Saturday, November 18, 2017

Broken Soul. The narrator is a famous person. Can you guess who he/she is/was?

I taint everything I touch. It all withers and dies. It’s been like this ever since I was a child. Dad left, Mum died of tuberculosis… 

The dark hand of death comes out of my chest like a tentacle ready to grasp its prey and I cannot do anything to stop it.

I turn to the written word to forget my sorrows and create black tales of fear and horror. It does help a bit … sometimes. I also turn to the bottle and it blesses me with the oblivion I crave.

But nothing can help me now. The love of my life is dying and I'm unable to alleviate her pain.

I know what it will be like when she’s gone. I won’t be able to go on. She’s unwittingly sentenced me to death.

Friday, November 17, 2017

Bernard Cornwell The Last Kingdom Audiobook

Mrs Dalloway full movie with SPA subtitles

Mrs Dalloway Virginia Woolf Audiobook


So fragile…
The baubles 
That Mum hung
From our silvery tree.

So fragile …
The tinsel 
That Dad
Took out of
That old cardboard box.

So fragile…
The colored flutes
We drank from
When the clock
Struck twelve.

So fragile…
The Nativity scene
Made of painted clay.
The sweet little Mary
In her sky blue robe.

So fragile…
My dreams
And my innocence.
My belief 
The Three Kings
Would visit me.

So fragile…
Those past Christmases
Now populated by ghosts
That I cannot touch

Thursday, November 16, 2017

The Lines (a poem about aging)

It’s the lines …
The lines, 
They cut my wings,
The lines.

It’s the image in the mirror,
It’s the wondering
And the fear.
Will we still be together
When our bones are brittle glass?
Will you still hold my hand?

It’s the sadness in the eyes,
And the heaviness on the shoulders.
It's not understanding…
And the lines.

It’s the calm on my green sea,
It’s a wise word on my lips.
It’s knowing that you love me
And the lines.

It’s becoming weary,
Becoming smaller,
Behind the lines…

And the lines,
They break my back
They slow me down,
But there’s something 
They can’t touch.
For my soul,
My soul is still young.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Why Shakespeare loved iambic pentameter - David T. Freeman and Gregory T...

For The Love Of Fangs

‘I didn’t have a pet growing up,’ I said.

‘So why have you joined this club?’ Yvonne asked me.

‘Must be because I always feel the need to be everywhere and because I like the idea.’

Yvonne didn’t even answer. She just glared at me.

After a moment’s silence, I continued speaking.

‘Well, what do you expect? I lived in a small flat in Madrid and my mum didn’t like animals. But wait, I had forgotten, I had two birds. One was called Puntito and the other Naranjito.’

‘What’s with the stupid names? What do they mean?’ Jan asked. She hadn’t talked before because she had been writing her own post in a corner of our virtual room.

‘Puntito means Little Dot and Naranjito means Little Orange.’

‘You have to be kidding me,’ both women said at the same time.

‘No, I’m not kidding. Puntito was a present from my grandpa. He bred canaries when he retired.’

‘And the other one?’ Jan asked

‘My parents bought it for my sister. But what she really wanted was a dog.’

‘A canary is a poor substitute for a dog. Anyway, didn’t you want a pet yourself?’ Jan asked trying to suppress a yawn. I realized I was boring her.

‘No, I wasn’t an animal person.’

‘So why have you joined the club?’ Yvonne asked. Again.

‘I’ve already told you.’

‘Yeah, but I still don’t understand it.’

‘I’ve changed. Now I love all kinds of creatures. Let me tell you about my new pet.’

‘Oh, cool. You got yourself a dog? The one I’ve seen in your  FB profile picture?’

‘Oh, no, That’s my daughter’s. I got myself a baby snake. It goes with me everywhere. Look, it’s here in my bag.’

I think that noise I’ve just heard might have been Yvonne and Jan screaming and then fainting. I don’t blame them. Fangs doesn’t like strangers and can seem a bit intimidating till you get to know him.

Friday, November 10, 2017


My love is like the flower
That grows among the tiles.

He’s always there, 
Right by my side.
He dries my tears,
He makes me smile.

My love is like the snail
That finishes the race.

He brings me daisies,
He makes me smile.

My love is like the weed
That can live without water.

He’s never far.
When I am sad,
Raises me up.

My love is like the sea
That dances with the moon.

When it is winter,
He warms my bed.
When I am lonely,
Says the right word.

My love is like the earth.
Always generous, 
Always fair.

Saturday, November 4, 2017

Red Field

Red drops
Water the earth.
Do not do it again.

I left my heart
On that field.
I lost my life
On that land.

I hear horse hooves
And think of my untimely death.
Do not do it again.

Letters in my pocket,
Gunfire over my head.
I remembered her
Even after that day.

Poppies red
Tint the fields.
Do not do it again.

We were young,
We were lost.
Met our end,
Died for them.

Mark my words.
The mask of death.

Do it 
Ever… again.

In Haste

We toil,
We rush,
To get that bus,
To live this life.

We slither,
Slip and

We dash,
We rush,
Even when old
Our aim unknown.

We rush,
We dash
And we forget
To smell the grass,
To breathe the air
To enjoy the sun.

We race,
We sprint,
To catch a star.

Our dreams ahead,
The past…
This torn thread,
The present …
Just a blur
While we zoom
And  we run.

Friday, November 3, 2017

Unaware. Flash Fiction

I was lost. I just wanted to go back home, but no matter how hard I tried, I kept on walking in circles.

The forest was dark and humid and, for some reason,  I had lost my shoes.

‘Help, can anybody please help me?’ I shouted. No answer. Nothing.

After a while, I sat down against a tree and cried. That’s when I heard the siren. A police car! Somebody was looking for me!

A cop got out. I was about to say hello, but the desolate expression on his face stopped me.

‘Here!  I found a body,’ he said.

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

New World

Kate hardly remembered the old world. Why would she? The new one was much, much better. And it was there to stay.

Gone were the chimneys and the exhaust pipes, the sky was bluer and the lichens grew on every tree. Nature had recovered its splendor and reigned like a kind monarch just released from prison.

Sometimes, when she was sleeping, there were nightmares, but she never remembered them in the morning. She just felt uncomfortable and somewhat dirty, but the feeling passed as soon as she had her morning bath in the river. Yeah, you heard me right. The river.

Kate worked from home and her bosses were mostly kind. Her workmates, like her, had adapted to the new way of life. Blindly and not very critically. After all, everything looked prettier. The colors were softer and the air was fresher.

It was all so easy and so sweet. So calm… Sometimes when she listened intently, Kate heard a soft buzz, but it never disturbed her.

Kate lived on her own. That’s why there’s practically no dialogue in this little story.  She had a dog, but her dog couldn’t talk… Things had changed, but not that much.

One Sunday morning, Kate heard the chip under her beehive hairstyle go beep beep beep. She walked towards the sea unthinkingly… surrounded by many others. 

The last thing she heard as she marched into the water was her boss buzzing around her head.

‘What goes around…,’ he said.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

All The Light We Cannot See

Yesterday, I finished reading All The Light We Cannot See, a 2014 novel written by Anthony Doerr.

His book won the Pulitzer Prize and if I had been a member of the panel I would have agreed with this decision most completely. I think it’s one of the best books I have read in a very long time and one that will stay with me forever.

Doerr tells a beautiful story. Simple but wonderfully rounded. He follows the lives of Werner, a German orphan, and Marie Laure, a blind girl living in Paris with her dad. In very short chapters and with numerous flashbacks and flash forwards, we see their lives unfurl till they eventually meet. All this, with the Second World War as a well-researched but unobtrusive backdrop.

However, what makes this book, which took ten years to write, unique is the author’s mastery of language and detail. Besides, his prose is so full of imaginative metaphors and wonderful similes that it often reads like poetry. 

I have to say I envy Doerr’s talent. I think that apart from enjoying myself, I have learned an awful lot reading this marvellous tale. I read almost exclusively on my Kindle, but if I had bought the paperback, I would have underlined something on almost every page.

The themes that populate the pages of ATLWCS are numerous: history repeats itself, the importance of enjoying the present and the fact that we all leave a mark on this earth, even if we think we don’t. Every action has a repercussion, even the smallest one.

I leave you with a quote from the book and I hope if you decide to peruse it, you’ll enjoy it:

“We rise again in the grass. In the flowers. In songs.” 

Saturday, October 28, 2017


Tiny stars of light
Dance and float,
Float and dance
In the air.

‘You cannot catch us
We’ll slither away
We are just too little
We know how to escape.’

Minuscule dots
Whirl in a single ray.
If I close the window,
they just go away.

But it’s just an illusion,
They are still with me.
All around my house,
Just doing their thing.

‘I know that you hate us,
But we’re here to stay.
We love dancing, prancing,
Landing, making friends.’

‘Don’t you be so sure,
hateful little specks.
I’m getting my duster,
I’m ready for battle.
Do say your goodbyes,
Be ready to perish,
Tiny little pests.’

‘Are you talking to us?
Hear how we laugh.
Ha, ha, haaaa….
We’re here to staaay…’

I’ve won this battle,
But they’ll win the war.
They are always near
Always ready to pounce.
You know what?
I think I’ll give up.