Fiction: The Two Faces of Leyla (ENG/SPN)
(English)
The Two Faces of Leyla
Author: @nachomolina2
Leyla told me about her troubled family history, which has seen countless deaths under strange circumstances. Unusual deaths that bring with them the bewilderment of bitterness and, over time, have significantly diminished the family's heritage, norms, culture, and memories. The manner in which her relatives disappear is in line with the loss of the inheritance. Highly valued assets that pertain to luxury and intrinsic personal whims. Extremely expensive objects such as: crystalline black marble sculptures, Victorian-era gold vessels, a collection of fire-forged bronze swords, and genuine war armor were just part of the collection. The latest family misfortune, according to Leyla, revealed the loss of the family coat of arms, as well as the disappearance of her grandmother and grandfather, about whom no one has heard anything yet. This incident occurred just this morning.
Shortly before sunrise, Leyla noticed the room empty of her children. After going out to look for them in the hallway outside, where they usually sat in the armchairs as part of their limited tours of the house, she couldn't find them either. Before going into crisis, Leyla searched the entire room, finally going to the main room next to the fireplace, where her parents' paintings, trophies, and posthumous diplomas hang, along with the ruined red gules sword. There, she fell to the carpet, revealing her untamed loneliness. She barely managed to use the phone and, with a few words, was able to reach me. That was the reason I was there, seeking help. In addition to offering her some comfort, I was also interested in the macabre family history she confided in me, of which I wanted to know the disturbing ending.
We were talking on the stairs, where, sitting unevenly, I leaned my head against one of the circular ledges. "What could possibly go wrong?" I thought, as I watched Leyla narrate her story, lost in thought, picking tuberoses from a small garden next to a pool. She spoke with distant mental lapses that interrupted the meaning of her words, while at the same time she rocked her chair incessantly from side to side. Scanning the space, I noticed the curtains fluttering in the breeze on the Roman window of one of the rooms. Getting up from the stairs, I walked along the gallery to find out, but I didn't have time to take two steps when Leyla, withdrawn, asked me to bring her to the ramp. I quickly towed her to the platform with the wooden floor, arranged her feet on the supports, and, caressing her face, I left her where she asked.

Leyla had dropped a bunch of tuberoses in the atrium when, holding onto the ramp railings, she pushed her chair forward in an act of cooperation. I then went down to pick up the flowers, involuntarily soaking myself in their scent. I climbed the ramp again, and as Leyla walked along the gallery, I finally placed them in her hands. Reluctantly, she took them, bringing them close to her nose, then disconsolately let them fall to the floor. Aware of her existential conflict, I picked up the flowers again, and as she turned them back to me, Leyla turned her back on me.
Then, alert to her understandable grief, I exclaimed:
_ Please, Leyla! I ask you, for your own good, not to be intimidated by the situation. Just remain calm, and we'll soon clarify what happened.
_ There's nothing… you can do, it's enough… to count on your presence… (she replied).
_ I'm here to help! Don't you think this deserves further investigation? (I commented suspiciously).
_ It's just another... chapter in history, something that... neither you nor I could change.
I watched her, understanding that she was devastated by the robbery and kidnapping of her blood relatives, which is why, gently helping her turn her chair, I hugged her and made eye contact with her. I saw the sobs and the paleness of her lips as she tried to pronounce a new word; I noticed that she was weak, beyond her prostration.
Haggard and fragile, Leyla lowered her face and declared:
_ Nothing… has happened! Nothing!.., apart from having… died, I too… on this tragic day, …unlucky, like my withered tongue… Nothing happens, nothing… happens…
I knew she was completely unstable, out of her mind; I had never seen her behave like that. She seemed like an old woman, stubborn, even though just minutes ago I had been talking on the stairs with the young Leyla, so lively, despite her condition. The bad luck of life had traumatized Leyla in many ways, captive in that mansion by the simple whim of her parents, the ostentatious relics and the presumptuous customs of her grandparents were of no use, notably, Leyla's suggestible mind was deteriorating, as was her body.
I insisted that she hold the bouquet, but the flowers dried upon contact with her hands, as if their time of expiration had arrived, falling asleep and withering. Strangely, a sudden and incomprehensible dusk also fell as the solar boundary anchored the west, trapping it. The wheelchair leaned against the edge of the atrium, seemingly about to tip Leyla into the pool. Then, ignoring all that, I acted quickly, rescuing her on the banks of the bank. Aside from the tragic dawn Leyla faced, a harbinger of cruelty, it now seemed as if the foundations of her own house were also threatening her. I thought: Could Leyla be depressed? Or was her mind wandering? Perhaps. Could this have been on purpose? Or the generational curse? I don't know, it seems strange to me. Tormented, Leyla was no longer in control of her actions. Thank goodness I was here. I wheeled the wheelchair toward the front door, and before entering, I glanced back at the bedroom curtain, which I had previously viewed with suspicion shake because it was open and presented an easy access point. I learned that it was now completely closed behind the lattice blinds.
With haste passed. I placed Leyla next to her room, but not before elevating her legs, which had shifted untidily from their place. I left her in her intimate privacy, later heading to the living room, thinking about lighting the fireplace. A freezing blizzard settled in every corner of the house further attenuated the dark atmosphere. So, I took the pickaxe, sprinkled some gasoline on the firewood in time, and threw in a lit match. At this point, for a brief moment, I heard nothing more from Leyla. Before lighting the lampshades I found on the platform and stirring the hearth a bit to distribute the fire, I stepped back three steps from the fireplace, avoiding the glowing flame. Instantly, the ancestral figures, sepia, of each family member were revealed before me. In contrast to the lit flame, enormous paintings, framed in gold, revealed the family tree.

Aside from a group of strange beings, hanging from the ceiling of the chimney, completely occupying the smoke chamber with a gesture of uneasy sobriety, I could clearly see those who were Leyla's grandparents, belated and indifferent, their disturbing gaze intolerable to me. Further down, unraveling the tree, were her father and mother, her uncles, her cousins. At the level of the mantilla, a group of smaller photos, also framed, were of infants. Among them was the restless and spoiled face of a Leyla suspended in time. Right in the center of the display, occupying the center of the old memories, the brickwork showed a quadrilateral depth, a possible pattern for an empty frame, with bolt anchors, violated, undoubtedly with the greatest malice aforethought. This was the profane place occupied by the lost family crest. The shadows wavered across the fireplace mantel, optically animating every element in the room, as if these elements, imbued with life, were shouting their complexes with envy, each one impotent, bearing the mark of the deceased. Except for Leyla. Who, by making me want the reminder, predisposed me to know about her?
I walked down the passage leading to the bedrooms to check on them and confirm their condition. Somewhat dazed by the sinister images, I adjusted my vision to the darkness, detecting the squeal of wheels moving toward me. I called Leyla by name, warning her to be careful in the extreme darkness:
_ Leyla! Darling, you should have called me earlier. Just come to my arms!
Leyla didn't respond. Guided only by the squeak, I placed one of my hands on the straight wall of the hallway to continue moving toward the room, even more worried about poor, defenseless Leyla, who was surely nervous, searching in the darkness. The cripple's chair emerged from the darkness, bumping awkwardly against my knees. Standing this close, I could make out the nickel-plated hardware of the footrests, the armrests, and the white cushion of the seat. The chair was empty.
_ Leyla! Where are you? Have you fallen? Stay there, I'm coming for you…
I lit the lantern I was holding in my other hand, shining it into Leyla's room, which dimly lit up. I found her alone, the doors open, tidy, as if no one had occupied it recently. The cold blizzard stirred the curtains, channeling the icy outside air into the four walls of the bedroom. There was only room in my mind to think the worst: Leyla and her strange behavior! The cursed genealogy of a girl with bad luck! One terrible thought followed another, Leyla dead! Oh, for God's sake! Let my dark thoughts go! May the augur of a mute mind, plotting in confusion, soon come to an end! Opportunely, I had a ghostly suspicion, a feeling of helplessness I know, the kind that, preceded by terror, runs through every spinal vertebrae and makes you shed involuntary tears of horror. I turned around suddenly, thinking of looking for Leyla in another part of the house, but my scruple was confirmed when I saw the looming silhouettes of Leyla's grandparents standing in the doorway, one pointing sinuously with their fingers at my constricted body and the other aiming the Roman scale.

I closed my eyes and prayed that when I opened them, it would all be over. Leyla's house was, quite simply, a spell. An ambiguous thriller that made me tremble uncontrollably as I stumbled around the obstacle of the window. Once on the veranda, having first thrown myself against the glass in search of escape, I struggled to organize my mind, gripped by profound panic. I walked toward the entrance stairs where in the early hours I had conversed pleasantly with Leyla. Now, like a repentant intruder, I cowered before those wooden porches imbued with moonlight, surrounded by the fragrance of tuberoses, and the stillness of the black night as a flagrant threat.
Undeniably, in the midst of so much anguish, to top it all off, I heard the command of a murky, aged voice:
_ Come!... Don't delay! …in the framework of this profane night… futile and shameless, there is nothing I can expect from my ancestors, absolutely nothing...! and at dawn, there will be no talk of me, nor of my dead tongue…
_ Where are you? Is it you? Leyla?... (I said)
I spoke, with vague direction, because I couldn't see anyone.
_ Just come to the entrance! Where this... disastrous story began... You'll have the longed-for ending for yourself!... (the voice continued like a command)
_ Okay, I'm going! But I won't do anything I'll regret later. What could possibly go wrong?, Or rather, worse? (I obeyed)
Bathed by a bouquet of stars, Leyla dragged her legs in the small garden. Lying among the tuberoses, she spread the perfume. With her gaze lost in time, immersed in gray hair and wrinkles that hadn't been there before, she seemed to have suddenly entered the twilight of life.
She carried the royal sword strapped profusely across her chest.
Leyla's body told the stormy ancestral story, and without anyone suspecting her intention, she narrated the painful final chapter. The last word spoken by an entire generation. With her body paralyzed and the delay in her voice appeased, what one might assume was the end of a generational milestone, for Leyla, was rest. Leyla let herself fall into the pool, hugging the shield, sinking to the bottom without any remedy.
@nachomolina2
(Spanish)
La dos caras de Leyla
Autor: @nachomolina2
Leyla me contó de su accidentada genealogía que en el transcurso del tiempo cuenta con innumerables decesos acontecidos bajo extrañas circunstancias. Muertes insólitas que traen consigo el desconcierto de la amargura y con el paso del tiempo han logrado mermar significativamente el acervo patrimonial, la norma, la cultura y reminiscencia de la familia. La manera en que desaparecen sus parientes va en consonancia con el extravío de la herencia. Bienes supra valorados que conciernen al lujo y a los caprichos personales intrínsecos. Objetos costosísimos como: Esculturas de mármol negro cristalino, vasijas de oro de la época victoriana, colección de espadas de bronce forjado a fuego, armaduras de guerra, genuinas, eran solo parte del acopio. La última desventura suscitada en el seno familiar, según cuenta leyla, reveló la pérdida del escudo de armas, así como, la desaparición de su abuela y abuelo de quienes nadie sabe nada hasta ahora. Hecho ocurrido, justo, en la madrugada reciente.
Poco antes de la salida del sol leyla notó el cuarto vació de sus congénitos, luego de salir a buscarlos en el pasillo externo donde acostumbraban a sentarse en las poltronas como parte de sus limitados recorridos por la casa, tampoco los halló. Antes de entrar en crisis, leyla revisó todo el recinto yendo por último al salón principal junto a la chimenea, lugar donde yacen colgados los cuadros, trofeos y diplomas póstumos de sus padres, junto al siniestrado sable abanderado, rojo gules. Ahí, cayó tendida en la alfombra evidenciando la indómita soledad. Apenas alcanzó a usar el teléfono y de a pocas palabras pudo contactarme. Ese era el motivo por el cual me encontraba yo allí en procura del auxilio. Además de brindarle algo de consuelo, estuve también, interesado en la macabra historia familiar que ella me confiaba de la cual quise saber el inquietante final.
Hablábamos en la escalera, lugar donde sentados disparejamente recosté la cabeza a una de las cornisas circulares. ¿Qué podría salir mal?, pensé, mientras veía a leyla narrar su historia, ensimismada, recogiendo nardos de un pequeño jardín situado al lado de una alberca. Ella hablaba con distanciados lapsus mentales que entrecortaban la significación de sus palabras, a la vez, mecía su silla, incesante, de un lado a otro. Yo, al recorrer el espacio con la vista noté que en la romanilla de una de las habitaciones ondeaban al viento las cortinas. Levantándome de la escalera caminé por la galería a averiguar, pero, no alcancé a dar dos pasos, cuando leyla retraída, me solicitó le acercara a la rampa. Rápidamente la remolqué hasta el andén del piso de madera, le arreglé los pies en los apoyos y acariciándole el rostro la dejé donde me pidió.

A leyla se le había caído un manojo de nardos en el atrio cuando sujeta a las barandillas de la rampa, impulsó la silla hacia adelante en acto de colaboración. Entonces bajé a recoger las flores impregnándome de su perfume involuntariamente, subí nuevamente la rampa y mientras leyla avanzaba por la galería las deposité finalmente en sus manos. Con desgano, las tomó, acercándolas a su nariz, para luego dejarlas caer desconsoladamente al piso. Consciente de su conflicto existencial levanté nuevamente las flores y al volverlas, ahora leyla, me dio la espalda.
Entonces, alerta a su comprensible luto, exclamé:
_ ¡Por favor, leyla! Te pido por tu propio bien, no te dejes amilanar por la situación. Solo ten un poco de calma y pronto aclararemos lo sucedido.
_ No hay nada… que puedas hacer, ya es bastante… contar con tu presencia.., (respondió).
_ ¡Estoy aquí para ayudar! ¿No te parece que ésto merece una investigación más profunda? (le comenté en tono suspicaz).
_ Es solo, otro… capítulo.., de la historia, algo que… ni tú,... ni yo.., podríamos cambiar…
La observé sobrentendido de que estaba destrozada ante el robo y secuestro de sus consanguíneos, razón por la cual, ayudándola a girar suavemente la silla le abracé e hice contacto visual con ella. Vi los sollozos y la palidez de sus labios intentando pronunciar una nueva palabra, la noté débil, más allá, de su postración.
Demacrada y frágil, bajando la cara leyla sentenció:
_ ¡Nada… ha pasado!, ¡Nada!.., aparte de haber… muerto, yo también… en este día trágico, …infausto, como mi marchita lengua... Nada pasa, nada… pasa…
Supe que se encontraba completamente inestable, fuera de sí, jamás la vi comportarse de tal forma. Parecía una anciana, terca, aun cuando hacía tan solo minutos hablaba yo en las escaleras con la joven leyla, tan así, vivaz, a pesar de su estado. La mala racha de la vida había traumado a leyla en muchos aspectos, cautiva en aquella mansión por el simple capricho de sus padres de nada valían las ostentosas reliquias, ni las costumbres presuntuosas de sus abuelos, notablemente, la sugestionada mente de leyla se deterioraba, también su cuerpo.
Insistí en que sujetara el ramo de flores, pero éstas, al contacto con sus manos se secaron, algo así, como si les sobreviniera su hora de expiración adormeciéndose marchitas. Extrañamente, también cayó la tarde repentina e incomprensible cuando el deslinde solar fondeo el occidente atrapándolo. La silla de ruedas se reclinó a borde del atrio con instancias de tumbar a leyla en la alberca, entonces, desentendiéndome de todo aquello actué rápido rescatándola a orillas del peralte. Aparte del trágico amanecer que enfrentaba leyla, como presagio de la crueldad, ahora pareciera que los cimientos de su propia casa también le atentaban. Pensé: ¿Será leyla deprimida? ¿O su mente en extravío?, tal vez, ¿Puede haber sido ésto a propósito? o ¿La maldición generacional?, no sé, me parece raro. Atormentada, leyla ya no era dueña de sus actos, menos mal, estaba yo aquí. Puse en marcha la silla de ruedas en dirección hacia la puerta de la casa y antes de entrar, volví la mirada hacia la cortina de la habitación, la que antes vi agitarse con sospecha por estar abierta y representar un fácil acceso invasor, enterándome, que la misma se encontraba ahora a pliego de la celosía completamente cerrada.
Con apuro pasé. Situé a leyla junto a su cuarto no sin antes elevar sus piernas que desarregladas se habían movido de su sitio. La dejé en su íntima privacidad dirigiéndome posteriormente al salón pensando en dar fuego a la chimenea. Una helada ventisca asentada en cada rincón de la casa atenuaba aún más el oscuro ambiente, entonces, tomé el hurgón rociando a tiempo algo de benzina en el corte de leña y arrojé un cerillo encendido. A estas alturas, por un breve momento, no supe más de leyla. Antes de encender las lámparas de pantalla que encontré en el podio y de atizar un tanto el fogaril para distribución del fuego, retrocedí a tres pasos de la chimenea evitando la llama refulgente, al instante, se develaron frente a mí las figuras ancestrales, sepia, de cada uno de los miembros de la familia. A contraste de la llama encendida, enormes cuadros, enmarcados en oro dejaron ver el árbol genealógico.

Aparte de un grupo de seres extraños, guindados, copando en su totalidad la cámara de humos de la chimenea con gesto de intranquila sobriedad, a tope de la mampostería, se apreciaban quienes sin duda eran los abuelos de leyla, tardíos e indiferentes, su mirada perturbadora fue para mí intolerable. Más abajo, deshilvanando el árbol, padre y madre, los tíos, primos. Ya, a nivel de la mantilla un conjunto de fotos más pequeñas, también enmarcadas, eran de infantes, entre ellos figuraba la cara inquieta y malcriada de una leyla suspendida en el tiempo. Justo al centro del muestrario ocupando la principalidad de los antiguos recuerdos la enladrillada mostraba una hondura cuadrilátera, posible patrón de un marco vacío, con anclajes de pernos, violentados, indudablemente con la mayor alevosía, ése, era el lugar profano que ocupaba el escudo familiar perdido. Las sombras ondeaban en el antepecho de la chimenea animando ópticamente cada elemento de la sala, como si estos, dotados de vida gritaran con envidia sus complejos, cada uno impotente, con el sello de los difuntos marcado. Menos leyla. ¡Quién haciéndome si querer el recordatorio!, me predispuso, a saber de ella.
Caminé por el pasaje que conduce a las habitaciones para saber y convalidar su estado. Un tanto ofuscado por aquello de las siniestras imágenes, adapté mi vista a la penumbra detectando contiguo el rechinamiento de las ruedas moviéndose en dirección hacia mí. Llamé a leyla por su nombre advirtiéndole que tuviera cuidado por la extrema oscuridad:
_ ¡Leyla!, querida, debiste llamarme antes. ¡Solo ven a mis brazos!
Leyla no respondió. Guiado apenas por el chirrido apoyé una de mis manos en la pared rectilínea del pasillo para continuar avanzando hacia el cuarto, más aun, preocupado por la pobre leyla, indefensa, quien de seguro estaba nerviosa indagando en la oscurana. La silla de lisiado surgió de la opacidad chocando torpemente contra mis rodillas y estando, así de cerca, distinguí el herraje niquelado de los posa pies, también, los apoya brazos y el almohadón blanco del asiento. La silla estaba vacía.
_ ¡Leyla!, ¿Dónde estás? ¿Te has caído?, quédate ahí, voy por ti…
Encendí el farol que traía sujeto con mi otra mano enfocando la habitación de leyla la cual se iluminó mínimamente. La encontré sola y con las puertas abiertas, prolija, como si nadie la ocupara en los últimos tiempos. La fría ventisca agitaba las cortinas encauzando el gélido aire exterior a las cuatro paredes de la alcoba. Solo hubo lugar en mi mente para pensar lo peor, ¡Leyla y su extraño comportamiento!, ¡La maldita genealogía de una chica con mala suerte!. Un pensamiento pésimo proseguía de otro inferior, ¡Leyla muerta!, ¡Oh, por dios! ¡Que se aparten mis oscuros pensamientos! ¡Que acabe pronto el augur de una mente muda que conspira trastocada!. Oportunamente, tuve la fantasmal sospecha, una sensación de desamparo que conozco, esa que precedida al espanto recorre cada vertebra espinal y te hace brotar lágrimas de horror involuntarias. Volteé repentino, pensando en buscar a leyla en otra parte de la casa, pero, mi escrúpulo se cumplió, al ver parados bajo el marco de la puerta la sobrenadante silueta de los abuelos de leyla, señalando sinuosamente con sus falanges, uno, a mi constreñida humanidad y otro apuntando la romanilla.

Cerré los ojos y rogué que al abrirlos acabara de una vez todo aquello. La casa de leyla era, sin más, el embrujo. Un thriller ambiguo que me puso a temblar descontrolado sorteando a tropiezos el obstáculo de la ventana. Una vez en la galería, habiéndome primero abalanzado contra los vidrios en busca de escapatoria, me esforcé por organizar mi mente presa del profundo pánico. Caminé hacia la escalera de la entrada donde a tempranas horas conversaba agradablemente con leyla, ahora, cual intruso arrepentido me acobardé ante aquellos pórticos de madera imbuidos en luz de luna con la fragancia de los nardos circundante y el sosiego de la negra noche como flagrante amenaza.
Innegable, en medio de tanta angustia, para remate, escuché el comando de una voz turbia y envejecida:
_ ¡Ven!... ¡ya no demores! …en el marco de esta noche profana… fútil e impúdica, no hay nada que pueda esperar de mis ancestros, ¡Nada, absolutamente...! y al amanecer, tampoco se hablará de mí, ni de mi lengua muerta…
_ ¿Dónde estás? ¿Eres tú? ¿Leyla?... (dije)
Hablé, con imprecisa direccionalidad, pues, no atiné ver a alguien.
_ ¡Solo ven a la entrada! donde empezó esta... nefasta historia... ¡Tendrás para ti el ansiado final!... (continuó la voz como un mandato)
_ ¡Ok, voy!, pero, no haré nada de lo que después me arrepienta. ¿Qué podría salir mal? ¿O mejor dicho, peor? (obedecí)
Bañada por un ramo de estrellas, Leyla, arrastraba las piernas en el pequeño jardín. Yaciente sobre los nardos propagaba el perfume. Con la mirada perdida, al tiempo, sumida entre canas y arrugas que antes no estaban, parecía haber entrado súbitamente al ocaso de la vida.
Llevaba consigo el sable real profusamente atado al pecho.
El cuerpo de leyla contaba la tormentosa historia ancestral y sin que nadie presumiera de su intención ella narraba el doloroso último capítulo. La última palabra pronunciada por toda una generación. Con el cuerpo paralizado y aplacada la demora de su voz, lo que se podría suponer era el fin de un hito generacional, para leyla, era el descanso. Leyla se dejó caer en la alberca, abrazada al escudo, yéndose a fondo sin ningún remedio.
@nachomolina2
Also posted on my reddit account:
Link to my post:
https://www.reddit.com/user/nachomolina/comments/1l1ohmn/fiction_the_two_faces_of_leyla_engspn/
Contest link:
https://www.reddit.com/user/nachomolina/comments/1l1of4n/the_inkwell_fiction_prompt_224_peakd/
https://www.reddit.com/r/u_nachomolina/comments/1l1ohmn/fiction_the_two_faces_of_leyla_engspn/
This post has been shared on Reddit through the HivePosh initiative.
I love your writing. It is uniquely you, yet as I read I sensed echoes of Poe, of Borges, even of ETA Hoffmann. Your story is heavy with atmosphere and suggestion, truly a psychological terror that builds slowly.
You write with care, every word chosen to have effect. I enjoy that craft very much.
The story is too long for this community...by that I mean we recommend a length of between 750 and 1000 words, with a maximum of 15000. We have a small curation team and aspire to read as many stories as possible. Hence the suggested word limit. Still, as I read this story I continued to read and enjoyed very much your talent. (I read in English).
I could not find a previous story in the Inkwell authored by you, so I guess that makes you new to the community, though not new to Hive.
We curate new authors minimally in the Inkwell, but a second publication receives full consideration.
Thank you for posting the story here.
First of all, thank you for reading my post and providing this important feedback on my writing. I've actually been writing "original" creative poetry on Hive.blog for years, leaning mostly toward the romance, existential, gothic, and psychological thriller genres. I never thought my story would cause any inconvenience to the @theinkwell team given its length of over 1,500 words. I simply tried to write a story that was sufficiently complete and captivating. Always in line with the contest theme, as suggested by the "Catalog of Fiction Writing Tips":
*And, of course, we look for well-edited stories that are free of typos or grammatical errors: use the free Grammarly tool for grammar and spelling checks (and do not use AI-powered writing or rewording tools for proofreading).
In addition to taking into account my personal tastes, my vision of writing, and my own form of expression as a dedicated writer, without limitations or any other reason that might affect my creative sensibility, imaginative power, etc. Thank you also for your receptiveness to this post, which I appreciate; I'll see you another time.
Antes que nada, gracias por leer mi post y emitir este importante criterio sobre mi escritura. Por otra parte, efectivamente llevo años escribiendo en Hive.blog poesía creativa "Original" que se inclina mayormente al género romántico, existencial, gótico, también algo de thriller psicológico. Nunca pensé que mi historia causaría algún tipo de inconveniente al equipo @theinkwell dado su extensión superior a 1500 palabras. Solo traté de escribir un relato lo suficientemente completo, así como, cautivador. Siempre en concordancia al tema del concurso tal como lo sugiere el "Catálogo de consejos para contar historias":
Además de tener en cuenta mis gustos personales, mi visión sobre la escritura y mi forma de expresión propia como escritor dedicado, sin limitaciones, u otra razón que pueda afectar mi sensibilidad creativa, poder de la imaginación, etc. Igualmente gracias por la receptividad conferida de su parte a esta publicación lo cual aprecio, será hasta otra ocasión.
Your story was a pleasure to read. We set parameters because there is only so much time in a day. Right now, for example, I'm dealing with real-life home challenges that limit the time I can give to Hive, and the Inkwell in particular. But your story was a nice break. I'm glad I decided to leap in and read, despite its length.
It's hard to achieve what you did in 1500 words. I get it. You're a great writer. I'll have to look at some of your other material when life is less demanding in my home.
Welcome to The Ink Well!
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And please be sure to engage in the community by reading and commenting on the work of other community members. We ask everyone who posts in The Ink Well to read and comment on at least two other stories for each one published.
Again, welcome!