Participation and Collaboration
On September 23, 2022, I had the pleasure of attending the Culture Night event at the Cervantes Institute in Dublin, titled The Night of Spanish-Irish Literature. I participated as a guest alongside four writers from diverse national backgrounds, sharing in an evening that celebrated the literary connections between Spain and Ireland. In addition, I engaged in a storytelling workshop for Irish children, where we explored Spanish vocabulary and painted marine animals, fostering cultural exchange and creativity among young learners.
In collaboration with Virgen del Mar School in Cabo de Gata, I contributed by writing a personalized Christmas letter to the school director, strengthening connections with the local educational community and promoting literary engagement.
Recognition
I was honored to serve as a jury member for the INICLE Short Story Competition 2020, organized by the Irish National Institute for Literary Creativity and sponsored by the Association of Spanish Speakers in Ireland, recognizing excellence in contemporary short fiction and supporting emerging writers.
A collection of short stories, poems, and other spontaneous texts:
Bull’s eyes
The town square was packed. In the air floated a sweet scent of cotton candy, and all I could see around me were legs—long legs moving in every direction, looking for the best spot to watch the parade. My mother gently guided me toward the orchestra. The sound of tambourines and drums traveled through my small body and echoed in my ears.
Soon, floats began to parade by, carrying giants with colorful faces, in every size and shape imaginable.
Eyes shining like those of an ox.
Mocking smiles.
Wide, flat noses.
Big, rosy cheeks, the kind you want to pinch.
Then, I started to feel scared.
—Oh, Mom, I don’t like this, I said, clutching her hand.
She looked at me and, instead of saying anything, burst out laughing.
—HAHAHA!
It was a loud, clear, contagious laugh.
—Laugh, child, laughter drives away fear, she said.
—Laughter drives away fear, I repeated.
Lost childhood
As the light enters what has become her glass cage, she thinks of the childhood she never had. Playing with other children was never part of her youth; instead, her rough hands were busy sowing broad beans in the fields, shaking olive trees, and carrying water pots to all the neighbors in town. Adulthood came very early to my grandmother, and now she looks with dreamy eyes at the little girl she never was.
Warm mediterranean colors
My skin stuck to the couch; not even the air conditioning could relieve the suffocating heat of that August. The walls seemed to melt, and even my cat’s eyes pleaded for a little water.
Sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds, and my eyelids slowly closed. It was then, in that state between wakefulness and sleep, that I remembered some photographs taken by a pair of adventurous friends of my family who arrived in Cabo de Gata in the 1970s with a wonderful idea: to open a little beach bar by the sea. That place became the delight of many and the hangover of just as many others.
I realized that their joy, soul, parties, freedom, and love from those salty days are repeated in every one of my summers, where magic, fantasy, and dreams seem to be born every second in front of the sea.
Because the past is always present.
And because we’ve all had a summer that changed our lives.
Damp skin
Feet wet on the shore, resting on sand furrows left by the strong tide—big grooves like the wrinkles of an elephant. While her head rested on my shoulder, we felt the chill of those last summer days in a long embrace. With nothing left to say, we listened to the silence that has always witnessed this slow, profound way of dying. Our lips no longer meet; they are lost between damp skin and words strangled by the wind. What a slow way to die.
Noise
Her demons dragged me to the very depths of hell. My skin cried out for help, but in that immense void, no one could hear my voice. My pain drowned in tears, desperate to find a solution. And in the midst of that storm, that deafening noise, I felt a brief relief, clinging to the beauty of life, thinking that the pain would die and I would be reborn, at any moment.
Life
I landed in Ireland for the first time and had no idea how my life was about to change. This is a glimpse of the places, sensations, and moments I have experienced over the past eight years.
Waning moon
Waning moon outside.
His bronzed body rested next to mine.
The beat of his heart could be felt in his sleeping neck, his skin stretched and contracted, time and again.
His heart beat in rhythm with the sound of the crickets on that summer night.
How beautiful it was to be the only witness to that fleeting moment.
Well, the moon and I.
The air smells of sugar
Jumping through the clouds
Taking steps like an astronaut.
Golden clouds, white, ivory,
with a soft texture,
like skin simmering slowly.
The air smells of sugar.
Flying over a sea of life,
an ocean of aimless clouds.
They brush against each other, they meet,
and from their dance, new ones are born.
Breath,
Breath,
I said.
Or Is It Desperation to Be Exciting?
I throw sparks into the air,
shout loud so they will hear,
dance in the light as if I’m burning,
but is it passion or just a trick?
I chase after every shadow,
searching for something to make me shine,
but when everything falls silent,
who am I without the need to impress?
If I go quiet, will I fade?
If I stop, will they still care?
Do I burn with true desire,
or just fear of going dark?
It will pass
The love, the joy, the restless fire,
the new that lifts, the dream, the desire.
It will pass, like seasons do.
Neon hues
I paint my words in neon hues,
laughter sharp, a spark that burns—
but is it fire, fierce and true,
or just a mask my heart unlearns?
I chase the echoes down the hall,
where voices dance, but do they stay?
Am I the storm before the fall,
or just a shadow in the fray?
Glimpse of us
The other day, someone told me you still talk about me.
Surprised, I wondered —do you still remember our late-night conversations,
the silent hours, your hand resting on my belly, our footsteps on a cold beach?
Everything now lingers as a distant, empty memory, miles away —where my skin once belonged to another body.
Tell the story of what we once were, but don’t get lost in the details. In case, one day, you look into her eyes and catch
a glimpse of us in her.
No more
No more
no waiting at the door
no cups left on the table
no hands reaching in the dark.
No more knowing
where you are,
what you dream,
if you wake up alone.
I won’t say your name
like a prayer
like a wound.
I won’t wonder
if you still remember
the sound of my voice
the weight of my hands
the color of my eyes.
No seesaw
I could feel your heartbeat in your sleeping neck.
Your skin stretched and contracted, over and over, like a seesaw.
Your hear beat in time with the cricket’s song on that summer night.
But now there are not crickets, no heartbeat, no seesaw.
Where has the sound flown since you’ve been gone?
Just for a moment
Open the door to that world you only enter when all the lights go out,
when silence weights heavier than the body, when you’re so alone even your shadow doesn’t dare to follow.
Let me see the broken landscapes you hide behind your eyelids,
the fears that have no name but have shape.
Show me your hell, but don’t drag me with you…
for in all that darkness,
I might find something of mine.
And for a moment,
I might be tempted to stay.
I always knew
The road that connects us needs no maps and yet here I am walking paths I once imagined —
as if destiny were mocking my doubts and leading me, despite everything, exactly where I always knew
I would end up.
In its feathers
At dawn,
a bird slipped through my window.
It had seen your childhood dreams—
the ones you never remembered.
It spoke in whispers,
said it’s always been with you,
not seen, but felt
in quiet moments.
It flies at your side,
sings with your voice in sleep,
and hides in its feathers
the dreams you’ve left behind.
Without me
I held my screams behind my teeth,
traded my voice for your peace,
and in the end…
I was left without me.
How do I write without unraveling?
Silence
Time has taught me silence,
the pause,
the quiet strenght.
And with calmness
came the longing:
to keep going,
to open myself
to burn.
Now
I once wandered far in search of myself.
Today in stillness I am found.
The answers no longer flee.
Japanese tree
I look at the leaves on the tree:
their reddish-brown hue reminds me of the earth,
of barren land,
of the henna staining hands in Morocco,
of autumn set ablaze in Japan.
They remind me that I come from the earth
and to it I return.
I am desert dust,
dust rising,
dust returning to the sky.
And now my boots
It feels like I have lived this moment in every life I’ve ever lived. This place, these conversations, this smell. The stale scent of a carpet that has been glued to the floor for more than sixty years — who installed it? Perhaps it was an older man with hands tougher than leather, worn from pouring countless pints of beer and from working wood in his spare time. Or perhaps it was an immigrant who came to this corner of the world seeking a better life, with many dreams that were eventually cut short. Maybe he devoted care and effort to make it perfect, to soften the blows of the floor, to make this place welcoming. And now my boots brush against that worn and dusty carpet someone once laid down, and it feels as if time hasn’t passed at all. Has anyone else in this room thought about that just now?
I don’t collide
I saw myself plunging downward, as if I were jumping from a high diving board into a bottomless pool. My body kept falling and falling, and in the midst of the descent I felt pain, agony, but also liberation and relief. It was me transforming, me plummeting without ever crashing, because I don’t collide: I kiss the ground.
A night without sleep
Caffeine. I can’t sleep, and I start thinking maybe I want to write sentences like the ones in the book I’m reading. He told me the shitty weather had affected his friends’ moods. I laughed. You have no idea what it’s like to live for years under a gray sky, I thought. Matcha latte, not quite hot. I want to start something new. Truly new, yet always circling back to the old. I don’t quite fit with them. Loud music from a van. My grandmother’s hands. The beach, summer, lemons, red wine, my father’s hands, the dark spot on his right hand. Olive trees. The nightingale’s song.
Motherhood. A recurring thought, as if something were already stirring inside me before it has even begun. Creating life from nothing. Inventing a world. Your tongue entwines with mine, your eyes widen, filled with fear. I’d call this a transitional phase. Letting go of the old and stepping into the new. Everything feels so strange. His feet. How he touches the piano keys, how he caresses me. How he kisses me—I die, I melt. The warm brown of his skin. The way he walks. The scent of his fresh hair and the six sprays of perfume before bed. “Hold me or I won’t sleep,” I said. I need water with this matcha; my tongue is rough. Spring arrives, and I want to do with you what the season does with the cherry trees.
Create, create, create. To hell with self-destruction. I see paths beyond this river. I whisper and I cry. I cry in bed hearing my elderly neighbor sing a lullaby at dawn. I think of her childhood, of my old age. I think of what was and what is. I think of her wrinkled hands, like my grandmother’s. My latest dreams are hers too. I share them. You will never know their color.
Good wood, the kind that carries weight. I see wood and smell it in this new home. I’ve carried many houses, many adventures; my path continues, transforms, flows. I experience sensations that only bloom when I watch an Italian film, especially Sorrentino.
Sunrise. The things I will do before becoming a mother. But what things? I think, I think, and I will keep thinking. Loud music, the sway of my hips, the stillness of yours. I laugh. I like making my sisters laugh.
My body at fourteen, at twenty-two, at thirty-one. My mother and her hair, all the hours she’s spent at the salon. My mother and her facial creams. My grandmother, my great-grandmother, my great-great-grandmother, all the women of this world. My father and his online orders. My sister going from desert lands to green valleys. The deep blue of the sea. Life, life.
Days racing forward and I with them. Parchis games. The joy of school trips by bus. Walks on the beach in cold rain. Whole nights drinking and dancing in Irish pubs. Kisses to strangers. Youth, divine treasure. The last photo I took with my grandmother. The joy of sharing a cold beer with friends in the sun, on a terrace among gildas and laughter.
Sleepless nights. The things I never said. The danger of obsession. The weight of guilt. Years un-lived, light-years from my origin. Mice behind the walls. White snow falling, blanketing everything, shining. Life cushioned in cotton confuses the power of words. Languages I will never learn. Crying in the cinema, sex under the open sky. I start thinking that maybe I can too. Returning to the country I lived in ten years ago. Life’s twists—mine and everyone else’s in unison. I always learn when I want to.
The devilish smile of a clown
Dried flowers and petals scattered across a table. The piercing noise of a rusty train. Summer siestas where the sheets cling to your skin and bare feet breathe at the edge of the bed. A starry sky beneath a sugarcane field. Dirty sex, sex that touches the soul, sex that hurts, sex with strangers, with forbidden loves, with jealous and inhibited loves. Sex in a club to the sound of techno music in a Berlin nightclub. Parties. Wigs and costumes. The smell of cigarette smoke soaked into hair and clothes. Waking up in a hotel with the best sheets your skin has ever touched. The smile of a stranger as you cross the street.
The plants you try to care for tenderly that end up dying like everything, like everyone someday. To die like a fish dies without water, to die of agony, of suffocation. To die the way our love died. We both burned and from the ashes I was able to rise again. Tell me funny things, amusing things, I want to laugh until I piss myself and keep laughing with a stomachache that burrows inside me and my body locks up but I laugh laugh laugh laugh.
I don’t see any newborn pigeons anywhere. The ridiculousness of the ridiculous. Sometimes I get intense; I should add a joke before this becomes unbearable.
Tantric sex. My first blowjob, my first kiss with tongue in a park, my second under a beach towel and a westerly wind blowing so hard that sand got into our ears. Hey, but how fun this is, I think.
The misunderstood jealousy that digs into a body. Nodding in a work meeting without understanding a thing. The day the Twin Towers fell. Remembering something embarrassing before going to sleep that happened twelve years ago and still feeling ashamed, and then you fall asleep, wake up, and you’re no longer ashamed.
The promise he made to me with his pinky finger. Many times I’ve thought about the feeling of being someone else for a few hours, a day, a week. Looking at myself in the mirror and not recognizing anything of me. Déjà vus. When someone ruins a surprise and you have to pretend you haven’t heard anything. The golden palaces of Russia, the red carpets and the horse-drawn carriages. Money, the money that flies from your bed to my panties. The money that goes and comes back like a carnival ride.
Phone calls in the early hours of the morning. Your kiss. Your smile. Your hair against my cheek that goes ting ting ting. Your cheek against mine. Looking at you and understanding you, smiling because you know that we both have each other. Always.
Dreaming of spring
Those who think they are required to choose just one thing to do for the rest of their lives.
Those who change direction at 35 and have children at 40.
Those who start over at 50 without asking fear for permission.
The good decisions.
The roads that lead to bankruptcy and still teach us something.
The paintings hanging on the wall that decorate, yet sit slightly crooked, and no one dares to straighten them.
Accepting the intensity.
The stages.
My transformations.
Being a seed, being a sprout, being a root that sinks into darkness before reaching the light.
The photographs from my childhood.
The curlers in my great-grandmother’s hair.
The tapas bar on the corner.
The contractions of a pregnant woman, that ancient force that splits pain in two to make way for life.
Those who lie, and you know they are lying.
Friends who go years without seeing each other, yet when they meet, everything feels the same.
Kisses on the forehead.
Tickles on the belly.
What we think about before falling asleep, when no one is watching and we are truer than ever.
A field of lavender stretching out like a violet sigh.
The scent of spring hanging in the air, suspended, promising new beginnings.
Clean sheets hanging on the line.
Crickets and bees, ants and butterflies.
The quiet murmur of life holding up the world.
Let everything fly with me.
Let everything sing with me.
Let everything grow inside me.
I swear I will return it to the earth with open hands.
Embracing Mother Nature as the sun slowly descends, setting the sky ablaze.
May flowers be born within me and allow me to change my course without fear.
May the butterfly guide me toward good decisions and not toward the bankruptcy of the soul.
The flowers in this field are as pink as my great-grandmother’s curlers.
The honey in this hive is as sweet as the tapas at the bar on the corner.
The contractions of that pregnant woman are as strong as a lion’s roar, as steady as a mountain that does not move even when struck by the wind.
Wrap me in your air, spring.
Make me yours.