Sunset Story
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digital-writers-2014/works/14982/sunset-2?viewtext=1
fiction
This proposal arises from the reflection on the environment, on the city, on the
changes that happen in it and that we don't even perceive
and the fast way of living in the city without paying attention to the
small stories or in the details. That is why one is looking for
through the word a reflection, that generates a visibility of the
environment and how it changes, the importance of memory, of
the memories, the return to childhood are important aspects that
must be taken into account when thinking about the city,
where it is possible for individual perceptions to find a place
What should nurture a joint speech.
It is recognized that there is a need for places in the city that
They signify a place to nourish the spirit, where to refresh.
the soul and generate a distancing from the distractions of noise, the
pollution and even worse the indifference that surrounds us, which makes that
lose value what is truly important.
A jury said:
In this story, there is a deep sensitivity that finds life.
everywhere. Is poetry in the service of history or the
Is history at the service of poetry?
Dusk
Time to return home. On my way, a presence in the
Corners hide. It is a scent that calls me. The gentle wind.
and peacefully gives me its stories. As evening falls, it revives the
sonorous voices that guide my walk. The lights are unveiled.
pendulums of the cars chase my steps. These
lights drawing my silhouette scream...
D-E-T-E-N-T-E
An image comforts me after the paralysis of the unexpected.
impact. There he is, it's Italo who is waiting for me to land in his
outstretched arms. He has a gift for me. It is a chest.
It is yours, Violeta, says my grandfather. With excitement, I discover his
content, with excitement I reconstruct the memories with the
fragments of their stories.
I had forgotten that opening this chest is to dissipate with its sparkles the
veil of my eyes. I dedicate myself to releasing the aromas that travels
I am impregnated and delighted by their flurry of fragrances. I let myself be
the excitement of freedom overwhelmed me, confused with the
uncertainty of the unknown. I let myself be moved by it.
a blend of the essence of the glow of dawns with the
deep light of the night's reflection.
This chest is still the room of my imagination. Since
As a child, I dedicated myself to capturing words and collecting fragments.
from reality to embed them in their small walls. It trapped
the looks full of hope, ran towards the smiles and caught
the aroma of joy. With pieces of streets, scraps of forests
and threads of rivers built tiny cities. This is how this
the factory kept producing fictions.
The buildings became albums in which I framed
In the frame, the stories of their lives were read. The windows with the
silhouettes of its inhabitants printed by the light turned on, they were the
frames that made up the sequences of my stories. The
streets turned into tape of a movie that rolled without
At every step the noise of traffic faded, with each smile.
the corners softened, with each glance the streets
They expanded. This is how the city walked to live my stories.
I stored drop by drop the sparks of my innocence. Its light still
I survive. Now I dedicate myself to keeping the sheets in which I have
written my story, the photographs of my thoughts and the
aromas of my feelings. Outside it is so windy that I fear
are dispersed.
Before opening my eyes, I have the feeling of being at home.
I open the door, that scent that has been enveloping me for a while now and
it doesn't let me fall, now it hides in the corners. This house is
so vast that I cannot explore all its rooms. A
faint gust clears the streets and slips through the cracks to
to lift the dust that hides the memories.
This house inhabits the world because in it there is no room for forgetfulness.
infinite.
There is a door in front of me. It's my room. I approach it,
with my hand I try to touch hers and in an instant a light
the disintegrator fades everything away.
A familiar voice asks me: did he regain consciousness?
And I think I regained my sleep. The confusion of taking so long
Time to wake up revives that taste in my mouth of who I have been
who has built the house of my memory. Yes, a girl used to
running through its hallways. Yes, a girl was looking to cuddle up between
corners to collect stories. That is why once again
I feel the urge to return to the home of my memories and I open my
treasure chest.
Upon opening it, I find wallpaper with faded ink.
through the passing of the days that draws a map that transports me to
house. Each letter opens the door to the home that comes to life in me
mind, it is my home that is being rebuilt with your words. Me
I immerse myself in it and feel that the trees invite me with their dance.
calm to rest and your breath rocks my senses. I begin to
dream and let myself be carried away by the warm perfumes that I
they fall asleep. It used to be an indoor garden filled with blooming
aromas and many years ago it was full of life.
In a corner, a beautiful woman dedicates her free time.
immersed in the voice that her piano emits.
She is Amelía, who with a sublime presence, brings life to the
vines and flowers, in a courtyard wallpapered with petals of
orange shades and halos of magenta-colored fruits. Their feet
they walk on carpets of maple leaves, surrounded by fragrances of the
cherries encapsulated in fine floating spores, and a resounding echo
distant transmits its delicate melodies to all living things. Its
patio, it was like inhabiting the warm and misty dream between sleep, covered
by an invisible amber cloak. The air left a faint trace with the
tinkling of bells that combines with the coppery reflections
from the metal that frames the windows, the wood of the trunks
tree-like glides to take the shape of a knotted railing
honey color that accompanies the journey of those who visit this patio, and
the robust hedges border the limits with the sky and protect
an endless echo of April throughout the year.
For Amelía, places were forests of melodies. That's why
he guarded his house like a sanctuary. The most sacred of his
Treasures were the sky that peeked into their yard. Trying
listen to the music that ignites the stars she has remained
eternally crystallized by the sepia rays of a sun that
it pales and petrifies with its last and powerful glow.
And the rays of the sunset are absorbed by the night that
It begins. Dense clouds are approaching, obscuring the figures.
of the landscape and sail quickly due to the gusts of
wind that scorches the streets. Outside, the light of the lanterns
immerses the inhabitants in a liquid light due to the effect of a
enveloping fog. Those who allow themselves to be surrounded by it feel that
his thoughts scatter and his memories fade away
the dead airs. The city, immense, devours its inhabitants in
narrow avenues that do not allow passage to those who carry
broad yearnings. With its toxic dust, it poisons the perfumes and
with its overwhelming eagerness, it dissolves the charm of listening to the
corners.
Those who look back see only the dense darkness sliding sharply.
between corners, it crouches and crawls. Now running is only
a vain attempt. At every step, a mine is activated, the earth
it rumbles and the streets disappear. With each step they descend
luminous rays that break everything. The flash of its blinding light in
absolutely all the senses.
The silhouette of a man stands in the way. He leaves the abandoned city.
at the threshold, which separates the streets from the rest of the house.
Amelía greets her brother with a hug. Italo holds his
fatigue and recovers from the arduous escape. Its difficult
breathing reveals a distressing pressure on his lungs.
His sweat looks like stains that colonize the walls. A water
that flows between cracks draws the path of a river. The city,
before the eyes of everyone has ceased to exist. Italo does not understand of
what ways dreams anticipate reality nor the way in
that both intertwine, but the mind finds a way to
build bridges to that dark room, where dwells the
subconscious. Italo goes down to the basement where he remains hidden.
a passerby who believes to go unnoticed. Tries to engage in conversation.
with the passerby who had been wandering for a long time and who has
refugee in his mind. The only answer he gets is:
There is a way out.
After having listened to the city after the city,
Italo believes in the energy contained in sound and words.
With a deep voice, he exhales a powerful phrase, a spark.
it begins, something changes, a light is projected and this room that
reached its highest luminous peak now it is
invaded by total darkness.
The spaces in which my dreams unfold are
faded. My thoughts expand in waves created
through waters of black silk, occasionally interrupted by a
whisper that pierces me from side to side. His voice hisses, screams a
light shot. Like the flash of a camera an unreal image
remains revealed in my retina. It is the image of something that does not
I remember having seen.
All of this is so real.
I wake up.
It's my last breath.
I still want to believe that this house and the city that contains it are
you live.