata y listones colorados, La vieja reparte mechones.

Los invitados los guardan como oros.

Al cumplir tres años tu hijo, Cortaste sus crespones, Llamaste a los amigos Y bebieron cerveza Bajo garúas y neblinas Entre huacas amarillentas y edificios.

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reportaje

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Leticia Solares Fotos: Jorge Cuevas

Miguel Ángel Moreno Vive para pintar y pinta para vivir

Autodidacta, juarense por amor a esta tierra, a lo largo de 50 años de trayectoria la pintura es tan vital como respirar La epopeya comienza a las seis de la mañana, a la luz del sol, cuando la vida y sus colores brillan con mayor intensidad.

Cigarros, el aroma de un café caliente, rock clásico y rolitas oldies; telas, lienzos y pinceles lo acompañan en su travesía.

Pintar es como abordar la nave de la imaginación para transportarse a su universo personal: el taller donde ha creado más de 14 mil cuadros. Ese espacio creativo donde no sólo hay que poner manos a la obra, sino todos sus sentidos.

“Tengo un taller en casa, es mi pequeño gran universo y el mundo entero es mi galería. Pinto para la sociedad, para quienes quieran llevar mis obras a su casa”.

Fue en 1965 cuando Moreno descubrió su vehemente pasión por el arte.

Fue la réplica que logró de Las Barcas de Van Gogh, el motor que lo llevó a navegar por los mares del color. Desde entonces el viaje ha sido incesante y los objetivos trazados son claros: observar, experimentar y perseverar en la búsqueda como artista.

Es el mayor de 14 hermanos. Nació en Delicias, Chihuahua y vive en Ciudad Juárez desde los 2 años.

Creció y vivió en el barrio de La Chaveña, donde siendo un adolescente decidió que su vida era pintar.

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“Mi madre me regaló una enciclopedia donde descubrí el arte rupestre -Gran Bisonte de Altamira y La Caverna de Lascaux- que hasta el día de hoy es mi fascinación. Ese bisonte es para mi como un talismán, una bandera”.

juarense adoptivo ha trabajado diversos murales en diversas casas y negocios pero, uno de sus murales más famosos, el ‘Nido de Águilas’, está en el interior de lo que antes se conocía como la Cárcel de Piedra, en la avenida 16 de Septiembre y Oro.

Artista autodidacta, estudió hasta tercero de secundaria en la Escuela Estatal No.3, frente al Monumento a Juárez.

La educación básica la cursó en la Primaria Federal 21 de agosto, hoy Preparatoria Hermanos Escobar, donde realizó su primera incursión en el muralismo.

“En 1978 el maestro Panduro me invitó a restaurar el mural del salón de actos, el tema era revolucionario y yo a manera de homenaje a mi madre, de quien heredé la creatividad, pinté su rostro sobre la figura central que era La Adelita”.

Como una predestinación al llevar el mismo nombre del gran artista italiano autor de La Creación de Adán, este

En el devenir personal de este admirador de Van Gogh ha explorado diferentes corrientes artísticas, lo que le da a su obra un matiz único, con mezclas de técnicas y conceptos muy variados, como la etapa azul, que ha marcado su trabajo en los últimos cuatro años.

“Explorar es la clave. Tengo que practicar, practicar, practicar.

Después vienen la ideas. No soy un pintor emocional, soy experimental, me gusta descubrir constantemente las posibilidades del color”.

Autorretrato, paisajes, figura humana, formas geométricas, réplicas y una amplia lista de temáticas figuran en la obra de Moreno.

Casado hace 45 años con Hortensia de Moreno, orgulloso de la compañera que el destino le otorgó, mientras enciende su tercer cigarrillo, me confiesa que sin ella -el amor de su vida- dedicarse cien por ciento a la pintura hubiera sido imposible.

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“Mi mujer es mi mejor crítica y curadora. No sólo apoya mis sueños, también me ayuda a darles forma y cuando hay que trabajar en murales siempre está dispuesta a trepar andamios y colorear, mientras yo hago mis trazos”.

Con talento y el dominio del pincel no sólo le ha dado forma a sus aspiraciones.

Gracias a la pintura, el espigado pintor de bigote daliniano ha llevado pan a la mesa familiar, alimentando en sus cuatro hijos, 10 nietos y tres bisnietos el gusto por las artes plásticas.

“Mis hijos y nietos son exigentes conmigo y a la vez me ayudan hasta a nombrar mis creaciones, pero lo que más me gusta es que ya mis nietos y bisnietos están pintando”.

Durante años realizó pintura en panilla. Sus cuadros -retratos y paisajesse vendían en los mercados y tiendas de curiosidades locales.

“La pintura me ha permitido vivir y sostener a mi familia. Recuerdo que si

alguno de mis hijos cumplía años llevaba mis obras a la panadería a cambio de un pastel, o se enfermaban y en la farmacia me daban las medicinas a cambio de mi obra, o me pedían que pinta algún mural.

La pintura ha sido mi medio de vida”.

Fundador del Jardín del Arte, el maestro Moreno está convencido que la mejor fuente de inspiración es la observación y el intercambio de ideas con otros artistas.

“Nunca aprendí a manejar, no me gustan los autos, prefiero caminar, viajar en ruta porque eso me ha permitido observar. Me gusta ver los rostros de las personas y descubrir sus emociones”.

Los libros también lo inspiran. Es un ávido del conocimiento y después de los lienzos y los pinceles, leer sobre historia del arte es su pasión.

Además de la pintura, su talento ha dado frutos también en la escultura.

Más de 100 piezas conforman lo que el llama su “pequeña colección”, piezas que fundamentalmente son de figura humana estilizada.

Medio siglo dedicado a la pintura, para Moreno el siguiente paso es incursionar en otra rama de las artes visuales: el cine.

“De antemano, considero que hace más de 40 años visualice a esta ciudad como un epicentro del arte, aquí

hay mucho talento, a pesar de nuestros problemas como sociedad. Si París es la cuna del arte, nosotros en Juárez tenemos la carreola y eso lo quiero plasmar en cine.

Imagino a mi bisonte emprendiendo un viaje a través de la historia del arte haciendo escalas hasta por el mundo hasta llegar a esta tierra que me ha dado tanto”.

Convencido de pintar hasta su último aliento, le gusta reír de la muerte y saber que al morir su tumba estará bañada de colores que le permitan logra la metamorfosis.

Al ser un hombre de fe, la satisfacción y el agradecimiento están implícitos en su vida.

“El talento no se vende, si a mi me lo brindaron, yo brindo el resultado.

Prefiero que una obra mía este en algún lugar colgado, que la gente pase y lo admire, a tenerlo arrumbado en mi taller”.

“He llenado costales de satisfacciones. Me sirven para meter mi mano y otorgarlas a quien las necesite”.

Es así, satisfecho, feliz y convencido de su arte que Miguel Ángel Moreno celebra 50 años de trayectoria, 50 años vitales, 50 años de pintar para vivir y vivir para la pintura.

Jorge Cuevas (Ciudad Juárez, México. 1980). Fotógrafo. Estudió Diseño Gráfico en la UACJ. En 2011 realizó la exposición personal L¨ os pies en el escenario¨ y ha participado en las colectivas: Las otras batallas (2009), Así somos (2010), Juárez, ciudad que se restaura I, II, III (2011, 2012, 2013), II Expo Art Fusion (2013) y I Encuentro de Fotoperiodistas (2013). Fue finalista del IV Concurso de Fotografía M ¨ embrana¨ y en 2014, recibió la beca PACMYC.

Leticia Solares (Ciudad Juárez, México. 1969). Periodista y editora. Graduada de Ciencias de la Comunicación en la Universidad Autónoma de Chihuahua. Por muchos años fue reportera y editora de espectáculos del periódico Norte. Actualmente labora en El Diario de Ciudad Juárez como coeditora de la sección de Comerciales.

d

Michelle Bord贸n.

Elefante. 2013.

dossier

ILUSTRACIĂ“N: Malena Villar La Mariposa Gordis y la Diversidad en el Reino Animal 2010

ILUSTRACIÓN: Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín.

Las sombras de Fabián.

(2014)

Las sombras de Fabián

Adán Echeverría

(fragmentos)

Los padres de Fabián lo habían mandado a su cuarto como castigo por tanta mala nota que le dejaban los maestros: Su hijo cerró las puertas del baño.

Su hijo no terminó a tiempo la tarea de matemáticas.

Este niño no puede permanecer sentado en su mesabanco.

Se la pasa siempre fuera de su lugar, buscando plática con los demás niños.

- ¿Y cómo le va en las materias?, se atrevió a preguntar el cabizbajo padre.

-Bien, en las materias va muy bien, sólo que es muy travieso.

Por eso, al llegar a casa, (…)

Fabián se fue solo para su cuarto sin X-Box, ni juguetes, ni rompecabezas.

Tenía que meditar su comportamiento.

La tarde afuera era preciosa.

Un cálido sol de mayo daba lengüetazos sobre el pavimento y se paseaba, poderoso,

Claro que no, solo que a veces te escuchamos conversar, ¿con quién conversas? entre gritos y algarabía de todos los otros niños que se divertían a sus anchas jugando en la calle.

Es que me gusta leer algunos diálogos en voz alta, y hacer voces chistosas, ¿te molesta?

Fabián en su ventana se aburría y meditaba, buscando en qué forma entretener sus alientos de niño de apenas 9 años.

Claro que no, pero no tienes que quedarte encerrado todo el día, sal a jugar con tus amiguitos de vez en cuando.

El sol atravesó la ventana de su cuarto y proyectó su sombra sobre la pared. (…)

Fabián formó, entrelazando sus dedos, la imagen de un perrito: -Cómo me gustaría tener una mascota como tú…, y al desdoblar las manos, la sombra del cachorro corrió por las paredes, Fabián hizo RIO GRANDE REVIEW

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la sombra de una mariposa, y al desdoblar las manos, el lepidóptero voló perseguido por el can, alcanzando incluso el techo y dando vueltas por la habitación.

Entonces Fabián hizo la sombra de un conejo, y el conejo corrió a jugar por las paredes con las otras sombras. (…)

Cuando la noche fue cayendo, las sombras le pidieron que dejara un poco de luz porque la noche se come las sombras y ellas necesitaban esos pocos de luz para seguir jugando con él al día siguiente.

Fue la luz del despertador electrónico la que mantuvo vivas a las sombras de Fabián. (…) ¿Por qué te pasas el día encerrado? le preguntó su padre Leo, leo y leo mucho papá, ¿te molesta?

Sí, papá. (…)

Fabián pegó su rostro y cuerpo a la pared Y las sombras se acercaron para poder tocarlo y abrazarlo ¿Por qué no vives con nosotras en las paredes de la casa? dijeron las sombras.

Verás como nos divertiríamos.

Podrías correr con nosotras por el techo, seguirnos por las paredes y el suelo hacia otras casas otros edificios.

No creo que pueda hacer eso, les respondió Fabián.

Claro que sí.

Cuando tu sombra crezca sobre las paredes, nosotras la jalamos, tú solo tienes que desearlo, Y así lo hizo.

Fabián lo deseó con todo su corazón.

Esa tarde la madre de Fabián gritó aterrada al ver el cuerpo de su hijo en la cama como si estuviera muerto en vida, con los ojos abiertos.

Los padres intentaron reanimarlo,

metieron el cuerpo al agua pero nada cambió.

Llamaron al médico y este dijo: Fabián está en coma. (…)

-Madre, llamó, con una tenue voz aflautada en un susurro falto de fuerzas.

El tiempo había girado sin que Fabián lo notara. (…)

Su madre (…) se despabiló de prisa acercándose a él sin contener su alegría

Quiero volver con mi familia dijo Fabián.

A gritos llamó a su esposo (…)

No puedes, le contestó una de las tres sombras. (…)

-¡Has despertado, amor, has despertado!

Gritaban alegres mientras lo abrazaban y besaban.

¿Para qué quieres volver si te gusta divertirte acá con nosotras?

Su padre encendió la luz de la habitación para poder mirar mejor el rostro de su pequeño

Fabián se percató de que las sombras ya no eran sus amigas sino sus carceleras. (…)

Y sus deseos de volver al mundo real crecieron sin control. (…)

Y una noche Fabián decidió regresa(...)

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Fabián pudo ver como las tres sombras le hacían muecas de enfado, pero esta vez ya no les tuvo miedo, estaba en casa y ahora todo marcharía bien.

Cerrando los ojos, aterrado, corrió por las paredes hasta llegar a la cama de su habitación y entonces brincó sobre su cuerpo.

Sintió como la noche iba atrapándolo, y el niño de 12 años despertó: Adán Echeverría (Mérida, México 1975). Doctor en Ciencias del Mar. Ha publicado en poesía El ropero del suicida (2002), Delirios de hombre ave (2004), Xenankó (2005), La sonrisa del insecto (2008), Tremévolo (2009) y La confusión creciente de la alcantarilla (2011), en cuento Fuga de memorias (2006) y las novelas Arena (2009) y Seremos tumba (2011).

Jorge Luis Pena

Breve historia del mosquito accidentado

Disparejas A David Chericián No entiendo que la ratona y el rato no hagan pareja. ¿Por qué el tejón y la teja no son varón y varona?

Si hay pichón habrá pichona.

Por cada ameba un amebo.

Un día de mar estático sobre la arena muy pálida, soplaba una brisa cálida que trajo a un mosquito errático.

Pasó un cangrejo lunático ensimismado y atlético.

Lo vio el mosquito esquelético y se lanzó el muy tiránico...

Quedó del impacto estrábico y ahora de colmo es anémico, con problemas ortopédicos y tratamiento psiquiátrico.

¿Qué son la prueba y el pruebo? ¿Qué son el caso y la casa? ¿Qué son el trazo y la traza? ¿Dónde el jején puso el huevo?

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Viaje frustrado Las garrapatas querían irse de noche a la fiesta a disfrutar con la orquesta pero carros no tenían.

Desesperadas hacían cualquier cosa por llegar, y los perros, sin mirar, pasaban como los truenos (como todos iban llenos. no las quisieron montar).

Regresaban aburridas y cansadas de esperar (vestidas y sin bailar) cuando sobre la avenida una perra distraída se preparaba a salir.

Como no pudieron ir saltaron desde la tierra, y montados en la perra fueron todos a dormir.

Jorge Luis Pena Puerto Padre, Cuba 1977). Licenciado en Educación. Poeta, narrador y periodista, miembro de la Asociación Hermanos Saiz, de la Unión Nacional de Escritores y Artistas de Cuba, de la Unión de Periodistas de Cuba y del grupo Iberoamericano Amigos de la Décima EspinelCucalambé. Tiene publicados doce libros para niños.

Quejas de gato-zapato Me pasé como tres días para arreglar mi zapato.

Tenía delante un pato, un caimán y dos jutías.

No me gustan las porfías ni alterarme, Señor Pez, pero le juro: Esta vez casi no pude aguantar...

Se me quisieron colar una araña y un ciempiés.

El súbito caso del perro del vecino Y fue un accidente ilógico que en un taller de mecánica sin una lucha titánica muriera el perro de Hipólito.

Explico este caso insólito como forense simpático: No es que el perro fuera plástico. o el gato fuera colérico.

Se trata de un perro auténtico que lo aplastó un gato hidráulico.

El pez ingenuo El alcatraz bajó una vez adonde un pez soñaba en paz: "Ya nunca más en el país con la lombriz seré feroz."

Y dijo: "Adiós, voy a París en alcatraz, vendré después..."

Y el tonto pez descansa en paz con un jamás, sin un después.

Michelle Bordón.

Nautilus. 2013.

Era una vez un alcatraz y un pobre pez como Jonás.

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cuento

El

burrito inteligente

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Justino, cuando nació era un borrico feo y debilucho, hasta sus padres se avergonzaban de él. No le permitían salir mucho porque los demás borricos se reían de su fealdad, lo molestaban y en ocasiones hasta llegaron a golpearlo. El pobre Justino se lamentaba de su suerte y así fue creciendo poco a poco.

A veces iba hasta el lago a ver solo su imagen; no distinguía lo feo de lo bonito. En lo personal se sentía satisfecho consigo mismo, pero un leve resentimiento comenzaba a crecer dentro de él, ocasionado por el maltrato de sus padres y sus vecinos.

Un día cuando corría jugueteando por la ladera, se detuvo un momento y decidió que su vida no podía continuar así; no veía que su existencia fuera productiva ¡solo correr, comer y dormir! ¡No era justo desperdiciar el tiempo así! ¿Cuál será la mejor opción para ocuparme? ¡Ya sé! ¡Estudiaré algún oficio!

Rápidamente se encaminó a la escuelita del pueblo y solicitó informes. El director se sorprendió mucho de la petición del b orriquillo y le explicó que no era usual que un burro estudiara, por lo que no había escuelas para ellos.

Cleo Gordoa

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El burrito bajó las orejas y muy triste dio las gracias y comenzó a alejarse. El maestro reflexionó y lo llamó con grandes gritos. El burrito regresó y le preguntó si se le había olvidado decirle algo. El maestro quería saber cuáles eran sus deseos y por qué había deseado estudiar. Justino ya más animado le contó todo, desde que nació hasta ese día que jugueteaba por la ladera.

Emocionado el maestro le propuso que él personalmente le daría las lecciones pero fuera del horario normal. ¡Será nuestro secreto! dijo el maestro y Justino aceptó pues quería darles a todos una sorpresa; tanto a sus padres como a todos los vecinos.

Así pasaba un día y otro y Justino se aplicaba cada vez más. El maestro estaba sorprendido de la inteligencia de Justino. Sus padres le preguntaban a dónde se iba todas las tardes y él sólo movía las orejas, dando a entender que por ahí.

Un día llegó su padre y le dio la noticia que a partir del día siguiente, debía ponerse a trabajar, sería el “cargador “ del leñador que vivía en el otro extremo del pueblo. Justino se horrorizó, había visto cómo el leñador trataba a sus bestias de carga. ¡No! ¡Definitivamente él no estaba estudiando para llegar a eso!

Esa misma noche salió de su morada. Se encaminó a la casa del maestro y le platicó su problema. El maestro le ofreció el corral que estaba detrás de su hogar para que viviera ahí.

-De tus alimentos- te encargarás tú mismo, le dijo. Justino estaba realmente agradecido y aceptó. Aún así le informó a sus padres donde viviría, pero definitivamente no iba a trabajar con el leñador, su padre quiso oponerse, pero Justino se puso firme en su decisión.

Siguió corriendo el tiempo y un día que por casualidad se presentó su padre para informarse sobre la vida del borrico, lo sorprendió estudiando y quedó maravillado de la inteligencia de su hijo. ¡Nunca se hubiera imaginado que un burro pudiera

aprender! Y mucho menos su hijo. Justino ni cuenta se dio que su padre lo había observado, así que continuó tan tranquilo en su lección.

El papá de Justino iba feliz por la calle, llevaba las orejas bien paradas de orgullo y pensaba darle la noticia a su esposa en cuanto llegara a su casa. Sabía que esto debía de ser un secreto de Justino, así que se lo guardarían muy bien los dos hasta que el burrito lo creyera conveniente.

La mamá del borrico se puso feliz, pero más que nada emocionada, ella muy en el fondo estaba segura de que su hijo era diferente, pero se había dejado llevar por los comentarios de todos y ahora estaba arrepentida de su proceder y le dolía haber tratado tan mal a su hijo.

Así pasaron los años y finalmente Justino, se graduó con todos los chiquillos de su escuela, pero él recibió un reconocimiento especial por su tenacidad y el gran empeño que demostró siempre por superarse y no ser uno más del montón de las bestias de carga. Él ahora les demostraba a todos que no se debían dejar vencer por los obstáculos y que todos tienen la misma oportunidad de aprender, solo se necesita un verdadero deseo de superación y saber aprovechar el tiempo.

Desde entonces Justino trabaja en la escuela y ayuda al maestro en todos los menesteres escolares. Cada día aprende algo diferente. Su inteligencia es inagotable.

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Cleo Gordoa (San Luis Potosí , México. 1956 ) Escritora dedicada de lleno a la cultura y el arte independiente. Nombrada en el mes de noviembre 2013, como Embajadora Universal de la Cultura, en Bolivia. Promotora cultural y Artista visual en el campo de la fotografía. Presidente de la Asociación de Escritores del Noreste de Guanajuato y Coordinadora General de la Caravana Internacional por la Cultura y el Arte.

Ilustraciones: Mario Ortiz Martínez (Aguascalientes, México. 1945) Titulado en Diseño Gráfico y Producción Publicitaria. Expone con regularidad en galerías particulares de México D.F. Colaboró con revistas humorísticas en la décadas de los 70’s y 80’s. Ha sido diagramador de la Revista de la Universidad y Bellas Artes.

Fue parte del equipo de ilustradores para productos con el copyright de Walt Disney. Actualmente es ilustrador de piezas educativas en madera para niños de preescolar.

Itzel

guevara del ángel

Canalla Santa anda agazapada tras la cama, más allá, Mamá habla. Las palabras lanzadas dañan, las palabras llagan, las palabras calan. Mamá la llama rata, salamandra. Santa calla, baja la cara. Nada cansa a Mamá, a las patadas va hasta sangrar a Santa.

Mamá jamás bajará las armas, jamás sabrá amarla.

Papá, papá, salva a Santa, cálmala, canta, mata, araña, saca la casta. Papá, sálvala.

Falsa alarma, nada pasa.

Santa anda rara, las palabras hartan, arrastra la maraña castaña, carga las alas rasgadas.

A la mañana arma la trampa, ya nada falta. A zancadas va a la sala, saca la nafta, rapta a Mamá, la ata a la cama. ¡Canalla!, ¡vaga!, ataca Mamá a Santa, mas las llamas ya alcanzan las sábanas. Las llamas sanan, abrasan la maldad, dan paz al alma.

Hasta mañana, Mamá, hasta mañana. Santa habla, Mamá calla.

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Michelle Bordón.

Deerkid. 2013.

Michelle Bordón.

(Cancún, México.1990). Ilustradora autodidacta. Se especializa en las figuras de animales inspiradas en lejanos veranos de Campeche a un lado de su abuela. Las piezas presentadas en esta edición de RGR pertenecen a la serie Animalia, su primera exposición personal realizada en 2013 en la Cafebrería El Pabilo, en Cancún.

Luis Eduardo Ă lvarez MarĂ­n. Cuando los vientos azotan la ciudad. (2014)

Cuando los

vientos

azotan la

ciudad

Lesbia de la Fe Dotres

Cuando los vientos azotan la ciudad sientes que te roe la nostalgia.

Es el momento de los junquillos, del hilo, el papel, no importa cual, siempre que sea fino y fuerte. Es un embrujo que te hace sentir que puedes elevarte hasta las nubes.

Tú y tu cometa. Tu papalote. Tu picúa. Tu chiringa…

Cortarás finos juncos y sin siquiera darte cuenta las horas se irán centrado en el frenillo. Para la cola posees muchas tiras de colores, pero no podrás dormir hasta haber situado la colillera.

Así tu pensamiento estará en el instante en que sin cabecear eleve el vuelo hasta las nubes.

Sigilosa vivirás por el nombre, el que nunca será olvidado, aun cuando entre los vientos, un día nefasto vaya a bolina.

Que vuele alto o bajo. Solo que vuele te agitará el corazón.

Lo amarrarás de los manubrios, y con fuerza das a los pedales. No importa cómo vuele, si cabecea o no.

Nada más divisar la pequeña pradera, donde los muchachos del barrio esperan con impaciencia la señal de las banderitas, se pueden ver, entre las nubes, sus papalotes.

Ahora tratan de elevar un coronel.

Mi papalote: lo zafo con cuidado de no romper el papel y lo tomo en la mano derecha, el cordel en la izquierda, para proteger de un enredo al rabo. De los papaloteros selecciono uno como ayudante, le entrego mi papalote y de espalda al viento, voy alejándome.

Suelto, mi papalote se eleva.

Primero con cautela, dando cabezazos, tal vez con miedo a caer sobre la tierra. Tiré, recogí un poco el hilo y di unos pasos atrás. Los muchachos observan. Hacen burlas: _Oye niña, eso no va a volar. _¡Oyeee… qué pesa mucho! _¡Niña, qué tiene poco rabo!

Siempre de espalda al viento, sin querer escuchar, camino un poco más. Mi papalote sube. Le di cordel. De momento siento que tira: _Dame cordel- pide.

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Le seguí dando. Subía haciendo guiños. Pidiendo más y más cordel.

Sereno. Era una paloma en vuelo.

Le di cordel…

Así soltando y él tirando, le dejo ir libre… hasta que se convierte en un punto en el azul del cielo.

Lo sigo con la mirada, mientras escucho la burla de los muchachos…

Ellos nunca podrán saber que fue una ofrenda a los vientos que cada año azotan la ciudad.

Lesbia

de la

Fe Dotres

(Las Tunas, Cuba. 1947). Poetisa, narradora oral y promotora cultural. Miembro de la Unión de Escritores y Artistas de Cuba y de la Sociedad Cultural José Martí. Tiene publicado los libros de cuentos Abracadabra y el abuelo (1992) El mono es para los abuelos (1994), Es y no es (2001), Pinto pipiripinto (2003) y Martinete (2006), entre otros. Recibió en 2001 la Distinción por la Cultura Cubana.

47

Wilver atraviesa la niebla con su bicicleta, como todas las madrugadas.

Su rostro se humedece con el frío. Se empañan RIO GRANDE REVIEW

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sus ojos, pero con un rápido parpadeo su

Le hace gracia saber que en esa espesa blancura su prominente nariz hace de rompehielos.

arrebatándolo de la atención de los periodistas.

Se yergue sobre su asiento, eleva los brazos y observa a las montañas que lo rodean. “Gracias, Guatemala”, grita mientras se deja llevar por la pendiente.

Una hora después, junto a los primeros rayos del sol, llega al parque. Empapado por el sudor y el frío, saluda con un “buenos días” al dueño del puesto, quien ya está levantando las tablas del quiosco. Él le responde con un manotazo en la cabeza. Todo su cuerpo de 10 años cae sobre la tierra mojada.

Wilver observa a un par de lombrices que se esconden en el lugar donde él ha caído. Pero, no se detiene mucho tiempo y se apresura a tomar la escoba para limpiar los alrededores de la ILUSTRACION: L uis E dua rdo Álv are zM ar í

14) (20 te. en Pu El

a la carretera.

Cuando se aproxima al puente, sus muslos se tensan y el pedaleo se acelera. Empieza a crecer un entusiasmo en su barriga. En la curva, antes de llegar a él, se prepara para jugar al juego que se inventó desde hace algunos días: atravesarlo en menos de veinte segundos.

Todavía no lo ha logrado, aunque la verdad es que ese triunfo depende de qué tan largos o cortos sean los segundos que cuenta en su cabeza. También depende de las energías con las que amanece.

Hoy, como es lunes, no viene tan cansado. El fin de semana no le tocó trabajar, así que logra contar hasta veintidós.

Como va de bajadita, la velocidad que agarra en el puente le permite dejar de pedalear un rato.

Sus jadeos no le impiden sonreír. Ha hecho una nueva marca en su recorrido diario.

Se imagina que así se sentirán los ciclistas cuando atraviesan la meta. Sólo le hacen falta los aplausos y la banda final para romperla con el pecho.

Pero puede imaginarla.

Piensa que si su mamá viviera, lo recibiría entre lágrimas y besos,

n

vista regresa

El puente

Wendy García Ortiz venta. Al fondo oye el alegato del patrón por su retraso. Dice algo que tiene que ver con su mamá y con la ingratitud, pero no alcanza a escucharlo.

El polvo que levanta la barrida le produce varios estornudos. De vez en cuando se limpia los mocos con el brazo o con la mano que tenga libre, dejando un rastro lodoso en sus mejillas. Para antes del mediodía todo él está lleno de salpicaduras cafés.

Cuando es tiempo de ir a comprarle al patrón las tortillas del almuerzo, observa a una niña, más o menos de su edad, recostada en el monumento del parque. Le llama la atención porque su cabeza está inclinada sobre aquel pedestal de cemento y su vista se pierde en el horizonte. Le da la impresión de que tiene frío o que está muy cansada. Pero cuando se detiene a verla, se da cuenta de que sus brazos y sus piernas tienen unas

marcas coloradas. Se parecen a los cinchazos que él recibe cada semana, en casa de su tía.

En su espalda, los gritos del dueño lo apresuran para hacer el mandado. Así que retoma el paso.

Llega a la tienda y decide comprar dos tortillas menos, las que a él le tocan, para que la encargada le dé una paleta de uva.

Al final de la tarde, cuando Wilver y su jefe están cerrando el quiosco, la niña los observa escondida detrás de un árbol. Al ver que se despiden y que él se sube a su bicicleta, ella corre para alcanzarlo.

Así, lejos del monumento, Wilver no la reconoce. Entonces ella le saca la lengua. Él se da cuenta de que está teñida de un morado artificial, producto de la paleta de uva. Ambos se ríen con todos sus dientes.

Entonces él la invita a acompañarlo. Ella acomoda sus pies en los tacos de las llantas traseras y sus manos sobre los hombros de su nuevo amigo.

El sol se está poniendo. El frío está regresando, pero a ella no le importa. Ni eso, ni tener la nariz congelada, ni tampoco saber a dónde la lleva.

Ya en la carretera, Wilver conduce en zigzag para divertirla.

Ella se siente cómoda y contenta.

Por primera vez en muchos meses ha vuelto a escuchar sus propias carcajadas.

Al pasar sobre el puente, quiere impresionarla. En voz alta empieza a contar los segundos.

Pero como ahora el camino va en subida y trae compañía, los muslos no pueden acelerar el pedaleo. A ella le hace mucha gracia observar el esfuerzo.

Está oscureciendo. Por eso ninguno de los dos se fija en que el pavimento -como si tuviera vida propia- está modificando su textura. Se vuelve esponjoso.

La bicicleta se siente ligera.

Avanza con suavidad. Wilver cree que son sus piernas las que de pronto se han vuelto fuertes.

Aprovecha para moverlas más rápido. Inclina su torso hacia delante para agarrar velocidad.

Una luz amarilla se acerca a los niños, pero Wilver no deja de pedalear. El puente se hace infinito, parece que se extiende hasta las estrellas.

Wilver y su nueva amiga se dirigen hacia la luna, que se esconde traviesa detrás de las montañas.

Wendy García Ortiz (Ciudad de Guatemala, Guatemala, 1977). Perio­ dista y escritora. En 2011 y 2013 obtuvo menciones honoríficas en dos certá­ me­ nes de cuento corto or­ ganizados por el es­ cri­­ tor nicaragüense Ser­ gio Ramírez y por la edi­­to­rial centroamericana Ama­nuense. Actualmente cursa la Maestría en Crea­ción Literaria en la Universidad de Texas en El Paso. También trabaja en su primera novela pa­ra niños titulada El diario de Abi.

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TRACIÓN: Luis E ILUS dua rdo Ál va re zM a

é os .J ír n

Byron Sun

es. (2014) utobus de A ón i c sta aE yl

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José y la estación de autobuses —Oye, tú. Sí, tú, ven, sí, ven. Tu mamá y tú están en peligro si se quedan en esta sala de espera; dile a tu mamá que use la otra porque en esa sí tienen tele.

—Ya estoy adentro de la estación, cambio, repito ya estoy adentro de la estación, cambio, me escuchan, cambio, ¿alguien me escucha? Repito, ya estoy en posición, cambio. No puede ser, niña, ¡nadie me responde!

—Hola, ¿por qué te estas comportando como un payaso? ¿A quién le hablas? Y habla más fuerte porque no escuché lo que me dijiste.

— ¿Payaso yoooo?, ¿yooooo un payasoooo?, sólo a las niñas se les ocurre decir algo así en una situación como esta. Pon atención a lo que te digo, ¡tú y tu mama están en peligro! De verdad, no es broma, tienen que alejarse de mí.

—Siiiií, eres un payaso, mira como actúas, hasta te hablas solito y me da risa cómo te miras. Solo porque es domingo, no quiere decir que no te tienes que lavar la cara. Además, ¿cómo

sabes que estamos en peligro? ¿Y porque estás solito? Mi mami me dice que estos lugares son peligrosos para los niños.

—Yo no soy un niño, yo soy hombre, y estoy aquí en una misión ultra secreta y tú, como eres una niña, no puedes saberlo.

Pero anda y le dices a tu mamá, digo a tu mami, que te quieres ir para la otra sala. Y apúrate que ya son las 11:46 y en cuatro minutos llega el autobús de las 11:50. Lo único que te puedo decir es que yo estoy seguro que en ese autobús vendrá alguien que intentará matarme.

—Ándale cuéntame, yo te prometo que no le digo a nadie.

Cuéntame, cuéntame, cuéntame, cuéntame, cuéntame, cuéntame, cuéntame, ¡a la…! ¡porfis…!, cuéntame, cuéntame, ¿siiií, me cuentas? Ahh la… no seas malo, cuéntame; qué te cuesta contarme, cuéntame, sí, cuéntame; si no me cuentas, voy a empezar a gritar… QUEEE MEE CUENNNNNN…

Byron Sun (Ciudad de Guatemala, Guatemala. 1986). Poeta y narrador. Licenciado en Estudios Étnicos y Literatura Contemporánea. Obtuvo su MFA en Creación Literaria de la Universidad de Texas en El Paso.

—Está bien, está BIENNN, pero cállate que nos pueden descubrir más rápido. Y si se enteran que te conté algo, van a matar a toda tu familia, así que pon mucha atención. Yo estoy en una misión ultra secreta y tengo que entregar este paquete a las 12 del mediodía, aquí mismo. Pero si quieres que te siga contando, me tienes que prometer una cosa.

—Yo te prometo lo que quieras, pero primero cuéntame, ¿cómo fue que te dieron esta misión?

—Eso no importa, mira ya son las 11:47.

—Ahh la… dime, siiií… oye a dónde vas, ¿por qué miras por las ventanas tan asustado?

—Nooooo, niña, no te quedes allí parada, agáchate, que te agaches te digo, qué no miras que estoy revisando si no hay francotiradores escondidos en las ventanas o los techos… pero no, ya miré y parece que no hay ninguno, pero no bajes la guardia en ningún momento. Sólo te voy a contar porque ya has visto mucho; pero conste que me tienes que prometer unas cosas…

Pero bueno: hace una hora yo estaba como si nada jugando con mis amigos, cuando de repente me jalan del brazo y unos gritos me dicen que si no traigo éste paquete a la estación a las 12 en punto, alguien puede morir. Y que salgo corriendo, los últimos gritos que escuché fue que tuviera mucho cuidado porque podía perder la vida.

—¿Y no te asustaste?

—Claro que no, pero deja que siga contándote que pasó.

Me dijeron que podía perder la vida y me dieron éste reloj para que me pudiera comunicar con la base de operaciones pero no está funcionando. Yo creo que fue por la explosión donde trataron de eliminarme… De veras, trataron de eliminarme. Esa explosión fue como una palomita de maíz que se expande y de repente se queda congelada. No me hagas esa cara, porque te estoy contando la verdad, yo solo sentí el empujón inicial que me botó, pero cuando miré para atrás las llamas no se siguieron expandiendo. Sólo sentía lo caliente de las llamas… Y que me echo a correr de nuevo. Cuando unos perros entrenados para matar, me comenzaron…

—¿Qué pasó, por qué te quedaste callado y por qué pones esa cara? ¿Miraste a los perros? Anda, háblame, di algo.

—Nada, no era nada, yo pensé que había mirado… pero no te preocupes. Como te decía, unos perros matones y grandotototes me comenzaron a perseguir y que me cruzo la calle y por un poquitito me avienta un carro. Si hubieras escuchado la gran maltratada que me dieron, ni se me ocurrió defenderme.

Sólo con pensar que esos perrototes venían atrás de mí. Lo bueno fue que otro carro le dio a uno de los perros, y con esa distracción, me di cuenta que una señora gorda se mete a un taxi y me voy de colado, la señora estaba tan gordotota que ni abría los ojos, pero ya cuando la señora se dio cuenta, me agarró del pelo y me sacó del taxi, lo peor fue que el taxi ni se había parado, hasta me acusó de que le quería robar. Pude perder a los perrotes, pero yo sentía que la gorda me había arrancado todos los pelos de la cabeza. ¿Escuchaste, escuchaste lo que anunciaron? No puede ser, de esta si no me salvo, ya anunciaron que llegó el autobús de las 11:50… Me tienes que prometer que…

—¡Sí, sí, yo te prometo lo que quieras!

—¡Prométeme que si me pasa algo vas a seguir con mi misión!

—Yo te lo prometo y también te prometo que no le contaré a nadie tu historia. Pero tienes que esconderte. No te quedes así como si nada, escóndete, pero escóndete rápido no te quedes allí

sentado donde te pueden ver todos; que ya empezaron a bajar los pasajeros.

—¿Esconderme yo, cómo crees? acuérdate que soy hombre, ¿qué tal si el que viene por el paquete llega antes de las 12 y no me mira?

—Pero por lo menos esconde el paquete, así los despistas. ¿No me digas que por ese paquete vas a dar tu vida? ¡Yo creo que ni sabes qué hay en el paquete!

—Nooo, no sé, pero eso no importa en mi misión; yo sólo soy el mensajero.

— ¡Pues ábrelo y así sabemos que hay!

—NO, yo no puedo hacer eso; no cómo crees, no y no.

Mira, todos los pasajeros se están dirigiendo a la salida solo queda ese último que se mira sospechoso.

— ¿Cuál?, yo no lo miro.

—Ese, el que está buscando algo en su mochila, mira sacó un objeto negro.

—Pero dime cuál porque no lo miro.

—No, ya no te preocupes, sólo fue una falsa alarma. Faltan tres minutos para las 12.

—¿Y cómo sabes a quién le tienes que dar el paquete?

—Puuueeeessss, ahhh ya sé, me va a decir la palabra secreta.

—Y cúal es la palabra…

—Agáchate, muévete para la izquierda, que mandaron esa mosca para matarme, pero te está atacando a ti primero.

—Entonces mátala, mátala con ese periódico, mátala antes de que me pique.

—Ya no la miro, creo que se fue, noooooo allí viene de regreso, ponte atrás de mí, ¡que yo te voy a defender!

—Le diste, sí le diste, LA MATASTEEEE, sí la mataste, yo miré que cayó muerta en aquella silla.

—Ahhhh sí, sí, yo sentí que le di a algo. ¿Ya ves? Yo te dije que te iba a proteger.

— ¿Y cómo es que te llamas niñohombre?

— ¡Noooo, mi nombre no te lo puedo decir y mucho menos aquí!

—Pero tengo que saber cómo te llamas, me salvaste la vida.

—Está bien pero acércate más, no más, un poquito más, yo me llamo José.

—¡JOSÉ, YA SON DESPUÉS DE LAS 12!

—Nooo te dije que no quería decir mi nombre en voz altaaaaaaaa.

—Perdón no fue…

—Ya escuché la clave, sí esa es, ¿la escuchas?

—Cúal, cúal, yo no escucho nada…

—…CHEPEE —¿Esa es la clave? ¿Verdad que sí? Ese hombre que está gritando Chepe es al que le tienes que entregar el paquete. Ya mero terminas tu misión José y todavía está vivo.

—Sí, esa es la clave. Tengo que cumplir con mi misión, pero antes vete a la par de tu mamá, así me aseguro de que estés a salvo. No voltees a verme, tienes que actuar como si no me conocieras, y será mejor si te tapas los oídos porque no quiero que escuches nada. Ya vete, que si no, vas a estar en peligro.

—Cuídate mucho José… Clarisa, así me llamo.

—Por favor, ya vete Clarisa, que nos pones en riesgo a los dos. ¡Y tápate los oídos!

—…CHEEEPEEEE… —Aquí está el paquete, misión cumplida jefe. Ahh y muy buen provecho, nos miramos en la casa para la cena.

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Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín.

(Bogotá, Colombia, 1982) Narrador e ilustrador. Es Licenciado en Educación Artística de la Universidad Distrital Francisco José de Caldas y egresado de la Maestría en Creación Literaria de la Universidad de Texas en El Paso. Sus ilustraciones han aparecido en Latinoamérica en publicaciones de Colombia, Perú y México. En los Estados Unidos ha publicado imágenes en Memorias del Silencio, Rio Grande Review, Texas A&M Department of Hispanic Studies Conference, entre otras. Actualmente está terminando el libro de relatos titulado “La vida es truco”.

Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín.

Kaleidoscope 2014

Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín.

Caleidoscopio 2014

Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín (Bogotá, Colombia, 1982). An author and Luis Eduardo Álvarez Marín (Bogotá, Colombia, 1982) Narrador e ilustrador. Es Licenciado en Educación Artística de la Universidad Distrital Francisco José de Caldas y egresado de la Maestría en Creación Literaria de la Universidad de Texas en El Paso. Sus ilustraciones han aparecido en Latinoamérica en publicaciones de Colombia, Perú y México. En los Estados Unidos ha publicado imágenes en Memorias del Silencio, Rio Grande Review, Texas A&M Department of Hispanic Studies Conference, entre otras. Actualmente está terminando el libro de relatos titulado “La vida es truco”.

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

feature story

Diego Murcia Upon This Rock…

FICTION

Kendra Paredes Emily Eddins

POETRY

Aarón Rueda Frank Castell Paul Guillén Jorge López Misael Duarte

dossier: Young adult

and children’s

literature

Maricela Duarte Carolynne M. Ayoub Luis E. Álvarez Marín Y otros

content Río Grande Review

A bilingual Journal Contemporary Literature & Art Spring 2014 Number 43 Senior Editor Jago Molinete Editors Marco Antonio Murillo Gianfranco Languasco Bellido Guest Editor Joseph Michael McBirnie Faculty Advisor Rosa Alcalá Art Director & Design (Guest) Malena Villar Covert Art Works Helier Batista Viajeros Diptych. 2014. Oil on Masonite 16 x 12 ½ inches Board of Readers Rosa Alcalá Abby Carl Klassen Tafari A. Nugent Jesús Sylveira John Neils Joseph M. McBirnie Riley H. Welcker Sam Calvin Brown Special Thanks to Lori de los Santos John Fahey Liz Murcia Perla Chaparro

a poetry Gwendolyn Jensen

Holly Welker Penélope Karageorge Alison Hicks Allan Johnston Tim Hunt

a fiction Kendra Paredes Emily Eddins

a chronicle

Wendy García

a fiction Kathleen Glassburn a translation Sylvia Aguilar a poetry Holly Day Richard Dinges

feature story Diego Murcia

a dossier Young adult and children’s literature

Maricela Duarte Carolynne M. Ayoub Mandy Twomey Alberto Mendiola Jaime García Luis E. Álvarez M.

Rio Grande Review is a bilingual non-profit journal of literature and contemporary art. Is published twice year and is rectorate by the Creative Writing department of University of Texas at El Paso (UTEP). Students of the MFA Bilingual Creative Writing Program edit this project. RGR has been diffusing creative writing of El Paso, on the United States –Mexico border and worldwide for over 30 years. The Student Commission at UTEP economically sustains RGR, besides publicity and private contributors. We welcome ads interchange.

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

55

staff o anc nfr sco ). RGR a i G ngua . 1988 rnalist.

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There are my secrets that the river has taken, and that which it asked me, I go on fulfilling little by little on land.

Pablo Neruda

Michelle Bord贸n.

Fish. 2013

editorial

Going from one shore to another, crossing the river and splashing in its waters all have their risks.

In this 43rd issue of RGR, we are doing our share.

The majority of this issue is dedicated to young adult and children’s literature. Imagine our surprise to discover storytellers, poets, photographers and illustrators of the El Paso region and a little beyond, who venture to embark on their “paper boats” onto the river’s currents. Certainly, they are creators to the core in spite of the consequences.

Interestingly, in this adventurous group we find novices, autodidacts, and professionals. The effort was great, but it is worth it to know those secrets of mine (and yours) that the river has taken that we bring and will continue to bring for the good of arts and letters. Also, we worked to fit in other artistic manifestations (music, sculpture) and communicative proposals (journalism, nonfiction) without compromising the versatility of the design. Hopefully, the flotsam on the river can be accumulated little by little on the land from some avid breast in dialogue with the work of those creators gathered in this present edition.

Michelle Bord贸n.

Seahorse.2013.

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Malena Villar Propuesta C贸smica Propuesta 2 para portada de Libro 2010.

When I Wake Gwendolyn Jensen

I Sing Of A Bus I sing of a bus, the Number 1 bus,

from Dudley to Harvard Square, the Harrison Avenue, Roxbury bus,

we are all of us homeless there.

We fold to a pace set by another,

we hold to our place to our fear, we’ve learned whom to help, learned whom to shun,

we’re all of us homeless here.

I sing of a bus, the Number 1 bus,

it kneels to let some of us on, the Harrison Avenue, Roxbury bus,

it kneels to let some of us go.

I sing of a bus, the Number 1 bus,

from Dudley to Harvard Square, the Harvard Square, MIT, Smoot Bridge bus,

we are all of us homeless there.

Like horses and mules, we’ve learned how to amble,

professors and tourists and kids, we take to the place the times that are ample,

we’re all of us homeless here.

I sing of a bus, the Number 1 bus,

it kneels to let some of us on, the Harvard Square, MIT, Smoot Bridge bus,

It Is Cold Tonight it kneels to let some of us go.

Air lies soft, soft and careful, taking old man’s steps, light upon the earth, suspended, as if turned and turning in upon itself. Air lies quiet, taking time, as if at a bus stop, patient, not caring who the others are, but certain that the bus will come. Air lies curled in the graceful shape indifference takes— as if it would not need the trees awaiting early snow; as if it would not hear the murmuring houses, lit inside, would not see the cars, drifting toward a place, as if its place is not here, but there, where cold is understood.

When I wake, let me wake to that rainy sometime day that we four girls spent together, rolling up the rug and laughing, the “Blue Danube” playing, bending us to its waltz, how clumsy we were then. Remember how, every morning, early waking, I’d stand mirror naked, bending side to side to see my sometime breasts, my not quite yets, my laughing little birds. I had spent so much time there waiting, spent time dawdling, shirt pulled up. And how I could hear my nipples laughing from the softness of their waking, my unopened spices somewhere on a shelf. I saw bending color under whiteness bending golden, veins of blue all spent with pink. I smelled good, somehow older, all that lotion, how I’d smooth it on each waking.

On that dancing day we laughed,

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tangled, curling, rolling laughter, whirling all a tangle, bending toward each other, legs awake, opening, closing, we were spending all the whimsy of the world, how we danced on that summer day.

Then, I felt pressure, something pushing, my breasts were pushing. I laughed at those brazen breasts and how my green and narrow shirt was bent.

And this is how I spent that rainy sometime day. When I wake, let me wake to laughter, let me bend and spend myself somehow, for Venus is real, and the earth does move.

Gwendolyn Jensen (Lansdowne, PA.1936). She began writing poems when she retired in 2001 from Wilson College (Chambersburg, PA) where she had served as president for ten years. Her poems have been widely published in both electronic and print journals, including The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Harvard Review, Tears in the Fence, The Malahat Review, Measure, Salamander, and Sanskrit Literary Arts Magazine. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Holly Welker

Underpinnings Listening to the equinox.

Not enough brass, not enough baritone, not enough bassoon.

I play with translation software.

“I won’t cast his bust in bronze or even plaster” becomes

“I will not cast him in the ancient bronzes even medicinal plaster bust.”

“Am just bummed this morning” is sensibly rendered

“In the morning went begging.”

“I’ve decided I’m not in love with him” becomes

“I decided I fall in love with him,” just like that,

while “I’m going to make myself a cheeseburger” doesn’t really change.

What is this calculation of costs? the ocean not the sand on the beach

a piece of string not a string of pearls

a painful submitting not the joints on a hand

duller color // fuller dolor

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The canopy is all one thing, swirled upon itself like a statement of fact.

Why be kind? Why bother?

Drowning feels nothing like this, I bet.

Not that I’m good at imagining that particular terror, the swelling of the lungs, the pressure on the face.

Nor immolation—I recoil from even thinking about blistering skin, the acrid stench of burning hair.

Nor a gunshot wound, torn flesh, mangled bone.

But a stabbing—sliced veins, blood flowing fast over the clean edges of a deep, deep cut: that I know enough about already from shallow cuts here and there.

“I’ve decided I’m not in love with him” becomes

“I decided I fall in love with him,” just like that,

while “I’m going to make myself a cheeseburger” doesn’t really change Holly Welker (Salt Lake City. UT). Her poetry and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in such publications as Alaska Quarterly Review, Best American Essays, Bitch, Black Warrior Review, The Cream City Review, Dialogue: A Journal of Mormon Thought, Gargoyle, Image, The New York Times, Poetry International, Sunstone, TriQuarterly, and other journals. Born and raised in southern Arizona, she currently lives and writes in northern Utah.

Penelope Karegeorge

The Suit Case You have chosen the alien condition, the single straw, the thin mattress

in the third-rate hotel. You are the other.

At the baggage carousel, you’re orphaned, the lone grabber.

And whom do you really seek as you stand on that street corner in Paris,

the ghost of Hemingway, or the man you fell in love with in a Cambridge bar talking about Hemingway? You search

for yourself in coffee cups, with strange men whom you loved in the hotels of your imagination when, silently, you would discover each

other as dishes crashed in the restaurant downstairs.

Turning away from mirrors, you seek the eyes of waiters, chance encounters,

wanting them to see you so that you can see yourself, oh pilgrim, prowling the streets, searching for new places of memory.

Sunglasses, gold earrings, a watch, a notebook—lost and found—

as you struggle up mazy streets toward the foreigner’s house, the hotel, surreal sanctuary with the Parthenon for a pillow.

And when you come to that lonely place, the place of heat, waterless,

inhabited by cactus arms and coatracks, what do you do then, wayfarer, terrified by your journey? Go mad under the burning bright?

Do you hug yourself and weep? Or pray?

Is traveling just a different kind of loneliness?

You know there’s a world, and somehow you never reached it.

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You find a stick and dig deep, reach one drop of water, drink,

place a stone to mark the bottom at the well of self, and then, at sunrise, you pick up the suitcase, heavier now, and set off again.

Penelope Karaegeorge (New York, NY). She takes inspiration from the city for much of her poetry. She has had three books published, Red Lipstick and the Wine-Dark Sea (Pella Publishing Co., 1997), Murder at Tomorrow (Walker Publishing, 1982), and Stolen Moments (Pinnacle Books, 1988), and is currently working on her second poetry collection, The Neon Suitcase.

Alison Hicks

Canoe Tight bends must be approached Pinching at the ends, widening in the middle Pivoting at the last minute Steering toward the bank the river cuts into Behind now dying in the water Floating silently except for the spiral Loading on land then picking it up at the ends will cause it to buckle Seams must be fortified with pitch or epoxy Upside down, it still floats Large waves hitting the sides capsize it Sometimes it will get stuck and you have to step into the muck Must be carried from one watershed to another

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Requires balance as well as strength Raises the heart Remnants of a beaver dam make a dull creak across the bottom Feels good to lift from the shoulders This involves uphills and downhills Hint of water through trees

Giant Here at the Giant, the cheese is never alone.

The deli line stretches to the out-of-season berries.

How long has the manchego been in the refrigerator?

No one ever seems to want just one thing.

In the movie about the old wrestler, having to give it up and working at the Acme, the semi-famous actor scoops out a little more then a little less for the picky old lady, then cuts his finger off in the slicer.

He’s beloved in France, land of cheeses, which takes to its bosom all the American actors whom America fails to love back.

Mickey Rourke, who had such promise in Diner, then disappointed us.

His face is bloated and craggy.

We prefer Kevin Kline, saying in his French accent, It was so beautiful that I had to leave.

No one is ever alone, waiting for her number to be called, her serving to fall onto waxed paper, the label with the scan code sealing the deal.

Alison Hicks (Havertown, PA). Her work has appeared in The Broadkill Review, Calibanonline, Cottonwood, Eclipse, Fifth Wednesday, Gargoyle, and other journals. Her books include a full-length collection of poems, Kiss (PS Books, 2011), a chapbook, Falling Dreams (Finishing Line Press, 2006), and a novella, Love: A Story of Images (AWA Press, 2004), a finalist in the 1999 Quarterly West Novella Competition. His awards include the 2011 Philadelphia City Paper Poetry Prize and two Pennsylvania Council on the Arts fellowships.

Allan Johnston

Sonnet May each song link us to the artful road the way the travelers have abandoned courses to follow endless curses of a lord of instruments retuned to measure bourses or find the cost itinerant in things that level out the cause of all our caring into the empty chambers of a king whose deaths are acted out with grace and daring— the king is dead, long live the king, they are crying as if to spread some pestilence of mouth and we receive the news with sorrow, flying away to nights that captivate our youth into this dark regression of the selves we implicate and cling to, living by halves.

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

Wind Cannot Be Different First of all, always, is the mourning of the birds which seems to us like happiness but is not, it is the young curse of the whistle in the mouth.

Wind cannot be different from what passes through it plastic bags from supermarkets caught in gelatinous forms jelly fish like as they ghost through the air, false navigators of a coming of life in the world.

Allan Johnston (Evanston, IL). He teaches in the WRD Department at DePaul University. His poems have appeared in over sixty journals, including Poetry, Poetry East, Rattle, and Rhino. He is the author of one full-length poetry collection (Tasks of Survival, Mellen, 1996) and two chapbooks (Northport, Finishing Line Press, 2010; Departures, Finishing Line Press, 2013), and has received an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize nomination (2009), and First Prize in Poetry in the Outrider Press Literary Anthology competition (2010).

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Tim Hunt

Poem Orders an Espresso Poem liked the way the barrista handed him the cup.

He was glad he’d ordered espresso, not one of those foamy things. He wanted sugar but kept his eyes gazing out the window as if the parking meters were trees along a gray creek and the building across the street (art deco paint scheme needing a ladies room freshen up) truly the horizon.

Poem, doing his best hipster, stroked RIO GRANDE REVIEW

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his soul patch and eased his Bic from his pocket, hoping she was watching as he dabbed the napkin as if brushstroking Chinese.

Surely, Poem thought, she would be waiting when he came home tonight— all piercings and tattoos—and, oh, unrefined sugar, too.

Poem Orders a Glass Poem and Novel were not exactly buds, but would from time to time hang.

Novel was a pitcher sorta guy, guffaw guffaw and elbow into the ribs. You know the type.

Poem admired his confidence that he was where it was at— meta- to hyper- to both-feet-planted real and that table just inside the front door at Barnes & Nobel where he and the rest of his crew were welcome to mill about waiting for some kaching and intense page turning. Today Novel was into his plaid flannel and work boots schtick telling Poem he needed more brass and to grow a pair and get himself some Big Boy pants. Poem knew that Novel had a point, but then again his Chardonnay was so exquisitely vintage—a perfect complement to his beret as he struck his best supercilious with smidge of nonchalance, admiring his mirrored image above the bar.

Tim Hunt Normal, IL) He has published in various literary journals. He is the author of four chapbooks and received two Pushcart nominations and The Chester H. Jones National Poetry Prize. His academic works include two critical studies of the Beat novelist Jack Kerouac, Kerouac’s Crooked Road (University of California Press) and The Textuality of Soulwork (University of Michigan Press), and The Collected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers (Stanford University Press).

Michelle Bord贸n. Land.

2013

f i cti o n

On Earth, As It Is

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

68

I thought Jorge had stabilized psychologically, but after he told me that God screwed him in the asshole every night, I thought again.

My specialty was not psychiatry, but I watched over all the patients at La Sagrado Corazon. I was the newly appointed director of the 40-room hospital in Tehuacán, Mexico, a Catholic hospital and the only hospital in town. The hospital was a renovated Spanish colonial mansion. Each room led out to the tiled walkway. As is typical of Spanish colonial style, a garden full of flowers, lime trees, and stone fountains was situated in the middle of the hospital. The hospital was filled with the sounds of singing birds and cascading water. It was 1960 and I was home.

I had recently brought my new American bride, Ivory, with me to live in Mexico. We were expecting our first child. After nine years at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, I was ready to practice medicine on my own. I looked forward to practicing in my small hometown. I thought it would be easy in comparison to studying medicine in the metropolitan hospitals of St. Louis. I soon discovered that wasn’t going to be the case.

My patient, Jorge, baffled me. I knew Jorge’s family as I knew all the people of Tehuacán. Tehuacán was a small town nestled in a cool valley surrounded by red mountains. Everybody knew everybody else. Jorge had been an intelligent child with promise, but after his first year of study at the university in Mexico City, his personality changed radically. He quit school mid-semester against his parents’ wishes, and he came home to sit in his room for days on end to “talk to the spirits,” his mother explained.

I hadn’t seen Jorge since he was a child. I didn’t recognize the gaunt man who sat on my examining table. His eyes darted about.

“Jorge, old friend, do you know why you’re here?”

He responded to my soothing voice with a nod. “I’m here to see the doctor.”

“Can I examine you?”

A moment of clarity came into his eyes. “Please. I am in deep despair.” And then the clarity was gone, and he added: “They want to do experiments on me. They do. They really do.”

My heart skipped a beat when he said this. His condition was serious. I examined Jorge and determined the diagnosis, schizophrenia. The diagnosis was hard to explain to Jorge’s parents. Jorge, on the other hand, seemed to understand, in his own way.

“I know what happened,” Jorge said. “They rewired my brain at university while I was asleep.”

His mother, a petite lady with black hair styled in the fashion of those days, asked, “Is there a tea that can help him?” She asked this because many people relied on herbal cures. They used a different tea for every ailment.

I put my hand over hers. I recognized the desperation in her eyes. “I can offer Jorge a medication called Thorazine. I’ve seen patients respond well to it.

But it’s not a miracle pill. It has some uncomfortable side effects. Some of the worst effects are lip smacking or puckering, a rapid worm-like movement of the tongue and uncontrolled chewing movements.” I tightened my mouth and hesitated before I said, “It’s a relatively new medication, and it’s expensive.”

His father, a round man who earned a good living raising and selling chickens and eggs, said, “We will pay any price.”

I nodded. “I can order it from some friends in the United States. I’d like to put him in the hospital to watch him. We’ll take good care of him,” I assured his parents. I turned to Jorge. “It’s up to you, Jorge. Do you want to take it?”

Jorge took the Thorazine. At first he seemed to respond well to it. And then he started with this new delusion about God raping him every night.

“Doctor Américo, God comes almost every night and screws me in the asshole. I don’t like it, not one bit, but what can I do? I cannot say no to God. His will be done.” Jorge crossed himself and kissed his thumb.

“Jorge, this is a delusion. Think about it. Why would God do this to you?

And how do you know it’s God.”

“He told me he is God. I must have faith and do as he says.” Jorge said with resignation.

I sighed. When Jorge came to see me, he didn’t have coherent thought.

Now that he was on the medication, he was coherent, but what he told me was impossible. The Thorazine wasn’t working, and Thorazine was the only medicine for his condition. If he couldn’t take the medication and stabilize, it was likely he would end up on the street, not because his parents were bad but because that’s what typically happened to the mentally ill. His situation needed to be re-evaluated. For today, however, I would keep him on the medication and in the hospital to observe. At times like this, I missed the United States and the resources I had available to me there, although we were all in the stone-age of mental health treatment.

I walked out of Jorge’s room. Patients mulled about and rested on stone benches in the garden. I passed the orderly who helped watch over the patients at night.

He was packing his things and getting ready to leave now that it was morning.

Kendra Paredes Hayden

“Hey, Benito, how did Jorge do last night?”

The man shrugged his shoulders elaborately. He continued to pack his things as he spoke. “All was quiet with the patients last night.”

“All right,” I said. “Go home and get some sleep.”

Benito seemed like a kindly man, a little rough around the edges, but a good worker. He always took care of the smallest task I asked of him, even if he never did seem to look me in the eye when we spoke.

I decided to go to Sister Bernadette about the patient. I wanted to see if she saw any changes in Jorge aside from his delusion.

Sister Bernadette was a thorn in my side. I was the one hired to run the hospital, but she considered herself to be boss over me. She’d been at the hospital since they’d converted the mansion 15 years earlier. She missed the doctor I had replaced. It wasn’t my fault he decided to retire, but she seemed to blame me. He had given her free rein, and she resented any changes I tried to implement.

Everyone called Sister Bernadette Old Owl Eyes, because her eyes were golden green accentuated by thick eyeglasses. At times, she also gave the illusion of turning her head 180 degrees like an owl, and she could hear even the smallest sound.

She was an excellent nurse, and she knew every in and out of the hospital and its patients. She was invaluable to me. But I didn’t like how she treated me. I was not supposed to be subordinate to her. She was to be subordinate to me. And yet, she was not.

Bernadette wasn’t my first experience with the nuns. I’d had many experiences with the Hospital Sisters of St. Francis at St. Mary Hospital in East St. Louis, Illinois, across the river from St. Louis. I had come to the U.S. against my father’s will. He was angry with me and refused to help me financially while I studied in the U.S. The Hospital Sisters had made my transition in the United States easier. If not for them, I might have starved. When I didn’t have a coat that first very cold and snowy winter, they were the ones who gave me one.

However, before my time there at St. Mary Hospital, I had had limited contact with nuns. I was educated by the Christian Brothers at a boys only boarding school in Puebla. When I went to St. Mary Hospital, I was young enough to be surprised at the nuns and their varied personalities. For instance, there had been Sister Hossanna Christi, who wore a red bra and underwear under her habit. I knew this because she invited me down to the dank basement of St. Mary where she kept an old mattress. I had no idea what her intention was when she lured me down to the darkness, but when I saw her on the dirty mattress in nothing but that red underwear, I took off running out of there.

But I digress.

Of course, Sister Bernadette was nothing like Sister Hossanna Christi. Old Owl Eyes was all business. She was the stereotypical nun of an indeterminable age, and today she irritated me more than ever before.

“Sister Bernadette, have you talked with Jorge today? He’s having some very strange delusions.”

“I’ve noted the changes in his behavior in his chart.” She answered without lifting her head from her paper work. She was dismissing me. I scowled.

“Of course, I read the chart.” I said. “I was wondering if you’d noticed anything else.”

“Everything I notice goes into the chart,” she said.

Quite abruptly, I said, “I don’t like that orderly, Benito.” I was grasping at straws to irritate Sister Bernadette. She had hired the man before I arrived. I knew she would take it as a challenge to her authority if I criticized him.

She tilted her owl head upward and seemed to clack her beak like an aggravated bird. “I hired him years before you came here, Américo.” She adjusted her glasses and tried to recover her composure. “We had a very hard time filling this position. Believe me when I tell you, he serves us well. I am a very good judge of character. I don’t make mistakes.”

Old Owl Eyes nodded once and went back to her work. She struck her pen against the paper as she wrote, as if she were tapping out an important message using Morse code.

Satisfied because I had made her angry, I whistled a senseless tune as I walked to my office next door to the hospital. I told the receptionist to send me my first patient.

Lucia, a woman in her forties, came in and sat down. I had known Lucia when she was a young girl. She had been pretty back then, but the woman who sat in front of me looked nothing like the Lucia I had known many years ago. I was always struck by the changes people went through as they aged, the wide-eyed innocence of childhood, the awkwardness of adolescence, the expectant look of being in love, the devotion and adoration for their babies, the self-assurance and knowing of middle age, the feebleness of old age. I decided sorrow changed a person’s appearance too soon.

Lucia had married a half-wit with no empathy and an inclination to drink. She had had

13 children in the past 20 years, and she was pregnant again. well-being once her mother was gone.

“I cannot have another child, especially after my last one.” She dabbed a I was wrapping the little thing in towels, as reverently as I could, when handkerchief to her eyes as she cried.

Sister Bernadette walked in. I jumped in surprise and concealed the bloody pieces as

“Your last child had Down’s Syndrome. I remember,” I said. best I could.

“She’s a sweet girl, and if I could live forever, I would have no worries. I

“Sister Bernadette, I thought you’d gone for the day.” don’t know who will take care of her after I’m gone.”

“I noticed the lights were on in here, Doctor. I thought I better shut them

“One of her brothers or sisters will have to take her.” I suggested. off.” She looked around the room and saw the sleeping woman. “You didn’t tell me you

“My oldest is 20 years old. If she marries the boy who is currently interested were doing a surgery this afternoon. Do you need anything?” She crinkled her brow in in her, I know she will not be the one to take her. He can’t stand the child. I can tell.” She suspicion. sighed heavily. “You know you can’t count on your children for anything. Not really.

My voice was higher than normal. “Oh, no, it was a simple surgery.” I tried You understand. Don’t you, Doctor?” to adjust my voice. “Eh, hum. A cyst. She’s a bit over dramatic. I told her to rest.”

I did understand. I was a young doctor, but I’d come to know many situations. Besides, we both knew what could happen to the child. She could become

I was referring to the child as a cyst. I felt worse. another Beto Ramon, begging outside the church doors. That is, if she were lucky.

“What are you holding?” She craned her owl neck to see what I had.

More than likely, she wouldn’t live long after her mother died. The ghosts and spirits of

“Look, Sister.” I came clean. “I performed an abortion. I’m holding what other people’s cruelty would overtake her. It was a sad truth. It was the same truth for is left of the baby.”

Jorge Suarez.

A look of horror slowly filled her face as if she were an actress in a silent

But an abortion? I couldn’t possibly do this thing she asked of me. film. “Well, what’s done is done. Huh, Américo?” In the time I had known her, she “I can understand your concern. Truly. I can. But I don’t preform had never called me doctor. I never liked the way my name sounded on her tongue. It abortions, Señora. Abortions are immoral.” sounded worse at the moment.

“Doctor, my husband is already complaining that I don’t give him enough

“These were special circumstances,” I said. of my time,” she said.

“You have gone down further in my esteem.” And then she turned and “Obviously, you have given him too much of your time, or you walked out of the room. I knew my secret was safe. Sister Bernadette wouldn’t be pregnant again,” I said. It was a lewd statement, but I couldn’t wasn’t going to gossip about me or anyone in the hospital. But she “He hide the disgust I was feeling for her husband. was right to judge. No matter what the circumstances, I had was such a good “Please reconsider this one time,” she said. “Or refer me killed. man, a good, good to someone else who does these kinds of things. If you don’t refer That night, I went home and fell into my bed. me, I’ll find someone to do it.”

I thought about resigning. At the same time, I knew I man.” I rolled my eyes at The thought made me cringe. I couldn’t allow her would. Being a doctor, treating my patients, was her dramatics. I’d heard a few never to see one of those butchers with their dirty hands and dirty my life, my identity. I would never quit. rumors about Benito, but had instruments, and yet, I didn’t want to become a butcher.

I had drifted off to sleep when I was forgotten about them until now. awakened by my wife.

I decided to examine her to make sure she was pregnant. It could be that she was experiencing the signs of

“Américo, it’s the hospital. There’s I was trying to remember just menopause. In that case, her problem would not be a problem. I been an emergency.” exactly what I’d heard, when hoped.

Lucia came to my mind. Something happened Sister Bernadette saw me to her. I jumped up and went to the phone. Sister My hopes were dashed when upon examination I and called me over. discovered she was obviously pregnant, possibly 3 months along. I Bernadette was on the line. could always tell if a woman was pregnant by the look of her nipples.

“You need to come to the hospital. It’s Benito, When in doubt, I did the rabbit test. However, I had no doubts this time. She the orderly. He fell dead in the hallway.” looked at me with an “I told you so” expression.

Within 15 minutes I was running through the front doors of Back then, we had no tests like they have now to determine Down’s the hospital. Sister Bernadette was sitting in a wicker chair fanning herself while a nurse Syndrome. Since she already had a Down’s baby, the likelihood of her having another was checking her pulse. one was high, especially considering her age. So I asked myself: Why should we allow a “He was such a good man, a good, good man.” I rolled my eyes at her life to begin when, in the long run, that life will only experience suffering? And, I also dramatics. I’d heard a few rumors about Benito, but had forgotten about them until considered a concept that was new for the times, especially in my Catholic Mexico. I now. I was trying to remember just exactly what I’d heard, when Sister Bernadette saw thought of the life of the woman. The mortality rate for women giving birth in their me and called me over.

40s was high. And if she did find someone else to perform the abortion, she might

“Américo this is a huge loss to our hospital. What are we going to do?” die anyway. So in order to save the life of the mother and to spare the child a life of “We’ll hire another orderly.” I knelt down to give Benito a quick suffering, I decided to play God and sacrifice the child. A human sacrifice. examination. I couldn’t be sure of his cause of death until I did an autopsy, but I I scheduled the abortion, such an ugly word, for the following late suspected Benito was doing something that contributed to his own death. He was a afternoon when I knew, or at least it was usual, that Sister Bernadette would not be strong healthy-looking man. There was no reason for him to die, unless he had some there. We usually scheduled our surgeries early in the morning, and every morning she sort of undetected heart condition of which I doubted. I didn’t smell alcohol on him. I was there to assist. got up to look through his bag. Sister Bernadette followed me.

No one was in the office when Lucia arrived, not even the receptionist.

“What are you doing?” She tried to grab Benito’s bag from me, but I I anesthetized her before I performed the D&C. It was the safest procedure available wouldn’t let her. “Why would you go through a dead man’s things?” to me at the time, although it wasn’t all that safe. I had to watch her closely for

“Precisely because he is a dead man,” I said. “Maybe he ingested something. complications. I was mostly concerned with infection so I started her on a round of And maybe he has it in his bag.” penicillin just to make sure that wouldn’t happen.

“You are being disrespectful to a loyal employee.”

As I worked, a shadow passed over me and through the room. I looked I dumped the contents of the bag on a table to find medication he had up at the frosted windows in the operation room. I heard footsteps and followed that obviously pilfered from the hospital. A couple of marijuana cigarettes were the last to sound to the door. The door opened a crack. Jorge Suarez peeked in. fall out.

“Please, close the door and go back to your room. This is no place for you,

“He couldn’t even leave the marijuana at home.” I said with disgust.

Jorge.” I was glad it was only Jorge, but I had to get rid of him quickly.

Sister Bernadette’s eyes widened. She covered her open mouth with her Jorge poked his head further into the room. He scrutinized the scene fingers. before him, which was me with my head between Lucia’s legs, blood up to my elbows.

I said, “The idiot. No telling how long he’s been stealing the medications.”

I closed my eyes, anticipating I don’t know what. When I opened my eyes I saw a “I had no idea,” Sister Bernadette said in a whisper. “There must be a realization of some sort wash through Jorge’s eyes before he slowly backed out and rational explanation for this.” closed the door behind him. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I sighed heavily and

I sighed, “If you think of one, let me know. I’m going home.” went back to my task.

The next morning, I decided to see Jorge before I did anything else, Afterward, I held pieces of the dead baby in my hands. I examined the including the autopsy on Benito. I walked into Jorge’s room and greeted him. I was little globs of flesh. Obviously, I couldn’t tell if it had Down’s Syndrome. A feeling of pleased to see he had a huge smile on his face. He sat on his bed. His bare skinny legs dread washed through me. I could have killed a healthy child, a child that could have dangled off the side. His toes barely touched the floor. I sat in a chair by his bed and been the next Mozart, or at the very least, a child that might have brought a unique joy observed him. to the world and even to her tired mother. I might even have killed the one child out

“Jorge, you’re looking very happy today. It does my heart good to see you of the whole family who would take pity on her sister and take responsibility for her like this.” It really did.

“I had a good night’s sleep last night. It was the first good night in a very long time.”

“And why do you think this, Jorge? Why the turn of events? Didn’t God come to you last night?”

Jorge leaned forward and said rather confidentially, “No, he will never visit me again.” He tilted his head and smiled.

“Why?”

“Because God died last night.” He sat up straight and crossed his arms over his chest, nodding once.

I was taken aback. “God died last night?”

“He passed out in the hallway. Sister said it was a heart attack. She’s upset because, as you know, she has a special affinity for God.”

Jorge smiled sweetly, but there was an undeniable twinkle in his eye.

“You aren’t suggesting...” The idea of it struck me like a foul odor.

“No, I don’t believe it.”

With that thought settling in my mind, I watched Jorge take a long draw of his cigarette. He played with the thick white smoke for a moment in his mouth before he inhaled deeply into his lungs, enjoying an obvious moment of peace almost like an erotic caress. His eyes drifted toward the doorway. I followed his gaze. Sister was standing there.

“Jorge, no smoking in the rooms. Smoke in the gardens.” Posture straight.

Voice strong. She greeted me with her usual curt, “Américo.” But under Jorge’s gaze she stopped and grumbled to herself. Her demeanor changed, shoulders slumped, hardly noticeable. Resigned, she added, “Good day, Doctor Américo.” --- . ___

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

70

“Ship’s going out on maneuvers tomorrow. Be gone three days.”

Dreading another absence, Sheila threw her arms around him, squishing the box against his chest.

“Whoa, girl!” He backed off. “Watch out for the Whites.”

He changed to jeans and a faded T-shirt with “Minnesota Twins” stretched across his chest, and they started eating the pizza, sitting cross-legged on the efficiency apartment’s Murphy bed that they always kept down from the wall.

“How’d the appointment go?” Even with tomato sauce dripping on his square chin, Jim looked as handsome as ever.

Instead of planting a kiss on his messy face, Sheila told him, “Mr. Bosanka’s a nice man, kind of fatherly, in a good way, but there aren’t a lot of jobs at the moment.”

Her stomach clenched and she put her slice of pizza back in the box.

“It won’t take long. Remember how fast you got on at the bank?”

Being reminded of First Federal brought on a wince. “If California doesn’t pan out,” her old boss, a school buddy of her father’s, had said, “your job will be waiting.”

“I have an appointment. Maybe I’ll find something right away.” *** Two anxious weeks and three unsuccessful job interviews later—one wanted accounting background, another decided to hire from within, and the last chose to eliminate their position—Mr. Bosanka sent her to an uptown law firm that was looking for a girl to assist their office manager.

Upon entering through the heavy double doors, Sheila, even though she was barely 5’3” and weighed less than a hundred pounds, felt clumsy and out of place.

In special moments Jim called her his “little doll.” This always made her feel cherished and protected. Nothing could make her feel good in this situation.

A meticulously kept desk made of polished, light-colored wood dominated From the time Sheila started working, when she was a high school sophomore, the airy reception room. Behind it sat a woman, straight-backed, with platinum-blonde every job she ever applied for had been hers, because her father, Carl Doty, did electrical hair cut in a short, waved style. Tastefully applied makeup accentuated her raised work for numerous businesses in Minneapolis. When she first wanted an aftereyebrows. Completing a scan of Sheila, she sniffed. “You must be,” turning to the note school job, he said, “I’ll find you something. I’ve got lots of in front of her, “Sheila Gallagher…from State.” connections.” He turned on his one hundred-watt

Sheila gave a quick nod. Why didn’t smile. Soon she was hired as a part-time elevator I take more time with the hem on this dress?

She discovered how to hook operator at Pfeiffer’s Department Store. It mirrored her up

“Or are you delivering something?” the head apparatus up, then and mostly down moods regarding her father.

“No. I’m Sheila Gallagher. I’m The beginning of July 1965, Sheila, aged squished the band over her unruly applying for your job.” nineteen, arrived in Long Beach with

“Louise Hewett.” The woman hair and turned the switch on.

Jim Gallagher, her sailor husband. The first slipped a long, graceful hand with bright-red fingernails Dead silence. How do I hear Monday, after finding a place to live, she stood at the State across Sheila’s palm, fast, as if she didn’t want to the recording? Despite the icy Employment Office’s glass entrance door, studying her contaminate herself. “I’m Mr. Briggs’ and Mr. Newell’s reflection. Dimpled prettiness back home might not pass temperature she began to perspire, office manager.” She pointed to a wooden accent wall muster in glamorous California. Running fingers through her desk with two names in shiny brass letters tiny drops forming on her upper behind her freshly washed, curly red hair, she worried, Has it started mounted under a royal-looking insignia. “I certainly lip, as if she were in the midst of hope this works out. We’ve been trying for months to to frizz? She’d spent a lot of time a humid Minneapolis day. What hire someone. Here’s an application and you need to pressing her homemade aqua polyester dress, but wondered, Does the hem look uneven? It was 9 a.m. and she type a letter. Follow me.” time is it? Fifteen minutes left? wanted to be the first applicant of the week. Sheila pushed

She stood and stroked her purple open the door. silk scarf before leading Sheila past a pair of offices with An hour later, after a grammar and typing test, glass windows in their doors. Sheila peeked in one. A she met Mr. Bosanka, the man on whom her hopes were pinned. Middle-aged, he had fellow with crinkly, near-black hair never raised his head from the paperwork in front of a shiny pate with a graying fringe, deep furrows between tired brown eyes, and several him. extra pounds stuffed into a worn, tan gabardine suit. As she sat in the chair next to his

Near the end of the hall, wide windows overlooked a courtyard garden full desk, leafing through a government pamphlet, Sheila sensed when he looked up from of unfamiliar tropical plants. Louise Hewett turned left into a small room without any her scores. windows, even in the door. It had a gray metal desk and a swivel chair, an IBM Selectric

“Unfortunately, Douglas Aircraft isn’t hiring,” he said. typewriter with a piece of white paper rolled into it, and a strange-looking black box. File

Not knowing anything about this company, she didn’t ask. She tucked the cabinets closed in around the desk and chair. pamphlet in her black patent purse and waited for him to go on.

“You can sit here. This will be my assistant’s office.” Louise Hewett handed “They should resume in a month or so. Meanwhile I’ll send you out on Sheila the application. “Fill this out.” some other interviews. Your qualifications are good. Ordinarily it wouldn’t take long to Sheila took it, hoping the office manager didn’t notice her own chewed find you a spot. Right now I don’t have a lot of openings…with summer vacations and fingernails. all.”

Louise Hewett opened a drawer and took out a headset. “There’s a letter on

“I really need a job. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to go back to the Dictaphone, ready to go.” Apparently noticing Sheila’s dismay, she paused. “You do Minneapolis. Jim and I haven’t been married that long. He’s in the Navy. Enlisted. On a know how to operate a Dictaphone?” ship.” She took a deep breath.

“Oh, sure, yes, I do.”

A low-ranking sailor like Jim only made enough money to support his own “I’ll return in thirty minutes.” She swooshed around, brushing against needs, and Sheila’s allotment check of $100 a month was going to barely cover her rent.

Sheila’s bare arm with the smooth gray fabric of her swirling skirt, leaving a cloud of

She watched Mr. Bosanka’s eyes move to the photograph on his desk of a expensive-smelling perfume in her wake. woman and a trio of girls. One of them, cute with a flipped hairdo, looked like her high While listing pertinent information on the form, Sheila began to shiver. school friends.

The air conditioner operated at full blast, and with the door shut this room felt like a

His tone softened. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a job for you.” He picked a few walk-in freezer. Thankful that the application was brief, she placed it aside and, with cards from his file box, made a couple of calls, and several minutes later handed her a shaking hands, turned to the Dictaphone. yellow appointment slip.

She discovered how to hook the head apparatus up, then squished the

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. I can’t wait to go to work.” band over her unruly hair and turned the switch on. Dead silence. How do I hear the *** recording? Despite the icy temperature she began to perspire, tiny drops forming on Jim returned home early that evening, carrying a cardboard pizza box. her upper lip, as if she were in the midst of a humid Minneapolis day. What time is it?

Fifteen minutes left?

Rubbing damp palms on her lap, she produced two lines of gray down the front of her dress. Oh great! Fiddling around with the nasty little machine had made her fingers dirty.

With a deep breath, she tried to collect her thoughts. A cord, hooked on the box’s back, ran down a wall behind the desk. Sheila yanked at it until a pedal dislodged.

This pedal, similar to the one on her sewing machine back home, was divided in half. Tentatively she pressed the right side with the toe of her black patent sandal. Louise Hewett’s withering voice said, “Letter to Mrs. Raymond Robertson, 555 Ocean Terrace, Long Beach. Dear Mrs. Robert…”

Sheila had started typing right away and there was “Letter to” at the top of the page. Why didn’t I listen for a minute? What was she going to do for another piece of paper? Her heart pounded and her throat constricted. I can’t go ask that woman for more.

She searched every drawer of the desk and finally found a small stack. Sheila rolled one into the typewriter. Oh God, it’s crooked. She loosened the ratchet and made an adjustment. There were thumbprints on the page. The platen made a clicking sound as she yanked the smudged paper out. She’d forgotten to put tissues in her purse. Taking another sheet of paper, she proceeded to press it against her fingers, then stuffed it in back of the typewriter. I’ll get it later. Sheila jiggled one more sheet straight, rolled it into the typewriter, and restarted the Dictaphone. “…son: This is to inform you that we have sent notification to your neighbor regarding his fence…”

She lifted her foot. The letter resumed where she had released pressure.

How to backtrack? It had to be the other half of the pedal. She tapped left, then tapped right.

“…his fence…”

Not far enough.

She pushed left, a little longer.

“…cation to your…” Still not far enough. Sheila pressed her foot down a long while. I have to reach the beginning. “…look forward to seeing…” What happened to Mrs. Robertson’s problem fence? It was another letter. She touched the right side of the pedal, gingerly.

“With warm…” tap, tap.

“…cerely,” tap, tap. “…ney at Law.” This must be the end. Holding the forward half of the pedal down, she waited through a few quiet moments before she heard Louise Hewett breathing, followed by, “Letter to…” The start!

Sheila typed Mrs. Raymond Robertson, dropped down a line for the address, then she saw—no date. Should she put one above the name? Centered? That seemed right. She started to type July 19, 1965, and ended up with “Julu.” She searched the middle drawer. No White-out. No Correct Type. One gray, rough eraser. Working on the “u,” she pressed too hard. A hole! Why did I type the date?

Sheila tore this paper out. Clickety—clickety—clickety. She put another piece in and started over again, with a sour taste in her mouth, like she might throw up.

She got down to “Long Beach” before making another error. Dad was right!

I’ll never get a job.

Next time, the mistake happened before she got through Mrs. Raymond Robertson. I’m going to have to go back to Minneapolis.

She put the last sheet of paper in and started typing the date. As she pushed the return to begin that same address, the door opened, letting in her fragrance— lemony.

Louise Hewett said, “Time’s up. Give me your work.”

Sheila looked at the crisscrossed, messed-up papers, carefully removed the last sheet from the typewriter, and handed it, with the others, to the office manager.

“Well, I never!” Louise Hewett said. “And your application?”

“It’s somewhere in there.” Sheila suddenly felt her failed deodorant. Cold, wet rings under her arms brought on a tremble.

“Very well. Come to my desk.”

Sheila followed the office manager, feeling like an errant school child.

When they got to the reception area, two men stood talking near the entrance doors—the guy with crinkly, near-black hair and another, much taller fellow with silver hair. They tipped their heads to Louise Hewett, who rolled her eyes and sat down as if gliding onto a throne.

After a minute scrutinizing each pathetic page, wearing the expression of a long-suffering martyr, she straightened the papers on her desk with a ker-plunk—kerplunk—ker-plunk. Shaking her head like she truly never had seen such a disaster, she

said, “Mrs. Gallagher, I’ll call if you should come back.”

Sheila passed the attorneys, her eyes on the tile floor, and pushed open one of the heavy doors. Outside huge raindrops hit her cheeks, and she had three miles to walk with no umbrella. More terrible than this, she had forgotten her purse in that dinky room. For a second she thought, Just forget it. She couldn’t face those awful people again.

But she remembered a twenty-dollar bill tucked in the zipper compartment. Enough to buy groceries for a week. I won’t cry. She decided to go in and politely ask for her purse and then leave as fast as possible.

When she re-entered their reception area, the attorneys were laughing loudly as the office manager said, “…even in Minn - e - so - tah…”

Louise Hewett barely looked at Sheila, mumbling out her problem.

Meanwhile the attorneys stared at her, seemingly in disbelief.

Returning, the office manager carried the purse between her fingers like a dead mouse being held by the tail. In the other hand she grasped the scrunched-up paper with Sheila’s streaked fingerprints.

“On second thought, Mrs. Gallagher, you are not a good fit. Forget about a call.” She raised her head to a loftier height. “Perhaps Douglas Aircraft is hiring.”

Sheila took her purse, whispered thanks, and scurried from the office.

During the soaking walk home to the apartment, her tears mixed with the rain. At last she reached the building and trudged up the steps to her door, water sloshing in her sandals.

Rent wasn’t due for over a week. Surely a job would materialize soon. ***

Sheila sobbed for a long time that night, lying in Jim’s arms, saying between hiccups: “What am I going to do? I don’t even know how to operate the stupid machines here in California”; then, “I’ve gotta find something—I can’t go back”; then, “I’ll die if I have another interview like that”; then, “It’ll be okay. I know it’ll be okay”; then, “Oh God. I feel sick. It’s just like my father said.”

Jim reassured her, “It’ll be all right, my little doll.” He brushed back her hair and kissed her forehead.

Next morning, before he left for the ship and another five days of maneuvers, he said, “You need to rest for a while. Why not take the day off?”

She didn’t respond with her usual, It’s time to grow up!

As awful as Sheila felt about not continuing the job search, she peered into the mirror at her blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes and tumbled back onto the Murphy bed. When she did arise, hours later, Jim was gone, and she mentally kicked herself for wasting so much time.

From the manager’s apartment, she called to make another appointment with Mr. Bosanka. The receptionist set their fifth meeting for the next morning.

Sheila cringed. What did Louise Hewett tell him after she finished laughing with Briggs and Newell? *** As soon as she walked back to his desk, Sheila saw that Mr. Bosanka sat there beaming.

“You’re in luck,” he informed her. “You still haven’t given me a phone number, otherwise I’d have called. Douglas started hiring sooner than expected.”

For the rest of the week, she went through the testing, interviewing, and new employee indoctrination process. The men reminded her of Mr. Bosanka, and the women had unpolished, clipped fingernails and no scarves. After waiting in so many rooms and signing so many papers, including a security clearance that made her feel important, Sheila was told to report on Monday, August 2nd. She had a job typing change orders for the DC-10, from hard copies, not a Dictaphone, at a salary of $400 a month—quite a raise over her $315 at the bank in Minneapolis.

Jim’s ship was still out, so she couldn’t tell him. Instead she used the apartment manager’s phone once more and called her parents.

Her father said, “Big deal. You’ve got a job. Doesn’t mean a thing. You belong here at home with your mother.” It was late in the day, but his words were as forceful as ever.

Her mother, vague from vodka, said something about, “Your father’s right,” when she took her turn to speak.

Sheila cut the conversation short. She thanked the apartment manager and said, “I’ll get a phone first paycheck.” On the walk past closed doors of other apartments, on the way to her own, she repeated, “I will not…will not…will not go back to Minneapolis.”

Kendra Paredes Hayden (Millstadt, IL). She has a MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Missouri in St. Louis and a Bachelor of Science in journalism from Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. She has published in various literary journals, most notably in Natural Bridge at UMSL and in The Louisville Review at Spalding University, where her story was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, as well as in Hiss Quarterly, Buffalo Carp, Trillium Literary Journal, Upstreet, Damselfly Press, and OFI Press.

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Return Policy

Emily Eddins

ord, she was high maintenance from the day she came into this world. I clamped down on me till my nipples bled. Her mouth left a red ring around them like was scaret of her while I was pregnant. I knew she was going to be trouble. poison from a spider bite. When I burped her, her spit-up burned my skin. I swear I Hell, I was scaret of her before she was even growing inside me. The day her was allergic to her. Whenever she touched me, I itched or I swole up. One time my eyes daddy ast me to marry him, I had a premonition we’d have a daughter I puffed up so bad I couldn’t see for two days. Oh, but I could hear. Heard her screaming; couldn’t handle; a daughter who would shake the foundations of our house, loud when she was awake, and inside my head when she was asleep. of our quiet little existence.

Oh Lord, I know if you had given me a boy it woulda been different. My boy When she came out of me, she was shrieking like it was Halloween, even though woulda been sweet, like her daddy. But she. She. it was the middle of July. And hot as hell. Honest to God, I’ll never forget it. She had all When she was four she told me to “Fuck off,” and when she was six she took to different kinds of screams coming out of her little body; big ones and small ones, screams calling me “Bitch” instead of Mama. Her daddy and I tried to stop her. Lord knows, we that sounded like an old lady moaning and screams that sounded like a dog baying at locked her in her room for hours on end, and she screamed “Bitch, Bitch, Bitch” over the moon. All kinds of cries, and not one of them, I tell you not a one, sounded like and over again till I wasn’t sure if it was coming from her mouth or the walls themselves. a noise a baby would make. Nobody believes me but I swear she was screaming while I think she stayed in her room for a full week. We didn’t even send her to school. I was she was still inside my belly. I would wake up in the middle of the night already sitting scaret she’d call the teacher “Bitch” and then what would we do? Her daddy broke down straight up, with my eyes wide open. Her cries propped me up like a rod in my spine. in the end and let her out. Every time he brought her food she hugged on him, and They were muffled and her daddy said it was just indigestion, but I knew different. They finally it wore him out. Said he couldn’t keep his own child locked up like a wild animal. was screams. She hated me already.

I said, “Why not? That’s what she is.” He gave me that wilted look like somebody who So when she came out, making the same noise she had wishes his life was different. I knew that look. I saw it in the mirror every day. made when I was pregnant, ’cept this time it was louder, I passed Ya’ll might say, “Well, you must’ve abused her for that child to act Lord, she didn’t out from fear. They had to wake me up by slapping me in the that way.” face. When I came to, I thought she had been slapping me. I Ya’ll might say, “Ain’t no baby born bad, it’s the parents that go to school enough looked over at the little plastic tray that held her, and sure turn ’em bad.” to graduate from high enough her hands were red. The doctor said he had been Well, I’m telling you different. That child was born bad. school, but we tried to do the one who hit me, but deep in my heart I knew it had And she’s still bad today. right by her anyway. Tried to been her working through his hands. Oh yes. Deep I don’t know how I lived with her in my house for inside me I knew this child was different. Sure, she eighteen years. God knows, I lived ten years for every one that get her to learn. She just didn’t was itty bitty, and looked and smelled like a child, she was under our roof. Psychologically I’m two hundred years want no part of it. Said she but she wasn’t a child at all. She was a woman trapped old, and that explains why I’m so god-damned tired. Oh Lord, I didn’t need to learn cause she never used your name in vain before she was born. But now. Now. in a little body, just waiting for her skin to match her was going to live off our already growed-up self.

She still knows how to get to her daddy. Me, she doesn’t even When the nurses told me it was time to leave the try with me anymore. I’m so hard from all her tricks that nobody can money her whole life. hospital, I started to cry. Oh Lord, I did not want to be alone get to me. Not even me. But her daddy, now her daddy, he’s different.

And she meant it. with her.

He always felt bad that his seed was so rotten, felt like maybe he had one “Can’t you keep her just one more day?” I ast. I even made bad sperm out of a billion, and that’s the one that could swim the fastest. I her daddy go on and ast, too. told him over and over not to feel bad, that my egg shoulda kicked it out, my “Kin’t you jus keep her one more day?” he ast. egg shoulda knowed better. But he won’t listen. “It’s my fault,” he says to me at least once He had never knew what to do with me, so he did what I ast. He always thought a day. If he doesn’t say it when he’s awake, he says it in his sleep.

I was a bit touched, and now that she was here I was even worse. I was nigh hysterical.

So he walks around with all that guilt, leaving him exposed like an open zipper.

His sister, Patty, was a nurse at the hospital in the next town. When our nurses She sticks her hot fist in there and yanks till he screams or money hangs out. Usually said we had to go, he callt over to the otha hospital to see if we could come over there. both.

Patty ast about four different doctors and they all said “no.” Said if the hospital I was in Lord, she didn’t go to school enough to graduate from high school, but we tried told me to go home, well then, I’d better go ahead and git on home. Patty said they’d had to do right by her anyway. Tried to get her to learn. She just didn’t want no part of it. a lotta scaret mamas over the years and that I was no different, said I ought not pitch a Said she didn’t need to learn cause she was going to live off our money her whole life. fit, said I ought to just git on with the business of being a mama.

And she meant it.

So that’s what I did. Lord knows that’s what I tried to do, anyway.

She broke into our bank account with the computer, after I forced her daddy to When we pulled into the driveway in the new truck her daddy had bought for quit sendin’ her money. Lord, he was hiding how much he was giving her all these years. her, our neighbors was already waitin’ in the house. Betty and Ray, who lived on the left, Said he was “helping” her out with the rent, but now I know he was feedin’ her, clothin’ and Dorothy from the house on the right was all there. They ast me how come I wasn’t her, and payin’ for her booze and God knows what else. I shoulda knew it would be like smiling. How come I looked so sad. this. She used to make him take her to Kmart when she was little, and she’d come home “She’s just real tired,” her daddy said. “Real tired.” with more than she could carry. Shoulda known when she came home with those heavy “Oh,” they all three said. metal CDs that I’d be paying for her shit the rest of my life. All that guilt gets expensive.

Then they took a long hard look at her, walked out, and quietly shut the door Lord, we’re getting old now and her daddy and me, we are wore clean out. She behind them. I heard them whispering something to each other but I couldn’t hear done took all our spirit, all our money. We got nothing left. Lord, we have always been what. Her screams had already changed my ears. I could only hear loud things now. faithful servants and firm believers in your bountiful mercy. And Lord, every day, every There was nothing soft for me in the world anymore. minute of my life, I have tried to remind myself that children are a gift from God. But She chewed on my breasts at feeding time. Her gums were razor-like vises that now what I want to know is, what is your return policy? --- . ___

Emily Eddins (Atherton, CA). She has been a professional writer for twenty years. Her career includes time spent as a speechwriter, a journalist, a grant writer, and an editor. The author holds a BA in English from Vanderbilt University, an MA in liberal studies from Georgetown University, and she has studied creative writing at both Georgetown University and Stanford University. Her work has appeared in The Cape Rock, Forge, Front Porch, Toad Suck Review, RiverSedge, Willow Review, The Louisville Review, and other publications.

o n r h i e c l c

Before I came to El Paso, I googled the city to get an idea of what to expect. A picture caught my attention. It was the façade of a bookstore, and it read Cinco Puntos Press. It was obvious to me that much thought was behind its colorful exterior. It was pink, yellow, purple, orange… Somebody planned to use a rainbow in this store to bring life to a gray and lonely street. My eyes stopped at the word PUBLISHER. Since I’m a writer and from Central America where there are few opportunities for publishing, I immediately thought of El Paso as a city that had a lot to offer me. I saw the picture as a promise of something different, and I couldn’t help but smile.

A balancing act From the moment I entered Cinco Puntos Press, I felt like I was at home.

Lee Byrd, founder of this editorial house together with her husband, received me with the joy of those who do what they love. She told me how they started the business back in 1985, moved by the desire to publish their writer friends whose work was ignored by major publishing companies. Lee and Bobby are writers too.

I asked her how have they been able to survive for 27 years, how they could remain “independent” in a business that was so competitive. She laughed. “Mostly by the grace of God,” she said.

Inside Cinco Puntos, I was surrounded by the same colors I saw outside. There are only one or two shelves on the walls. Rather, there are tables where people can quickly scan all the books that Cinco Puntos has published. The covers are colorful too, like everything that has to do with this editorial house, like Lee’s smile, like Bobby’s affection. I would get to meet him a few minutes later.

Surviving in this business is a three-

part secret, according to Lee. The first part is that every publication they have is promoted in book fairs and conferences.

They submit their books for many awards.

The acknowledgements they receive attracts buyers. The second part, a very important part, is to support their current authors, and also keep looking for new and good ones. And the third part is something they have learned about this business: “It’s a balancing act. The profits from one book help print the next one,” Lee explains.

Young adults, the target Many of the stories that Cinco Puntos is interested in are for young adult readers, especially in the Latino community.

“Latino teenagers don’t see themselves in books,” Lee tells me. And then she shows me Maximilian, a series of stories about a young lucha libre wrestler. It’s a series, almost like a comic book written in English and Spanish. Two Maximilian books have been published.

Depending on the cultural relevance of the story, Cinco Puntos decides if

it’s necessary to make it a bilingual or to release it in English only. One of their most successful books is La Llorona. They are still printing other versions or even releasing it in other formats like a DVD reading of the book. This legend, popular all throughout Mexico and Latin America, is retold by storyteller Joe Hayes While Lee and I speak of young adults, a group of students from El Paso’s Community College enters the store.

There are about fifteen of them, members of a book club. They are accompanied by a teacher.

It’s their time to be hosted by Lee, so I remain as an observer and take pictures of the tour she gives them. They have come specifically to know about the books and authors Cinco Puntos promotes, but they are also informed about how this editorial house turns a good story into a printed and colorful work of art. It is not an easy road.

It costs between $7,000 and $20,000, and the process can take one to three years. Lee explains all of this with funny cartoons she already had prepared, and answers their questions with enthusiasm and humility.

Then, she invites the students to take a

Fotos: Diana Carrillo

Wendy García Ortiz

Cinco Puntos Press

A colorful dream look around and scan the books they like.

The teacher cannot help himself. He buys a copy of Bobby’s poems, while he recommends to the kids what authors they should read.

The advantage of being in the border Just minutes after, Bobby Byrd arrives at Cinco Puntos. He greets the students, the teacher, and he offers me a cup of coffee and an amusing conversation.

Every now and then the teacher interrupts us, either to ask Bobby for his presence at the Tucson Book Fair, to thank him and Lee for their time, or to ask for his autograph.

Lee and Bobby are used to this. They have many visitors. In our conversation, Bobby tells me more about Cinco Puntos.

He thinks the business being in El Paso is both a benefit and a weakness. “Nobody in New York would have published a story

like La Llorona,” he explains. However, a lot of the authors they have published are a great success nationwide.

The big paradox is that El Paso buys only 5% of the books they print, and everything else is being bought in other states across the country.

Just recently, Cinco Puntos sold the rights to several books to Spain, Italy, Korea, and Germany. “Publishing is an act of self-discovery,” Bobby says, because this business keeps surprising them, even after 27 years.

When the students say goodbye, Lee takes a break and also leaves the store. I see her grab her purse and a basket with four or five manila envelopes. These are manuscripts of new writers that she is interested in.

That’s what happened with the first book they did for Benjamín Alire Sáenz, professor in the Bilingual MFA in Creative Writing program at UTEP. Bobby read one of his short stories in the El Paso

Times and thought it would be great to turn it into a children’s book. Since then, both Ben and the Byrds have developed a collaborative relationship that has resulted in numerous novels, books for children and young adults, and also awards like the Pen/Faulkner Award for Fiction in 2013.

This is also happening with other Cinco Puntos Press’ authors like Joe Hayes, Tim Tingle, Xavier Garza and Luis Crosthwaite.

“A lot happens because we live here in El Paso,” Bobby tells me. He sounds proud of making the right decision to move to this city back in the 70’s, and happy to be a part of a legacy that’s being built for future generations of readers and writers.

When I left Cinco Puntos my heart was warmed by those colors in the walls and in the books. You cannot help smiling after talking with these entrepreneurs, to have seen them in action inside that store, which is also their home, the place where they are building this colorful dream.

Wendy García Ortiz

(Ciudad de Guatemala, Guatemala, 1977). A journalist and writer, she received honor mention from two short story competitions organized by the Nicaraguan writer, Sergio Ramírez, and the Central American publication, Amanuense. Currently, she is inrolled in the MFA program in creative writing at the University of Texas at El Paso. She also is working on her first children’s book entitled El diario de Abi.

Diana Carrillo

El Paso, United States. 1989. Photographer and journalist. Graduated from Multimedia Journalism at UTEP. She participated in projects with National Geographic (in the falling of the ASARCO towers). Have published their photographs in the book ‘Ilustración de las familias de México’ (with families from Ciudad Juárez). Her work was exhibited at the ‘Earth Week’ in UTEP Union Gallery. In the actuality, she is part of the photographers team from El Diario de El Paso and the cultural magazine ‘Vamos’.

Michelle Bord贸n.

Venado. 2013.

f i cti o n

Kathleen Glassburn

Job Search From the time Sheila started working, when she was a high school sophomore, every job she ever applied for had been hers, because her father, Carl Doty, did electrical work for numerous businesses in Minneapolis.

When she first wanted an after-school job, he said, “I’ll find you something.

I’ve got lots of connections.” He turned on his one hundred-watt smile. Soon she was hired as a part-time elevator operator at Pfeiffer’s Department Store. It mirrored her up and mostly down moods regarding her father.

The beginning of July 1965, Sheila, aged nineteen, arrived in Long Beach with Jim Gallagher, her sailor husband. The first Monday, after finding a place to live, she stood at the State Employment Office’s glass entrance door, studying her reflection. Dimpled prettiness back home might not pass muster in glamorous California. Running fingers through her freshly washed, curly red hair, she worried, Has it started to frizz? She’d spent a lot of time pressing her homemade aqua polyester dress, but wondered, Does the hem look uneven? It was 9 a.m. and she wanted to be the first applicant of the week. Sheila pushed open the door.

An hour later, after a grammar and typing test, she met Mr. Bosanka, the man on whom her hopes were pinned. Middle-aged, he had a shiny pate with a graying fringe, deep furrows between tired brown eyes, and several extra pounds stuffed into a worn, tan gabardine suit. As she sat in the chair next to his desk, leafing through a government pamphlet, Sheila sensed when he looked up from her scores.

“Unfortunately, Douglas Aircraft isn’t hiring,” he said.

Not knowing anything about this company, she didn’t ask. She tucked the pamphlet in her black patent purse and waited for him to go on.

“They should resume in a month or so. Meanwhile I’ll send you out on some other interviews. Your qualifications are good. Ordinarily it wouldn’t take long to find you a spot. Right now I don’t have a lot of openings…with summer vacations and all.”

“I really need a job. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to go back to Minneapolis. Jim and I haven’t been married that long. He’s in the Navy. Enlisted. On a ship.” She took a deep breath.

A low-ranking sailor like Jim only made enough money to support his own needs, and Sheila’s allotment check of $100 a month was going to barely cover her rent.

She watched Mr. Bosanka’s eyes move to the photograph on his desk of a woman and a trio of girls. One of them, cute with a flipped hairdo, looked like her high school friends.

His tone softened. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a job for you.” He picked a few cards from his file box, made a couple of calls, and several minutes later handed her a yellow appointment slip.

work.”

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. I can’t wait to go to

*** Jim returned home early that evening, carrying a cardboard pizza box. “Ship’s going out on maneuvers tomorrow. Be gone three days.”

Dreading another absence, Sheila threw her arms around him, squishing the box against his chest.

“Whoa, girl!” He backed off. “Watch out for the Whites.”

He changed to jeans and a faded T-shirt with “Minnesota Twins” stretched across his chest, and they started eating the pizza, sitting cross-legged on the efficiency apartment’s Murphy bed that they always kept down from the wall.

“How’d the appointment go?” Even with tomato sauce dripping on his square chin, Jim looked as handsome as ever.

Instead of planting a kiss on his messy face, Sheila told him, “Mr. Bosanka’s a nice man, kind of fatherly, in a good way, but there aren’t a lot of jobs at the moment.” Her stomach clenched and she put her slice of pizza back in the box.

“It won’t take long. Remember how fast you got on at the bank?”

Being reminded of First Federal brought on a wince. “If California doesn’t pan out,” her old boss, a school buddy of her father’s, had said, “your job will be waiting.”

“I have an appointment. Maybe I’ll find something right away.” *** Two anxious weeks and three unsuccessful job interviews later— one wanted accounting background, another decided to hire from within, and the last chose to eliminate their position—Mr. Bosanka sent her to an uptown law firm that was looking for a girl to assist their office manager.

Upon entering through the heavy double doors, Sheila, even though she was barely 5’3” and weighed less than a hundred pounds, felt clumsy and out of place. In special moments Jim called her his “little doll.”

This always made her feel cherished and protected. Nothing could make her feel good in this situation.

A meticulously kept desk made of polished, light-colored wood dominated the airy reception room. Behind it sat a woman, straight-backed, with platinum-blonde hair cut in a short, waved style. Tastefully applied makeup accentuated her raised eyebrows. Completing a scan of Sheila, she sniffed. “You must be,” turning to the note in front of her, “Sheila Gallagher… from State.”

Sheila gave a quick nod. Why didn’t I take more time with the hem on this dress?

“Or are you delivering something?”

“No. I’m Sheila Gallagher. I’m applying for your job.”

Kathleen Glassburn (Edmonds, WA). She earned an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University. Currently, her works have been published or are forthcoming in Amarillo Bay, Cadillac Cicatrix, Cairn, Crucible, Epiphany Magazine, Lullwater Review, Marco Polo Quarterly, RiverSedge, SLAB, The Talon Mag, Wild Violet, The Writer’s Workshop Review, and several other journals. Her story, “Picnics,” was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s Best Start contest.

She is Managing Editor of The Writer’s Workshop Review.

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“Louise Hewett.” The woman slipped a long, graceful hand with bright-red fingernails across Sheila’s palm, fast, as if she didn’t want to contaminate herself. “I’m Mr. Briggs’ and Mr. Newell’s office manager.”

She pointed to a wooden accent wall behind her desk with two names in shiny brass letters mounted under a royal-looking insignia. “I certainly hope this works out. We’ve been trying for months to hire someone. Here’s an application and you need to type a letter. Follow me.”

She stood and stroked her purple silk scarf before leading Sheila past a pair of offices with glass windows in their doors. Sheila peeked in one. A fellow with crinkly, near-black hair never raised his head from the paperwork in front of him.

Near the end of the hall, wide windows overlooked a courtyard garden full of unfamiliar tropical plants. Louise Hewett turned left into a small room without any windows, even in the door. It had a gray metal desk and a swivel chair, an IBM Selectric typewriter with a piece of white paper rolled into it, and a strange-looking black box. File cabinets closed in around the desk and chair.

“You can sit here. This will be my assistant’s office.” Louise Hewett handed Sheila the application. “Fill this out.”

Sheila took it, hoping the office manager didn’t notice her own chewed fingernails.

Louise Hewett opened a drawer and took out a headset. “There’s a letter on the Dictaphone, ready to go.” Apparently noticing Sheila’s dismay, she paused. “You do know how to operate a Dictaphone?”

“Oh, sure, yes, I do.”

“I’ll return in thirty minutes.” She swooshed around, brushing against Sheila’s bare arm with the smooth gray fabric of her swirling skirt, leaving a cloud of expensive-smelling perfume in her wake.

While listing pertinent information on the form, Sheila began to shiver. The air conditioner operated at full blast, and with the door shut this room felt like a walk-in freezer. Thankful that the application was brief, she placed it aside and, with shaking hands, turned to the Dictaphone.

She discovered how to hook the head apparatus up, then squished the band over her unruly hair and turned the switch on. Dead silence. How do I hear the recording? Despite the icy temperature she began to perspire, tiny drops forming on her upper lip, as if she were in the midst of a humid Minneapolis day. What time is it? Fifteen minutes left?

Rubbing damp palms on her lap, she produced two lines of gray down the front of her dress. Oh great! Fiddling around with the nasty little machine had made her fingers dirty.

With a deep breath, she tried to collect her thoughts. A cord, hooked on the box’s back, ran down a wall behind the desk. Sheila yanked at it until a pedal dislodged.

This pedal, similar to the one on her sewing machine back home, was divided in half. Tentatively she pressed the right side with the toe of her black patent sandal. Louise Hewett’s withering voice said, “Letter to Mrs. Raymond Robertson, 555 Ocean Terrace, Long Beach. Dear Mrs. Robert…”

Sheila had started typing right away and there was “Letter to” at the top of the page. Why didn’t I listen for a minute? What was she going to do for another piece of paper? Her heart pounded and her throat constricted.

I can’t go ask that woman for more.

She searched every drawer of the desk and finally found a small stack. Sheila rolled one into the typewriter. Oh God, it’s crooked. She loosened the ratchet and made an adjustment. There were thumbprints on the page. The platen made a clicking sound as she yanked the smudged paper

out. She’d forgotten to put tissues in her purse. Taking another sheet of paper, she proceeded to press it against her fingers, then stuffed it in back of the typewriter. I’ll get it later. Sheila jiggled one more sheet straight, rolled it into the typewriter, and restarted the Dictaphone. “…son: This is to inform you that we have sent notification to your neighbor regarding his fence…”

She lifted her foot. The letter resumed where she had released pressure. How to backtrack? It had to be the other half of the pedal. She tapped left, then tapped right. “…his fence…”

Not far enough.

She pushed left, a little longer. “…cation to your…” Still not far enough. Sheila pressed her foot down a long while. I have to reach the beginning. “…look forward to seeing…” What happened to Mrs. Robertson’s problem fence? It was another letter. She touched the right side of the pedal, gingerly.

“With warm…” tap, tap. “…cerely,” tap, tap. “…ney at Law.” This must be the end. Holding the forward half of the pedal down, she waited through a few quiet moments before she heard Louise Hewett breathing, followed by, “Letter to…” The start!

Sheila typed Mrs. Raymond Robertson, dropped down a line for the address, then she saw—no date. Should she put one above the name?

Centered? That seemed right. She started to type July 19, 1965, and ended up with “Julu.” She searched the middle drawer. No White-out. No Correct Type. One gray, rough eraser. Working on the “u,” she pressed too hard. A hole! Why did I type the date?

Sheila tore this paper out. Clickety—clickety—clickety. She put another piece in and started over again, with a sour taste in her mouth, like she might throw up.

She got down to “Long Beach” before making another error. Dad was right! I’ll never get a job.

Next time, the mistake happened before she got through Mrs. Raymond Robertson. I’m going to have to go back to Minneapolis.

She put the last sheet of paper in and started typing the date. As she pushed the return to begin that same address, the door opened, letting in her fragrance—lemony.

Louise Hewett said, “Time’s up. Give me your work.”

Sheila looked at the crisscrossed, messed-up papers, carefully removed the last sheet from the typewriter, and handed it, with the others, to the office manager.

“Well, I never!” Louise Hewett said. “And your application?”

“It’s somewhere in there.” Sheila suddenly felt her failed deodorant.

Cold, wet rings under her arms brought on a tremble.

“Very well. Come to my desk.”

Sheila followed the office manager, feeling like an errant school child.

When they got to the reception area, two men stood talking near the entrance doors—the guy with crinkly, near-black hair and another, much taller fellow with silver hair. They tipped their heads to Louise Hewett, who rolled her eyes and sat down as if gliding onto a throne.

After a minute scrutinizing each pathetic page, wearing the expression of a long-suffering martyr, she straightened the papers on her desk with a ker-plunk—ker-plunk—ker-plunk. Shaking her head like she truly

never had seen such a disaster, she said, “Mrs. Gallagher, I’ll call if you should come back.”

Sheila passed the attorneys, her eyes on the tile floor, and pushed open one of the heavy doors. Outside huge raindrops hit her cheeks, and she had three miles to walk with no umbrella. More terrible than this, she had forgotten her purse in that dinky room. For a second she thought, Just forget it. She couldn’t face those awful people again. But she remembered a twentydollar bill tucked in the zipper compartment. Enough to buy groceries for a week. I won’t cry. She decided to go in and politely ask for her purse and then leave as fast as possible.

When she re-entered their reception area, the attorneys were laughing loudly as the office manager said, “…even in Minn - e - so - tah…”

Louise Hewett barely looked at Sheila, mumbling out her problem. Meanwhile the attorneys stared at her, seemingly in disbelief.

Returning, the office manager carried the purse between her fingers like a dead mouse being held by the tail. In the other hand she grasped the scrunched-up paper with Sheila’s streaked fingerprints.

“On second thought, Mrs. Gallagher, you are not a good fit.

Forget about a call.” She raised her head to a loftier height. “Perhaps Douglas Aircraft is hiring.”

Sheila took her purse, whispered thanks, and scurried from the office.

During the soaking walk home to the apartment, her tears mixed with the rain. At last she reached the building and trudged up the steps to her door, water sloshing in her sandals.

Rent wasn’t due for over a week. Surely a job would materialize soon. *** Sheila sobbed for a long time that night, lying in Jim’s arms, saying between hiccups: “What am I going to do? I don’t even know how to operate the stupid machines here in California”; then, “I’ve gotta find something—I can’t go back”; then, “I’ll die if I have another interview like that”; then, “It’ll be okay. I know it’ll be okay”; then, “Oh God. I feel sick. It’s just like my father said.”

Jim reassured her, “It’ll be all right, my little doll.” He brushed back her hair and kissed her forehead.

Next morning, before he left for the ship and another five days of maneuvers, he said, “You need to rest for a while. Why not take the day off?”

She didn’t respond with her usual, It’s time to grow up!

As awful as Sheila felt about not continuing the job search, she peered into the mirror at her blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes and tumbled back onto the Murphy bed. When she did arise, hours later, Jim was gone, and she mentally kicked herself for wasting so much time.

From the manager’s apartment, she called to make another appointment with Mr. Bosanka. The receptionist set their fifth meeting for the next morning. Sheila cringed. What did Louise Hewett tell him after she finished laughing with Briggs and Newell? *** As soon as she walked back to his desk, Sheila saw that Mr. Bosanka sat there beaming.

“You’re in luck,” he informed her. “You still haven’t given me a phone number, otherwise I’d have called. Douglas started hiring sooner than expected.”

For the rest of the week, she went through the testing, interviewing, and new employee indoctrination process. The men reminded her of Mr. Bosanka, and the women had unpolished, clipped fingernails and no scarves.

After waiting in so many rooms and signing so many papers, including a security clearance that made her feel important, Sheila was told to report on Monday, August 2nd. She had a job typing change orders for the DC-10, from hard copies, not a Dictaphone, at a salary of $400 a month—quite a raise over her $315 at the bank in Minneapolis.

Jim’s ship was still out, so she couldn’t tell him. Instead she used the apartment manager’s phone once more and called her parents.

Her father said, “Big deal. You’ve got a job. Doesn’t mean a thing. 79 You belong here at home with your mother.” It was late in the day, but his words were as forceful as ever.

Her mother, vague from vodka, said something about, “Your father’s right,” when she took her turn to speak.

Sheila cut the conversation short. She thanked the apartment manager and said, “I’ll get a phone first paycheck.” On the walk past closed doors of other apartments, on the way to her own, she repeated, “I will not… will not…will not go back to Minneapolis.”

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

Kathleen Glassburn (Edmonds, WA). She earned an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University. Currently, her works have been published or are forthcoming in Amarillo Bay, Cadillac Cicatrix, Cairn, Crucible, Epiphany Magazine, Lullwater Review, Marco Polo Quarterly, RiverSedge, SLAB, The Talon Mag, Wild Violet, The Writer’s Workshop Review, and several other journals. Her story, “Picnics,” was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s Best Start contest.

She is Managing Editor of The Writer’s Workshop Review.

Michelle Bordón.

(Cancún, México.1990). Autodidactic illustrator. She specializes in animal figures inspired from the long ago summers spend in Campeche by her grandmother’s side. The pieces presented in this edition of RGR belong to the series Animalia, her first personal exposition presented in 2013 in Cafebrería El Pabilo in Cancún.

traducción Ane: A Murder

Sylvia aguilar zéleny

by Maggie Nelson

Maggie Nelson published Jane: A Murder in 2005, and in it reconstructs the story of Jane Mixer. Jane was the third of seven victims of a serial killer in the 1960’s. She was also the maternal aunt of Maggie, the author. This book investigates the person that was Jane as Maggie Nelson asks herself, “Can a collection of lyric poems tell the story of a horrible murder?” My premise is: I want to translate this series of small lyric poems understanding that cases like the one of Jane Mixer continue happening in Mexico. I want the hispanic reader to recognize how Nelson’s poetry, and not the media nor social networks, explores a case that is ours and every ones.

Espíritu

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El espíritu de Jane pervive en ti, mi madre dice

La caja

intentando describir quién soy. Me siento como la chica en la película de medianoche

Pero cuando su padre baja por ésta, todo lo que trae es un delgado paquete de papel pautado, sujeto por un cordón.

que contempla horrorizada el retrato de su inquietante ancestro

Diario de Jane—Privado dice en la portada, Privado se subraya dos veces.

al descubrir ambas usan el mismo dije estridente

Ella no siempre se llevó bien con su hermana, tampoco le gustaban demasiado sus padres, previene él a mi madre, quien asegura

alrededor de su cuello.

Desde que tengo memoria, mi abuelo

que no le importa. Lo empaca en su maleta, me dice: lo veremos a su debido tiempo.

comete el mismo error: se sienta en la cocina, sus gelatinosos ojos azules

Casi un año después, me envía una copia.

fijos en mí. Bueno Jane, dice, creo que tomaré otra taza de café.

Mi madre dice que no dejará Michigan sin ella.

El diario inicia en enero de 1960, cuando Jane tiene trece años, y llega hasta octubre de 1961.

En este momento de mi vida el odio es tan intenso que daría lo que fuera por matar a mi madre. ella inicia, ya en su camino de hacerse mujer.

PLEASE, FIND TRANSLATION ON PAGES 26 AND 27 ON SPANISH SECTION

translation El regalo

Fierabrás

La mañana siguiente, casi catorce millas afuera de Anne Arbor, un niño encontró una bolsa en la carretera cerca de su casa de ladrillo en su camino a la escuela.

Mientras crecíamos, Emily y yo tratábamos de no preguntar acerca de Jane; no queríamos hacer llorar a nuestra madre.

Pero si Jane surgía en la conversación, tratábamos de engatusarla para que nos dijera cómo era.

Había un regalo en la bolsa, junto con un folder grueso con páginas mecanografiadas.

Queridísima Mamá, siento llegar tarde a tu cumpleaños, pero en cien años, no notarás la diferencia, decía la tarjeta del regalo. El niño se la trajo a su madre, quien notó sangre en un lado de la bolsa. Ella salió a mirar en los alrededores, y pronto descubrió lo que parecía un cuerpo apoyado sobre una tumba en el viejo cementerio más allá del camino.

Adentro de la caja había un par de pantunflas de peluche azul.

Pero ¿quién abrió la caja? ¿Acaso fue un policía que leyó Te amo, Janie y luego deshizo el moño del regalo?

Era una fierabrás, mi madre siempre decía. Ella fue obediente por años, luego comenzó a rebelarse.

Fui a mi cuarto y busqué en mi diccionario.

“Fierabrás: Persona fuerte e ingobernable, como una Amazona”.

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El brazo derecho estirado por encima de su cabeza, el brazo izquierdo sobre sus ojos.

Un zapato sobre su abdomen, un zapato puesto al lado.

Su gabardina extendida sobre su cuerpo, su cabeza en la tumba de un desconocido.

Algunos después lo llamaron “una muestra reverencial”

Sylvia Aguilar Zéleny (Sonora, Mexico. 1973). She has an MFA on Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso, where for her thesis she translated Jane: A Murder by Maggie Nelson. She is the author of three short-story books: Gente Menuda (1999), No son gente como uno (2003), Nenitas (2013) and the novel Una no habla de esto (2007). Her work as a fiction writer has been translated into English and Korean.

poetry Holly Day

Just Past the Light The old man’s name is painted all over the side the bright red truck and the girls in back of the truck are shouting that name their faith shattered by the sight of the corpse in the road.

A policeman comes over and asks them questions about the man, who he is, where he lives, asks why they’re all in the back of his truck they look fourteen fifteen sixteen years old they just look impatient.

I lean back and watch the perceived evil unfold as rumors fly through the watching crowd, that dirty old man who deserved to die some poetic justice that he had the girls with him when it happened that he had pulled into the gas station before the incident and hadn’t been hurdling down the road with those poor girls in the back when it happened. One of the girls is crying I pretend it’s in relief.

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In the Old House moonlight finds a home in soft, thin bodies flutter around the bare bulbs like some nightmare of angels illuminating the torn dress, blood on the frost-covered glass dog breath destroys the intricate lace patterns stretching over the windows like cobwebs, bridal lace jaws snap at the little hands folded in prayer on the other side of the glass, minutes from freedom.

Holly Day Minneapolis, MN). She was born in Hereford, Texas, also known as “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies.

poesĂ­a Richard Dinges

July Days Past Tense A whim at a long day’s end, tired of being young, I lost hair, grew a gray beard, fell asleep watching TV and rose twice each night to pee, enjoyed early morning quiet more than late night music and made more use of the past tense, watched each sunset with awe and appreciation enjoyed now more than ever.

July days end in dusty haze pooled along an orange horizon. Sweat dries on salt-crusted foreheads, pale and furrowed above eyes that reflect a bloody sky, looking for rain.

Before night falls, one final glance crystallizes into stars bright but too far to touch.

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Railroads

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Railroads, relegated city outskirts, run nightly through small towns, interrupt sparse traffic with long black cars spilling coal.

Faded graffitti unwinds across windshields, reminiscent vestige of drive-in theaters.

A steady clank and rattle curves into an unseen horizon, their final silence after cars pass and arms rise.

Richard Dinges (Walton, NE). He has an MA in literary studies from University of Iowa and manages business systems at an insurance company. Coe Review, Homestead Review, Pamplemousse, Slant, and Talking River Review most recently accepted his poems for their publications.

FEATURE STORY

Cecilia Diaz.

Ceramic Guitar [front full view] Mixed Media.

2012.

Diego Murcia

Upon This Rock...

The first time I saw him, he was on the stage in front of tiny crowd whose average age was 10-years-old. Nevertheless, he played the guitar with passion and sang with deep sadness.

And even when he was not at the El Paso County Coliseum, he was rocking!

Eleven year old Brandon Bailey Johnson, despite his young age, is building his career in the most unlikely scenarios. The most recent was during the festival held by the Civil Organization La Fe at the Chicanidad Festival.

The first time he faced the audience was at an Open Mic at the Pizza Joint on Mesa Street, which hosts a cultural space that encourages local artists to share their talents every Wednesday, starting at 8 pm.

Here Brandon began his career.He started playing guitar since age seven.

The revelation came to him days after the Christian band from Georgia, The Museum, performed at his church. “I went to see

them, and I liked a lot,” he recalls.

Since then, he pictured himself playing an instrument. “I always wanted to play music...

I went to summer school, studying at home,” he says shyly. You wouldn’t believe he is the same guy on stage.

Don’t get me wrong, his attitude, Jekyll-and-Hyde-like, disappears when he takes the stage and picks up his guitar to emulate the style of Seth Morrison or Jeffrey Icecraft. On stage and in front of the microphone, his voice is booming, secure, dominant.

“Usually, I’m not nervous because I’ve been doing this for several years,“ he says confidently, “I also play on Sundays at my church,” says Brandon.

Parishioners on St. Mark’s United Methodist Church, located at 5005 Love, know him well.

The young man is never alone at these performances. His mother, Nancy Johnson , is the everpresent groupie supporting his show. Hi father, Terrance, is always there too, loading sound equipment and instruments, which together outweigh the own guitarist and composer. Both have degrees in Criminal Justice.

Terrance even dresses in UTEP colors, still paying tribute to the university he played football for.

I don’t see why you’re crying Things could be worse You could be one of them Dying inside…

Or one of them or one of them Hiding their lives or cheating their faith…

Foto: Juan Torres.

Guitar Hero.

2013

Brandon dedicated the following song, “You Are Blessed,” to Jesus Christ: “He inspired me to write,” says Brandon but admits that he has added “a few more” lyrics. But this was the only one that he has played in public. Along with his father, he made the arrangements and melodies for this lyrical introduction.

His mother is also his creative guardian.

She and his father strengthen his creativity and encourage him to pursue his dream. “In five years, I see him with his own band and recording his music professionally. Playing not only locally, but in the southwest, “shares Nancy.

The race to reach this goal is already on. Brandon performed last year at the Albuquerque International Balloon

Fiesta during the first days of October.

He has another facet. Brandon writes not only music, but stories. It all started two years ago.

“We have a whole stack of compositions he has written—enough for a couple of books. He also likes to paint and read, “says Nancy.

“We’ve encouraged him to do what makes you happy,” adds Terrance, who also confesses to be his son’s number one fan.

“I want to become a professional and go around the world playing my music,” says Brandon. But, for now, his sights are set on exploring Georgia and Tennessee as a musical tour ambassador from El Paso.

“Two of favorite bands are there,” explains.

Cecilia Diaz.

Ceramic Guitar [back full view] Mixed Media.

2012.

His family is involved with the love for music. Nancy plays the flute, Terrance dabbles in the guitar, and his younger brother and sister play both the piano and the guitar. He practices his mojo-lyre for two to three hours a day.

“It’s interesting to see a child so focused and determined. While he shows interest, I want to be part of that,” says Nancy.

His father, not far behind, talks about the future that awaits his little champ: “I would like him to be happy. The music makes him happy... No matter if it is recording an album, on tour or teaching other children his age, as it happened with him.”

Diego Murcia (San Salvador, El Salvador. 1980). He is a graduate in social communication and an amateur photographer. Since 2002, he has worked as a multimedia journalist for newspapers in El Salvador, Mexico and USA. Also, he’s a founding member of the Association of Film and Television in El Salvador (January 2010). Currently he is a freelance writer and transcreator.

Cecilia Diaz (El Paso, Texas. 1990) She has a BA in art education from the University of Texas at El Paso. Her guitar sculpture was displayed at the Neon Desert Music Festival in 2012. Her portfolio also includes portrait paintings and other ceramic sculptures. She currently works as an art teacher in a private elementary school.

Juan Torres Ciudad Juárez, México. 1973. He inherited the passion for photography from his father, Luis Torres. Two of his older brothers and a nephew are photographers too. At fourteen, he grabbed the camera in his hands to never let it go. Since then, seeks to acknowledge the “unofficial” reality in which residents of the border El Paso-Ciudad Juárez live. He has worked in various media.

Michelle Bord贸n.

Owlove. 2013.

s s Do

r ie

My randmother

g

and the

crickets

(Mi abuela y los grillos)

Maricela Duarte Recuerdo que una noche de abril un grillo cantaba afuera de mi ventana.

I remember one night in April, a cricket was chirping outside my window.

Entonces le pregunté a mi abuela cómo cantaban los grillos Then I asked my grandmother how the crickets sing.

Ella me respondió: “Los grillos no cantan. Los grillos hacen música con sus violines.”

She answered me, “Crickets do not sing. Crickets make music with their violins.”

Esa noche me quedé pensando acerca de lo que mi abue me había dicho.

That night I keep wondering about what my grandma had told me.

Yo imaginaba al grillo afinando su violín y preparándose para un gran concierto.

I was imagining the cricket tuning its violin and getting ready for a great concert.

Do, re, mi, do… Do, re, mi, la… Una cuerda por aquí, pequeños aplausos por allá.

Do, re, mi, do… Do, re, mi, la… A string here, tiny claps over there.

Después también pensé: ¿Y quién les enseña a los grillos a hacer su música? ¿Dónde compran sus violines?

Later I thought: Who teaches the crickets how to play their music?

Where do they buy their violins?

Así me la pasé imaginando y pensando a esos pequeños insectos hasta quedarme dormida.

I kept imagining and thinking about those little insects until I fell asleep.

Los imaginaba cargando un violin en su espalda.

También los vi practicando una canción especial para las noches de luna llena.

I imagined them carrying a violin on their backs.

I watched them practicing a special song for the moonlight.

En noches de luna llena In full moon nights.

Ya los grillos se preparan The crickets are getting ready Para un concierto For a concert En Do mayor In D major Cri-cri-cri Cree-cree-cree Alistan violín Raising their violins

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Cri-cri-cri Cree-cree-cree Sale la luna The moon comes out Me voy a dormir I am going to sleep Años más tarde me enteré en la escuela, que los grillos no tienen ningún violín.

Years later I learned in school that crickets do not have a violin.

Los grillos simplemente frotan las patas traseras en sus alas.

Crickets just rub their back legs against their wings.

En ese momento pensé en mi abuela y por qué ella me había dicho que los grillos cargaban un violín.

At that moment I thought about my grandmother and why she had told me that crickets carry a violin.

Ahora que sé más sobre grillos, prefiero quedarme con la version de la abuela.

Now that I know more about crickets, I prefer to keep my grandmother’s tale.

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Prefiero imaginar que los grillos tocan su violín en noches de luna llena.

I prefer to imagine that crickets play their violin in the moonlight.

La respuesta que me dio la abuela, no la explicarán en la escuela.

The answer that my grandmother gave me will not be taught at school.

La sabiduría de mi abuela hace que mi mundo algunas veces tenga un sentido mágico.

Sometimes my grandmother’s wise words give a magical sense to my world.

Ahora también pienso en mi abuela en las noches de abril, cuando los grillos salen a interpretar con sus afinados violines.

Now I also think about my grandmother on April nights when the crickets come out to play their well-tuned violins.

Maricela Duarte (Chihuahua, México. 1976) Her published works include El Gato en la Azotea (Poetazos, 2014) and children’s stories in Rehilete and in a literary anthology for children (ICHICULT-FONCA, 1999).

ILUSTRACION: Sara Elisa Rodríguez The Feathered Ant 2014.

The Feathered Ant Carolynne M. Ayoub The rainstorm sends chilly downdrafts into the ant nest.

Listening to the raging winds overhead, Theo and his antmates pray that the stony doors to their fortress will hold throughout the night.

Huddled below, they speak to one another about their close calls with the unexpected storm. Theo thinks back, remembering

how he had been carrying some cinnamon toast when the skies had darkened. He had to dash in-between the pounding raindrops, uncertain that he and his cargo would be able to reach the entrance in time. Now sitting with his companions deep underground, Theo speaks up, “Isn’t it amazing that I made it safely home with that heavy crumb?”

“A lot of us are surprised, Theo!” says Ace, who is the fastest worker of them all. And the ants crack up. Ace goes on, saying, “Yeah, and wasn’t that wind crazy?” and each ant nods, reminded of their own special terror.

But now they want to laugh how everyone had gone wild outside, eager to share their adventures.

“Did any of you have to watch out for that crazy human queen?” asks one, and the antennas bob.

“Yeah, she almost stepped on me,” Ace said, “but I was too quick for her!”

Theo remembers his earlier escape – how the human queen hurriedly ran out and yanked shirts, blouses, and towels off the line and how he dodged the random sock and dishtowel that had whipped away from her fingertips. Even as he struggled homeward, he could hear the anxious whistles and squawking from the neighborhood birds.

“Did you guys hear what the birds were going through?”

Theo inquires. “The wind was a real big problem for them. Their youngsters are still learning to fly, you know.”

“Theo!” Ace scolds, “Only you care about the feathered ones! Ants only have to remember one thing -and that is us!

Food! Our young and our nest!”

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Taking up the call, the ants fall behind Ace and start to march around Theo. They sing boisterously and wave their front legs as if they had wings, Hasn’t everyone heard Theo is a feathered ant!

Hasn’t everyone heard He’s a misguided ant!

Hasn’t everyone heard that Theo is absurd?

For listening to . . .

For noticing, too. . .

For talking about. . .

BIRDS! Red-faced, Theo slides away into his bunk, wanting the howling wind to drown out the teasing. He draws his legs in, repeating to himself that it is foolish to worry about birds or anyone else except his own kind. For a long time, Theo tosses and turns, listening to the storm’s racket and his brothers’ rowdiness.

Eventually, Ace and his merrymakers go off to bed and before long, their snores echo down the hallways. Theo dozes off and on, waking up from nightmares about drowning in feathers. But sometime in the night, Theo falls asleep, unaware of the storm’s end.

The arrival of the day brings new sounds and light into the anthill. As Theo’s companions stretch their legs and run saliva over their antennas, he opens his eyes. Theo sits up in his bunk, listening to his brothers’ robust greetings to one another. He

watches his fellow ants march over and around pebbles, singing: Up and onward, Friends.

It’s time to work again!

The storm has passed.

We’ve had our laughs!

It’s marchin’ time again!

Theo starts humming the tune as he begins his morning preparations. Everyone, it seems, is coming to life.

Outside, the first joyful chirps of a sparrow salute the day.

Its call ignites the daily bird chatter.

“It is time to wake up to this glorious day!” the birds sing, their music penetrating the walls of the anthill. Theo catches their excitement and hurries to join the line of ants who are ready to exit.

“Ants welcome the day, too,” Theo says to the ant in front of him. But the ant gives Theo a funny look and turns away.

From multiple corridors deep within the earth, the grunts of the strongest workers resonate as the boulder door is heaved aside. Up ahead, the dim light guides each ant through the sandy doorway. When it is Theo’s turn to climb out, the stars are fading into a painted sky. The clouds, tickled pink and bathed in coral and yellow light, are swaying in the soft wind. Bit by bit, rich colors swirl in the sky until an expanse of blue dabbed with white stretches across the horizon. “No storm in sight. Just another busy day,” Theo thinks happily.

As the line moves forward in the grass, each worker prepares himself for the daily routine of foraging for food. No matter the distance or challenge, each ant works in the morning, throughout the afternoon up until sunset, carrying tasty tidbits for their community.

But a bad memory clouds Theo’s thinking. He remembers how his brothers had made fun of him last night for being misguided. In my heart, he tells himself, I know that I am like them. I really am.

Soon the trail of ants begins to disperse with each ant picking up different scents. Theo starts climbing over gravel, recalling his most delicious discoveries - a sweet raisin, a chewedup kernel of corn, and a nutty grain.

As he travels over a stick, around a puddle, and under a leaf, Theo boasts to himself, saying he that he never gets tired and that he can smell and feel his way for food anytime. “And eventually, I find a gift to cart back to our nest!”

“Yes,” Theo says as he picks up the scent of buttery toast, “this has always been the way for me and my brothers.”

Quickly, he heads toward his prize, darting in and out of pebbles in a field of grass. “There!” Theo exults, spotting a dried piece of toast lodged in-between two stones. He tugs on the crust with his strong jaws until it is freed. Triumphant, Theo begins lugging the piece of bread over the rocky path but it gets caught in a ditch. Instinctively, he tries again. This time, he clasps his front legs onto the strip of bread and drags it, not knowing what is behind him. Suddenly, something like a thread wraps around his back legs and he drops the crust, turning around sharply and he yelps in pain.

In front of him, a large something is laying on the ground.

Frozen in place, Theo looks at the ragged cloth with uneven threads and small holes; its mass rising and falling as if it were breathing. Theo stares at the object and suddenly realizes that a bloody grey feather is poking out of one of the holes. Could it be? A bird is tangled up in something from last night’s storm?

Theo strains forward, his back feet throbbing. Then he knows. It is the something that the wind had whipped away from human queen. Somehow, the flying cloth – the dishtowel -had struck the bird, pinning the bird’s wings back in the most brutal way. Between the threads, he sees the bird’s grey chest jerk in and out with each breath. Theo senses the sparrow’s heart pounding against the mesh. He looks at the bird, a tangled mess. Then Theo glances down at his back feet, wrapped in green thread.

Theo sets off to work. His mandibles – strong enough to rip through a seed coat – begin to nibble at the thread until his limbs are freed. Ready to move on, he turns away and is about to pick up the crust when he hears the bird cry out. Its call is barely louder than Theo’s own breath. Its three soft notes quiver and then descend into a lonely silence. It sighs and its eyes ooze. Its beak is open and it breathes in and out, panting so slightly that he wonders. He studies it.

It is not everyday that an ant gets this close to a live sparrow. Ants know about birds when their bodies shudder

under the spell of Death. They know them when their scaly legs stiffen and their bodies become rigid. The corpse of a bird can nourish ants as well as any crust of bread. “Even better!” Theo’s ant companions would say, “we love tearing off their tendons, organs, and muscle!” Sometimes, ants are impatient and will begin their march over the dying bird, delighting in their broken feathers and torn flesh.

“Help me,” the bird says.

Theo freezes. He looks at it as if the words were stamped upon its brown beak. His eyes follow along the sharp point of the bill to the darkened nose holes, noting how its feathers are pressed against the netting of the dishtowel. One cloudy eye peers through the crisscrossing threads of the towel. Can it see me? Theo wonders. “Somehow I think it can!” he decides.

“You are too big,” Theo answers slowly. “I can’t help.”

Theo’s heart is racing. Why did I say it was too big? Of course it’s big - it’s a bird. Not an ant. Theo shakes his head no to his crazy thoughts; his antennas follow no-no-no.

“Ants help ants,” he finally says aloud and his words sit on the ground between them. It tries again.

“Help me,” and Theo watches its eye roll upward toward the tree. Theo turns his head toward the oak where a sharp tweet repeats itself over and over again. Is there a nest there hidden behind the green leaves? The painful call jabs the sky. There is no songbird reply.

Theo steps forward unsure of himself. His mind seems empty of all sense. He only knows that he is afraid, ready to flee or sting the creature in front of him if he must. But his legs, freed moments earlier from a thread, move on their own toward the bird. Why? he asks himself. He doesn’t know.

The ant walks closer and sees the haphazard threads cutting into its face and neck. It is clear that it had struggled long and hard – probably throughout the night – until its feathers, wings, and feet pulled and twisted the dishtowel, making a mishmash of the bird and the cloth. Making its escape impossible.

The string, wrapped around its neck, is tight as a noose.

Theo stares at the redden flesh where the thread has worked its way between layers of feather. Remembering his own yelps of pain when his legs were tangled and trapped, the ant’s jaws snap.

The thread loosens and a whisper of a feather springs forward.

“Thank you,” it says and ever so slightly, its eye brightens.

Theo nods and walks along another strand coated with dried blood. Snap. And then another one. Snap. With each snap, he feels stronger and braver. It watches Theo snap thread after thread yet it does not flex a muscle or turn its neck.

“Chloe. My name is Chloe” he hears it say as he pops a yellow thread binding its wing.

Theo stops, feeling dizzy from his work. “I am Theo.”

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Theo is tongue-tied. And confused. Birds and ants do not talk to one another and here he is, crawling upon a sparrow and snapping threads. He has no business being there. He remembers his brothers’ taunts from yesterday, Theo, the misguided ant.

The feathered ant. His antennas droop in shame.

Theo releases the noose on his left hairthumb and pulls his pinky’s string down. Chloe watches the worm wiggles into an ordinary piece of string.

A long soprano tone vibrates and then a song of longing floats. Chloe sings: Sweet, sweet sparrow Sheltered in my nest Nestle upon my breast.

For soon, your time of flying Shall be upon us.

Theo gazes at her, laying on her side, still immobile. Why is that, he wonders. Is it an injury or hunger that keeps her pressed into the grass? He notices that many colored threads, once taunt around her neck and face, now hang like soft curls.

And across her outer wing, where he had snapped most of the mesh away, the wind gently caresses her feathers. But could the problem be on the underside of her body, hidden in the towel where Theo hadn’t yet explored? Could it be that a twisted foot or broken wing keeps her tethered?

Her last note hangs in the air for a moment, and there is silence between them. She looks so dejected and Theo begins to feel blue, too.

“Hey!” he says impulsively. “You did fly! and and . . .”

Theo stutters and then is stumped for what would an ant say to cheer up a bird? If she were an ant, he’d know all the moves, jokes, and tricks to take the doldrums away. In his mind, Theo remembers those rainy days when all the ants are holed up, and how the older ants would come up with something to break the monotony for the kids. Something funny. A game or . . .

Theo grabs a short purple thread and ties a loop. “Having six legs is an asset and I, being quite handy, HA!” he says, laughing at his own joke, “am ready to entertain you!”

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“Chloe, do you want to see me make a Jacob’s Ladder?”

Chloe chirps.

“I take that as a yes,” he says grandly and gets busy. “OK, since I’ve already tied the string into a circle, I now shall put my thumb and pinkie hairs inside the string. . .”

And he proceeds through all thirteen steps . . . until he asks solemnly (while suppressing a smile), “Chloe, a drum roll, please.

And she chirps, “Da-da.”

When he looks up, he sees Chloe; her eyes sparkling at his Jacob’s Ladder. “Show me more,” she pleads.

Theo realizes how young she is . . . like the ants in the nursery who they feed but who also get some mealtime entertainment.

“Well, since you are bird, I have a fine treat in store for you . . .” Theo says mysteriously. And he begins looping and twisting the string around his leghairs.

Chloe is captivated and starts guessing. “Is it a necklace?

A belt?”

Each time, Theo smiles and shakes his head no. Right before the grand finale, he starts stamping his remaining legs and Chloe begins twittering . . .

“Da-da! It’s a worm!” Theo says proudly. “And watch me make it disappear!”

She looks heartbroken.

Oh, Chloe, my friend, he thinks to himself, your body’s a heap of feathers! And she warbles, her tone shaky: Sweet, sweet sparrow My mother teaches me Eat the berry and seed, Find a tasty insect, Oh so nourishing!

Theo’s eyes widen. Is this a message to feed her? Or a deception? Theo steps back, not trusting their primitive natures. His legs become rigid, and his antennas become erect.

He answers her with a tune that every ant knows: When we ants go-a-marching in pursuit of food – We are single-minded and true!

We seek food for our queen Our nest and our young Thinking only of our community!

Chloe’s feathers tremble. Theo reads the fear in her eye at the possibility that his ant brothers could eat her alive. He is quaking, too, noticing again the tip of her beak, and her fleshy tongue that could whip him down her throat.

The silence is a knife between them.

She sighs, “A seed, please.”

Theo’s war stance softens. His legs relax and his antennas seem a question mark. “A seed? You only want a seed to eat?” he asks in a shaky voice.

She whispers, “Yes.” But what to do? Questions once raised do not go away.

Remembering his ant song has messed him up and now Ace comes to Theo’s mind. Oh, the fastest runner of all would have a field day humiliating Theo. ‘Feathered Ant,’ Ace would taunt him, ‘we have no use for your kind. You’re a birdbrain ant.’

And all the others would fall in line, repeating, ‘Bird-brained and feathered. Theo, what nest are you from?’

Without a word, Theo turns away from Chloe and walks

into the grass, weaving through the uneven ground, not caring where he goes. He staggers over unnoticed dips and pebbles, cursing when he stumbles. The voices in his head go back and forth as he travels down an unfamiliar path.

Theo stops to rest, feeling burdened. “I am an ant. I am an ant,” he tells himself aloud. In his imagination, he hears Ace mocking him, ‘What kind of ant are you, Theo? A stupid antbrain or - is it birdbrain?’ But Theo has no answer. He rises unsteadily to his feet and heads toward Chloe.

Theo kicks the dirt, sending a nasty cloud of dust into his face. If I find a seed, I may give it to her or maybe I won’t. She’s probably dying anyway, he thinks meanly.

He coughs, wanting fresh air, wanting to clear his mind.

Enough! Theo tells himself. Chloe has not harmed me! and he smiles, remembering how she liked his tricks and how she softly chirped, da-da. How can he be afraid of that?

Theo breathes in deeply and looks up at the wide blue sky speckled with feathery clouds. He passes the huge oak tree again - could it be Chloe’s – and sees the leaves dappled with sunlight.

When Theo comes over the rise, a few threads are blowing around. He sees a purple thread on the ground, and there next to it, is a sunflower seed. The ant marvels at the grey and white stripes on the seed coat and hopes that Chloe will find the inside tasty and nourishing. He ties the string around the seed and carries his gift to Chloe.

The sparrow’s eyes are closed when the ant draws near her.

“Chloe,” he says. “I’m back! I have some mealtime entertainment for you!” and Theo extends his peace offering to her. “Look, Chloe!”

She opens her eye and he sees her brighten just a little.

Dramatically, the ant unties the ribbon and cracks the seed with his jaws. Did she just hum, ‘Da-da?’

Inching toward her sharp bill, Theo announces loudly, “Chloe, I am putting the seed in your beak now. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Chloe!” Theo feels nervous about his location but giddy-happy about his decision to help his friend.

Her beak widens slightly and the ant pushes the seed in. Theo can see the fleshy walls of her throat, a black tongue glistening with pockets of blood. “That is as far I can place the

seed in, Chloe. I can’t go in myself.” he tells her.

“You can swallow now, Chloe. Try to swallow.”

The ant smiles at her, encouraging her.

“Thank you, Theo,” she says unclearly.

He waits for her to swallow. Her eyes close tiredly. And Theo waits a long time.

The ant feels the afternoon sun on his back. He knows that he is thirsty and worn-out. Theo glances down and sees the crust of bread nearby, still needing to be carted back to the anthill.

“Today, Chloe, I feel like an old ant,” he tells her out loud. He looks at her but there is no response.

Theo stares into space, barely aware of the world around him. Occasionally, a sound or sensation awakens him from his trance, startling him. He watches how the wind blows softly upon Chloe’s feathers. His eyes follow the flight of a green thread. He watches how the wind picks up the thread and tosses it into the oak tree. It is her tree, he decides.

Two songs capture Theo’s attention - one is faint and far away. The other is a birdsong, floating from overhead to the spot where Chloe and Theo rest: Sweet, sweet sparrow Has flown away from us.

Find the threads homewardFor our hearts are broken.

“Sweet, sweet sparrow,” Theo repeats over and over again.

In the distance, Theo hears his brothers marching, their voices hearty and confident. His body shivers, and he knows they’ve found his scent trail. It is only a matter of time before they will come across his sparrow. Theo stands up and stretches his legs, but his heart is aching. It will be Ace who will lead the charge of ants across her body. “Chloe,” he tells the silent bird. “I am your feathered ant but I must go.”

Theo picks up the bread crust, its weight seeming heavier than before. He fumbles, and tries to balance it in his jaws. His legs wobble as he turns away from Chloe and he heads toward home. -- . __

Carolynne M. Ayoub Currently she is fashioning a new narrative for her life as a creative writing student in la tercer edad. Past incarnations have included: elementary and special educator, Peace Corps volunteer, singer and stage performer. She enjoy family, writing, t’ai chi and meditation, art, and hiking.

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Valentine Jimmy, wake up Hun!” I open my eyes and there’s Mom with a heartshaped box of chocolates.

“Aw, thanks Mom,” I say just as she gives me a big smooch and a hug.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Hun,” she says and closes the door.

I usually don’t want to go to school, but today is Valentine’s Day and that means candy. Lollipops, gum, chocolate, today is going to be awesome.

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I roll out of bed and pull on my pants and my favorite t-shirt.

It has the Dragonball Z dudes fighting each other on it, and that makes it the best. I make spikes in my hair with that gel stuff Dad uses.

It looks pretty gross, kind of like boogers from the Boogeyman, but it makes your hair look awesome.

I go to the kitchen and eat some marshmallow cereal. I grab my valentine cards from the little table and put them in my backpack.

They’re of Dragonball Z. I’ll have the coolest cards in class for sure!

I also slip the small heart-shaped box into my backpack. Then, I go outside and get on the yellow bus for school.

When we get into the classroom The Miss tells us, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” and says we’ll pass out our cards after lunch.

I can’t wait until everyone sees my super cool cards! But first, we color pictures of babies shooting heart arrows.

I sit at the green table. It’s

kind of cool because Frank sits with me. He’s my best friend.

There are also two girls at our table: Sandy and Kristy. Girls have cooties, everyone knows that.

I know for sure Sandy has them, she’s always touching her hair like she’s trying to get the cooties out of it, and I guess they go into her nails because they’re always changing colors. Plus, all she talks about are lame princesses, but not Kristy.

She’s kind of cool. She talks about Dragonball Z and her hair and nails are normal so she’s alright. She even has the Dragonball Z light up shoes!

We go to P.E. next and Coach says we’re playing kickball today which is awesome! I rock at kickball! Last time we played, I even kicked a home run!

When it’s my turn to kick, I notice Kristy is watching. She likes kickball too. This is my chance to show her that I can kick a homer!

She’s going to think I’m so cool.

Okay, here comes the ball. I’ll kick that red ball over everyone’s heads.

Wait, is she watching? I should check real quick to make sure.

Yeah, she’s watching. I start to kick the ball but I’m too late and it trips me. I flip onto the gravel. I land on my hands and knees really hard. It hurts when I fall, but I don’t cry.

I’m not a wuss.

We go back to class and grab our lunch cards. After I get out of the lunch line I sit with Frank. “I’m think I’m gonna ask Kristy to be my Valentine.” He turns to look at her at the end of the table. Then he

Mandy Twomey

says, “I don’t know man, she might have cooties. You gotta watch out for those cooties, they’re real bad.”

I turn to look at her. Nah, she can’t have the cooties.

We get back to the classroom and The Miss says it’s time to pass out our valentine cards. I pull mine out of my backpack and smile because I have the best valentine cards. I look at the name on the first card and match it to a name strip on the red table. Then I match another card on the blue table, then another and another until I pass them all out.

When I’m done I sit down next to Frank at our table. We both dig into our pile of cards and candies, but there’s only one card I want: the one from Kristy. I find hers in the pile and NO WAY! It has Dragonball Z on it! She is so cool! Yup, I’ll ask her to be my Valentine for sure now.

The rest of the day goes on with adding and subtracting plastic quarters, watering the beans by the window, and then The Miss reads us the story about the cat who likes to wear a really tall hat all the time.

I pay attention, but I forget what The Miss was saying. I just want to keep looking at all the shiny cards.

All of a sudden, school is over.

We pack our backpacks up with our valentine cards and our candies. Then we stand in line to go home. I stand next to Kristy today. I tell her, “I really like your cards. You’re pretty cool cuz you like Dragonball Z and kickball.

Those are my favorite things ever.

Will you be my Valentine?”

She smiles at me and says, “Okay!” Awesome. I unzip my backpack and grab the heart-shaped box and give it to her. She smiles real big and hugs it like a teddy bear.

Success! I have a Valentine, wait until I tell Frank!

Then it happens.

Kristy, the cool girl from my table that likes Dragonball Z and kickball, leans over and kisses my cheek. It happens so fast I can’t do anything about it! I hear people say, “ooooo” and I feel my face get really hot. WHAT IS THIS? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? I don’t like this feeling. She did something to me. What did Kristy do to me?!

OH NO!!!!!

Frank warned me about this!

SHE GAVE ME THE COOTIES! THE COOTIES! The most horrible thing that can ever happen! I get on the bus and try not to panic, but I just got the cooties! I hope it’s not permanent.

As soon as I get home I scrub my face with the soap to wash away the cooties.

-- .

I just hope I got rid of them…

Sara Elisa Rodríguez.

Valentine. 2014

Sara Elisa Rodríguez

Sarelisa, Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, México. (1983) A graduate from the University of Texas at El Paso (UTEP) where she received a BA in Arts and Humanities, a BA in Spanish and French and most recently, a MA in Spanish. Some of her complementary studies include a story workshop from the Universidad de Guadalajara (UDG) and selected courses in art and culture from the Universidad Veracruzana (UV) in Mexico, where she attended as a Gilman/CONASEP scholar Her artistic exploration began through painting and she has presented her work in national and international shows.

Currently, her work is focused on graphic narrative and illustration.

Alberto Mendiola

My Friend Greg As soon as he woke up, Miguel saw the insect staring at him.

It was on top of his books, next to his computer. Its little antennas moved slowly and aware of Miguel’s movements. Miguel was still in bed wrapped in his blankets, thinking it was only a dream, that it would go away. He closed his eyes and opened them back again several times, he pinched himself, and nothing. It was still there, watching him. And then the bug spoke.

“Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. My name is Greg. What’s your name?

“Mmm...mi..guel.”

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“I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to say hi because I’ve been living in your house for two days and I thought it would be a good idea to introduce myself.

“How can you speak?”

“I’ve always known how to speak. I used to have a human form, like you. Until one day I woke up transformed into an insect.”

“But how is that possible?”

“I don’t know, but that’s exactly what I want to find out. It just happened, and nobody believes me when I try to explain my situation. People try to step on me, or hurt me because they are afraid of me or don’t like me. I have to run fast. The good thing is that I have lots of legs that help me run faster than most humans.”

“Where’s your family?”

Suddenly Miguel’s mom came inside and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

you, bye.”

“Yes, mom. Love you too. Bye.” Miguel got up, went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. In the corner of his mouth he had a spot of dry saliva. And he remembered when his grandmother had told him that cockroaches eat saliva from people’s mouths when they’re sleeping. He took a shower, he got dressed for school, and under his closet was Greg.

“Is your mom gone?”

“Yes.” Miguel said a bit startled. “I still had a small amount of hope that I was dreaming. But you’re real.”

“Of course I’m real, you’re the only one that has listened to my story. Everybody wants to hurt me or throw things at me. I knew you were a good kid when you took the black beetle outside to your garden when he decided to take a stroll in your living room.”

“I can’t kill animals, I know they have a family too, and they want to live happy plentiful lives like us. Tell me where is your family?

“I pretended I was dead and they put me in a trash can.

They’re good people but I can understand that it’s difficult to live with a bug. I didn’t want to cause any trouble, so I decided to travel and get to know the world, and find out how I became a bug.”

“Wake up Miguelito, I don’t want you to be late. I have to leave early because there are several patients waiting for me.

Breakfast is ready, go wake up your sister and get ready. I don’t want you to be late O.K mijo? Did you hear me? I’m talking to you.

“Yes, mom.”

“That’s sad, and fun! I want to travel when I grow up. Hey, and what do you eat?”

“I really like cheese, and rotten vegetables.”

“Do you eat saliva?”

“Gross, no. Do you eat saliva?”

“No, it’s just that my grandma told me...Forget it, you’re not a cockroach. Let me bring you something to eat, you’re probably hungry.”

“Yes, I’m starving.”

“Good, well.. take care mijo and do your best at school, I don’t want to hear that you’re not paying attention in class. Love

Miguel went to the kitchen and searched in the garbage and found tomato, a rotten piece of a banana and a small piece of

Sara Elisa RodrĂ­guez My friend Greg.

2014.

cheese that smelled like stinky feet. He took it to Greg and his new friend started to eat with great joy. Miguel woke up his sister, they ate breakfast together and got their things ready. He told Greg that he had to leave to school.

“Can I go with you?” asked Greg.

“What if they see you and get scared or try to hurt you?”

“I can hide in your backpack, or in one of your pockets” “O.K, but promise me you won’t escape.”

“Promise.”

He said good bye to his sister and his father while Greg got comfortable inside Miguel’s shirt pocket. They walked towards the school, they talked about a lot of things, they laughed.

Greg told Miguel about his life as a salesman, and about his passion for reading and telling stories. He wanted one day to tell his story to everybody, but first he wanted to find out how he became different. Miguel told Greg that he wasn’t doing very good in school and that his math class was boring but that he loved stories.

“I know,” said Greg while he moved his insect legs.

“What?” asked Miguel.

“You can help me find out how I became a bug and maybe I can become human again, and I will help you with math.

“Perfect. You’re a smart bug.”

“Yes, booger face!”

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They kept telling each other names until they got to the school.

Every time the teacher asked a question Miguel answered what Greg whispered to his ear: 24, triangle, fraction, 32. And the teacher very surprised said to Miguel: “I’m glad you’re doing your homework and reading the lessons. Very good.”

But Greg knew he wasn’t helping Miguel by giving him all

the answers. That day, Miguel’s friends invited him to play but Greg said into his ear: “You have to be better at math, you will have time to play. First finish your homework. You have to find a balance between responsibility and pleasure.

“But I don’t like math, Greg,” said Miguel.

“I know a story! There was once a man that could count the leaves from the trees, the birds that flew over the sky and even the stars that shone at night. The man that loved to count helped people that could not find solutions to their calculations.

People stopped fighting over numbers because the man that could count explained everything with simple settings, and everybody was happy and continued with their business.”

“I want to count the stars and help people,” said Miguel.

“You can, it’s about patience and understanding how math works,” said Greg.

“Cool, I want to know more.”

And Miguel continued with his homework. While Greg wanted to discover how to become human again, Miguel had an idea: “Why don’t you make up a story about how you became a bug, and how you transform yourself back into a human, maybe you will find an answer that way.”

“That’s a great idea, if I read my own story I can become human again.”

So Greg started writing his story about a man that becomes an insect, and then returns to his original state.

The next day, when Miguel woke up, Greg was gone.

He left a handwritten letter that only a human could’ve written.”Thanks for everything Miguel, you are a really good friend. I’m going back to see my family and then travel the world, good luck with math!. Greg.” Next to the note there was a small book with Greg’s story explaining his transformation and his great love for cheese and rotten vegetables.

Alberto Mendiola (Oaxaca, México.1984). He received his Bachelor’s degree in creative writing from the University of Texas at El Paso in 2011. He has studied at the Escuela de Escritores in Madrid, Spain, and has attended several workshops in Mexico. He is currently living in Oaxaca, where he paints and is working on his first short story collection.

Ilustración: Malena Villar. Nonato. 2010

M

The Alpha

onday 8/27/2012 (0700):We gathered in front of the main entrance. Each one of us lookedslightly different from before, yet still retaineda childish look.We were once divided, but now stood together as allies. We knew each person’s strengths to embarrassing weaknesses and past situations; such as that one time when Bobpeed his pants in the third grade or when Destiny accidentally called the teacher a fool last year. And let us not forget how many times Alexia won the spelling bee, because she would make it a point to tell us over and over again until our ears bled (It was 4 years in a row). This four-person platoon may only have each other, but I assure you we will endure and eventually conqueror again. This was our first day of the 6th grade.

In 5th grade we were the big shots, Kindergarteners bowed down to us because they feared our power. But here? We were at the bottom of the food chain.

No one would dare assert their former power over these much larger kids. We were the Kindergarteners of this school. In their eyes, we were weak underdeveloped nobody’s who probably still got tucked into bed each night by their parents (Bob will deny this to the grave, but seeing how his mom still kisses him on both cheeks each day, we know he still does). We would have to prove that we were not to be underestimated.

My name is of no importance, especially that I am no longer known by it, nor do I acknowledge its existence. But for the purpose of maintaining a unity of command, my nickname may be used; Sergeant. The entire platoon, as well as everyone else at my previous assignment, Hartman Elementary school, is aware of my fascination with old war films, books, and video games. On command I could list all 9 principles of war, and give a detailed example of when, where and how it was used in history. It is only fitting that I be the one to take leadership.

(0900):I was successful in enlisting the aid of my fellow soldiers. It did not

Jaime Garcia

take much effort since they already feared their new surroundings. Alexia seems like she may give me some trouble in the near future over command in this unit, but I will remedy that by showing my effectiveness in the field. She may be highly intelligent, but she doesn’t have what it takes to make the tough calls when they arise. What would she do when the upperclassmen made their move? Out spell them? If I had to, I would sacrifice my vintage GI Joe figure if proven to be for the greater good of this unit.

Wednesday 8/29/12 (1200): We had our first confrontation with the enemy earlier today. A group of four 7th grade girls calling themselves “The Glamorous Ones” attacked Alexia and Destiny, specifically, while they were eating lunch. The situation escalated quickly after one of the Glamorous Ones told Destiny that her clothes looked like they were taken off a homeless person. They continued to call them obscene terms such as hippies and trash-brats. Destiny wished to retaliate upon contact, but I convinced her to strike when the girl turned around. Via text, I sent her a message that it was wise to strike while they didn’t expect it. After reading it, she looked up and nodded her head.

As the group tired of teasing Destiny and Alexia, Destiny followed my advice and struck the girl in the face. She went down with a monstrous thud, and had a bit of blood dripping from her nose. (Funny enough, when this happened, Bob jumped up and began to cheer Destiny’s name. I thought it was a bit humorous, but did not follow along in his immaturity). The girl’s allies attempted to redeem their fallen comrade, but Alexia, Bob and I joined forces with Destiny, causing The Glamorous Ones to become outnumbered. They then picked up the bloodied girl, gave us a sharp look and fled the battleground.

Sunday 9/3/2012 (1300): I have been confined to the contents of my room for the remainder of the day. Unfortunately, my parents did not agree with my judgment of bringing a stray dog into our house. I sought to train him so that I

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could have a surprise ally in the field if the situation ever called upon one.

I guess the dog peeing all over my dad’s navy uniform didn’t help my argument much.

Monday 9/4/12 (1400): Word finally got up to the administrators about Destiny’s part in the fight and she has been given lunch detention for a week. This is a severe issue, as it limits our already low numbers, making us open for attack.

However, our group has gotten a desirable response from our peers. All of the 6th graders and a good portion of the 7th graders are starting to fear our capabilities.

However, with our low troop count, this attention may not be so great. I must conduct another big event to completely gain their support, and as well as to gain some sort of recognition from the 8th graders. (Hopefully, this will also lead to some recruitment effort as well).

However, I must make a note on Destiny being reprimanded. From my analysis and personal viewings, the instructors and the administrators are practically non-existent at this institution. They seem to confine themselves to their classrooms and rarely step out to do anything else. When releasing us to go home, all they ever did was open the door and lock it as soon as we had all left. It was my assumption that they even resided in their quarters, so Destiny getting caught is highly unusual.

I suspect that this was the work of the new Algebra instructor, Mrs. Kwaloon, who just showed up last Wednesday and has not had a proper amount of time to integrate into the educational system. I don’t expect this to be an issue in the future, and I will take precautions to ensure it.

Wednesday 9/5/12 (0900): In an attempt to remedy our numbers issue, Alexia has successfully recruited a 7th grade boy by the name of Harold. I was skeptical as to his actual effectiveness, since he is very delicate looking, but ashe claims to know some sort of martial art, I welcomed him into the group. This perk may aid in future battles; especially that Bob is not the best hand-to-hand combatant. However, a note must be made about the way Alexia acts around him.

She seems completely flustered and seems to lose some intelligence in his presence.

He seems to enjoy this attention and was even interested to hear about Alexia’s “lustrous” spelling bee championship. I am not too sure what to make of this, but will attempt further inspection on the matter.

Friday 9/7/12 (1300): As I expected, Alexia made a challenge towards my authority when I mentioned attacking a 7th grade group for the purpose of strengthening our rule over the school during the fall dance. She tried to advocate that violence is not the answer to everything, but failed to offer any other substitute when I put her on the spot (What a letdown; I was originally led to believe that she was intelligent). Harold and Bob seemed hesitant about my plan at first, but accepted it after I ordered them to comply. If another outburst occurs, I will have my hand forced to take serious action against Alexia. She must learn to obey her superiors.

(1600): The strike was a success. Everything went as planned, except for a few minor issues beforehand. Our target had no specific name, but for identification purposes I will call them, “The Juggernauts”. These 7th graders are infamous for starting trouble with the rest of the school, without any repercussion. I knew that it would win us public support if they were eliminated. First, we cornered them within the groups of various social clicks who were “attempting” to dance. This kept them in an unalarmed state and also confined them to the corner of the auditorium.Then stealthily, Harold and Bob pulled the group members away to a secluded storage room, which was monitored by Alexia and Destiny. Eventually, this led to their leader, Rodrigo remaining unguarded. The tension in his body made him seem highly suspicious, but it was already too late for him. Out of the crowd of teens, I strutted out and confronted Rodrigo.

Originally, I had planned to eliminate him and his group through public humiliation, but a greater idea grazed my mind. This group was a collection of loose cannons, but could be crafted towards my interest. I spoke to Rodrigo and explained his current situation. He was outnumbered, with Bob and Harold creeping within the crowds to attack him if need be. He rejected my statements until I signaled for them to appear. Only Bob came out of the crowd, but it was more than enough of a shock to make Rodrigo reconsider.

After our politics were completed, I assigned Rodrigo to become the sergeant of his platoon, with Bob being their commanding officer. We no longer had a manpower issue; with the addition of The Juggernauts, our numbers had risen to 10.It was obvious that with the assimilation of The Juggernauts, we ruled the 6th and 7th grade. There was no way that the 8th graders would have not taken notice of this. They had to; because they were next.

(2000):As mentioned beforehand, there were some issues with the orchestration of my plan(Let it be known that I regrettably forgot to mention this in the above entry due to an overwhelming sense of excitement caused by our victory. This will not happen again). Most of the issues deal with 2 members of my

platoon; these members are Harold and Alexia. The plan was to take place at exactly 1400, however both of them showed up together 10 minutes late. I was willing to overlook this ignorance, until the next act of disobedience. When I signaled for Bob and Harold to come out of the crowd, only Bob appeared. This was because Harold had left his post. I found out after the operation was completed, that at roughly the same time, Alexia had also slipped away from Destiny. Since it is Friday, there is nothing I can do about these issues, but I will make sure to confront these two about this. Since it is his first offense, I will unfortunately let Harold off with a warning. But Alexia…she will not be as lucky.

Saturday 9/8/12 (0900):Today channel 62 is running an all-day marathon of the 1985 series of G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero, followed by the classic Transformer’s series. This week seems to be getting better and better.

Monday 9/10/12 (1100):Early this morning, I had the entire platoon attend the meeting to which the issues would be addressed. They all assumed that it would be a peaceful meeting introducing the new members of the group; however this was not the case. I first had the Juggernauts surround Harold and Alexia and begun my speech. I told Harold that I was disappointed in his actions, but would let him get away from this with a warning. He seemed confused by this statement but accepted his lack of punishment without issue. I then proceeded to address Alexia specifically. I told her that her actions at the fall dance and outburst beforehand were unforgiveable and need be dealt with severely. She pleaded that I had no right to reprimand her and that she was free to do whatever she pleased.

(How Ignorant of her). I then gave The Juggernauts the signal to carry out their order. They approached her and proceeded to take her backpack away from her.

They opened it up, found her lunch and tossed it to the floor. She tried to stop them, but Rodrigo held her back as the rest of the members proceeded to stomp all over her ham and cheese sandwiches, bag of almonds and slice of cake from her cousin’s birthday party this weekend. Destiny and Bob looked on with fear as Alexia received her punishment. There would not be another act of disobedience from any of them. They knew who their superior was.

(1300): After my demonstration, I felt that it was time that our group had a common affiliation in name. After careful thought, I have chosen the name “Alpha”.

The name symbolized that my group was the most powerful and unstoppable. All others were swine compared to us. The school was beginning to suspect this; I would make them accept it.

Wednesday 9/12/12 (1400): After careful deliberation, I have designed a plan to overthrow the 8th graders. The following strategy details that we recruit all members of the 6th and 7th grade population into Alpha. After all of them have been drafted, we will attack the 8th grade population head on. This attack is set to occur on immediately after school, Tuesday 9/18/12 at 1600. With the combined forces of both grades, we will overwhelmingly outnumber them and force them to accept new leadership. Now another issue has presented itself for this plan (which my great leadership hasalready found a solution for). I assume that many of the 6th and 7th graders will choose not to enlist on their own behalf.

However, if this occurs I will show them the alternative to their traitorous act. Any and all opposers of my draft into the Alpha-army will be effective immediately treated as an enemy to the state and be sent to soon-to-be-constructed holding cells located behind the school grounds. Here they will be exiled for the entire weekend, under their parent’s assumption that they are currently away on a field trip. At these cells, they will be fed only once a day, forced to sleep on the cold ground and are forbidden to communicate with each other. There will be no escape from these cells beginning Friday afternoon until Sunday night, when the permission slip dictates that they are to return home. After this, the entire school population will outcast them and exclude them from any and all social contact until they pledge allegiance to Alpha. This field trip disguise only works because the school has scheduled a fieldtrip to the NASA facility in Houston the following week. However, I had Bob fabricatereplacement permission slipsdictating that the trip occurred a week beforehand. I need not fear any repercussion from the possibility of these individuals informing their parents, as they will already have been shown the lengths which I go to chastise their disobedience.This punishment should be enough to convince them that my cause is the correct course of action to take. When weighing out the options, joining their fellow classmen into glorious combat for one day, as opposed to spending an entire weekend in confinement, is the much better option.

Thursday 9/13/12 (1500): A mandate was given to all current members of Alpha this morning that a mandatory meeting was to occur today at 1200 (All members were in attendance). At this meeting I declared the next plan of attack and ordered that Harold, Alexia, Destiny and Bob begin the draft immediately as soon as we had concluded. As assumed, Harold and Alexia questioned what were to occur if their peers rejected my cause. I explained that those individuals would be sentenced to the soon-to-be-constructed holding cells and would remain for the

entire weekend if they did not change their answer. Harold, Alexia, and even Bob Victory was within inches of my grasp. That was until that wrench Alexia (whom I did not inform about the reasoning behind the fabricated permission and her pet monkey Harold released their sheathed wooden rulers and pointed slips) looked distraught at this idea; however, they did not reject it. They nodded them at me. Alexia stated that my rule was to be diminished immediately and that their heads shamefully in agreement and acted as good soldiers should. I then all of these students were to be let go. I laughed at her ignorance and explained commanded that the Juggernauts begin construction of said cells immediately, to that she by no means had the mass to back up her statement. I had an army, and which they stated would be completed by tomorrow afternoon. I concluded the she had Harold. I pointed at the 8th grade hallway and asked her to inspect the meeting by initiating the new chant of the group. “Hail Alpha!” power I held; that warzone showed how far I was willing to go to eliminate those (1600): At this moment, I would like to praise Destiny’s honorable sense of who were foolish enough to cross paths with me. I gave her the opportunity to duty. While the others felt consciously obligated towards my plan, she stood tall, surrender quietly before I had the Juggernauts beat her and Harold down. She looked at me in the eyes, and accepted her orders. I may have found the general refused my offer, but not before revealing her own army. She had managed to to my new army. acquire the support of all of the imprisoned traitors and rally them against me.

Friday 9/14/12 (1400): The statistics for the drafting order are the following. They ran towards us, intent on seeking revenge.

Upon initial contact 20% of the individuals accepted the order. Upon mentioning Caught off guard, I ordered that The Juggernauts hold off the rebel forces, of the holding cells and corresponding social expulsion, that percentage increased while Bob ran to the 8th grade battlefield for reinforcements. I released my steel to 75%. Upon Destiny inflicting physical violence on her peers that still rejected ruler and charged at Alexia, while at the same time, Destiny released her wooden the offer, the number jumped to 85%. Assuming that all 85% of the individualsdo one and struck Harold. I swiped countlessly at her, but she was quicker than I not change their mind, Alpha’s numbers have successfully risen to 310. Only 15% expected; however, it was still not quick enough. I slashed towards her knees and of the 6th and 7th grade population will be reprimanded. I have arranged it so that down she fell to the ground. Her weapon has bounced away from her and she Bob, along with The Juggernauts, and Destiny, along with a small group of 10 was helpless. I raise my ruler to strike her, but was suddenly toppled over. Harold other Alpha soldiers scout the school as soon as the clock hits 1600. I have made had managed to escape Destiny and kicked me right in the chest. The pain was it clear that they may use any means possible to subdue the traitors. Alexia and immense, but I was not going to be defeated. I rose up and glanced at Alexia and Harold requested that they be exempt from this gathering. I allowed it, so long as Harold. Harold, with splinters sticking out of his check from Destiny’s strikes held they kept guard this Sunday, to which they accepted. the injured Alexia close and kissed her lips. Alexia rejuvenated from her injuries (1800): The gathering of the traitors was a success. Each and every one of with his gesture (which still baffles my understanding to extreme measures), picked them was caught and confined to their cells. A rough total of 52permission slips/ up her weapon, and along with Harold slithered towards me. letters were sent to the parents following their confinement. Our cover is secure and I looked around to see what had become of Destiny, but she had gotten all that remains is that we guard the 2 large cells so that they do not escape. Bob stuck with the severely battered Juggernauts in trying to hold this position. has guard duty Friday afternoon, Destiny and I will cover Saturday, and Bob, who had been sent away to the battle field, never even made Alexia and Harold will cover the remainder of Sunday. Unfortunately it there because of the rebel forces intercepting him (He had to feed this large group, I had to make a sacrifice and sell my vintage been fastened to a tree with a pair of jump ropes and had I looked around to GI Joe figureto the comic book store next to the supermarket (I apparently wet himself upon being captured). I would see what had become had outgrown it anyways). have to face Harold and Alexia myself (This is specifically of Destiny, but she had Saturday 9/15/12 (1900): Guard duty was surprisingly where my trained dog would have come in handy; curse gotten stuck with the severely more entertaining than I previously expected it to be. I believe my parents’ bewilderment!). I raised my weapon and that it is because Destiny shares the same interests that I do. We screamed “Hail Alpha!” before charging towards them. I battered Juggernauts had begun the day by laughing and teasing the crying traitors in swung my metal ruler, but they blocked each shot with in trying to hold their cell. We then proceeded to toss dirt-clods at the ones who ease. It was as if they were mocking me while they did it. this position. attempted to keep serious faces (I hit 4 more of them than Destiny I swung harder and harder until I caught a break and struck did). Lastly, we mixed tons of oregano into their mush, which made Alexia in the neck. She collapsed and Harold drew towards her a couple of them spew vomit like fire hydrants. However, a note must be (That was his and my biggest mistake). When he bent down to made about how it all ended. When we left the post and began to walk home, check on her, I swiped my ruler across his face. He stuttered back, and Destiny kissed me on the cheek and scurried off. I still don’t know exactly what blocked my next strike. After that he must have snapped because he came at me it means, but should it mean something? Maybe it’s just her own way of showing like a mantis. Every strike was precise and hit its target. I tried to retaliate, but I was allegiance to Alpha? Yes, that is exactly what it is. no match for his skills (His Martial arts training had served him well).

Tuesday 9/18/12 (2100): There is no way to explain what happened, but by Eventually, I was left on the floor helpless and weak from his blows. The starting from the beginning. Exactly 10 minutes before 1600, I rallied the troops rest of my army, along with their 8th grade prisoners crowded around to see what with the assistance of General Destiny (She was more than happy to remain by my had transpired. Harold and Alexia stood above me and proclaimed that my rule side at all times during this proclamation). Along with Destiny, The Juggernauts, and the entire Alpha faction were to be forever diminished, with each grade living Bob, Alexia and Harold stood by my side (As the original members of Alpha, it harmoniously besides one another. The traitorous bunch then began to chant the was only proper that we stood united). I instructed my army of roughly 280 that most heinous pairing of words; “Down with Alpha!” today Alpha would accomplish complete leadership of the school. The days which As the battlefield cleared, they contemplated what to do with me. we cowered in fear over the more powerful 8th graders were to be no more. I They eventually settled on confining me to the very cells I had deemed to be instructed them that upon 1600, they would charge towards the 8th grade hallway commissioned. The Juggernauts escorted me to the location, with Harold, and physically neutralize the opponent until they surrendered to our rule. They all Alexia, and Bob following close by. Theentire group rejected the Alpha faction cheered at my idea of redemption and equality (Although, Alpha would rule over and agreed to follow up with my punishment before finally having it dispersed. each one of them indefinitely). The “Hail Alpha!” cheers could not be contained. Destiny had fled the scene and was nowhere to be found; Bob was to fabricate Even our former enemy, The Glamorous Ones, chanted as loud as they could. one last permission slip (which I loathed because it put me on the same page as As the moment approached, I looked at Destiny and gave her the signal to the traitors); The Juggernauts were to release me after Sunday, when everyone had continue. She smiled, and then dictated that the armyface the hallwayto prepare returned from the real field trip; and Alexia and Harold were to remedy the effects for combat. The last seconds before 1600 trickled slowly, but when it struck, the of my war. Alpha was no more. army’s presence made itself known. The doors to the 8th grade hallway opened and (2200): Right now I sit in this cold makeshift cell, analyzing what went out came the enemy. They did not expect us to strike until we were well within wrong. There are many things that I now regret and wish I could go back and attacking distance. One by one, the 8th graders were beaten down; backpacks full change; but there is nothing I can do but learn from my errors and improve. of textbooks made contact with their ribs, milk cartons exploded overhead and Because when I get out, I’ll make sure that mistakes like Alexia and Harold do obstructed their view, and countless faces were jabbed with wooden rulers. I looked not occur again. on in agreement over the outcome. I was to be the new leader of this school.

JAIME GARCIA He is a senior majoring in Creative Writing at The University of Texas at El Paso. He is set to graduate in 2015 and will utilize his degree towards acquiring a screenwriting position in Los Angeles, while also pursuing an acting career there. Since a very young age, Jaime has been attracted towards writing fiction, which was always reinforced by his family, friends, and instructors. In his spare time, when not trying to complete school work, he attentively observes many different mediums of entertainment, including the web, film, television, and videogames. At the moment, he is diligently writing shorts for an upcoming self-managed project, in which he will also act in.

RIO GRANDE REVIEW

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MFA Residential Program

Creative Writing of the Americas The only one of its kind in the U.S., the MFA at UTEP offers a fully bilingual (Spanish and English) course of study in fiction, poetry, playwriting, screenwriting, literary translation and non-fiction. The MFA program requires a 48 hour commitment which usually takes three years to complete. Our flexible course offerings cover a wide array of topics, including literary translation, libretto writing, the novella and the prose poem.

In addition, our students have access to courses offered by other departments, such as Theater, English and Language and Linguistics. Our bilingual literary journal, Río Grande Review, is entirely edited by our MFA students.

Located in the Chihuahuan Desert, where two nations meet, our program is constantly evolving to meet the needs of students coming from the United States, Latin America and the rest of the world. We offer assistantships to many of our students. The success of our program is reflected in the success of our students, who have won major literary prizes, including the highly prestigious 2012 Premio Tusquets de Novela, the 2006 Premio Clarín de Novela, the 2005 Premio Nacional de Cuento de Colombia, the 2005 Chicano-Latino Literary Award given by UC Irvine, the 2004 Concurso Nacional de Novela Joven de Mexico, the 2004 Premio Nacional de Poesía Joven “Elias Nandino,” the Premio Bienal Copé de Poesía (Perú 2002) and, the 2004 Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize.

Contact: Department of Creative Writing University of Texas al El Paso Liberal Arts 415 500 West University Avenue El Paso, TX 79968 (915) 747-5713 mfa@utep.edu