The pen
Mark was writing his best work. He slid the pencil along the lines with fine black squares, the phrases flowed on the virginal canvas witness of his ideas, a little crazy, but passionate. His fine hands squeezed the instrument of his writing, one by one the letters were engraved in the imperishable archive of his creations. His face drew with his lips a smile of orgasmic delight, as he watched his great story take shape.
"Mark, love of my life, come to lunch." A voice interrupted the writer's hypnotic trance.
"Coming, woman." A thread of annoyance was visible coming out from between his teeth.
At the woman's command, Mark left his small pencil on the side of the cedar table, stained with colored drops, and hurriedly got up to meet his long-time accomplice of stories and verses.
Mark would arrive at the dining room and trace with his gaze the curvaceous figure of his great love, then he would meet pearly teeth, almost perfect, almost white, that received him in a cordial welcome to the spontaneous appointment, born from among silent habits forged of years.
"My life, how do you go on with your great work?" A smitten gesture escaped from the woman's crimson lips.
"It's already for little, a few more chapters and I'll have the wonderful work ready to enchant many eyes. Haha..." The hasty laughter was not long in coming and filled the whitish space of the dining room.
"I'm so glad, my life." The woman focused her honey-colored eyes on the man's scrawny, slightly demented figure.
"My love, things will be different after this, believe me."
She would let out a sigh into the frigid air and stand up without uttering a word, then turn her back to Mark, who stood expectantly for an answer that would not come immediately. The man stood up a little disappointed and left the dining room, walking down the colorful tiled hallway, adorned with a faint shadow of years gone by.
"I believe you." The woman's sweet voice cut through the tense silence that hung in the air.
Mark smiled and swung his legs in a rapid repetitive cycle. He reached into the dream workshop, as he called his creative space, grabbed a faded chair, and dragged it over to where the cedar table sat. Intense noise took over the house for a brief moment, filling the ears with annoying sounds.
Slender hands picked up the pencil and kept pace with Mark's ideas. He flew between fluctuating and unconnected ideas, which then took shape in his ingenious and talented mind. He could feel that pleasant sensation that made his heart beat with more life than ever, that almost orgasmic delight was the machine that gave him the strength to face the problems of reality, which he escaped while inventing destinies at will.
The writer put the final touches of inventiveness, and closed with a grand finale, as the night fell like a theater curtain at the end of the show. Mark felt an effervescent pleasure as he brought the 290 pages, a year's work, to a close. He stood up and grabbed his lower back and stretched it in a gentle backward motion, to shake off the mild ache of a productive day.
He would return to the kitchen and grab his wife by the back in an ecstasy of joy. "Rejoice, woman, today the most wonderful work of all time was born, haha..."
"How much humility my ears hear, Mr. writer, haha..... I am very glad, love, and when do you have to send the text?" The woman's eyes rested on Mark's ecstatic face, waiting for an answer.
"In two days, I have to call the editor to tell me what to do." Excitement was still fluctuating with vivid expressions on his face.
Mark would call the publisher who would give him the guidelines to send the text, Mexico would be the destination of his great work, but he had to pay a high sum of money to send the book. Mark's spirits fell to the ground when he heard the news, sighs came out in single file, as he walked ungainly and with slumped shoulders.
He got as far as the house and his wife was greeting him warmly, then asking. "What happened, love?"
"Leave me, woman, I don't want to talk about it." He locked himself in the workshop of dreams and began to throw everything away in a vain effort to vent his pent-up rage and helplessness. Then he threw himself on the cold floor and with his gaze lost in nothingness let time slip away.
His wife would come in and lie down next to him, embrace him and a kiss on the cheek left a mark, with the illusion of making the writer feel better.
"Woman, I have lost my last hope, the money they are asking for is impossible to give". He would turn and turn his back to the woman. "You don't deserve a loser, you don't deserve this life full of needs, you are worth much more than this pigsty where I have you living, please leave."
"What are you saying?" the woman asked in bewilderment. "We can look for the money, we can..."
"You didn't listen, woman, get out! I don't want to see you again, go away, go away, go away, leave me alone."
Mark would get up and run out of the house, as his eyes expelled tears that flew to the wind lost in frustrations of a lifetime. He got so drunk that his reality was lost in stories created by ethyl alcohol, he woke up the next day lying in a pasture, while a dog licked his face.
He returned home at noon and saw no one. He went to the workshop of dreams and set about burning his text. Once the bonfire was made he uttered delirious words, while he saw the leaves. He took the book and lifted it into the air, at that instant his wife shouted. "Don't do it!"
"What do you say, woman? This has only brought me misfortune and poverty, I don't need it anymore, I have given up."
"Do you remember you once told me that no matter what happened there was still hope?". The woman's crystalline eyes rested on Mark. "There's still hope, love." She held out her hand, and a wad of bills she held out to the incredulous writer.
"Where did you get so much money?" she would ask puzzled, Mark.
"Remember my family's gold chain? My mother gave it to me this morning and I went to pawn it." The woman let out a few tears.
Mark embraced his wife and felt that hope was reborn in his heart, he took the text to the post office, and after a few months, his great work was a success, fame and fortune did not take long to appear. The book was dedicated to his great love who despite everything was there unconditionally.
...For the love of my life, Yei.
The end
La pluma
Mark se encontraba escribiendo su más grande obra. Deslizaba su lápiz por los renglones con cuadrículas finas y negras, fluían las oraciones en el lienzo virginal testigo de sus ideas, un poco locas, pero apasionantes. Sus delgadas manos apretaban el instrumento de su escritura, una a una las letras iban quedando grabadas en el sempiterno archivo de sus creaciones. Su rostro dibujaba con sus labios una sonrisa de deleite orgásmico, en tanto, miraba como su gran historia iba tomando forma.
«Mark, amor de mi vida, ven a almorzar». Una voz interrumpía el trance hipnótico del escritor.
«Ya voy, mujer». Un hilo de enfado se denotaba salir de entre dientes.
A la orden recibida por la mujer, Mark dejaba su pequeño lápiz a un lado de la mesa de cedro, manchada con gotas de colores y se levantaba presuroso al encuentro con aquella cómplice de muchos años de historias y versos.
Mark llegaba al comedor y rastreaba con su mirada la figura curvilínea de su gran amor, luego se encontró con unos dientes perlados, casi perfectos, casi blancos, que lo recibían en una cordial bienvenida a la cita espontánea, nacida de entre costumbres silentes forjada de años.
«Mi vida, ¿cómo sigues con tu gran obra?». Un gesto enamorado se escapaba de los labios carmesí de la mujer.
«Ya es por poco, algunos capítulos más y tendré la maravillosa obra lista para hechizar a muchos ojos. Jaja...». La precipitada risa no se hizo esperar y llenó el espacio blanquecino del comedor.
«Me alegro mucho, mi vida». La mujer enfocaba sus ojos color miel sobre la figura escuálida y un poco demente del hombre.
«Mi amor, serán diferentes las cosas después de esto, créeme».
Ella soltaba un suspiro al gélido aire y se levantaba sin pronunciar una sola palabra, luego daba la espalda a Mark, quien se quedaba expectante por una respuesta que no llegaría de inmediato. El hombre se levantó un poco decepcionado y dejaba el comedor, recorría el pasillo de baldosa de colores, adornadas con una tenue sombra de años pasados.
«Te creo». La dulce voz de la mujer cortaba el tenso silencio que flotaba en el aire.
Mark sonreía y movilizaba las piernas en un rápido ciclo repetitivo. Llegó hasta el taller de los sueños, como él llamaba a su espacio creativo, tomó una silla descolorida y la arrastró hasta donde se encontraba la mesa de cedro. El ruido intenso se tomó la casa por un breve instante, llenando los oídos de molestos sonidos.
Las delgadas manos tomaron el lápiz y siguieron el compás de las ideas de Mark. Él volaba entre ideas fluctuantes e inconexas, que luego tomaban forma en su ingeniosa y talentosa mente. Él podía sentir esa sensación tan agradable que le hacía latir el corazón con más vida que nunca, aquel deleite casi orgásmico era la máquina que le daba bríos para afrontar los problemas de la realidad, a la cual escapaba mientras inventaba destinos a su voluntad.
El escritor daba los últimos toques de inventiva, y cerraba con un gran final, en tanto la noche caía como un telón de teatro al finalizar el espectáculo. Mark sentía un placer efervescente al dar el punto final a las 290 páginas, el trabajo de todo un año. Se levantó y tomándose la parte baja de la espalda la estiraba en un suave movimiento hacia atrás, para sacudirse el suave dolor de una tarde productiva.
Volvía a la cocina y tomaba a su mujer por la espalda en un éxtasis de alegría. «Alégrate mujer, hoy ha nacido la obra más maravillosa de todos los tiempos, jaja...».
«Cuanta humildad oyen mis oídos, señor escritor, jaja... Me alego mucho, amor, y ¿cuándo tiempo tienes que enviar el texto?». Los ojos de la mujer se posaron en el rostro extasiado de Mark, esperando una respuesta.
«Dentro de dos días, debo llamar al editor para que me diga que hacer». La emoción seguía fluctuando con expresión vivas por rostro.
Mark llamaba al editor quien le daba las pautas para enviar el texto, México sería el destino de su gran obra, pero debía pagar una alta suma de dinero para enviar el libro. El ánimo de Mark cayó al suelo cuando escuchó la noticia, suspiros salían en fila india, mientras caminaba desgarbado y con los hombros caídos.
Llegó hasta la casa y su mujer lo recibía calurosamente, luego le preguntaba. «¿Qué sucedió, amor?»
«Déjame, mujer, no quiero hablar de eso». Se encerró en el taller de los sueños y empezó a tirar todo en un vano esfuerzo por desahogar la furia y la impotencia contenida. Luego se tiró en el piso frío y con la mirada perdida en la nada dejó escapar el tiempo.
Su mujer entraba y se acostaba junto a él, lo abrazó y un beso en la mejilla dejó marcado, con la ilusión de hacer sentir mejor al escritor.
«Mujer, he perdido mi última esperanza, el dinero que piden es imposible de darlo». Se volteaba y daba la espalda a la mujer. «No mereces un perdedor, no mereces esta vida llena de necesidades, vales mucho más que está pocilga donde te tengo viviendo, por favor, vete».
«¿Qué es lo que dices?», preguntaba desconcertada la mujer. «Podemos buscar el dinero, pedir...»
«No escuchaste, mujer, ¡lárgate! No quiero volver a verte, vete, vete, vete, déjame solo».
Mark se levantaba y salía corriendo de la casa, en tanto sus ojos expelían lágrimas que volaban al viento perdidas en frustraciones de una vida entera. Se embriagó tanto que su realidad se perdió en historias creadas por el alcohol etílico, se despertó al día siguiente tirado en un pasto, mientras un perro lamió su rostro.
Volvió a casa al medio día y no vio a nadie. Se dirigió al taller de los sueños y se dispuso a quemar su texto. Una vez hecha la hoguera pronunciaba palabras delirantes, mientras veía las hojas. Tomó el libro y lo levantó hacia los aires, en ese instante su mujer gritaba. «¡No lo hagas!».
«¿Qué dices, mujer? Esto solo me ha traído desgracia y pobreza, ya no lo necesito más, he renunciado».
«¿Recuerdas que una vez me dijiste que sin importar lo que pasará aún había esperanza?». Los ojos cristalinos de la mujer se posaban sobre Mark. «Aún hay esperanza, amor». Extendía la mano y un fajo de billetes le mostraba al incrédulo escritor.
«¿De dónde sacaste tanto dinero?», preguntaba desconcertado, Mark.
«¿Recuerdas la cadena de oro de mi familia? Mi madre me la dio esta mañana y la fui a empeñarla». La mujer soltaba algunas lágrimas.
Mark abrazaba a su mujer y sintió que la esperanza volvía a renacer en su corazón, llevó el texto a la oficina de correos, luego de unos meses su gran obra era todo un éxito, la fama y la fortuna no tardaron en aparecer. El libro fue dedicado a su gran amor que a pesar de todo estuvo allí incondicionalmente.
...Para el amor de mi vida, Yei.
Fin
are free to use.
Link to page: https://images.ai/
Edited by Rincón Poético.
Text authored by:
Camilo Torres
DRA
¡Thanks for you reading!
BEAUTIFUL STORY i ESPECIALLY LOVE THE DETAILS ON IT
Thanks for passing and leaving your comment. I'm glad you liked it.
Good day.
An interesting story about the ups and downs of the writer's life. We are left with the question: why did the publisher require the author to send a large amount of money? A note on something that may have gotten mixed up in translation: A few times the wife refers to her husband as "my life." Presumably this should be "my love."
Thank you for joining the "delight" prompt, @rinconpoetico7.
Thanks for stopping by and leaving your comment, I'm always happy to read you here.
Regarding your questions.
The money thing is requested to publish the book and the word 'my life' here in my country is used a lot to name the couple, I think my mistake was not thinking that I was going to readers who might be confused.
Happy new week!
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You're welcome @rinconpoetico7! Have a nice day 😊👍
This is beautiful. “He that finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the lord”.
His wife is very supportive and that is what makes him to keep trying.
Thanks for reading and leaving your comment. I'm glad you liked the story.
Good day.
Hi @rinconpoetico7, I love your story, sometimes we feel frustrated to see that we can not see our dreams come true as in the case of Mack, however he has a that right help, hardworking woman, who despite the circumstances did not see limitations. But best of all, it was worth the effort, because behind it all was success.