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

 In the quaint town of Harmony Grove, where the cobblestone streets whispered secrets with every step, there lived a peculiar man named Eliot. He was not peculiar because of his eccentric attire or his unconventional hobbies. No, Eliot was peculiar because he was known for his unparalleled ability to listen. His deep-set eyes held a gentle empathy that could make even the most stoic souls spill their deepest worries. His house, a cozy cottage nestled between an ancient willow and a blooming hydrangea bush, was a beacon for those in need of a comforting ear. One moonlit night, Eliot drifted into a restless slumber. As he descended into the abyss of dreams, he found himself in a vast, silent desert. The sand beneath his feet was warm and ever-shifting, and the stars above stretched out like a blank canvas yearning for a painter's touch. In the distance, a figure approached, cloaked in shadows and shrouded in mystery. The figure grew closer, its footsteps silent upon the desert floor, and as it reached Eliot, it reached out a spectral hand and gently cupped his throat. With a sudden jolt, Eliot awoke, his vocal cords paralyzed, his voice gone. The townsfolk, accustomed to his soothing voice, grew concerned as days turned to weeks without a single word from him. They gathered outside his cottage, sharing whispers of what might have happened. Some spoke of curses, others of malevolent spirits, but no one dared to broach the subject with Eliot himself. His eyes remained the same, brimming with understanding and compassion, but the absence of his gentle timbre cast a pall over their gatherings. Eliot, once the town's confidant, now found himself an outsider in his own life. He communicated through hastily scribbled notes, his handwriting a jagged dance of desperation across the page. His conversations with himself grew louder in his mind, a cacophony of unspoken words echoing in the vast, lonely cavern where his voice had once resonated. His dreams, however, grew more vivid. Each night, the cloaked figure returned, whispering riddles that seemed to hold the key to his lost voice, but the desert winds carried them away before he could grasp their meaning. Determined to solve the enigma, Eliot sought the wisdom of the town's oldest inhabitant, Mabel, whose eyes had seen more than a century of Harmony Grove's secrets. Her cottage smelled of dust and forgotten spells, the air thick with the scent of herbs and candle wax. She studied Eliot intently as he recounted his nightly torment, her weathered hands playing with a string of crystal beads. When he finished, she nodded solemnly and spoke of ancient lore, of dreams that bled into reality and voices stolen by the night's whispers. Mabel revealed that the cloaked figure was a silent guardian of the realm of slumber, a being known as the Sphinx of Somnus. It was said that the Sphinx could grant one's deepest desires, but only if the seeker could solve its riddles. In Eliot's case, the price was his voice, a currency he had never thought to bargain with. With a trembling hand, she handed him an aged parchment filled with incantations and symbols. "You must summon the Sphinx," she instructed, her voice a frail thread in the quiet room. "Demand your voice back, but beware, for the price it asks in return may be steeper than you wish to pay." Eliot took the parchment, feeling the weight of his predicament like a stone in his pocket. He knew he could not live in silence forever, not when the town needed him. That night, he sat before his crackling fireplace, the paper trembling in his grasp. He recited the incantation, each syllable a struggle, as if the very air resisted his silent voice. The flames grew taller, their light flickering, and a sudden gust of wind blew through his cottage, extinguishing the candles. The cloaked figure materialized, the shadows dancing around it like living ink. The Sphinx's eyes gleamed like polished onyx, piercing the gloom. "You wish for the return of your voice," it murmured, its voice like the rustle of leaves. "But to regain what you've lost, you must first understand its true worth." Eliot nodded, his heart racing. He had no idea what the creature had in store for him, but he was ready to face it. The Sphinx spoke again, its riddle floating in the air like a ghostly melody. "What is it that can bring forth both joy and sorrow, heal the deepest wounds yet cause the most profound harm, and is found in every heart, yet can be lost in a single night?" Eliot pondered, his mind racing. His gaze darted around the room, searching for clues in the flickering shadows cast by the fire. The answer danced on the tip of his tongue, but remained just out of reach. The Sphinx waited patiently, its cloak billowing with the rhythm of its silent breaths. It was as if the very fabric of the night held its breath, eager to hear his response. Finally, he spoke. "A word," he wrote hastily on a piece of parchment, offering it to the Sphinx. "A word can bring joy or sorrow, heal or harm, and is found in every heart, yet can be lost in a single moment of anger or despair."

By Carlos del Puente 

 The character, in this troubled night, wandered according to his thoughts. An oppressive silence enveloped everything, as if the universe had decided to put an end to his words. The words that usually flowed from his lips mingled with the shadows of night visions, slipping away whenever he tried to grasp them. In this dream, he was frantically looking for a voice, a familiar melody, but only the echo of a void reigned. Distressed, he understood that this silent flight was only a prelude, a warning of the inaction that awaited his heart at the dawn of the coming day. The character felt a shiver run through him as the first light of dawn began to creep into the horizon casting ethereal shadows across the ground. Each step he took seemed heavier as if the weight of his untold stories clung to him like a shroud. He searched the sky for answers among the swirling clouds but found only uncertainties reflecting his own turmoil. Yet within that uncertainty flickered a spark of resolve igniting a determination he thought lost. He would not let the day break him nor allow the silence to drown his voice any longer. He would reclaim the narrative stolen from him by fear and doubt. With each breath he took, he could feel the pulse of life returning igniting the embers of hope that had long been dormant. The landscape around him transformed as the sun climbed higher painting the world in vivid colors. He stepped forward into the light ready to confront the shadows that had haunted him. A newfound clarity enveloped him as he embraced the possibility of change understanding that his story was not yet finished but merely waiting for the courage to be told. He paused at the edge of a forest bathed in golden sunlight where the trees whispered secrets of old. Each rustle urged him deeper into the heart of the unknown where his fears lay hidden beneath layers of leaves and memories. The path ahead seemed uncertain yet he felt an intoxicating pull that beckoned him to forge ahead. With resolve blossoming in his chest he stepped into the underbrush each footfall echoing like a heartbeat reminding him that he was alive ready to weave his tale amidst the wild beauty of the world around him. He inhaled the fragrant air filled with the scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers. Each breath seemed to unlock a forgotten part of himself, layers of courage entwined with budding aspirations. As he ventured deeper, the sunlight filtered through the canopy casting playful patterns on the ground. Shadows danced around him, but this time they felt less like threats and more like companions guiding him forward. He understood then that within this wilderness lay not only his fears but also the chance to rediscover who he truly was, untethered and free to write his own destiny anew. He pressed onward feeling the energy of the forest intertwine with his resolve. The voices of the past echoed less sharply now replaced by the whispers of possibility that floated through the air. Each step carried him closer to a clearing where the trees parted to reveal an expanse bathed in radiant light. Here he felt the weight of the world lighten as if the very ground beneath him pulsed with promise. With a deep breath he opened his heart to the adventure ahead ready to embrace the unknown paths that would shape his story into something beautiful and real He felt a rush of exhilaration as he crossed into the clearing where the light embraced him wholly. In this sacred space, every leaf shimmered with potential and the air hummed with unspoken dreams. He knew this was a threshold moment a point where past and future collided. Empowered he began to move with intention each stride echoing his commitment to uncover the truths that lay buried inside. The world felt vibrant alive and as he stood amidst it the remnants of his fears started to dissolve revealing a canvas waiting for his brush to create a masterpiece full of hope and resilience. In that moment of clarity he closed his eyes letting the warmth of the sun wash over him stirring the dormant dreams within. He envisioned each path ahead as a brushstroke waiting to take form leading him to revelations yet unseen. With newfound courage he took a step forward and then another each one a declaration of his intent to live boldly. The clearing pulsed with energy as if affirming his choice urging him to trust the journey ahead. He was ready to face what lay beyond the horizon believing that every challenge would sculpt him into the person he was meant to be.

By Carlos del Puente 

  Decided one the day a tortuga, with a quick and quick decision,  to leave  from the bone of his turtle shell. In the heart of the sprawling, concrete jungle, there lived a man named Larry. He was an average Joe with a penchant for the peculiar, a trait that separated him from the mundane lives of his fellow city-dwellers. Larry had a secret, one that no one in the towering apartment complexes around him knew: every night, he transformed into something else entirely. Not a superhero, nor a creature of the night, but a creature of the daybreak. His apartment, a tiny sanctuary on the 15th floor, was a cluttered menagerie of feathers, seeds, and a solitary, oversized turtle shell. The shell wasn't just a quirky decoration; it was a gateway to a world that existed only in the quiet moments before dawn. Larry had stumbled upon this peculiar artifact during one of his many flea market expeditions. The vendor, a wizened old man with eyes that sparkled like ancient coins, had assured him that the shell was a rare and powerful talisman. "It grants the wearer the ability to transcend the boundaries of the ordinary," he'd whispered, his voice thick with the mystery of forgotten lands. Intrigued and slightly skeptical, Larry had bought the shell on a whim, and it had sat untouched in his apartment for weeks. Until the night the moon had hung low and full, casting an eerie glow through the cityscape outside his window. That fateful evening, unable to shake off a restlessness that had gripped him like a vice, Larry had approached the shell with trembling hands. He'd studied its intricate patterns, the grooves that told the story of a life long past, and made his decision. With a deep breath, he lifted it over his head and felt it settle around him, the edges conforming to the contours of his body like a second skin. A sudden jolt of energy shot through him, and the room swam in a sea of light and shadow. The concrete walls of his apartment blurred, and he was standing in a vast savannah, the smell of dew-kissed grass and the distant call of a nightingale filling his senses. The transformation was painless yet profound, as if his entire being had been unfurled and reassembled into something new. Larry looked down to see his legs, no longer the sturdy pillars that supported his human form, but sleek and muscular limbs that ended in sharp claws. His arms had become powerful wings, and a tail flicked behind him, balancing his newfound weight. He was a tortuga, a creature of myth and beauty, born from the bone of the turtle shell. The savannah stretched before him, an endless tapestry of greens and golds, punctuated by the silhouettes of towering acacia trees. The air was cool and crisp, and the world felt more alive than it ever had in his human life. Every blade of grass whispered a secret, every insect that flitted by held a story waiting to be told. The tortuga's eyes took in the grandeur of his new surroundings, and he felt a strange kinship with the creatures that roamed the land. The first few nights as a tortuga were spent exploring this alien yet exhilarating landscape. Larry discovered that his new form came with an unparalleled sense of freedom. He could run faster than the swiftest gazelle, leap higher than the most nimble antelope, and glide through the air with a grace that would make the most skilled falcon envious. His shell, once a symbol of his solitary existence, now served as both protection and a source of power, allowing him to navigate the world with newfound confidence. As the weeks passed, Larry grew accustomed to his nocturnal adventures. He'd slip into his shell at the first light of the moon and emerge in the savannah, leaving the worries of his human life behind. The creatures of the night accepted him as one of their own, and he found a strange comfort in their silent companionship. He felt a kinship with the owl that hunted with stealthy grace and the hyena that laughed in the moon's glow. One evening, as Larry the tortuga lounged by a tranquil watering hole, a sense of unease prickled his scales. A scent of danger lingered in the air, something primal and fierce. He scanned the horizon, his sharp eyes detecting a shadowy figure prowling the edge of the clearing. It was a leopard, its fur a mottled canvas of nightfall, eyes gleaming with hunger. Larry had always felt safe in his shell, but the predator's gaze sent a shiver down his spine. The leopard approached with the confidence of a creature accustomed to ruling the night. Its muscles rippled under the moon's soft light, and Larry knew he had to act swiftly. He took a deep breath and focused, willing the shell to grant him a new ability. To his astonishment, the shell's patterns began to pulse with an inner light, and he felt a surge of power. With a roar that shook the acacia trees, Larry shot forward, his powerful legs propelling him at a speed that left the leopard in a cloud of dust. The predator, caught off-guard, gave chase, its eyes never leaving the tortuga's retreating form. Larry's heart pounded in his chest, the beat echoing in the shell's hollow cavity. He pushed himself faster, his lungs burning with the effort, the wind rushing past his ears like a tempest. As the leopard closed the distance, Larry felt the shell's power surge again. He leaned into the turn, his newfound agility allowing him to dodge and weave through the underbrush with astonishing grace. The leopard's snarls grew closer, its paws pounding the earth with a relentless rhythm. Larry knew he had to outsmart the creature if he were to survive. He spotted a narrow ravine up ahead, too small for the leopard to follow. Without a second thought, he leaped into it, his shell scraping the rocky sides as he descended. The leopard skidded to a halt at the ravine's edge, peering down into the darkness. Larry could see the beast's silhouette, its tail twitching with frustration. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, his heart still racing in his chest. The shell's power pulsed around him, a warm embrace that seemed to whisper, "You're safe." He ventured deeper into the ravine, his senses on high alert. The air grew colder, and the ground beneath his clawed feet grew slick with moisture. He could feel the earth's heartbeat, steady and calming, as he descended further. The walls of the ravine closed in, the moon's glow dimming to a faint silver ribbon above. It was here that Larry discovered the shell had granted him not just speed and agility, but also the ability to navigate in the dark. His eyes, once limited by the shadowy veil of night, now pierced the gloom like twin spotlights, revealing a hidden world of scurrying critters and nocturnal blooms. The scent of the leopard faded, replaced by the rich, earthy smell of the ravine. He followed the path of a babbling brook, the sound of its flow a soothing balm to his racing thoughts. The water was cool and invigorating, and Larry took a moment to drink, the liquid trickling down his throat and filling him with vitality. As he drank, he felt the shell's power wax and wane, a gentle reminder of the balance between his two worlds. Deeper in the ravine, the air grew denser, carrying with it whispers of ancient wisdom. Larry's curiosity piqued, he followed the sound until he reached a cavern, its entrance obscured by a waterfall's veil. He ducked under the cascading water, feeling it cleanse away his fear and the dust of his escape. The cavern was vast, illuminated by a soft, bioluminescent glow from the fungi that clung to the walls. The air was thick with the scent of age and secrets long forgotten. At the center of the cavern, an ancient tortoise, larger than any Larry had ever seen, sat upon a pedestal of stone. Its eyes, ancient and wise, met Larry's, and a silent understanding passed between them. The tortoise spoke in a language that seemed to resonate within the very fabric of Larry's being, a tongue of the earth and the stars. It told him of the shell's origins, of a time when humans and mythical creatures lived in harmony, sharing the gifts of transformation and protection. Larry listened intently, his heart swelling with the weight of the tale. The tortoise spoke of guardians, individuals chosen to wield the shells of the ancients and maintain balance in the world. Each shell held a different power, tailored to the soul it chose. The shells were not mere artifacts but living legacies, born from the very essence of the creatures they represented. The ancient tortoise explained that Larry's shell had once belonged to a great hero, a tortuga whose valor had protected the savannah from the ravages of darkness. Now, it was his turn to carry on that legacy. A tremor of excitement rippled through him. He was not just a man in a turtle's form; he was a guardian of the night.

By Carlos del Puente

Vamos a encontrar las entrecortadas casas. Obtener lo que nos viene. De su vida de casas. De su cuerpo de paredes. Su saliva chorrea las paredes. Miran impasibles como las plantas se mueren. De amor lloran pues están enamoradas de lo verde. Van metamorfoseando su color por mimetismo hacia el amarillo. Las partes donde la tierra se refleja se mantienen color tierra, a veces húmedo, a veces seca. A medida que el polvo entra toman el color de los callejeros trozos a la misma altura por donde van flotando. Mismo mimetismo para las plumas y pelusas. Cuando el animal doméstico se mueve o reposa mimetiza sus correspondientes elementos, incluidos los restos de su cloaca, o aliento o baba. Enfin, hasta los gases imitan las paredes.

Carlos del Puente

 Mirarse en el espejo tiempo. Dismorfia. Se paran los días y miran. Desigual cara. Nariz movida. Frente empequeñecida. Algo se menciona en el espejo. Los contornos mirados. Variación agitadas de las formas. Desagradables percepciones. Provocadas por el espejo. ¿Qué quiere? Se hace enigma. Enfatiza la apariencia. Hace luminosas señales. Se deforman los contornos. La persistencia del espejo. Al describir defecto físico. Absurda definición . La imagen enfatizando su persistencia. Absorbe toda la atención. Fenómenos de observación. Buscar la expresión facial, la postura, el andar conforme a la armonía. Para el imaginario disimulo. Delante de los otros espejos. Hundidas  mejillas sin hueso. Cuya piel agujeros. Inflaba el cuerpo para rellenar las partes hundidas. Con cuchillas corta los pliegues. Espejo en derecho bolsillo y bajo la almohada. De noche, cada equis tiempo, entre fase REM y fase REM, verificación de que la presión de la cama no ha deformado alguna parte del rostro. En el trabajo, continuos escapes al WC. Por la calle utilizar cualquier superficie reflectante. Y la forma de la propia sombra, estudiada durante años para corregir mentalmente su natural deformidad. Estudios específicos sobre los efectos en diferentes climas, bajo diferente luminosidad: en tiempo nublado, en tiempo con lluvia, en tiempo con sol según las diferentes horas y latitudes, en tiempo al anochecer, en tiempo al amanecer, con iluminación eléctrica de intensidad variable según las calles en diversas ciudades visitadas. 

Carlos del Puente

 Llevan una sola vida. Respondiendo a órdenes completas parasitarias de lo vivido. Sobre la pena incierta de su origen. La influencia de un entorno aislado nunca perdido propicio para todo hospedaje de las aisladas carreteras del amplio territorio americano. A cuya identificación se procederá. El huésped le dará, ocasionalmente, hospedaje si el registro de su nombre responde a la regularidad. Pues su nombre debe responder a ciertos criterios. A la mínima desviación se anula anticipadamente su inscripción en la reserva de espacio. No podrá instalarse en ninguna de las superficies disponibles en el local. Y si en ese momento se presenta alguna posible duda sobre la identidad, se emprenderá una investigación a través de los medios digitales disponibles. Debe venir con acompañante para cotejar el último punto de origen. Y confiemar con los medios del gps de su dispositivo que no se ha desviado por desviaciones prohibidas.

Carlos del Puente.

 Dans le marché aux puces. Pasan las oblicuas miradas delante de una plancha de madera de conglomerado de serrín sobre dos patas desplegables.

De bajada el encuentro. Desde su pequeño tamaño, las botas tacones planos hasta las rodillas semejantes a la altura del amor idealizado por la fascinación. Se trataba de saltar hacia la vacuna piel, de un impulso de ágil atleta. Subir hasta el borde del calzado y entre entre los hilos de las gruesas medias azul marino. Cloc cloc sonaba estridente los pies al andar; tal vez por la leve humedad en el interior acumulada. Descubrió en su nocturno deambular que dicha prenda cubría la carne hasta la cintura.

Carlos del Puente 

     Iba siguiendo el olor de su amo. Se abrió la última calle ante su baja vista. Lo vio, a unos cincuenta metros de noche, oliéndose con otros. Cara a cara. Alegres. Sin tocarse.

    Dio media vuelta buscándose con rabia el rabo. Saltaba como si le mordiesen miles de chinches el vientre y las ubres y sus ambas pudendas traseras partes. Sus patas impulsaban su torso en arco hacia arriba. Estuvo sin parar dando saltos durante cada día y cuatro años. Hasta que descubrió su ignorancia.

Carlos del Puente