Narrativa impresionista. Lecturas. Ejercicios, improvisaciones de impresionismo.

"You know what's weird?" Sam mused, flipping through the channels on the dusty old TV set in his grandpa's garage. His voice echoed through the cluttered space, punctuated by the static of dead airwaves. "What's that, buddy?" Grandpa Joe glanced up from his workbench, his hands stained with oil and grease. Sam leaned closer to the flickering screen, his curiosity piqued. "These TV shows, they're all from the 80s. And none of them are in color. It's like looking into a faded photograph." Grandpa Joe chuckled, wiping his hands on a stained rag. "Yeah, those were the days. Everything was simpler then, and we liked our TV that way too. Besides," he added, with a wink, "it's easier on the eyes, not so much junk to distract you." TV, focusing on the face of an actor in a show that looked like it had been recorded in a snowstorm. "Grandpa, what's happening to this guy's eyes?" Joe's smile faltered as he looked up. "What do you mean, Sam?" Sam pointed at the screen, his voice rising in alarm. "They're... changing. They're like, melting or something!" Joe's chuckle turned into a cough, and he abruptly set down his wrench. The image on the TV grew more disturbing as the actor's eyes began to ooze a thick, black substance, stretching and distorting like taffy in a nightmare. The skin around the eyes wrinkled and shriveled, revealing the raw, red flesh beneath. "Sam, turn that off," he said, his voice tight with an uncharacteristic urgency. But Sam was already on his feet, his hand hovering over the power button. The TV fizzled to silence, but the image remained burned into their retinas. "What the heck was that?" Sam whispered, his heart hammering in his chest. Grandpa Joe took a deep, shaky breath and met Sam's horrified gaze. "It's nothing to worry about," he said, but his trembling hands gave him away. "Just a glitch in the old set, I reckon." Sam wasn't convinced. The TV had never acted like this before. He stepped back, unable to shake the feeling that the actor's eyes had been staring directly into his soul. The garage felt suddenly claustrophobic, the air thick with a tension that seemed to pulse in time with his racing thoughts. "Grandpa, are you okay?" he asked, his voice cracking. Joe took another deep breath, his eyes darting around the garage as if searching for something unseen. "I'm fine, Sam. Just fine," he said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. But Sam noticed his grandpa's hand was shaking as he picked up his wrench again. The silence that followed was heavier than the dust that clung to every surface. Sam couldn't help but stare at the darkened screen, the afterimage of the corroded eyes burned into his vision. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the crawling sensation that had started at the back of his neck. "Grandpa," he began, his voice tentative. "Your eyes... they look a little... weird." Joe froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over the engine block of the ancient car he was working on. He reached for a dirty mirror propped against the toolbox and held it up to his face, examining his reflection with a furrowed brow. "Weird, how?" "They're... kind of sunk in, like the guy on the TV," Sam said, his voice quivering. Joe took a step closer to the mirror, tilting his head to get a better look. His eyes had indeed changed, the skin around them seeming to have receded slightly, leaving dark, sunken pits where his eyes should have been. The pupils had dilated, almost swallowing the irises. The sight made Sam's stomach churn, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. "It's probably just the light in here," Joe murmured, his voice strained. "Let's get out of this dingy old garage and into the fresh air." Sam nodded, eager to leave the suffocating atmosphere behind. As they stepped into the sunshine, the brightness made him blink rapidly, and for a moment, he thought he saw spots dancing in his vision—like the remnants of the TV's static. He followed his grandpa into the house, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the corridor. In the kitchen, Grandpa Joe poured them both a glass of lemonade, his hand trembling slightly. He took a long gulp before setting the glass down with a clink. "It's just old age playing tricks on us," he said with a forced chuckle, avoiding Sam's gaze. "You'll see things differently when you get to be my age." But the look on Joe's face told Sam a different story. His grandpa was scared, really scared. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and his skin had taken on a pallor that hadn't been there before. The TV's disturbing image had unsettled him more than he was letting on. The lemonade was sweet and tart, but it did little to wash away the bitter taste of fear that lingered in Sam's mouth. He watched his grandpa closely, noticing the subtle changes in his demeanor. The way Joe avoided looking directly at him, the way his eyes kept darting to the side as if expecting something to appear out of the corner of his vision. "Grandpa, tell me the truth," Sam said, his voice firm despite the quaver he couldn't quite control. "What's going on with your eyes?" Joe sighed, his shoulders slumping. He turned to face Sam fully, his eyes flicking up to meet his grandson's, then quickly away again. "It's... it's nothing, Sam. Just a little... condition I've got." Sam stared at him, not buying it. "A condition? Like what?" Joe took another sip of his lemonade, his hand shaking even more. "It's something I've had for a while," he said, his voice low. "But it's getting worse." Sam's eyes widened. "Worse? What do you mean, worse?" Grandpa Joe took a deep, shaky breath and leaned against the counter. "It's like... they're changing, Sam. They're not like they used to be. Sometimes, it feels like they're... consuming me." Sam's heart skipped a beat. "What do we do?" Joe rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, the gesture only making the wrinkles around them deeper. "There's nothing we can do, son. It's just part of getting old."

By Carlos del Puente