How To Clear The Historyon A Direct Tv Dvr

Carlos Arturo Caballero Medina

Carlos Arturo Caballero Medina (Arequipa, 1974) Bachelor of Literature and Linguistics from the Universidad Nacional de San Agustin de Arequipa. Unpublished poems have the Bird of Paradise Almond, and is preparing a novel entitled San Miguel at dawn. Won first prize in the Floral Games University "Federico García Lorca" (1999) organized by the University Nacional de San Agustin, the second poetry competition organized by the magazine Shared Station (2003), Second Prize "Guillermo Mercado" (2004) organized by the Municipality of Arequipa and recently Yanahuara the top of the Floral Games organized by the UPC (2008) with the story titled "Bergen." Currently, he teaches at the Pontifical Catholic University of Peru and the Peruvian University of Applied Sciences.

BERGEN

"Where the light curtain of darkness Becomes

Sigfried Opportunity waits a second to retaliate"

Kjimlson Deal. Valkyria, I, 234-235.

left window to enter a shimmering flash of light that illuminated the darkened room, as an arm of sun breaks through the damp cave walls carved by wind and midday sun. Strindberg, Ibsen, Kierkgäard, among others, resting on the desk of Alexander Alencastre, the firstborn of the family Alencastre Sarmiento, Manuel Alejandro Alencastre son, magistrate of the district of San Francisco.

Alencastre

Young, a scarce 13 years, had in its inventory of books readings with amazing caliber as the imaginary journey of Sir Wharton Wallace, Frederick Southampton, writer banned in Victorian England due to their deliberate excess on nautical astronomy. Southampton had announced the arrival of Hercólubus, the red planet, the Wormwood of Revelation of St. John, based on calculations of doubtful credibilidad para la época, lo cual le mereció la encarcelación y la vergüenza pública de la retractación. El joven Alencastre había llegado a él por medio de una cita de Magno Tracio en su tratado Supranaturalis, donde el cartógrafo escocés daba cuenta del viaje realizado por Sir Warthon Wallace — caballero de la orden de Majorbrigde y natural de Dundalk, Irlanda— en el año de 1425. El diario de viajes de Wallace indicaba que más allá del Círculo Polar Ártico existía un camino que conducía a las profundidades descritas por Dante casi dos siglos antes en su famosa Commedia. También hubo leído el magnífico relato de Roric —el vikingo que atravesó el Atlántico unfinished north along the path of their ancestors, who were aware of "a land beyond Kalaallit Nunaat" - be given as an Pollack, erudite scholar at the University of Bergen. Pollack took the license holder the Red Viking journal as the Odyssey Normandy.

But most attention was the relish with which the young Alencastre was engaged in these activities outside the boys of his age, provided books on the history of Norman towns, legends of the Icelandic sagas and some other data obtained in the library of the municipality of San Francisco, it was usual to see it surrounded by notes, paperweights, maps and charts classmates who, like himself, shared a devotion to the travel accounts. Even underlaid Sandvik, Assistant Professor Pollack, maintained a correspondence with Alencastre fluid, since the news of the latest developments in the investigation of notable philologist who recently embarked on the company to confirm that the Vikings reached Newfoundland in North America, 500 year before Columbus discovered the West Indies.

In these endeavors, Alencastre passed adolescence when, in late winter of 1943, the war in Europe took a radical turn to their research. All young age to carry a weapon and serve the nation were recruited to fight against the Nazis. His father gave him the statement after Christmas. Should be in Puerto Varas in two weeks with more baggage than his soldier's uniform. This does not change at all its objectives, as welcome was ordered that, on arrival at the port of Le Havre in France, had to go immediately to Stavanger, allied point of penetration in Norwegian front. Germany violated the neutrality of Norway and Denmark and, after landing in Normandy, was to ensure that the Nazis to retreat from the occupied territories.

Alencastre By July 1944 he entered the third airborne division the port of Stavanger, completely devastated by Allied bombing and scorched earth tactics that the Nazis also put into practice when the Russian retired. The stubborn resistance of the German army in three weeks delayed his arrival in Bergen, a key point in the liberation of Norway, since there was the last redoubt Nazi break in those icy lands of northern Europe. Even the correspondence had been interrupted since the beginning of the German invasion, because all communication was operated in spite of letters between the lovers by the Vikings did not pose any threat to the army of the Third Reich. Also ran the same so that all intercepted letters and, on finding incomprehensible vile papers containing information on travel, were thrown into a fire without a second thought (not missed a German officer who saw in such letters a coded message that revealed a possible location to the Allies, what alarmed the superiors who decided on the spot burn all suspect mail, if not, locate the sender of the letter for interrogation).

The landing of allied forces in Bergen was imminent. During the three-day trip aboard the battleship Plymouth, Alencastre carefully planned activities that occupy their time in the city at the end of fighting. Even locating the house first, then visit Professor Pollack, and finally check all the documentation as possible about the Vikings travel to the main library of the University of Bergen. Lying in his bunk, imagining what it would be present in that city he had known both by Even, nay, felt like I already know and this visit was just a scouting trip or some kind of award dedication. Anything less than an armed invasion of his country away from his desk, his books ... The mood of Alencastre differed from other young soldiers that for him, not from fear of bullets the enemy, but the possible futility of the trip if he died before arriving at Bergen.

the early hours of August 23, 1944 the Allies took by assault the coast of Bergen. Air support was crucial to prepare the ground and could do little German anti-aircraft guns against Allied bombers. The population also worked days before signaling strategic locations for the landing of paratroopers and clearing the areas that were targeted by the bombing. Within a week, Bergen was taken and the liberation of Norway continued its regular course. Alencastre division received orders to remain in port opposed as planned earlier. Too bad, because they would be willing to meet with Oslo.

During the reconstruction of the city, supported at all times Alencastre the villagers with whom exchanged a few words in Norwegian distance learned through books and notes Even he wrote. The raids of the war had not been allowed to find the address of your friend and teacher, but once the takeover of port, the first thing I did was look at both. Despite the joy felt by the residents of Bergen, the truth was that all was not to smile. Many citizens were tortured, disappeared or killed, accused of plotting or spies. Such practices were heightened during the days before the Allied attack and consequently, almost all residents mourned the loss of at least one close relative, friend or neighbor. It was difficult to locate the family home underlaid Sandvik, underlaid Elrond was the best tailor in the city and everyone in Bergen had attended services at least once. The anguish of the young accelerated heartbeat Alencastre while, slowly and when you cross a minefield, cautiously approached the house of the underlaid. No one answered his calls, even when he shouted "hello" in the local language. Opened the wrong door covering the front door and turned the handle entering after looking through the glass that the house was completely uninhabited. There were signs of violence and come down shelves, vases broken, torn furniture, tables with legs up ... everything was a mess and it seemed that not long for this barbarism. The decor was understated but tasteful, giving the impression that Mrs. underlaid left his presence wherever he needs a woman. "As my mother," thought the young Alencastre. He saw a family portrait on the floor and immediately recognized Even, though he never had seen before. As envisioned, underlaid Even Sandvik was young, tall and lanky, blond hair, blue eyes and sharp nose, with a countenance a boy once sad and playful. The worst was expected. Making his way among the furniture and tables smashed, came to the desk where he assumed Even performed his research and why not, wrote the letters that came to him three or four weeks later. Environment was spent reading, an extensive library, at that moment savagely looted. Insurance was asked to inform the young Alencastre of issues that were of interest. He sat in the desk chair and began flipping through the papers scattered across the table. Under that pile of papers found an ancient map in the lower part is left to read a code library. He pushed the papers Even and tried to imagine sitting there for the last time.

The patrol made its entrance suddenly broken down the door amid cries, prayers and strength. The officer asked Even to the whole family responded with a silent accomplice. The first to be killed was Hermann, the youngest of the underlaid, then his sister and mother. Even was in the basement to see what was happening, I could only hear the shots and screams were becoming less audible. A fourth shooting took the life of Elrond, and at that moment, Even to go to indulge realized it was too late. He had to endure in the dark murder family, the destruction of their belongings and the screams that drew a close picture of what was happening up there. After the Nazis to leave, Even saw the size of the losses at the sight of his family rendered on the carpet in the room who's met minutes before dinner. The rest is guesswork, conjecture unbacked more than intuition and common sense. Without delay, Even sit to write a last letter knowing that the Germans would intercept. The contents of the letter is still in question, may contain some information about the location of the allied army, the possible landing area or the number increased treacherously allied units available. Then, he would write another letter to where it would Alencastre abreast of latest developments in Norway and, despite everything, had to put in a safe place all the material they had gathered. "Professor Pollack was questioned and unable to get anything from him was also executed," amounted to write the last lines. "It is therefore important that you go to the university library and pick up much documentation as possible before the Nazis burned. Impossible will make contact again. No more death warrants retain useless information. You're the only one able to appreciate this effort. Best Regards, Even. "

As he finished reading the letter, left the house heading to college. Gathered all the information he could and was ready to review, in detail, each of the sources. Sadness Even the disappearance of a sudden gave way to excitement over the discovery of Professor Pollack notes. Those days were very intense the first week of September 1944; Alencastre managed to take the time to review the notes of the teacher with the help of some students who voluntarily cooperated with the reconstruction of the university. None of them knew the whereabouts of Even. "They say he was a spy for the Nazis and fled with them when the Allies arrived." Alencastre gave no credence to these versions and set about translating the manuscripts of Pollack, was holding what in his wildest dreams could have imagined. Tickets nebulous

of this story was completed in the decades ahead. The U.S. declassified OSS files its European partners informed of the details of the operation "Nibelung." Many years later, in memory of Alexander Alencastre, Even diligent remain the Norwegian student found a fatal result of a misunderstanding. Even ignore that was transformed by night in "Siegfried", the legendary hero of the saga that distance nibelunga informed the Allies about the German positions and who owed the success of the Norwegian campaign. For most of his countrymen, underlaid Even the name was synonymous with treason, it took nearly 50 years for the Norwegians to understand and accept the reality of their sacrifice. Conspired against him as he disappeared without explanation, for long, extended version of Even-and not the Nazis, was the one who executed his own family and fled to Germany where he was probably murdered. Right end for a traitor and family. Nothing is further from the truth, Sigfried prefaced freedom of Norway to the welfare of his people, have been delivered on that fateful August night in 1944, have died in vain. Thanks to young underlaid allies anticipated the invasion and Norway was freed from the Nazis. His body was never found, but it is assumed that American and British secret services erased all possible evidence of his whereabouts. Was sought which could not be found, this was the real death Even underlaid: Sigfried Koepke irreversibly transformed into a modest vegetable farmers in Northern Ireland.

Upon his return, Alejandro Alencastre received from the mayor San Francisco Medal of Honor on behalf of the commune, and declared him a favorite son to his parents' emotion and excitement of the people who had never heard of a country called Norway or the Vikings, much less understand the importance of underlaid the feat of the young. A Alencastre death, the documents became part of the bibliographic heritage of the local university, as indicated in his will. The last news we had of Alencastre was three months after our interview, sick, exhausted and blind him time to attend me at home in the Lake District. Attentive to every detail of his presentation, I could rebuild his memory and the Even. When I concluded my part of the story about his former schoolmate, she replied bitterly, "I already knew."

To me, Thomas underlaid Mehren, simply, I had the task of counting, 63 years later, the true story of my grandfather Even underlaid.

Rimadyl What If A Human Consumes

Castilleja Arrieta

Born in Lima (1964). Graduated in law from Catholic University of Peru, Pedro Castillejo won an important mention in the story contest Gabriel Miró, Spain. He also won the Short Story Competition "Open Book." Board member of the legendary magazine Imaginary Art. Many of his stories appeared in cultural magazines and in the anthology called "10 for 90 writers." Even when states away from the literary activity, from time to time, Castillejo surprises us with interesting stories that reveal his narrative talent and writers and the themes that obsessed.

AS BIRD OF PREY

will deposit without content, soft, weak, on the old couch in the old hall. They had crossed the hall and come to the site. Perhaps this time the detours and false answers are not sufficient. You feel bad, you tell the story a thousand times and despair. • How, why? -Questions, and answer you heavily, with the weariness of sterile search of eternal disappointment. "Mr. Saldaña, his work is really better, but still lacks something, perhaps that dose of vehemence with which you seem not to meet its creation ... it is too cold, I do not know ... maybe the next" and then - leaving-the sly whisper of the secretaries behind you sensed that this is the same comments and derision of so many times, and then, a good editor, silencing asolapada mockery that you will try not to listen, and you hurry and run away with your manuscripts wrinkled, crestfallen.

Then I suddenly got that feeling disgusting and only taking over you. That smelly sweat soaking up as an FMD adheres to everything, like a bird of prey appears to devour the life as it is more like carrion. Your failures are the carrion, which have been repeated so yourself. At heart, I sensed that it was inevitable that appearance disgusting, because you had never felt so bad. Today, you had no impetus to even ask for the mystery contained existence, why that particular odor, or why you had chosen just you. Just remember to always reach drives you to death, answering your most intimate questions with answers that appear and gather around the void which has agreed to call "your life" so that we end up concluding that you should remove it, because it that it does not exist, I repeat, almost savoring the phrase.

Before, you could beat that sweat staining infect your losses, because you had few illusions about life that gave you the strength to defend it, but today, early, the editor and the mocking laughter definitely been buried, leaving you vulnerable and lost. Sense, then, that burning fluttering wet, hot, from the pit of my stomach, up arbitrarily to your head, where suicide would be the final and conclusive. Because you were sure: this time had no mitigating failure had you cornered.

However, as never before, that moisture was short and strange, however, appeared to grant you all that stream out of frustration in his survival, to the endless chain of demerits and empty. And I rejoiced, even though-as usual-musty taste you tongue was indelible. Recently, after a while you perceived that bright and new conviction, that you had given aqueous shame the key to escape from all your mediocrity: you were about to write the great work of your life. Finally, you saw the light at the end of the tunnel: success.

With accelerated still breathing, we fail to rejoice, and wondered for the uniqueness of the event and, without you reach the time to question anything, ran as fast as your old permit, you took a pencil, a notebook and came back to the old hall, sitting in front of the small coffee table that attracted it to you, to undertake the writing. As always, you forgot to close the door into the street and allowed the entry of this trickle of air so upset at first, and now completely forgotten before acquiring your dedication.

you take a pencil in his hands and you sit down on the overstuffed furniture. The feeling of serenity I recalled the unexpected visit of Charles, the beloved friend who liked to sit in the chair so that you had chosen and giving back to the door.

You could have questioned the fact, but the fact is that with pencil in hand, felt that everything was like writing a story and start writing in your mind. There too the character sketch, the environment, and chose a tone, nor to any other item. Just start typing.

"There is Borges called him" old, stubborn and lonely. His lean figure is outlined against the dim light of a candle, in the corner of small room glows dull and ambitious. Dry your face rejects the light beam unsuccessfully strives for depth of your wrinkles, drowned in darkness forever timeless. In the light of the lamp and the old table, a dusty mountains of paper are the animografía of failure, of many hours of lost development. Borges looks on and laughs without desire "all that failure behind us, today I feel I'll do the best story ever been written."

Lost in a total effort Borges, is available to resolve the fate of a story, build your delusions of paper. In the darkness, swirling ideas, without knowing exactly how, his talent began to draw profiles of a face: he was born Ramón Arenas. It was conceived and realized on the street Maldonado, deep breath and take a trip. He had bloodshot eyes, a huge body and a damn quality recurring. Borges himself smiled fascinated by his work. Ramon Arenas

just nodded before walking through the streets family sincerely newly invented for him. Then he saw, without gasping, with the sound of the sun in his huge shoulders. Not even the stifling traffic noise around him made him question. Created perfect, flawless, had scheduled a clear intention: to intercept the Norwegian ambassador's funeral, just as he crossed the street Anthers in Quarter reputed as "intellectuals", San Alfonso de Parné. To be around, locate the ambassador's wife and murder for an offense that could not remember, but its existence was strangely safe, stay paid. Then run aimlessly.

walked stealthily into the city center, dodging cops coming in the opposite direction, using a rare instinct was not born of experience, they had virtually no past. Boarded a bus, which crossed the entire city. When it was paying for the trip, the jugular always about to explode and aggressive smile full of rotten teeth, seemed to frighten the collector; down without any problem, without even a warning. I was in a poor neighborhood near a large market. Was hospitalized with a narrow alley and played a battered door. The vagueness of a known face never invited him. Minutes later came out with a small but heavy lump in her right hand, wrapped in a manila envelope. Then, Ramon Arenas returned to their departure, to meet their paper chains.

long walked the streets of a major thoroughfare, saturated colors that should be recognized in spite of its novelty. The bulge in the hand increased their weight as time passed. When it was discovered in the right corner, thought the ambassador's wife and something else. Borges is generated here, the first mystery, but pretending not to miss the meeting, he continued, most comfortable in the chair and approached the lamp to see better and keep writing.

Ramón Arenas made a horrible grimace, he turned and began walking east. Borges this time could not overlook that repeated disobedience before he wanted to think of the ambassador's wife but not in that "something else" and that would not turn around and leave the place where it was executing the murder. Then he stopped writing and he resumed only when came to the aid of his confusion the words of his late professor of literature: "In the works of art, the real, the author is exceeded and reduced to the role of a mere facilitator." With the sound of that memory resumed the letter, even more excited than before.


tiles on the sidewalk passed beneath the feet of Ramón Arenas quickly. Despite his large body, almost did not make noise when stepped on, and that apparently was very pleased. Changed direction multiple times, as if trying to mislead anyone. The role that the package was wrapped and moist and the contours of the gun began to be noted, however, the night and disgust that reflect prevented passers set you look. Turn right, two blocks from front, one on the left. In a macabre moment, Borges looked down his pen, like slow motion, hitting the floor like a discordant drum. He thought the worst thing was that last face twisted with it knew it all, Borges had no doubt. He had finally recognized what site was Ramon Arenas, Borges knew he inexplicably was only a few blocks from her home. They attacked many of feelings, fear, curiosity, "Is it possible?" Rationality, coldness, "the creations always be dominated, and ultimately destroyed, if so, destroyed."

absolute Intrigue was built in his eyes very old, that they asked a thousand things. His trembling hand picked up the pen and shaking violently reproached infinity of fears that it monopolized. "Hey Borges, said that his job is on the" provinces ", which you will never be an intellectual, his writings on art is not interested in anyone who has no talent, creativity ... ¨ Do not expect the newspaper says you letters, is not it? ".

Never, never, he said. His eyes are deeply old captured all the resentment of years and Borges resumed his work, wanting to regain control and demonstrated many, many things. No longer cared that the latter face revealed that his creation came to kill him, I knew that today was able to dominate and not allow more insubordination. Borges set his sights on the role, his eyes filled with push and decided to war against this monstrous character who wanted to kill him. So, back to stamp words on the sheet. He ordered her to return, to pull his gun to stop, he smiled kindly. Got nothing. For the first time felt really panicked, it was as if he could not break the dynamics of his own story, as if somehow he started writing his own death. If your life was still subjected to a macabre curiosity, his sickly social revenge. Borges submitted it all and held a new trial. Settled the boom to almost tear the paper, making them gnashing his teeth sharply, led to his obsession with dark boundaries, which suddenly ended up relaxing. Suddenly stopped fighting, just threw his body back, and with a touch of resignation apparent Ramón Arenas allowed to reach the door of your house, climbing stairs slowly, at length, placed in front of his bent back and pointed a gun directly to the neck. Just then, Borges calmly drop the pen on the table and starts to laugh, thinking it would never be a failure and did not lend itself to carry out his own death.

The scene you play spiritual and icy. Your final was also another, pathetic, a Borges getting killed by their complex and its traumas. But Borges did not want to write, I did not capture his last words mortuary. You wanted to comfort you thinking the wrong time against the editor in the morning and the effort to write the novel, I had been tiring that I had caught in a prison where the bars are your fantasies horizontal and vertical, fatigue. Most did not understand what was happening. And you worked, wanted to go against the instinct of conservation and Borges got to live again, "almost made it," you said, and he takes the pen again, gripping his fingers, points on the last line, you write with your left hand covering the blade, you can not see, will not let you, "What makes?" writes and do not know what, you're curious and terrified ... exhausted, but you do not you stop.

eyes before now appear recalcitrant mocking Borges. And you: you think so many things. Borges feels a few steps away, the sound of the door behind her, and she smiles again but you can avoid it. Think again so much. Borges laughs last. Then feel the trickle of air at your back is huge, because your door has been opened, you are almost sure of that. You're afraid. You see a human shadow on the huge project dusty mountains of paper on your table. The fear grows, the taste of mold making your throat and you decide you still turn around.


Finally, your novel published along with the following editor's note:

"The writings of the work we are pleased to deliver to you on this occasion, Mr. Reader, were found by Carlos Bustamante, intimate friend of the author in circumstances that make it more exciting to read.

The following is a news story that illustrates in some way the death of so skillful writer:

"The body of dark writer Pedro Saldana, age 65, has a gunshot wound back. Ulna was found on a small table with his hands covering his head and some sheets of manuscript paper and disorder, presumably because of the violent impact caused by the projectile.
is not yet known the identity of the murderer.
A fact that has long intrigued researchers in the homicide division, is the stinking humidity impregnated onto the body and the manuscripts found at the scene. The authorities speculate that the deceased had suffered from a rare disease that causes profuse sweating and feverish apparent.
are unknown motives for the crime. "

.

Dance And Mime Costumes

PEDRO JOSE ANTONIO MIGUEL RUIZ Galloso

José Antonio Galloso. Born in Lima on February 4, 1972. He is a writer, photographer and teacher. He has published a book of poetry If you're running in, (Editorial White Fang, 1998) for which he received a distinction in the national contest "The Young Poet of Peru" (1995). In 2000 young adult novel published three days for Matthew, (Alfaguara). In collaboration with the Chilean artist Franz Fischer, published a book of poetry experimental cuts memory or the book of the shadow, (Bizarro Editions, 2007). The same year he published the novel The bad trip (Alfaguara). Some of his texts appear in the anthology slapping a corpse (Bizarro Editions, 2007) and in the bad grade, the school in the Peruvian story (Alfaguara, 2008). In May 2009 his third novel will appear under the Alfaguara imprint. Several of his stories, poems, newspaper articles and photographs have been published in the newspaper Milenio of Mexico in other print media, and network. Since March 2002, José Antonio lives in San Francisco, California. This story is part of the unpublished book "Bad Lima. In the next line appears both as a writer's blog page where it appears other passion of José Antonio, photography.
Blog: http://joseantoniogalloso.blogspot.com/
Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jag72/

LIKE A QUEEN

off the bus and started walking through the dusty streets of his neighborhood. The evening was coming upon the city. The gray sky darkened over the line of the nearby hills. He wore a paper bag in his arms. Progressed slowly, as if his mind was trapped in remote areas. Stopped at a pay phone, placed the bag between his feet, took a quarter from his back pocket, put it in the metal slot and dialed a number.
- Hello? "He recognized the fake voice through the headset.
- Shirley? He asked and could not pretend to own. It was almost a natural act.
"Yes, who is speaking?
-La Reina.
- Ay! Look at this crazy, where have you been into, hey?
I do not know, I got mad.
- why they send you to move without warning!, Ungrateful! Shirley
"Excuse me, not on purpose.
- crazy bitch! You had me extremely worried. I thought something had happened.
"Sorry.
"But how are you, tell me!, Tell me!
"I was a little wrong, but I'm better.
- Do you have something?
"No," he said after a second of silence.
- Really?, Are you sure?
"Oh, dear," he said trying to fake a good mood, "who is sure of anything these days?
- And where did you go?
"Not too far from your home, why not join up the address?
- Now yes, no, ungrateful?
"I told you I'm sorry.
"A little while, I go for a pen.
-Fast that I run out of money.
"Yeah, ready. Come on, tell me.
He gave the address.
"But really you all right?
"Yes, I swear.
I do not know why I do not believe, have a dead voice.
"Truly, Shirley, all is well.
- Do not want to go to your house now?, Behold, I come out to play.
"No," he said, "I can not tonight, I have plans, but why do not you come tomorrow.
"Tomorrow, what when?
"As to the six p.m. would be nice.
- Are you sure you're okay? "If
girlfriend, do not worry.
-I love you.
The line went dead. Hung up. Picked up a tear slowly slid down her cheek to his chin and fell on the ground. He wiped his face with one hand, picked up the paper bag and returned to the passage through the neighborhood streets. The houses went on in silence. There were no people passing by the dirt track. From time to time he passed one or another passerby, like everyone else, could not avoid looking at him askance. He had always been, everyone had to look at. The lights on the poles are ignited. He stopped before a door, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and went to a very small house. The heavy canvas curtains were closed. A thick wooden chariot holding the corrugated roof. The place was submerged in the shadows but not switched on the light. It smelled of cigarette smoke and dust clinging en los muebles, en la ropa, en las paredes. Colocó la bolsa sobre la mesa y se dejó caer sobre el único sillón. Estaba sumamente flaco. Las extremidades largas y huesudas se estiraban como patas de araña. El pelo largo y negro le cubría la mitad del rostro e intensificaba las facciones de la parte descubierta. El pómulo salido, la piel oscura, la ceja depilada hasta quedar convertida en una línea negra que todos los días tenía que volver a pintar sobre los huesos toscos de la frente. Metió la mano al bolsillo del pantalón, extrajo una cajetilla de cigarros, la abrió, sacó uno y lo encendió. La flama del encendedor reveló la profunda oscuridad contenida en su mirada. El vacío y la tristeza parecían living in each of his movements. The flame also revealed, those long-fingered hands and crooked. Smoked patiently, staring at the ceiling.

* * * Growing

had been tough. Each year had been a century of constant pain and to repair, gradual discovery of the appalling truth would be his only happiness and his cross. Every year ending in that house at that school, as if born to not ever see the light of day. Never knew that was not otherwise be known that different from teeny expected when left alone to dress in a hurry with her mother's clothes. Fast and afraid, but eager to look in the mirror and feel happy for a second because then came the great fear that forced him to undress and leave everything as it was. The big fear was his father's house, a dark shadow smelling of alcohol and yell and blow. Because the man had a duty to correct and edit had to give blows. But with his father Ernesto could not, even though he had been beaten up hard and tiring, never could fix it. Ernesto was born broken, twisted. It just happened so crooked from the start, been forever. As much as I tried I could not hide, jump to light when the streets ran with his brothers, when no le salía ni una miserable jugada en la cancha de fútbol, cuando prefería mil veces jugar al vóley con las chicas o sentarse en la vereda con las rodillas juntas, juntísimas.

* * *

Se adelantó un poco hasta quedar sentado al borde del sillón, dejó el cigarro colgando entre los labios, tomó la bolsa de papel, extrajo una caja, la apoyó sobre los muslos, la abrió y sacó una botella de güisqui Swing. La observó un rato entre sus manos, la colocó sobre la mesita y con un leve golpe activó el movimiento pendular. Le había costado un ojo de la cara pero no era para menos, la ocasión así lo ameritaba. He stared at the bottle and for a moment all was the sound of that glass fro bouncing off the walls. He got up, took the bottle from the beak, went to the kitchen, threw ice cubes into a glass and filled to the brim. The kitchen was filthy. The plates stuck together with dried food and the toilet overflowed. The vessels used and the pots filled the shelves. He took a long sip dry. He focused on the wood flavor, smell of old whiskey. With glass in hand went to the bathroom. The shower floor was covered with mold. He threw what was left of the cigarette in the toilet and took another drink before you start to undress. Its very skinny and naked body leaving exposed the ugliness of the body impossible. To drink again. The mirror above the sink was broken. He avoided meeting her fragmented reflection. He entered the shower and, with his arms folded and eyes closed, let cold water run over your body.

* * *

The first explosions were heard at ten o'clock. His brothers and his parents were finishing arranged to go to the plaza. Ernesto was lying in bed, covered with blankets to the head. You will not!, Had told his father at breakfast, I do not want embarrassment, this is a decent party! But old, his mother tried to intervene. But nothing!, He stays home to care for the period. He heard the door close. It was the first time that forbade him to go with them to the feast of the patron Saint Joseph. Surely his father had not been able to forget the party last year, when, after drinking some beers, Henry, with his fourteen years confused, had begun to dance like crazy, as if nobody was watching, had lost the composure he had always tried to maintain, and his father, who was as drunk as everyone pulled him tightly by the arm, slapped tremendous and sent him home for good. He waited a few minutes to make sure that it would not return, dried her tears, was uncovered, stood up, went to the room and turned on the old black and white TV. Spent the whole afternoon watching Mexican soap operas while suffering when listening to music, laughter, explosions of the rockets in the square. And, as always, he was alone, away from all displaced. Had tried many times to change, to start his heart that truth which meant shame, sin, darkness. Many times he had sworn he was going to carry like a man, I would get a girlfriend and was going to stop being what was inevitable. But it had always been useless, despite the long hours of prayer, supplication desperate: Please dear God, please let me wake up to be like my brothers, as my father, do not re-look at men with these eyes that hurt me in the soul. But nothing happened. Each day he rose still more than ever that no one wanted him, even him. He fell asleep watching TV, curled up on itself.
The sound of the bell, followed by a series of insistent knocks on the door woke him. He opened his eyes and stood up. It was night. He approached the door and looked out the porthole. Edson was his cousin.
- What? "I asked opening the door.
"Nothing, nothing.
- Is everything all right?
"Yes. Entered
staggered to be dropped on the couch. His eyes were red and had difficulty stare. Edson was 19 and was the favorite nephew of his father. He played football in the neighborhood team as center and already had two years as the scorer of the team. He was tall, strong features, his face cut in sharp angles, with almond-shaped brown eyes, black hair, straight and shoulder-length, body slim, athletic young athletes. All the neighborhood girls would die for him.
- Hungry? "I asked.
"Yes.
Enrique got up and went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. He found a loaf of bread and a couple eggs. He took the pan and put it on the stove, lit it and threw a little oil. Edson closed his eyes and dropped his head back. Henry could not take your eyes off while frying eggs. He had always liked. Every time there was a game, he was the first to be ready to go to court. His father and his brothers thought it was because he liked football, but that was not true, he went to see Edson, to see him run on the dirt court, sweaty, wet hair with the blue shorts that left exposed those powerful thighs to shrink after every stride. He took a knife, took the eggs from the pan and placed on a plate with a loaf of bread. He turned off the burner and remove pan from heat.
"Here, it's all there was. Edson
opened his eyes, sat up with effort and took the plate.
"I hope you like it.
She sat beside him and watched in silence as he devoured the food like a wild animal. The liquid yolk, yellow and warm, it trickled between the fingers licked with relish. He chewed with his mouth open producing a series of sounds in any of his brothers would have produced disgust, but his cousin before him, everything was different. After eating, Edson left the dish on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch. He smelled of beer, sweat dense in the square dance. The shirt was wet, tight to the chest, breathing sounded very strong, his chest rose and fell. Suddenly, an arcade him convulse the body, stood a single impulse and ran to the bathroom. Ernesto was behind him.
- Need Help? "I asked but got no response. He was kneeling with his head on the toilet. Ernesto came to help. He bent, one hand held her face and the other grabbed his stomach. Easy, easy, "he said," you have to throw away all the alcohol, then you'll feel better, "The hand that held the front began to stroke it possessed by a force greater than any will.

* * *

Like a queen and the devil all was said and opened his eyes. Took a sponge, he took a special shampoo for skin and began to rub the body with both hands, slowly, chest, legs, eyes closed, slowly, neck, neck, slowly, he imagined that was in a very elegant bathroom, white, was a very clear vision, a white bathroom, a large white tub, large shower white, very white, he imagined that place away from decaying, stinking in which he was caught, it was rewarding to feel running water, water all so clean, as clean sponge, eyes closed, everything clean, and hands, both hands on his chest, on legs, sex, slowly, over and over again, slowly, about sex again, again, and the bodies began to appear capricious fire in the mind, and water and sponge, and tongues of fire, and the hands of fire, and fire that man impossible to forget, all man was only at that moment, everything was just the man, eyes closed, mind, the sponge, the visions of those sweaty bodies, and water, and hands, and sex, it was all sex, everything was white sex until the end, it was all just Edson in memory, everything was just fire. Opened eyes and found himself, horrible and forgotten, from the world. He took a bottle of shaving cream, shook it and rubbed it over his skin gray, ill. Then he took a razor and began the process repeated a thousand times to shave his entire body.

* * *

Edson finished vomiting. His shirt and pants were stained, smelling of bile, ethyl ferments. Ernesto knew they were alone, accompanied by the voices coming from the room in black and white, by the explosions of the rockets, the music square weak as a whisper told her obscure that nobody would soon. Edson leaned against the tub.
"Relax," he said, the chain pulled the toilet and wiped the floor with toilet paper. Then he got carried away by impulses. Every movement was natural arising from the center of your heart racing. Look at you, "he said, shame on you, either look like a drunk, do not want my mother finds you well. You better take a shower and change yourself.
"No, let me," said Edson.
-Easy, easy, 'said Ernest, "is not going to happen. Let me help me I can give you clothes. Come on, get up, stand up. Asu male, you're very heavy. Come on, help me a bit. So, that is-began to unbutton shirt, button by button, very slowly. The chest was left bare, dark skin, young and defined muscles. I had some hesitation before executing every move, thought he might react badly Edson, along a single slap violent and offended, but nothing happened. His cousin was very quiet, with eyes closed was allowed to remove the shirt. Ernesto did not say anything when bent and after unzipping jean button to download it began slowly. His heart went out of the chest, had never before been so close to a man, never before had taken the desire so excessive force.
- What are you doing? Edson muttered.
"Relax, cousin, a bath is going to fall very well. Come sit here.
obeyed and sat on the toilet. Ernesto put the stopper in the tub, opened the hot water tap and was the fourth of his brothers to find some clothes that you could provide. He was anxious, dominated by a series of strange emotions, intense, maddening. He returned to the bathroom, dropped the clothes on the floor, closed the tap and hand proved that water was not too hot.
-Ready, cousin, now take off your underwear and get in the water.
All proportions are left to see the naked body lying under the water. Unable to control himself, took a sponge and began rubbing the copper skin.
- What are you doing? Edson asked, "Are you crazy?
Ernesto paused for a moment, I expected Edson asked him to leave, let him alone, but did not. By contrast, closed his eyes and relaxed completely. Slowly, he replaced the sponge on his bare chest, barely touched the skin. The presentiment of something dark to light while seething inside. Could not control the instinct, I could not stop. After all, Edson was not refusing to touch, after all, he kept his eyes closed, as not wanting to see, or perhaps, as trying to imagine scenes distant. Nothing existed in the world, only letting Edson play, only the certainty of knowing fully, closer than ever to himself with a terrible desire to look in the mirror and burst into laughter full of joy. Then, after everything was over, while his cousin slept very quietly in the bed of his brother and he watched from the doorway, Ernesto had a clear assurance that there would be no turning back. The radiant dark journey of his life, the only begun.

* * *

bath is finished, turn off the spigot, wrapped in a white terry robe, took the glass whiskey and dried in one gulp. Went to the kitchen, took the bottle and went to his room. On the light, put the bottle and glass on the bedside table, sat on the edge of the bed, opened a drawer and pulled out a rectangular case in which he kept all his makeup. He refilled his glass. He lit another cigarette. After the first set, a dry cough and forced him to hang metal chest with both hands to try to ease the pain. Gave up cigarettes in the ashtray that sat on the bedside table, opened the box, took out a jar of cream and applied it with great patience in the arms and legs. Then pulled out a bottle of nail polish polish and a cotton bag. White ball placed paths between thin toes and twisted, shook hard on the little squirt, opened it and slowly began to cover the nail with red enamel fire that he loved.

* * *

Edson

for two years was his lover. The first man in her life. The only thing that bothered him was that Ernesto was just going to him whenever he was drunk. There was no way for something to happen in the field of sobriety, not even looking at him straight in the eye, indeed, treated him with indifference, or worse, as if nothing else was happening between them. But when got drunk everything changed. Ernesto had already established the relationship between alcohol and sex, and no sooner saw him uncorking the bottle early, his heart began to secrete substances celestial desire. I knew then it would be possible to pat the athletic body with which both dreamed. He was in love, completely mad. He wrote his name in the final pages of his notebooks and decorated with hearts and flowers. He wrote long letters of love that kept jealously under the mattress of the bed. How happy he felt. It meant no more than that overwhelming love that, deep down, I knew he would never be reciprocated. He took to the crumbs which gave Edson when I was drunk enough to pretend not to notice what he was doing. And their secret meetings and poachers, were gaining in boldness until he arrived that evening dark July. Ernesto entered the house after a day of school and found her parents sitting in the room. She cried uncontrollably and he was holding in his hands the love letters he had written to Edson. I bounced like a dog. He said he grabbed his things and get out. I completely erased from his memory. Her mother could do nothing if not mourn and mourn. He said he was ashamed of it, if I could kill him but did not want to end up in jail. Beat him to get tired. Ernesto did not say anything. Ni even cry. He put his clothes in a backpack and left.

* * *

finish painting the toenails and the hands. He drank and refilled the glass. He lay in bed and wait for the polish to dry. The effect of alcohol began to take the body with that quiet inexplicable. He lit another cigarette. The next night's silence was increasing in the mind. He coughed. Took the ashtray and put it on her belly. He thought of his family, ten years ago and had not spoken to them or see them, except for those days when you had that nostalgia back to the neighborhood. Then, watching his house from the corner, nervous hidden behind the makeup, the wig and huge sunglasses. Sometimes it was a long time standing, looking forward to his mother out toward the market. How I gave him time to run to her, hold her, but never did. Long puffed and lashed back pain. He wondered, as he had done many times, if your father would have regretted having missed the house with just fifteen years. I knew that it was most likely not, but he liked to think so, he regretted that when she was just assaulted him with remorse. Drank. It also asked again, how the hell would have explained his sudden disappearance. His father was too macho to accept before the rest of the family who had a son queer. Will I be killed?, Will I be sent to a distant country?, What lies have invented? And, my brothers, how have endured everything that happened?, Do you even remember, or does and I have completely erased their memories? And Edson, Like you have gone to Edson?, Does my father have done something against them or be forgiven for being the scorer of the neighborhood? Smoked. As important, he said, nothing matters, my only family is Shirley. She will handle everything, as usual.

* * *

I curse!, You're dead to me! Were the last words he heard from his father before his door was closed forever. Alone, desperate and not knowing what to do, wandered the streets of the neighborhood. He thought of jumping under the wheels of the first bus to pass by the road. He thought about walking to the first tall building you'll find on your way up to the top floor and jump into the void. Happened several times outside his home. He had a wild desire to knock on the door and beg sorry, but did not have the courage to do so, the fear he had for his father was above all. Ended up sitting in a park near his home. Crying, waiting in vain for his mother in the dark to tell him to return, his father was unrepentant. He took a jacket from his pack, put it, he lay curled on the side of a tree and cried.
He was awakened the bitter cold of dawn Lima. She picked up her backpack and started walking aimlessly. It was then that we turned a corner, saw half of the block to Shirley sweeping the front door:
- What is it? Asked to see him so sad.
"I've been thrown out of my house," he replied.
- What, can not be. Come, spend, spend. Tell me, what happened? Shirley was tall, with skin brunette and blonde hair to his shoulders. I had a hair salon in the living room of his house that catered to all the girls in the neighborhood. He was received with much love from the start. Without hesitation even offered him a place to stay, a bed, a plate of food. Never before had treated him that way. Never before had made her feel so good about yourself.
"One is what it is and let's face it. There is no way around it. The problem is not you, Ernesto, the problem is your parents.
Shirley was more than a friend, a mother. Gladly taught the craft of beauty and art to survive being yourself. It was he who put the Queen as she dyed blond hair.
And wake up every morning with a smile, and live infected by the tremendous desire to live in Shirley and her friends to meet, listen to their stories with music and beer, all similar or worse than yours, it helped a lot in the process to overcome the emotional crisis and the depression caused by rejection. However, happiness does not last long.

* * *

put out the cigarette and stood up. A dresser drawer took all her underwear and threw it on the bed. Chose a set of black lace and put it on. He tucked his penis as only an expert can do a transvestite. She put on her bra and put foam inserts for the buttocks and chest. Every time I started to realize this transformation, something in his body reacted with a subtle and intense pleasure. As he said Agrado in "All About My Mother": One is true to the extent that is as similar as possible to what has been dreamed. How true those words. As Shirley and she enjoyed when they saw the film in a cinema in the center. They laughed and cried with madness. Since that movie became addicted to the cinema of Almodóvar. She looked in the mirror and felt like one of his characters, as Rosi de Palma, yes, and it was ugly but beautiful at the same time. Dried glass of whiskey and turned it to fill. Alcohol softened his reflection, made it more tolerable in its ugliness and decay. He sat on the edge of the bed, took a pair of black nylon stockings and put them on. His life was a drama in the style of Almodóvar, so it could not do anything but behave like a queen, period. He lay in bed and thought of Shirley, which would come the next day. He felt a brief burst of pain crossing the skin. He wondered if his father or brothers have had to do with the misfortune that they were forced to leave the neighborhood.
Poor Shirley, he said. Ernesto
felt he had played with his bloody bad luck, she was wearing because of his father.
That was safe.

* * *

was Saturday. They had been drinking beer and listening to music all afternoon. At midnight they decided to lie down, but no sooner started to sleep a sound of glass breaking them up in the air. Then they heard a series of men's voices coming from the room. Ernesto Shirley got up and went after it. Upon reaching the room found four men in balaclavas and crowbars that were destroying everything in their path. Sissy shit, screaming, people with AIDS the heck, no one wants in this neighborhood!, Get out of here salted goats! Shirley ran to the kitchen for a knife to defend what they had achieved so much work, but one of the guys saw him and testified a very strong blow to the head that left her bleeding and lying on the floor. Ernesto only managed to run towards it and watch it all as he held his head terrified. I could not believe what his eyes were seeing, the hatred displayed by these men, mirrors exploding into a thousand pieces and that gallon jug orange with one of them began to drizzle. Ernesto did not do anything beyond the endless threats. Then came the fire, the tongues of fire devouring the entire life of Shirley, and guilt that was cystic in the heart of Ernesto, though, Shirley, said later that he would be eternally grateful for saving his life.
When firefighters finished extinguishing the flames, there was nothing of the beauty salon, just a series of black fragments falling apart.

* * *

He put on his red lycra dress, the best he had. She got out her black patent boots, while the set and the tears began to slide down his face expressionless. The confused emotions contained alcohol. She dried her tears, grabbed the box of makeup and began the final process of transformation. The whole face smeared with dark base through which perceived the dusky skin. Drew the eyebrows on the brow bone. False eyelashes hit gently. Painted red lips on fire. He outlined the mouth of Queen beyond the lips. Sheets applied on the cheekbones come out and closed the case. He stood up and looked in the mirror. So was she, The Queen, the only, true. Ernesto was someone who did not know, a dark history of the past, a terrible mistake that had led through mazes harmful. The only culprit.

* * *

took refuge at the home of The Devil, one of the friends of Shirley. Then Ernesto knew the true face of the night, there where Shirley had begun her dream salon. Sad corner of Avenida Arequipa, the Javier Prado, Canada. Those long nights waiting for customers, he soon discovered, were of all kinds. Young, old, drunk, stoner, rich, poor. He realized then that it was a freak, there was a lot men carrying the double life of the city. Married respectable family men who were waiting late at night to go with the dark side of desire. At first it was very strange, a strange act of exchange sex for money, pain, disgust. Rarely pleasure of a handsome man, but the money came in and, as Shirley may soon become independent and get out of it. However, Ernesto could never stop feeling guilt, damn fault, and no sooner had raised the money to rent a house in the Northern Cone and start again the beauty salon business, Ernesto, disappeared. She took her stuff and was dragging his bad luck in tow.

* * *

pulled all the clothes of their drawers, took her to the room and threw it on the coffee table. He sat in the chair and tied all knotted nylons strong resistance as checked by hand. He took the bottle of whiskey and drank directly from the peak. She climbed into the chair and tied the middle strip of wooden chariot holding the corrugated roof. Shirley would come the next day. He took the lighter, lit a cigarette and burned their clothes. Shirley is responsible for everything. She would know understand. She was the only one able to understand. He ended up smoking before the fire was beginning to run on the carpet, took the chair, tied one end of the half round neck, with an unrestrained smile on his face and said goodbye to Ernesto as a Queen, he jumped.

Peeing Alot Breast Sensitive

Effie

Effio Miguel Ruiz (Lima, 1977) studied Administration at the Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. It has a dozen literary awards in competitions in the country. He was a finalist at the XII Biennial Story "Cope Award 2002" with the text Copyrights, and his first book, The room of suicide, won an honorable mention in the V National Short Story Competition 2004 of the Peruvian-Japanese Association. His stories have been included on compilations Damn my love. Tales and stories of love (Sign Three Editorial, Lima, 2002), Meeting new writers (Universidad Científica del Sur, Lima, 2004), "Rosewood Guitar" and the stories of winners and finalists "Cope Award 2002" (Ediciones Cope, Lima, 2005), Dissident: Sample of the new Peruvian narrative (Revuelta Publishers, 2007), were born to lose. Just stories (Editorial Casatomada, 2007) and electronic journals and Heritage Project of Five Poets. He was recently awarded the First Municipal Narrative Competition Note to The Victoria (2008) Links:

The last refuge of the 2006 edition ( http:// www.letras.s5.com/mre110906.htm ).

The route of Samson in the 2007 edition ( http://www.letras.s5.com/mre100507.htm )

American Literary Magazine ( http://www.lospoetasdelcinco.cl/14/page23.html )

COPYRIGHT

Sitting at the typewriter, I accept with resignation that seems to be my inescapable destiny. How would being in another skin, dream the dreams of ordinary mortals, but it is written that my life is this nightmare, this inexplicable appropriation of alien memories. Right now I'm a usurper of the fate of men, now is Gabriel, then ... I write without conviction, and paraded through my mind images of those western movies where the hero is released without fear on the back of a runaway horse, to try to control it. I like him, somehow. I have but I fear: fear of what happens next, afraid that this does not end here. Write two words, but I doubt I regret starting, and finally scored the bus climbed slowly, almost mechanically checked the pockets of his jacket to find his ticket, he read LIMA-CHICLAYO. For a moment I think about ending it all (it's two in the morning, this is crazy) and go to sleep, but sleep is not an escape, is like having front me a deck of cards and every day discovered one, without knowing whether it will be red or black, or spades, or hearts, or worse. Continue: He sat at the window to smoke, I know that every word you choose has to be right, somehow there's a way I have to find areas that I should not tread, like the game of Minesweeper . How is it that this is happening, how would being in another skin, how to sleep and would not dream, not feeling, not thinking ...

1

all started a year ago, a night like any other, ie a large meal before bed and a nightmare that falls under its own weight. Do not remember exactly the dream, but I felt close, very me but did not know what it was: I woke up at midnight crying without knowing why. The next morning recovered some images of sleep, but too vague to find meaning: I was walking in an empty temple, I was sitting on a bench waiting for something that did not arrive and so distressed me. I gave it much thought and matter, straining to remember more details, other nights I went to overeating before bedtime, but the nightmare never again. I have not mentioned yet that I am a writer and the reason for my obsessive quest was the feeling that I missed the possibility of a great story, and at last I decided to imagine what he could not remember, anyway I always thought that an entirely imagined is more valuable as a building based solely on events experienced. So I wrote a story called LIKE TO FORGET, a text of almost twenty pages whose protagonist is a young man named Gabriel (later give details about the argument, now seems more important to refer the genesis of my story). The opening lines came to my mind as a revelation, after I read them that the only way I could start the text was as follows: Then he will say that dreams are also part of life, which eventually become memories as dreams, and that so happened to us. However, I was not totally satisfied with the rest, had anything into this text written in third person, something that did not convince me. I knew that was not how I meant it would have to correct the style, may change the sequence of events, shortening some and deleting others. But the days passed and I went aside, other concerns distract my attention, and that text was less important compared to new ones that I wrote, despite that I knew I had a good story in my hands. I never let my drafts to be read before becoming a finished text, true to this tradition, I hid the story in my private papers, and decided to wait for the time I returned to him or to interpose between us definitely oblivion.

2

met Nadia at the Faculty of Arts of San Marcos, was a pretty little girl, eyes narrowed, as if looking through the rain, I wrote once about it-and few freckles dotted her face, her low voice was a whisper that carried the words from afar (or from another time, with her never know how to say) and had something to chuckle easily contagious joy. Studied together the first two cycles of the race for Literature, and during that time we were almost inseparable, not because there was something more than friendship between us, but rather because we had similar tastes and preferences in terms of film and theater, and we shared the same passion for classical music, and while she was leaning more to the ballet and photography while I worked almost exclusively to literature, were these small differences that enriched our discussions, because we were allowed to listen to each other. Had a professional camera carrying everywhere when I think I remember her asking that we stop to photograph an old beggar who shows his smile of decayed (This is going to call DESOLATION, told me that once) or see recording images of trees that are languishing in crowded avenues and wet stones glowing in the middle of flooded streets. I dreamed of photographing the sadness, the years and their failed attempts have confirmed my suspicion that such an ambitious undertaking is impossible.
always late for our dates (which frankly exasperated me) and although generally had a valid excuse to excuse (some traffic congestion or something like that) was very concerned about what I might think about it. At the time we spent together I discovered that she was different from me other details: she liked to read, but very large texts, prose dense or baroque caused him fatigue, you were bored, for example, when we had to study them, Classics as the Divine Comedy or Don Quixote, and showed little interest in Anglo-Saxon literature courses and French literature. So I was not surprised he left the race only half of the third cycle, and then apply for the Catholic, but this time to Engineering. I was not surprised, but I was saddened. I confess that I always had a weakness for it: in all that time we spent together I learned to love quietly, without asking anything or hint what I felt. With the passage of time, I was resigned to live near her but knew it would be alien to my life, and was perhaps this that gave birth to that bond between us is just like love, but at the same time is so far it is impossible to confuse him. I kept frequented: almost every week expecting to finish their classes to go to lunch together or talk, was in some way, an effort to prevent the extinction of the feeling at that moment we had together. Just one of those evenings I was introduced to Gabriel: I was sitting to the library, where we always expected it, when I saw it came with a young man who looked more like chase. Now I think it was jealousy I felt at that moment that precipitated this impression, I mention it because the closer I noticed a formal deal yet between them. He is Gabriel Mendoza, Nadia told me, and I remembered that I had already spoken before him, vaguely perhaps, but I think this was another impression of mine: she told me she had a friend who also wrote and I do not want to hear more jealous that there was a type that could disclose their vocation, when instead I cost me so much that he kept in reserve (only Nadia and one of my sisters had read my text.) Alberto Cisneros, introduced myself, extending his hand in greeting weary thought perceive the will of a puppet. Her black eyes, as well infinite, narrow face, a smile as outlined by compromise. Nadia told me to write "I went (I remember that I sang the words with compassion, and to minimize it) -, I'd like to read any of your text, I said hypocritically. We parted, he thanked me for my interest in his work, and I remember I never saw him until seven months ago, when my nightmare began.
I had forgotten many things, including several stories that today are half had postponed my personal interests and start to get used to the idea of \u200b\u200bthinking and feeling as two. After many evenings waiting for Nadia encouraged me to confess my love, and she accepted, she said yes, if you ever imagined sharing your life with someone, it was me, and since that day the world seemed smaller, Surprisingly, more alive. The expected almost every day after school, listened to discuss their work, their setbacks, and sometimes their friends. Mentioned repeatedly Gabriel (says it is trying to write a story about, just finished one about is correcting which I mentioned the other day), but I did not care. He considered a decorative object in the life of Nadia. After all studied together, it was natural for him and alluded to some extent, it was logical. But one evening he came to announce that Gabriel had competed and won third place in the Floral Games of the Universidad Ricardo Palma, what does upset me, and even more so when I read the article in the university magazine which contained the name of your story awarded: SIMILAR TO OBLIVION (there, said that the young writer had stated tersely that he was inspired by personal experience.) Nadia asked me to get the text of Gabriel, two days after trayéndomelo wine (she did not know my story and I had not mentioned it because I needed to fix) breezed the opening lines: Then say that dreams are also part of life, that with time the memories and dreams become , and that this happened to us ... I read every line, I reviewed each leaf for half an hour not attended to Nadia, I looked scared and asked me questions, but there were no answers ...
was my story.

3

The story is quite simple in its argument, seeing it now as if alien to me, to me seems too traditional. It is written in simple, almost conversational, in the manner of an interior monologue, as a memento displayed only a few minutes to knowledge of the reader (here I must add that it is written in first person, he remembered his smile stayed with me I whispered to say goodbye) This effect gives the story an air of intimacy, sincere confession (and this is one of its virtues), but also leads him to exaggerate in the use of epithets too worn, such as blue sky, her sweet lips, etc. . (And this, I realize only now that I read as if it were mine), or do not lead anywhere (like when it occupies a paragraph to describe the feeling that makes you contemplate the baroque walls of the Church of La Merced, ie who cares.) In the best paragraphs may notice some disturbing cacophony phrases (I'm astonished at you, for example) or rhyming words (... wanted to banish my solitude, cure my nostalgia, perhaps even give me a bit of magic) and redundant structures that should be corrected (dotted the most obvious: there was no evidence to indicate). His narrative (which mine is) sinking in large rooms, loses his way, abounds in minor details. But yes, it's my story, and this is an idea that I can not boot from the head, is what he had in mind, is written as I would have done: with my style with what I consider my prose virtues and his defects, but this has much to do with the plot. The protagonist (I imagined it, but he refers to himself) comes one day at the Church of La Merced in the late morning and stopping to pray in front of the Virgin of Guadalupe discovers a young woman weeping in silence. For interest or compassion (either specify it) Gabriel is about the girl, offers a handkerchief, a few comments to help you feel better and asks her name. Katty, she says, but after Gabriel was asked if I have told the truth, it is very easy to invent a name and be someone else, even for a few minutes. It is near noon, are to close the temple, Gabriel offers his company and she accepts. Well, where, she asked him and Katty says Over there. Come out slowly, she seems in no hurry to get somewhere, so go around the streets of downtown Lima (while will tell you who was crying for his mother, who died a year ago and who always remembered for his devotion to the Virgin of Guadalupe) until Katty Gabriel asks where you live and you know your calls take me home. This is where, for example, occurs one of those aberrations of which I spoke before, because we report the trip in a bus almost full (he touches the hand of the girl and she does not flinch, and suddenly hugs her, she smiles) from the point of view of Gabriel, describe their feelings, anxieties, and recreation and then warm unexpected turn out of our hands, the phrases become unconvincing, the noise of the bus does not get off the whisper of your words, you also hear me, and still do not understand why, poetic prose succumbs to the simple metaphor simile predictable tiny hand and caress your skin feel your peach. Gabriel comes home, is a department within a building, there is a long corridor of access and they are holding hands (Here there is an intimate dialogue between the two, perhaps should have occurred before, but we managed to salvage the situation for what to expect). Gabriel hugs and kisses the girl, she turns away his face and challenges him with his eyes, but not escape, he kisses her again, and Katty is abandoned at the time. These lines are, in my opinion, the most subtle of the text, and contain some moments originalis (... to discover your lips, wet mills and slow, furious fighting inside my mouth), but they are only two paragraphs of no more than fifteen lines each, and then turn to the dialogues between them (very little work) and the lengthy description the passing of time, kisses and caresses. Comes time to say goodbye, have left to spend two hours in that passage, is just fix the place, date and time of their next game (I knew the wait would be difficult, they hate each minute that separated me from that day, I knew that after three days I would be hard to remember his face and would need to see her, but sensed that something bad would happen). The story ends when Gabriel goes to the appointment, but she never arrives.
I have read over and over again the story of Gabriel and compared it with mine, but my text is narrated in third person and in his first words are the same (only I have found some differences in synonymy, and when I say tender words and he said sensitive words, or when replaced with the long and futile wait for my long phrase, the useless standby), the argument is Likewise, the outcome is unique and inescapable. But his text is a testimony I have taken mine a dream. Maybe that's why it pales before that, but I constantly repeat the stories are identical. I have asked myself over and over again if my imagined story is more valuable than the text of Gabriel, which is basically the transcript of a story, and especially I was surprised questioned as he may I have lived the dream. For now, several months after that night, I clearly remembered my dream, and I know when I thought to imagine what he could not remember was actually writing from the unconscious, and I guess that while I wrote the story (I confess that I shudder to note this) Gabriel lived.

4

I decided to forget the matter and decided that seek an explanation of what had happened was simply futile task, and also there was nothing to do since Gabriel had been officially recognized as the author of LIKE TO FORGET, even though he knew that the text was also (too?) mine. I decided to follow my happiness recent experience: I decided to live precious moments with Nadia, endearing anecdotes to build his side, and back to my forgotten talent for writing. Had missed several months (almost six) since the last text, I decided to write something really good. Just one of those nights I stayed up late at the home of college friends, eating, drinking and singing, I had to find a taxi to take me back to my house from Surco, in Balconcillo. The driver took me down streets that had hitherto been unknown to me: we went Malachowsky, Copernicus, Gozzoli and others with flower names and unsung heroes who do not remember now, and was perhaps the liquor he had drunk that awoke within me the feeling I was being kidnapped or perhaps lead to a harsh corner. I said nothing, of course, the driver dropped me off at my destination without any problems and had to rest of drunkenness in order to pass me the strange impression. But that same night I had a very strange dream, and from this experience HOMECOMING wrote a short story where the protagonist into a taxi and started a lively conversation with the driver, to the point it ceases to look around: the vehicle is traveling on narrow streets and unknown tal vez olvidadas por la mayoría de transeúntes, pero el protagonista no se inmuta, nunca percibe nada raro; de pronto el taxi se estaciona en un lugar oscuro, junto a unos árboles (hay un poste de luz, pero el foco está quemado, la calle está sin pavimentar); es recién en ese momento cuando el tipo pregunta Pero adónde me ha traído, y el taxista no responde: a través de las lunas opacas del vehículo ven acercarse un par de sombras, quizá una de ellas lleva una navaja o un cuchillo, y lo balancea al compás del sonido que produce el claxon.
Pensé que la historia me había quedado redonda; había, sin embargo, un par de detalles que corregir, frases que se podían mejorar. Varias weeks I have been looking to replace an adjective to another, see almost all sections of the dictionary to find words to express more precisely what he meant, and when was the last correction to be done I called Nadia.
-Fair was about to call you just said he heard my greeting, and seemed happy. I want you to accompany me to college: I will get a prize. He called his work
DESOLATION had won the prize for photography of the Floral Games. She had proposed to participate in the Short Story category, but for that time I still had no text ready. When I got home to accompany was still quite excited and, above all, nerve. I was happy for her, and seeing well, so surprised, so fragile, gave me a special feeling of tenderness, his glassy eyes looked me over and over again, and I could only smile knowing that it probably was not enough. Upon arrival we sat in the central area of \u200b\u200bthe auditorium, I was in such good humor that I did not care when Gabriel came and sat next to us, even I was amused to see the big band that had stuck in his forehead.
- Why?
"A bad time, but after all I was able to take advantage," he replied Gabriel, caressing a briefcase he carried in hands. He looked like a child with her new toy.
- You also won? I asked, surprised.
- Did not I tell? Interrupted Nadia, who was sitting between Gabriel and I, Gabriel won the story contest.
She grabbed the briefcase and hit me, I sensed what was going to find, but still opened it and read:
HOMECOMING, by Gabriel Mendoza
The ceremony began and from there I knew nothing more, remember Nadia smiled and I pretended to be happy, I also have shaken hands with Gabriel at some point, I remember the applause, cameras and questions, the laconic speech of the young man who played forward and admitted that until then had only transcribed personal experiences, and remember, above all, the violent beating inside my chest, my hands sweat and my neck, terrible suffocation caused me not wanting to think or do not understand or could not erase from my mind the only thought that came and went like a heavy pendulum: This can not be happening, it's crazy ...

5

Only the certainty that, despite everything, I kept some control of the situation prevented them from committing more crazy large. I wanted to scream that Gabriel was a mere imitation, a sad and pathetic echo of my writing, but I reflected that it would not help, he finally had received the recognition it has long I longed for me. Besides, I had never spoken more than five minutes with him and we had limited simply to generic issues, themes dictated more by politeness and good manners rather than by any sympathy or friendship relationship. Only once answered his call at the home of Nadia, and communicate with it before I asked if I was writing something new: Nothing at the moment, replied, mostly what I write is based on my experiences, and lately I have not thought of anything worthy of being written. I thought it made sense: I had not touched a typewriter since I attended that final awards. Do not tell anyone of the matter, nor mentioned it to Nadia: I knew it would be difficult to explain and ultimately not believe me, or just think I was getting carried away by some kind of jealousy.
may know who was alone in this is what led me to devise this plan, so clumsy and lacking in form at first, but now as safe to run that far I will come clean and apart from everything. This is another thing to thank Nadia, because it was she who gave me (unknowingly, of course) chance. We agree that it would come to my house today at eight, taking advantage of my parents and my sisters have left Lima: this would at last moment of privacy that we all need the two (with all that has passed I neglected a lot, I admit, but I hope this will end soon.) A seven-thirty called to say I could not come at the appointed time, he was in the terminal with a group of college friends saying goodbye to Gabriel. I traveled to Chiclayo.
"His family filed its story came home to a competition there," she told me. Won second prize. I pretended
annoyed by this setback, and I felt jealous, not that anyone was firing him instead of him to come with me (after all there were several boys who were accompanying him, surely would have convinced), but that Gabriel had regained with a story, only I knew, "was mine.
"But I just get it over with you, my love. Do not worry. Well
. Since we ...

* * *

I dropped my head on the desk, hands on the keys due to the typewriter. How would having no conscience, no vestige of that voice that later, "I know, I reproach that I am committing the crime. Who gave me the power to decide the fate of at least one individual, to me, I'm not better than anyone? The one who did, do you believe can pull the strings without letting myself be carried away by weakness attributable to common human being? No response to my questions, no one says a road clear for my doubts. Once more I am convinced that I am alone in this, and I have fear. Pass the hours, the tears, the anxiety of finding guilty, but all will pass over me, under me, even through me. I'm untouchable, unsuspecting owner the fate of men, but as a god I improvised and corruptible, easy prey to my emotions and conveniences.
I count as a story as sad as a story whose end was severely truncated, I will face sorrowful, look sorry, halfhearted gestures. One by one tell me the details I already know, I named the place, I shall indicate the time, maybe just tell me some details of the epilogue, useless minutiae that no longer suited to the story, but anyway. I go with the character until his last moments, his final journey to the unexpected departure forced him to do, and I will devote some final words, some unknown intimate prayer and improvise within me for my peace, for my salvation.
But that will be much later. Now I can just continue what we started: The bus seemed cold, impersonal, may have wished that the guy next to you talk, ask him something he had to answer a courtesy.
The phone rings (there are two in the morning). Writing interrupt a moment to answer: "I'm Nadia
" says the voice of the phone. I know it's late. "I can come see you or were you sleeping?
"Of course not, come. Have you been?
"Yes. We accompanied him to the bus departed. He touched her sit by the window, as I wanted ... Well, I'm with you in an hour. Maybe your company
help me forget the remorse, perhaps his caresses and kisses to delete images in my head swarming insects, such as flammable paper butterflies. Maybe help me not to think, to erase the memory of last year: Gabriel lights a cigarette and aims to snuff pleasure smoke, throws it slowly. Do not know what the meaning of their life, and for once no one cares. I write for the first time without knowing the path of the story: I only know that the runaway horse trots now under my control, Gabriel travels on a bus to Chiclayo, and then a few paragraphs I'll invent as I write (words that are mere fillers, which are a pretext to get where I want to get there) I'll do it melted down in the treacherous curves Pasamayo.

Piano Notes For Mouthwash

Gabriel RIMACHI sial

Lima, 1974. Archaeologist, writer and journalist, studied at the Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. He has written the story books Awakenings Night "2000)," Singing in Hell "(2001)," The color of the chameleon "(2005), and anthologies of short story" Born to lose. Just stories " (2007) and "17 Peruvian fantastic tales" (2008).

Since 2005 Casatomada directs the independent editorial and creative writing workshops. Manage blogs:

www.rcasatomada.blogspot.com

www.rimachisialer.blogspot.com

Directs cultural section of the magazine and helps Opening Latino newspapers and virtual pages devoted to letters. The following story is taken from the book "The color of the chameleon."

garnered him

do not know when this all begin. Two years ago it did not work and my life has been deteriorating slowly, slowly, subtly, to become that I am now: a sad and poor imitation of myself. Silvana

smiled after the phone: I see you in half an hour at McDonald's, and then ... you know.

Now I have to go rushing down the avenue running through Central Park, crossing quickly to the sight of all those who beg for a little affection. Johnny looks at me and smiled disdainfully (perhaps with envy), I run like a insane in the trees, know that I will see Silvana and dollars depend on it to live. Mrs. Carlson greets me barely lifting the arm (or ask for help?) Since yesterday is thrown in the bushes. Blacks in the eighth believe I just stole something, my speed is shocking, as the fear of hunger. Everyone is quiet. They know that I have a girlfriend and also keeps me because he has cried in the middle of the street when I asked him a few dollars for beer. They also know he likes to have sex because I have told in detail. I showed them some pictures, so why lie. Safe sex. Rico. No squeamish. Feelings only limit. Opposites say. Sometimes I am asked to hold her strong, but I can not. The tenderness I forgot somewhere and I do not care back. The clock is ticking and I also. I get to the pool. Roy and Italians beckon me, but today I want to go whoring. I only get to eat McDonald's fucking one of his nasty deals.

Four days ago I have not seen for four days Silvana and not like. Drink anything and watch the shapes of clouds. Yesterday I discovered a crocodile in the sky. I would like to be a crocodile to kill with his teeth. But I'm so weak that it would easily be a pair of boots and a wallet with my skin. So I keep running, just a few meters. Frankie

greets me from the hydrant where mean dogs, beckoning me with a sealed bottle of vodka, you drink today either, brother, I just want to eat. I cross the street, the park is huge. I'm sweating, I took four minutes. Traffic is hell to this hour, two blocks and now, already seen. Now I have to hear her scream for half an hour before burying the teeth.

Shout, shout and scream. I know, I know I'm a maintained, you're tired of feeding me and that you are ashamed you dont have any pennies for bread, but this will change, as I told you, you know that when I compensate the army, everything will change, then I'll buy the damn McDonald's the goals for you in the ass, with all their sauces, but now buy me the offer, please, I have hunger.

Ask what he says, smiling now sold three ... I no longer hear, hunger is a buzz that breaks my ears, I feel dizzy, I see the slate colored with food in letters. I know I want ... But asked by the two and, as always, I played the worst of all, full of pickles, tomato sauce and junior size. He knows I hate that offer, I irritate the stomach and gives me gas. But she pays. Just eat me. Eat anything, even that shit burger. She will eat a special dish that only make me hate him more. Tonight I'll hit the bottom so hard that you can not sit in days, you'll see ... and how ...

She talks and talks. If the cardboard does not hurt me eat the box, and the straw and glass of tecknopor. I'm hungry. We left. She looks at me and smiles. Are you full? Yes, but knows it is not true. Stopped a taxi and drove to the hotel. I pay by Roosevelt. Da tip. We entered the building just as the elevator opens its leaves and pushes me inside. I already have. Kiss me with tongue out of control. I can not even touch it. Kiss me again, down the neck, smell of sweat but it seems not to mind: my arms and sucks up my armpits. Bite nipple, pinch the lips. Still kissing and licking. He kneels down and play with my fly. Staring at the open and give up. The desire grows with violence. I feel your mouth and close my eyes. The pleasure flooded my body and the elevator opens. She runs taken from my hand. I'm in the hallway outside the room. I want to keep it but she has fun watching little by little, the air outside the corridor, my vanity moderate blushes and smaller, timid, defeated. Seeking

and enter keys. I pulled to the ground on his back, now she is in control. Have you ever lost? (Where did I lose?) We crawled through the dirt floor, dust sticks to my back wet, pulling up her skirt and panties just your index finger, sits on my resurrected manhood. Starts moving in circles, spider me chest, moaning like crazy, close your eyes, stretched nipples hard and pull your head back, I turn it upside down but I win, I win and feel the urge comes, coming, do not think, is coming, almost there. Suddenly she stands. Not bad, "says exhausted," "See you tomorrow? He combs the mirror. Find your bag while still lying on the ground with the piece to air and thwarted pride. "At the same time? question. I buttoned pants and go out together.

The elevator goes down slowly, lights a Lucky, left the building. He kisses me and leaves. I run after her. He caught a few steps Am you give five dollars? Twist the mouth and looking at me with contempt opens his wallet. Search through the wad of cash. I have no change, "he says and leaves. No matter, since I took twenty while combing. I see Frankie in the street, beckoning me to the sealed bottle of vodka. I watch her walk away and stop a taxi. Frankie insists distance. I cross the runway in the opposite direction Silvana and I move forward, without looking back.

.