#Chilean author

[tempting-seduction]

Born on 20 February 1953 in Valparaíso, Chile, Roberto Ampuero is a Chilean author, columnist, and the former Minister of Foreign Affairs of Chile, a position he held from March 11, 2018 to June 13, 2019.

[lost-myself-in-translation]

The boy who went madly in love, by Enrique Barrios (1915)

Prologue: Have you ever heard a bird singing at night? Sometimes a sliver of golden moonlight spills between the mysterious foliage, reaches the branch where the little bird is nestled, and wakes her up. The bird may think is the dawn, but it's not. And still, she sings. Then, if the little bird is poised and strong, once she discovers that it was all a trick, she will bury her beak between her feathers and fall asleep once more.  However, there are a lot of different birds. Restless and fragile, to whom the sliver of moonlight had put under a spell. Who after singing, stunned, they jump and try to fly. But as the sun has not risen yet, they become lost in the darkness, or they drown in the lake illuminated by a pale golden sliver of light, or they get their chests embedded with the thorns of a rose bush which could have heard their bests songs and ignite their most delirious joys in the morning. What is the poisonous beam of light that awake some souls in the night, robs them of dawn and drowns them in an existence of darkness? I am about to reveal you the secret of a boy who went madly in love. Outside of myself, no one —not even his mother, turned into his slave— ever possessed the truth behind the madness of this child. I would not reveal yet how this painful and naïve notebook fell into my hands. I can only tell you that I am publishing this because it cannot hurt anyone anymore. I respected for years the secret of that child. Of that little bird who sang in the night and lost his dawn. Fate brought this notebook to me, and I have kept it dutifully. With the respect a saddened and sentimental child deserves. A victim of the poisonous beam that sheds a light into hearts before their time and throws them into that blazing and dark vortex; sweet and terrible, called love.

[mxwhore]

finally reading a fucking regular book guys

[satorugojowidow]

Welcome to the first edition of this humble reading club! In this first round we are doing poetry with an open conception about what poetry is. Each member of the club will be posting a piece of literature of their own country (in english and the original language). There will be one post per week every friday. Every member will post from their own blog respecting the style and using “les tumblrinas du mal” as tag. The discussion around the piece of literature will be on the same post in the section of comments (only). The club is open to new members, everyone can interact with post without being part of the club.

................

"Manifesto (I Speak For My Difference)" by Pedro Lemebel

Pedro Lemebel (1952–2015) was a Chilean artist, writer, and queer revolutionary. Lemebel first made their mark on Chilean literature through a series of performances and readings made in the 1980s. Their writings (including poetry, short stories, and non-fiction pieces) were known for their boldly queer and provocative stance, as well as for their ability to commemorate the beauty and the grit of working-class queer life in Chile.

In 1986, there was a large gathering of left-leaning opposition groups in the Mapocho Station of Santiago. It was here that Lemebel would make their defiant entry into Chile’s literary culture, dressed in high heels and with a hammer and sickle dolled onto their face. It is this context, of an intransigent public intervention against the established left in Chile, that the poem should be read.

credits to Sebastian Sanchez

I Speak For My Difference

I am not Pasolini asking for explanations

I am not Ginsberg expelled from Cuba

I am not a fag disguised as a poet

I don’t need a disguise

Here is my face

I speak for my difference

I defend what I am

And I am not so strange

I hate injustice

And I don’t trust this democratic dance

But don’t talk to me about the proletariat

Because being poor and a faggot is worse

You gotta be rough to bear it

It’s crossing the street when you see those lads on the corner

It’s a father that hates you

Because his one and only son has a limp wrist

It’s having a mother with hands cut by chlorine

Aged by cleaning

Cradling you when you’re sick

Because of bad habits

Because of bad luck

Like the dictatorship

Worse than the dictatorship

Because dictatorships end

And then comes democracy

And right behind it socialism too

And so?

What will they do with us, comrades?

Will we be tied by our braids into bundles

bound for a Cuban AIDS sanitorium?

They’ll put us on some train to nowhere

Like on General Ibáñez’s ship

Where we learned to swim

But none of us made it to shore

Because of that Valparaíso dimmed its red lights

Because of that the whorehouses

Poured out a single black tear

For those fruits feasted on by crabs

That year the Commission of Human Rights

doesn’t remember

Because of that, comrade, I’m asking you

Does the Siberian train that

reactionaries decry still exist?

That train that passes before your eyes

When my voice starts to get too sweet

And you?

What will you do with that childhood memory

Of us stroking our cocks together (among other things)

While on holiday in Cartagena?

Will the future be in black and white?

Will the difference between night time

and the working day always be clear?

Won’t there be a faggot on some corner

Throwing the future of your new man off balance?

Will they let us embroider birds

on the flags of our free homeland?

I leave the rifle to you

Who is cold-blooded

And it’s not fear

I lost my fear

Of dodging knives

In the seedy basements where I spent my time

And don’t feel attacked

If I speak to you of these things

And check out your bulge

I’m not a hypocrite.

Don’t a woman’s tits

Make you lower your gaze?

Don’t you think

That alone in the mountains

Something would happen between us?

Even if you hate me afterwards

For corrupting your revolutionary morals.

Are you scared I’ll homosexualize your life?

And I’m not just talking about putting it in

& taking it out & taking it out & putting it in

I’m talking about tenderness, comrade

You don’t know

How much it costs to find love

In these conditions

You don’t know

What it’s like to carry this leprosy

People keep their distance

People understand and say:

He’s a fag but he writes well

He’s a fag but he’s a good friend

Real-good-vibes

But I’m not good vibes

I accept the world

Without asking for those good vibes

But either way they laugh

There are scars of laughter on my back

You say I think with my ass

And that with the first shock of the electric prod

I’d let it all slip

You don’t know that I never learnt

My manhood in the barracks

The night taught me my manhood

Behind a post

That manhood you boast of

Was drilled into you in boot camp

By a murderous pig

Like the ones still in power

I didn’t get my manhood from the party

Because they rejected me with sniggers

More than once

I learnt my manhood participating

In the struggle of those years

And they laughed at my faggy voice

Chanting: And it’s gonna fall, and it’s gonna fall

And although you shout like a man

You’ve brought nothing down

My manhood was the gag

It wasn’t going to the stadium

And getting into scraps for Colo-Colo

Football is another form of repressed homosexuality

Like boxing, politics, and wine

My manhood was biting down on my tongue

Eating my rage so I didn’t kill the whole world

My manhood is accepting myself as different

Being a coward is much more difficult

The only other cheek I’ll turn,

Comrade, is on my ass

And that is my vengeance

My manhood waits patiently

For the chauvinists to get old

Because at this stage of the game

The left is trading its limp ass

In parliament

My manhood was difficult

That’s why I won’t get on this train

Without knowing where it’s going

I won’t change for Marxism

Which rejected me so many times

I don’t need to change

I’m more subversive than you

I won’t change just

Because of the rich and the poor

Give me a break

I also wont change because capitalism is unjust

In New York fags kiss on the street

But I’ll let you chew on that

You who are so interested

In the revolution not rotting away

To you I leave this message

And this is not for me

I am old

And your utopia is for those who are to come

There are so many children who will be born

With a broken wing

And I want them to soar, comrade

I want your revolution

To give them a piece of red sky

So they can fly.

...

Hablo por mi diferencia

No soy Pasolini pidiendo explicaciones

No soy Ginsberg expulsado de Cuba

No soy un marica disfrazado de poeta

No necesito disfraz

Aquí está mi cara

Hablo por mi diferencia

Defiendo lo que soy

Y no soy tan raro

Me apesta la injusticia

Y sospecho de esta cueca democrática

Pero no me hable del proletariado

Porque ser pobre y maricón es peor

Hay que ser ácido para soportarlo

Es darle un rodeo a los machitos de la esquina

Es un padre que te odia

Porque al hijo se le dobla la patita

Es tener una madre de manos tajeadas por el cloro

Envejecidas de limpieza

Acunándote de enfermo

Por malas costumbres

Por la mala suerte

Como la dictadura

Peor que la dictadura

Porque la dictadura pasa

Y viene la democracia

Y detrasito el socialismo

¿Y entonces?

¿Qué harán con nosotros, compañeros?

¿Nos amarrarán de las trenzas en fardos

con destino a un sidario cubano?

Nos meterán en algún tren de ninguna parte

Como en el barco del general Ibáñez

Donde aprendimos a nadar

Pero ninguno llegó a la costa

Por eso Valparaíso apagó sus luces rojas

Por eso las casas de caramba

Le brindaron una lágrima negra

A los colizas comidos por las jaibas

Ese año que la Comisión de Derechos Humanos

no recuerda

Por eso, compañero, le pregunto

¿Existe aún el tren siberiano

de la propaganda reaccionaria?

Ese tren que pasa por sus pupilas

Cuando mi voz se pone demasiado dulce

¿Y usted?

¿Qué hará con ese recuerdo de niños

Pajeándonos y otras cosas

En las vacaciones de Cartagena?

¿El futuro será en blanco y negro?

¿El tiempo en noche y día laboral

sin ambigüedades?

¿No habrá un maricón en alguna esquina

desequilibrando el futuro de su hombre nuevo?

¿Van a dejarnos bordar de pájaros

las banderas de la patria libre?

El fusil se lo dejo a usted

Que tiene la sangre fría

Y no es miedo

El miedo se me fue pasando

De atajar cuchillos

En los sótanos sexuales donde anduve

Y no se sienta agredido         

Si le hablo de estas cosas                  

Y le miro el bulto

No soy hipócrita

¿Acaso las tetas de una mujer

no lo hacen bajar la vista?

¿No cree usted

que solos en la sierra

algo se nos iba a ocurrir?

Aunque después me odie

Por corromper su moral revolucionaria

¿Tiene miedo que se homosexualice la vida?

Y no hablo de meterlo y sacarlo

Y sacarlo y meterlo solamente

Hablo de ternura, compañero

Usted no sabe

Cómo cuesta encontrar el amor

En estas condiciones

Usted no sabe

Qué es cargar con esta lepra

La gente guarda las distancias

La gente comprende y dice:

Es marica pero escribe bien

Es marica pero es buen amigo

Súper-buena-onda

Yo no soy buena onda

Yo acepto al mundo

Sin pedirle esa buena onda

Pero igual se ríen

Tengo cicatrices de risas en la espalda

Usted cree que pienso con el poto

Y que al primer parrillazo de la CNI

Lo iba a soltar todo

No sabe que la hombría

Nunca la aprendí en los cuarteles

Mi hombría me la enseñó la noche

Detrás de un poste

Esa hombría de la que usted se jacta

Se la metieron en el regimiento

Un milico asesino

De esos que aún están en el poder

Mi hombría no la recibí del partido

Porque me rechazaron con risitas

Muchas veces

Mi hombría la aprendí participando

En la dura de esos años

Y se rieron de mi voz amariconada

Gritando: Y va a caer, y va a caer

Y aunque usted grita como hombre

No ha conseguido que se vaya

Mi hombría fue la mordaza

No fue ir al estadio

Y agarrarme a combos por el Colo Colo

El fútbol es otra homosexualidad tapada

Como el box, la política y el vino

Mi hombría fue morderme las burlas

Comer rabia para no matar a todo el mundo

Mi hombría es aceptarme diferente

Ser cobarde es mucho más duro

Yo no pongo la otra mejilla

Pongo el culo, compañero

Y ésa es mi venganza

Mi hombría espera paciente

Que los machos se hagan viejos

Porque a esta altura del partido

La izquierda tranza su culo lacio

En el parlamento

Mi hombría fue difícil

Por eso a este tren no me subo

Sin saber dónde va

Yo no voy a cambiar por el marxismo

Que me rechazó tantas veces

No necesito cambiar

Soy más subversivo que usted

No voy a cambiar solamente

Porque los pobres y los ricos

A otro perro con ese hueso

Tampoco porque el capitalismo es injusto

En Nueva York los maricas se besan en la calle

Pero esa parte se la dejo a usted

Que tanto le interesa

Que la revolución no se pudra del todo

A usted le doy este mensaje

Y no es por mí

Yo estoy viejo

Y su utopía es para las generaciones futuras

Hay tantos niños que van a nacer

Con una alíta rota

Y yo quiero que vuelen, compañero

Que su revolución

Les dé un pedazo de cielo rojo

Para que puedan volar.

[voces-y-versos]

LOKIUS AU - Bajo la luz de la luna: Capítulo 2

Hace algunos meses, Loki concluyó sus estudios en periodismo y desde entonces se lanzó al escabroso terreno de la búsqueda laboral con premura. No deseaba un año de pausa, sino ejercer de inmediato.

La prisa en su paso se justificaba en parte por la constante admonición que durante toda su vida le señaló un horizonte oscuro laboralmente, sentenciándolo a la inutilidad debido a su condición autista. ¡Basura absoluta! Como si el ser autista le negara la facultad de hallar trabajo, una falacia indignante. Como si el ser autista le restara su humanidad.

Quizás, para ser justos, algo de veracidad guardaban aquellos augurios. Casi un año transcurrió desde el inicio de su búsqueda laboral y aún no hallaba quien confiara en sus habilidades. Tal vez confesar su autismo en las entrevistas incidía en estas negativas, pero su integridad y transparencia le impedían ocultarlo a sus posibles superiores, precaviéndose de futuras dificultades.

En una encrucijada se hallaba Loki, preso entre la necesidad de trabajar y la áspera realidad de la discriminación que afrontaba por su condición autista. A pesar de las sugerencias de ocultar su autismo en las entrevistas, su ética y franqueza le impedían ejecutarlo.

La frustración se avivaba día a día, el rechazo laboral resonaba constante en su mente. A pesar de sus logros académicos, se veía constreñido por una sociedad renuente a comprender o aceptar sus diferencias.

Pero, siendo franca, sus desempeños académicos no fueron sobresalientes, más bien... decentes.

Otro dilema que acosaba a Loki era la reacción de las personas ante su revelación autista. Algunos adoptaban dos posturas: unos lo consideraban incapaz de valerse por sí mismo, necesitado de asistencia para todo; otros lo miraban como un genio intelectual, dueño del saber absoluto sobre lo existente y lo venidero.

Y eso resultaba, francamente, insoportable. Tan desastroso como la peor calamidad.

Lo más doloroso para Loki era lamentar la carencia de contactos durante sus años de estudio. Pero, ¿cómo, alguien como él, habría de tejer lazos en la universidad? A duras penas conversaba con sus compañeros; las escasas veces que intentó una conexión social, fue rechazado.

Una parte de él envidiaba a su hermano Thor, tan... distinto a él. Thor simplemente era Thor, todo en él parecía en orden.

En primer término, su género coincidía con el asignado al nacer.

Maldición.

Quizá la causa de su no contratación también yacía en su identidad de género no convencional.

Pese a haber culminado su transición de género en sus documentos en su adolescencia y haber masculinizado su físico con mastectomía y tratamiento hormonal, conservaba rasgos ligeramente afeminados, algo que, honestamente, apreciaba. Por fin hallaba comodidad en su imagen.

Mas, ello no mitigaba el malestar ante comentarios hirientes.

Un "maricón" susurrado al cruzar la calle era habitual; agradecía que los "maricón" vociferados desde los camiones fueran escasos, al menos, cuatro veces le ha ocurrido.

Loki se cuestionaba si su apariencia de "maricón" le cerraba las puertas laborales.

Había escuchado a uno de los entrevistadores referirse a él con ese término al abandonar la sala hace unos meses.

No bastaba con ser autista, también era un "maricón".

¡Pobre destino el suyo! No era de extrañar su no contratación.

No obstante, para ser sinceros, a Loki le agradaba su semblante de "maricón"; se sentía hermoso con ello. En ocasiones, hasta se maquillaba hasta parecer monstruoso, y aquello le encantaba, sensorial y visualmente. Disfrutaba especialmente el suave roce de las esponjas cubiertas de agua micelar de rosas sobre su piel.

Aquella travesía había comenzado en su adolescencia. Contemplar en las calles el "resiste marika" grafiteado en las paredes lo hacía sentir menos solo.

A Odín, en un inicio, no le complació la idea, mas con el tiempo comenzó a tratarlo como a un hombre. Fue pasajero, hasta que descubrió el tipo de hombre que era Loki. Odín deseaba hijos varoniles y rectos, no "maricones" que se maquillaban y resultaban... ambiguos.

Su madre, en cambio, lo apoyó en todo, aunque se sintiera abandonado en su condición autista. Para Frigga, el autismo parecía un no-ser, como si el diagnóstico no hubiera sido nunca recibido. Lo obligaba a consumir cosas intolerables, a vestir texturas insoportables. A participar en eventos sociales que resultaban insoportables.

Curiosamente, halló más apoyo en Odín respecto a su autismo, aunque de otra índole. Odín consideraba que al ser autista, sería excepcional en todo, capaz de lograrlo todo. Por ende, debía solo ceder a los caprichos de Loki. Ah, sí, Loki olvidaba este punto, para Odín, sus necesidades sensoriales eran solo un capricho.

Thor le brindó mucha ayuda, o mejor dicho, compañía, algo que apreciaba sobremanera. Siempre estuvo allí para acompañarlo, incluso abrazándolo fuertemente cuando a Loki lo invadía alguna crisis.

Con afecto recuerda Loki los almuerzos en el campus. Si bien estudiaban en facultades diferentes, compartían el mismo entorno universitario. En ocasiones, Thor dejaba de lado a sus propios amigos para acompañar a Loki en el almuerzo.

Loki siempre comía en el mismo lugar.

Una sala privada, destinada al estudio, mas Loki, acreditando su diagnóstico de autismo, tenía acceso a estos espacios para usos más flexibles, ya fuera para almorzar, descansar o regularse, balanceándose y haciendo estereotipias.

A Thor le agradaba el sitio; fresco y con una iluminación tenue. Una atmósfera muy distinta al bullicio del patio del campus, un lugar de estridente música, grupos sociales ruidosos, venta de alcohol y, si se buscaba bien, alguna que otra droga.

En su último semestre, Loki se encontró con un grupo del campus llamado "Autistas Autoconvocados". Si hubiera hecho antes este encuentro, no habría padecido cinco años de soledad extrema.

Durante sus años universitarios, Loki tuvo tres flechazos. Primero, con un compañero, bajo, esbelto, rubio de cabello largo y ondulado, de ojos celestes, vestido como salido de un cuento de hadas. Segundo, otro compañero, moreno, casi rapado, bajo y rechoncho, casual y rudo, casi parecía un rapero, pensaba Loki. El chico caminaba con gracia. Y tercero, un estudiante de cine, más bajo que él, cabello oscuro y ondulado, ojos café claro, y vestía como un auténtico director de cine; todo un hipster.

Fue entonces cuando Loki descubrió su atracción por los hombres de baja estatura.

Por lo tanto, aquí yace el conflicto: Loki, autista, "maricón", con inclinaciones por hombres bajitos, aún no halla puerta abierta laboral. Demonios, Loki solo anhela ejercer algo relacionado con su carrera, aunque sea como editor.

. . . Lunes 1 de enero, 2024. 1056 palabras.

HOLA, espero les guste.

[farolero-posting]

The author

What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

[link to the ask game used.]

OH. I DO Have a song...

Well. It's more like a song that reminds me of what he may have been like when he was younger. Mind you! The song is not in English but I could translate the full lyrics for you. It's basically about a guy wanting to see everything the world has to offer, both urban, rural, unexplored, north, south... And people, in all their aspects.

The song has a cheerful tone overall and I think it captures his vibes a lot.

I think the only part that's funnily enough not fitting for him is one verse where the singer mentions having no kids and uh. Well. But still, a fitting song.

[whilereadingandwalking]

I purchased The Old Man Who Read Love Stories by Luis Sepúlveda, translated by Peter Bush, in a small bookshop in Buenos Aires in Fall 2022. Sepúlveda, an Chilean author who lived in exile in Spain for much of his life, had been one of the first causalities of Covid-19. My body and heart were still smarting from everything we had endured and were still enduring, the grief, the rising denial. But it had been recommended to me as a fundamentally uplifting story, romantic, powerful.

It didn't disappoint. Antonio José Bolivar Proaño is an old man now, dispensing wisdom with his keen, hard-taught knowledge of the Ecuadoran jungle he lives in. He grates against the local settlers, men who refuse to respect the landscape around them. Nearby kills by an ocelot force him and the rest of the town into action, hunting down the animal that seems to have caught the taste of blood. The book is so short, yet epic. It captures the Shuar indigenous people through Antonio, who is adopted into their community for a long period of his life. It captures the battle between man and nature, a battle that doesn't need to exist, that doesn't need to be settled with the brutal, final violence that the settlers use. Antonio is an enchanting character for the ages, and he carries the book with a sense of resounding sadness but also a feeling of determined hope.

Content warnings for anti-Indigenous sentiment and language, racism.

[longliveblackness]

THE TRYAL SLAVE SHIP REBELLION, 1805

The Tryal Rebellion of 1805 is a little known account of a shipboard slave uprising in the South Pacific off the coast of Chile. In 1803 a number of West African Muslims were purchased by the Spanish in what is now Senegal and put on a slave ship bound for Buenos Aires in the Spanish colony of Argentina. After their arrival they were marched across the Argentine pampas and the Andes Mountains to the Chilean port of Valparaiso. There 72 surviving Africans were placed on another Spanish ship, the Tryal, which intended to take them north to the slave markets of Peru and Ecuador.

Somewhere along that route, Babo and Mori, two leaders of the enslaved Muslims, orchestrated a successful rebellion on board the Tryal in December 1804. They took command of the ship, killing most of the Spanish crew members but holding Captain Benito Cerreno hostage. For nearly three months the freed Africans sailed the ship in the South Pacific in vain hopes of a return to Senegal. The vessels leaders were not trained sailors but they had learned the Spanish language during their years of captivity and used their knowledge of the stars to guide the ship southward along the Chilean coast.

In February 1805 the Perseverance, a New England seal hunting vessel commanded by Captain Amaso Delano, encountered the Tryal. Joining it in a sheltered harbor off the coast of Southern Chile, Delano noting that the Tryal’s badly tattered sails signaled extreme distress, boarded the vessel. He and his crew brought fresh water and food. He was led to believe that the Africans on board were crew members. Babo and Mori appeared with Captain Cerreno, refusing to leave his side because, so it appeared, of their devotion to him. When Captain Delano returned to his vessel, Cerreno broke free, jumped on the deck of the Perseverance, and exposed the deception. Delano and his crew rushed on board the Tryal and killed most of the Africans. Babo, the leader was decapitated and his head impaled on a pike. The surviving Africans were turned over to Spanish authorities.

The Tryal Rebellion became the inspiration for Herman Melville’s 1855 novella Benito Cereno. Although most readers at the time assumed the novella about a slave ship mutiny in the South Pacific was a work of fiction, Melville had in fact developed the plot and the names of the novella’s principal characters from Amaso Delano’s memoirs which were published in 1817.

•••

LA REBELIÓN DE ESCLAVOS EN EL BARCO TRIAL (LA PRUEBA), 1805

La Rebelión del Trial de 1805 es un relato poco conocido de una insurrección de esclavos a bordo de un barco en el Pacífico frente a la costa de Chile. En 1803, los españoles compraron a varios musulmanes provenientes de África Occidental, en un lugar que hoy se conoce como Senegal y los embarcaron en un barco de esclavos con destino a Buenos Aires, en la colonia española de Argentina. Después de su llegada, los llevaron a través de las pampas argentinas y la Cordillera de los Andes hasta llegar al puerto chileno de Valparaíso. Allí, setenta y dos africanos sobrevivientes fueron embarcados en otro barco español, el Trial, que pretendía llevarlos al norte, a los mercados de esclavos ubicados en Perú y Ecuador.

En algún punto de esta ruta, Babo y Mori, dos de los líderes de los musulmanes esclavizados, organizaron una rebelión exitosa a bordo del Trial en diciembre de 1804. Tomaron el mando del barco, mataron a la mayoría de los miembros de la tripulación española pero mantuvieron como rehén al capitán Benito Cerreño. Durante casi tres meses, los africanos liberados navegaron por el Pacífico con vanas esperanzas de regresar a Senegal. Los líderes del barco no eran marineros entrenados, pero habían aprendido el idioma español durante sus años de cautiverio y utilizaron su conocimiento de las estrellas para guiar el barco hacia el sur, a lo largo de la costa chilena.

En febrero de 1805, La Perseverancia, un barco de caza de focas que provenía de Nueva Inglaterra comandado por el capitán Amaso Delano, se encontró con el Trial. Al unirse en un puerto protegido frente a la costa del sur de Chile, Delano notó que las velas muy destrozadas del Trial indicaban que estaban pasando por miseria extrema y abordó el barco. Él y su tripulación trajeron agua fresca y comida. Le hicieron creer que los africanos que estaban a bordo eran miembros de la tripulación. Babo y Mori aparecieron con el Capitán Cerreño, se negaban a apartarse de su lado, al parecer, por la devoción que sentían hacia él. Cuando el Capitán Delano regresó a su barco, Cerreño se liberó, saltó a la cubierta del La Perseverancia y expuso el engaño. Delano y su tripulación subieron a bordo del Trial y mataron a la mayoría de los africanos. Babo, el líder, fue decapitado y su cabeza empalada con una pica. Los africanos sobrevivientes fueron entregados a las autoridades españolas.

La Rebelión del Trial se convirtió en la inspiración para la novela Benito Cereno de Herman Melville de 1855. Aunque la mayoría de los lectores de la época asumieron que la novela sobre el motín de un barco de esclavos en el Pacífico era una obra de ficción, pero Melville en realidad había desarrollado la trama y los nombres de los personajes principales de la novela utilizando la autobiografía de Amaso Delano, la cual se publicó en 1817.

[tempting-seduction]

Born on 7 January 1956 in Santiago, Chile, Ignacio Walker Prieto is a Chilean lawyer, politician, and, author who was Foreign Minister of Chile (2004–2006).

[lost-myself-in-translation]

The boy who went madly in love, by Enrique Barrios (1915)

Chapter 5

My brothers don't like me. They never invite me to play with them because they say I don't know how. And they are right, I don't understand their games, and I don't like to play them. I don't like to play with other boys because I've noticed I'm very different from them. They forget themselves and everything else and can play freely. While I can't do that, and never pay attention to the games and I always lose and make my team lose too. That's why my grandmother says I'm a poor creature, that I'm too thin and too pale, that my legs look like sticks and that she feels sorry for me. Well, I feel sorry for her! her hands are all vein-y, her face is the same colour as dry dirt, her lips are pale and her teeth yellow, she doesn't know how to play the piano like mom, and all she does all day is fight with the servants. If I was grown up, I would do a lot of different things. And what if I'm a sensitive boy? why should anyone care? Furthermore, I've always been like this; except that before I only felt sad in occasions, in random days. But nowadays I tend to feel much more sadness, and it's because of Angélica, but it's a sadness that I like. When will she be back? My Angélica of my soul...! I thought I would be able to write in this notebook every sweet nothing that I dedicate to her in my mind; but now I see that even if no one reads this, it's embarrassing to externalise those words I dedicate in thought alone to her or to her portrait. Last night, before going to sleep, I stole her portrait from the living room. I brought it to my bed, and I kept kissing it, and I told it all the things I'm too embarrassed to write here. I wanted to keep it forever in my notebook, but suddenly I got too scared of the thought that someone might find out that it's missing, so I got up in my pyjamas and returned it to the family album. Of course! Someone might have found out it was me because as soon as they asked, I would have gotten too nervous, and my face would have given it away. Tomorrow is Sunday, maybe I'll see her at church, and if I don't, I'm going to ask my mom if we can go visit my cousins. Angélica goes there on Sunday's afternoons, and I can stay in the balcony the whole afternoon with her and my auntie Carmencita, who loves me a lot because she says I'm very affectionate. She is kind and very pretty, her hands are soft and chubby, and she reads me stories with her calm and soft voice.

[leftistfeminista]

Chilean Marxist, Marta Harnecker's magnum opus has been uploaded to Marxists.org

https://www.marxists.org/archive/harnecker/1969/historical-materialism/whole-book.pdf

Introduction to Elementary Concepts of Historical Materialism

Authored by Marta Harnecker, 1969 Translated by the Theoretical Review periodical of the Tucson Marxist-Leninist Collective, 1978-81 Preserved by marxists.org Edited by anonymous using libre software, 2024 January 4, 2025

Her books The Elemental Concepts of Historical Materialism and Notebooks of Popular Education were widely used by communist parties and workers' organizations in Spanish-speaking countries for the training of their militants during the 1970s and later. 

Her work is mentioned in By Night in Chile By Roberto Bolaño

As through a crack in the wall, By Night in Chile's single night-long rant provides a terrifying, clandestine view of the strange bedfellows of Church and State in Chile. This wild, eerily compact novel—Roberto Bolano's first work available in English—recounts the tale of a poor boy who wanted to be a poet, but ends up a half-hearted Jesuit priest and a conservative literary critic, a sort of lap dog to the rich and powerful cultural elite, in whose villas he encounters Pablo Neruda and Ernst Junger. Father Urrutia is offered a tour of Europe by agents of Opus Dei (to study "the disintegration of the churches," a journey into realms of the surreal); and ensnared by this plum, he is next assigned—after the destruction of Allende—the secret, never-to-be-disclosed job of teaching Pinochet, at night, all about Marxism, so the junta generals can know their enemy.

It is telling that even in the abstractions of Marxist theory, the 1st question the Junta Admiral asks is "Is she good-looking?". Revealing of the extremely objectifying views misogynist Junta officers had towards Marxist women, especially those with intellectual achievements. Which went beyond "locker room talk" to the official Junta policy on how they should be treated.

[fairysluna]

SINNERS — Chapter 3

After Maegor finds out his beloved niece is to be wed with her own brother, he absolutely loses his mind. He can't just let her go.

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Maegor I Targaryen x Fem!OC.

Summary: Aenelys' inner dragon finally comes to light in the shape of jealousy and pettiness, and Maegor desperately tries to regain the power he once held over her.

Tags/TW: incest, age gap, profanity, cursing, manipulation, description of sexual activities, typical sexism of the time, nudity, tyanna makes an appearance. If something's missing let me know!!

Author's Note: guess who finally updated!!! so, i decided to fancast Ser Draqos too bc that's how i am and i always get obsessed w my own fics. This is Draqos, the actor name is Santiago Cabrera (a chilean babe bc ofc). thank you for reading!! ily all and pls enjoy♡

Word Count: 5.7k

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As Aenelys walked in the room and found her seat on her table, Ser Vyros found himself growing curious at the tension that rapidly developed between her and her uncle, who did not even spare a glance to the girl. 

She sat there, as far as possible from Maegor, followed by who had been her only company that week; Ser Draqos. The prince went silent after the presence of the girl was noticeable, interrupting and finishing any conversation he might have been having with his friend. The old man stared at both of them, as if that would give him an answer of what was going on; Maegor had his hands clenched in two fists against the table, and Aenelys had swollen eyes which was enough proof that she had been crying the prior night. 

"Aenelys, my princess, it is such a blessing that you have joined us this morning," he greeted her, trying to make all this tension go away. "We have been missing you these last few days. I suppose you were starting to make acquaintances with the palace?"

"I am indeed, Ser," she politely replied as she waited for the maid to prepare her tea as other was collecting small bits of the pastries that were on the long, wooden table. "Ser Draqos has been an excellent guide, the gardens might be my favorite place to read."

"Draqos knows this palace like the back of his hand!" he commented, joyfully laughing as he stuffed his mouth with a piece of bread and butter. "That boy always wandered around this place when he was a child, you couldn't have chosen a better person to show you around."

"I see that now," she gently nods, feeling now the burning stare of her uncle on her face. She forced herself not to look back at him. "You have raised a true gentleman, Draqos is such a good man." she took a pause, blinking a few times before convincing herself to continue. "Loyal… and kind."

Maegor let out a small, mocking chuckle as he shifted his position in the chair. His legs spreaded as he leaned back and took a sip of the ale in his cup. Aenelys tensed with the mere sound, but decided to simply ignore it as her shaky hands gripped the cup that was in front of her. 

She bit her lip once she noticed how it trembled, and she quickly changed the pout on her face for a small, fake smile. 

"You flatter me, my princess," he chuckles cheerfully as he wipes his fingers with a napkin. "Now that I'm thinking about it, there might be a place close to the palace that I'm sure you would love." 

"Is it?”

"Yes," He replied, looking swiftly at his son before returning his haze upon her little frame. "You see, there's this lake following our gardens, just a few minutes on a horse ride, and Draqos can take you there for you to read."

"A lake?" The princess repeated. 

Vyros nodded, "People say that the Westerosi singers had come to that place in order to write their ballads about the brave man and beautiful maidens. You will love it."

For the first time since she arrived at the dining hall, she dared to look at her uncle who was sitting on the other side, right in front of her. Even after fighting, she was seeking his permission –and approval–, but he did not look back at her at all, he was just too busy whispering to a maid that had come close to him. Aenelys felt lost for a minute.

The growing feeling of emptiness inside her chest only became more unbearable once Maegor put his hand on the woman’s hip. Aenelys wanted to sink on her chair, or to stand up and run away from that table; away from him. 

Though she had convinced herself to think that Maegor loved her as much as she loved him, she was starting to think otherwise… and that only made her replace the sadness within her with anger, jealousy and pettiness; she was the King’s daughter, the Heart of the Realm, and the only thing that she could not possess was the heart of the man she so dearly loved. 

Only the Gods know how mad that would make her. She was a dragon after all. 

“I would be delighted to visit the lake, Ser,” she said as she swiftly stood up from the table. The chair behind her rattled as it was dragged backwards, which caused Maegor’s attention to finally fall upon his niece. 

Their eyes connected for a few seconds; he might have been acting as if he had not listened to the conversation, but Aenelys knew he did. The darkness in his eyes was one she knew very well, the jealousy evidently written in his face as the princess dared him in silence to stop her, to do anything that could show his interest in her. But as the stubborn and proud man he was, he did not even move at all. 

“I will go and take a bath, then we shall go, Ser Draqos,” she informed, looking at the table for one last time before turning around and leaving the hall.

The ache on her chest was quite hard to ignore, but she forced herself to endure the pain just to appear stronger. Aenelys needed Maegor's touch, she longed for it and suffered whenever it was forcefully taken away from her. But now she was angry at his indifference, and if he wanted to make her heart ache, then she convinced herself to do the same thing with him. 

It was rather childish the way they were behaving, avoiding confrontation in order to keep teasing each other and desperately trying to push aside the need they had to be together once more. While Aenelys left the room, Maegor's mind started to scheme once again, as if he was finding excuses to talk to her without risking his tough pride. He knew he was starting to lose control over her, and he knew very well that, no matter how innocent she would look like, Aenelys was still a spoiled Targaryen princess who always got what she desired.

So he gave her just that. 

Aenelys walked in her chambers being followed by a maid who ran to prepare her a bath as she ripped her dress out of her body until her naked form was seen. The anger on her face was visible to anyone who could see her, she was getting drunk on jealousy and the mere thought of her uncle touching, and being touched, by another woman made her want to throw up. It made her sick the fact that someone else could freely have him while she was forced to wait for something that might never come. 

While she got inside of the bathtub, she could not help but to remember that Maegor was already married. It was a loveless marriage, merely out of duty, but a marriage nevertheless. Aenelys was far from being dumb, she knew exactly how things worked back in Westeros, and she was certain that her father would never approve an union between her and her uncle, so he will never get the annulment they need to be wed.

Pathetic tears of sadness and rage fell down her face, being quickly wiped by her own hands. Aenelys took a deep breath and leaned back in the tub.

The water was burning hot, but Aenelys liked it that way. The comfort that brought her was helpful to make her calm down, and she let herself rest in the bath as her head fell backwards and a sigh left her lips. Her eyes closed as she emptied her mind just for a second, only focusing on her own relaxation before letting herself think about Maegor again. 

But it was impossible.

Maegor was carved in her mind and there was no way to get him out of it. Every thought of her was dedicated to him. Every breath, every heartbeat. Aenelys felt the curse that it was to have feelings for a man like him, and no matter how hard she would try, there was no escape from it. And, deep inside of her, she did not want to escape either way. 

Aenelys was addicted to him, so used to always having him by her side that the mere thought of being apart from him seemed painful enough to even try it. That is why she was still there, waiting for him to show some signal of his love for her. Silently begging and longing for bits of his care. 

But then, while a maid was preparing her clothes for later, the door was smacked open, suddenly interrupting her peace. Aenelys quickly sat back as she opened her eyes and saw the tall frame of her uncle standing a few inches away from her. Unconsciously, she bent her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs as an attempt to hide her nudity from him.

Maegor seemed to be visibly mad; red face, almost fuming. His eyes were covered by a layer of anger that made them look darker, it was a penetrating stare that made her skin burn as he approached her in a slow but steady step. He looked intimidating, the shadows and the sunlight made him seem bigger than he already was, especially after he finally reached her side and she had to look up at him with that pretty, doe eyed stare which was so characteristic of her. 

Aenelys followed the trace his tongue did on his lower lip as he licked it when he laid eyes upon her delicate body. Her milky skin appeared so soft, and fragile. She seemed so easy to break. The exposure of her skin made him feel the overwhelming urge to touch her, to feel the softness of her under his fingertips, but he looked away before his willpower would give in to temptation. 

"Henujagon īlva," Leave us, he had told the maid who left the room in the blink of an eye. The poor girl was shaking; Aenelys was certain she saw her legs shaking as she left the room. 

Then, there was a silence, and afterwards, Maegor dared to lock his gaze with hers. They remained that way for a few seconds, trying to express their feelings through them without using words that could just not explain their real situation. Maegor then expected to see some sign of fear in her eyes after what he had done to her; he was able to see a thousand emotions being reflected on those lilac jewels of hers, but fear was none of them. It never was. 

“You will not be left alone with that man,” he spoke harshly, almost in a grunt. 

“His name is Draqos.”

He chuckled, a mocking one similar to the one she had heard before in the dining hall. His hands went to the border of the tub, as he slowly leaned down towards her face. Suddenly, she felt small, clenching her jaw and swallowing hard as his breath smacked against her lips. Something changed inside of her due to his proximity, and as her heart started to beat fast and unsteady, her mouth watered at the instant urge to kiss him… to taste his lips. 

“I don’t care about that cunt’s name,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers in a delicate touch. “And neither should you.” 

Aenelys knew she should not be folding so fast, but Maegor always managed to turn her into clay for him to manipulate as he wished. 

Soon, his right hand touched her chin, his thumb caressing her lower lip as he kept his stare fixed on hers. At this point, all their troubles were forgotten by her, and the anger and sadness that she once felt was not there anymore; Maegor had bewitched her once again. 

He gently pressed his fingers against her skin in order to lift her face, and he continued that action until she stood up. He barely tried, and she submissively obeyed, standing in front of him as the droplets were running down her naked body. 

“You will stay here,” he commanded as his fingers gave in and started to slide down her, going from her neck, to her cleavage and all the way down to her navel until he rested it on her hip. “And… since you’re so eager to learn new things,” he mentioned as he repeated the same trace with his other hand. “I will take you somewhere tonight, and I will teach you.”

She nodded, obediently as she closed her eyes when he leaned closer to kiss the tip of her nose. Once he took a step back, she fluttered her eyelashes until her eyes found him again. This time, however, he took no shame in roaming her body with his hungry eyes, checking every bit of her and trying to carve her shapes and curves into his mind. Aenelys wanted to cover, but instead she just stood still, letting him watch for as long as he pleased. 

Maegor smirked, clicking his tongue before he noticed the chain around her neck. He stretched his arm to reach for the small, black pendant with the ruby on it. A content, smug grin appeared on his visage before he sighed and said,

“You are mine, sweet dove,” he reminded her, “never forget who owns you.”

And just like that he walked away, leaving the room and Aenelys behind. Only then, she was able to react, but the joyful illusion growing in her heart made her smile for the first time in weeks. She was his.

Aenelys spent the rest of the day trying to ignore that feeling of anticipation growing inside her gut. She would try to keep herself busy in order to make the hours pass faster, but it was not enough; she was not able to focus on a book, and every time she would pick a needle to make an embroidery she would puncture her fingertips because her mind was somewhere else. 

Then, once she realized none of these activities would work, she started to look for a dress to wear. She did not know where he was going to take her, so she struggled to pick one. In the end, she managed to choose a white dress with silver ornaments; it was thin, comfortable and simple, but at the same time it was elegant and sophisticated, worthy of a Targaryen princess like her. 

Once the moon appeared in the sky with the company of the shiny stars, Aenelys was standing in front of the mirror, gazing upon her reflection as a maid tied the laces of the dress. Her long, wavy, platinum hair had been braided in a half updo hairstyle that made her delicate features stand out. 

She smiled at her reflection, hoping that her uncle would acknowledge her undeniable beauty with some sweet, kind whispers against her ear. 

The door was open without warning, Maegor walked into the room being more at ease than the last time; he was wearing his normal clothing, with the exception of the scabbard around his hips holding Dark Sister. Aenelys looked at him through the mirror and she almost sighed at the view. He looked so deadly handsome. 

As he started to approach her, she could not help but to notice the roll up sleeves that left his veiny forearms exposed to her eye. A warmth sensation was positioned on her lower belly after the unholy thoughts came back to his mind; once again, the images on the tapestries that decorated the palace were placed on her memories, and a rouge blush invaded her cheeks once she started to think about him in unforgivable ways. 

“What a sight you are, my beautiful dove,” he murmured, using the soft tone that he reserved only for her, and then a satisfied smile appeared on her face.

She turned around, facing him directly as the maid that was helping her quickly left the room to leave them alone. Maegor had not even acknowledged her presence, for all he could see was his little princess in front of him, staring back at him those pretty, doe eyes; filled with that innocence that he desired to take so badly. 

“You will make me the most fortunate man once I take you as my wife,” he whispered as he stepped closer enough to reach her cheek. As his thumb started to caress her skin, she leaned towards his touch, longing for it, all while her eyes sparkled with illusion once again. Maegor could only grin at her reaction. “The horse is ready for us to go,” he informed, “shall we leave now?”

He grabbed her hand before she could reply with a gesture, and he guided through the dark hallways of the palace until they reached the front gates. A big horse was waiting for them, as black as coal. Maegor was chivalrous enough to help her mount it, grabbing her waist and picking her up without major effort. Then, he mounted the horse, holding Aenelys’ body as close to his as possible. The princess felt her legs go weak after feeling his chest pressed against her back.

Soon, both were riding slowly through the night life of Braavos, Aenelys was looking everywhere, trying to ignore the closeness between them both, trying to ignore his warmth breath against her ear and how he would accidently rub himself in her. Her cheeks were red as strawberries at this point, and her heart was pounding hard against her chest.

Whilst they were riding through the markets and the dark alleys, Aenelys took the time to observe her surroundings; how they were getting darker and dirtier. The people started to pay more attention to them, causing Aenelys to look for some kind of protection in her uncle’s safe arms. 

She was scared, but she knew that as long as she remained by his side nothing bad would happen to her. After all, Maegor had always been her knight in shining armor.

When the horse stopped, indicating that the journey had come to an end, they were in front of a yellow door with a knocker made with gold. That small detail caught the princess’ attention, for it was rather unusual to see such an expensive object in a place like this; but once the door was opened, Aenelys noticed the reason behind it. 

Her mouth went dry, and her eyes widened as they stepped inside of the building. She looked everywhere, trying to capture every moment within seconds; curiosity growing inside her just as the blush on her cheeks. There were a lot of people, all in nude; kissing, touching, and pleasuring each other as she walked through them. Moans and sounds that expressed pleasure and lust was all she heard, and the blush on her cheeks was impossible to hide. 

Maegor's grip on her hip tightened after people noticed their presence in that place, and soon they started to whisper, mumbling secrecies as they saw them pass through the crowds. And, as Aenelys followed Maegor's pace, she noticed a man sitting in the corner who widened his eyes after he saw her, that is when a feeling of discomfort grew inside of her and told her that there was something wrong. She did not listen to it.

Soon, they were approached by a woman who seemed to be the exact opposite of Aenelys. Her skin was white, but her hair was black as coal and she had dark eyes that reflected pure lust and mischief; emotions that, somehow, intensified once she laid eyes upon Maegor imponent figure. There was something about her that the princess did not like; perhaps she had felt threatened by the way she was looking at Maegor, or by the way she touched his arm with so much trust and confidence. Those were small gestures that proved to her that it was not the first time Maegor was in that place.

She was wearing a thin, light blue dress. Aenelys found herself unconsciously looking at her cleavage as the woman got closer to them and politely smiled at her. The Targaryen princess tried to return the gesture, but the jealousy growing inside of her made it impossible. She wanted to know who that woman was.

"My prince," she greeted him, her voice was seductive, deep. "It's been a while."

"Indeed," he replied with a nod. 

"I see you finally brought your beautiful princess with you," she pointed out, stepping close enough to reach for a strand of her platinum hair and wrap it around her finger with a smirk. "She is as gorgeous as you described her." 

Her heart jumped inside her chest after hearing those words. The fact that he had spoken about her, describing her in such a tender way, made her feel better than ever. She had to hold back an enormous smile, looking at the floor in order to make the blush in her cheeks go unnoticed. 

"Tell me your name, sweet doe,” she commanded in a soft voice that was far from being comforting.

"Aenelys, my lady," she replied a bit shy, using her uncle's arm to subtly hide from her. 

The woman laughed, not too loudly but mockingly enough to make her feel bad and slightly embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm no lady," she said between chuckles. "I'm Tyanna, one of your uncle's loyal companions here in Braavos." 

Aenelys felt her smile trembling at the edges, almost disappearing completely. And then the jealousy returned as soon as it had left. Narroweyed, she looked at the woman in front of her with no signs of the charming smile that used to be on her face, no signs of sympathy for her either. Aenelys was quick to understand the double meaning of what she had just said, and a disliking expression appeared in her visage. Maegor dug his fingertips deeper into Aenelys' waist, tightening his grip and keeping her by his side. Only then, the princess looked away and let her tensed body relax. 

"Is the room ready for us?" Maegor asked with no sentiment in his voice. 

"It is, my prince," she nodded. Tyanna gave her a last look before smirking and saying, "follow the usual path, I know you will not get lost." 

It seemed to the princess that the courtesan in front of her was blatantly mocking her. The malicious intent in her eyes was obviously showing along with a wicked smile. Aenelys was smart, she was able to read through her and noticing that she would bring nothing but trouble in her life. She immediately knew Tyanna was going to be an obstacle that she needed to get rid of. 

Maegor ignored Tyanna’s words, and he took his niece towards the room, walking her through a dark hallway illuminated with only candles and some torches, and where there were doors from which lustful sounds were heard. 

Once they found the last door, Maegor let her walk in. Aenelys was shaking with expectation at this point, confused on why they were really here and anxious to know whether the time for his uncle to claim her had finally arrived or not, and her questioning only grew when she noticed the lascivious atmosphere that was trapped within those four, burgundy walls. 

The smell of cinnamon was the first thing she perceived, along with the heat of the warm summer wind that sneaked through the thin, golden curtains. Then, her eyes went to the big, round bed in the center of the room, right under a very explicit paint that reminded her of Ser Varys’ tapestries back in the palace. There was also a table with two cups, a bottle of fine wine, and a lot of weird shaped objects laying on a silver, freshly polished, platter. 

Maegor closed the door behind him, and the loud noise made her wake up from the trance she was in. At that moment, she came to realize where she was – and whom she was with. 

She sighed, hearing his steps getting closer to her until she managed to recognize his scent. Aenelys closed her eyes as she took a deep breath, drowning in that manly perfume of his that made her feel chills.

“Why are we here?” she dared to ask, refusing to lay eyes on him merely out of shyness. 

“You told me you wanted to learn,” he reminded her, standing behind her and grabbing her waist with his hand. He leaned towards her ear before whispering, “Now you will learn.”

His chest was pressed against her back, his chin resting on the top of her head as his hands started to play with the thin fabric of her dress. A sharp breath left her lips as Maegor started to brush his lips against the skin of her nape, causing shivers down her spine and butterflies on her belly. Her knees felt weak, and her legs trembled; Maegor placed both of his hands on each side of her tiny body with a firm grip that provided her with stability, all whilst he buried his nose on her neck to inhale her sweet scent. 

Aenelys moved her head to the side, giving him more space to do with her as he pleased. Her eyes closed and her mouth slightly parted to catch a deep breath. Millions of sensations were running down her body as Maegor teased her, tempting her with his touch. 

“So soft,” he murmured, “so pretty.”

“Maegor-”

“You think I haven’t thought about it?” He interrupted, almost grunting as he now pressed his lower body against her. Aenelys frowned confused, being too flushed and distracted to even process his words. “... About you laying in our marital bed, completely bare?”

His lips reached her neck, tasting and savoring her soft skin as she let a soft moan escape from her plump lips. It was the first time he ever dared to do such an intimate thing with her, to touch her in that way. Aenelys bit her lower lip, and once Maegor noticed it he took his hand toward her mouth, pulling her lip away from her teeth and forcing her to let out those beautiful sounds. 

“I keep dreaming about it, my sweet dove,” he groaned, “How sweet you would sound whispering my name as I take your precious body, claiming you as mine.” 

His hands soon found their way to her belly, one of them remaining there while the other started to slip down her frame, heading towards her heated core. He was slowly approaching that spot that was desperately aching for his attention at this point. It was a tortuous thing; teasing her until she breaks.

 “I cannot stop thinking about my child growing inside of you, my little princess,” she whines as a response and Maegor teasingly chuckles. “Would you like that, huh? Giving me an heir? Having my seed inside of you?-”

Maegor was interrupted by a sudden action made by her. She turned around and he was able to see the lust growing inside those doe eyes of hers. She seemed desperate, longing for some kind of relief for the heat between her thighs. His words had visibly caused an effect on her, for her cheeks were burning red and her breathing had quickened. She stared at him with pleading eyes, as if he was begging him to fulfill his dreams with her, right there. She was asking him to make his desires come true on the spot.

She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the shape of his muscles under her fingertips. Maegor grabbed her by the neck, his thumb rubbing against her lips. Aenelys took a deep breath, getting ready to stand on her tiptoes to finally reach for his lips. 

But a loud, thunderous noise was heard, and Maegor turned his head away from her. Aenelys quickly tried to find safety in the arms of the man she loved, but he stood back, already being on guard and collecting the sword he brought with him. The princess stood right where he left her, frozen and waiting for his indications, for him to tell her what to do. 

“Stay here,” he commanded, and Aenelys did not dare to disobey. 

She saw how Maegor left the room and abandoned her there; in a place she did not know, completely alone. 

Of course the fear was quick to take over her body; she hugged herself as if she was trying to protect herself from anything that may come her way at the same time she was carefully staring at the door in front of her. A few more sounds were heard, along with shouting and curses from men and women, which only made her beg for Maegor to come back. 

A crack was heard inside of the room and the princess was frightened to turn around and search for the source of that sound. However, a sudden breeze entered the area, and she forced herself to do so. As soon as she did, a hand went to her mouth. 

Her screams were muffled as her eyes went wide with panic and terror, soon covered in a layer of blurriness which announced the upcoming tears. Her legs shook as she stared at the man in front of her, whom she quickly recognised as the one who was looking at her when she walked in that place.

“Princess, I need you to be quiet,” he warned her, whispering as he constantly checked the door. “My name is Ser Greg Forrester, I was sent by your mother, Queen Alyssa… I’ve come to rescue you.” 

Mumbles were heard as her confusion only grew. The mention of her mother made her feel some kind of guilt and anguish inside of her chest, but the whole situation was taking her by surprise. At that point she knew her disappearance might have caused some kind of trouble, for there was certainly a reason why that man was sent for her; and yet, she had no intention to move nor follow his orders. 

Not when things were about to change between her and Maegor. 

“I need you to come with me,” he continued. “I have already localized your dragon, and I have a horse outside waiting for us.”

The princess seemed to have calmed down; the hysterical expression on her face had vanished as soon as the man explained who he was. He slowly removed his hand from her mouth, and the princess instantly took a step back.

“I need to take you home safely,” he insisted.

“No,” she quickly answered. Ser Greg frowned. “I’m safe here.”

“I’m afraid the queen believes otherwise,” he explained, “she thinks your uncle is dangerous, she thinks he might put you at risk.”

“Nonsense!” She stopped him, raising her voice. “He will protect me better than any guard or knight… He loves me, he will never do something to hurt me.”

“He forced you to be away from your family-”

“He did not force me to do anything,” the princess interrupted him, getting mad at such accusations. 

“The King and Queen miss you terribly, princess,” he replied, and a silence was formed. He was smart enough to try and bring sentimalism to the matter. Aenelys was quick to notice such thing, not being affected by his empty words. He only did it to save his head from a spike once he returned to King’s Landing. 

“I will not leave him here alone,” she spoke harshly, determined. “I’m sorry.”

“But princess-”

“It is best for you to leave before my uncle returns” Aenelys advised, “we both know what will happen if he finds you here.” 

The man pressed his lips in a thin line as his eyes looked at her with pity and sorrow. Aenelys ignored that, simply looking away from his face and onto the ground. Ser Greg had no choice but to escape from the same window he entered, leaving the princess with a hardened expression on her soft features. 

Soon, the door behind her was opened once again, and she turned around only to find Maegor’s imposing figure in the doorframe. Her eyes shifted with worry as she saw stains of blood on her body; her heart sank on her chest after thinking he might have been hurted. 

“Maegor-”

“I thought you wanted to go,” he interrupted her.

A silence then appeared, filling the space between them as their eyes connected from each side of the room. Maegor’s jaw was clenched, while Aenelys nervously played with the pendant of her necklace, feeling small under his dominant haze. 

“What?” She softly asked.

Maegor walked inside the room, closing the door behind him. The signs of a growing smile could be seen on his handsome face as he approached her.

“You told me,” he reminded her as he tried to hide his victory smile, “I should’ve stayed...”

“I-”

“I had to make sure that was just a lie,” he quickly said.

Aenelys frowned as Maegor’s touch reached her soft cheek. The realization of what he had just said arrived like a bucket of cold water being poured all over her. 

“You called them…”

“How else was I supposed to know if your love for me was real or not?” His tone tried to be sweet, caring, but it still came out as controlling and dominant. “At least now I know that my future wife will always remain loyal to me.”

Aenelys’ heart beated faster, for she saw these actions as a reflection of his devotion to her, as the eagerness to keep her always by his side. She was supposed to be mad for playing with her like this, but instead, she just fell harder for him. 

“Now, since you have proven where your loyalties lie, I think it is time for me to give you a reward for always being such a good little princess…” He mumbled, getting rid of his shirt. Aenelys held her breath at the sight. “Go and take off your clothes, dove, it’s time for you to learn.”

And she obeyed.

BOLD MEANS I COULDN'T TAG YOU

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[voces-y-versos]

Sensible Capítulo 1

El sonido incesante de las cajas de supermercado llena el aire, un ritmo constante y monótono que nunca cesa. Las luces blancas de los fluorescentes se reflejan en los pasillos anchos, creando un resplandor frío que resalta la inmensidad del lugar. Es un supermercado enorme, con estantes repletos de productos que parecen multiplicarse sin fin. Aquí, en la caja 5, está Soila.

El pitido de cada producto escaneado se entrelaza con el murmullo de las conversaciones de los clientes, creando una sinfonía de ruido que Soila conoce demasiado bien. Es un sonido que la envuelve, un eco constante que parece sincronizarse con el latido de su corazón. Mientras pasa el tiempo, los pitidos se convierten en una especie de mantra, una repetición que se convierte en su única compañía durante largas horas.

Soila se encuentra en medio de este torbellino sonoro, su rostro una máscara de concentración tranquila. Cada artículo que pasa por su caja es una pequeña historia que ella conoce demasiado bien: el arroz que una familia comprará para la cena, el jugo de naranja que una madre llevará a casa para sus hijos. Sin embargo, en el fondo de su mente, una tormenta de pensamientos y sentimientos la atormenta.

Su vida es un ciclo interminable de trabajo y esfuerzo, un constante viaje en un tren de suburbanos que la lleva desde su hogar en un barrio de pobladores populares hasta este lugar de lujo. Cada mañana, la hora de trayecto se convierte en un ritual de preparación mental, donde se entrena para enfrentar el día con una sonrisa, escondiendo el cansancio y las preocupaciones detrás de un rostro amable.

En los breves momentos entre clientes, Soila deja que sus pensamientos floten libremente. Imagina un mundo más allá de los pasillos del supermercado, un lugar donde sus sueños de ser artista, guionista, escritora y poeta puedan hacerse realidad. Cada suspiro es un intento de soltar el peso de su realidad y darle vida a sus aspiraciones más profundas.

La maldición de Soila es su incapacidad para comunicar lo que ocurre en su mente. Cada palabra que intenta expresar sus pensamientos poéticos parece desvanecerse antes de llegar a su destino. Sus compañeros de trabajo la ven como una figura silenciosa, una sombra que se mueve entre las cajas sin mostrar sus verdaderas emociones. Incluso ella misma lucha por entender el caos interno que la consume.

Un cliente se acerca a la caja con una sonrisa afable, rompiendo el ritmo monótono de los pitidos. Soila lo saluda con amabilidad, pero en su mente, el pitido se convierte en un latido de su propio corazón, un recordatorio constante de su lucha interna. Mientras escanea los productos, sus pensamientos se dispersan entre la poesía que le gustaría escribir y los problemas que enfrenta en su vida diaria.

Cuando finalmente el cliente se va y el siguiente se acerca, Soila toma un breve respiro, permitiendo que sus emociones se mezclen con el sonido de los pitidos. Es en estos momentos de quietud que sus pensamientos poéticos encuentran su voz, aunque solo sea en su interior. En su mente, la lucha entre la realidad y el deseo, el dolor y la esperanza, se entrelaza en un poema interminable.

El ciclo continúa, y con cada pitido, Soila sigue escribiendo en su corazón, cada verso un testimonio silencioso de su pasión y su sufrimiento. En el bullicio de la caja 5, en medio de las luces blancas y los pasillos anchos, ella encuentra su propio ritmo, una melodía que solo ella puede oír, una forma de exorcizar su alma en el caos cotidiano.

....

1 de agosto, 2024. 01:25 am. 597 palabras. Comenten si les gustó, saludos.

[lowcountry-gothic]

Illustrations for the 50th anniversary edition of Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez’ Cien años de soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude). Art by Chilean illustrator Luisa Rivera.

[nowtoboldlygo]

twenty books in spanish, tbr

for when i'm fluent!! most with translations in english.

Sistema Nervoso, Lina Meruane (2021) - Latin American literature professor from Chile, contemporary litfic

Ansibles, perfiladores y otras máquinas de ingenio, Andrea Chapela (2020) - short story collection from a Mexican scifi author, likened to Black Mirror

Nuestra parte de noche, Mariana Enríquez (2019) - very long literary horror novel by incredibly famous Argentine journalist 

Canto yo y la montaña baila, Irene Solà (2019) - translated into Spanish from Castilian by Concha Cardeñoso, contemporary litfic

Las malas, Camila Sosa Villada (2019) - very well rated memoir/autofiction from a trans Argentine author

Humo, Gabriela Alemán (2017) - short litfic set in Paraguay, by Ecuadoran author

La dimensión desconocida, Nona Fernández (2016) - really anything by this Chilean actress/writer; this one is a Pinochet-era historical fiction & v short

Distancia de rescate, Samanta Schweblin (2014) - super short litfic by an Argentinian author based in Germany, loved Fever Dream in English

La ridícula idea de no volver a verte, Rosa Montero (2013) - nonfiction; Spanish author discusses scientist Maria Skłodowska-Curie and through Curie, her own life

Lágrimas en la lluvia, Rosa Montero (2011) - sff trilogy by a Spanish journalist

Los peligros de fumar en la cama, Mariana Enríquez (2009) - short story collection, author noted above

Delirio, Laura Restrepo (2004) - most popular book (maybe) by an award-winning Colombian author; literary fiction

Todos los amores, Carmen Boullosa (1998) - poetry! very popular Mexican author, really open to anything on the backlist this is just inexpensive used online

Olvidado rey Gudú, Ana María Matute (1997) - cult classic, medieval fantasy-ish, award-winning Spanish author

Como agua para chocolate, Laura Esquivel (1989) - v famous novel by v famous Mexican author

Ekomo, María Nsué Angüe (1985) - super short litfic about woman's family, post-colonial Equatoguinean novel; out of print

La casa de los espíritus, Isabelle Allende (1982) - or really anything by her, Chilean author known for magical realism; read in English & didn't particularly love but would be willing to give it another try

Nada, Carmen Laforet (1945) - Spanish author who wrote after the Spanish civil war, v famous novel

Los pazos de Ulloa, Emilia Pardo Bazán (1886) - book one in a family drama literary fiction duology by a famous Galician author, pretty dense compared to the above

La Respuesta, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1691) -  i actually have a bilingual poetry collection from our favorite 17th century feminist Mexican nun; this is an essay defending the right of women to be engaged in intellectual work (& it includes some poems)

bookmarked websites:

Separata Árabe, linked by Arablit

reading challenge Un viaje por la literatura en español

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 11 July 1918, Jewish Ukrainian anarchist mechanic Simón Radowitzky escaped from the Ushuaia concentration camp on the island of Tierra del Fuego, Argentina (content note: sexual violence). Radowitzky was serving an indefinite sentence for assassinating the chief of Buenos Aires police, who had ordered the Red Week massacre of workers during a May Day demonstration in 1909. Previously, Radowitzky had become a spokesperson for prisoners, and had led hunger strikes and protests. In retaliation, prison authorities first tried to torture him with sleep deprivation, then the governor and three guards raped him in 1918. This enraged the anarchist movement in Buenos Aires, which began a campaign for his freedom, and songs about him were sung in workers' meetings and assemblies around the city. In addition to the campaign, some anarchists decided to try to break out of prison, and used a smuggler's ship to rescue him. But after 23 days he was recaptured by the Chilean navy and returned to prison. He was eventually released in 1930, then deported to Uruguay. He was then deported from Uruguay for his role in the struggle against the dictator, so he travelled to Spain to join the fight against general Francisco Franco in the civil war. He survived the war, only to be interned in a concentration camp in France, after which he moved to Mexico, where he spent the remainder of his life, working in a toy factory and remaining active in the revolutionary movement. More information, sources and map: https://stories.workingclasshistory.com/article/8308/simon-radowitzky-escapes https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=660013872838498&set=a.602588028581083&type=3