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She wanted to see the sea

Illustration by Marta Santos

Once upon a time there was an elderly woman who had never seen the sea. Since she was a child she had always lived in a small village 100 km away from the seashore. It was not a big distance but during their youth, the children of her generation had been forced to work from dusk to dawn, either at fields or at home, to maintain their families.

Times had changed gradually and some of her neighbours prospered. Their children had moved to the city for a better future, had saved enough money to improve the standard of living of their parents.

Many of them had taken their parents to the city, to the seaside and to meet the world wide opened beyond the village.

However this old woman had never been able to leave the town. Her husband had died very young and she had to provide for her two children. She had worked as a needlewoman, she had also cleaned houses and made some money washing clothes in the river for other people in those times when there were no washing machines. However she could hardly make a living for the three of them with those earning for as everybody knows, women labour was not well paid. After working all days long, she still had to do the housework. Her children had never been too demanding and they started to help their mother at an early age, as soon as they got use of reason. But even so, the burden was too heavy.

The situation became critical when their mother stumbled over in a stairway and became paraplegic. Her children, Ana and Manuel, were 14 and 13 years old respectively. They had to take on their mother’s place in her jobs and at home, so they could not study. The money they could make vanished in food, and basic daily needs. They were never able to save money to leave and go to the city at that time of economic prosperity. When anybody reaching the place, could work in anything there and come back with their pockets full.

Those children became 50 years old adults who were still looking after their mother. While this woman, already very old, had only had one single longing in her whole life: she wanted to see the sea. Her neighbours told her wonderful things about it, and she loved listening to them, sat in her wheelchair. Her children took her wheelchair out to the street on summer afternoons. Her neighbours, sheltered from heat under the shadows of the houses, comfortably sat on the stone benches of the facades, told her about the color of transparent waters and seaweeds reflected from beneath. They also explained her how people could build castles with the wet sand left behind by waves. They told her that the sea had a particular scent and released a continuous murmur when waves swayed, a murmur which calmed hearts.

One day, the old woman knew she was about to die very son. She remembered all those stories she fancied the most and decided to ask her children what she had never dared to ask for.

`Children, I want to see the sea’

Her children didn’t have the money, not even to go and see it themselves; and transportation to take her mother there in her wheelchair, was clearly beyond their economic capability. So they decided to perform a small theatre show. They told their mother they would take her to the flat of a neighbour of theirs, which she had bought near the sea. They took her mother for hours inside a van with blinded windows. They had borrowed the van from the mechanic of the village and the seaside flat of their neighbour was in fact her own house, the same house where she lived everyday. They had sticked posters of idyllic beaches on the windows. The owner of the canteen had lended them a radiocassette and a 60 minutes tape that played sea sounds continually. That was the sound track the old woman listened to when they took her to their neighbours house.

 ‘Look, mum, look how White the sand is, and look at the immensity. You can not even see the land at the other side, the sea is so vast.

Her children signalled her everything disclosed on the windows, explaining her mother every detail to be seen on the pictures.

`Those White sticks you can see at the back are the boats tied to the pier. Most of them are fishing boats or small  leisure yatchs but from time to time some big ocean liners come. Let’s see if any will arrive today, they are huge.

 ‘And what about that Green stain spotted in the horizon?’ Their mother wanted to know.

 ‘It’s an island’ Her daughter exclaimed, raising her arms with passion. It’s a piece of land in the middle of the sea and it is very close to the seashore, that’s why you can see it so clearly.

The old woman was silent, she nodded with her head and smiled with pleasure. She was satisfied.

And so went the 60 minutes, while the tape borrowed from the canteen owner was playing. When they took her back into the van, for another two hours of a pretended return trip, happiness tears were dropping from the eyes of the old woman.

When the day of her death approached, her children and the rest of her family and some close neighbours where waiting by the ladie’s bed, accompanying her in her last breaths. During her last minutes she was not very lucid. She started to speak about her dead parents who had come to take her with them and from time to time she let her eyes blank. It was then that Manuel whispered to Ana ‘To be honest, I feel guilty of having tricked her. We should have told her the truth, that we didn’t have money to take her to see the sea.’

Then the old woman came back to herself and stared at him. Very very quietly and smiling more with her eyes than with her mouth, se whispered ‘I already knew it was a lie’. Covered by a halo of peace, she firmly grabbed the rosary between her hands and let herself go.

Image by Marta Santos

On that summer day back in 1945, mum and dad were happy. They said we had won the war. The allies had come to Reims to rescue us two months ago and that is the reason why mum had bought that dress, for celebration. At last we could forget about all the necessity and anguish we had gone through. The good had won.

So I went outside to use my dress for the first time. German corpses were piled up on the pavement sides, some with opened foreheads. The decomposing odor was increased by heat. Children were throwing stones at them. Women spat at them. Men kicked them and laughed. The good had won.

The alien

«INHABITANTS OF PLANET EARTH,

Your leaders are tricking you. Yes, it is something you already suspect but you don’t know how much. You name conniveroics those who unveil the greater lies in your humanity, and I tell you:

Conniveroics are your governments, managing directors of multinationals, bank managers, those leading advertising campaigns. They sell you protection for you to be afraid and to accept instaling the virus. But they conceal the fact that genuinely there is no threat to hide from.

They use your fear. They do it to make you consider the antinatural as normal. And there they create the monster. They make hell out of paradise and ask for your cooperation. They know they can’t do it without you. That’s why they are dying with fear. They fear your not being afraid, and then having no more chance to go on manipulating you.

You are invencible, but you don’t know it.

You have the power, you have always had it. Yours is the last Word.

You decide whom you want to bet on, either on death or Life.

On antidepressive pills or healing your emotions.

On hating or loving.

On smoking or your lungs.

On alcohol or your liver.

On caffeine or your brain.

On oil propelled cars or the air you breath.

On recycling your rubbish or polluting nature.

On wounding those who can not defend themselves or defending those attacked by all.

On drowning in your consumerist trends or saving your money and value your liberty.

On following fashion or shining in your own difference.

On consenting abuse or reporting it.

On using women or loving them.

On creating mascots or allowing animals to live in freedom.

On indoctrinating your children or listening affectionately to what they have come to tell you.

On creating meat industries for serial slaughter of your younger siblings and believing your own myths as dogmas, or feeding from the resources the Earth provides.

On scorning those who say something you don’t like or trying to listen to their reasons.

On using logic alone or using the logic that comes out of the heart.

Friends, we have been observing you for eons. We have accompanied you in your process and we have always loved you. We are extra-terrestrials from a very distant planet and though you don’t know who we are, we do know who you are. We have not forgotten your grandeur. Now it is your work remembering it. With love, your brother

¼±ÞÿÕЮ°ðŬ»

Illustration by Marta Santos

The CIA director mumbled a few more harsh remarks and spat furiously to the floor.

‘Disgusting extra-terrestrial bugs’ he complained. ‘They think they can come here and speak their nonsense whenever they feel like. But now they will not interfere. We had enough difficulty trying to keep under control their green colleagues. Intergalactic trash…’ The outraged man crumpled the letter strongly, he took the Havana cigar out of his mouth and pressed it against one edge of the paper, then placed it in a glass ashtray.

After that he picked up the phone in his office.

‘Inform our president, Rockefappy, Eel Merchandiser, Her Majesty the Queen of Englaterrestrial, and that wimp called Anvil. Oh, and don't forget Pudding and the Chinese. The disgusting violets are trying to communicate again with humans.’ He took a gun out of the drawer, he observed it pleased and sketched a sardonic smile. ‘This time they will know what the United States of America are like’

The hermit

Photo by Marta Santos

Once upon a time there was a hermit sitting at a crossroads.

He was not a very old man, just old enough to have whitened hair and beard... but still young enough to be able to carry on his back a big rock which accompanied him day and night.

The hermit was looking at the path on the right, western side, and sighed. To the eastern side, he was looking at the path on his right and sighed again.

An owl and a snail living in the place had been gazing at him for several weeks, till they finally decided to speak to him.

In a dark night when the moon had fled from the skyline, the owl started a conversation with that man, choosing the moment he seemed to be completely lost among the stars he wistfully watched.

"You have been dwelling in these settings for thirty nights. What is it that makes you stand for the bitterly cold nights in this place, that makes you bear the suffocating heat and the rain without putting you out from here? Is there anything you are looking for?"

The man, sitting on the grass, slightly moved away his body sized wrapping hood from the mouth and uncovered it.

"Time ago, I was looking for something. But I am afraid I have forgotten what it was."

The hermit, still lying, turned back to conclude his answer. However the owl, buffled, continued the conversation.

"How can a man forget what he is looking for?"

The man remained silent for a while, doubtful. Then he decided to pronounce his thoughts.

"It is difficult to explain. It was something very important to me. In fact I have gone through fields and desserts to be able to find it. But one day, for no reason, this stone appeared on my back." The hermit pointed at the rock standing beside him. "Since then, walking became a harder task for me. Days became a hard, restless struggle to move on, and little by little my steps slowed down. Till I reached this crossroads and did not know which one I should take to continue my search. The weight of the rock was unbearable and I had to sit and take some rest. I have been thinking over which one I should follow since then."

The owl bended its feathery head.

"And you have not decided yet?"

The man sighed.

"Every morning I will lay the heavy rock on my back. Then I look into the path on my right and I consider it to be a bad idea following that direction. After that I look into the path on my left and I judge it madness following that way. The rock becomes heavier and heavier and I just keep waiting for the dark night to return, to be able to discharge it from my back and lay it on the ground by my side while I sleep."

"And why don't you get rid of that rock? Leave it in this place and go ahead with your search. Whatever path you choose, to the right or to the left, will take you somewhere. But if you do not make a decision, you will stay here forever, absorbed, full of doubts."

The hermit sit up. Lying sit there on the ground, he started to caress the stony block.

"I have been carrying it for a long time. It has become my partner in the road. I don’t know what it is like to live without it anymore. I think I will not be able to reach any place if I don’t carry it."

"You will never reach any place if you continue carrying it with you." The owl muttered more for itself than for the hermit, who remained abstracted watching his heavy rocky companion.

The owl left flying away and the day came, after a few hours. With daylight, the small snail emerged from the grass. It had been silent listening to the nighttime conversation between the bird and the man.

"Maybe I could help you." The tiny gastropod whispered. The hermit, already carrying the rock on his back, had to make an effort to guess from where the voice came.

"Why do you say that?" He asked.

"I have been listening to your conversation with the owl. I am also carrying my house on my back." The mollusc continued to say. "But my case is different. I have chosen a light house, which is useful for shelter when the weather is not good. It also protects me and helps me in the way. But you are carrying a stone which doesn't help you at all. It is destroying your back with uprising cruelty every day, it doesn't let you walk and doesn't stop the rain, the snow or the heat from exhausting your insides. Tell me, which goals did you acquire since you are carrying that heavy load over your shoulders?"

The hermit watched the horizon with empty eyes. He knew he had obtained no achievement since the rock was accompanying him. Only looking to the right, at dawn, and to the left at sunset… and sighing.

"Nothing would change even if I layed it on the ground and left it there abandoned. I don't know which one of these two paths I should follow."

"Try."

"What?"

"You have to try." The snail insisted. "Leave the rock on the ground and try to choose your path then."

The man hesitated. He looked at the stone, he felt so close to it that he could not leave it. He looked at the snail and the curiosity to know the result of following its words was stronger than his own will.

Then he laid it on the ground.

The freeing and releasing of pain he felt at that moment were colosal. He watched both paths, and both looked wonderful to him. He chose the one on the left and started walking. If finally one day he discovered it was going nowhere, heen he would return to the crossroads and would choose the path on the right.

If the blame we carry is light, it may help us continue our way in times of turmoil.

But the blame, when it is heavy, becomes a stone which conceals the understanding and stops us from moving ahead.

Always the rebel is the guilty one

Illustration by Marta Santos

Once upon a time there was a country where everybody had wounds in their necks.

It was the same tiny wound, made by two small punctures, a few centimetres beside the right carotid artery.

The tradition established that all the children at three years of age should inflict the injury on themselves by pinning a tiny two-needled device in that body zone. They were expected to continue doing it every day before going to bed. For the rest of their lives.

Respectable citizens would speak openly about the way they had self-harmed themselves even before the established age, boasting about the fact that they had not missed the puncture ritual ever, not one single day. What is more, enduring faints and pains in following the tradition was a wholly great honour for people in this country. Most exemplary citizens praised the tradition with vigour and determination. They knew the precise dates of its origin and they broadcasted the stories of those illustrious, distinguished citizens who had contributed to its perpetuation.

In the begining, punctures had been executed manually, with two sewing needles, sticking them one after another. The lack of hygienic conditions resulted in many frequent wound infections, and having to continue to pin themselves repeatedly, caused gangrene in the body zone. Deaths were not rare.

However times had evolved and people did not stick on themselves used sewing needles any more. Now everybody kept at home a small device with two retractable needles, used only at the time of punctures. Those needles were sterilized before and after their mission with a very cheap and effective solution available at all pharmacies. Deaths were now rare.

What had not changed from the beginning of times was the code of honor.

Never, ever, under no circumstances should the wound be seen by any other person. Not even by members of the same family.

For that purpose they came up with most different strategies. Women used handkerchieves and scarves. Men used wide neckties and high shirt collars. Men and women wore also wooden scarves in winter, neck warmers to practice sports, sumptuous jewelry, high necked jumpers and sweaters…They had also invented one thin cotton clothing stripe to be worn around their necks when they were in pijamas or when it was very hot.

They could never show that body zone naked, not even during sexual relations.

That would be shameful.

The wound was considered to be sinful, monstruous, disgusting, unsightly, horrible. Showing it to another person would have been considered to be an aggression.

But they all carried on doing it everyday before going to sleep.

One day there was a child who went to school showing his naked neck. His teachers reacted to this behaviour and applied the required punishments.

Nevertheless, the incident did not stop there.

One year, in May, when temperatures were warm and the breeze was singing songs together with the trees leaves… a boy came to the main plaza in the country capital and appeared in the very centre of it, his neck completely nacked and… no wound in it.

Short after he stopped in the middle of that plaza, his parents jumped on him. They were carrying the tiny puncture device and tried to stick it into their son’s neck without success. He was a stocky, hefty boy and they were not able to do it. Moving frantically, he was able to get rid of them.

But the police arrived just a few minutes later and four officers finally reduced him, they pushed him into an armoured van.

—Don’t take our son! He will follow the tradition, I promise! —the mother was shouting, desperate. Shaking her arms into the air she was trying to get out of her husband’s embrace, who was stopping her from grabbing the officers—. I have the pinner here with me! If you leave us alone for a few minutes we will convince him!

Her son, already wearing handcuffs and sat inside the van, let one tear fall down his left cheek.

—You will never convince me mum —he muttered—. Never ever.

During spring

Photo by Marta Santos

‘They want to prostitute arts.

They want to buy words, sell emotions, auction the conscience.

They offer to pardon your life as an opportunity in return.

Because they are nets and you are the fish.

They play with fish and they play with those to whom they sell it.

The sea belongs to them, they say. Just because they found it first and they have written it in paper. And whales, corals and dolphins are still. And those who remain silent are giving their consent.’

That message reached her hands locked inside a bottle. She was walking alongside the beach, her feet naked, her white dress spotted with a few rain drops. She picked it up and took it to her house.

Who had written it? From which strange world came that agonic, desperate message?

And most important, who were those whom the message refered to?

She got into her small wooden hut. She washed away the sand from her feet, she changed her clothes and shaked away the water drops from her short, blonde hair.

Once she had her shoes on and was sheltered in her green blanket, protected from the waking cold, she turn on the lamp and scrutinized the note. The persistent rain was tapping harder and harder against the window.

‘They offer to pardon your life as an opportunity in return.’

‘The sea belongs to them, they say.’

Who? Who could be so wicked to do something like that?

For as much as she tried to work it out in her mind, she could not understand it.

She was late in those worryings. The moon had already started to decorate the sky and the stars were doing some company. The girl decided to sleep. Tomorrow would be another day.

When she woke up, a wet sweating was showering her forehead. She had a horrible nightmare. She didn’t even want to remember it. Then she went out to walk again alongside the beach, trying to forget the terrifying vision which had woken her up.

Then, a bird came to settle on her shoulder. She decided to caress it, softly and with love, and after that the bird turned into an old man.

She stepped backwards, frightened.

—Don’t be scared. —The old man with long beard and long white hair smiled. Blue lakes in his eyes—. I am coming to bring you the reply you were looking for. It was already in your heart, but now I will make it visible before your eyes.

Then, the wise man bowed down and started to write on the sand.

—This was the earth you have seen. It was a planet that existed millions of years ago. Today not even the name is the same. The beaches in this planet and the sand were clean and clean was also the whole Universe. The creatures were beautiful. But someone decided to sink it in the darkness and they all forgot about who they had once been. The prostitution of arts refers to greed, to the selfishness that was misting up their hearts and would not let them look with the eyes which really see. There was a time, yes there was a time when they manipulated each other, giving always the excuse of being under the command of someone they deemed more important —the old man paused and said —yes, they had also forgotten they were all equally important.

—But that is terrible. Did really happen ever this you are telling me? How could they not see that the Source is love and was connecting them all?

—They did not even believe in the Source. —That old man’s smile was bitter—. I already told you that the mists were blinding in them the eyes which really see.

—They were blind. —The girl concluded. The old man nodded—. And what happened next?

—That planet does not exist in that way any more today. Only the beings with purest hearts, those who really wanted to abandon the mists, were assisted by the Source to go through evolution and leave that darkness. Then the planet became a beautiful place. Today that planet is called Eoden, which means ‘the invincible’.

—And what about those who didn’t want to leave the darkness? What happened to them?

—They were stuck in the darkness. But they didn’t bother too much... they already were in the darkness before. They have been leaving the galactic storms one by one, according to their evolution and understanding. Some of them live here today. They are your neighbours, even when you had not realised before. The one who wrote that message, is your cousin, a shipwreck survivor from the past. His pain was so deep at the time that he was able to materialize that bottle so far as millions of light years in space, and millions of years in future time.

The girl was surprised but she didn’t say anything. The reflection of the sun was dancing on top of the sea waves.

The pianist

Photo by Marta Santos

It was raining as if there will never be an end. It was a thick, strong rain... almost a water curtain. Most of the village locals were watching the show sheltered under the arcades in the plaza, except for him. He wanted to watch it closely. He didn't mind being poured to his entrails by that celestial cascade.

He stepped ahead and got a little bit closer. The water was flowing and bubbling through his hair, pouring out by the edges and soaking his back completely. Everybody was looking at him but he didn't care too much. His face was so wet that it was impossible to distinguish the rain out of his tears. His resemblance was unshakeable, and honestly, it was very hard to realize that he was crying. More to say, it was impossible, as there were no traces of life in that stony face... only two cold, wide opened eyes staring at the view of the piano getting dissolved in the middle of the plaza.

It was a gorgeous grand piano. You could say that, only the sound produced by the keys could overtake the elegance in its appearance. However, people were smiling while it was melted like butter under the tapping water drops. It was being hurt and destroyed by them, they were dying all the keys grey and dissolving the piano insistently, as if it was a wet carton. People were looking at it with curiosity and morbidness. They were having fun with that. Public executions have always kept people happy. The major knew it and that was the reason why he was nodding in content while the piano was falling down completely under the destructive strength of the rain.

He was the only one crying for the grand piano, staring displeased. That instrument was his life and with its death he was also dying… or better to say, his soul was dying. His body was standing poured and motionless with the impotence of those who contemplate their own suicide.

That was a sad town. That was a grey town. Nobody spoke in Silence Village. The streets were always mute. Only the melody that instrument sang under his fingers confirmed him it was alive, in the long mornings, the long afternoons. The long nights. It will always be winter now. Those thin and long fingers knew it very well, that is why they were contracting hardly in a fist. It will never be day time again for them, even when it stopped raining.

The gloomy and absentminded inhabitants of Silence Village started leaving the plaza bit by bit as soon as the piano was completely dissolved. Like puppets with no strings, like shadows with faces... they retired to their grey houses. That rainy November afternoon, only one man stood in the centre of the plaza, getting soaked under the rain. His name was David, but they called him ‘the crazy chap’.

Nobody understood that he refused to do anything apart from spending hours and days in front of that thing he called piano, pressing that sort of white and black teeth again and again... sometimes very slowly, other times so fast that his hands seemed to disappear above the keys.

He didn't use to labour the earth, he didn't get drunk in the tavern and he didn't go stealing apples with the young boys of the town, nor spying the girls when they took a bath in the river.

He was like an alien. That ‘piano’ seemed to be absorbing his soul, and there was no way to make him have some fun with others. That was the reason why the neighbours of the town spoke to the major and the decision was taken among them together, to condemn the piano to disappear under the rain.

This was the reason why that cold and grey November afternoon, David lost his soul.

Nobody missed the prodigious melody that wrapped the town in summer and winter. Nobody missed the celestial music which danced among the leaves of the trees in Silence Village. Nobody was saddened because the wind didn't sound in half and eighth notes any more.

There was no grief, no sorrow that cold and grey afternoon, because all the inhabitants in Silence Village were deaf.

Listening: David Bonk - Es ist Zeit

Photo by Marta Santos

I didn't know how, but the glass covering my skin broke. Blood, fire and life flowed from that place where I no longer lived, and blew it all out into pieces. What a mess. Now I had to wash it all!

But I was very happy.

I took the broom and began to sweep hard. At last it seemed that shadows had also been broken with glass. Dragging crystals on the floor, throwing them into the dust bin. What a relief! What a joy! I was even whistling.

But... Something was wrong. A few drops of blood were staining crystals. They were of an intense red colour. They were recent.

I looked at my arm. There they were. I looked at my legs. It was like a plague. My belly, my back, my scalp. There was not a place where they were not.

I burst into tears. I covered my face with my hands; I didn't want anybody to watch me. Anyway, the pain soon started to call me. I had to remove them.

So I started to remove needles, one by one. Then blood flew stronger, like vermilion rivers flowing into the floor. I couldn't take care of the wounds at that moment, first I had to remove all the needles.

I went across that death desert all alone.

When I had finished, I felt that light again. The same light which had broken glass, it was covering me up again. It descended from the sky in a golden glow. It covered it all, softened pain up and dissolved it in the air. It encouraged me with its omnipresent embrace. That light was always there, giving me strength, bursting from the inside and from the sky, dissolving me too, in the purest and most beautiful love song ever.

Only then, wounds started to heal. Without plasters, without bandages. They were simply disappearing. Back to their place, life.

I breathed.

I ran, I sang, I shouted.

I breathed.

Volcanoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, torrential rains.

Fire, earth, air, water.

I breathed again.

I cried.

...

I was born.

My skin was now made of flesh.

In future I would be able to feel each needle poked to my skin. Each needle I couldn't feel before because of the glass. Now I could remove them all at the moment of the puncture. I could feel the golden light again. That light would be the only thing able to dissolve needles poken by those who poke needles all the time. Those who never feel punctures because of their stone skin. What a pity. I hope at least some day they will have a chance to wear glass skin. It's much more beautiful.

Illustrated by Marta Santos


In flower's language, daisy means innocence.

Your wounds don't hurt me.
We've got the same heart.
I want us to live in peace
under the same sky.
Any excuse is good to fly.

In flower's language, red rose means passionate love.

Wrap me, smile to me, make me sweat.

I want to feel you.

Rob me of my breathing by kissing me.

Get into my deepest being.

Marry me. I love you.

In flower's language, gardenia means happiness.

How much beauty!

How beautiful is the world!

It is wonderful to be alive,

to feel the wind on my face, blood in my veins,

my heart beating.

In flower's language, carnation means nobleness.

I won't treat you the same way you have treated me.

Let's forget the pain, let's forget resentment.

I will forgive you. We don't deserve this.

I will never make fun of you, even if you fall.

I respect who you are.

In flower's language, yellow tulip means desperate love.

I love you.

Give me your love.

I live for you, I breath for you, I'm nothing without you.

I will do anything to keep you by my side.

DON'T GO.

In flower's language, camellia means friendship.

Through ages, 
the same bond is connecting us.
Through seas, through mountains.
We will meet again when the time comes.
Wind flows through us.