Articles, essays, poems, short stories and tips on writing

When writing a narrative, I basically rely on metaphors, "show, not tell", as well as imagery, mainly because it is important to rely on the feelings and perceptions of the character and bring them to life. In the following narrative, you may find some examples (further explained at the end of the text). "She would at least question herself and her own existence, and it would not matter to what resolution she might come to: she would never be satisfied with a mere notion of existing which most of the times translated into pleasing others, and wearing a mask to the theater of life. No. She deserved more than that precarious notion which she thought, felt like an insult. However, what else was there than to the pleasures of the flesh, which she had no regrets of, but most importantly those of the soul, the feelings, experiences, and notions that give the soul more substance and makes it even stronger, and what about the nutrients for her knowledge of her brains, the things...

Ese día el sol brillaba como siempre, bañandola en su resplendor, tornando el color de su piel en tonos de miel y nuez. Su juventud perfumaba la calle y los ojos de los espectadores no la perdían de vista. Ella era simplemente la frescura de la primavera y el calor del verano combinadas casi perfectamente en las carnes y la figura de su cuerpo.  Sus senos firmes dejaban entrever las aureolas de la juventud, mientras sus piernas daban paso a ese menear característico de su coqueteo, al que daba rienda suelta así como su castaña y ondulada cabellera. Su mente anidaba la sed de ver el mundo, de ir más allá de embriagarse del placer que éste le pudiera ofrecer y sin escatimar en ambiciones y sueños ella simplemente se dejaba ir. Era la carencia de estas vivencias y posesiones que la presionaban a sumirse y ser esclava de ambiciones que a veces eran malsanas y mezquinas, pero a ella eso no le importaba. Deseaba agarrar al mundo y hacerle su esclavo, deseaba ser complacida y en su parece...

Add a subheading by Jose Quintero

  And I thought it would be the same. I thought it would all be just like before, but one matter is to lean on old memories in which everything was covered in tolerance, protection and joy and even a sense of unity, and another matter, utterly different, is to witness decay. Many years had passed, and in those old days the morning sun would cast its light through the windows as if it was announcing a jolly "good morning" and the birds would perch onto the mango tree right outside, all singing like a morning choir. The rattle in the spacious kitchen was certainly not noise, but a sound that would wake you up alongside the aroma of recently brewed coffee, and just the thought of waking up to that scene would make, even the laziest soul, wake up in a rush just to experience the events that would take place right outside the bedroom.   The kitchen was the heart of that house - just like many others, I'd presume - in which early morning visits would bring along a "good mo...

  CONVERSING And the room was dimmed by the pale light of a candle which cast his curved shadow against the wall. Even his shadow seemed more alive than he ever had been. "Pale Tortured Blue" being played, And it crushed him, And he knew it, And it tortured him, And he knew it, It was painful, And he knew it. "Your soul seems to want to leave the cage of your body, my dear." "I see you're back after such a long time." "And I see you have missed me dearly." The bottle of darkened red wine standing right in front of him as he took it and gently poured some of its content in a glass. He then poured some more in another glass as he lit up a thin menthol cigarette. Oh, and the melody of the song playing sadness and sorrow, a festival of tears and pain engulfing his being, tightening around his already shattered heart, And it crushed him, And his soul crying for mercy, And the prison of his body keeping it locked, And he knew it.   "I have per...