First Prize Poetry in Spanish

Itaca inesperada

Author: Alejandro Barrero Bilbao

Master in Business Analytics & Big Data

Spain

Caminas por una ciudad
que podría ser la tuya.
Te preguntas
cómo has llegado
y si el viaje
no habrá sido acaso
un regreso (olvidado).
Es difícil distinguir
entre fragmentos
de recuerdo y de deseo.
Como el olor de alguien
que ya no está
cuando abres el armario,
buscas entre esquinas familiares
pequeñas certezas
con forma de puerta
o de ventana.
De pronto, te cruzas
con ella
y descubres
(con gozo)
que no es tu casa
lo que has extraviado,
sino la apacible soledad
que solía ser
tu hogar.

Second Prize Poetry in Spanish

Entre el viento

Author: Macarena Tannus Rubinos

Bachelor in Business Administration and Bachelor in International Relations

Uruguay

Cafés entre el viento
y se vuelan tus penas.
Se vuelan tus penas
te saltan sonrisas.
Te saltan sonrisas
sueñas despierto.
Sueñas despierto
corres inmóvil.
Corres inmóvil
corazón cosquilludo.
Corazón cosquilludo
florece tu alma.
Tu alma florece
alguien te mira.
Alguien te admira
alguien te piensa.
Alguien te siente
te sientes alguien.
Con alguien te sientas
te sientas y piensas.
Piensas y piensan
piensan dos mentes.
Dos mentes dementes
dementes y cuerdos.
Cuerdos en el recuerdo
recuerdo de un alma.
De un alma lejana
lejana en un sueño.
En un sueño despierto
despierto e inmóvil.
Inmóvil el alma
el alma entre el viento.

Dos mentes dementes
un alma entre el viento.
Dos almas florecen
florecen y admiran
dos mentes dementes
volando sin viento.

Third Prize Poetry in Spanish

Atardecer sonoro…

Author: Emilio Muñoz Díez

Master en Dirección Financiera y Control

Spain

Una tarde
de verano...
Un pequeño
pueblo…

El día
languidece

El ambiente
refresca…

Y la vida...
que se cuela
por la ventana
abierta.

El perro ladra...
Las ancianas
discuten…
Los niños gritan…
La madre
llama a la cena…

Se escucha
a lo lejos…

La pluma,
sobre el papel,
en apasionada
carrera…

Serenidad…

Mi corazón
escucha…
MI alma
habla…

Sobre el blanco,
al compás
de los trazos,
la vida se retrata
en cadenciosa
armonía…

Compañía…

Siempre,
al alcance
de la mano,
un viejo tomo
del amado maestro,
Machado.

First Prize Poetry in English

An Afro-Madrilena Love Note

Author: Patrice Juah

Master in International Relations

Liberia

Madrid, my darling,
Where have they taken you?
I see you stare in a distance,
Voice caged, head bowed.
Desolate parks,
Empty streets,
But yet so dainty.
I sigh. I gasp. I watch.
Your familiar allure
Holds me spellbound
drawing me in.
Amidst the eerie silence,
I blink back to reality.
Your charm,
So ever-present
A mesmerizing dance of rainbows
Beckons to fill
A void in a hallowed space.
Your glory lurks in the shadows,
Soaring beyond despair.
Grief so profound
only time can erase
Your cafes and hidden treasures sigh,
Yearning for relief;
History, nestled beneath your cracks and walls
Sweetheart, what unimaginable gloom has befallen you?
In awe and dismay,
I reflect,
Of what was, what is, and what could come next.
Reminiscing:
The very first day I met you,
Long walks exploring you,
Lunches way past lunch hour,
And dinners turned midnight carefree chattering.
Like a forgotten memory,
the days fade away,
Bursting free your spirit,
Rising like the Phoenix that you are,
Cementing resilience with each balcony cheer
Courage intact,
Fear unmasked
Just like you were when we first met.
My loyalty remains;
And right beside you I’ll always stand -
Steady. Hopeful. Confident.
Of healing, laughter and adventures.
Of the smell of freshly brewed coffee and
Tortillas straight from the heart
I’ve been in this abyss before
A déjà vu on wings
But trust me when I say, you shall rise.
Your willpower steers your path,
A forward march until the fight is won.
Though the melodies seem to wane
And the hugs long disappeared,
I hope the chirping birds deliver this love note to you.
A reminder that this Afro-Madrileña continues to dream of you.

Second Prize Poetry in English

Invisible

Author: Malak El Halabi

Master in Market Researh and Consumer Behavior

Lebanon

On my 5th birthday party,
the magician asked me to
close my eyes and to make
a wish. “One wish,” he
kept shouting. “As crazy
as it seems.”

One wish. I shut my dark
eyes and I whispered:
in- in- invisible. make me
invisible.
so invisible that I can
dissolve
into thin air.
so invisible that I can
shatter
like a wall of glass
in a room
full of people and go
unnoticed
unrecognizable
unheard.

The years passed, the
magicians kept coming
in batches. asking the
same old unfulfilled
question. repeating the
same old instruction.
“Close your eyes.”

Tonight, I realized
they were all wrong. there was
no need
to close my eyes. not at all.
the eyes should be:
wide open. and all it takes
for the magic to happen is
one
single
unreturned
glance.

Third Prize Poetry in English

Quarantine Sonnets: Gratitude Edition

Quarantine Sonnets: Madness Edition

Author: Jessica Yang

International MBA

USA

Quarantine Sonnets: Gratitude Edition

I'm grateful for the air that fills my lungs,
the filtered rays of sunshine on my face.
I'm grateful that tomorrow always comes
and brings with it a new day's untold grace.

I'm grateful to the hope that fights the fear:
Applause rings out from balconies on high.
In spite of all the time we've lost this year,
we won't let these small moments pass us by.

I'm grateful for the smiles through the screen.
The texts, the calls, the messages pour in.
Through circumstances sad and unforeseen,
we're more connected than we've ever been.

Outside these walls, life slows down to a crawl,
but I'm grateful to have had this time at all.

Quarantine Sonnets: Madness Edition

Day 1 of quarantine goes by just fine:
I clean, stock my pantry, drink some wine,
clear out a space for yoga on the floor,
and plan to spend the next few weeks indoors.

Pretty soon, my composure starts to wane.
I try new tactics not to go insane:
sit in the kitchen, try to catch some sun,
and cook 3 days' worth of food for one.

Today, I awoke with great despair
to find a sunless sky and frigid air.
I'm tempted to just spend the day in bed
inventing conversations in my head.

I'm talking to the dust mites in the sky…
Should I be concerned when they reply?

Special Mention Poetry in English

Lemons

Author: Laufey Sverrisdóttir

Bachelor in Business Administration

Iceland

I don’t know what love looks like
I don’t know how it smells
I don’t know the feel of its touch
I think it smells like
Lemons
That would make sense.

First Prize Short Story in Spanish

El reloj de la vida

Author: Antonio Ruíz González-Mateo

Master en Asesoría Jurídica de Empresas

Spain

ESCUCHÓ EN LA RADIO aquella entrevista con un investigador del Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas (CSIC) que presentaba y comentaba los resultados de un reciente informe sobre el perfil de las personas mayores en España (1). En el que se exponían una serie de indicadores sociodemográficos y su evolución en los últimos años.

A Don José el tema le resultó de sumo interés, dada su más que provecta edad en la que él se reconocía e identificaba.

Atendió con atención la información contrastada sobre el progresivo aumento de la esperanza de vida de los españoles. Lo que le produjo una estimulante ilusión. «A vivir que son cien años» pensó, como un sueño posible. El hecho de que las cohortes del baby boom; los nacidos entre 1958-1977, se aprestaran a incorporarse a la Tercera Edad como consecuencia del proceso de envejecimiento poblacional, lo recibió con la autosuficiencia del veterano capitán de la tropa que se dispone a dar la bienvenida a los nuevos reclutas.

El preocupante dato complementario sobre el descenso de la natalidad a 1,3 hijos por pareja lo desatendió sin prestarle importancia. «María y yo ya cumplimos con creces» se dijo con orgullosa hombría. Sus cinco hijos lo avalaban.

La feminización de la vejez. O sea; la más pronta mortalidad masculina, con la consiguiente soledad de las viudas, y su contrapuesta situación personal, le hizo evocar de nuevo, con tristeza, a su mujer, fallecida hacía ya largo tiempo sin haber llegado siquiera a los cincuenta años. «¡Ay Maria! Lo perdido que me quedé yo sin ti…Y lo que te estás perdiendo tú ahora».

Cuando, confusamente, creyó escuchar al entrevistador que la esperanza de vida actual de los varones era de ochenta años se sobresaltó alarmado. Técnicamente, era una media de 80,4 años, según la última tabla de mortalidad del Instituto Nacional de Estadística (INE) 2017. Pero la rotunda inminencia del dato respecto de su edad le derivó al redondeo y a la fijación del guarismo. «Ochenta años, tan solo ochenta años» pensó preocupado. Y por primera vez en su vida se angustió con la fecha final de su existencia.

Y, entonces, le asaltó el recuerdo lejano de la figura del padre, Don Joseba Koldo Iparanguren, catedrático de Ética, agnóstico irreverente en su juventud, transitado en la madurez hacia el nihilismo pasivo. Del abismo vacío lleno de nada tras la muerte. Pero que, tras enfermar gravemente, víctima de un cáncer de pulmón —maldito tabaco, maldito— y estando agonizante, pidió cristiana confesión y la extrema unción de un presbítero con sotana. —Es por si acaso, hijo, es por si acaso…—se justificó poco antes de expirar. A los ochenta años, precisamente.

Rememoración que hiló con el recuerdo contrapuesto de su hermano mayor, Iñaki, evangelista seminarista en su juventud, y con el tiempo converso, con el nombre de Muhammad, a fundamentalista islamista, con la firme creencia de la muerte como una ficción predestinada. Y en el «buen morir» como un paso obligado en el tránsito por el puente a la vida eterna liberadora en el más allá.

Más, la inminencia del final en esta vida obnubila hasta las más fervientes convicciones. Y poco antes de fallecer, también víctima de un cáncer de pulmón —maldito tabaco, maldito—, Muhammad en un intento desesperado por aferrarse a esta vida, empezó a  convulsionarse en el lecho de muerte, implorando: —¡No quiero morir!, ¡No quiero morir! —. Y expiró aterrorizado. A los ochenta años, también.

Esta concatenación de recuerdos y su coincidencia en la edad de sus desenlaces le trajo a la memoria que tiempo atrás, en los años noventa, trasteando por internet se había encontrado casualmente con una macabra página web que te vaticinada la fecha y la causa de tu muerte. Había que cumplimentar un sencillo cuestionario de datos elementales; fecha de nacimiento, profesión, estilo y hábitos de vida, costumbres alimenticias, alcohol, tabaco… Información que contestó por curiosidad y facilitó sin problemas. Pues cuidaba su salud con esmero, como riguroso practicante del principio coubertiniano; «mens sana in corpore sano». Incluso recordó, vergonzoso, el detalle de cómo a la singular pregunta «¿Cuántas veces haces el amor al mes?» había rellenado el casillero con la respuesta de «Ninguna vez». Y se volvió a acordar con añoranza de su difunta esposa.

«¡Ay, María! Lo perdido que me quedé yo sin ti... María».

El resultado de aquella prueba fue conciso: «Fallecerás atropellado al cruzar la calle». Y la fecha concreta: «El primero de junio —precisamente el día de su cumpleaños— del año 2019». O sea, a sus ochenta años.

Entonces, aquel juego le pareció estúpido. Pero hasta le divirtió. Aún era joven. «Cincuentañero». Más, ahora no lo le hacía ni pizca de gracia. Tenía ya setenta y nueve años.

Tantas convergencias en los ochenta años le provocaron una cierta inquietud.

Y, a pesar de su abierta mentalidad, inteligencia lógico-matemática y docencia como catedrático emérito en Ciencias Exactas, se empezó a obsesionar con estas coincidencias en base a un dato estadístico; mal interpretado. A sus antecedentes familiares; sin rigor genético. Y en aquel estúpido test; sin valor alguno. Pero indicadores todos considerados por él como exponentes concluyentes y fatalistas sobre los ochenta años como fecha límite de su existencia.

Intentando relativizar el dato, Don José se hizo un curioso planteamiento en base a una inconsistente derivación paradójica de la teoría matemática de los conjuntos infinitos. «Si lograra concentrar la medida temporal de la existencia en la esfera de un reloj, me resultaría más plausible concretar en finito cada elemento cardinal de la vida… y, entonces… —se planteó la interrogante—... ¿Cuál sería ahora mi hora en el reloj de mi vida?». Cuestión que simplificó matemáticamente en una, para él, sencilla regla de tres; relación proporcional, en base a su edad y la de su temido final, con la analogía a las veinticuatro horas de un día: 79 es a 80, como X es a 24.

Y el resultado; despejada la incógnita X con la ayuda de una pequeña calculadora: 23,70. Que convirtió en tiempo horario como las 23:40. Guarismo mixto de lógica y absurdo, donde el rigor de las matemáticas se mezclaba con la extravancia del esperpento.

Esa hora, 23:40, las doce menos veinte en reloj clásico, le marcaría una idea obsesiva. Veinte minutos tan solo antes de la medianoche eran veinte minutos que le restaban un año antes del final en el reloj de su vida.

Todas las noches observaba invariablemente y temeroso aquel antiguo reloj de pared alfonsino, heredado del padre, y al alcanzar la manecilla larga las VIII, ya rebasa la manecilla corta las XI, entraba en un estado de profunda ansiedad que solo mitigaba en parte tras un trankimazin, pero con la preocupación latente aun ya traspasadas las doce campanadas de la medianoche.

Buscó reparación a su progresiva necrofobia en libros y manuales de autoayuda sobre la muerte. Pero aquellas pontificas lecturas le turbaban más aún. Y le mantenían desvelado hasta el nuevo amanecer.

Al final, descorazonado y sin saberse por qué, en un regreso subconsciente a sus vivencias más primigenias, recurrió a la relectura de sus libros favoritos de infancia: Peter Pan, Alicia en el País de la Maravillas, Cenicienta… Esos sí; le aliviaban el tránsito tras las XI y VIII y, justo tras las doce campanadas, quedaba dormido plácidamente, como un niño. Hasta el día siguiente.

Y un día, según se acercaba el de su ochenta aniversario, escuchando en la radio las noticias de las doce, tuvo otra de sus extravagantes ocurrencias. Y le pidió, casi rogó, a su hijo mayor:

—José Mari, cuando vaya a llegar el día de mi cumpleaños, por favor, llévame a Canarias. Allí siempre es una hora menos. Y, por tanto, cuando aquí den las doce de la noche, allí mi tiempo vital se retrotraerá a una hora menos. Y entonces, allí tendré poco más de setenta y seis años. Y allí quiero vivir, hasta morir.

El hijo le miró perplejo. Pero, consciente de la obsesión ya demencial de su padre por su hora fatal, decidió complacerle. Y le consiguió una plaza en una paradisíaca Residencia de la Tercera Edad a las afueras de Las Palmas.

El día antes de su ochenta cumpleaños, Don José aterrizaba en el aeropuerto de Gran Canaria. Allí a la medianoche sería una hora menos. Una oportunidad de dar más vida a sus años; setenta y seis allí, según sus cálculos. Y allí podría disfrutar de aquel paraíso terrenal. Del otro; pensaba ni pensar.

A la salida del aeropuerto, al otro lado de la calzada, le esperaba un sonriente chofer con un monovolumen que le trasladaría a su nueva residencia canaria.

Se dispuso a cruzar, confiado y exultante, sin reparar en aquella guagua que accidentalmente se abalanzó sobre él.

Y su cuerpo desmadejado quedó tendido sobre el asfalto. Con los brazos en cruz, los ojos abiertos al cielo y una última sonrisa en su rostro. Rejuvenecido.

Epílogo.

Al año siguiente, poco antes de alcanzarse las doce de la noche del treinta y uno de mayo, su hijo Jose Mari abrió la esfera de aquel reloj, heredado del padre, y retrasó las manecillas el giro de una hora, hasta marcar exactamente las XI y XII. En recuerdo póstumo.

«¡Ay! Papá, papá… En mala hora se te ocurrió esa idea maníaca sobre el reloj y la vida». Pensó apenado. «En el reloj de mi vida aún son las VI de la tarde». Concluyó ilusionado.

FIN

(1) “Un perfil de las personas mayores en España, 2019. Indicadores estadísticos básicos”. Informes Envejecimiento en red nº 22, 38p. [Fecha de publicación: 4 06/03/2019]. Por Antonio Abellán García, Pilar Aceituno Nieto, Julio Pérez Díaz, Diego Ramiro Fariñas, Alba Ayala García y Rogelio Pujol Rodriguez. CSIC 2019.

Second Prize Short Story in Spanish

El laberinto

Author: Laura Hermosa Matamoros

Master in Management

Costa Rica

Y de pronto abrí los ojos y me encontraba dentro de un sueño. No distinguía las figuras, solamente sombras que me llevaban a chispas y destellos de luz de colores que lograba perseguir con el rabillo del ojo. Todo el brillo era intenso y también los sonidos; los coches en la calle, la ambulancia, el autobús en la estación. Siempre me he sentido más cerca de casa cuando escucho el ruido de la ciudad, pero a eso iremos más adelante. Oía a mi madre en el fondo de la habitación hablando por teléfono, preguntándole a un doctor qué hacia si la fiebre seguía, y que si me había tomado ya la pastilla de la tarde. Sigo sin entender, o sin querer hacerlo, y me preocupo más por la sensación de calor que me está quemando. Me pregunto qué pensaría Matías si me viera, y me rio al oír su voz en mi cabeza riendo y repitiendo…” Floja, eres una floja, deja de racionalizar tu dolor, siéntelo y domínalo, estas hecha de otra madera mujer.” Justo en ese momento caigo en cuenta de que ni es un sueño, ni esa señora era mi madre.

Mi nombre es Emilia, y estoy internada en el Sanatorio del Dr. Ezquerdo por el asesinato de Matías Colmenar. Es curioso como confundimos la realidad con la ficción cuando tratamos de protegernos de aquello que nos hace daño, de nosotros mismos, de los que más amamos, de nuestros demonios.

Conocí a Matías en la Universidad Europea de Madrid. Podría decir que fue por casualidad, pero ahora entiendo que no existen las casualidades, más allá de lo trillado de la idea misma. Era jueves de carnavales, y la Universidad nos había convocado a la inauguración de la nueva aula de literatura griega. Si me preguntan, una excusa más para justificar los fondos privados de las donaciones de don Jacobo Rutllan, un señor de mucho nombre y poca hombría, que, según mi padre, había llegado a su posición a cambio de sus servicios legales a los Capos de la época de Pablo Escobar, pero que con su intelecto había logrado salir invicto de dichas acusaciones. No por nada lo conocían como El Diablo.

Al lado del puente que llevaba hacia la Facultad de Psicología, había una gran carpa con mesas repletas de comida y meseros atendiendo a los invitados. Botellas de vino, sidra y whiskey del más caro, rodeadas de centenares de alumnos y profesores, algunos con máscaras venecianas y otros con pelucas y labios rojo intenso, con sentimiento de bacanal. En la entrada estábamos Raquel, Laura y yo con nuestras máscaras doradas que habíamos mandado hacer con plumas de colores azules, disfrutando de la música y nuestra felicidad de haber salido de exámenes y tener solo un año más de maestría por delante. Estudiamos juntas Economía, y decidimos hacer un master en Desarrollo Económico y Políticas Públicas, para perseguir nuestro antojo de salvar al mundo un paso a la vez, a pesar de no ser capaces de salvarnos ni a nosotras mismas. En una acalorada conversación sobre si el Estado debería o no ser laico, me escapé en busca del salonero para traer la sidra a la conversación, y fue allí donde tropecé con Matías. Se disculpó por no haberme visto, y pensé si se estaba disculpando por el tropezón o por toda una vida... todo en sus ojos hacia sentido. Le dije que no se preocupara, que fue mi error por lo torpe que suelo ser, a lo que respondió “las falsas modestias no suelen ser halagos” y nos reímos los dos. Cuando oí a Raquel preguntarme si me encontraba bien, ya Matías se había ido.

Esa noche llegué al piso que alquilo en Calle Palma desde hace 2 años, algo mareada, la sidra tiene lo suyo, pero satisfecha porque había sido una buena tarde. Sentada en el balcón tomándome la última cerveza que tenía en casa, pensé en Matías, en sus ojos y el secreto que escondían. En el fondo esperé volverlo a ver.

Semanas después, salíamos de la ciudad con Laura y Raquel rumbo a Galicia, mi lugar preferido en el mundo. El clima triste y su verde oscuro, me hacen sentir viva. Soy del 1% de la población que no puede dormir con lluvia porque me genera ansiedad, por lo que aprendí a ver llover y calmarme mientras escucho música. Eso me genera paz dentro de todo el caos que hay en este mundo. Llegamos a Porto Novo al piso de Eduardo, uno de los mejores amigos de Laura, donde planeábamos pasar algunas semanas aprovechando las fiestas del Albariño que venían por esos días. Bajé hacia el supermercado con la lista de compra mientras las chicas terminaban de alistar todo para los que faltaban por llegar.

Tropecé y caí de espalda en la acera, era muy temprano para que hubiera alguien en la calle, por lo que cuando me aseguré de estar bien, me empecé a levantar y oí una voz que dijo “pues tenemos que dejar de encontrarnos así”, era Matías. No sé cómo me reconoció sin máscara, pero lo cierto es que tampoco me importó mucho que lo hubiera hecho. Me ayudó a levantar y le dije, algo sonrojada, que me disculpara la torpeza una vez más. Se rió, con esa sonrisa de niño que me aceleraba el corazón, y sólo dijo... “falsas modestias”. Me presenté, le dije que me llamaba Emilia Montero, que era estudiante de Maestría de PoliDes y que estaba de vacaciones con mis amigas. Dijo que su nombre era Matías y que era Psicoanalista y profesor en la Universidad. No recuerdo que me dijera por qué estaba en Porto Novo, pero no me molesté tampoco en preguntar. Le invité a la fiesta que tendríamos en la noche y me dijo que allí estaría.

Raquel Santillana y yo nos conocimos en la carrera en clases de Microeconomía. Siempre ha sido un manojo de nervios y estaba comprometida con Nicolás, un chico algo tímido y que le falta mundo, pero yo siempre he creído que mis amigas se merecen príncipes azules, así que tiendo a ser muy dura con ellos. Aun así, se casarán en septiembre del año que viene, y la pobre ya no daba para más.

Cuando me desperté de la siesta, Raquel estaba lista y gritándole a Laura porque no salía del baño y aún yo tenía que ducharme. Faltaban aún un par de horas para que llegaran los demás, por lo que me reí y me serví un vino. Cuando Laura salió del baño, les dije que tenía que contarles del chico que conocí porque lo invité esa noche a casa. Era difícil describir a alguien a quien solo has visto un par de veces, pero con quien te has visto en el altar en tu cabeza. Al final dejé más interrogantes que respuestas y Laura solo dijo que debería asegurarme que no fuera un asesino en serie... creo que la pobre razón llevaba de preocuparse por mí.

A Laura Atmella la conocí en una fiesta de la facultad. Aunque no habíamos llevado cursos juntas, éramos la una para la otra, inseparables. Laura era muy enamoradiza, veía la vida como una serie de televisión constante y no tenía tanta suerte en el amor. Siempre se fijaba en patanes, pero después de un tiempo en terapia entendió que no podía conformarse con amores a medias... eso, y que su ex novio está en la cárcel en Picassent por robo de identidad.

Logré alistarme y estar a tiempo para la fiesta, llegaron los chicos y empezamos a bailar y disfrutar de las copas y los chupitos. El tiempo corre tan despacio cuando esperas algo. Soy impaciente por naturaleza, y dentro de mi forma tan obtusa de ser, intento racionalizarlo todo, empezando por mis emociones. Empecé a culparme por haber creído que Matías era diferente, porque algo raro tenía que haber y a lo mejor Laura tenía razón, pero una vez más asumí que el problema era yo y que seguramente no merecía la pena. Salimos del piso, camino a la discoteca a bailar. Fui a la barra por un trago y ahí lo vi, a lo lejos, solo, disfrutando de la música con una copa en la mano. Pensé que debería estar esperando a alguien, y que yo había sido demasiado tonta por creer que un chico así estaría soltero. No solo eso, sino cómo lo invité a casa. Cancelé la copa, les dije a los chicos que me dolía la cabeza y me fui a casa. Al llegar al portal me di cuenta que no tenía llaves, así que decidí caminar por las calles, esperando calmar mis pensamientos y desmontarme el paripé que tenía en la cabeza.

Al caminar por el pueblo, me percaté de la hora que era, al ver a los pescadores alistándose para salir a su jornada. Pensé que debía esperar a que Laura y Raquel volvieran a casa, pero sentí la necesidad de caminar sin rumbo, de encontrarme conmigo misma y las calles vacías, sin pensamientos ni gente, y por supuesto, sin Matías. A veces me pregunto por qué tengo esta fijación con personas que no me corresponden, de amores a medias, y he llegado a la conclusión de que saboteo lo bueno, porque tengo miedo a ser feliz. No me lo merezco. No he hecho nada trascendental en la vida para que el Universo me otorgue el privilegio de cuidar a otro ser humano, y ni hablar de formar una familia, vamos, que hasta el que creó este mundo lo tiene claro, hay gente para todo y yo definitivamente no me gané la rifa para sentar cabeza. A mis 28 años, sigo preguntándome el por qué estamos vivos. Supongo que muchos se lo preguntan, pero pocos son capaces de admitirlo. Yo intento ser auténtica y como bien dijo La Agrado de Almodovar,” porque una es más auténtica, cuanto más se parece a lo que ha soñado de si misma.”

Se prende la luz, y sentí que no podía moverme. Volví a escuchar las ambulancias de fondo y una mujer gritando que debíamos estar preparados para la venida de los dueños del mundo, que nos arrepintiéramos de nuestros pecados, porque ya había llegado la hora. El enfermero me levanta y me da algo de beber, no estoy en mis cinco sentidos para descifrar qué me están dando, pero pienso en que sus manos huelen a lavanda, y como esta esencia debería calmar los nervios, pero en mi caso, es lo contrario. “Emilia, la pongo junto a la ventana para que disfrute”. Me crié en una ciudad grande, mi padre, diplomático de profesión, estaba designado a la misión de Nueva York. Los edificios altos, el sonido del metro, las bocinas de los coches, los gritos, el caos… aprendí que ese era mi normal, y estar fuera de eso me genera una sensación de desasosiego, de falsa calma previa a la tormenta. Aunque ir a la montaña o a la playa ayuda a despejar la mente, no cambio por nada las luces de los semáforos, eternos atascos y la buena música de la ciudad que es un grito de paz.

Cuando vuelvo a casa, coincido con las chicas en la entrada quienes con sus zapatos en la mano venían coreando a Raffaella Carrá, con las miradas de los vecinos del Norte acompañados de sonidos de silencio de alguna ventana de la calle ancha. Decido dormir, sin pensar, sin cuestionarme, y sin Matías.

A la mañana siguiente, mientras Laura y Raquel duermen su resaca, decido salir a correr. No tiendo a hacer mucho ejercicio, ya que fui bendecida con una genética envidiable, pero mentalmente me ayuda a aclarar mis ideas. El pueblo se veía más lleno que cuando lo dejé horas antes, ya los pescadores habían vuelto y estaban vendiendo la pesca del día. Los barcos del Club Náutico se preparaban para zarpar y yo aproveché para correr por la Playa de Baltar. La arena es densa, por lo que trato de ir con cuidado, para evitar caerme una vez más. A lo lejos escucho que alguien me llama, pero pienso que estoy confundida y sigo por la playa. Me quito las zapatillas y toco el agua con los pies. No entiendo cómo, el agua me jala hacia ella, y estoy completamente mojada, y allí vuelvo a escuchar mi nombre, esta vez de cerca, esta vez con sentido, Matías.

Me saludó con aparente cansancio, y dijo que se alegraba de verme ya que estaba buscándome desde hace algún tiempo. Intenté disimular mi rabia por haberme dejado esperando la noche anterior, y le dije que no sabía para que me buscaba, si la noche anterior no parecía haber estado interesado. Evadió mi comentario, y dijo que si lo acompañaba a caminar por el pueblo. Dije que sí, aunque mi instinto me decía que no.

Me contó que había nacido en una ciudad grande, y que, por culpa de situaciones externas a su control, lo habían llevado a Madrid, y allí había decidido formarse para entender cómo funcionaba el cerebro de las personas, y porque estas tomaban las decisiones que tomaban. Su necesidad de controlarlo todo y ser racional lo había llevado a ayudar a los demás, y no se arrepentía de ello. Hablamos de la vida, de cómo nada es lo que parece y cómo construimos un alter ego en donde siempre somos el héroe de nuestra película, pero que no somos conscientes del daño que le hacemos a los demás cuando defendemos a ese personaje de ficción que no siempre es acertado, ni siempre es héroe. Le conté sobre los problemas con mis padres y mi hermano, quien murió en un accidente de tránsito cuando yo tenía 15 años, y cómo esto marcó mi vida y la de mi familia, empezando porque nunca encontraron al que conducía el coche y que yo fui la única sobreviviente. Mi hermano se llevó el golpe más fuerte del lado del copiloto.

Me era fácil hablar con Matías, era como si nos conociéramos de toda la vida. Me dijo que fuéramos a tomarnos un café esta tarde, y le dije que sí sin dudarlo. Me sentía libre y a la vez intrigada de qué más habría en la cabeza de Matías que quería conocer.

Laura estaba preparando un Bloody Mary para la resaca, y alistando las cosas de playa para irnos a tomar el sol. Salimos con Nicolás y Eduardo, quienes habían llegado la noche anterior, a poner una sombrilla de playa y disfrutar lo que quedaba de la tarde. Mi cita con Matías era a las 6, así que tenía algunas horas para estar con mi tribu. Les conté a Raquel y a Laura sobre Matías y su teoría del alter ego, y se rieron diciéndome que ya había encontrado a otro loco como yo y que querían conocerle, pero que esperaban que esta vez no me dejara plantada. Yo también esperaba lo mismo.

Llegué al lugar en punto, y allí estaba con una taza de café, esperando por mí. Pedí un té Chai, y salimos a la terraza. Me dijo que quería hablarme de algo muy personal, que no sabía por qué lo hacía, pero que sentía que podría confiar en mí. Nuevamente me sonrojé. Su mejor amigo de la infancia, Raúl, había crecido siendo como su hermano. Matías era hijo único, Raúl fue lo más cercano a familia que tuvo, ya que no tenía una relación muy estrecha con sus padres. Pero un día, la vida le dio un vuelco, ya que Raúl desapareció y nunca volvió a saber de él. Aparentemente se fue hacia el norte con su familia, y desde entonces, Matías lo busca sin éxito de encontrarlo hasta el momento. Cuando me contó esto se le llenaron los ojos de lágrimas, y entendí su dolor y lo sentí mío. La señorita del café trajo la cuenta únicamente de mi té, no cobró el café, por lo que Matías sonrío y le dejó el equivalente de ambos en la mesa. Me sonrojé una vez más. Intercámbianos números y nos separamos cada quien por su camino.

Esa noche decidimos quedarnos en el piso jugando juegos de mesa. Las cartas siempre han sido mi pasión, y la verdad me sentía con suerte esa noche. Después de un par de horas, me fui a dormir, y me di cuenta que tenía un mensaje de Matías que decía: “El amor no debe ser cobarde”. Me acordé de la canción de Silvio Rodríguez que dice “Los amores cobardes no llegan ni amores ni a historias, se quedan así…” y pedí porque no fuera cobarde, ni solo una historia.

El día estuvo algo ocupado, mis dolores de cabeza empeoraban con el sol y el calor, que, aunque no es común en Porto Novo, como dije antes, estaba de suerte. Desde el accidente, mi cabeza no es la misma. Tengo episodios de migrañas que a veces duran hasta 4 días y por más exámenes y doctores que he visto, aun no llegan a descubrir el cómo curarlas. Alistándonos para irnos, le escribí a Matías diciéndole que ya íbamos de vuelta a Madrid y me dijo que le avisara cuando llegara. Durante el viaje paramos un par de veces, y las chicas aprovecharon para buscar a Matías en las redes sociales, sin embargo, no lo encontraron. Recordé que me dijo que no le gustaban las Redes Sociales y que prefería vivir en la memoria de la gente, que en una pantalla.

Ya en Madrid, me duché y antes de dormir le avisé que ya había llegado y nos despedimos sin más.

Pasaron un par de meses, y mi relación con Matías se había hecho más fuerte. Aunque no conocía a sus padres, ni el a los míos, sabíamos que eso era más un trámite que cualquier otra cosa. Las chicas se fueron de viaje a Irlanda, Raquel se había quedado con Nicolás unos días más y Laura ya estaba de vuelta. Yo me quedé haciendo una práctica de verano y disfrutando mi relación con Matías. Retomábamos clases a finales de octubre, así que todo estaba bien.

Ya comenzaban los fríos del otoño, y Matías y yo estábamos caminando por Fuencarral viendo tiendas y hablando de todo un poco. Le pregunté si se arrepentía de algo en su vida, me dijo que de no saber nada de Raúl, de no entender qué pasó y de no poder encontrarlo. Le dije que yo me arrepentía de no haber podido salvar a mi hermano, y hubo un silencio hasta que llegamos a Gran Vía. Yo tomé el metro hacia Calle Palma, y él tomó el metro hacia Goya, no sin antes decirme que me amaba y que la vida era solo eso, paradas de metro. Me acordé que mi hermano y yo crecimos cerca de ahí, esa era nuestra parada de metro, y me reí de las coincidencias del destino. De haber sabido que era la última vez que veía a Matías antes de su muerte, lo hubiera abrazado con más fuerza.

El doctor me bajó a la sala de visitas. Eran mis padres quienes estaban allí. No pasaba a menudo. Después del asesinato de Matías y de que me internaron allí, mi madre había caído en una depresión muy fuerte, y salir era un reto para todos. Me vieron, mi padre sonrió y me entregó una foto de una playa en un verano de hace algunos años. Allí estábamos, sonriendo, sin saber cómo la vida hace lo que quiere con nosotros, y como nosotros simplemente somos su audiencia. Mi madre preguntó si estaba comiendo bien, y le respondí que sí y luego ambos preguntaron por mis migrañas, y extrañamente no las sentía hace algún tiempo.

Llegué a la parada de metro de Calle Palma, y caminé hacia el piso. Empecé a sentir que algo andaba mal, e intenté buscar las llaves, pero no las encontré, y me desplomé en el suelo. Las luces rojas de la ambulancia y el grito de Laura me despertaron, ya iba de camino al Hospital. Laura me preguntaba por qué había hecho esto, que no entendía que pasaba, que no podía creérselo… yo no podía hablar ni moverme y no sabía cómo explicarle que el desmayo no era culpa mía y que necesitaba que llamara a Matías. Cuando me bajaron de la ambulancia, escuché a una enfermera preguntar dónde estaba el impacto de la bala o la herida de arma blanca, a lo que el paramédico respondió que eran heridas autoinfligidas y que estaban por todo mi torso. No tenía sentido. Yo estaba viva, estaba bien y solo perdí el conocimiento por unos minutos, no tenía sentido lo que decían.

Horas más tarde abrí los ojos, estaba vendada y con mucho dolor, y aun algo dormida por la anestesia, pero viva. Laura me alcanzó un vaso con agua, mis padres venían de camino, y ella solo repetía llorando que no entendía por qué lo había hecho. Le pregunté por Matías y me dijo que no sabía nada, que no le contestó el teléfono, y me preocupé. Cuando llegaron mis padres hablaron con la Policía y con Laura, y salieron a hablar con los médicos para entender mi condición.

Cuando entró el Psicólogo del Hospital, interrogó a mis padres y a Laura sobre mi vida, y si sabían por qué había intentado quitarme la vida. Nada podría estar más lejos de la realidad, pero no podía defenderme, solo quería que Matías estuviera ahí para explicarles que todo era un mal entendido. “´¿Su hija había intentado esto antes?”, preguntó el Psicólogo, y mi madre respondió “No, pero ella no es la misma desde el accidente de su hermano Raúl. Su hermano venía de recogerla de la casa de una amiga sobre las 10 de la noche, y le pidió que la dejara conducir a casa que quedaba muy cerca. Como Raúl no le decía que no a nada, le dejó el coche a pesar de que ella era menor de edad y era muy tarde. Algo se atravesó en el camino y perdió el control, chocando contra un poste de electricidad. El golpe mató en el sitio a Raúl y ella sobrevivió. Cuando la encontraron, decía que un tal Matías venía conduciendo el coche y que se había dado a la fuga y que ella había perdido el conocimiento.” Laura interrumpió a mi madre y le preguntó, “¿Matías ha dicho?”- “Sí, Matías Colmenar” respondió mi padre. “Le buscamos por todo el mundo, contratamos a un detective privado y con la policía para que diera con el paradero del tal Matías, pero nunca lo encontraron, no había registros de su existencia. Emilia decía que era gran amigo de Raúl, pero nosotros nunca habíamos oído hablar de él. Las pruebas del perito del accidente indicaron que Emilia venía conduciendo, no venía nadie más en el coche, y las cámaras de seguridad de la Gasolinera así lo comprobaron, solo venían ellos dos. Por años creíamos que a lo mejor ella tenía razón, pero nos dimos cuenta que todo era un delirio, la culpa por haber estado conduciendo el coche que causó el accidente donde murió su hermano. Los psiquiatras nos recomendaron medicarla, ya que era una proyección de sí misma por no poder aceptar lo ocurrido.”

Laura interrumpió a mis padres y les dijo que yo estaba viendo a Matías, que era mi novio y que llevaba meses con él. Les pedí que llamaran a Matías, sin embargo, cuando mi madre tomó el teléfono y llamó, nadie lo cogió. El psicólogo preguntó, “Laura, ¿correcto?, usted podría describir a Matías por favor”, Laura le respondió, “Disculpe, es que nunca le conocimos, siempre hablaba con él, de que era Psicólogo y Profesor de la Universidad y así, pero ni Raquel ni yo le conocimos, solo nos enseñaba fotos de él.” Mi padre preguntó, “Laura nos puedes enseñar la foto de Matías por favor”, Laura tomó su móvil y le enseñó la foto que les había enviado. Mi madre rompió en llanto, y se fue corriendo. Mi padre y el Psicólogo salieron de la habitación y hablaron con la Policía, indicándoles que el de la foto era mi hermano Raúl.

Yo pensaba en Matías, en donde estaría y por qué no contestaba las llamadas. Empecé a tener de nuevo un dolor intenso en la cabeza y empecé a ver episodios de Matías cubierto de sangre, y de mí con un cuchillo gritándole, culpándolo por la muerte de Raúl, mi hermano. No entendía qué pasaba, el dolor se volvía más fuerte, y el sonido del metro no me dejaba escuchar lo que él estaba diciendo, solo sé que lo vi caer, tendido en el suelo, yo a su lado cubierta de sangre, con el arma en la mano. Asesiné a Matías. Asesiné mi culpa. Llegó la hora de la pastilla de la tarde. Algunos de mis compañeros del Sanatorio ven televisión mientras toman una taza de café, y yo me siento a ver los coches pasar y a escuchar el sonido de la ciudad que tanto extraño. El Psiquiatra del Sanatorio dice que me encuentro mucho mejor, que desde que asesiné a Matías, así nunca hubiera existido ni fuera real, de alguna forma había acabado con el miedo y la culpa de la muerte de Raúl y que ahora había que recoger lo que quedó después del huracán y volverlo a poner en su lugar en mi cabeza.

Creo que pronto estaré recuperada. La boda de Raquel y Nicolás es el sábado que viene, hace un año que se comprometieron, ya tengo el vestido listo, Matías vendrá conmigo.

Third Prize Short Story in Spanish

Cuando los cuadros perdonan

Author: Agustín Pellecchia

International MBA

Argentina-Italy

Llegaron a la dirección unos quince minutos tarde, normal y aceptable para cualquier tipo de invitado. Se apearon del coche en silencio, mientras que un ballet se acercaba a Mark. Este le dio las llaves y se unió a su amigo en la entrada de la galería. Un potente pórtico de roca se erguía frente a ellos.

-Tu hermano sí que la organizó bien-dijo, acomodándose las solapas del saco. Mark iba un poco mejor vestido, solo por llevar su traje aseado y planchado.

-Todavía no lo conoce nadie, pero es cuestión de tiempo. Su trabajo es buenoreconoció Oliver- Bah, en realidad no sé… No entiendo nada. Pero a muchos parece gustarle- dijo encogiéndose de hombros.

En la recepción los esperaba una elegante joven que les ofreció una copa de champagne. Mark agradeció con una sonrisa motivada por la belleza de la chica. Oliver no solía beber.

-Mmm… está rico- dijo saboreándolo

- Espero que haya algo para comer, muero de hambre.

-Creo que el presupuesto le alcanzo solo para el alcohol.

-Bueno, con eso me contento- levantó la copa como si estuviese brindando.

-¡Ah, finalmente!-exclamó una voz en cuanto entraron al salón principal.

-Hola, papá.

-Buenas noches, señor Morgan- saludó Mark, estrechando la mano.

Theodore Morgan era de una contextura casi idéntica a la de su hijo, de la misma elegante postura, solo con las notorias marcas de desgaste que deja una generación más. Su cabello era casi blanco y se dejaba la barba de tal manera que le enmarcaba el rostro en una prolija espuma pálida.

-¿Cómo estas, hijo? Mark, que bueno verte.

-Igualmente, señor.

-¿Cómo va esto?

-Bastante bien, sinceramente. Vino mucha gente. Aparentemente casi toda a la que se le invitó.

-¿Mamá?

 -Oh, está por ahí. Desde hace horas que no puede borrar la sonrisa de su cara. Se la ve contenta- Theodore Morgan también sonreía- Vayan. Vayan a saludar y a ver los cuadros de tu hermano.

Oliver gimió de placer clandestinamente en su imaginación.

John Morgan solo pintaba animales. Era excelente haciéndolo. Sus cuadros, de los cuales la exposición estaba mostrando casi todos, otros se habían regalado o vendido, alcanzaban un hiperrealismo fotográfico. Jirafas, leones, aves de todo tipo, elefantes, lobos, reptiles, aunque el pelaje les sentaba mejor a sus pinceles, y algunos animales ya extintos como el tigre dientes de sable y el mamut. En la galería se exponía de todo, una variedad de fauna que completaría cualquier arca bíblica.

Otro dato relevante del arte de John Morgan, y que frecuentemente pasaba por alto debido a su incomodo grado de infortunio, era el haber roto la relación fraternal. Solo había aceptado hacer acto de presencia por una promesa hecha a su madre.

Oliver divisó a su hermano platicando con un grupo de amigos frente al cuadro de un pavo real. No les estaba hablando del cuadro, solo mero chismorreo entre amigos, clientes, perfectos desconocidos.

En cuanto John se dio cuenta que Oliver estaba allí dudó, bajó la mirada, y quiso regresar su atención a la conversación. Finalmente se disculpó con el grupo y se acercó.

-Oli…

El miedo de tal acción se centraba en el odio que Oliver sentía hacia su hermano. No era una carencia de sentimientos, que en ocasiones se puede malinterpretar como un profundo rencor. No. Era odio sincero.

Estéticamente se parecían, con la excepción que Oliver llevaba el cabello más corto y era unos centímetros más alto. El resto de las facciones eran tan idénticas como las de mellizos. Aunque de personalidades diferentes, y actitudes que se fueron diferenciando a lo largo de los años, los dos transmitían inteligencia y peculiaridad.

El mayor de los Morgan había despertado su afición por los animales desde pequeño. Todos esperaban que fuera veterinario, biólogo, o que trabajara cerca de ellos. En cambio, se dedicó a pintarlos. Desde adolescente que se había perfeccionado. Incluso había tenido éxito con muchas chicas y mujeres; porque les hacia un boceto rápido del animal que le pidieran, porque a veces alardeaba un poco mostrando sus cuadros, o porque, algunas veces debía confesar, había pintado algún que otro desnudo. Si bien, había utilizado su pasión para conquistar, su amor por pintar animales iba mucho más allá de solo conseguir sexo.

Oliver veía a su hermano feliz, ¿cómo no estarlo? Su trabajo era bueno. Enigmático. Todos los animales retratados parecían querer decir algo, confesar un secreto que nadie podía descifrar.

-¿Cómo estás, Mark?

Mark sonrió y le estrechó la mano. No amigos directos, pero se conocían de años y se apreciaban mucho.

-Ey, felicitaciones- le dijo- Todo un éxito. Nunca había asistido a una de estas cosas, a decir verdad. Está bueno- reconoció.

-Gracias.

 -¿Tienes algo de tiempo?

-Sí, sí ¿por?

-¿Podrías hablarme de ese cuadro?- Mark señaló el pavo real- Mi abuela colecciona figuras de esos animales. Tiene la casa llena de pavos de porcelana, vidrio, madera… y demás. Está un poco obsesionada con ellos. Ese no estaría mal como regalo por su cumpleaños.

-¿En serio? Sí, claro, ¿Qué quieres saber?

-Solo…

Proyectando una franca mirada de indiferencia, Oliver no se preocupó por disimular su retirada. Se alejó sin haber saludado a su hermano.

Mientras Mark y John negociaban qué precio ponerle a un pavo, decidió echar un vistazo. Oliver no tenía idea de arte, mucho menos si aquellos cuadros lo eran. Si bien era un escéptico de su propio juicio, anónimamente sentía que sí. Odiaba a su hermano, pero privadamente reconocía que era condenadamente bueno.

Se acercó a un cuadro que le despertó una singular familiaridad. Le extrañó. Era un tigre de bengala entre pastizales. La pintura era tan real que el animal parecía mirar al lente de una cámara. Su hermano le había sacado una fotografía, o al menos daba esa sensación, porque era demasiado perfecto. Lo peculiar no era el realismo, sino los ojos del tigre. Un animal feroz y despiadado, un animal al que nada le haría frente. Un animal que disputaba el trono con el león de quién era el verdadero rey. Y, aun así, en los ojos de ese tigre había miedo. Su postura era desafiante, normal para tal bestia, pero estaba atemorizado. Los ojos del tigre expresaban terror. Un activista protector de animales podría opinar que el tigre estaba mostrando temor hacia el ser humano, cualquier ser humano que lo estuviese vigilando y que buscase cazarlo para usar su piel. Pero no, pensaba Oliver, el felino estaba viendo algo muchísimo peor, algo mucho más aterrador que una persona. El tigre estaba en guardia ante algo enteramente desconocido.

Oliver había caído en una especie de trance, hasta que una voz de incierto procedente lo despertó:

-Creo que nos estamos preguntando lo mismo… ¿a qué le teme?

Tan ensimismado había estado que no se percató del hombre a su derecha.

-Su hermano tiene un don único.

Parecía admirar de la misma manera el cuadro.

-Perdón, ¿lo conozco?

-Está aterrado por algo… ¿pero qué? Sus ojos…

Oliver lo observó un momento. El hombre parecía no prestarle atención, enajenado por la pintura. Era delgado, muy delgado. No se le notaban los huesos, ni la carne bajo el traje. Hubiese jurado que era una figura vacía, incapaz de sostenerse de pie. Le estudió las manos y notó que eran casi esqueléticas, aunque parecían fuertes, capaces de dar un buen apretón. Su piel impresionaba. No tan blanca como la de un albino, mucho menos cadavérica, pero le faltaba color, como si llevara mucho tiempo sin exponerse al sol o a la luz.

-Usted me perdone- se disculpó el hombre, con una voz suave, melosa- A veces hablo solo.

 -¿Conoce a mi hermano?

-A decir verdad, no.

Oliver no pudo adivinar su edad. La voz evidenciaba un hombre alrededor de cincuenta, quizás ni siquiera eso. Sus ojos, grises cual nubes tormentosas, en cambio, carecían de vitalidad. Estaban cansados, como los de una persona mucho más mayor.

-Es bueno en lo que hace, sí.

-Me alegro que lo esté disfrutando.

-Lo estoy, lo estoy- pareció meditar- Creo que tuvo un buen gesto, ¿No lo cree?

-¿A qué se refiere?

 -Su hermano…

-¿Qué hay con él?

Se lo quedó mirando, esperando una respuesta. Los ojos del hombre eran opacos, no había nada en ellos, ni brillo. Sus palabras llegaron si cruzar el espacio, como si hubieran saltado directamente a su mente.

-Acépteselas…- y sonriendo, una sonrisa extraña, alienígena, pero sincera, hasta tierna, agregó- las disculpas.

Oliver no pudo más que enmudecer.

-Y un consejo, no solo vea los cuadros de su hermano, escúchelos, hable con ellos. Le están intentando decir algo.

Se alejó sin que Oliver pudiera reaccionar.

-¿Quién era ese?

Oliver, distraído, no escuchó la pregunta. Sin percatarse de la presencia de su padre, continuaba sumergido en la pintura del tigre.

-¿Oli?

-¿Mmm?

-¿Quién era con el que platicabas?- insistió por simple curiosidad.

Aún pensativo, como si el encuentro con aquel hombre se le hubiese borrado parcialmente de la memoria, contestó:

-No sé… un tipo raro. Pero ya se fue creo- dijo, paseando la mirada por toda la galería.

-Bueno, no importa- Theodore le restó importancia de inmediato- Tu amigo le acaba de comprar un cuadro a tu hermano- dijo orgulloso.

-Con que al final se lo compró… ¿Sabes que no tiene idea de los que significa la palabra arte, pintura y colores, no? Ni siquiera pinceles. Es la persona con menos sentido artístico que puedas conocer.

-Se lo está enseñando a cada persona que se detiene a verlo. Les habla de él como si lo hubiese pintado Andy Warhol.

-No me extraña- dijo de manera distante. Oliver aún no había reconectado con la realidad. Sus pensamientos seguían distraídos.

-Pues estos cuadros son mejores que cualquier porquería de Warhol- exclamó su padre- Dijo que era para la madre. Me parece un buen regalo.

-No si lo cuelga en su casa y le sirve como tema de conversación para sus citas. Si le puede sacar provecho para con chicas se lo va a quedar.

-Bueno, no importa, que lo disfrute, él o la madre. Voy a dar una vuelta. Te veo más tarde, hijo.

Necesitaba largarse de ahí. Los invitados aun bebían el alcohol servido libremente, lo que estaba convirtiendo la exposición en una fiesta casual. Oliver observaba invitados coqueteando unos con otros, y platicas de after office. Muchos estaban afuera fumando. Nadie se iría de allí por lo pronto, parecían estar pasándola muy bien.

Tras dar una vuelta, encontró a Mark charlando animadamente con dos mujeres quizás diez años mayores que él. Ambas cargaban copas de champagne y vestían de largo, aunque la de la derecha exhibía provocativamente de arriba abajo el desnudo de sus piernas.

Oliver se acercó y no le importó interrumpir:

-Mark, un segundo, ¿puedes?

-Oli, te presento a Nicole y Sarah. Estudiaron arte con tu hermano.

-¿Tu eres Oliver?- inquirió con entusiasmo Nicole, una rubia con curvas de diseño.

-Creo que es imposible no darse cuenta- dijo la otra, Sarah, la de las piernas al descubierto- Eres igual a tu hermano.

-Idénticos diría.

-Tu hermano habla mucho de ti.

Ambas sonreían. Mark también, salvo que la suya exponía una o dos copas de más.

-Mucho gusto- dijo Oliver. Intento disimular lo mejor posible su indiferencia, sin poder ocultarla del todo. Sus interlocutores se dieron cuenta, pero hicieron caso omisoEn serio, ¿tienes un segundo?

-Eh… claro. ¿Chicas, me disculpan? Se retiraron unos metros. La mirada de Mark era de sospecha.

-¿Ocurre algo?

-Me voy

La amistad que compartían no se remontaba a la infancia ni a la adolescencia. No se conocieron hasta muchos años después cuando la hermana de Mark se había fijado en Oliver en un encuentro casual de bar, donde Oliver solía ocupar la misma silla todos los viernes por la noche para beber una copa de tinto. Todo el alcohol que consumía. El noviazgo había sufrido una pronta fecha de expiración. No obstante, Oliver y Mark, quienes durante ese tiempo habían sido compañeros de salidas, conservaron el contacto y la amistad.

-¿Qué te vas? Pero si esto recién empieza, y tu hermano…

-Sí, sí. Me da igual…

Y allí lo vio nuevamente, aquel sujeto de aura gris. Le daba la espalda en una postura erguida, con las frágiles manos entrelazadas por detrás. Oliver sintió un cosquilleo en el cuello. Agudizó la mirada y descubrió que el hombre contemplaba abstraído la pintura del tigre. De pronto se dio vuelta, y lo miró directo a los ojos. La sensación estática en su cuello se descontroló. Le sonrió, aquella figura le transmitió una sonrisa llena de amabilidad.

Oliver se volvió a Mark:

-Un segundo- dijo enmudecido.

Pero el fantasmagórico hombre había desaparecido. Lo buscó con su radar visual por toda la sala, se acercó a donde había estado hasta hacía un momento sin encontrar señales de él. Había un vacío en la vecindad del cuadro, como reservado para que solo él pudiera acompañar aquel tigre de dañada bravura. La próxima pintura hacía la derecha era de un oso. Oliver caminó unos pasos hasta encontrarse frente a una bestial criatura de pardo pelaje, el pelaje de un rey, de un emperador, de alguien que lo luce con aplomo. Un león habría dado todo por coronarse con semejante cabellera. Los ojos del oso no miraban a un punto fijo, estaban dilatados, como en trance. Eran tan oscuros y absorbentes que generaban desconfianza. No invitaban, a pesar de un débil poder empático, esos negros ojos eran misteriosos, solitarios, gritaban que por favor nadie se acercara; que mantuvieran la distancia. Oliver miraba como hipnotizado la pintura, pocos sonidos de la actualidad presente quedaban que pudiera escuchar. Estaba como en trance. Algo de aquella imagen le resultó curioso: el imponente y corpulento animal se escondía detrás de un árbol. Solo asomaban su rostro y sus garras. Se asomaba inseguro, con miedo, con un ausente espíritu salvaje. Al igual que el tigre, el oso estaba aterrado, nunca había sentido un terror tan autentico. El pavor llegó a las entrañas de Oliver y no pudo seguir mirando, tuvo que desviar su atención.

Contiguo a cierta distancia se topó con la arrodillada silueta de un gorila. El primate se reflejaba en la orilla de un rio. A pesar de una nebulosa lluvia, el agua estaba tranquila, imitando la superficie de un espejo. Oliver no podía apreciar el verdadero rostro del animal, solo su reflejo, el inmaculado reflejo que devolvía la transparencia líquida de la superficie. Un reflejo enfadado. No había muescas, ni arrugas, ni fricciones entre los músculos faciales, más el enfado, la rabia, la ira en ese rostro eran evidentes. El gorila se miraba en el agua como si estuviera viendo a su peor enemigo, al autor de una traición, al responsable de un abandono.

Oliver sintió un sutil flash de reconocimiento en los profundos canales de su mente. Despejó la sensación.

El tigre, el oso, el gorila, y ahora se encontró con la pintura de un elefante, y automáticamente se vio inundado por una pena que lo impulsó a querer abrazar al animal. El elefante estaba solo. Muy solo. No era ni de noche ni de día, en el fondo, sobre el horizonte, se fusionaban un alba ficticia y un ocaso sin remanentes de luz. El elefante seguía solo, buscando con su esperanzadora mirada en la extensión de tierra caliza a sus pies. Pero la derrota de sus ojos, la caída de sus hombros, y la resignación de sus enormes orejas, aceptaban su eterna soledad.

Oliver sintió nuevamente esa extraña cosquilla recorrer su cuerpo. Otra luz se le encendió en el cuarto de los recuerdos de su mente. Algo le resultaba familiar. ¿qué?

Acaso… Acaso había reconocido a alguien en esos cuatro animales.

“Eres tú” le susurraron.

-Soy yo- dijo con naturalidad. “Soy el tigre asustado, el oso tímido, el gorila enfadado, y el elefante solitario” Guardó silencio mental “Soy todos ellos”. Soy el niño asustado, el chico tímido, el joven enfadado, y el hombre solitario.

Y había un último cuadro sobre esa pared. Uno más pequeño, pero más claro. Oliver no dudó.

“Este es John”.

Una gruya de impoluto plumaje blanco se erguía sobre un lago que se extendía hasta las fronteras del marco. Aunque en esta representación no había reflejo. El lago era una penumbra, una superficie casi incorpórea. En él la gruya hundía ambas patas con delicada postura, su cuerpo un poco inclinado hacia delante, y su cabeza gacha, rendida hacia el suelo. El pico colgaba cual péndulo. Su rostro escondido, rendido, avergonzado, como pidiendo perdón.

-Está pidiendo perdón…

“John está pidiendo perdón”.

Ensimismado entró en un estado reflexivo “John me está pidiendo perdón”.

Se giró automáticamente intentando divisar a su hermano entre el remanente de invitados. Encontró sus ojos con facilidad, como si John lo hubiese estado esperando. El tiempo pareció detenerse, los sonidos se evaporaron como si alguien hubiera bajado el volumen del presente, y las luces se centraron en ellos dos. John lo miraba expectante, allí de pie; sus ojos lo lamentaban mucho. Por primera vez en su vida, por primera vez en su relación fraternal, Oliver se sintió acompañado y reconocido por su hermano.

John sonrió, Oliver devolvió la sonrisa. Comunicaron lo que tenían que comunicar, derribando una muralla entre los dos tan antigua que la habían creído inamovible. Mantuvieron la sonrisa un instante más, y finalmente John volvió a sus invitados. Oliver contempló los cuadros una última vez; una sensación de paz tan llena lo invadió que solo pudo caminar y salir de allí. Tranquilo, distraído, comenzó a caminar.

-¿Puedo irme ahora?

Por alguna inconsciente razón a Oliver no le extrañó que aquella misteriosa presencia estuviera esperándolo. Sabía muy bien quién era.

-Sí, puede irse- pronunció con su voz llena de esa nueva paz.

El hombre gris, de vacíos colores, se alejó hasta desvanecerse en la oscuridad de la noche. Oliver se quedó mirando como su temor, su timidez, su ira, y su soledad partían, quizás no para siempre, pero sí por un buen tiempo.

First Prize Short Story in English

The drive

Author: Kamil Maharaj

International MBA

South Africa

“Please! Take the car! Take my purse! There’s a cell phone in there! Just let us go!”

“Drive!” He snapped, pressing the cold steel of the gun deeper into the side of her head.

She blinked the tears away and tried to calm her frantic heart. Her eyes remained glued to the empty roads in front of her, terrified to make contact with the madman sitting beside her.

“My daughter is still asleep in her seat,” she whispered between sobs. “You can leave us right here and take everything. Please don’t hurt us.”

“Look at me!” He bellowed. “Do I look like I’m here to rob you?”

She stole a glance at his tailored pinstripe suit and the expensive watch. Although dishevelled and unshaven, it was clear that this was a man who invested in his appearance. Her sweaty palms tightened around the steering wheel and she shifted her eyes away from the rich leather of his dress shoes back to the road. She continued to arrange the scrambled fragments of the morning’s events, all the while thinking of her reason for living that was cuddling a stuffed giraffe right behind her.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to know where your husband is?”

The question startled her, and she willed the fog of fear that had settled on her mind to fade so she could think.

“He’s…uh…he’s traveling. Attending a conference for work. Please, what do you want from us? Let me leave my daughter somewhere and we can go wherever you want to.”

The man lowered the gun away from her face, keeping it pointed at her as he also turned his gaze towards the road. The tension in her jaw eased and she caught a glance at his red eyes in the mirror, before flicking her focus back to the road. They had driven towards the edge of the city and the winter sun was only just awakening.

“Turn here.” His voice was calmer; and she loosened her grip on the steering wheel, sucking the air in deeper. “Do you love your husband?”

Again, she was startled by the shift in focus as her brain struggled to make sense of the incredible start to her morning. “What kind of question is that?”

“It should be a simple one to answer. Do you love him?”“Yes! Of course, I do.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes. We’ve been married for five years and we have one child. Please let me leave her somewhere safe. She’s too young for this.”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“How do you know that he loves you? Does he tell you?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Does he buy you nice gifts?”

“Yes.”

“Does he make love to you?”

“What is this? I’m tired of these games!” She snapped to face him and was surprised to see that the red in his eyes surrounded deep blue pools of pain, which did not match the aggression in his voice. She returned to the road, realising that she had now seen her face and could identify him, lowering the probability of escaping unscathed.

He raised the gun to her again.

“Does he make love to you?”

“Yes! Yes, he does.”

“Good. That’s important for a couple in love. Keeps the magic alive. Do you know the Piermont Motel? The one with the swimming pool. Yes? Drive there.”

“Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

He placed the gun on his lap and stared out of the window at the wide expanse of land. The city was fast becoming an indistinguishable speck in the rear-view mirror.

“What do I want?” He mused. “Let me tell you a story about love. I fell in love once. It was the real deal – the type you see in the cinema. She left me though. I’m still not sure what happened – I guess life got in the way. We were young and who knows if it would have lasted, but I didn’t fight for her. I was tired of the ups and downs and that empty feeling. It took me a few more relationships to realise just how lucky I had been.

“What a love it was! The electricity that radiates when you’re next to them and the pain you feel when you’re apart. It was magic. And the sex! Sure, there are always some moments that stick out with other people, but when sex grows into love making… That’s force that cannot be described.

“When I had realised what a fool I’d been, she was with someone else and there was no going back. Life went on after that. I met a nice lady and she ticked most of the boxes, so we got married. It will be nine years next Thursday. I never felt the same way about her as I did about my first love. I told myself that was normal, and it was lunacy to expect lightning to strike twice. We went through the ups and downs of married life and settled into the routine until we realised the routine wasn’t helping either of us, so we decided to work on it in therapy.”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the rambling she was being subjected to. She could focus on nothing else except getting her daughter to safety. Signs of civilisation became few and far between as she continued to feign interest in the madman.

“Have you ever tried therapy? Oh, I highly recommend it, especially for couples. I realised that the opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference! When you no longer care where someone is or how their day is, that’s the beginning of the end for a relationship. That’s what had happened with my wife because I realised, I never really loved her and couldn’t fake it anymore.

“But then I met someone!” His eyes sparkled as he continued. “My life was set on fire once again. I found lust and passion that I never knew existed and that grew into a love that threatened to eclipse anything else I had known. I discovered things about myself that didn’t make sense at first but that then became my only truth.

“I fell for our therapist! And everything else got better. I strayed from my marriage. I’m not proud of it and for what it’s worth, I tried to fight it, but it was useless. This was love. Pure unadulterated love. Against the odds lightning had in fact struck twice and it was worth the wait. Tender when it needed to be, savage when it needed to be. It was everything.”

The man’s story had whipped him into a strange excitement, while the morning sun had gathered momentum on its path, and she was grateful as the motel creeped into sight ahead of them.

People, she thought. There’ll be safety in a crowd.

“My wife became a different person and my marriage became tolerable too. That passion I had found with someone else transferred into every part of my life – breathing new life into the dead. My wife and I even started sleeping together again.” His gaze turned out the window again. “She chalked it up to therapy and she had no idea how true that was.

“But…There’s always a ‘but’ isn’t there?” The excitement vanished from his voice. “The lust began to lose its shine. My wife began taking on extra shifts at work, which I thought would free up my time to spend with my lover; but it didn’t turn out that way. My lover became scarce. I re-evaluated what mattered to me and realised that there could never be true happiness in my loveless marriage. Only then could I live with my lover in peace.

“So, I sat her down one evening and told her everything. I told her I had being seeing someone and that I was sorry, but that this was the only thing that made sense to me. Do you know what she did?”

He turned to the driver’s seat as the silence sucked the oxygen from the air.

“She laughed. Said she was glad that I was finally manning up because she was also seeing someone! Marriage is tough isn’t it? Pull over here.”

They were about fifty metres from the motel and at this hour only a solitary car stood in the parking lot. Far too remote for her liking. She grew nervous, with no idea where the day was going to lead.

“Did you wonder how I managed to get into your garage this morning?”

Once again, the topic shift snapped her from her thoughts.

“N-no,” she stammered.

“It’s because I have been to your house before.”

A chill coursed through her body. The fact that this lunatic had been in her house felt like a violation.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you the best part. Guess who my wife was having an affair with! Try to guess.” The man turned his eyes to the gun he cradled in his hands.

“I have no idea.” Tears had crept into her wide eyes once again.

He paused as a crazed smile swept across his face.

“It was the therapist! We were both sleeping with the same person! What are the chances?”

His maniacal laugh woke the sleeping child, who burst into tears at the sight of the stranger laughing.

“Shhh! Shhh!” He calmed himself and tried to pacify the baby.

“Why are you telling me this? Why am I here?” Her daughter’s cries drove her into action and heightened the need to find an exit.

He looked at her with genuine surprise.

“I thought you’d have realised by now.”

“Realised what?”

He smiled again, this time it was an uncomfortable smile. “My dear woman,” he started, “What does your husband do and where is his office?”

She felt her mouth fall open as her head started to spin once again.

“He…he’s a marriage therapist and works from home.”

“And now you know.”

“What are you saying? You expect me to believe this? Why am I here?”

“You’re here because I needed a ride. Right now, your husband and my wife are holed up in one of those rooms in this motel that she manages. They’re all alone because it’s a Tuesday. I’m going to go over there and make a scene. You can wait here, and you’ll see for yourself.”

He flashed her a warm smile, which looked out of place with the gun in his hand, before winking at the baby and stepping out of the car. She dashed from her seat to embrace her crying baby and struggled to reconcile the story she had just heard.

The man strolled towards the solitary car in the parking lot, with the sunlight glinting off the gun. He stood beside the car and gave her a wave, before opening the door and climbing in.

She strapped the toddler back into the child-seat and scrambled to the driver’s door. She fumbled with the key as the end of the nightmare was approaching. She had just raised her head to drive off when the air shattered as the gun shot echoed in the emptiness. Even from this distance, she could see the limp figure of the man as his lifeless body collapsed against
the car window.

The gunshot stopped her racing mind in its tracks, before it set off in another direction as she realised that this man had believed in the story enough to die for it.

She thought of the man she knew as a devoted husband and father and what she might do if he did in fact emerge from the motel. The life she had built was too real for it to be shaken by the words of some stranger. She would get to safety and then call her husband and hear everything from his side.

No, she thought. There was no truth in this. This was a mad man, who had made a huge mistake.

She pulled the car away in the direction of the city and looked into the rear-view mirror at the perfect child her husband had given her, and tracked her eyes upward to see his unmistakeable figure emerge from the motel with another woman.

Second Prize Short Story in English

Thiaba | Toubab

Author: Salena Lee

Master in Advanced Finance

German

I remember lounging with Thiaba on the roof of the compound in Maristes, dust blurring the horizon between the sandy yellow roads and the hazy, smog-filled sky. A thin, worn bedsheet ground to nothingness from years of hand-washing separated us from the unaccommodatingly hard concrete of the unfinished building, the paint chips and rocks revealing nothing of the decadence that the building underneath us was hiding from the sands. The compound was perpetually under construction, a product of developing country planning where things are built as the money comes. Thiaba, a live-in maid, would come to the open roof to hang laundry in the desert sun to dry. Me, I would come to the roof to meditate, gazing across our neighbors’ rooftops and out over the warm sepia haze of the city.

It was in Dakar that the dry harmattan winds of the Sahel were subdued and sedated, the city providing a final refuge for the desert climate before it succumbed to the grasslands to the south, before it was absorbed by the sea to the west. Sometimes during those days on the rooftop, Tuareg nomads would appear in the backdrop as a deep blue wave floating ever closer to us and ever farther away from the empty canvas of the dunes. Seamlessly blending the past and the present into a multidimensional reality, they would ride their camels into the modernity of the city to trade as they had since before modern times, before colonialism, before the Prophet Muhammad himself, the indigo of their turbans and face coverings staining their skin an unmistakable, wine-colored hue. Thiaba would gather her wax fabric skirt, the starchy, printed material brushing her feet as she rose, descending the three flights of steps to meet the nomads downstairs as they approached. She would buy what the household needed and admire the things we didn’t, and then, just as the Sahel blurs the line between the desert and the grasslands, the nomads would continue navigating across the artificial barriers connecting what was and what is, transitioning through the city to barter their wares and restock their supplies. There, in the center of the change, was Dakar.

The Cap-Vert Peninsula where Dakar lay touched the desert only narrowly, surrounded almost entirely by the abundance of the sea and its ample supply of fish. Emerging from painted pirogues, the fishermen would drag their nets toward their wives waiting ashore, where they would heap the fish into endless piles on the beach to be sorted, cleaned, and sold. The sea carried with it the livelihood of the community, and I would go with Thiaba to Soumbedioune to buy the rubbery conch meat, chofe, and prawns that she would craft into thiebou-dieun – rice and fish – which we ate almost daily for lunch. Though the scene’s headnote was industrious, focused, enterprising, there was yet a collegial and collaborative mood to doing business. However beyond the cheerful colours of the women’s printed dresses, beyond the pirogues on the coast painted with lighthearted but sincere words of praise to Amadou Bamba and the other sheikhs of Senegal, beyond the line where the Sahel met the sea, the water hid a subtle throbbing, a dull and enduring pain that was unassuming, undefiant, but persistent.

Seven kilometers across the peninsula by land was the port. And once at the port, seven kilometers across the sea lay Gorée, a picturesque colonial island consisting of rows of crimson homes, the walkways between them gently shaded from a sun that never stops shining by the flowering bougainvillea overhead. In modern times, it is the toubab embassy employees and aid workers who are shuttled over on the Senegalese pirogues to admire the island, weaving by foot on the unpaved paths between homes to explore the endless acrylic masterpieces by local artisans, a wall of paintings partially concealed in a cool alleyway or openly strewn across a patch of grass is an unintentionally curated presentation of primary colour. Images of pirogues, women carrying bucket of water on their heads, or bright yellow cars rapides with human passengers piling out of the vehicles’ every opening dot the island, a 2D microcosm of the city across the water. On the other side of the village across the island from where the pirogues would wait, the toubab guests would emerge with plastic-wrapped canvases tucked under their arms, the densely patted-down sand pathways becoming soft 2 and powdery as the guests made their way toward the oceanside. Once on the beach they would deposit their wares, inhaling the fresh air as they lounged on the serene coast situated comfortably away from the festering garbage and endless noise of the city. There they would sit, gazing over the liquid lifeline of hope and economic prosperity toward the urban jungle that the sea selflessly served.

There was a time when everything about Gorée was reversed, when this island of arrival was an island of departure. It was a time when seaside respite was unknown, a time when any final remnant of hope was drowned at the first sighting of the water. It was here that countless residents of the continent would feel the earth of their homeland touch their feet for the last time as they boarded foreign ships, the ships then carrying them away from all they had known to places often practically as foreign to slave traders as they were to slaves. The arrival of the tourist-laden pirogues today, the departure of slave ships yesterday, the undulation of the past and the present was constantly woven into Dakar’s story, two sides of a shared coin.

The pirogues that peppered the coast carried with them a continuous reminder of Senegal’s spiritual loyalties everywhere they sailed, the name of the nation itself derived from Sunu Gaal, “our pirogue”. Bordering the vessels were announcements of Dakar’s deep Sufi leanings for those astute enough to listen with an open heart – Lamp Fall, Bamba Fall, Alhamdulillah. And within each boat was its owner, rowing his handmade vessel across the sea with a photo of his favourite sheikh hanging on a woven cord around his neck and close to his heart.

Once on dry land, the cars rapides were equally adorned with references to West African Islamic culture, and if you decided to take a car, you would periodically be greeted by the Mourides from Touba climbing in to the passenger side as you attempted to pull out of a parking space. And there they would stay, seated calmly in your car, refusing to get out until they successfully hawked a few coins for the maintenance of the Grand Mosque of Touba, 200 kilometers into the desert and the burial place of Amadou Bamba, the founder of the main Sufi sect in Senegal. Amadou Bamba was everywhere, even at home, where Thiaba had christened me Mame Diara the day I arrived, rarely using my real name. Mame Diara, the name of the mother of Sheikh Amadou Bamba. Mame Diara, a symbol of knowledge and righteousness. Mame Diara, a term of sincerity, honour, reverence, and love.

Once we had returned home from Soumbedioune, Thiaba would cook for us while we read and relaxed, lounging on the massive rug cascading across the cool marble floor while inhaling the scent of frankincense the house maids would periodically waft through the home in bronze incense holders. She would cook, and she would eat the same food we did, but seated away in the traditional style on the floor of the adjacent room, one large bowl of spicy rice, fish, and carrots so sweet they tasted like dessert, nestled on the floor around which the house help would lounge, gossip, indulge. The rest of us sat in the living room, an identical bowl surrounded by identical gossip, separated from the maids only by an open doorway and a table. Though the doorway was open, allowing us to see and hear, we would never interact. Though the food was identical, but our table was elevated.

Thiaba would spend her days running the errands and tidying the bedrooms while we read or gossiped nearby. One afternoon after taking the incense burner on its ritual tour of the compound, she emerged from an adjacent room with tears in her eyes, my heavy winter pashmina clasped in her hands. The bronze and maroon Kashmiri shawl had accompanied me everywhere for years, a trademark of my Dakari attire. It was a barrier between us and the sands upon which we would lounge, waiting for friends to emerge from the markets on afternoon rendezvous to the town center. It was a hijab, a disheveled pile of fabric hurriedly draped over my hair when the adhan would inevitably sound from the mosques while we were out running errands. It kept me warm once the desert sun had faded into night, the heat dissipating from the sands as visibly as the landscape melted each evening from ochre, to blue, to black.

With its tiny aromatic embers still gently crackling, Thiaba has accidentally tossed the pashmina onto the frankincense burner, the resulting damage through the folded layers of the 3 garment producing a burnt checkerboard remnant of charred wool. She stood there mourning the pashmina, struggling to find the fluency to apologize as French words dotted her Wolof explanation. As the scattered apologies poured out, I reflected on how she had washed it every few days, firmly but caringly running the fabric over the washboard with her own hands. As she cursed at the incense, I pictured her carrying the burner to my room each morning, lighting the flame and allowing it to fill the air with the scent of frankincense as she carefully swept every grain of sand off the marble floors that had blown in through the open, screenless window the night before.

A few days after I had first arrived in Dakar, I had been sitting in my pajamas at the breakfast table, inhaling the scent of Guinea peppers drifting up from the warm mug of café Touba nestled between my palms. Thiaba emerged through the doorway, ascending the stairs to my living quarters with a broom made of elephant grass and buckets of cleaning supplies. I finished my coffee and followed her, grabbing the broom to sweep as she started scrubbing the bathroom. She emerged confused, first trying to take the broom from me then observing my every movement once I had insisted, a perplexed expression on her face while she asked endless questions in Wolof, a language I wouldn’t come to understand for some months. Flustered, she then hurried back down the stairs to summon the friend I was living with. He laughed as he leaned in the doorway, one hand pushing aside the thin cloth privacy curtains that hung in the entrance. Thiaba had understood that I was unhappy with how she was sweeping, that I had tried to show her how to do it, and then when she hadn’t understood, I had just given up and done it myself. I asked him to translate to her that I was just trying to help; he laughed again, saying it was better not to bother, that she wouldn’t understand what I meant.

Those first few weeks, I would often insist on hanging my own laundry to dry or on carrying our finished dish of food to the kitchen. Every move involved balancing the visible discomfort that my attempts to help would evoke among the household staff with my own discomfort at the thought of lazily lounging in the communal areas as my dishes, laundry, and groceries were carried in, carried out. She is a paid employee! the locals would say with a laugh, amused at my forceful attempts to blend subtle social boundaries. If you do their work for them they’ll get lazy! they joked. And I understood, yet I understood too that the requests carried a different weight when spoken by the toubab Mame Diara.

As the weeks drifted by, following her to the roof to help her hang laundry would transition into and unspoken truce of Thiaba hanging the laundry, and me attempting to ask questions and tell stories however I could. I would retreat to the roof with paper and pencil, the faltering vocabulary of my broken but steadily improving Wolof aided by unartistic renderings and overexaggerated gestures, a feeble attempt to facilitate an interweaving of our lives, a chipping away at the barriers between us and the alternative social history that might have been. She once asked me how many siblings I had, offering condolences to me and my family when I told her only four. I asked her the same and she looked at me blankly for a moment, then began naming names while I kept count. The same name would repeat twice, three times even, and when I told her she had already named them, she insisted she had so many siblings that names had been recycled, sometimes multiple times. At 25 or 26, she lost track and we gave up.

Another afternoon, I asked her how many countries she knew of. Four she said: Senegal, France, America, and Mecca. Senegal was her home, a land of overlapping ethnicities, where the Arab-descended north and Black sub-Saharan south melted into the Silk Road of Africa, united by trade and by a sense of community strong enough to make Senegal the only West African country to defy the political fate of its neighbors by never having had a coup during post-colonial times. France was the colonizer, but to her it was the home of the toubab, of French language, of Nutella on baguettes for breakfast. America was the land of a stolen culture, now bringing music and fashion back to the motherland after claiming it as its own, but to her it was the world of Barack Obama and Nike. And she knew Mecca as the birthplace of Islam, although she hadn’t realized it wasn’t a country. Thiaba knew what was relevant to 4 her life and, whether by choice or design, her mind was free from the burdens of that which wasn’t.

And so Thiaba hung the laundry, and I watched her. But once she had finished hanging it, and I had finished watching her, we sat together on the roof and shared. We shared our invented language. We shared a view of the lagoon behind the house, where boys would catch and throw snakes at each other for sport. We shared jokes about the squatters in the yard, a family of one husband and his three wives, who, alongside seven children, three corrugated metal shacks, a mule, and numerous chickens, had properly democratized the property to the point where some mornings the water pressure was too low to shower due to his temporary rerouting of the pipes. Every day Thiaba would see the husband come home from his work as a fisherman and would laugh, mixing Wolof, French, and hand gestures to joke that he couldn’t afford a house, yet he could afford three wives. We shared stories of our families, Thiaba continuing to pity my small family of five siblings. We shared incrementally, honestly, and hopefully. We shared imperfectly, unfairly, and incompletely.

Second Prize Short Story in English

The Short, Meaningful Life of Francis Hall

Author: Robert Wagner

Bachelor of Laws

USA

Francis opened his eyes to the bright sunlight an early spring day pouring through the sweating glass of the café. The harsh screech of the espresso machines brought his attention back into reality. He was sitting by the window soaking up the sun he’d missed all winter. There were a few people sitting around him enjoying the damp warmth of the cafés cramped interior. Behind the bar, a plump old woman waited patiently for someone to order something.

The small table he sat at became a pseudo-workspace as he sprawled his books and papers over its surface, barely leaving enough room for his coffee or the bread. There was a cluster of obligations which required his attention. At one corner there lay a stack of essays his students had completed for an assignment, and directly adjacent lay a few thin, black notebooks filled with planned course material he’d yet to sus out. These two had objective precedent over anything else, but he couldn’t put himself away from his own personal notes on a romantic novel he wished to write.

He sat prostrate in the Viennese chair looking through the tiny pages of his pocket journal containing the general plot for his love novel. He had woken up that morning with the idea of Mary. He didn’t know where it came from, but he wanted his character to be called Mary, and he wanted her to find love in her life on some incredible journey of hers. She and her lover would go on to do incredible things together. “Yes, that’ll do,” he said to himself as he read along his notes, followed instantly by a sneer, “Well never mind; that’s garbage”. He grabbed his pencil and scratched through the furrows of the pages.

Frustrated, he put down the book and rubbed his temples. He never thought writing a novel would be so difficult. He had no idea how his fictional lover Mary was supposed to find her way in the world he’d created. Writing seemed so intuitive, and other writers made their worlds come together so well. As he retreated into a momentary meditative state, he wondered how they could write so perfectly. This annoyed him greatly. He wanted Mary to be perfect, and most of all he wanted her to feel natural, as if she were acting on her own accord. As the writer, he felt he had the obligation to give some greater meaning to her life. As such, she had to be complete, and for now he had no ideas on what that meant. He spoke to himself privately, “who’ll ever believe this?”

He leaned back into his chair and sat with his arms folded tightly over his chest. He looked over the untouched papers in front of him and they mocked him to accept his bitter responsibilities. He huffed at this realization, and he reached over the piles for the distant coffee cup to take a sip of the now cold brew. Over the rim of the glass and out of the corner of his eye, Francis seen a tall, slender woman pushing open the wet doors of the café. She appeared to be in her early twenties. She was wearing black pants and a black trench coat, while also sporting a loud red scarf around her neck that yelled across the place with its furious hue. She was impossible to ignore, for sure, but the other patrons didn’t notice the woman’s entrance.

She stood at the doorway and looked around for a moment. Francis observed her and he assumed that she was determining whether this was a suitable place to enjoy a Sunday afternoon. When she seen Francis, she froze and stared at him. She was seemingly overcome by a panicked look and he face turned flush. She took a breath, then whispered, “Ok, here we go…” This took him by surprise, and he thought that this was a wildly unexpected response given the setting. He turned around to see if she was looking at someone behind him, but there was no one there paying attention to her. When he turned back around, she had started to approach the table. “Mr. Hall?” she said.

Slightly startled, Francis said, “yes?”

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure thing. Sit, please.” He gestured his open palm to the available space across from him. With this invitation the woman sat down. As she placed herself in the chair, she looked unfavorably over the pages on the messy table.

Francis instantly got up and started to clean up the papers, “I’m sorry, it’s such a mess”.

She’d yet to break her gaze away from the table. “It’s fine” she said. “I understand that you’re a busy man”.

Still staring, she squinted her eyes and shook her head very subtly. Her hands sat deadly still across her lap as she watched Francis clumsily retrieve his papers. While Francis threw the papers into his backpack, he thought to himself that it was curious this woman seemed so shocked to see him. She seemed almost mystified and scared all at once, as if the skinny form of Francis Hall was any indicator of deadly force. It was almost as if she’d seen a ghost.

Francis took his seat once again. He didn’t know where to start. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I’m a little bad at remembering people. Do I have you in one of my classes?”

She let out a sigh and a grin. “I’ve come here many times before, but you wouldn’t remember me if you tried, Mr. Hall”.

“Oh, so you’re not one of my students?”

“No sir, I am not one of your students”.

The situation had become even more puzzling. Why would this woman wish to speak with him if they have never met before? What did she mean by coming here so often? Was she with the school board? Either way, he wasn’t sure, and he wanted to remain as open as possible. “Well, if we don’t know each other, what did you want to talk about?”

The woman shook her head again and broke off her gaze. Now she watched the people in the café indifferently. Francis tried to regain her attention, “Did you want to talk to me about my classes, or are you a parent of…”

“I’m not here to talk academics Mr. Hall” she snapped. She looked up at the ceiling and leaned back in her chair to sit akimbo. Just under her breath, but still audibly she said, “what do I do?”

Francis rubbed his chin and winced, “Well then, what did you want to see me for? Excuse me for saying this, but I’m really not familiar with you”.

The woman puffed out a small pout, “I just wanted to see you, and to hear you”.

The whole debacle was playing out rather strangely. Not once in all his life had Francis imagined such a strange encounter as this one, with mystery ladies and possibly dark secrets. Francis was somewhat captivated by her and he discreetly enjoyed trying to figure her out. He winced with a smile, “What is your name?”

“I’m Margret Hall”.

“Well then, it’s a great coincidence Ms. Hall that we share the same family name”.

“It isn’t really” she said in a depressed tone.

“Now why’s that?”

She paused for a long second. She had started to tap her foot on the floor impatiently. Her whole upper body vibrated with her stressful foot. “Because I’m your daughter Mr. Hall.”

This came out way too quickly for Francis to grasp with one thought. “Excuse me?” he said.

Her eyes drifted towards his figure, but not his eyes, “I’m your daughter Francis”.

Francis smiled and shook his head, “I… I believe you are mistaken Ms. Hall. I think you have mistaken me for someone else”.

“No, I’m not mistaken”.

“But Ms. Hall, you need to be reasonable here, I mean, I’m only twenty-eight years old, and if I were your father then that means you would have been conceived before I even turned ten! You have to understand that this just can’t work out”.

She ignored Francis for a moment as she talked down to the table, “I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. It always goes the same way”. She looked up at Francis, toyed with a pack of sugar from the table in her hand for a moment, and lifted it towards the concerned looking Francis. “Do you want sugar?” she asked.

“No thanks” he responded.

“I’m nervous, and they said this sugar is supposed to calm your nerves” she said. She dashed some sugar out onto her tounge.

They sat in silence for a few moments. For a moment he thought about leaving this poor girl and going home. But a strange sensation overtook him that forced him to stay seated. He felt that he could not leave the seat in the same way that one cannot easily throw himself from a cliff. His instincts where telling him to stay put, and he was strongly convinced to follow them.

Suddenly, Margret continued, “Francis, I am your daughter, but you don’t recognize me because you’ve never met me or my mother. For you, I haven’t been conceived yet”.

Now Francis assumed he was becoming the victim of his student’s many jests. He smiled and threw his hands up in disbelief, “And what is this? Are you trying to get something out of me? Do you think it’s funny to take time out of my day to tell me something as absurd as this? I’m sorry Ms. Hall, I’m having a hard time believing you”.

“No, it’s not a trick or anything. I would never lie to you”.

Francis put his hands up on the table, “Do you want money? What is it you’re after? Are you really ‘Ms. Hall’?”

She wasn’t quite sure what to do next and she looked subtley panicked. After regaining her thoughts, she looked up at Francis with now uncharacteristic drive, “People will love your novel, but they will hate you Francis. That one girl in your novel, Mary, will be a respected character across the country”.

How could she have known that he was writing a novel? He had never shared that information with anyone. Let alone, how could she know about Mary if she’d only existed for a few hours? Things weren’t lining up. Some points of information made no sense, that is if they were supposed to make sense on a causal path. It seemed bizarre to think, but maybe he will eventually finish his novel, and this girl somehow came from the future to tell him about it. Francis thought this was a long shot, but he felt convinced enough to follow along, at least for now.

“What are you saying? Are you implying that you’re my daughter from the future?”

“It’s more like you are someone from the past. I guess it’s like I brought you from the past into the future”.

“Well the future seems a lot like 2019. But forget that, if you’re from the future, can you tell me who I become?”

She let out an uncaring giggle, “you become a terrorist”.

“Excuse me, did you say that I become a terrorist?”

“yeah, you become the scourge of the northwest”.

“But, why would I ever become a terrorist?”

“you already where one Francis. Remember, you’re in the future”.

“What do you mean with all this about me being in the future? I was never a terrorist in my life!”

“No, you never where. The real Francis was a terrorist”. She paused to relax her nerves. She clearly had tremors in her hands from anxiety.

Francis still couldn’t allow himself to believe this lady. “So, how many people to I kill?”

“Directly, none. You always cleared the place out before your gang blew it”.

“But wait, if you are a time traveler, why would you tell me this? Wouldn’t you disappear? Isn’t there some butterfly effect or something that governs these types of exchanges?”

“Like I said, I’m not a time traveler. As far as anyone is concerned that kind of thing is impossible”.

“Then explain to me how we are having this conversation.”

Margret paused for a long while to look out over the street and the people sitting beside them. She avoided making eye contact with Francis.

“Margret?”

She sighed, then stared at Francis’ chest to avoid eye contact, “It’s because you’re not real Francis”.

Francis leaned forward and stuttered, “wha… what is that supposed to mean?”

She opened the packet of sugar and poured a generous amount onto a spoon, which she passed into her mouth. She seemed to become less tensed with this. “In the 2040’s some people came 5 up with a machine that could create an accurate simulation of historical figures, given that there was plenty of information to be compiled into the computer to make the program. Some people seen you as an enigma; the intelligent professor turned fanatic-romance bomber. They thought it would be interesting to include you to the lineup of historical encounters. For years, some historians took all your journals, home videos, recordings, your novels, and every scrap of paper you’d ever touched, and uploaded it,” she wiped away an invisible tear, “and the program developed you”.

Francis calmly sat back in his chair. What he was hearing sounded like madness. But something in this girl convinced him that she was at least not lying to him. It felt too genuine to be a rouse, but the concept muffled his thinking so much that he drew nothing but blanks when it came to explanations. “So,” he started. “So, we’re in a computer?”

She closed her eyes and took in a big breath of air. She started to fidget with the pack of sugar again. “Yes”.

Francis nodded and folded his arms. He was suddenly mystified by the sun and air he felt hitting his skin. He looked down at the wooden table and tried to pay attention to some of the finer details to see if there was anything out of the ordinary. Without looking up, “Can you prove this?”

She ate some more sugar. “Do you notice how no one around us has reacted to our bizarre conversation? Have you felt that at any moment in our talk you wanted to leave, but some strange sense inside of you was telling you otherwise?” Just then the waitress brought two coffees to the table and gave Margret extra sugar.

“Enjoy y’all,” she said with a smile as she backed away from the table.

“Do you remember me ever ordering those coffees?” Margret said, still looking indifferently at Francis.

Francis pulled his hands away from his chest and put them into tight fists around his mouth. He started nibbling on his thumb, and just then he started to tap his foot anxiously. Without wanting to think more, Francis grabbed the fresh coffee and drank a bit.

They sat there for a moment in silence. Francis looked around and he started to question everything. Was this some weird dream? He seperated the saucer from his cup and he inspected it. Then, to the surprise of only himself he smashed the small plate onto the ground. It shattered into a million pieces and shards flew across the floor to every corner of the place, and no one moved an inch. Margret sat totally unperturbed, “You always do that”.

Francis’ eyes started dashing from side to side and he felt his heart pumping. His heart! Was his heart even real? And this woman, Margret; did he give his heart to her before?”

“You’re… You’re my daughter?” He stood up and approached her. She stood up to meet him. He stretched out his hand to Margret, who responded by giving her hand over. He started to inspect her hand, and then he started touching her arm and then he grabbed her face. Somethings did seem familiar.

Her lips started to quiver, and Margret immediately collapsed, and she started to cry, “Oh Dad”. She embraced him around the neck with both arms. “I’m sorry, I can’t…” She shook her red face.

Francis hugged her back. As she cried into his sholder, he wished that he knew who this girl was so he could do more for her than what he was doing then.

“It’s so awful without you,” she said. “People have always said that you were evil, and they’d tell me I should forget you like mom did, but I just can’t. I still need to have you in my life, that’s why I come here so often! They don’t know the real you. I don’t want to remember the terror you caused. I won’t believe that you did those things! I can only think of the romance between you and mom and how you were a good father to me. It’s only the love I want to remember, not the hate. Damn them! You help give meaning to my stupid life, and I just want you, my father”.

They both stood there for quite a while. Margret cried into his chest as Francis tried to give her some emotional support he lacked to give. She didn’t attempt let go or talk to him. She wanted to cry away and feel comforted by someone she was familiar with. Minutes passed, and Francis couldn’t help but feel bad for this girl. If what she said was true, then he’d be a nobody who looks and sounds like her father. He wished he could do more for her, but he couldn’t be her father. He knew very little about her, and her problems. But Margret didn’t care about the fictitiousness of it, because she imagined it as being real.

Suddenly, Margret pushed away from Francis and started to head towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry dad, I can never stay too long, I get too emotional”.

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I will see you, but you will never see me again”.

Margret threw her red scarf over her face to hide her grief. She paced to the door and walked out and down the street. Again, no one paid attention to the dramatic exit.

Francis sat down, still stunned by everything he had just heard. He was having trouble digesting these events. Not knowing what to do next, he called over the waitress. She came over with a smile, “what else can I get for you?”

Francis continued to watch Margret rush down the street through the window, “Could you tell me what year it is?”

The waitress laughed, “oh boy, what kind of question is that? Its 2019.”

She turned to walk away, but Francis tugged her apron, “no, no”. He looked up at her, “What year is it outside of this program?”

Suddenly, the waitress took on a more serious tone and stood up erect with her shoulders back. It seemed that her joyful emotions disappeared, and she stood like a drill Sargent staring down on Francis in his chair. “Do you really want to know that, Mr. Hall?”

He let go of her and grunted. “Well then, I’ll take a whiskey and a packet of sugar.” With this the waitress nodded and stepped away.

He looked around the steamy room of the café. Margret’s disappearance had left the place as normal as it had been before she arrived. People were enjoying their time and the sun pierced through the windows. “Margret Hall. My daughter, Margret Hall… and the terrorist, Francis Hall” he said as he closed his eyes in contemplation. In his head he was approached by visions of Mary, and her long desire to find love. Perhaps he was wrong in thinking love came from a partner, but maybe what Mary needed was a father that loved her and helped anchor her journey to something constant. She could stay fixed to something comfortable and safe. But this was 7 uninspiring. Maybe Mary needed a meaning to move on with her life, and no fictional character could provide that for her without the heartbreak of reality. Accepting life as it is would complete Mary. “Yeah, that sounds more believable, but how do I tell her that?”

Though he didn’t realize it, the world around him fazed away as the servers switched themselves off, and the program stopped working.

Third Prize Short Story in English

Batty

Author: Laura Sturley

Bachelor in Business Administration and Bachelor of Laws

UK

Kate first noticed the bat when Ricky was trying on button-downs at Springfield. He pulled off his white tee shirt and she asked him if it had always been there. He laughed.

“For almost ten years now, yeah. You never noticed?”

She forced an uneasy chuckle. “No.”

As he hung his three new shirts in the closet—In the end he had chosen three of the same, plain white shirts—Kate put the kettle on. She was sure, in more than three years together, that she had never seen it. She felt a sudden wave of nausea.

Stretched across his shoulder blades, it marred his entire upper back. The bat’s head rested at the base of Ricky’s neck, as if to snip his spinal cord with its sharp teeth, and its disgusting little claws scratched at his first and second ribs. She could see from the age of the ink that Ricky couldn’t be lying, though she knew that it wasn’t supposed to be there. She pictured the tattooist’s needles piercing Ricky’s flesh thousands of times, each jab forcing the poison further into the dermis. Kate would have preferred a mass of angry red boils or even tumours...

The kettle screamed and Kate vomited all over the red tile floor. Ricky rushed into the kitchen and gagged at the smell of stomach acid and the remains of their breakfast.

“Oh—God. Kate it’s alright. Go take a shower,”

He inched around the puddle of bright yellow vomit and pulled Kate’s hair from her face.

C’mon, c’mon. Time for a shower.”

As Kate rinsed the vomit from her long hair, she couldn’t quell the rolling of her stomach and vomited again into the shower drain. When she emerged, wrapped in her favourite fluffy towel, only a faint scent of lemon remained in the kitchen and the mop was left out on the terrace. Ricky cheerfully placed a cup of steaming mint tea in front of her and smoothed her wet hair.

“Maybe you should take another test? It could be—”

Kate shook her head. “It’s not.”

“Well...how do you know? Doctor Webb said it should take us a year at most—”

Kate hissed. She had burned her lip on the tea. “Ricky, I just know. It’s not that.”

She leaned into his shoulder, blowing intermittently on the tea. Ricky lazily stroked her curly hair while he scrolled through Instagram.

“Stop. No, go back...go back—there.”

She nodded at a post of a black sand beach. “We should go there when I get my time off.
“Eh...sure babe,” Ricky twirled her curls around his index finger mindlessly as he tripletapped the post with his thumb. Kate set down her mug on the counter with a heavy clunk.

“I’m going to take a nap. What do you reckon we should do for dinner?”

Ricky shrugged. “...Chicken?”

“We had that on Wednesday.” Kate paused to wrap her towel tighter. “Emm...pizza?”

Ricky snorted. “Yeah I’ll order it. Onion and red pepper, right? Thin crust.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Kate’s mind had a tendency to wander off in the middle of things.

She stared at the light from passing cars’ headlights flashing on the ceiling and regretted the sheer amount of pizza she’d eaten. Even now she could feel her stomach rumble soundlessly. Kate’s phone buzzed twice, and she glanced at the time. It was 2 am. She stifled a short yawn.

Ricky groaned and nipped at her neck. Kate wrapped her legs around his hips and suppressed another yawn. Folding her arms around his back, the image of Dancing Soviet Elmo came to her mind. Ricky mistook her spasm of silent laughter for something else and bit her ear a little too enthusiastically. Kate shook with mirth and had to breathe deeply to avoid snorting like a pig.

Suddenly she felt Ricky’s skin shift under her fingers. She froze.

“Something wrong baby?”

She must’ve imagined it. “No... it’s nothing.”

She could feel the sweat build instantly on her forehead and under her arms—she shuddered. The nausea returned and she clutched at Ricky wordlessly. She ran her fingers over the shallow ridges that the tattoo had carved in Ricky’s skin. Again she pictured the tattooist’s needle ripping up Ricky’s skin; oh God—what if they didn’t wear gloves? What if the tattoo had gotten infected? She gagged at the image of lumpy red bumps sprouting from Ricky’s skin, of a black, powdery mould erupting from his pores and engulfing her hands.

A few minutes passed without incident when she felt it move again.

“Ricky!”

Kate clawed at his back as hard as she could. She could feel it trying to break out of his skin. The bat was already piercing the epidermis, trying to tear its way out.

“Ricky!”

In her mind’s eye she saw the bat, chewing at Ricky’s rotting flesh like an overripe fruit, burrowing to his vertebrae as if it were the stone of peach. She fought furiously to tear it out, scratching at Ricky’s back until Ricky’s skin worked its way under her fingernails. The feeling disgusted her, like rotting orange peel. Although she could feel the mould working its way into her own flesh, beginning already to eat her fingers, she didn’t stop. She screamed out his name.

“Ricky!”

His back was already slicked with blood; she could feel it drip onto her thighs. The bat, covered in blood and other fluids, gnawed at her fingers but was impossible to extricate from its nest in Ricky’s back. She held her hands up to her face and retched; the bat had consumed all of her fingers except her thumb, leaving only the bloodied phalanges. She began to weep without tears.

“Kate! Kate what’s wrong?!”

shook her by the shoulders. Receiving no response, he flicked on the bedside lamp. Kate took one look at him in the light and screamed bloody murder.

“Kate?!” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

It surprised Kate how easy it was to carry out her everyday tasks with her new, fleshless fingers. It was a bit more difficult to pick up her pen or her glasses, but the clicking sound her phalanges made when she typed was quite pleasing, similar to that of acrylic nails.

Ricky strolled into the kitchen, buttoning up his shirt. He laced his fingers behind him and stretched, cracking his back. He groaned as he poured himself a cup of tea to go. He gestured at Kate with the teapot.

“Care for a top up?”

Kate shook her head, eyes on her phone.

“Okay.”

He slipped on his blazer and tried to give her a kiss goodbye, but Kate flinched away. Ricky exhaled sharply.

“Kate, it’s been three days. You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Sorry Ricky.” Kate smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Why don’t we get Chinese tonight and watch a movie?”

Ricky leaned down to look Kate in the eye. “Sounds good. Are we okay? Do we have something to talk about?”

Kate nodded. “We’re good. Go on, get to work. We’ll have a grand time.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Kate shuddered. The cavernous wound on his back had begun to attract flies, and now the eggs that they’d lain were maggots. The one good thing the bat did was keep the maggots under control, and at least when the bat was eating the maggots, it wasn’t eating Ricky. Kate was afraid that one day the Bat would get hungrier and start eating Ricky’s face. Even worse, it could start gnawing on Ricky’s spine and damage his spinal cord.

Kate shook her head. There was no need to overthink it. She gulped the last of her tea, gave the mug a quick rinse, and headed to work. Throughout the day, she fended off texts from Ricky; she came out of a two-and-a-half-hour cholecystectomy to thirteen missed texts and one voicemail. The voicemail was mostly just him faffing about; he could always make her crack a smile.

She thanked God she was a doctor; she’d been able to quickly treat by herself the mould that grew on her hands, preventing further decay. As long as she kept her fingers out of 4 reach of the bat, she should keep the remaining flesh on her hands. It had turned out to be quite difficult to operate with her new, fleshless fingers, but she wore three layers of gloves to keep a better grip on the scalpel and was proud of her work.

Late that night, Ricky greeted her with a peck on the forehead. Kate grinned as she inhaled the heavenly scent of sweet and sour pork and cashew chicken but frowned when Ricky turned away to fetch the plates.

Ricky yawned loudly and scratched his back. Kate could see the bat squirming under his shirt as it was feasting. It had burrowed a bit deeper into his flesh and she knew that its claws would be wrapped tightly around his ribs; it would be no easy task to pry it out. Kate from three days ago would have let the thought disrupt her meal, but today’s Kate was made of stronger stuff.

As Ricky twirled fried noodles around his fork, his eyelids steadily started to droop. Kate smirked.

“Babe? Are you gonna finish those?”

Ricky responded by collapsing into his plate face first. Kate sighed and removed the plate from under his head. From here she’d make quick work of the bat. She used the kitchen shears to cut open his shirt—it wouldn’t be missed, there were at least five identical shirts in his closet—and peered coldly at the bat.

By now she knew better than to attempt removal with her hands. She calmly retrieved a carving fork and knife from the kitchen. The bat seemed to sense what was coming, as it began to screech at a frequency Kate couldn’t hear, thrashing in its home in Ricky’s back.

It was slimy, but Kate was prepared. She dumped a cup of white vinegar on it and watched as it writhed in pain and confusion. Without hesitation, she stabbed into its chest cavity with the carving fork and began to pull it from Ricky’s back. It yielded with surprising ease, and the moment it released its hold on Ricky’s ribs she flung it across the room.

It tried to flap its wings to escape, but it was too injured, and in one fluid motion Kate pinned its torso to the wood floor with the carving knife.

Kate woke the next morning to Ricky’s morning breath. She giggled and pushed him away.

“Stop, stop, brush your teeth!”

He rolled his eyes but smiled. “Fine...should I put the kettle on while I’m at it?”

Kate nodded sleepily and burrowed back under the covers. She could hear Ricky running the faucet and attacking his teeth like a madman—he brushed much too hard, the dentist had told him so but still he refused to stop. In the end Kate had only managed to get him to use a soft bristle brush. Kate rolled over and palmed her phone. Checking her emails, she jumped out of her skin at Ricky calling her from the living room.

“Kate…what’s this?”

First Prize Short Essay in English

Dancehall Beats & Batty Boys: How Dancehall is providing a platform for violent homophobia in Jamaica

Author: Sasha Hill

Bachelor of Laws and Bachelor in International Relations

Barbados - UK

Music transcends our minds; echoes cultures and captures the perfect snapshot of society. Simultaneously, freezing and speeding up time. Coated with an array of identities. It serves as a revolving door, showcasing values and social trends. Music reflects who we are, what we do and where we’re going.

Music has always been an integral part in reflecting the past the present and the future of the West Indies. The first slaves were brought from West Africa to Jamaica in 1513, bringing with them their tribal music and traditions. Music was considered an essential part of how these slaves managed to not give up hope with the message of the songs eventually turning to songs of freedom. Reggae was born out of Rastafarianism in the 1930s, with the idea of promoting pan-Africanism and healing from the mental scars of slavery. Reggae is described best as being “experiential music” and that “it is the spiritual expression of the historical experience of the Afro-Jamaican.”

Rastaman Vibration (1976) was the album that skyrocketed Bob Marley and his native Jamaica on the forefront of popular music, with message of his songs being timeless. Reggae was built on the foundations of love, positivity and unity amongst people, the ideals of Bob Marley, “one love, one heart.” In the late 1970s, Jamaica experienced a surge in violence due to drug trafficking from South America. Murder rates were up, drugs ran loose and gangs went unchecked and often funded by the CIA who sought to discredit the largely socialist Government.4 This street violence disproportionately manifested itself in the poorer communities of Jamaica, particularly in Kingston. Jamaica’s popular dance halls, clubs for the lower classes, have been around since the 1940s, but the widening social divide between the poor, middle and upper classes saw a transformation in reggae. From the violence and poverty, a new sub-genre of reggae came forth with an infectious and tech influenced beat, dancehall reflected the voice and life of the Kingston ghettos. Dancehall has transcended its roots of reggae removing itself from being the voice of the Rastafarian community to now becoming the voice of the Jamaican ghetto, often delivering a gritty message reflecting the violence and poverty from which it was born. The message of one love was changing to reflect the gang, gun culture where masculinity was celebrated.

Today, dancehall is considered to be the most popular music genre in Jamaica and widespread across the West Indies. Nonetheless, dancehall has never matched the international success of reggae due to its provocative reputation. Despite being a raw and true reflection of the street life in Jamaica, Dancehall has also become suspectable as a platform for promoting violent homophobia, and how this is having drastic violent consequences for the Jamaican LGBTQ+ community.

Introduction to Homophobia in Jamaica

“The most homophobic place on earth” is how Time Magazine described Jamaica in an article from 2006. Jamaica has a long history of struggling to accept and protect its LGBTQ+ community. Violence towards this group is becoming normalized, accepted and even promoted by Jamaican society. For years, the Jamaican government has failed to provide adequate anti-discrimination legislation for the LGBTQ+ community which has resulted in a common occurrence of brutal murders and attacks based on sexual orientation. Most recently in 2019, the LGBTQ+ Danger Index was released, naming Jamaica and other West Indian islands in the top 50 most dangerous places for the LGBTQ+ community to visit. Jamaica was placed 18th on the index. However, for many involved in the Jamaican Pride community, this ranking was a complete farce, showing that the creators of the index had no real understanding of the social consequences that the local LGBTQ+ community faces for their sexual orientation in the Caribbean island. At present, Jamaica does not recognize any type of rights for the LGBTQ+ community, and homosexuality remains illegal under Jamaica’s anti-buggery laws. The Jamaican Offences Against the Person Act puts the punishment for sodomy as 10 years in prison with hard labour, and homosexual activity as 7 years imprisonment. Section 76 of the Jamaican Offences Against the Person Act, declared that sodomy is an “unnatural” act- with bestiality being included under the same title. Describing sodomy as an unnatural act already sets a precedent in society that gay sex is not acceptable, and that being gay is also not natural. Despite these laws not being legally enforced, they remain with the potential to be legally enforceable, and they show acceptance for society’s widespread homophobic behaviour.

The effect of colonialism on the Jamaican male psyche

Since the start of the slave trade in the 1600s, homophobia has been heavily ingrained into West Indian and particularly Jamaican society. During the 200 years of slavery in the Caribbean, a common disciplinary technique used by plantation owners on black male slaves was forced sodomy. Sexual abuse was used to punish disobedience and was often conducted in front of the entire slave population of the plantation as a shaming method to embarrass male slaves, stripping away their humanity. Forced sodomy by male plantation owners towards black male slaves tore down their very essence of what they felt it was to be a man. Subsequently, it created a stigma that if this happened to a male slave, then they had lost their male identity. As stated in Lewis Clarke’s Leaves from a Slave's Journal of Life “a slave can’t be a man.” Plantation owners wanted their slaves to feel like property. They weren’t men or women, but property which could be disposed of on a whim and treated however they sought fit. The humiliation of forced sodomy has a serious effect on the male psyche during slavery, which served as a catalyst for ingraining the shame of gay sex and homophobia which is scattered throughout West Indian society.

Whilst slavery was abolished in Jamaica in 1884, the reality was that little changed for the average man. Physical punishments and abuses by employers continued without any efforts by the Government to curtail them, attitudes of superiority were entrenched in the ruling classes. Strikingly, the abuse of power continued to prevail up to and even after the British exit in 1962. Jamaica, like most of the Caribbean, is not abundant in natural resources, and thus has struggled to develop economically and socially since its independence. Poor education, high poverty levels, a struggling healthcare system, an HIV/AIDS epidemic, high levels of corruption compiled with the mental scars of sexual abuse from slavery as well as outside interference from the American Secret Services has resulted in Jamaica becoming a boiling pot for social unrest. This agitation, manifested in many ways including projection onto the LGBTQ+ community.

The degrading of black males through sexual abuse has resulted in creating a culture based on hypermasculinity. Hypermasculinity is a physiological behaviour based on over-exaggerating the male stereotype. Consequentially this places an underlying importance on the need to express strength, aggression, assertiveness and sexuality through one’s appearance and attitudes. Dancehall music has become a vehicle of this expression to which men release their toxic masculinity.

It is most likely that many gay men cannot accept themselves due to the historic connotations of shame and humiliation so there is an over compensation and a need to show a bravado against anything connected with homosexuality. One small sector of the population has refused hide. Kingston’s “Gully Queens” are exposed queer youths originating from the poorer areas of Jamaica who live in a community in the sewers of Kingston. These young men have learned to embrace their sexuality and they are flamboyant, with some even self-identifying as transsexuals. Exiled from their societies and now living in absolute poverty, these youths are left completely marginalized from the rest of Jamaica. The Gully Queens however live in fear of retribution for what they are, with many citing that their main fear is that someone would kill them and nobody would ever know because no one would look for them. The situation is so serious that they expect to be eradicated with one gully queen telling Vice reporters that they didn’t believe in a tolerant Jamaica stating: “It’s just no, no. It’s never going to happen. They’ll just kill us faster.”

Just to show the extent that hypermasculinity has played on the Jamaican mentality, Dr. Kingsley Ragashanti Stewart a professor of anthropology at University of the West Indies stated that he believes that homophobia is so reflected and ingrained into Jamaican culture and it particularly is evident with the ghetto youths and is in the forefront of their minds. They are strongly against to using any language which could possibly have homophobic connotations. He explains "It's like if you say, 'Come back here,' they will say, 'No, no, no don't say 'come back'.' You have to say 'come forward,' because come back is implying that you're 'coming in the back,' which is how gay men have sex."

Dancehall as an outlet for the promotion of violence against the LGBTQ+ community

Since dancehall entered the music scene, it has become a platform to reinforce the hypermasculine views of the Jamaican psyche. The lyrics are often filled with explicit and grotesque content used as a reinforcement tool to promote sexist values, male dominance and violent homophobia. The music of Dancehall paints itself as the greatest paradox of its parent genre reggae, moving away from principles of love and unity.

To demonstrate, Jamaican reggae dancehall artist Buju Banton shows us through his lyrics the derogatory nuances toward homophobia with the release of his chart-topping hit “Boom Bye Bye” in 1992. The chorus of “Boom Bye Bye” repeats “It's like boom bye bye inna batty bwoy head/Rude bwoy nah promote no nasty man,/dem haffi dead”. This particular song is considered to be a prominent anthem for Jamaica and remains extremely popular almost 30 years after its release date. The song advocates for the murder of gay men by shooting them point-blank in the head. It uses popular Jamaican language such as “batty boy” which is an extremely derogative word for a gay man. The lyrics of the song are meant to equate gay sex to “nastiness” as if it was an unnatural act. “Boom Bye Bye” has led to the cancelations of over 23 of Buju Banton’s concerts overseas but he still continues to perform the song back home in Jamaica which is one of the few countries not to ban the live performance of the track.

The most compelling evidence, “Boom Bye Bye” was the starting point for popularizing what is now called Murder Music. There are hundreds of songs in the dancehall genre which contain a message of promoting violent homophobia, many of which like “Boom Bye Bye”, are chart topping songs. Particularly, TOK’s “Chi Chi Man” (2001): “From dem a par inna chi chi man car/Blaze di fire mek we bun dem (bun dem)”. This song equates homosexual men with being vermin and that if two gay men are found together, they must be burnt alive. To demonstrate the popularity of this song, it was used in 2011 for the Jamaican Labour Party’s re-election campaign.

To repeat, Beanie Man’s “Damn” (2000) expresses, “Well, I think of a new Jamaica/Mi come fi execute all a di gays.” Then, there is the “king” of Dancehall, Vybz Kartel, who has also made his feelings about homosexuals very well known in his songs. “Romping Shop” (2009): “Everyman fi have a gal/And every gal grab a man, /Man to man, gal to gal, that's wrong, /Scorn dem.” To further prove the influence of these artists, Vybz Kartel released his song “Clarks” in 2010, of which the basis of the song is how the shoe brand Clarks is the brand for the youths of Jamaica. After the release of this song Clarks were sold out and they are still the shoe brand of choice for males in Jamaica.

For this reason, these murder songs have had crucial and occasionally deadly consequences for the LGBTQ+ community of Jamaica. The murder of the founder of Jamaican Pride Brian Williamson, in 2004. Williamson was murdered in his home as the result of a home invasion, (as declared by the police) but suspected by Human Rights Watch to be a hate crime. An HRW researcher investigating the murder found that when she arrived to Williamson’s home there was a crowd celebrating the murder singing “Boom Bye Bye”, and chanting “batty boy dead”. There have been other incidents of gays, lesbians and transsexuals being murdered in Kingston’s street parties on suspicion of being gay, and according to witnesses, while songs like “Chi Chi Man” and “Boom Bye Bye” played in the background. In addition, there appears to be a parallel of the ways in which the murders are being demonstrated in exact alignment with song lyrics; things such as people being lit on fire, cut with machetes or shot point-blank were all mirrored in incidents. Even the Police has cited a man´s homosexuality as being a provocation to his murderer.

To dismiss these lyrics as just lyrics and nothing more is incredibly irresponsible and dangerous. Dancehall has become the perfect vessel for the promotion of violent homophobic because it has the ability to take these songs with terrible connotations, and gift wrap it in an infectious beat and delivering it to the masses in an entertainment setting, where it is able to reinforce the societal stigma. Most recently, in 2017, Dexter Pottinger, a prominent Jamaican fashion designer and the new face of Jamaican Pride was murdered, with his killer even admitting that the crime was driven on the basis of Pottinger’s sexual orientation. The Jamaican police and attorney general believed that Pottinger’s sexual orientation was sufficient evidence to indicate provocation, therefore, his killer was only required to plead guilty to manslaughter and consequentially given a sentence of 12 years imprisonment rather than the life sentence required by the Jamaican Offenses Against the Person Act.

These acts of violence are not isolated nor are they only directed at just flamboyant or well-known gays. In fact, most of the violence on homosexuals in Jamaica goes unreported due to the fact most attacks are targeted towards the vulnerable or poorer members of the LGBTQ+ community. Some of which have even been outed and murdered by their own families.

There has been an attempt to repair the image of dancehall internationally. Many dancehall stars have been asked to sign on to the Reggae Compassionate Act (RCA). However, the RCA is not legally binding and many dancehall artists who have signed on have completely disregarded its message of leaving discrimination out of their songs and public appearances. Some of the signees are Buju Banton, Beanie Man and Sizzla. Buju Banton signed on in 2007, however, despite the initial commitment, he continued to make homophobic remarks at both local and international concerts. Buju stated at one concert in New Jersey in 2009, “There is no end to the war between me and faggots!" Shortly after, the crowd proceeded to chant “boom boom” pointing two fingers in the air to mimic a gun. Banton has continued to perform “Boom Bye Bye” live until 2019. In the same fashion, other artists such as Beanie Man and Sizzla have not retracted any of their greatest homophobic hits. Undeniably, Sizzla recently re-released “Nuh Apologize” in 2017: “Rastaman don't apologize to no batty-boy/If yuh dis' King Selassie I/ mih gunshot yuh boy”. The lyrics further solidifying his stance and unapologetic behaviour for the creation of homophobic content and it was considered to be a clear attack on the RCA.

There is a clear link between those that listen to dancehall and acceptance of the LGBTQ+ community. A study performed in 2010, by AIDs free world and Foundation Open Society Institute, showed that out of those that listened to Dancehall, 65% of respondents were “repulsed” by homosexual relationships. Repulsed is the highest negative emotion on the Riddle Scale. “Negative views of homosexuality tended to be greatest among males, non-university educated persons, those who listened mostly to dancehall and reggae music and those in lower socio-economic groups.” Dancehall is the ultimate reflection of ghetto youth life in Jamaica, reflecting the street violence, the gangs, the parties and most dangerously their beliefs against homosexuals.

Be that as it may, dancehall music as a platform to promote homophobia in Jamaica has been recognized internationally with many asylum cases. Specifically, on the basis of sexual orientation being accepted and judges declaring that the lyrics of dancehall reflect an imminent life of danger in the realm of deportation back to Jamaica. In addition, countries with a large Caribbean diaspora such as the UK and Canada have made requirements on dancehall performers visas, ensuring that the performers understand that these homophobic lyrics breach anti-discrimination laws. For example, in 2013, Queen Ifrica was dropped from performing Rastafest in Canada due to homophobic comments she made at a government sponsored concert. Queen Ifrica called on the then Prime Minister of Jamaica, Portia Simpson-Miller, not to call a referendum on the country’s anti-buggery laws. The organizers of Rastafest stated that homophobic lyrics and sentiments were not to be welcomed. Whilst internationally homophobia is not considered acceptable, it is clear that Jamaica is falling well behind. There is such a depth of feeling on this issues that some artists such as Bounty Killer and Beanie Man are even prepared to forego foreign travel and the larger pay days rather than give up their right to perform homophobic material.

Conclusion

In essence, music is an incredibly powerful tool which has been used for centuries to communicate, to provoke and to influence. A tool to shape a narrative or to reinforce one. A living testament to what we’ve lived through historically. As displayed above, Jamaican society has always grappled with the acceptance of its LGBTQ+ community stemming from colonialism and through their journey to emancipating themselves from this mental slavery, as Bob Marley would attest to in his song “Redemption song”.

Dancehall has become a raw explicit reflection of Jamaican society and with most dancehall artists firm in their belief that their homophobic music is as a freedom of expression, preserving their rights to do and say whatever they choose with scant respect for the law or the consequences of this actions. This type of defiant stance is not only reflected in music but in the involvement by many of these musicians in gang, life, and drug trafficking.

Where do we draw a line between freedom of expression and the rights of the minority individual to live peaceably without fear. In the context of Jamaica, we are not talking of just discrimination, it is a matter of life or death. The moment freedom of expression is used to defend purposefully inciting violence and murder against homosexuals we revert to a barbarian type society which spews discrimination and hatred. History has shown that this type of caustic mix will stunt the development of a society.

Nevertheless, these artists are considered to be heroes in Jamaica, as well as legends in the Dancehall community. Therefore, it is important that they aren’t blacklisted from producing music, but rather that they begin to learn that violent homophobia has no place in music. Dancehall has already proven itself to be an international contender in music with its growing influence in genres like reggaeton, house and rap. In addition, dancehall artists have shown that they can still create music that reflects the voice of the Jamaican streets without using homophobic rhetoric, of which some of these songs have gone on to become international chart toppers.

The truth is that a change in Jamaica’s homophobic attitude must come from within society itself but a change in the message of Dancehall provides a good start. Primarily, the Jamaican Government needs to step in and assist society to change by invoking tougher sanctions for LGBTQ+ discrimination, as well as repealing the country’s anti- buggery laws through decriminalization. Discrimination and hate are negative and damaging therefore, if Jamaica wants to grow on the international stage it must tackle this issue of violent homophobia head on and help the wider society see that a more enlighten outlook will make for a more tolerant and peaceful highly creative Island.

“Some say that sexual orientation and gender identity are sensitive issues. I understand. Like many of my generation, I did not grow up talking about these issues. But I learned to speak out because lives are at stake, and because it is our duty under the United Nations Charter and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights to protect the rights of everyone, everywhere.” - UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon to the Human Rights Council.

Bibliography

Fink, Micah (September 2009). “How AIDS Became a Caribbean Crisis”. The Atlantic.

Frank, Priscilla. “These Are The Fearless LGBTQ Youth Who Live In Jamaica's Sewers.” HuffPost, HuffPost, 30 Aug. 2016,

“Homophobia in Reggae: Buju Banton: News & Culture in The North Bay.” Metroactive,
www.metroactive.com/bohemian/12.02.09/feature-0948.html

“‘I Have to Leave to Be Me’: Discriminatory Laws against LGBT People in the Eastern Caribbean.” Human Rights Watch, 11 Apr. 2018
www.hrw.org/report/2018/03/21/i-have-leave-be-me/discriminatory-laws-against-lgbtpeople-eastern-caribbean

Lewis Clarke, “Leaves from a Slave's Journal of Life”,
www.docsouth.unc.edu/neh/clarke/support1.html

Martin Bentham, Social Affairs Correspondent. “Asylum Is Granted to Gay Jamaicans.” The Telegraph, Telegraph Media Group, 13 Oct. 2002,
www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1410018/Asylum-is-granted-to-gay-Jamaicans.html

“National Survey of Attitudes and Perceptions of Jamaicans Towards Same Sex Relationships” (PDF). AIDS-Free World. 30 June 2011.

Second Prize Short Essay in English

The Fall of the House of Normalcy: A Literary Approach to the New Meaning of Home and the Liminal Streets

Author: Laura Álvarez Trigo

Bachelor in Communication

Spain

I know not how it was--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half- pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible.
- The Fall of the House of Usher, Edgar A. Poe

Arundhati Roy published an article at the beginning of last April that opens up by questioning whether there would be anyone now able to use “the term gone viral” and not “shudder a little” (2020). This first thought motivates a discussion on how many expressions and terms have been forever impacted by the current global situation. It makes us wonder what are the many other words that would never ring the same in our ears.

One phrase that we have all heard almost ad nauseam at the dawn of the health crisis – not only on the news but also uttered by friends and family – is “staying at home”. This sentence had been most commonly used up until this year in the context of wanting to relax, to remain sheltered under bad weather and letting others know that you wished to sit on your couch and watch a movie rather than go out for a drink. It is quite evident, looking at the rhetoric used in news reports these days, that the way that we read and act toward the word home is not the same. Contrary to what used to motivate us to stay at home our reason now is a health concern. We stay home to protect others and ourselves from a deadly disease. Hence, staying at home is not an inconsequential choice anymore and the home has become something new.

The concept of home has strong psychological and emotional implications. It has been studied from various perspectives in many different fields. From a mainly sociological standpoint the connotations of this idea center on feelings of security and control, of permanence, continuity and refuge from the outside world; but it also brings to mind more profound associations with one’s values, family and friends. There is an aura of sanctity that usually involves the idea of domestic spaces, even though it can also be easily connected to trauma.

Carol Deprés identifies several models that help delimit where we situate ourselves when looking at the idea of home: territorial, psychological, socio-psychological and phenomenological-developmental. It is this last one that I am most interested in when looking at the current global situation. What is fundamental to the last model is that life events strongly shape the conception of the home (Deprés, 1991). Thus, it is key to understand what separates the home from other contrasting spaces – namely the outside world. In our present time, however, both staying at home and going outside have come to suggest uncomfortable scenarios that trigger a stressful relationship to our sense of place. Michel Foucault proposed in his discussion on heterotopia that “the anxiety of our era has to do fundamentally with space” (23). Little did he know how resonant this would be in the year 2020.

Staying at Home

Turning to art in times of uncertainty, perhaps most notably to literature, can be reassuring. Stories let us know that there have been others throughout history that have suffered the same insecurities and gone through similar emotional journeys. At the beginning of the pandemic, we could see this craving for experiences that mirror what we are going through in the significantly increased allusions found online to works such as Albert Camus’ The Plague (1947) and Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Mask of the Red Death” (1842). The loss of security and trust in our world is what drives us toward this search. Horror literature, by precisely exploring the loss of trust and threats that surround us, has the potential to provide us with a kind of catharsis that distinctly contributes to the understanding of our insecurities and our very human fears.

Living under any deadly threat triggers a reconfiguration of the aspects that define our home and our environment. There is an element within the individual sense of identity that is closely linked to the physically occupied space. This is what provides the home with its significance. According to theories of space, the inhabited house is commonly thought of as a place, a concept that operates in opposition to what Marc Augè defined as non-places. The later do not hold enough significance due to their nature as temporary, while the home is considered a place thanks to its permanence and steadfast character. However, resulting from the necessary limitations of movement now set in place, there appears to be a disconnect between the home and the implied meaning we have long associated with it. Instead of being linked to certain activities, our house has become an environment where everything – from work and study to leisure – necessarily takes place. This amalgam of experiences that should not be occurring inside our households affects the mental associations that we have. Fundamentally, this registers as a contradiction because one’s own home cannot be allowed to lose its stability since it is, in effect, the very symbol embodying our own stability. But the home has reluctantly become a signifier for the uncertainty of the experience. In this sense, the coherent narrative of life is lost, and we are left waiting, arms akimbo, for the ethos to return.

Thinking back to horror literature, houses are in fact a very recurrent theme in said genre because, as mentioned before, our fears are rooted in the loss of trust and security. As an allegory for stability, houses in horror narratives hold a lot of significance. Another one of Poe’s works that prompts a discussion on the house as entrapment is “The Fall of the House of Usher” (1839). This story opens with the narrator arriving at Roderick Usher’s house, an old school friend who has sent him a letter asking for help in his sickness. At his arrival, the unnamed narrator encounters a gloomy old mansion, which from the beginning gives him an intense feeling of fear and distrust. Inside the house, he meets his friend Roderick who is in a remarkably odd state of mind and cohabits with his twin sister, who is also ill and suffers from catalepsy. The Usher twins appear to be surrounded by an aura of desperation and impending doom. Such terrible fate is realized after the burial of Madeline Usher, who returns alive from her tomb and violently grabs her brother, which results in both of them falling down dead. The symbolism of the house is highlighted in the closing paragraphs: as our narrator leaves the premises in horror, the old Usher mansion, as foreshadowed, collapses and sinks into the tarn.

Thematically, this story taps into our fear of death – both through Madeline’s entombment and the Usher's failure to produce heirs. When it comes to the titular house, it is often understood that it operates as a character in its own right. Susan Scheckel argues that the relationship the Ushers have with the house is so strong that “they seem in fact never to have left it” (16). But said relationship is not mere attachment, it “carries a sense of loss” associated with nostalgia as well as a sense of “geographical displacement” that originates in a “feeling of alienation” (ibid). Thus, the author concludes, Roderick Usher is suffering from a “longing to return to an ideal, originary state of fullness and unity” which causes him pain that “can never be cured” (22). This reading argues that Poe introduces us to an understanding of the home that not only is affected by having lost something – which we might equate with the previously discussed loss of meaning as regards to our concept of the home – but also it is shaped by a sense of displacement – a relocation of said meaning. As humans, we have an innate drive to preserve meaning, especially when, as is the case with the home, it is intertwined with our sense of self and our closest human relationships. Consequently, the new meaning we are forced to give to our homes evokes a feeling of rejection and nostalgia.

Discussing the role of houses in horror fiction Clara Palleja-López argues that “when something trusted becomes contemplated as an enemy”, it creates a sense of betrayal. When this new enemy is our own home “our former attachment [...] prevents us from letting go” (Pallejá-López, 23). Given this, even as our home becomes scary and traitorous it still attracts us. Not unlike Roderick Usher we might ironically wish to become more entrapped, which leaves us in a constant state of nostalgia and restlessness. Nostalgia is in fact a common theme in fictions that explore the house as a source of horror. Such narratives are frequently linked to the idea of homesickness and a certain inability to move forward. And this is precisely the aspect that perverts the home to operate as private comfort. Wuthering Heights (1847) by Emily Brontë offers us another instance in which a house gives the literary work its name. Although it might seem counterintuitive at first as an example when discussing horror literature, when the role of the two houses that appear in the narrative becomes clear, we can see how they function as do their counterparts in said genre. The house in this novel is haunted by Heathcliff’s hopeless love. Within a seemingly inescapable aura of nostalgia, his personality, sufferings and trauma are intrinsically linked to Wuthering Heights, Thrushcross Grange and his movement between the two. He is enclosed in malign thoughts and emotions embodied in these physical spaces meant to symbolize the security of home and family. Although Heathcliff was never a nice man, his attitude and character flaws are exacerbated by his failure to move on and the inescapable connection he has to these two properties.

Such a state of mind strongly evokes the symptoms of cabin fever. According to Google Trends, the term peaked its usage and online searches around the end of March. It refers to the general feeling of uneasiness and bad temper caused by a prolonged period of captivity. Staying at home greatly irritates us but, unfortunately, the outside world is still scary and unwelcoming. As if it were a horror story, the house comes to embody both the captor and the fear of the outside world. It does not want to let us go. Moving out through the literal threshold of the so-called home means entering a space that has also been redefined. So, in the context of reshaping meaning, the process of entering a new space sounds daunting.

Going Out for a Walk

Just as the idea of staying at home, the script for “going outside” has also been greatly transformed. The illusion of freedom of movement for a big part of the world’s population is no more. The preconceived notion of accessible public spaces has completely lost its working framework. The contradicting drive and revulsion that one might feel toward the idea of leaving the house are reminiscent of our relationship to the uncanny. This concept, primarily known through the work of Sigmund Freud, stands for something that despite feeling familiar “evokes fear and dread” (123). What we have seen in the above reading of Heathcliff’s relationship to Wuthering Heights is an example of the uncanny embodied in the house. Thinking about the attitudes that horror houses evoke in us, we might be able to discern the possible responses that experiencing the uncanny can trigger. On the one hand, we have seen a tendency toward claustrophobia when we think that the uncanny lies within the house itself. However, if we associate the uncanny with the dangers of an outside world – where the source of a deadly disease might be roaming – the fear relocates to this outdoor space and morphs into something more akin to agoraphobia.

The horror and crime fiction writer Stephen Graham Jones suggests a distinction between two types of horror houses that corresponds to the possibility of identifying the uncanny with either inside or outside such a house. In the introduction to Robert Marasco’s Burnt Offerings (2015) he argues that there are two types of haunted houses: the stay away and the hungry. One of the examples he provides for the hungry house is Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House (1959). The mystery that this house embodies attracts a group of people who attempt to decipher the secret surrounding it. However, their endeavor ends up with one of the women in the party refusing to ever leave the house. Hill House eats her up. This type of house, Jones argues, lures us to the inside in a way that prevents us from seeing the danger it holds.

In opposition to said house, according to Jones’ classification, we find those that are surrounded by a strong unwelcoming aura that compels us to stay away. “La casa de Adela” (2016) offers a very interesting example of this kind of horror house. This short story by Argentinian author Mariana Enriquez is a first-person account of a girl who, along with her brother and another child named Adela, develops a taste for horror stories. This leads them to grow intrigued by an abandoned old house in the neighborhood. In this case, it is not the house who is attempting to lure the children inside, but it is they who discover the house and decide to investigate out of curiosity. Hence, they are punished for their trespassing: Adela disappears into the house, Pablo commits suicide after years of being haunted by the memory, and Clara, the narrator, is unable to move past these events. Any space Clara occupies outside of the house has been forever affected by its influence. The possibility of inhabiting other spaces inevitably becomes tainted due to the intense change in the way she thinks both about the house and the outside. The strong significance of the house is embodied in an inescapable drive to go back. The protagonists in this kind of narrative often reach a state of mind that seems to make time remain still. These stay away houses transform the outside world so that the uncanny is situated in spaces that become liminal.

Arnold van Gennep developed the concept of liminality within the framework of his studies on rites of passage, with the liminal state being the in-between stage epitomized in the rite itself. I have mentioned before the threshold of the house as the boundary we are to cross. However, this is not exactly the case nowadays. The threshold – that is, the limen – has been relocated to the public space outside our homes. This suggests that the streets have become transitory, a space between the state of things as they were and the awaited new normal. The threshold is no longer the door of our homes but all the streets that surround it. In this context, the partially deserted streets of big cities as they are now have become a liminal space.

Victor Turner argues that liminal states put “the very structure of society” on hold and are intertwined with the dissolution of identity (360). Hence, the concept of the liminal space is a very useful framework to approach our relationship with the physical world and the aforementioned changes in meaning. Since the liminal is defined as a sacred space that challenges our self-definition, our instinct when confronted with it is to flee. In conjunction with the cabin fever developed inside the house, it turns out that both if we stay in and if we leave, we cannot elude our desire to run away. That is because the two possible kinds of horror houses have overlapped. Any attempt to escape is unavoidably circular. As experienced by Eleanor in The Haunting of Hill House, the hungry house drives us into further reclusion. In this type of horror literature, the fear of trespassing a threshold is greater than any tangible menace. We need to realize however that the liminal nature of our streets does not solely originate in their spatial nature. In “La Casa de Adela” the protagonist develops an absolute inability to move forward. Because of her experience in the haunted house she remains metaphorically trapped inside, which affects the space surrounding her, transforming everything into a liminal state of waiting and tension. The house becomes the memory, and the memory a personification of her being trapped in time. The horror of the house permeates into any space that the protagonist occupies, but also affects her in terms of the passage of time. All the streets and space become limen. The uneasiness of the liminal space is indeed caused by an impasse in time, which brings us back to Augè’s non-places, defined by their transitory nature. This implies that stays in non-places have to necessarily end. All in all, our primary urge when confronted with the limen is to avoid a permanent temporal stillness.

An extreme sense of present causes us to feel stuck between bursts of cabin fever and wandering liminal streets. We might even feel entrapped in a horror story in which the home has been (re)identified as both our protector and our worst enemy. In this vein, it is worth noting that not all aspects of our definition of the home have changed. The home can still be both a representation of trauma and a source of comfort. Horror literature has put such contradiction into words throughout the centuries. Fiction helps us find the cathartic experience outside the liminal that allows for a healthy redefinition of the spaces we inhabit. Jones begins his introduction to Marasco’s novel by stating that one does not simply “live through a haunted house novel” but one learns from it (Jones, “Introduction”). The vicarious experiences we find in these fictions may have the potential to provide us with some needed change in time and help us reshape meaning. In fact, they might be our only route to evade a paradoxically lasting non-place.

Bibliography

Augè, Marc. Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity. Verso, 1995.

Brontë, Emily. Wuthering Heights. Oxford World’s Classics, 1995.

Camus, Albert. The Plague. Vintage, 2012.

Després, Carole. “The Meaning of Home: Literature Review and Directions for Future Research and Theoretical Development.” Journal of Architectural and Planning Research, vol. 8, no. 2, 1991, pp. 96–115.

Enríquez, Mariana. “La Casa de Adela.” Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego”. Anagrama, 2016.

Foucault, Michel. “Of Other Spaces.” Translated by Jay Miskowiec, Diacritics, vol. 16, no. 1, 1986, pp. 22–27.

Freud, Sigmund. The Uncanny. Translated by David McLintock. Penguin UK, 2003.

van Gennep, Arnold. The Rites of Passage. Routledge, 2013.

Jackson, Shirley. The Haunting of Hill House. Penguin, 2008.

Jones, Stephen Graham. “Introduction.” Burnt Offerings, by Robert Marasco. Valancourt Books, 2015.

Pallejá-López, Clara. Houses and Horror: A Sociocultural Study of Spanish and American Women Writers. Thesis, University of Auckland, 2010.

Poe, Edgar A. The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Writings. Penguin UK, 2003.

Roy, Arundhati. “The pandemic is a portal.” Financial Times. April 3, 2020, www.ft.com/content/10d8f5e8-74eb-11ea-95fe-fcd274e920ca.

Scheckel, Susan. “Home-Sickness, Nostalgia, and Therapeutic Narrative in Poe’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’.” Poe Studies, vol. 50, 2017, pp. 12-25.

Turner, Victor. “Liminality and Communitas.” The Ritual Process: Structure and Antistructure, 94, 1969, pp. 358-74.

Third Prize Short Essay in English

The Function and Necessity of the Ascetic Ideal in Nietzche's "On the Genealogy of Morals"

Author: Nicolas Krsnik Vázquez

Bachelor in Psychology

Spain

In his essay, Freud and Philosophy, Ricœur (1970) created the School of Suspicion as a means by which to emancipate the speculative nature of three thinkers active in the latter half of the 19th century, amongst which the philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, was granted a chair for his work on religion. Since then, it seems that Nietzsche’s philosophy has been steadily growing in popularity within academia to the extent that Hatab (2008) remarked that four articles being published within a year on The Genealogy of Morals was “a testimony to how prominent the text has become in scholarship and college courses” (Hatab, 2008, p.106). Indeed, what can be contested as his most influential philosophical work, The Genealogy of Morals seems to be as intellectually significant today as it was at the time it was published. Thus, in order to contribute to the series of recent commentaries on The Genealogy of Morals, this article will concentrate on a defining feature of the book and the central theme of the third essay (GM III), namely, the ascetic ideal. First, I will provide a brief definition and explanation of the term as well as discuss Nietzsche’s attitude toward it in the essay. In the second section, I will argue against Clark’s contention that Nietzsche was not a true proponent of asceticism.

Like many of Nietzsche’s essays, GM III begins with the conclusion eloquently presented, that “man would rather will nothingness than not will at all” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.136). In order to explain what this idea ultimately means, it is necessary to place it in the right context, or more concretely, provide the conditions under which man is forced to prefer this nothingness. To aid my explanation, I will use Nietzsche’s ascetic priest as the embodiment of the ascetic ideal.

The ascetic ideal, broadly speaking, is the doctrine that everyday life per se is only of value insofar as it is a bridge to a higher or transcendental existence. Owen (2007) has further added that the ideal is “a way of life that is committed to treating living, existence itself, as an ascetic procedure whereby the end to which this procedure is directed is necessarily not immanent to existence (as with specific ascetic practices) but transcends it” (2007, p.114). The gap present between the ideal and its practice can be ascribed to the teachings of the priest, who, as mentioned in GM II, is originally a noble fallen under bad faith. However, Nietzsche does not use the priest in GM III as a means by which to establish a dichotomy between nobles, but rather, to enhance his definition of the ascetic ideal. He mentions that priests must “juxtapose this life (along with what belongs to it, ‘nature,’ ‘world,’ the whole sphere of becoming and the ephemeral) to a completely different form of existence…” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.96). It is the priest’s mode of existence that becomes known as the ascetic ideal thereafter.

What is beneficial to the priest in embracing the ascetic ideal is that in order to combat existence, he denies it and therefore offers an objective goal in life; a goal that as Nietzsche expresses, “appears in all periods” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.96) and can be applied not just to the western world through Christianity, but also in other significantly different cultures (for example, through Islam and Buddhism). Nonetheless, Nietzsche subsequently explains that regardless of its capacity to provide man with meaning, the ascetic ideal falls under a contradiction: namely, that it encourages individuals to “derive enjoyment from suffering” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.97). The priest, aware that undirected resentiment (a state wherein one does not want what others have, but rather want others not to have what they have) present in the slavish masses can lead to horrendous outcomes if not controlled, devises a formula by which to exert a sense of agency over it. Thus, the slave, who defines himself through his suffering, can be aware that the nobles are not completely to blame for his resentiment. However, in order to render fully convincing the ascetic ideal, an additional step is required.

Indeed, the priest must not only convince both slaves and masters alike to inhabit the ascetic ideal by realizing an objective or general purpose to life; further, they must present reasons why this purpose is worth pursuing. Consequently, the solution ascribed to the priest is to answer the question, “Why do I suffer?” The suffering Nietzsche attempts to describe here is that associated with the malaise inherent to humans – the aimless suffering which stems from our incapability to step outside of ourselves. For Nietzsche, the priest must be sick with this suffering in order to express it (2008, p.104), but, unlike the herd, finds a way to overcome this sickness, specifically, by turning resentiment against itself. The priest exclaims, “You alone are to blame for yourself!” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.106) and through this, the ascetic ideal can flourish by saving man’s will from suicidal nihilism and finally, by establishing a relationship with mortality, thus providing man with a means to bare the unknown. This, to Nietzsche, ultimately provides man with justification to endure life’s suffering. In Christian thought, this idea is fleshed out through the concept of original sin, or the belief that man has from his origins been culpable for something out of his control. The Catholic is not indoctrinated by being held accountable for the actions of his original predecessor, but for being man alone and it is this expression of suffering from no final, apparent object that allows him to believe his ascetic life will be rewarded. Once again, man alone is to blame for himself. One must bear in mind that this is not a transformation particular to the slave revolt, as Nietzsche states that the priest “appears in almost all periods” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.96), and that the ascetic ideal is the only ideal thus far to have successfully solved the problem of suffering (Nietzsche, 2008, p.136). An instance of the ascetic ideal originating in the age of nobles is Sophocles’ retelling of Ajax’s death, wherein before his attempt against the sons of Atreus, he finds obstacles in deciphering the reasons behind his suffering. Similarly, the ascetic ideal can be seen behind Hercules’ redemption through the 12 labours after murdering his family, or Oedipus’ decision to gouge his eyes after failing to escape his fate. Parallels can be observed in regard to the mode of willing present with these characters and those existent in Christian texts; for example, Ajax and Judas, Hercules and Samson, as well as Oedipus and Joseph from the Old Testament. What is more, all of these individuals represent a devaluation of worldly existence, an aversion to life, and a preference to “will nothingness than not will at all” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.136).

The explanation provided above gives rise to a series of questions, but most importantly, to understand the claims Nietzsche makes towards the end of his essay, it is imperative to understand whether he was truly an opponent of asceticism or whether he merely noticed that it was time to overcome it. Here, the first section of Clark’s chapter on the ascetic ideal (Clark, 1990, p.160) offers a more than adequate view of the belief that Nietzsche opposed its practice. I will use only the first section of this chapter, as my interpretation of Nietzsche leads me to believe that he found asceticism unfavourable on the grounds that it had ultimately become detrimental, although not entirely ineffectual on epistemological or practical levels. Clark argues that as Nietzsche mentions the ascetic ideal to be the zenith of harm, he “clearly sees his own task as that of providing an alternative” (Clark, 1990, p.161). However, outlining the sections Clark uses to justify his point, the observant reader may notice that parts of these paragraphs are missing.

Focusing solely on §28, Clark, strikingly, does not add that Nietzsche begins his conclusion by stating, “If we put aside the ascetic ideal, then man, the animal man, has had no meaning up to now” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.135). In other words, although Nietzsche notices the ascetic ideal to be harmful, he contends that the alternative to it, specifically, suicidal nihilism, is a far worse fate for humanity. Indeed, he affirms the utility it has had throughout history by providing man with meaning, and it is only when he discusses the manifest decadence present in his time that he realises the ascetic ideal has reached a point where it is no longer beneficial in any sense – hence, it must be overcome. Furthermore, even though he attributes the ascetic ideal to intellectual decadence (Nietzsche, 2008, p.126), let us not forget that he does not exclude himself from this group: “I am just as much a child of my age as Wagner, I am a decadent” (Nietzsche, 1967, p.155). Thus, although it is true that Nietzsche is searching for an alternative to the ascetic ideal, that does not imply that he stringently opposes asceticism.

Clark then reminds us that Nietzsche refers to the ascetic ideal as a “monstrous form of evaluation” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.96), to show that, “the priest’s idealisation of self-denial – or, the denial of one’s natural or animal self – implies a negative valuation of natural human existence, which is granted positive value only insofar as it becomes a means to its own negation” (Clark, 1990, p.161). However, at present, this is a one-sided view on Nietzsche’s account of the ascetic ideal. Throughout GM III, Nietzsche condemns the atrocities committed in the name of asceticism, but also highlights the positive products it has provided humanity. Nietzsche warns us that we must forget the artist before admiring his work (Nietzsche, 2008, p.80), but at no point does he say we must forget the work of art; an object in itself created through the process of an asceticism – for does Nietzsche demand of us that we deny Homer, or that we deny Goethe? “A complete and whole artist finds himself separated from the ‘real,’ the actual, to all eternity” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.81). In addition, although he eventually rejects Schopenhauer’s philosophy, I have found no segment in Nietzsche’s writing where he denied that Schopenhauer was his greatest teacher. Asceticism, hence, has in Nietzsche’s genealogy been a necessary precondition to the creation of knowledge, art, and scientific advances. Although science may hold a misleading belief in absolute truth, is Nietzsche’s objection towards advancement in medicine, or the application of positivism to history and the social sciences? “I have the greatest respect for the ascetic ideal, in so far as it is honest!” (Nietzsche, 2008, p.132).

The discoveries for which Galileo was incarcerated, Hume’s attempts at keeping his atheism silent, and Marie Curie’s willingness to die in the pursuit of science are all manifestations of the asceticism, all renunciations of freedoms, examples of self- castigation. Nietzsche, the prophet of life, despite waging war against the ascetic ideal, finds that he must inevitably embrace the ascetic life and suffer to the point of madness before future generations can overcome it – he must become a decadent, and affirm asceticism in order to give birth to Zarathustra. “The fairest virtue of the great thinker is the magnanimity with which, as a man of knowledge, he intrepidly, often with embarrassment, often with sublime mockery and smiling – offers himself and his life as a sacrifice” (Nietzsche, 1997, p.192). And finally, did the great Zarathustra not deny himself before screaming at the world, “This – is now my way: where is yours?” (Nietzsche, 2003, p.213).

Although the observations presented in this essay may not be conclusive in and of themselves, I argue that it would be beneficial to engage with Nietzsche’s critique of the ascetic ideal while believing him to be a proponent of asceticism. Indeed, there is no doubt that GM III aims toward the eradication of the ascetic ideal, but not before highlighting the importance it has had throughout history. Hence, it seems more likely that Nietzsche viewed asceticism not as an outsider, but living himself by it; noticing that the time had arrived where its values had become valueless and therefore had to be overcome. This nonetheless does not deny the possibility that Nietzsche was himself an ascetic man.

Bibliography:

Clark, M. (1990) Ch. 6: “The Ascetic Ideal”. FROM: Clark, M. Nietzsche on Truth and Philosophy. p. 159-203. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. [45].

Hatab, H.J. (2008) How Does the Ascetic Ideal Function in Nietzsche’s Genealogy? Journal of Nietzsche Studies. 35/36. p.106-123.

Kaufmann, W. (1974) Nietzsche: Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist. 4th ed. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Leiter, B. (2002) Ch. 8: A Commentary on the Third Essay. FROM: Leiter, B. Routledge Philosophy Guidebook to Nietzsche on Morality. p. 145-288. London: Routledge. [44].

Nietzsche, F. (1967) The Birth of Tragedy and The Case of Wagner. Toronto: Random House Inc.

Nietzsche, F. (1997) Daybreak: Thoughts on the Prejudices of Morality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Nietzsche, F. (2003) Thus Spoke Zarathustra. London: Penguin Books.

Nietzsche, F. (2008) On the Genealogy of Morals. New York: Oxford University Press.

Owen, D. (2007) Ch. 7: The Third Essay: “What is the Meaning of Ascetic Ideals?”.
FROM: Owen, D. Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morality. p. 113-130. Montreal: McGillQueen’s University Press. [18].

Regier, W.S. (2005) Cioran’s Nietzsche. French Forum. 30 (3). p. 70.90.

Ricœur, P. (1970) Freud and Philosophy: An Essay on interpretation. 1st ed. New York: Yale University Press.

West, D. (1996) Friedrich Nietzsche. FROM: West, D. An Introduction to Continental Philosophy. p. 126-137, 237-240. Cambridge: Polity. [16].

Third Prize Short Essay in English

The Bloody Deceit of Elizabeth Holmes

Author: Sandy Chahine

Master Customer Experience and Innovation

Canada

With her cosmic blue eyes staring straight at the audience, her hands controllably clasped at her waist, Elizabeth Holmes stood in sharp contrast to the usual TedMed speakers as she unveiled her innovative plan to disrupt the healthcare system. She had a young idealistic look to her and a magnanimous social mission: make blood test so simple that "no one will ever have to say goodbye too soon". By converging nanotechnology with biochemistry, her new invention, The Edison machine, would be able to run hundreds of lab tests with a single drop of blood taken from a prick of the finger. Holmes founded Theranos in 2003 at the young age of 19 years old. A decade later, her company was valued at $10 BN and Forbes proclaimed her America’s Richest Entrepreneur under 40. By 2018, Theranos’ market value had plummeted and Holmes went from being an innovator on the cusp of conquering the world to a disgraced imposter under investigation for fraud. The Theranos story has gone down as one of the most important tech scandals of the 21st century. A critical examination of Elizabeth Holmes’ 10-year rise to power allows us to shed light on the successful application of various persuasion tactics that led her to deceit investors, the public, and her employees.

Baker and Martinson posit that ethical persuasion must be rooted in truthfulness since "persuaders are engaged in acts of communication and any effort to communicate can be judged as ethical only to the degree with which it provides […] truthful information”. Looking at Holmes' decade-long empire reveals a fortress of deceit and contrivance. Among many things, she lied about the effectiveness of The Edison, inflated cash flow results, and provided false test results to patients. She propagated those lies continuously and naturally, never blinking, while ensuring that no one could question the truthfulness of her claims.

The genesis of Elizabeth Holmes dishonesty can be traced back to the early 20th century with Thomas Edison and his Menlo Park laboratory. The father of inventions is said to have been the first to put into practice the "fake it until you make it" culture. Today, this dogma has been internalized by many aspiring entrepreneurs who have made expedient exaggerations seem like a business imperative. It is true that start-ups are, by nature, difficult to reasonably value. Given the lack of historical data and the difficulty of assessing innovation, entrepreneurs must heavily rely on a flux of Pathos (the appeal to emotion) and Ethos (appeal to status) to attract investments, while foregoing logos (appeal to logic) in the process.

In the case of Elizabeth Holmes, her pathos was irresistible and proved crucial for persuading investors. Nancy Duarte once said “You need a small thorn that is sharper than fact to prick their hearts. That thorn is emotion”. At a very young age, Holmes learned the power of storytelling. Fascinated by the tales of Moby-Dick, The Odyssey, and The Iliad, she studied how great leaders mobilized and enticed their people to action. For instance, in her TedMed speech, she speaks fondly of her childhood vacation memories and recounts how the loss of her uncle fuelled her personal mission to protect loved ones, before vividly describing her vision of the world. With little to no data backing her company, she was able to lure high profile businessmen to endow her with large sums of money (investments of ~$100 MM each). Some of the notable investors who were misled include the Walton Family (the heirs of Walmart), media mogul Rupert Murdoch, and U.S. Education Secretary Betsy Devos. It is particularly interesting to note that none had asked to see nor even test The Edison machine. To this day, a functioning Edison machine has yet to exist beyond the mythical construct of its founder.

Beyond the inspiring tales she narrated, Holmes herself embodied a story worth telling. A young Stanford dropout with rarefied intentions who has succeeded to carve her place in a male dominated sector. Under 30 years old, Elizabeth Holmes was going to be the first woman tech founder billionaire. At a moment in time where the tech industry is dominated by men, it seems that far from devaluing Elizabeth Holmes, the public assigned her virtues she simply did not possessed, perhaps in an effort to compensate for gender inequalities. While it remains unclear to which extent Holmes’ gender played a role in her deceit, her journey to stardom, coupled with her physical attractiveness, undoubtedly nourished her appeal. In Robert Cialdini’s work on persuasion and marketing, he proposes the principle of Liking to describe how our appreciation of someone can sway our decision-making process and increase the likelihood of being coaxed. In Holmes’ case, her likeness allowed her to effectively influence her peers and persuade stakeholders in way that went beyond logic. This can be exemplified by Henry Kissinger’s accounts of her. As a former US Secretary of State and National Security Advisor during the Vietnam war, Kissinger had a knack for discerning truth from deceit; yet after years on the Board of Theranos, his reverence of her only amplified, commenting that “she has a sort of ethereal quality […] she is like a member of a monastic order”.

Young and inexperienced, Holmes also endeavoured to cultivate ethos. Among other persuasion tactics, she started speaking in a contrived baritone voice. In his work, David Andrew Puts advances that a deep sound is a powerful peripheral suasion since it works subconsciously on the mind of the audience projecting an illusion of dominance and power. Another way she fostered ethos was through Cialdini’s principle of Social Proof. Holmes deliberately surrounded herself with powerful and accomplished political men to counter her own lack of experience. This imposing ward signaled to the outside world that something impressive was occurring inside Theranos.

While storytelling proved a successful tactic to influence investors, Holmes’ needed a more popular approach to reach the broader public. For this purpose, the use of images was cleverly leveraged to persuade. Particularly, she extolled Steve Jobs and would emulate her idol in various ways, such as an iconic black and white close-up photo and the black turtleneck attire. Some magazine covers would later describe Holmes as “The Next Steve Jobs”. In hindsight, iconicity was Holmes’ strongest persuasive weapon. The repetitive use of iconic images reinforced, subconsciously, in the mind of the audience the idea that Elizabeth Holmes was a genius disruptor. Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky refer to the "Representative biases" to explain how human assess the probability that a person belongs to a certain position “by the degree to which [that person] is representative of, or similar to, the stereotype [of that occupation]”. More importantly, the choice of emulating Steve Jobs sent a strong message to the market – Elizabeth Holmes, much like the deceased creative genius, is not to be questioned.

It would be incomplete to analyze Elizabeth Holmes’ persuasion techniques without mentioning the pervasive effect she had on her own employees. Theranos’ headquarters were located at the prestigious 1701 Page Mill Road in Palo Alto. The spacious site, luxurious furniture, and prime location underscored the company’s success. Despite the bright rooms and glass walls, it could be said that the office was more reminiscent of a Stalinist cult than that of a youtful tech start-up. Curated quotes lined the office walls and speeches cautioning against detractors were repetitively voiced during weekly staff meetings. The atmosphere at Theranos was described as paranoid, secretive, and intense. To keep her employees aligned with her vision, Holmes would use the message repetition tactic. She ceaselessly repeated her catchphrase vision, “a world in which no one ever has to say goodbye to soon”. In all, through indoctrination, Theranos employees, much like their employer, became lost in a twilight between what was feasible and fantasy.

Yet, what appears to be a story of personal duplicity is in fact, a pervasive problem systemic of the Silicon Valley culture. A Minimal Viable Product (MVP) is a practice that is constantly encourage in the entrepreneurial world. The term was popularized by Eric Ries in his bestseller book “The Lean Startup”. An MVP refers to an early version of a product that is good enough to gather feedback for future product development. In the first chapter of his book, Eric Ries writes “We do everything wrong: instead of spending years perfecting our technology, we build a minimum viable product, an early product that is terrible, full of bugs and crash-your-computer- yes-really stability problems. Then we ship it to customers way before it’s ready. And we charge money for it”. Today, this book sits on the shelves of most entrepreneurs and the concept of MVP, along with storytelling, is widely taught in Business Schools around the world. In the pursuit of furthering innovation, customers and investors have, albeit implicitly, consented to being deceived. Elizabeth Holmes’ case, followed by the Cambridge Analytica scandal, is forcing an industry to reckon with the effect of its own mantra. While the endeavour may have been innocuous at first, the realm of Silicon Valley has evolved beyond the social media sector to now reign on fundamental public spheres, such as journalism and health. If deceit makes part of the implicit contract we hold with start-ups, when and where do we draw the line for truth?

By 2013, Theranos was performing blood test on patients through their partnership with Walgreen’s Wellness Clinics. While some employees raised questions regarding The Edison’s ability to accurately detect diseases, Theranos went on to roll out the service in Arizona, essentially falsely reporting healthy results to sick patients and vice-versa. Henceforth, Elizabeth Holmes is said to have transgressed the line from unethical to criminal.

To discern whether persuasion abide by the principle of Truthfulness, Bok suggests going through a checklist of questions. Among this self-assessment lies the enigmatic question surrounding Elizabeth Holmes’ case, “Does {this communication} lead people to believe what I myself do not believe {is true}?” It remains unclear whether Elizabeth Holmes was aware of her own chicanery. In a way, by believing so fiercely in her vision, she created the perils she was so eager to relieve the world of.

According to J.S. Mill's Principle of Utility, the best course of action is the one that creates the greatest benefits for everyone affected. Following this school of thought, Holmes’ powerful vision of a better world acted as a rational justification for the human trade off needed to deliver on her plan. Speaking of her social mission she claimed, “I have done something… that has changed people’s lives”. Dan Ariely, the renown behavioral economist, posits that when human beings lie, there is an emotional arousal that occurs which can be detected by a lie detector. This emotional arousal is rooted in a moral tension between the person’s own belief of what is right or wrong and that person’s action. However, when human beings lie on behalf of somebody else’s benefit, the mind does not experience any moral tension, in that case “the lie detector is silent.” In this sense, Elizabeth Holmes actions could be said to be in complete alignment with her moral imperative. She never looked back.

Throughout this analysis, we have seen how a powerful vision, especially one rooted in social purpose, can blind people’s moral compass and provide free rein to engage in deceitful behaviour. More precisely, we analysed how Elizabeth Holmes leveraged ingenious persuasion tactics to mobilize investors, the public, and employees to her cause. From this account, the Theranos’ case stands as a cautionary tale for an industry that is still struggling to come up with their own checks and balances. Now, Holmes is gearing up for trial and faces up to 20 years in prison. In the face of these allegations, The New York Post coined her the millennial version of Bernie Madoff. Yet, Elizabeth Holmes’ story differs from the former fraudster by the moral imperative (and disillusion) that led her to these actions. Arguably, Holmes never made any money out of this affair. Looking back, it is clear that her quixotic mission, likeable story, and crafted style emblematic of the Steve Jobs era coalesced to create her engrossing journey. At last, it may be that the very elements that made the world so eager to see her succeed, are what made her downfall so stunning to witness.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abelson, Reed. “Theranos Founder Elizabeth Holmes Indicted on Fraud Charges.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 15 June 2018,
www.nytimes.com/2018/06/15/health/theranos-elizabeth-holmes-fraud.html

Ariely, Dan. The (Honest) Truth about Dishonesty: How We Lie to Everyone--Especially Ourselves. Harper Perennial, 2013.

Auletta, Ken. “Blood Simpler.” The New Yorker,
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/12/15/blood-simpler.

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