Sara's Poem

Graykept would crawl out from under my fingernails and my shoulder bones, uncalled but much needed. He knew I masked in hate, and was more than willing to comply, if only for the sheer pleasure he got out of watching me squirm with rage. He seeped through my lips in quiet pants, and sometimes would go as far as to get stuck under my eyelids, forcing me to cry him out. But I was not one to complain, for most of the time I just remained quiet through his whole stay. He taught me something I never knew before: This is alright.

Perhaps it wasn’t alright – Graykept wasn’t the most honest. Or was he? All in all he had no reason to lie. I could not lie to him, that much I knew.  But for the darkness that infected with his touch, was there a reason to hide? Perhaps his own was the only feeling I understood.  Sometimes I doubted, yes, because I was not quite sure of how appropriate those emotions were.
Still, I got satisfaction out of it. I loathed not Graykept but those around me and mostly myself, as was his intention.  His whispers in the back of my mind knew nothing of pity or consideration, they were blunt, harmful, like weapons, and he was teaching me how to get back on all the blows I’d taken.

And Graykept then burned from beneath my ribcage, invading, tearing apart everything, and I begged to release him, yet knew I couldn't. He teased my throat from the inside, tickled, scratched, just enough to show me what I felt, and to prove I was powerless against him.

Graykept meant in fact no harm, as he only made love more intense. I loathed through him traitors and doubts, and perhaps myself as well, but I found the contrasting bliss most soothing.

Oh, was Dís a lady. Isolated yet warm, unlike boreal Graykept, she loathed in whispers, and I sipped her words like black tea. I learned not hate but pity through her, a disgusted frown nevertheless upon my face. She was a warrior, not a princess, yet graceful and imponent, a queen in shining armor, defending yet hateful to the outside. She did not devour me, and for that I was thankful, she merely rained on me, steamy and comforting.

The differences would be so: Dís made me roll my eyes, exasperated, murderous, warlike; and Graykept made me shut them in pain, caught in my own claws, each cut a microscopic layer deeper. Dís hated outwards, Graykept hated inwards and through that I hated those around me. There was an oddity, though, and it was that Dís showed up anywhere, while Graykept would only appear among unpleasant company.

And only through a whisper, disgusted as she was, Dís let me understand. I threw up her words in my mind, the way Terrorsquid would have liked me to.

Terrorsquid was fearsome and brave. He ran and burned through my breath, hitched and uneven, almost a moan but not quite. It was a wonderless reaction, a silent agreement, a most blissful encounter of spirits. He was the most savage of warriors and I had him on my side, for I knew he would not harm me. He deafened me within myself, and thus I remained, disconnected from the world yet longing for a link, dreaming of freedom. Perhaps it frustrated me, as his movement was a constant reminder of my standing still, but his beauty and courage reassured me. He was hope as well, hope that one day I too would run, although I knew quite well I wouldn’t.

Terrorsquid flew through strings and melodies; he shuffled among skilled fingers and whispers of all tones. He sliced Graykept’s red ice and vomited Dís’ unexpecting howls, fearless, inspired, and most of all, friendly. He was not a foe, not lover and not a god; he was by my side, rare and insipid as his presence sometimes seemed in retrospect.

And Almagesto. Oh, Almagesto. The mother of poets, the queen of shivers. My Calliope and my actor’s mask.


Poets, I called them, because it seemed fitting. They were fleeting lovers. They came and went, taking me as they pleased, using my body as little more than a host for a second, then leaving it in the hands of another. They love is colourful and strong, delicious, delirious. Yet once gone I can’t grasp my own feelings. Do I loathe them, for using me? Or do I love them, for giving my life a meaning I can’t find on my own? How far does their abuse go? Are these bruises or love-marks? I just can’t tell anymore, but I find myself smiling each time I decipher another one of their quirks.

When they depart, I forget them, save for their names. What are their voices like, what do their hands feel like, are their lips tinted with lies? Even the feeling I got when they touched me becomes alien while we are apart. Yet at their return, I am once again knowledgeable of their taste, sweet or bitter as it may be.

Lucha Libro

Este último mes, participé en el campeonato de improvisación literaria Lucha Libro. La idea es simple: Treinta y dos escritores enmascarados se enfrentan todos los lunes uno contra uno escribiendo cuentos en cinco minutos, con tres elementos obligatorios que deben aparecer en los cuentos. Los escritores escriben en una laptop, y esta laptop es proyectada detrás de ellos. Así, el público del bar en el que ocurre el evento puede leer conforme el autor-luchador escribe. Un jurado que cambia cada semana elige el ganador de cada enfrentamiento. Así, los lunes del 13 de agosto al 24 de septiembre, se han ido enfrentando ocho luchadores por fecha. Ahora quedan sólo cuatro: Ruido Blanco, Alberik, JZD y Bucéfalo.
De entre los treinta y dos que empezaron (de ciento sesenta que enviaron sus cuentos para ser seleccionados), quedé entre los ocho últimos, para ser eliminada por Bucéfalo en los cuartos de finales hace una hora. Admito que fue un error tonto - uno de mis elementos era "ancla oxidada" y, distraída, puse solamente "ancla". Quién sabe, tal vez el veredicto del jurado (que admitió que la lucha fue reñida) habría sido distinto de no haberme equivocado.

El oscuro, húmedo y francamente poco generoso en términos de espacio camerino del bar La Noche de Barranco me vio recorrerlo minuciosamente, inspeccionando cada firma en la pared mientras recitaba poesía del siglo de oro español y frases de Nietzsche. Ciertamente los nervios me carcomían, pero a la hora de escribir no fueron obstáculo. Mayor obstáculo fue mi propia falta de atención. Esperaba ansiosa en el pequeño cuarto amarillo mientras mi rival escribía su cuento, lo leía, era aplaudido y bajaba de nuevo. Luego el árbitro me anunciaba, y yo me paraba en las escaleras esperando emocionada a que terminara de recitar unas lineas muy amables sobre mí. "Nuestra siguiente concursante tiene 18 años de edad, 52 kilos, y viene de Surco... Su escritor favorito es George Orwell... ¡Denle la bienvenida a Almagesto!". (Digo amables porque quizás pesaba 52 kilos a la hora de haberme inscrito para el concurso... En agosto.) Con esas palabras salto sobre el escenario, escucho a mi barra de adolescentes emocionadas chillar como si yo fuera una superestrella del pop, pongo mi pose de metalera mala, miro los elementos en la pantalla, me cago de miedo, me siento en el banquito tambaleante y escribo.

Me apena haber llegado tan lejos para perder de forma tan ridícula, pero no me enoja. Aprendí muchísimo en esta competencia y siento que me ha ayudado mucho a evolucionar como escritora.

Parte de mí - la más supersticiosa - cree que es la maldición de Azul:
Azul luchó en las eliminatorias contra Liniers, perdiendo automáticamente pues utilizó la palabra "telenovela" en vez de "fotonovela", que era el elemento que se le había asignado. Liniers, en los octavos de final, compitió conmigo, y perdió automáticamente por haber usado el elemento "estampilla" de forma incorrecta: Usó la palabra correcta, pero con otro significado, el de estampita religiosa. Y llegué así yo a los cuartos de final, solo para perder automáticamente por el olvido distraído de un adjetivo.

Estaré subiendo los cuentos que me llevaron hasta los cuartos de final: "Los Zapatos", que venció a la temida Sin Bombachas el 3 de septiembre, y "Virgencita", que me llevó a la victoria sobre el misterioso Liniers. Además subiré el cuento de hoy, a pesar de no haber ganado. Porque vamos, aún así creo que es un muy buen cuento.