#elsa bornemann

[mundaneandmagicalcreature]

This is a short ghost story that a lot of Argentinian students read during primary school (around 5th or 6th grade). Almost everyone remembers it for the rest of their life because it's actually quite spooky.

I couldn't find the English translation, so I took it upon myself to translate it. Enjoy.

Hands, by Elsa Bornemann

Lots of times (and by my own request) my unforgettable uncle Tomás told me this “horror” story some summer nights back when I was a little girl and went fishing with him.

He sworn it had happened in some small town in the Buenos Aires province. In Pergamino or Junín or Santa Lucía… I don’t remember exactly where or when the event took place and (unfortunately) he’s been gone for years now and cannot answer my questions. What I do remember is that, among all the stories my uncle used to tell me while he held the rod over the river and I lay next to him, facing the stars, this was one of my favorites.

—It gives you goose bumps and (yet) you love listening to it! Who can understand this niece of mine? — said my uncle to me—. Ah, but I don’t want to hear your mom complaining later, ok? I’ll tell the story again if you swear…

And then I sworn again that I would keep the secret, that my mom wouldn’t find out he had told me this story again, and that I’ll spend the night without calling for her when (back at home) I went to bed in the solitude of my bedroom.

I’ve always kept my promises. That’s why this story about hands (like many others I suspect where made up by my uncle, or remembered from his own childhood) was told to me once and once again.

And once and once again I told this story myself (years later) to my own “nieldren” just like (now) I’m about to tell it to you: like if you (too) were my niece or my nephew, my daughter or my son and you request me:

—C’mon auntie! C’mon mommy! A “horror” story!

So. Here it goes:

Martina, Camila and Oriana were very best friends.

Not only they went to the same school but (also) they spent time together after school. Sometimes to do their homework, and sometimes simply hang out. From fall to spring the three of them used to spend some weekends in a house Martina’s family had in the countryside.

They had so much fun! So many games outdoor, bike rides, horse rides, bonfires at dusk…

That mid winter Saturday, for example, they had fully enjoyed the day, and the cheerfulness of the girls was present, still, during dinner in the countryside house’s dining room because grandma Odila had a surprise awaiting for them:  before going to bed she was going to teach them some tap dancing moves, to the beat of some old albums she had brought for the occasion. Martina’s grandmother was adorable. She didn’t look her age. Always active, charming, in a good mood, and chatty. She had been an excellent tap dancer. The girls knew it, and so they asked her to dance with them.

—Why don’t you leave it for tomorrow afternoon? Now’s time to rest. Also, grandma has been doing stuff all day, she didn’t stop for one minute. She must be exhausted.

Mantina’s mom tried, in vain, to convince them to go to bed. The four of them and not just the girls, because the grandma was not willing to end that day without the promised dance session. That’s how, soon after and while the parents, the dogs, and the cat took seats in the living room, the grandma and the three girls got ready for a homemade function of tap dancing.

Outside the wind seemed to want to join in with its own melody: it whistled furiously in the trees. Above, high above, in the sky with the stars hidden behind big stormy clouds.

The improvised dance class lasted almost an hour. Enough time for Martina, Camila and Oriana to learn, between giggles, some tap moves, and for the grandma to end up exhausted and flustered.

Soon, all of them went to their rooms.

Around the house, the night was as dark as the high top hat they had worn for the function.

The tree girls had already gone to bed. They were in the guest bedroom, like every time they stayed at that house.

It was a big bedroom in the first floor. It had windows that looked to the backyard and that let in the moon shine (although not in nights like that one, of course, in which the darkness was a huge cloak that covered everything).

In the room there were three single beds, placed parallel to one another in a row, separated by sturdy nightstands.

Martina slept on the bed to the left, because she preferred to be by the door. Camila, on the bed to the right because she liked the place next to the window. And Oriana slept in the middle bed because she was easily scared and said that she felt protected by her friends that way.

The girls had just fallen asleep when the voice of the father woke them up suddenly. He was getting dressed (again and in a hurry) while he said to them:

—Grandma feels unwell. Nothing too serious, we think, but we’re taking her to the town’s hospital, just to be safe. We’ll be back soon. Mom says you mustn’t get up, try to sleep until we come back. See you later.

To sleep? Who can sleep after hearing such bad news? Not the girls, at least, worried about the beloved grandma’s health. And least could they sleep after they heard the sound of the father’s car leaving the house. To the uncertainty of the waiting it was added the fear to the noises of the storm that, finally, had decided to dishevel over the night.

Thunder and lightning shook the hearts.

Lightning bolts, like giant and electrified fireflies.

The wind spreading out like never before.

—I’m scared! I’m so scared! — cried Oriana suddenly.

The other two were also scared but remained quiet, swallowing their uneasiness.

Martina tried to calm down her friend (and to calm down herself, there’s no point in denying it) by turning the light on. Camila did the same.

Oriana’s bed was, then, the best lit of the three, since it was in the middle of the two lamps.

—It’s nothing. The storm makes it seem worse than what it is, that’s all— said Martina, trying to cheer up and convince herself.

—They’ll be back with grandma soon. I’m sure. —said Camila.

And so, between Oriana’s whines and the comfort words of her more courageous friends, about a quarter hour went by in every clock.

When the one in the living room, a huge grandfather clock, pointed twelve with its hollow chimes, the young ladies felt quite calmed down, even though the storm threatened to be endless.

The lights went out suddenly.

—Don’t play pranks on me! —cried Oriana—Turn on the light, you’re being mean! — and, frightened, stretch her hand over the nightstand trying to find the switch.

She only found her friends hands doing the same.

— I didn’t turn off anything, you fool! —whined Camila.

—The power must have gone out! — thought Martina out loud.

She was right. Too many electricity playing mischief in the skies and none there in the house, where it was so very needed in such moments…

Orinana burst into tears, disconsolate.

—I’m so scared! Someone has to go the kitchen for some candles! Someone has to go down and bring matches and candles! Or a flashlight!

—“Someone has to” “Someone has to” and who will be that someone? Hm? — protested Camila— Me? No way!

— Me neither! — added Martina—. Oriana thinks I’m Superkid, but I’m not. I’m also scared. What did you think? Also my mom said we must stay in bed, remember?

Oriana cried with her head under the pillow.

—Bwaaaah… What do we do? I’m terrified! Please go down and bring the candles… Be nice… Bwaaaah…

Martina felt sorry for her friend. Even though they were the same age, Oriana looked younger and behaved likewise. Martina took pity on her and acted like a big sister.

—Well, well, stop crying, Ori. Relax… I thought of something so we won’t be afraid anymore, okay?

—W…what? — stuttered Oriana.

—What are we going to do? — Camila showed interest too (it was to be expected: even if she didn’t complain, she was trembling).

Martina kept on explaining;

—We get in bed under our blankets (each of us in our own bed) and then we stretch our arms out and hold hands.

They did so immediately.

Of course, Oriana felt the most comforted: being between her two friends she could feel the hand of both her friends when she stretched her arms.

—Ori, you’re so lucky, huh? —joked Camila.

—In your bed you get company from both sides…

—Yet, we…—Martina ended the thought— with only one hand…

And so, holding hands tightly, the three girls shook off most of their fears.

Soon they were all asleep.

Outside, the storm started to say goodbye.

—Thank goodness, Grandma feels well again— the mother told them the next day at dawn, as soon as she was back in the house with her husband and her mother in law, when they went to check on the girls—. It was just a scare.

Since when she came back the girls were sound asleep, the grandma herself was the one who woke them up and told them everything was in order. They were so happy!

—That’s how I like it. You’re so brave! Well done—and the grandma kissed them and promised to bring the breakfast back to bed, to pamper them a little, after the nerve-wrecking night they had passed.

—We’re not so brave, ma’am… at least not me…— whispered Oriana, a bit embarrassed for her behavior the night before—. It was your granddaughter who got us to calm down…

After that confession, the parents and the grandma wanted to know what had they done to not be too scared.

So the three friends told them:

—We got under our blackest. Like this…

—And we stretched our arms. Like this…

—And we hold hands tightly. Like this…

What they realized that very moment gave the girls goose bumps ! And the parents and the grandma too.

No matter how hard they tried, stretching their arms as much as possible, their children hands couldn’t even grace each other.

They had to move the beds on the sides more than a palm before they could barely touch their fingertips.

And yet, the three of them had really felt their hands being held, as soon as they tried Martina’s idea.

—Whose hand??? —asked them, as the adults tried to conceal their own fear.

—Whose hands??? — corrected them Oriana, making a horrified face. She had felt hands on both sides!

Hands.

Four extra hands, besides the six belonging to the girls, moving in the darkness of that night, trying to reach out for other hands, searching for some hands to hold on.

Human hands.

Spectral hands.

(Maybe, every once in a while, ghosts get afraid too… and they need us…).

[nebulosafanny]

Liliana Bodoc en nuestras lecturas

El proyecto que hemos llevado a cabo es un ejemplo de cómo la literatura y el arte pueden servir como herramientas poderosas para conectar con el pasado y comprender las complejidades de los eventos históricos. Durante estas semanas, estuvimos revisando nuestro recorrido lector, del que hicimos memoria entre todos -desde 1° hasta 6° grado. En el pizarrón quedó un mapa lector y pudimos visualizar el viaje de aprendizaje y las experiencias compartidas a lo largo de estos años. 

Reforzamos la memoria de los libros leídos y las historias compartidas, también despertó un sentido de comunidad y pertenencia entre estudiantes de 6° y 7° grado. Al recordar juntos desde el primer grado hasta hoy, construimos una narrativa colectiva que celebra el crecimiento individual y grupal. Además, un mapa lector sirve como un recordatorio constante de los logros alcanzados y nos inspira a seguir explorando nuevos libros y géneros. La literatura puede unir a las personas y crear un espacio de intercambio cultural y creativo en el aula.

Al recordar y discutir los libros prohibidos durante la dictadura militar en Argentina, no sólo hacemos memoria de aquellos tiempos difíciles, sino que también reafirmamos la importancia de la libertad de expresión y el derecho a la información. Entre los libros prohibidos recordamos algunos: Un elefante ocupa mucho espacio, La Línea, El caso Gaspar, La planta de Bartolo, El Principito, Mañana viene mi tío.

La lectura conmemorativa del día 24 de marzo, este año fue: “3.155 o el número de la tristeza”, escrito por Liliana Bodoc. En este relato, la autora aborda un período oscuro de la historia argentina: la dictadura militar que tomó el poder en 1976. La historia se centra en tres protagonistas que comparten algo en común: están leyendo el libro “Un elefante ocupa mucho espacio” de Elsa Bornemann, el cual fue prohibido mediante el decreto 3155. La elección del cuento como lectura de sexto y séptimo grado es significativa, ya que nos permite a los estudiantes conectar con la historia de nuestro país a través de la experiencia personal de los personajes ficticios. La obra de Liliana Bodoc es un ejemplo de cómo la ficción puede servir como un espejo de la realidad, permitiendo a los lectores de todas las edades reflexionar sobre temas de derechos humanos e identidad. 

Realizamos mural de dibujos, en donde representamos a los personajes de los cuentos reunidos en el escenario para acompañarnos en esta fecha. Además, al representar visualmente estos temas no solo ayuda a consolidar el aprendizaje, sino que también ofrece una forma de expresión personal y colectiva. El uso de técnicas artísticas como el collage para representar visualmente estos conceptos es una forma creativa de procesar y expresar estas ideas complejas. 

Gracias por escucharnos, es esencial que este tipo de espacio continúe, ya que promueve la conciencia y la comprensión, elementos cruciales para construir una sociedad más justa e informada.

[sevicia]

GOD I've had this one memory floating around my head of a book I read in middle school for school where I was sitting with one of my only friends and we were doing like, a half hour of reading the assigned book. and when the half hour was up we had a while to discuss the book during which my friend (who HATED reading) went "I loved the story about the well it really felt like I was there. I imagined it like a black background and only the well on the ground, and the girl looking in" and I went on to tell him about how I had pictured it and also about my favorite story which was further into the book and he was like damn how do u read so fast!!!

and IDK it's one of the few happy things I remember from that time. I think it was end of 6th grade/beginning of 7th. It made me particularly happy because I knew he hated reading and to see him enjoy a book (or a written story in general) was just so nice.

The book was like crazy good too I remember thinking "an assigned reading book that's actually good?!?!"

so OBVIOUSLY I think of it today with nothing to do and go hey. I should find it. And spend an hour and a half googling vague terms until I think of simply googling "lecturas complementarias septimo basico chile", find a list from the ministry of education, and spot a book called "Socorro" by Elsa Bornemann (I remembered the author being a lady). So I google it and it has a familiar cover but I look at the list of stories and none of them ring a bell... then I go to the author's wikipedia page and see she has another book called "Socorro Diez" which I also google and BAM!!!! It's the one I've been looking for!!!!!!!!!

I'm actually so happy u have no idea.... In the process I also remembered "Amores que matan", "Cuentos de amor de locura y de muerte", "El terror del sexto B", AND "Los ojos del perro siberiano"

The first 3 are short horror story collections and the last one is an actual tearjerker like it had a classroom of 40 12-14 yr olds SOBBING!!!! Quite a scene to behold. especially when U are crying yourself......

Hoenstly if anyone ever wants to learn spanish by reading you know, books by hispanic authors I would absolutely recommend all of these cause they were assigned readings for 6th to 8th grade for me, which (to me) seems both manageable and fun since it's not like... for actual babies u know

[nuri148]

There is a beautiful story by Argentine writer Elsa Bornemann (rip) called "Cuento con Caricia" (idk if an english version exists; lit trans is "Tale with caress"). In it, a humble shepherd boy stumbles upon an armadillo or something equally small and harmless* while keeping the goats, and spontaneously pets it. (I must clarify here that in this context pet and caress are the same word in Spanish) The armadillo is startled and runs away, but then reflects about the wonderful thing that's just happened to him. The boy gave him pets. Now he owns the caress, and he must give it to someone else so they too can know how nice it feels. So he looks for another animal to give him the caress/pets, and the process repeats with several animals. I won't spoil the ending, but it's seriously one of the best children's books I've read (Bornemann was the GOAT)

This little squirrel reminds me of that.🤎

*Yes I know armadillos are a vector for leprosy, but you won't catch it like chicken pox for giving one pet to one armadillo ok?

[iaintnoflower]

Vino a mí el recuerdo del primer poema que me hizo llorar.

Tenía 10 años mas o menos. Leía un libro de versicuetos escrito por Elsa Bornemann, ilustrado por Matias Trillo, que me había regalado mi abuelo.

Recuerdo que me estrujó el alma aquel poema sobre una ballenita que se quedaba huérfana. Las lágrimas apenas me dejaron enterarme el final -feliz, porque la ballenita era adoptada por un submarino. Y después corrí a abrazar a mi mamá.

Debería agradecerle de nuevo a mi abuelo.

[kimdeals]

17

17. top 5 children’s books?

the little prince by antoine de saint-exupéry (my first book)

the lightning thief by rick riordan (i was a mythology kid)

little women by louisa may alcott (a classic)

un elefante ocupa mucho espacio by elsa bornemann (a classic imo cause she published it during the military occupation in my country in 1976 and later republished it after the instauration of democracy in 1984; its a rly short story abt an elephant who convinces other animals to stand up for themselves in a circus + rly sweet too!)

cuentos de la selva by horacio quiroga (another latinamerican classic)

thanks for asking! ❤️

[capribornio]

Every time I think about how (american) media is sanitizied For The Children, I think about my favorite author, Elsa Bornemann, who mostly wrote stories for children. 

I think about the stories she wrote, who always had children (of all ages!) for protagonists. And most of her stories were horror, or tragedies. And a lot of them didn’t have a happy ending.

And I think about how many children died in their stories. How much of those were just “two elementary children fall in love, and it’s cute, and then one of them dies, leaving the other to deal with their grief”.

How she wrote about illness, and suicide, and poverty.

How she wrote a story (La Historia Más Tremebunda/The Most Heart Breaking Story) about a family that lived in poverty, of their drunk, gambling father, of their abused mother, of their children who begged on the streets. And how one of them (the one who was different, smarter but weaker, had a job and studied and was usually hit by both parents) ended up accidentally shooting himself while trying to clean his father’s gun. How the last words he thought, right before dying, was “oh god it was an accident please father i’m sorry it was an accident”

How, in the same book, there’s anothe story about a little girl, four years old, saw everyone as skeletons. And the horror is that her family was pressured by the doctors to “correct” her view. How this destroys her mentally. And she doesn’t recover,

And a story about two Japanese children who fall in love. One of them goes on vacation far away. The other doesn’t.  It’s August of 1945.

And all of her books are on public libraries. She’s, like, one of the most acclaimed authors of my country. Mosts schools have her books. Sometimes it’s even required reading.

And how, all across of her letters to the readers, there was always (sometimes implicit, sometimes explicit) message: “I remember what being a child was like. And I know you suffer, you experience as much as an adult, but no adult takes that seriously. I know this. So, for you, small children, I write the tragedies and horrors a lot of you already experience, so you’ll know, you’re not alone.”

And I know how protecting the children actually looks like.

[villings]

La experiencia me enseñó que todos los seres humanos necesitan a los fantasmas... Cuando no los tienen de verdad, se los inventan.

Elsa Bornemann

[estoesdivertido]

Hoy voy a hablar sobre dos cuentos hermosamente tristes de mi adolescencia que me impactaron cuando los lei, uno se llama "Mil Grullas" de Elsa Bornemann y el segundo " "Yarara como manguera" de Mempo Giardinelli. Ambos cuentos estaban en una antología de cuentos llamada " Cuentos para seguir creciendo" que desde el Gobierno mandaban a las bibilotecas de las escuelas. Me acuerdo que ahí fue la primera vez que leí el cuento del Gigante Egoista que a mi y a mi hermana nos encantaba.

El de las mil grullas es un cuento trágico, fue mi primer acercamiento a lo sucedido en Hiroshima y la bomba atómica todo narrado desde la perspectiva de un niño preocupado por su amiga en grave estado luego del estallido. Él con el fin de salvarla busca hacer mil grullas porque según la leyenda japonesa si logras hacer mil grullas tu mayor deseo se hará realidad. Vos no podes dimensionar lo fuerte que me pegó, su inocencia, su convicción, el fuerte deseo de que ella se curara, su persistencia frente al horror. ¿Vos sabes lo que cuesta hacer mil grullas de papel? Luego de leer este cuento intenté hacer mil grullas, en ese tiempo era chica y me recuerdo recortando los cuadrados del papel de diario y hojas que encontraba por ahí, mi mamá me retaba porque dejaba todo desordenado, fue un proyecto totalmente fallido. El año pasado me propuse hacer eso que no había podido cuando era chica: hacer mil grullas, era fin de año y estaba de vacaciones en ese momento asi que compré un pack de cuadrados blancos en una libreria y comencé, todos los días me levantaba a hacer las avecitas de papel, tanto que mis hermanos hasta se acostumbraron a verlas encima de la mesa. Fue despues de un mes entero logré terminar todas las grullas y unirlas con cuerdas en grupos de a cien, ahora mismo estan colgabas en mi cuarto.

El segundo cuento trata sobre un adulto recordando su niñez y un episodio vivido con su padre y otro personaje llamado "el Tano" en visperas de navidad. Todo se desarrolla cuando los tres personajes vuelven a casa atravesando una zona rural con caminos de tierra y lodo, lamentablemente tienen un accidente en auto y uno de ellos es picado por una Yarará, que es una serpiente venenosa que se encuentra en varios paises, entre ellos Argentina. Este cuento me interpeló en grande porque habla de la vivencia de la muerte, de la primera vez que un niño presencia la muerte, porque el niño es espectador de todo lo que ocurre con los dos adultos desde que uno de ellos es picado hasta su muerte. Tambien me gusta mucho cómo se intenta proteger al niño, de distraerlo, de hacerle sentir que todo va a estar bien, de resguardarlo de un evento traumático lo cual me parece una enorme muestra de amor.

Y nada estos dos cuentos tratan sobre la muerte, sobre la vivencia de la muerte inminente que es algo que siempre me interpela, es un tema que me atraviesa profundamente y por eso pienso que estos cuentos me marcaron cuando los leí.

[elprismaelectrico]

Cuando yo cierro los ojos…

Qué sucede?

Quedan quietas las paredes?

No se mueven?

Dónde va la luz que estaba

yo mirando?

Se mete por mis bolsillos

disparando?

Dónde va toda mi casa

si me duermo?

Sigue igual o no?

Que pasa? No me acuerdo…

Cuando yo cierro los ojos,

qué sucede?

Pueden quedarse las cosas…?

Dime, pueden?

Elsa Isabel Bornemann.

Yamamoto Masao.

[sinalefa2]

Bañar un elefante

Bañar un elefanteen una palanganaes algo que hay que hacercada mañana.En el último sueño,antes de despertar,al noble paquidermo–paciente– hay que bañar.Una pata primero,siguen las otras tres,a orejas y trompitales tocará después. Como la cola es cortaqueda para el final.¡Qué limpio y tan lustrosoque luce este animal!Después de tal trabajo…de tal complicación…¡casi a todo problemase encuentra…

[hawkguyscoffee]

no se si viene al caso pero Elsa Bornemann escribió un cuento sobre una lobizona titulado La Luisona en su libro Queridos Monstruos. Esta lindo y acompañado del resto de los cuentos es como un lindo vistazo a la literatura infantil argentina. La ilustración esta buena también

sigo pensando en lo del 7mo hijo varón y tipo como sería el trámite si hay nenes trans en la familia??? la "maldición" sabe de antemano o cambia la cosa cuando el nene transiciona?

[janesdirecx]

"Fuiste un sueño apenitas y era yo quien soñaba.Tan solo habia tu pecho con la puerta cerrada,sin rincón de caricias,sin paloma anidada,sin lugar para un beso,sin luces ni guitarras."

Elsa Bornemann - No somos irrompibles

[nerinacanzi-blog]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Nerina Canzi . Illustrations (@nerinacanzi.ilustraciones)

CASITA DE PAPEL La casita de los versos es de papel y chiquita, pero allí cabe de todo lo que uno necesita en sus siete habitaciones con sus siete ventanitas: En una hay sueños violetas, hay en la otra, sonrisas; en la tercera, un gigante bien dibujado con tiza que guarda hermosas palabras debajo de la camisa... En la cuarta habitación un cofre con musiquitas; en la quinta, dos espejos para ver cosas bonitas... (por uno se ven los pájaros y por el otro, estrellitas...). En la sexta habitación cubre paredes y suelo, un jardín de tulipanes con césped de terciopelo y escalera-caracol para ir a bailar al cielo. En la séptima hay dos lunas en el fondo de un baúl: una huele a azúcar tibia, la otra a perfume azul... una usa hebillas de oro, la otra moños de tul. ¡Ay! ¡Qué casa primorosa, de papel y tan chiquita! pero... . ¿han visto?, cabe todo lo que uno necesita en sus siete habitaciones con sus siete ventanitas (Elsa Bornemann) @nerinacanzi.ilustraciones ❤🏠⭐🏡❤ . . . . . #bornemann #illustration #illustrationartists #illustrationart #illustratorsoninstagram #illustration_best #bookillustrator #picturebookart #kidsbooks #bornemann #illustrationoftheday #the_world_of_illustration #artguide_illustration #instaart #illustrate #ilustraciones #illustrazioniperbambini #иллюстрация #рисуюназаказ #artinspiration #dreamy #插畫 #イラスト #illustagram #イラストレーター #イラストレーション https://www.instagram.com/p/CBAx2rxgycA/?igshid=l7qm4q1o1iw

[latinotiktok]

Jajaja no me juzguen che, a mí Socorro de Elsa Bornemann me sigue haciendo cagar en las patas 😔

Holaa alguien tiene recomendaciones de libros (o autores) de terror latinoamericanos?? Gracias de antemano <3

[julietapowellsblog]

DIBUJANTES

"Yo dibujo puentes para que me encuentres

Un puente de tela con mis acuarelas

Un puente colgante con tiza brillante

Puentes de madera con lápiz de cera

Puentes levadizos plateados, cobrizos..

Puentes irrompibles de piedra invisibles..

Y tu ¡Quien creyera! ¡No los ves siquiera!

Hago cien, diez, uno.. ¡No cruzas ninguno!

Mas como te quiero… dibujo y espero.

¡Bellos puentes para que me encuentres!"

Elsa Bornemann