Some published works

Dear 2021,

I realize you have left me mentally and physically exhausted and thus, crippled, in my literary schemes. For this, and maybe a few other reasons too, I resent you. I have gone through many ups and downs in the last two years and I see my future filled with the same amount of excitement I've lived through before. I'm also terrified of any endeavors I have planned within your realms, susceptible to your whims and fancies. 

And such, seeing as you have followed the footsteps of your predecessors, I want to remind you that you have collectively failed to reduce me. And, to prove my point, I leave you with two of my published written works, available to all my dearest readers here.

The Journal of Artistic Creation and Literary Research 

            Complutense University of Madrid 

        

            Artistic Creation ISSN 2340-650X

            

            JACLR 2019 - Volume 7 - Issue 2 - C

                    Link to site

                

                    Link to pdf 

                    *the email provided in the document does not correspond to my own email address

Opera Prima Publishing House

            Anthology Mashup 2020 - Fantastical Creatures and the Classics

            

            ISBN: 978-84-9946-536-4

                    Link to site

                    Link to pdf

                    *the short story can be found on pages 5-11

All my love to my loyal readers, who still message me requesting more of my ramblings. To you, I promise literary ceaseessness. To the newfound travelers who have more recently encountered said ramblings, welcome, I hope you'll forgive my lack of consistency. Life has taken advantage of a busy schedule, which I hope one day will be no more than a distant remembrance. 

Here, if you will allow me, I reiterate two important facts. Ab initio, my work is fictional. Though some interpretation, inspiration, understanding of my world seeps through, don't glide through unrealistic reality. And finem suum, I keep edited copies of my work to myself. To the world (on this blog), I present developed versions of the rough drafts, which I believe display the transparency behind the process, and the reason behind some rough grammatical readings at times. However, my disclaimer to this latter explanation resides in the characterization of my work as that of abstract nature, which is not meant to be confused with ungrammatical, as some have kindly pointed out to me before. 

And so, with this gentle reminder of my existence, I retreat once more to the person behind the screen, with only the following to end my note to you:

More to come...

Esther Alós-Ordiales

When Shipped Away

It started out in the bar around the corner. The bar I never remembered the name of, so it was left to the bar around the corner. Even when time had passed, too much time, and the neighborhood changed, we moved, the owner sold the place. But it was still the bar around the corner, the bar where it had all started. And where it ended.

It was a whirlwind romance, the kind the movie industry likes to advertise. Woman and man meet at a bar, fall for each other’s eyes, and get swept up in the romance and fairytale of it all. The day I met him, sleek jeans and a pink shirt. And that cologne, that cologne that surrounded the aroma of his soul, left on my bedsheets for days on end, breezing through my apartment. In his smell, I bloomed. I still remember how that scent of his wafted through the bar around the corner, lingering on my beer and finding a home on the bottles and napkins scattered all over the place. How we laughed about it months after, the way my eyes darted to his as he walked past, searching for the owner of what smelled like hidden dreams. We laughed as we remembered the subtle-less intake of air I took. But we stopped laughing when we remembered his own intake of air, a gasp of sorts, an exclamation of admiration, fascination, inclination. That day we spoke what our hearts had kept hidden in their burrows, the first time we shared our soul with each other.

And then there was Madrid. An abrupt change induced by the promise of better lives. Within the busy streets, the loud chatter, the continuous smiles, we found a new home to build on. We even discovered a bar that resembled the bar around the corner, a feeling of giddiness that overtook us when we first encountered it, of feeling we had never actually left home, just evolved with it. And how we fought for it, defending it, refusing to let the illusion fall from our grasp. When it got boarded up and abandoned, we let go. From our hands fell the mirage turned desperation. Because it wasn’t the bar around the corner, it never quite crept into our lives with the same sudden fervor of love. We buried our sorrow, we had each other in this new frantic world. We turned to coffee.

And with the introduction of coffee in our lives, we continued to be happy. Thrown into a city with Sunday breakfasts and life based on social interactions, we had coffees with newfound friends. Tuning into the secrets of the city, we found the cheap paces, the homely ones. We entered into the ways of a happy city starting its sunny summer. Madrid accepted us for ten months, by which then closeness had solidified our love. Walking the small streets, strolling throughout the green pockets of air, enjoying the scale numbers going up with each meal shared. And with the meals, we shared our lives and we shared our hearts. I had never met anyone like him, a combination of odd parts merging into my quirks. From eternal conversations of weather and philosophy, of shopping lists and literary analyses, from weekly household tasks to witty irony. And the silences. The silences which at times we secluded ourselves in, a bubble clouded in a display of misty thoughts, in a comprehension of the volumes unspoken, in the appreciation of sitting and being, of each other.

April is the cruelest month, a synonym found in a commonly adored work, and we left Madrid amidst untroubled vivacity. Paris, the city of love, was to be our upcoming destination.  We were excited about the promised romance, we searched for the inside jokes the city whispered, we looked forward to an ever after. We were mistaken. We confused romance with lust, love with terror, appreciation with confusion. But what a city. We fell in love with Paris with a vehemence close to the love we felt towards Madrid. We fell in love with the roaming arms of the river, the moody skies prone to surprise showers, the atmosphere of sophistication. We even fell in love with the crowds of tourists, understanding and smiling along, for Madrid had trained us well, for beauty attracts adoration. It must have been the dream, it must have. It must have been the dream of love in the city of lights, for as we fell in love with Paris too, we were running out of love for each other. Paris had us for half the time Madrid did.

And then we were home, to where it all had started. And conversations no longer revolved around future plans, and silences were interrupted with T.V. nonsense when they started becoming uncomfortable. We put our lives in order and held a yard sale, disposing of the baggage in our hearts along with material memories. He sold his pink shirt, I turned the dress of the first night into rags for the kitchen spills. We fell into a spiral of lack of self-control, we forgot past love, we delved into illogical explanations of what seemed an unnatural romance.

And then I was alone. And fake romance played into my life once more, sitting on the bench with the rain falling onto my face, getting drenched in a metaphor of sadness. Except this wasn’t a movie anymore, this was my heart crying, yearning for the carefree rain in Paris, for the sunny terraces in Madrid, not this heart-wrenching coldness. And I had never thought reality could involve love so powerful and so deep, I never thought I’d find in someone else what I never knew I needed. He had changed me, helped me grow, and we had evolved together, in a hurricane of emotions and happiness. He had walked away from me, those sleek jeans in a box left behind for goodwill, his hands full and his heart empty. And I had watched him leave, with shredded thoughts and dashed hopes, waiting for the scene in which he would turn around and regret it. Regret the times we had left the disagreement fester between us, regret the times where differences were held accountable for unreasonable responses, regret the moment we decided to not fight for the feelings dripping through our fingers onto the floor. But he continued walking away, taking with him the aroma I once called home, and I continued to sit on the bench until he disappeared from view. Past the bar around the corner.

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  Esther Alós-Ordiales © All rights reserved 

Reverie

He's started writing poetry again.

He says it's not an outlet. At least, it isn't as much of an outlet as it used to be. He says that for now, all it is is a habit. And habits die hard, so he says. But it's stopped being art.

He doesn't let her read it anymore. It's too painful. And he's no longer as strong as he was with the pain. He can no longer escape pain as easily as he used to. Funny how important that fact used to be to him. How he would strut around like the inflated peacock he thought he was. Funny how his ability to move beyond any excruciating pain defined the basis of his character. How he would think of himself as a tree rooted in strength with all the branches coming out developing his personality.

He knows it's a waste of time to think about her. All that ever did was bring an onslaught of negative thoughts that never failed to make his day somewhat worse. Has it prompted his return to the world of poetry? But it's not poetry, it's a desperate attempt for life.

I never longed for winter, your presence always made me shiver.

It's hard to believe that sometimes things change radically for the worse and sometimes so suddenly.

Sometimes, outside in the cold, you would never notice the chilly brisk in an afterthought of the morning breeze. The soothing winds in a blistering summer heat. 

Some mornings are harder than others, but he thought he could pull through it. Thought, past tense.

When the forgotten whispers started to undulate around you, the changes had already been put into motion

Some nights are better than most, the thoughts being drowned out by the overbearing weight of the rest of the sleepless nights. She was curled up beside him, her feet always cold, her body always smaller. The soothing presence only comparable to the stars that blinked above them. And when she's there, he sleeps through the night, sleep so deep it resembles only age-old trees silencing the forest.

The brisk thoughts that would arise from being in your presence. The overtone that changed my heart.

The nights she's not there, though. Restless sheep jumping through the air, no meadow in sight, crashing and breaking bones, no graceful leaps. These nights he can only think of the infinite studies for sleeping drugs that never work on him. The anesthesia isn't created from the other drugs that helped thousands though. It's created from the exhaustion of tear ducts, the natural development of logic turned to the heart.

The warmth everyone searches for never appeared when I was beside you. I was summer, you were winter. 

When he writes his poetry, he sits down in front of a pencil and paper. It is never a pen he uses because a pencil can be erased. And some memories that come out of the graphite don't deserve to hold on to an afterlife. They deserve to serve as a temporary reprieve and disappear forever into the eraser muck, they deserve to be banished from existence with the hand that draws them. The acknowledgment of bitterness turned into sweet nothingness.

You were the fading light in the midst of blue larkspur. I was the tanning sun amongst the patches of black-eyed Susan. 

While most days the paper never sees life, he will give it the attention it craves, for hours if need be. It's a mixture between the want of the remembrance and the hate of the memories, leading to the ultimate lack of scripture. But it's getting better, he says. He's started writing poetry again.

But every cold spell is fought with the warmth of homemade soup. And you adored my soups. And every desert needs it's chillier nights to give momentary respite to its inhabitants.

She's the inspiration to his recovery, the cause of his desolation. And the days she sat beside him. She's his best work, she's his worst thoughts. And the days she would have her hand curled up in his hair. She chases away the black, the very blackness that comes to her call. And the days a kiss on the shoulder was the replacement of the cigarette he would start craving. Her power fuels him, it sucks his energy out of him. And the days hours turned to minutes, when silence spoke of the unspoken love.

You weren't the yin to my yang because each of us had the other already in us, we were two semi-complete souls in search of our last missing piece. I was your old-comforting blanket, you were the ice in my cocktail. You were me, and I was you. 

But the seasons are changing and the wind is getting restless. I don't know how much strength my sail has left in it, how much life I can give giving it, the stitches are no longer holding it together. I've tried to give myself more stitches and I'm running out of thread. Stitches aren't enough for a broken heart. 

But why is it cold suddenly?

The whisper of your body leaving the room, the changes my life took in from you, the best unimaginable version of a person You created. You're gone now and 

That cold touch he recognizes. He's looking around, his vision blurry, his heart pounding.

You're gone now and I no longer have it in me to feel anymore. You are this 

It's too familiar, the breath he feels over his shoulder, the perfume he used to love smelling on her, the correct size of the hand he used to hold so often.

You are this poem, the winds of life you took with you. You are the

It can't be! He's starting writing poetry again to stop living in her memory. He can't have her in his life anymore, he has to stop imagining she's there with him. Deep breaths he's so used to going through to stop the inevitable anxiety attacks her memory brought him.

You are the life I no longer have, the soft light in a muted world. I'm tumbling down the dark crevice your death opened for me. I'm turning into nothing without you.

And yet, it is. She's here with him, he knows.

She was gone, he promised her he would live on. He promised himself he wouldn't be able to live without her.

But she's here, he knows.

Bringing her death to memory is much too painful, but he can't stop from chastising himself for being so bold to think she's still alive. Death is final, death is ultimate, death is the one unchanging shift in the continuous change of the universe. Death has her in a tight hold.

But she's here. He knows it's her breath he's feeling over his shoulder, he knows it's her perfume he's smelling, he knows the hand resting on his shoulder is hers, he knows those eternally curious eyes are reading the poem he's writing for her. The previously blackened room is dawning with her presence.

But, once more my love, you save me. You bring the cooling thoughts to my overheated heart. 

He writes for her, he writes with her. He's started writing poetry again.

Only this time, he's not escaping a reality without her. He's started writing poetry again to show everyone, to show himself, the wonderful soul that she was. He's starting writing poetry to feel again, to live again, to keep her alive.




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  Esther Alós-Ordiales © All rights reserved 

The Way History Breaks Us

The elevation of expectations gives way to the incoherency of desire. An urgent tendency to become something linked to the past itself, dreams that overrule logistics algorithms.

But what you've done quite mistakes the matter.

The curious resurrection of an infinite doubt, timeless in the passing of time. Pessimistic or glass-half-full regrets to mention the overvalue given to the revelation distraught.

Unkempt expectations that lean against the ribcage in a pounding of everlasting forgetfulness. The importance then bears down on the feeling of a state of surpass which unwillingly becomes a willful action.

 Curious how thoughts go through the process of distastefull descent.

How forgiveness, being the (soul) motivator to go back to the tasteful, pushes aside what leads to survival. The dripping into the well where expectations breed the overprotected wall the dam forgot to give attention to.

Because then the only solution for the grief is called to attention again by own pull.

The mistaken manner history forced the betrayal to blindside. Because of course, the other side is silent. Because of course, the expectations renew their energy into the darkest energy they have.

Pummeled into our brains to live out tough love.

Please don't forget expectations are merely specks of misinformation drained though imaginative mentality. The rare occasion of mislead expectations should shine through the rare connotations and foresee the unrare.





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  Esther Alós-Ordiales © All rights reserved 

A Shell With No Body

The walls echo with the silence of your steps. The windows only reflect the fading light in the morning. Birds sing empty songs and my body reacts with the absence of your touch.

They say time can heal anything. But how much time is supposed to pass then? Should I count the seconds since I last saw you or should I count the hours that have passed since the last sunset we saw. I could count the endless minutes spent in your embrace, when the minutes were hours and the hours days, when time meant nothing but a word.

I doubt I could describe what I'm feeling by saying I have a broken heart. It's more of a screaming match against my pillow 3 am. Waiting for water to boil and breaking down because there's still a packet of your favorite tea left that I see when I take mine. It's sitting on the bench because the bus is late and realizing you usually waited with me. Eyes wide open staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, numb. It's turning on the TV to distract myself, only to find the last episode of the series we never got to finish together.

I miss you.

I'm lost. Lost in the memory of your eyes, the way they lit up as if the sun were shinning in them. Lost in the memories of your mouth, where love crossed physical barriers. Lost in the memory of your ears, your nose, the way you always listened to me and the way you said your favorite smell was mine.

I miss you.

I still remember our lazy days. How we lay on the couch watching reruns between kisses. How we sat at the table in the dining room doing whatever work we had to catch up on, legs brushing between strokes of pencils. How we figured out how to cook that horribly complicated recipe we found online and we ended up having to open all the windows because we burnt it. Those days we wouldn't get out of bed because, outside the covers, only cold waited to attack us, intertwining our legs seeking the warmth of the other.

You're everywhere.

Home doesn't feel like home anymore. There are only empty walls around me, a house that is no longer a home. The bed is desolate without you, and I can't sleep anymore. Maybe one day I'll find that spot in the house where your presence lingers less. But, for now, you're everywhere. It hurts more at night, when I turn around to be in your arms, only to find cold air and empty sheets.

You're everywhere but you're gone.

I didn't think you could do so much damage. I didn't think you could move on so quickly when I can barely form any coherent thoughts about you. I didn't think losing you would tear my world apart. I didn't think that I would break down at random moments during my day. I know it's love. And love has been compared to a flower blooming in spring.  I believe in comparing love to a river. To me, love is a river that is eternally flowing, not a spring flower that blooms only once. I just didn't think it would hurt this much.

I love you.

I try to keep myself busy, but I always end up coming back to you. Every time I hesitate, you jump into my thoughts again. I've let go of any physical thing that reminded me of you but I can´t let go of the memories, I can't let go of our walks hand in hand with no destination in mind, I can't let go of your smile. I can't just throw my thoughts in the trash, I can't just walk away from you. 

I miss our conversations in the dark of the night, a bowl of popcorn balanced between us. When we would tell our deepest secrets and make fun of each other. I miss our conversations during breakfast, both too sleepy to talk about anything coherently, but trying to mutter plans for the day and wishing luck. I miss our conversations driving back home from having dinner out, talking about what now might have been. Those conversations about our future. The cat we would adopt and the bizarre names we came up with for our children, the first car we would buy together and the toys we would buy at Christmas. How you whispered in my ear, one cold winter night, that we would grow old and cuddle up together on the couch, seeing comfort for our weary limbs and finding it in the touches of the love we would share.

Solitary melancholy.

I feel your ghost standing behind me as I sit for dinner with my parents. You're their ghost too, one constant flashback conversation starter. You're in my brother's mouth, telling me to call you because he found one of the collection cards you gave him. My mother still has hopes of seeing you walk through the door with me, hand in hand, as if you never let go. My father still waits for you so you can fix his old truck together.

My boat is drifting and you left me without the paddles.

I even miss our fights. The adrenaline running through our systems, strong feelings overpowering are sane thoughts. I keep thinking about the way you would say sorry, drawing me in to the honest truth in your eyes. How the harsh words would vanish into our hugs. You were never resentful, while I was brutally honest. And now, I'm the resentful one, despising all the hate between us.

Love is so much more than three words.

I honestly thought we would have the whole world together. I see a picture of a cute animal and my first response is to send it to you. All those inside jokes nobody else got, little comments that would make us roar in laughter. I remember when we were joing around and you said I was your queen and that we would rule the world together. We honestly believed that once, we thought we would conquer everything, anything. But now I just feel alone, lost at sea, and I can't find anything to hold on to. You were once my one stable thing in my life and now I don't know where to hold on. I can't seem to stop bumping into things or forgetting the rest of my sentence. I never knew what people meant when they said they felt lost. Until now.

The walls echo with the silence of your steps. They echo a love left behind. The windows only reflect the fading light in the morning. They reflect what once was. Birds sing empty songs and my body reacts with the absence of your touch. We'll both tell our story one day, to someone else who has taken all our love once again. We'll tell our story one day, remembering only what joy it brought us. We'll tell our story one day, when we no longer break down at the sound of each other's name. We'll tell our story one day, you'll see.


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Long absence, I know. Extremely long. Please forgive me, a lot of stuff has been going on in my life for a while now and I just didn't feel like writing. I'm back again though, and this time I'm staying for a while. For the few people reading this that know me personally, I'd like to repeat that while I do draw inspiration from things happening in my life, that doesn't mean that what I write is based on real events, even if what I write looks like it is.

I love you.

Read, enjoy, share, comment, love.

  Esther Alós © All rights reserved