Descargar Nero Vision

On the Road Home

Tale included in the collection " Ireland in 2010 Heart"


The bus moves between the dirt roads and narrow, surrounded by emerald green meadows. I look out the window the ocean horizon; a spot of gray sky blends with the low clouds.
impatient glance at the clock will not be long.

I left five days ago. In case I had put a few things: some skirts, trousers, comfortable for walking, a few shirts and three of those sweaters hand made in the course of knitting. Finally, above all else, an old K-way, where I needed to go.
The hard part was convincing my daughter and her husband had no intention of dying. They could not understand why I wanted to go back where I was born and raised. If not as a last wish before you close your eyes forever.
"Mom you really need at your age?"
"A week. Two, at most, and I'm coming here. "
I took the bag and clipped speech. Nothing and no one would make me change my mind.
To my nephew, the only one not to ask questions and look at me with envious eyes, the task to book your flight and a room for one night.
"For the other days you will have to make do, Grandma. Do you know what are the Bed and Breakfast? "He asked and was a bit 'offended when I was not able to hold back a laugh.
Dublin had welcomed me in the evening. The sky was heavy with clouds, broken here and there from the buildings. Light with my bag I walked among the lights of Temple Bar and the music kept barely inside the pub. A dinner in a small Irish local, and then in the room, with sleeping because you no longer, taking away from the memories.
The memories of my twenties and the desire to leave behind my little country. Then I dreamed of the freedom and life inspired by the rebel journals that I and my friends found nell'emporio of O'Shea. We believe that the Sixties you could not live in a remote county of Ireland, between endless expanses of peat, sheep and idle time to scan passengers every hour of the day. We did not want to be courted by stupid boys too tied to old traditions.
My father stopped talking when he realized that was not my whims of a teenager, but was talking seriously. And there was even my mother, the day he took the train to Dublin and from there a plane to my future. Despised them because I do not understand and made it unbearable to all three of my departure.
London, Paris and Rome, they called me. And I answered.
In the eternal city, I found a job, a house, a husband.
I gave a cut to my past, of my being Irish only had red hair, long and shaggy, and little freckles that surrounded my face. I forgot all of my land. Beginning to justify myself from having abandoned with the passage of time not to admit a mistake. Fifty
are many. Especially when the weight of each season melancholy, the choices of nostalgia with you and eats you bit by bit.
not ever abandon their roots. You can not pretend otherwise or ignore all those signs that life leaves us on the street.
The desire to return has given me a perfume heard a day at the beach in Ostia. I felt the same perfume every morning at home, when as a child I ran barefoot through the meadows, between the elves and fairies. When I remained poised on the dry stone walls surrounded by the wind and the smell of salt air and ocean, and when I stopped in the rain end, the fog of the moor and the next moment I admired the warm sun filtered three clouds. Did I mention the happiness of that time and for first time I regretted not being able to live two lives. An Irish and Italian.
That perfume was a reminder.
beginning weak, barely mentioned. Then I felt even when there was and has become something stronger than me.
I had to return.
No hurry, I savored the journey along the South: Cashel, Cork, Kinsale and the Old Head. And then up the coast, Dingle, Limerick, Galway, to direct the strip of land, island Island: Achill Island always curious with that painted on his face, like a tourist.
actually was filming what I had gradually lost what I had left to rest for a long time. Being Irish. Love those little things again guilty of pushed me away from this earth: the breakfasts plentiful and salted, the live music in pubs in front of a steaming bowl of Irish stew and Guinness, the magic language, incomprehensible to anyone not born in these places, discovering the kindness, the hospitality of the people infinite and without hesitation.

The bus continues through the dirt roads and narrow, surrounded by emerald green meadows speckled with warmer colors, yellow and brown.
I, standing firm at the door, I look at my house. Without nets or fences, open to all and a small garden at the back, protected from wind. As has always been.
My father comes up to me. On his each face is a sign of ninety who carry them, but the eyes are the same people who watched me grow and who did not see me becoming a woman.
It is serious and the fear of not having had a good idea to come up in here I'm struck me and shakes his legs.
's just a moment. On the check
lips a sweet smile that erases any worries. He stretches his arms and clenching, piano, because it is so fragile, and I'm afraid to hurt him.
"dhuit Dia, tá me ar ais .*" I say.
The words come out as if I had never stopped speaking Gaelic. It 's another little miracle in my country.
I do not wonder anymore. This is Ireland.
And I should know.

Delegation Letter Sample

NEW YORK CITY - 14ST (second and third version)

These are two alternative versions of the same story, inspired as the previous picture by David . And the survey click here: which of the three do you prefer?


arrives at the same time, alone with the quiet pace of those not in a hurry. Down the stairs and leaves behind the twilight to enter the artificial glow of neon lamps.
passed me without looking. I'm used to, does she do it all. In ear earphones has an i-pod hidden in his jacket pocket. Moves his head to follow the rhythm of the music and hair, long, brown, rippling as if moved by the wind. I hear their scent fishing and jasmine, to cover the smell of sweat, oil and iron in this corner of the metro. Breath and at the same time I close my eyes and find myself at his side, facing the ocean, looking at a distant point on the horizon and decide on a future that will never be the same direction.
The blast of a train in rush me back where I spend my days and my nights, hidden behind a pillar, with his back against the concrete wall and her ass on the floor covered with cigarette butts.
stops under the sign 14 St., on the edge of the orange line, while the safety, puts his hands in his pockets and waited. Every so often see in the darkness of the tunnel and I hope for a delay to stay a bit 'with her.
Every day the look and feel like I know more. From the way he dresses, from what I read, the music he listens and that hums quietly in the deafening noise of the trains and the frantic confusion of New York.
I called April, is a name that is well and I remember the first time I saw her in a warm April, the pale sun between breaths of wind. Dressed in a white shirt over a black skirt with dark pantyhose to hide the long and muscular legs that disappeared in a couple of high-heeled boots and wide.
How can we forget that day?
Two Puerto Ricans, two kids who are approaching. The call for a cigarette. She nods her head and returns to ignore them and look the other side of the tracks. The two do not move, there are still a step away from her. They want to know what it's called, where he works, if studied, if you have a boyfriend, if he is not afraid to run alone for the subway.
one with more tattoos and more to necklaces suddenly grabs his arm and goes over to say something in his ear. You are trying to rid the close and while he looks around for help.
A bitter jealousy and anger take me stomach. Everyone is indifference, engaged in their own lives, in their issues and concerns do not see what was happening around.
Then I get shaky. Alcohol shoddy, companion every minute, replacing my courage.
I remember the scene. I'm pushing out the nearest one, and hit the other arm, making him let go. I start between April and the boy. He who laughs and shows a row of gold teeth. He pretends to attack and then stop abruptly. She looks at me and I have bad legs and hard informicolate.
Then everything is a snap. The fast train that goes by and the boy's arm that hits me in the stomach. A sharp pain and surprise at seeing a bloody knife when he withdrew his hand. Cough without breathing, the knees bend and collapse on the cold pavement and dirt. With the last flash I see both run away and pull April off the phone from her bag and call 911.
I still remember the day I die.
Since then say that this is a damn station, where trains make few stops and the air is cold and tastes nasty. I never realized I did not, it's still my house, my kingdom where every woman has the appearance of April and every man is a Puerto Rican with a smile of gold teeth.




arrives at the same time, alone with the quiet pace of those not in a hurry. Down the stairs and leaves behind the twilight to enter the artificial glow of neon lamps.
passed me without looking. I'm used to, does she do it all. Ears has the ear of an i-pod hidden in his jacket pocket. Moves his head to follow the rhythm of the music and hair, long, brown, rippling as if moved by the wind. I hear their scent of peach and jasmine, to cover the smell of sweat, oil and iron in this corner of the metro. Breath and at the same time I close my eyes and find myself at his side, facing the ocean, looking at a distant point on the horizon and decide on a future that will never be the same direction.
The blast of a train in rush me back where I spend my days and my nights, hidden behind a pillar, with his back against the concrete wall and her ass on the floor covered with cigarette butts. It
stops under the sign 14 St., on the edge of the yellow line, while the safety, puts his hands in his pockets and waited. Every so often see in the darkness of the tunnel and I hope for a delay to stay a bit 'with her.
Every day the look and feel like I know more. From the way he dresses, from what I read, the music he listens and that hums quietly in the deafening noise of the trains and the frantic confusion of New York.
I called April, is a name that is well and I remember the first time I saw her in a warm April, the pale sun between breaths of wind. Dressed in a white shirt over a black skirt with dark tights to hide her long legs muscular and disappearing in a couple of high-heeled boots and wide.
How can we forget that day?
Two Puerto Ricans, two kids who are approaching. The call for a cigarette. She nods her head and returns to ignore them and look the other side of the tracks. The two do not move, there are still a step away from her. They want to know what it's called, where he works, if studied, if you have a boyfriend, if he is afraid to run alone for the subway.
one with more tattoos and more to necklaces suddenly grabs his arm and goes over to say something in his ear. You are trying to rid the close and while he looks around for help.
A bitter jealousy and anger take me stomach. Everyone is indifference, engaged in their own lives, in their issues and concerns do not see what was happening around.
Then I get shaky in my corner. I see the scene. I'm pushing out the nearest one, and hit the other arm, making him let go. I start between April and the boy. He who laughs and shows a row of gold teeth. He pretends to attack and then stop abruptly. She looks at me and I have bad legs and hard informicolate.
Then everything is a snap. The fast train that passes, the boy is distracted a second, and my fist hit him in the face. Something I left when I pulled punches in a ring.
Young stays on the ground and his friend barely able to pull it up and escape quickly. April
is safe because of me.
that just should have gone.
The truth is another alcohol is a bad friend who blurs the boundaries between reality and fiction.
I have not ever got out of my hole, I stuck to my board and my bottle half full.
I watched the two tests with a girl under the indifferent eyes of people in suits but with a dirty mind like me.
April was unbalanced in free himself, lost his balance and fell on the rails.
has not had time.
The two fled in the opposite direction to that of the truck, that reached by braking and blowing like a living creature.
April arrives every night at the same time, I see her down the steps and stop to wait with the music in my ears to mark the last minutes of his life.
It 's my curse, my fault. It gives me away and only comes when the train runs at me with dull eyes and sad.
then disappears in the blast.

Calgary Auto Acution Location

NEW YORK CITY - THE 14ST

arrives at the same time, alone with the quiet pace of those not in a hurry. Down the stairs and leaves behind the twilight to enter the artificial glow of neon lamps.
passed me without looking. Earphones in my ears has a i-pod hidden in his jacket pocket. Moves his head to follow the rhythm of the music and hair, long, brown, rippling as if moved by the wind. I hear their scent of peach and jasmine, to cover the smell of sweat, oil and iron in this corner of the metro. Breath and at the same time I close my eyes and find myself at his side, facing the ocean, looking at a distant point on the horizon and decide on a future that will never be the same direction.
The blast of a train in rush me back to reality, with his back against a pillar in the company of dozens of commuters.
I called April, is a name that is well and I remember the first time I view, in a warm April, the pale sun between breaths of wind.
It 's beautiful and always elegant. Today, wearing a white shirt over a black skirt with dark pantyhose to hide the legs long and muscular that disappear in a couple of high-heeled boots and wide.
stops under the sign 14 St., on the edge of the yellow line, while the safety, puts his hands in his pockets and waited. Every so often see in the darkness of the tunnel and I hope in a delay to stay a bit 'with her.
Every day the look and feel like I know more. From the way he dresses, from what I read, the music he listens and that hums quietly in the deafening noise of the trains the confusion and bustle of New York.
If I'd had the courage to continue. A joke, an excuse for an appointment.
Holding hands will accompany them on my sites. The flow in the center of the West Village for an afternoon of conversation and coffee, sitting at a table in my grandmother's cakes and tea. In front of hot cups, warm light, looks hot.
Then at dinner, overlooking the East River. Discover their own tastes and eating and laughing observe; remain speechless in front of his smile that can make me slow down breathing. Offer her a cigarette and feel his eyes on me while I fill the map with precise gestures of tobacco and fast. The moment is approaching to kiss her turn to be in doubt if or not.
will never happen.
Yet I have no regrets. The wait to hear it down the stairs and see her emerge suddenly fill me with joy. Enough for me those few minutes with her, side by side, in a hint of intimacy that goes beyond the familiar and frequent. It 's the fear of ruining everything that makes me stand still.
The train arrives with a deafening noise amplified by the reinforced concrete walls of the station. The brakes screeching and impatient people move towards the doors. April
moves a little, to miss the crowds. Not what his train. It 's my. I'm always the first to surrender.
My mom reached over and took my hand. He is afraid that I lose, but I'm twelve years old, are old enough to do many things, even to go home alone.
The doors close and look at April through the dirty glass of the window. For a moment our eyes meet. My love for a girl and her mysterious underground.
seems to smile.
suddenly feel warm and forget for a moment the crowd at the local level, the musty smell of fried sweat. I want to get off, pull the brake and get out of the running for lifting myself off the doubt.
But the train will carry me away. April becomes small, a dot until no further.
Tomorrow. 'll See her tomorrow.
This is enough for me.



A big thank you to David , for the picture, and the idea .....