Like, Literarily! - Issue 8

By Gabriela Largacha - 10th Grade

Like, Literarily!

Issue

8

By Daniela Hoyos - 12th Grade

Like, Literarily! - Issue 8

May 2019

Like, Literarily!

Issue 8

The Bilingual, Student-run Literary Journal of CNG

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Like, Marketing Editor:

Literarily! - Issue 8

Silvia Forero

Editors:

Andrea Rabinovich Verónica Copello Nicolás Rosas Nicole Natal Luciana García Silvia Forero

Art Editor:

Giorgio Trettenero

Teacher Advisors:

Guzmán Julio - MS & HS Technology Teacher Ernesto Carriazo Osorio - HS Spanish Teacher Diana Marcela Sánchez - HS Philosophy Teacher

Stalin López - HS AP 2D Design Teacher

Printed by :

Cima Impresores E.U.

Special thanks to the H.S. Principal: Janice Ellerby.

Associate Principals: Bradley Park and Ivan Velasco.

Colegio Nueva Granada Cra 2 Este No 70-20 www.cng.edu Bogotá, Colombia ISSN 2590-5287 May of 2019 2

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Table of Contents

Call-Age Apps Lockjaw, By Joo Hyun Park A Ticking Madness, By Lucienne Stahlbaum Enriching Culture, By Ana Bertuol Diálogo de un domingo a la hora de almuerzo, By Verónica Copello Miss Mary Mack’s Journey Back to the Future, By Antonio Rodríguez Simón el Bobito, By Isabela Sánchez

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Lockjaw Joo Hyun Park

The neon signs that read “closed” became distorted, with the somnolent motion of the old bus, into strands of finite calligraphy, as if the bus were a part of a muffled time lapse. Ted’s head bobbled as his humble home came into view through the thin glass pane that barely separated the cold, snowy air and his lifeblood. He exhaled and observed his breath fog the glass near his cheek. Once again, he found himself at the place where the world seemingly pushed further down on his heart a few years ago, when he got rejected from medical school.

But the gloomy cloud that seemed to constantly hover above Ted wasn’t always there, or so it seemed. Back in his high school days, his dad always waited for him with a plate of cream puffs and milk, while his mom, though she barely saw him because of her work, always expressed utmost affection whenever she was able to.

“Find whatever suits your abilities,” his parents would say, which Ted always understood as a declaration of his liberty—the ultimate concession that motivated him through his pre-medical studies. But soon enough, this same statement ate him up from the inside. His parents knew he didn’t have the best grades, but Ted nonetheless fought his way through.

“Are you sure you want to be a doctor?” was the question he kept being asked until he stopped answering their calls and isolated himself from the love he had received for so many years—if only he could call it love any more.

So when Ted came across the manila envelope sitting in his shabby, blue mailbox, he couldn’t be quite sure about what to make out of it. The ink was to either read “congratulations” or “we regret” (as if they really meant it anyway). He stood on the driveway for a few minutes, hoping that if insincere sentiments were indeed in 5

the envelope, they would somehow rearrange themselves into an acceptance he yearned for. But that didn’t happen, and Ted was left in silence. That was one of the few instances he had hoped to hear “find whatever suits your abilities.”

The rain rattled even louder against the window of the bus as if it were reminding him that it was his stop. Without opening his umbrella, he sprinted towards the door of his house, but he didn’t do so without scraping his hand against the mailbox that had lost its color by then. Pain, both physical and mental, followed him to the door, where Ted, frustrated and weary, fumbled with his keys and struggled to open the doorknob. After a couple of desperate—and futile—attempts, he sank to his knees as his vision got blurred by the water that ran down his face. He felt nothing.

But nothing, sometimes, meant peace for him, so he stood back up. With his worn thumb against the bow, Ted slowly inserted the key, which happened to, slowly, turn right then.

His house wasn’t something to brag about, but it wasn’t scruffy enough to incentivize pity amongst his neighbors. With the remote control, he turned on the box television, whose sound and light often drowned out the stillness and blared against the dim light he barely let in. Then, he noticed the gash on his right hand.

Before, he would’ve worried he had contracted tetanus from the rusty mailbox, but such paranoia only correlated to the years he spent defying the “suit for abilities” lemma.

He washed away his hand with water and some iodine, and put a bandaid, all with the intention of disavowing it further.

The rest of the night went on routinely: he ate dinner, took a shower, and went to 6

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bed. Before lying down, the pink paper lying on the nightstand caught his eye, the one that every day reminded him of his latest heartbreak. In the middle of the pitch-dark room, Ted lay and drained to nothingness with the sound of the television reporting the case of a suicidal doctor.

The next morning, the sun was out, and a silver lining was visible around the edges of the curtain. Ted liked mornings like these. After reheating the coffee from the previous day, he headed out in his button-down shirt and slacks, but without any white robe. The bus’s window intensified the light shining on his face, and Ted, in a lighter mood, headed to his office, where he worked as a psychologist.

He spent a long time trying to come into terms with his career. He was decent at the job, which made it easier. Suits your abilities. The progress of his clients managed to satisfy him. Ted simply thought of it as curing, as a physician would, he hoped.

Of the dozens of patients that Ted saw every day, there was only one he looked forward to meeting: Ann Her condition was nothing special, but she was the only one who seemed to ask Ted about his day before getting into her own diegeses of learned helplessness.

His computer read, “Ann - 3:00 p.m.”

She’ll stop by after finishing her biology studies at the library. Maybe she’s doing chemistry today.

So Ted waited (waiting, to Ted, meant giving the rest of his patients a false sense of comfort, a placebo maybe. Yes. That’s what Ted is. Ted is a placebo).

The instant cup of coffee he had ordered during his lunchtime had lost its flavor and warmth by the time he heard the hurried steps of what he knew were 7

Ann’s worn shoes, across his door.

“Hi Mr. Ted, how have you been?”

There it was. The placebo to the placebo.

“I don’t think I’ll get through it. No one believes in me anyways. Should I just quit, Mr. Ted?”

Ann was in medical school. One step further than what Ted had accomplished. His last chance, he thought, was to help someone get through medical school, and that was Ann. But his logic, to say the least, was heavily and solely based on the “good boy” complex he was raised with.

“You should keep going. You’ll regret it and miss opportunities,” Ted, rather dryly, replied.

Ted was trying to put himself in her shoes. Both lacked believers and both struggled to keep up. However, the difference was Ann’s journey was supple, while Ted’s was constantly against something—including his own will.

While to Ted, his encouragement was a mediocre part of his job, to Ann, his words kept resonating in her head. She had heard them somewhere, sometime before.

Ted kept going on and about on his monologue. Hope. Grit. Passion.

Hypocrisy.

Ann recoiled as her memory came back.

Ted kept looking out the window he only opened when Ann came.

Ann stared into Ted’s eyes. Those apathetic eyes.

Ted realized what was going on.

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Ted stood up.

Ted closed the window.

Ted grabbed a bat.

Blank.

Ann lay on the ground.

He fumbled and struggled. His efforts were desperate but futile. He sank to his knees as his senses got blurred by the cries. He felt nothing. But nothing, sometimes, meant peace.

Silence.

The door shut behind the rhythmic but lethargic steps of the man who knew all along that, except for himself, there was no placebo in the room.

A certain fate followed the man onto the bus and into the humble home.

Maybe it was a fate that was read to his parents at the voodoo shop they had visited for fun back in New Orleans.

“A man is training to be a psychotherapist part-time. Fate has presented him with a choice of two jobs during this training period. The first is a management post through a family connection. The second is a support worker for people with mental health problems. This job is much more aligned with the career he is heading for, but the pay is so low he will hardly be able to sustain himself through his studies. Which path should he take?”

The man headed towards his bed. The television went unnoticed that afternoon. His vision unblurred enough to read the words written on the pink piece of paper. “TEMPORARY ORDER FOR PROTECTION AGAINST STALKING, AGGRAVATED 9

By Gabriela Gómez - 12th

STALKING OR HARASSMENT. Plaintiff’s Name: Ann Marie Bowman.” The date read a week ago. A few days after that, he had hit her just enough to cause Ann to have retrograde amnesia. She didn’t want him to control her unwilling grit. Ted had to cure her. She had to continue. Her hippocampus. That was it. It was. He had studied it for the MCAT. The back of her already-assailable head.

But today, the man did it out of fear. Was it his amygdala? Her amygdala? His endocrine system? The pancreas? All these lost medical terms kept racing through his mind. There had to be an explanation. But one thing became clear when his hand twitched. Then a second time. Then a third. And then he knew; it was tetanus, after all.

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A Ticking Madness Lucienne Stahlbaum Disclaimer: The subject matter, as well as some of the images and episodes from the following story may be disturbing for some people. Reading the story or not is entirely up to each individual who encounters it and the editors of the present issue do not hold themselves responsible for the personal effects that the story may have on readers. The editors also want to clearly state that they do not condone or support violence of any kind.

I am standing here, gun in hand: who will I choose? I can’t fathom how I got here and maybe that is exactly what brought me to this moment. The confusion in my head is overwhelming, every word escaping the mouths of my victims, every shred of thought that slips into my brain brings me farther into my insanity. It won’t stop, the ticking in my head, a timebomb. Tick, tick, tick. Stop. No. I can’t. Death. Wrong.

Right. I have to. The question loomed over me like a bee at the smell of something sweet. It chanted in my ear, getting louder, more confusing with every syllable. Who will you choose? Who will you choose? Who will go first?

I had always been a quiet child, scared to speak up. My teachers thought I was mute, I had no friends at school, and my parents would throw at me whatever scraps of food they didn’t want from their wild night before sending me off to my room, alone, isolated. This loneliness caused me to think; I thought a lot because I was lonely a lot. They came to me in a constant flow that intrigued me, even scared me sometimes. I thought it was good to think because maybe it could allow me to fix my life, remove every sadness I was living, but I soon learned my thoughts were a ghost, haunting my every move. What began as a way to relieve me of myself became my biggest fear?

I soon began to hate everything and it terrified me. What I felt for each living person was a hatred that made my face burn, my eyes cry, and my heart crush under the pressure. At seven my drawing skills became immaculate. I created detailed diagrams with the best ways I could hurt my parents. My hands moved rapidly, scribbling dark graphite lines across the undeserving paper. My anger towards the 11

world grew in each breath I took without a family or friends. Without a single bit of human contact. I couldn’t do it. Life. What was the point if everyone would always disappoint? At nine I first thought about my own death, a sweet escape from the cruelness I was living in.

As I prepared for my big day, I began to feel the excitement, a new kind of joy I had forgotten long ago. Where would I go once I was dead? Perhaps the atheists were right, I would become dirt in the ground, adding to the vast richness of the world. Beautiful. Maybe it was the Buddhists who secretly knew; I would soon return into another being, living a new life as a new person. Intriguing, but useless to my morbid desires. My personal favorite was the tale told by Christians. I knew where I was going and I dreamed of it. I would celebrate in darkness with the other angels of death. I wouldn’t have to pretend to be human anymore, I could be free to hate, to hurt, to suffer as I want. Maybe as a demon, I could even seek my revenge on those who destroyed me. I thought about every day. On a particularly endless night, however, I thought. I wasn’t sure where I would be after death so I couldn’t plan accordingly. If I wanted revenge, I would have to spare my own life and dedicate it to the suffering of my enemies. The perfect plan. If I were to do it right, I would have to take time. It would be innumerable starry nights and five full notebooks of ideas and planning.

At sixteen, I found my first victim, the ponytail who in sixth grade, on a dare, gave me my first and only kiss, ending it with roaring laughter that followed me the next two years. I despised her more than most in school. In my junior year of high school, she decided to say hi. Her mistake. I tried to ignore most at school, but her enthusiastic 12

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greeting caught my attention. If I were to accomplish my future goal, I would need practice. She was easy, quick to jump on my invitation to study together. On a Thursday night, we sat at Starbucks, she with her white peach iced tea lemonade, I with my coffee, black. The deep aroma of the coffee beans seeped into my nostrils, filling my brain with an eager calm. We discussed the significance of Shakespeare’s plays, how he pulled together romance and tragedy. She said it was beautiful how two beings can be so connected, tied together by true love. I knew better; every story ends in drowning unhappiness and unavoidable death. This, too, would be her story. Her eyes were wet and gleaming; they told about a girl whose life was just beginning and full of hope. They gave off a radiating smile that warmed my soul just a little. Perhaps not enough. We finished up our studies and I suggested a peaceful stroll by the river. The cool wind blew through her hair as she told stories of her happy childhood and dreams to be a doctor so she could help people. Basic.

I laughed with her, showing a bright, friendly grin. On the inside, I couldn’t wait to end the annoying babbling. At the highest point of the tall bridge that landmarks our city, I stopped her with a light touch to the arm and turned her around. I inched closer to her as if to return the kiss she had once given me. She closed her eyes, leaned in with more of that unbearable enthusiasm she so ardently gave. Our lips met and I could feel her body relax, so I took a moment to enjoy our love story, one meant for the vast collection of literature in the world. The moment was over and I felt my chance walk up behind me. I reached up for her neck and placed my hands around it like a necklace. I felt her quick hesitation turn into panic as I started to squeeze her thin throat. She grabbed my hands, trying to pull them away 13

from her, but they were too weak. Her next move was playing dead, dropping all her weight to the ground. She didn’t realize that all it did was make the process more difficult for her. I quickly pulled her back up and crushed her vertebrae, feeling the bones break under the skin, the echoing pop bringing shivers down my spine. She soon passed out, but I continued to wrangle her limp body. Those fifteen seconds were the most satisfying moments I had ever felt. Now for the tragic ending, her very own drowning unhappiness. When her body hit the water, drops flew into the air like the grand finale of a firework show. I smiled at my good work done.

I didn’t go home that night. I instead sat on that bridge all night, thinking once again. I really need to stop doing that. As the shock and adrenaline wore off I was ready to do it again. It was a rush I couldn’t describe. All I knew was it was more powerful than anything I had ever felt and I became hungry for it. My next victim was two years later as I was about to graduate. This time it was the jock who made it his life goal to isolate my already isolated self. This time it was with a rope and carefully written goodbye note. Next was at twenty-one. He made the stupid move of calling me a psychopath in a lecture. Of course, he was right, but we don’t need to give people any ideas. Ideas can be dangerous. There were five more victims before I felt ready to achieve my real goal. This one would be a little more public.

I wanted to get caught, praised for my life’s work. Home I go to reunite with the parents who never took the time to learn who their son is.

Standing on that rooftop, eating a home cooked meal of creamy tomato and 14

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mushroom farrotto paired with an expensive bottle of crisp red wine, my sevenyear-old thoughts came rushing back. Those dark lines were drawn on the blank wall of my mind. I became uncontrollable. My hands shook violently and my mouth forgot patience. It was time.

I stand here, gun in hand, ready. My whole life has led up to this very moment. In all my planning you would think I would have thought about who would go first: my drunken mother or my abusive father. Now standing here, I am perplexed.They beg me to stop and I am surprised to hear those same thoughts in my head. I see the graphite marks being erased and I scramble to find them. Maybe this wasn’t what I wanted. How could it not be? My whole life I dreamed of this, why can’t I just pull the trigger? But my finger wouldn’t move. My thoughts run from mother to father to mind to father to mother again. Who will it be first? Tick, tick. Who will it be? Tick. Stop.

Who? Yes. Now. My mother? Drunk? Neglector? Do it now! Wait. Father? Abusive?

Loveless? Why won’t you pull the trigger!? Me, me. Me. It is my turn. Tick, tick, tick. It is time. I can taste the sweet drops of blood drip onto my tongue as I bite the inside of my cheek. I turn the gun and suddenly my fingers remember the basic movement they have always known. Finally, the ticking has stopped.

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Enriching Culture Ana Bertuol

She pulled on the white pants and white shirt. She then walked to the store. On her way, she passed others, all wearing the white pants and white shirt. At the store, she bought new brushes to touch up her latest work. She then walked home.

Once at home, she gingerly unwrapped the brushes and dipped them into the acrylic paint. Two hours later, the painting was complete. It was ready to be sent to her most recent customer. It was another success. The customer hung it on the wall. They then invited guests to admire her work. The event was reminiscent of an art opening. But no critiques were made. Negative thoughts were adequately suppressed. Two guests were particularly excited by the piece and called her the very next morning. They wanted their own. The painting would give the blank wall in their bedroom a new purpose. She began work right away. She finished in a few hours.

That afternoon she went to an interview.The interviewers were particularly interested in her choice of color. She said she was trying to represent all colors simultaneously.

It was an even mix. The interviewers readily accepted this approach. Criticism was off the table. That day was her last. The neighbors believed her death was because of the fumes that had been building up in her white house. They thought the fumes had poisoned her, filling her lungs and then infiltrating her brain. Over the past several years, they had smelled them, first as soft, faint tones that later evolved into pungent gas that spread around the neighborhood. They knew that no one opened their windows, perhaps out of fear of being caught doing something different, and that, as a consequence, she hadn’t either.

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The neighbors had seen glimpses of art before, “true art,” with hints of rich color and detail, though these pieces were always hidden below coats of other paint designed to create what society viewed as acceptable. Although they had not been the most elaborate pieces, the couple had been impressed by what they had managed to see and thought art had to be unique and express a profound message. Her work, they believed, had been void of these qualities. This means they didn’t have any of her pieces themselves. But the crowd of mourners at her funeral begged to differ. Crowds of people in white pants and white shirts filed into the graveyard. The same procession had been present in the funeral of the kind, older woman who had lived nearby. The same procession had been present in the funeral of the janitor of the local school who had been a great contribution to the community. So it was only natural everyone would be present.

The hall in the city’s museum was promptly cleared. This was in order to make room for her art work. Paintings of different sizes were hung across the white walls.

The pieces were of a grand contrast. They made for a nice display. The neighbors wrote a letter to the museum the next day, asking for them to be taken down. Police showed up one hour later. They arrived at the white front door of their white house.

The neighbors were arrested. As if trying to change their minds, the police paraded them through the museum on their way to jail. Upon passing the different displays, the neighbors took note of the high ceiling and of the checkered tiles that filled the floor. They noticed the wooden carvings that surrounded the doorway and the dark, long shadows the paintings created in response to the small drops of light 17

that trapped themselves in the various rooms and halls. That night, the neighbors were haunted by the images of the walls neatly and obediently holding onto the white, blank canvases. But what pried their eyes open to their limits was that, on their way out of the museum, they had managed to glance into a small room where classical, older pieces were hung — a silent death.

Las Meninas, by Diego Velázquez, had been victim of the massacre. The profound, dark tones that filled the background had elicited a feeling in the neighbors they had never felt before. Despite previous, brief, encounters with original combinations of bold color, in that moment they were overcome by awe. It was an astounding sensation, exacerbated by the contrast present in the painting: light shining on the floor in the scene contrasted the darkness of the walls. It was unique.

The characters in the painting had additional intricacy. If one looked beyond the girls with them wide dresses, a mirror was visible on the back wall. In it was the reflection of a couple. Zooming back out, a painter facing a large canvas was dipping a brush into some paint. The neighbors, in the fleeting moment they were able to taste the art, understood: viewers of the painting were the couple in the mirror, and the painter was depicting them. Viewers were reflected by the piece. It was this idea they pondered until light danced into their cell.

The thought dawned on them slowly. The white canvases, the so-called art, were a stark reflection of the blandness of society. Everyone had to be the same, and for the first time, the couple realized the extent of the limitations of this expectation.

It meant life without the beauty of the color and uniqueness of Las Meninas. But 18

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perhaps more importantly, it meant emotional imprisonment. The neighbors were “released” a few days later.

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Diálogo de un domingo a la hora de almuerzo Verónica Copello

Una tarde, sentados en el comedor, estamos mi mamá, mi papá y yo. Mi hermana, quien no estudia en Bogotá, ya no nos acompaña en la mesa. No puede apoyarme en mis argumentos contra las acusaciones de mi mamá.

“Es que esa actitud con la que andas últimamente, toda sobradita… ‘soy senior entonces ya no me importa el colegio… voy a clase, pero a gastar tiempo… llego a la casa y me pongo a ver series.’”

“Yo nunca dije eso. Y sí hago muchas cosas, ma. Pero las estoy haciendo por fuera del colegio. ¡Ni que estuviera rumbeando un miércoles o metiendo drogas o contando los días para Cancún!”

“Ay sí, menos mal sólo sales a jazz y a literatura y yo no sé qué más… a esos sitios que te inventas.” “¡Pues sí! Son las cosas que en verdad me interesan y que me van a ayudar en mi futuro. No es mi culpa que tú creas que sólo me junto con marihuaneros por allá en el centro.”

“Pero tienes responsabilidades. Uno no puede sólo parar de ir al colegio. Ese cuentico de que te pregunto si vas o no, ¡ya no más!”

“Mamá, literalmente voy al colegio todos los días. Las únicas veces que capo 20

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clase es cuando ustedes me lo piden.”

Y ahí interviene mi papá, quién ha estado callado hasta ahora, y sólo se voltea a mirarme de vez en cuando. Deja su copa de vino sobre la mesa y, riéndose, dice: “Correcto. ¡Solo pierdes clase cuando yo digo!”

Me volteo y le sonrío de vuelta: gracias, pa, por siempre tener actitud de papá.

Pero mi mamá lo raya, como diría ella que decimos nosotros, y el chiste queda ignorado.

“Oye, Vero, estás hablando tan feo. Soy tu mamá y me respetas.”

“No estoy siendo irrespetuosa. Estoy rectificando lo que piensas de mí, ya que me molesta que no entiendas lo que yo valoro. “¿Por qué te choca tanto que quiera salir a un concierto de jazz un jueves? De la misma manera que voy a ese concierto — de veinte mil pesos además — y a mis conferencias de literatura, voy a oír música clásica contigo en el Teatro Mayor un miércoles.” “¿Y de dónde sacas esas cosas?”

Gracias por ignorar mi argumento, pienso antes de responder: “Usualmente las 21

guardo en Facebook.”

“Ay sí, ¡qué maravilla Facebook! ¿Y quién te invita?”

“Nadie, ma… Yo sólo escribo lo que me interesa y Facebook me va recomendando eventos. Así averigüé sobre Ilustre y sobre el concierto de Fonseca y este señor Alberto que me está ayudando con mi investigación. ¿Ves? No es que no me importen las cosas, es que ya me estoy enfocando en lo que de verdad quiero hacer con mi vida y estoy tomando todas las oportunidades que pueda. ¡Y lo hago a partir de la escena de Bogotá porque simplemente me fascina! Yo sé que a ti te da un paro cardíaco cada vez que salgo, cada vez que cojo un Transmilenio, pero a mí me encanta. Me encanta ver a la gente caminar, me encanta ver a la gente en el bus, me encanta la colombianada que es esta ciudad.

El otro día me tocó un señor con cara de punk oyendo una telenovela a todo volumen en un estéreo que cargaba… ¡En el bus! ¿Dónde más ves eso? Me toca la señora que me pide si le vendo un pasaje en el paradero, y pues qué hago yo, se lo regalo porque no me imagino lo que para ella son dos mil cuatrocientos pesos. Me toca que después de mi conferencia en Ilustre le haga preguntas a Alberto y éste me pregunta si tengo tiempo para tomarnos un café. Le digo que sí, que por supuesto, pues tengo tanto que aprender de él. Y dos horas y media 22

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después miro el reloj, voy tarde para todo lo que había cuadrado ese día, pero hablé, por dos horas y media, sobre Foucault, Dostoievski, Bolaño, Camus, con una persona que literalmente siento que me abre la mente.

Sí ma, a veces puedo ser descuidada. Pero esas cosas que le tocan a uno, que sólo pasan, esas son las cosas sobre las cuales puedo escribir después, pensar después, cerrar los ojos y verlas otra vez. Yo quiero eso en mi vida. Quiero tener esas imágenes en mi cabeza. ¿Te parece que estoy pidiendo mucho?”

Miro a mi mamá con ojos impacientes. Ella me devuelve la mirada, y piensa su respuesta. Mastica, levanta la copa de vino, la vuelve a poner en la mesa.

“Una cosa son experiencias y otras descuidos o estupideces, cosas que puedes no hacer. La seguridad, entre esas, no es chiste.”

“Yo sé mamá, tampoco soy bruta. Ni doy papaya. Cada vez que me monto en el bus me aseguro de hablar por lo menos una palabra en español para que no me pongan cara de gringa. O cuando camino por la calle, tú qué crees, ¿que ando con el celular en la mano?”

“Sí, Vero, no te estoy diciendo que seas bruta, no seas grosera. Pero esas cosas a veces sólo pasan. El día que te roben…”

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La interrumpo: “¡Pues viviré el robo! Por más horrible, asustador, lo que sea, viviré algo. ¿Por qué te aterra eso tanto? ¿Ah? Igual que te aterra que me vaya a estudiar a Ámsterdam.

Cada vez que lo menciono pones una cara de ‘va a llegar tatuada, con piercings, marihuana y pesando dos kilos.’ Por favor, dame un poco de crédito… Eso me molesta: que no me des el crédito de tener criterio. Obviamente nunca voy a tener tu criterio, pero tengo el mío…”

Mi mamá se ríe y me mira.

“Yo sé ma, yo sé. Pero a ver: te tocó una hija que va a estudiar literatura y filosofía, y que nunca salió de la casa porque toda la vida fue, y sigue siendo, una ñoña.

Y lo que siempre quisiste que saliera, ahora te choca. ¿Por qué? Si además estoy saliendo a experiencias culturales…. Experiencias que no pasan sino una vez en la vida…”

Se queda mirándome. Me volteo a ver si mi papá me apoya. Pero no, él está feliz con su vino y consintiendo al perro debajo de la mesa. “¡De verdad no entiendo, ma! Yo no soy descuidada… Tenemos problemas en esta casa porque pienso las cosas demasiado, no porque no las piense…”

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“No estoy diciendo que seas descuidada, pero ¿te parece racional que una niña que sigue en el colegio salga un jueves a un bar de jazz?”

“Si miras las razones, ¡sí! No voy a ir a emborracharme, no voy a ir a rumbear, voy a ir a sentarme, tomarme una cerveza, y oír un quinteto de jazz, que por cierto se esfuerza demasiado para vivir de su música en Bogotá, y que va a hacer un tributo a un artista muy importante en la historia del jazz. ¡Quiero aprender sobre eso! ¡Quiero oírlo! ¡Quiero sentirlo! El jazz es algo que ya estudié, ahora lo quiero vivir.”

“A ver… un segundo…” empieza mi papá. Por favor, por favor, que esto no sea un chiste, sino que contribuya a mi argumento, pienso yo. “¿Con quién vas a ir?”

“María, Vero y Paula.” Simple, concreto, al punto. No se necesita nada más en este momento.

Lo piensa. “Listo. Si dos de esas tres que dices van, puedes ir.”

Mi sonrisa se extiende sobre mi cara de un extremo al otro y suelto un grito de felicidad. Mi mamá mira a mi papá, no con decepción, ni con rabia, sino con sarcasmo: 25

“Mucho alcagüeta,” dice.

“Vas a ver que valdrá la pena, ma. Te lo prometo.” Saco mi celular, le escribo a Paula, María y Vero, y no han pasado dos minutos cuando anuncio, “Listo, ¡vamos las cuatro!”

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Like, Literarily! - Issue 8

Miss Mary Mack’s Journey Back to the Future Antonio Rodríguez

The 4th of July was expected to be a delicious dinner for Miss Mary Mack’s family.

They had delicious food, hot dogs that would disintegrate in the saliva, sauce dripping hamburgers, cheesy and greasy pizzas, coke, and they were all ready for the celebration. But Miss Mary Mack had one question intriguing her from past months. Where were the elephants? They jumped so high they reached the sky. But never came back. It was a real mystery. How was she going to explain all of this to her friends at school, that she payed 50 cents in vain? She researched all she could about the elephants, their astronomy, how many elephants fit in a spaceship, the mass of each and every elephant on earth. She even researched their zodiac signs and if they were allowed to walk on the moon, or if they needed an ID. But she would never have guessed what happened on that evening on the 4th of July.

Nothing even managed to make sense, how long can an elephant stay in the sky?

The truth really was one that only Dr. Emmett Brown would be able to explain. He proposed they had gone back to the future. Back in time, and several repercussions and consequences were to happen. They were going to wipe out all of humanity’s achievements. The elephants had defied the time-space timeline and entered a quantum paradox, where they were not able to come back. Miss Mary Mack was looking for plausible explanations, but nothing really made sense. She decided to write a letter to Marty Mcfly. She told him all about her problems and all about her ideas. But Marty knew better. With help of Dr. Emmett Brown, they built the DMC Delorean, a car that was able to go back in time with nuclear energy. They started their journey and realized that the elephants were trapped in the medieval era, 27

and were being raised as gods. Marty and Doc had a hard decision to make.

Probably the hardest they’ve ever encountered in their time travels. How were they to fit elephants in a car? With help of Miss Mary Mack silver buttons, they achieved the impossible, just in time to arrive in the 4th of July, at 11:59.

Miss Mary Mack was melancholic. She didn’t sleep on July the 3rd, or July 2nd, nor even on the July first of it was the longest of nightmares. But she was destined to find out what happened to the elephants. She already missed their rough skin, and how marvelous it was. She missed the elephant’s trunks, that hugged her gently.

Miss Mary Mack loved the hugs even though they smelled like rotten and putrid fish. She waited and waited, but no answer arrived. The celebration came, and Miss Mary Mack put on her silver buttoned dress. No hopes were even visible and she couldn’t find a trace of joy. 3! 2! 1! BOOOOOM. A loud and intense noise swallowed all of the expectators, almost leaving them deaf. Instead of fireworks, elephants suddenly started storming out of the sky. And Miss Mary Mack finally got her answer. Marty and Dr. Emmett Brown had saved Miss Mary Mack. The elephants didn’t come back till the 4th of July. Everyone applauded the elephants and Miss Mary Mack thought to herself, those 50 cents were worth it. And she lived happily ever after with her 50 cents left, her elephants who jumped the fence, and her magic silver buttoned dress.

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Like, Literarily! - Issue 8

Simón el Bobito Isabela Sánchez

“Simón el bobito.” What a childish and foolish nickname. Simon had suffered all of his life assuming the role of “el bobito.” Even now that he had left home, entered college, and proved to the world that he wasn’t stupid as his nickname implied, he was still “Simon el bobito.” Everything started at his hometown when his father Lucio, or Taita, as Simon used to call him, noticed that Simon wouldn’t follow his steps.

All Simon wanted to do was invent stories. He wasn’t sporty or very skilled, but his imagination exceeded all limits. With everything that his father sent him to do, Simon made up a story. If he had to milk cows, he would say that he was hit by them a jumped through the skies with their kicks. If he needed to hunt a bird, he would say that they would always go away. If he wanted to skate, he would say the ice broke and that he was at the verge of drowning. Taita never found the stories sharp or clever, not even humorous. So, in the middle of his frustration and disappointment, he came up with the nickname that would ruin his son’s life. Of course, the town did find that funny, and clever, and bright. Simon tried to escape the situation, to avoid being seen as his own father saw him,“un bobito, nothing more. He thought that by leaving home he would be able to leave all of that behind; he would be able to be seen with new eyes. So, that is precisely what he did. He left his country, Conumbia, and settled himself in the “land of dreams” or the Unified States.

Simon left without saying goodbye. He started his leaving plans a year before he actually followed them and never told anybody because he knew he would be underestimated. Simon was anything but stupid. He was well aware of how he was perceived by his family and his own town. He knew how anybody who heard 29

his plans would respond, “Oh, that is so cute, but if you weren’t able to fish a fish, or hunt a bird, how will you leave home all by yourself,” or, “Simoncito, that is a nice story, please go and do this or that for your father,” and even worse, “Even your brother, Juancho, wasn’t able to get to the Unified States, so how will you get there?” Oh, Simon’s brother, that was a real sensitive subject. Juancho was three years older than Simon, and apparently, he was all that Simon was never able to be. He was tall, strong and sporty. He had natural malice to his personality, which meant that he always wanted to hurt Simon. He spent his days making fun of him and playing him tricks; Juancho cracked Simon’s fingers, burned him with flaming water, and locked him in miniature closets. Simon, though not stupid, was naive and thought his brother was just playing. Until one day when Simon’s bubble broke, and he finally understood what Juancho and his whole family were doing to him.

Simon considered this day the day that changed him forever. It was a cloudy morning; however, it wasn’t cold. The weather was so dense that Simon felt as if he was drowning in the gray, somber, heat. His abuela was cooking some old pork, so the house was infested, no, it was intoxicated with a rotten scent mixed with onions and grease. Nonetheless, Simon was still positive. In fact, he was using that awful atmosphere as inspiration for a new story. Juancho didn’t feel the same way. The grotesque situation started to make him anxious, and as usual, he went to his little brother in order to release some of that anger. He approaches Simon’s room and without even hesitating it, Juancho entered.

“Cómo vas Simoncito” 30

Like, Literarily! - Issue 8

“Juancho not now, I’m writing a new story” “Oh, a new story? Simon, when are you going to grow up? Please, I think it’s time you leave that stupid dream behind.”

“It is not stupid, and it is not a dream, I’m going to make it happen.”

Juancho started to laugh aggressively, it was so intense that it even startled Simon.

He was well assured that he hadn’t said anything funny. For the first time in his life Simon had had enough, so he stood up and pushed his brother as hard as he could. Juancho crashed into the wall and his head bounced off it like a rubber ball. This is when Simon swears he saw actual flames going our Juancho’s ears.

His eyes were daunting and his look helped him say everything he intended to say without even opening his mouth. They were the longest 30 seconds of Simon’s life.

But what he never imagined was what Juancho was going to do next.

Juancho took one huge step and grabbed Simon’s story notebook before Simon could even make an attempt of stopping him. He started to rip out each page, one by one. And then every single page into halves. And then little pieces. And then into even smaller bits of paper. Until the only thing that was left as white dust. The ashes of Simon’s dead dream.

Since that day Simon was never the same naive boy that imagined playful stories.

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However, he still believed that he was inept and what Simon didn’t understand is that people saw him the way he saw himself. As long as Simon still believes he is “Simon el bobito,” he will continue “su historia pintoresca y fiel”.

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By Daniela Khoudari - 12th Grade

By Gabriela Largacha - 10th Grade

CNG