ALUMNOS PREMIADOS

EN EL CERTAMEN LITERARIO 2010

Categoría A (1º y 2º ESO)

Premio castellano: Amber Holbrook, 2º ESO, por el relato "El mundo de la luna"

Accésit castellano: Laura Franco, 1º de ESO, por el poema "Amo, odio, sé"

Premio inglés: Camilo Cañaveral, 1º ESO, por el poema "Portobello Road".

Accésit inglés: Isabela Bruña, 1º ESO, por el relato "I´m Susan"

Categoría B (3º y 4º ESO)

Premio castellano: Carla Ramírez, 3º ESO, por "Niño, estoy harta de ti".Premio inglés: Jéssica Olim López 3º ESO, por el relato "My name´s Private John Harper".

Accésit inglés: Alexander García Ruiz (3º ESO), por el poema "A Real person".

Categoría C (Bachillerato)

Premio castellano: Josta Martín-Artajo Ares (1 BAC), por el poema "Amor"Premio inglés: Lacqueline Beddoe Rosendo, (1 BAC), por el relato "Daisy Renton´s Diary".

My name’s Susan

It was five o’clock in the morning and I heard a bang, it wasn’t a pleasant noise. It wasn’t a normal bang like the one when your car breaks down, or when you shoot a gun. It was a completely different thing! Every five minutes you would hear it getting closer and closer, until “BANG!! It came from right under my bed! Ever since rumours that my house had been haunted by several ghosts were first heard, loads of strange things have been happening.
Oh! Silly of me! I forgot to introduce myself: I am Susan! I am 14 years old, have gold long straight hair, golden eyes, I am tall and sometimes I get confused easily and often explanations. I live with my mother I am a single child... Well, I used to have a big brother but one day he disappeared. The police investigated the case but they couldn’t tell if it was actually a kidnapping or what. They found traces of blood in my room and a note saying: “get ready I want you to play with me”, but the most weird thing was that it was covered in blood like it was carefully soaked and left to dry, but it was way different. I can’t explain. It was like skin, the paper was like skin! My mother has been telling me that I have been imagining things, but I still think there is something else in my brother’s disappearance. I can’t imagine what has happened to him or what might happen to him!
I am always near my mother and never near my brother’s room. I don’t like to be far from her because when I was far from her, bizarre things happened: cars nearly running me over, fires starting in my bedroom when I was asleep, or, worst of all, phone calls when a little lullaby starts to go.
Eventually the phone calls stopped but then threat messages written with blood appeared on my wall. I couldn’t take it anymore and begged my mother to let me sleep in her room, but she refused.
I can’t wait until the 6th of November. It’s my birthday, only 2 weeks left!
Today’s the 24th of October and I start high school. Both my mother and I are very surprised and excited at the same time.
I was in my room putting the books in my bag ready to leave when suddenly the phone rang.
- “Susan dear, could you get that please?!” my mother shouted from downstairs.
-“In a minute!” I answered as I ran to my mother’s room to get the phone. When I picked it up I could hear very heavy breathing, I slowly put the phone down and shouted with a shaky voice: “M-mum, come hear quickly!”
I heard footsteps coming up the stairs; I thought it was my mother I turned around and saw a big shadow with blood all over it coming toward me! I couldn’t move but somehow I managed to scream.
“KYAAA!!!!”
My voice was so high that nearly the whole neighbourhood could hear it. My mother came running up the stairs to see what had happened and saw me sitting down on the floor, crying.
“Goodness, child!” she hugged me. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing, nothing...”
“Alright. Then go to school or you’ll be late”
I nodded and went to my room, got my stuff and left. I took the bus. When I got to school I was 30 minutes early. I looked around to make sure no one saw me and climbed the nearest tree there was. I love climbing trees. It makes me feel like I am not surrounded by life sucking machines.
I sighed and got comfortable. I was thinking about what had happened to my brother. It wasn’t long before I felt something hit my arm.
“Ouch!” I said rubbing my arm.
“What are you doing there?” It was a boy around my height and age, the one who had thrown the stone.
“Nothing” I replied looking down.
“What?” the boy asked with a confused expression.
“Alright, I’ll get down” I said with a moan.
I would normally get down safely, but I decided to jump, which I had never done before. I landed on my feet.
“Are you mental?” the boy asked with a very confused and shocked face.
“Maybe” I answered walking towards the entrance and ignoring him.
Then the bell rang and a crowd of children swarmed inside like ants looking for shelter.
“Mike” I heard the boy shout.
“Huh?” I asked
“My name’s Mike. Nice to meet you!” He said with a smile.
“Susan” I smiled back.
“I have news about your brother” he said as he disappeared into one of the classrooms.
“Wait. Come back!”...

To be continued…

Isabela Bruña, 1 ESO A

A Real person

Broken heart full of anger and hate
Waiting to find her path in life

Decoding life’s mysteries
To discover what lies ahead

To encounter that bright light
That will shine above

Deflecting the dark enemies
That once tormented her

A real life

A real future

A real person

Alexander García Ruiz, 3 ESO B

Amo, odio, sé
Amo, amas, amamos
odio, odias, odiamos
sé, sabes, sabemos,
pero no quiero.

Amo tus besos,
amo tus abrazos,
amo tus ojos
de brillo dorado.

Odio tus interrupciones,
odio tu cabeza
olvidadiza y maciza.

Sé que te quiero,
sabes que te amo,
sabemos que nos
odiamos y amamos.

Laura Franco (1 ESO)

My name is Private John Harper

My name is Private John Harper, and what you are about to read now is the story of a boy who grew up in war and poverty. A life which no human being should have to endure…

I look up at the Sergeant; his clear brown eyes lock with mine, but give nothing away as he places the papers onto my lap. I look down and only the second half of the sheet holds any interest for me. It reads:
Ali Husain
Born: 18th May, 2000
Deceased: 20th September 2009
My eyes begin to fill with tears as I stare at the photo next to the writing. It shows the face of an Afghan boy, with hazel eyes. By the look of him you can clearly see that he is malnourished and unhappy.
“Yesterday” I whisper to myself, looking at the date of his death. The Sergeant, having not heard me speak, repeats what I say.
“He died yesterday after an air-raid in a residential area. His body was found amongst the debris of a fallen house. Along with the bodies of Private James Wood and Private Barry Stocker.”
My head snaps up at this new piece of information. So Stocker and Wood were with Ali before they were killed. This did not strike me as odd but nor did it strike me as good, for it meant that Ali must’ve suffered some form of pain in his last minutes, maybe even hours, before his death. Stocker and Wood, I thought with vehemence, were very bad news indeed.
I stare at the Sergeant as realisation hits me, shocked. He watches me carefully. Anger bubbles up inside me like a coiled snake ready to strike.
Who else could have sent Stocker and Wood to be with Ali, except the Sergeant?
The Sergeant knows instantly what I’m thinking and answers my unasked question. “I had to, John,” his voice was almost a plea. “Nobody else was willing to volunteer being with him. What with his vivid hallucinations…” he leaves the rest of the sentence hanging, knowing I would know what he means.
The Sergeant starts muttering under his breath, saying things like “stupid Americans” and “air-rids”. Though I hardly hear him. My mind drifts away, falling into a different time, a different place, in the memories of the deep and clear past.

It all began in January, 2009. I was walking down the type of street we soldiers consider to be “the poorest zone”. People gathered in their masses next to the street walls, leaving us a wide berth to march in. I glanced at the short, stocky man to my left. And he grins up at me.
“Wish we were this popular back home” he sniggers.
“Shut up, Wood” I snapped “They’re afraid of us.”
I signalled to all the people around us, children crying clinging onto their mothers, and people with missing limbs struggling to keep themselves upright. Young and old, every single face on that street stared at us with a mixture of fear, defiance, grief and anger. The worst part of it for me was, knowing that I was contributing towards their misery.
At the sudden sounds of screaming and crying, the Sergeant commanded us to stop.
“Prepare yourselves” he bellowed.
We all pulled out our guns, ready to obey any orders given to us. Barry Stocker, to my right, just stared at the Sergeant, his face a blank mask showing no emotion.
We continued walking and as we turned the corner it became apparent what all the commotion was about, a house: in flames. Even though I was a good 200 yards away I could still feel the intense heat. Black smoke billowed out from the roof top. There were children outside covered in black ash and coughing. People were rushing forward to help, as more children began to run out of the house. That was when I realised that this must be the house of the orphaned and homeless children.
“Never mind” said the Sergeant, “this has nothing to do with us”
“What?” I shouted at him and the rest of the soldiers looked at me with alarm, but the Sergeant said nothing to me.
“Let’s go” he commanded.
“NO! We have to help them!”
“We can’t do anything, Harper” the Sergeant started walking towards me and he grabbed me by the throat.
“Nothing” he whispered into my face, and I could tell he felt as bad about what was happening as I did, but he didn’t know of my loss, and knowing that children were dying in that house made me know something could be done. The Sergeant let go of me and continued to the front to lead us on.
“I have to do something, Sir” I said quietly, and before I knew what I was doing, I was running towards the burning building. I ran in and I was immediately engulfed in thick smoke which made my eyes water and chocked me of the fresh air. There seemed to be no fire around the bottom part of the house. I ran further into it looking for a live soul. I heard a cry of pain. I quickly located where the sound came from and rushed in through one of the doors. I found myself in a tiny wooden box which was actually a bedroom. On the ground were two little boys, one of whom was either dead or unconscious. The other was conscious, but clearly in agony, there was blood dripping down onto his clothes from a cut on his cheek and his leg seemed to be stuck under a heavy looking piece of wood. This little boy didn’t look up at me as I tried to get the wood off him. His eyes showed nothing but fear and pain as he looked at something next to him. The wall, perhaps? He was probably too frightened to look at me in the eye, I thought.
I managed to heave the wood off him and that’s when I saw there was a deep wound in his leg. I ripped off some of my clothing and rapped it tightly around the bloody injury, I tried to help him stand but it was too much of a struggle for him. I quickly checked the pulse of the other boy but there was no sign of life left in him. I put my emotions aside as I turned to the conscious boy. I lifted him into my arms and ran out of the house. Reaching the fresh air was a relief to my lungs. But my joy of saving the boy turned to trepidation as I saw the Sergeant’s face, red with anger.
“What the hell were you thinking?!” he screamed at me.
I slowly put the boy down and tried to ignore the Sergeant’s ranting.
“Thank you” said the boy in Pashtu, his voice shuddering.
“What is your name?” I asked him, also speaking in fluent Pashtu.
“Ali Husain” the boy replied, looking up to meet my eyes. And I gave an involuntary gasp. The eyes… those eyes were identical to his ones. The same shape, same hazel colour.
I tried to cover up my shock, with difficulty.
“Well, Ali… I must leave you now. You’ll be safe.” Even as I said the words, he and I both knew that they weren’t true.
“Take me with you” the boy looked up at me with those eyes, wide and shining. Only now, as I examined him properly did I notice that, apart from the recent injuries, two of his fingers were missing and there were half-healed cuts and bruises all over his body.
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” I said
“Please” he begged, tears welled up in his eyes and began to pour down his cheeks.
The Sergeant had stopped with the ranting, and I realised he’d been listening to every word. And to my complete and utter surprise, he nodded once.
“He’s your responsibility, Harper,” said the Sergeant, quietly “I just hope this heroic act of yours doesn’t turn you in to a Jonah” then he abruptly marched off to speak to the rest of the troops.
Jonah? me? One thing I knew for certain: I wasn’t a soldier who brought misfortune and bad luck with him.
“Ok, you can come with us” I smiled down at Ali as I helped him to his feet.
He seemed absolutely delirious at my change of heart.
“Thank you, really” he said sincerely.
“Don’t mention it, kid” I ruffled the top of his head and in that moment, all the terribleness in my life just seemed to evaporate. I felt so content with this little boy. It was almost as if he were my own.
Throughout the next few weeks, Ali remained by my side. I wanted to protect him and in a way, I loved him as if he were my own son. He only conversed with me and the Sergeant seeing that we were the only Pashtu speaking. And all the other soldiers accepted him, which was good. However, there was of course “the twits” as I liked to call them: Stocker and Wood. They didn’t seem too happy about having him there, and often pushed him around when I wasn’t around.
They told me privately that Ali was a weird little freak.
“Face it, Harper, he’s useless to us” Wood sneered.
“Yeah, always muttering to himself like he’s got someone there with him. Well, I don’t like the little freak, he’s weird.” Stocker said viciously.
My reaction genuinely shocked me: I pulled out my gun, and I felt so angry that my whole arm was shaking and pointing the gun at Wood’s head was a task of great difficulty.
“HARPER!” shouted the Sergeant.
I slowly lowered my gun, and uttered the most vulgar words I could think of and threw them at Stocker and Wood.
“Don’t- Mess- With- Me.” I said each word distinctly, hoping they would get the point and back off.

Several days later after ‘the incident’, we found ourselves in a cave. It was cold and damp and we were all hungry. I wrapped Ali up in a blanket and pulled out some ready- made meals from my back pack. I gave him a piece of my bacon and we just sat there, chewing. I watched him carefully as he ate. He obviously didn’t realise that I was looking at him because he glanced sideways at nothing in particular, gestured with his hands as if offering some food to something I couldn’t see, then put the food in his mouth and laughed happily. I was glad that neither Wood nor Stocker were around to see this.
“Who are you speaking to, Ali?” I asked quietly so nobody else could hear us.
Ali looked up, surprised.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is do you have an imaginary friend or something?” I smiled to show that I wouldn’t laugh at him. “I used to have one when I was your age, his name was Bob” A little lie never hurt anybody; I just needed to know what was going on in his head.
Ali looked at me sharply, and then to “the thing” next to him.
“No,” he whispered “but I do speak to someone…”
“Oh yeah? Who’s that then?” I said, ruffling his hair the way I always did.
“Just a… friend.”
Looking at him, I couldn’t contain the laughter I’d been holding back anymore, and I began whooping so loud the Sergeant told me to quieten down a little. But Ali wasn’t happy
“You English have no respect for us, my parents are dead and so is my sister. In my short years of life I’ve probably lived through more pain and misery, than you will ever in a life time,” Ali got up and kicked a stone, sending it flying against the cave wall “and you know why? Because you stupid English, and not only you, but the Americans also, want oil from our country. I’ve been beaten by people and even had two of my fingers cut off for telling people what they think are lies. It is not an imaginary friend that I speak to, but a person, a ghost. You wanted to know, so I told you.”
For a few seconds, all I could do was stare at him. There was so much in Ali that reminded me of him.
“There is something that I haven’t told you yet, Ali” I said slowly “I had… I had a son” I could hardly get the words out, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes “You remind me a lot of him, especially your eyes, they are exactly the same” I put my face in my hands and cried silently. The next thing I knew, Ali had his arms around me and we were both crying.
“I am sorry for what I said before” he said “You are like a dad to me, John” he looked up at me and smiled. And in that moment I felt as if things weren’t going to be so bad after all.

I opened my eyes and I was back in the room with the Sergeant. Hardly a minute has gone by as I’ve relieved this to you.
I now find myself paralysed from the neck down, after having a grenade thrown at me. This is what I have been told but I don’t remember any of it. And I’ve wondered every day since, whether the ghost Ali told me about was real or not…

Jessica Olim López (3º B)

Daisy Renton’s Diary

March 1911

I have been running low on money for the past few weeks, it could be said that I didn’t have a penny to my name this fateful day of March. I was so hungry and desperate that I had to reduce myself to becoming one of the many women who spent their night time hours at the Palace Variety Theatre. As a young, quite pretty woman alone in that place, I knew I would be live bait but I had no other alternative.

I was sitting in the corner of the bar at the Palace Variety Theatre, but I didn’t go unnoticed. I was a fresh piece of meat, I could tell by the glint in the men’s eyes and the way they licked their lips as they salivated greedily. Even to think about it now disgusts me to my very core. Still, I sat there with my head held high and my sweetest smile plastered on my face.

I didn’t take long in regretting my decision to go there but, luckily, for the first couple of hours, no one had enough “liquid courage” to come up to talk to me. Sadly, as usual, my luck quickly ran out. Just when I was about to leave the bar to head to the squalid apartment I was bound to be kicked out of in a few days time, a large man came towards me. I hardly remember what he said to me as I was so panic stricken.

He sat on the stool next to me and slowly inched his chair closer to mine, leaving me trapped in the damn corner I had chosen to sit in…He put a hand on my thigh…he started panting quite heavily and moisture dripped from his brow…he started talking about what a pretty girl I was…how he was an important man in our small town…and how I should do what he asked me to…Terrified I started to look around, to see if there was anyone about who would come to my aid, but at this point everyone had decided to turn away and pay attention to the hard-eyed dough-faced women next to them. Well, everyone but a handsome man in his thirties. Something about this man had given me hope. I truly believed that he was going to help me. And, he did.

He managed the whole situation with tact and finesse. He told the man I was next to – who I believe was called Mr Meggarty – that the manager had a message for him. From the moment he started to talk to Mr Meggarty he had not looked twice at me. He just stood there with cool composure as if he was an actor on stage executing his lines that I almost felt compelled to believe his web of lies.

When Mr Meggarty had staggered out of the room, the man looked at me with sympathetic eyes and introduced himself. “I’m Gerald Croft, son of Sir Croft owner of crofts Limited” he said in a steady voice. With every word he spoke the faint scent of port mingled with that of his cologne. I was slightly mesmerised at the sight of my knight in shining armour. Noticing how I seemed to have no intention of leaving my chair in that instant, in a firm voice he said that he should accompany me out if I didn’t want to face any more suitors. I gave a slight nod and before I knew it we were standing in front of the County Hotel.

At first we sat in comfortable silence, that is , until he passed me the first drink. At that instant it seemed that I let out the breath which I felt I had been holding since the events at the Palace bar. I was far away from the wretched man and I felt perfectly safe in front of this complete stranger. I had only opened my mouth to thank him for his generosity and for saving me from a great ordeal and I was suddenly telling him all about my past. He had started to ask the question, of course, but I felt at ease so I ended up telling him about my past misfortunes, something I had never discussed with anyone else before. I had to bite my tongue a couple of times as I nearly let it slip that my real name was Eva Smith not Daisy Renton as I had told him. I could have taken a leap of faith. I could have told the complete truth but I was afraid. I was scared that my saviour would look down on me if he knew my real name. We don’t live in a large town after all and a businessman such as himself would have probably heard something about the ring leaders of the strike in the second largest factory in town, Birling and Company.

The rest of the night went quite smoothly. It seemed like we were life long friends chatting away. Gerald didn’t disclose much information about himself but I was not deterred because he looked like he was genuinely interested in what I had to say and as strange as it sounds he seemed to care for me. In my ramblings I let it slip that I was hungry and not a moment had passed before he was asking for food to be brought for me.

After what seemed like hours of talking he walked me home. All night long he kept a safe distance between us and was a true gentleman, and he was no different when we arrived at my doorstep, though I think he looked at my accommodation with a bit if disdain and disgust but I honestly didn’t car. With a kiss on my cheek and a promise to meet me again, he left me at the entrance to my home with the brightest smile I have had in years. Life seemed to be looking up, finally.

Jackeline Beddoe (1º Bachillerato)

Portobello Road

There is a place in big London

And near the east of Ladbroke Grove,

Where everything is now put on,

Including every single love.

It is called Portobello Road

Just beneath the large bridge West Way,

Where anything is put aboard

To be ready to get away.

When I said get away I meant Spain.

Spanish people meet here for a break

To just forget any tearful pain.

But don’t worry, there’s no tear lake!

There are big and small types of shops

From antique to new modern world.

They sell everything like new songs

Or maybe a pearl of gold!

Camilo Cañaveral (1º ESO)

Amor

El amor no es el poquito de mar que cabe en tu vaso.

El amor es el mar donde caben todos los vasos.

Tira tu vaso al mar.

Josta Martín Artajo Ares (1 BAC)

El mundo de la luna

Me imaginaba lo que habría allí abajo. Un mundo totalmente nuevo. La vida en un mundo más allá que el nuestro. ¿Cómo viviría yo en ese mundo?
Ya no me iba a poder dormir. Estaría pensando en ese mundo durante toda la noche. Sigilosamente, encendí la luz de la mesilla de noche y saqué mi cuaderno de dibujos de debajo de mi cama, procurando no levantar a mi prima, Aroa. Solo le quedaban unas páginas más a mi cuaderno. Desde que había empezado a querer ir a investigar el mundo tan extraño que había bajo nosotros, me había dicho papá que dibujase todas las imágenes que me entraban a la cabeza sobre el otro mundo. Hojeé las páginas. En ellas había dibujos en blanco y negro. Aunque todavía no había visto con mis ojos el mundo extraño, lo había visto mentalmente.
–Es un poder – decía mi padre.

– No sabía que podías dibujar tan bien, Elena – dijo Aroa.
– Deja eso – la respondí, bastante enfadada al ver que me había despertado y que encima había estado cotilleando mis dibujos.
– Perdón, no quería ofenderte.
Metí los dibujos en mi mochila, me vestí y bajé a desayunar.
– Buenos días – me dijo Rosalía, mi tía – ¿qué quieres para desayunar, Elena?
No tenía ganas de hablar con nadie, y se me había quitado el hambre de desayunar. Salí de la casa con mi mochila.

Vivíamos las tres, Aroa, Rosalía y yo, en una casita al borde del mundo. La casita estaba a las afueras de un pueblecillo llamado Las Aguas. En el pueblo no vivía casi nadie, había muy pocas tiendas y no había nada que hacer para los niños. Mis padres me habían “abandonado” en la casa de mi tía antes de desaparecer. No me gusta usar la palabra “abandonado”. Yo pienso que me dejaron en la casa de mi tía, para que ella me pudiese cuidar mientras que ellos se iban a investigar sobre el mundo bajo el nuestro, pero nadie sabe adónde se fueron mis padres.

El borde del mundo era mi lugar favorito del pueblo. Era el único sitio donde todavía existía la naturaleza. Hierba verde, que por las mañanas de días de primavera como hoy, estaría mojada de gotitas de rocío. Puse mis pies en el borde del mundo, de manera que pudiera mirar hacia lo que ya no era el mundo nuestro. Se sabía que había otro mundo allí abajo, porque por las noches, se veían lucecitas a la distancia. Era muy bonito.

En ese mismo momento, sentí el impulso de tirarme del borde. Me puse la mochila, me coloque en el borde y…
– ¡Elena! ¿Qué haces? ¿Estás loca? ¡Ven aquí ahora mismo!
Mire hacia atrás. Era Rosalía que había salido de la casa a tender la ropa. Aroa había abierto la ventana y estaba contemplándome con su carita pálida.

No le hice caso a Rosalía y salté. Se me puso la piel de gallina. Cerré los ojos para no pasar tanto miedo. Pensé en el mundo que me esperaba al llegar al suelo. Y entonces recordé lo que me había dicho mi profesor del colegio de Las Aguas:
– No es el tropezar que te hace daño, sino que es el caer al suelo.
Abrí los ojos, y… “¡Bumba!”. Había llegado al otro mundo. Miré hacia arriba, estaba tan lejos que ni siquiera se veía Las Aguas.
– Bienvenido a el Mundo de la Luna, o como vosotros lo llamáis, “el otro mundo” – dijo una vocecita.
Mire a mis alrededores buscando de quién había venido ese sonido.
– ¡Eh! Tú, niña. ¡Estoy aquí!
Me había hablado un caracol. Nunca había visto a un caracol hablar. Qué cosa más rara.
– ¿Cómo te llamas? – dijo el caracol.
– Me llamo Elena.
– ¿Y tu apellido?
– García.
Mientras que iba respondiendo sus preguntas, él escribía sus respuestas en un cuaderno. No era como mi cuaderno de dibujos. Este estaba medio lleno.

– Y, ¿qué haces aquí?
– No se…
– ¿No me digas que también quieres explorar el Mundo de la Luna?
– No. Vengo a buscar a mis padres.
– Pues bueno. La mejor razón que he oído en todo el día – el caracol empezó a sonreír – bienvenida al Mundo de la Luna.
Me di la vuelta. Estaba en el medio de un bosque. Entre los árboles había un camino. Lo seguí.

Al cabo de unas horas de no hacer nada más que andar, llegué a un pueblecillo. Había un cartel en el que ponía: Bienvenido al pueblo de los Castaños.
– Espero que mis padres vivan en este pueblo –pensé para mí misma.
Seguí andando hasta que llegué a un mercadillo lleno de gente comprando y vendiendo objetos de segunda mano y comida fresca. Había una chica joven vendiendo frutas. Llevaba un vestido azul oscuro con florecitas blancas. Tenía el pelo rubio y los ojos marrones. Parecía estar aburrida y estaba leyendo un libro muy grande. Me acerqué a su puesto, y la pregunté:
– Perdone, estoy buscando a mis padres.
– ¿Cómo se llaman? – preguntó la chica.
– Mi madre se llama Anita García y mi padre se llama José García.
Al oír los nombres de mis padres, la chica levantó la mirada de su libro y sonrió.
– ¡Es verdad! Te pareces mucho a tu madre.
– ¿La conoces?
La chica me señaló un piso que se situaba encima de una cafetería.
– Viven allí – me dijo.
– Muchas gracias.
Empecé a andar hacia el piso. Al llegar llamé a la puerta. Desde el interior se encendió una luz. Se oían unos pasos bajando las escaleras. Los pasos se acercaron a la puerta.

En este momento me sentía muy excitada y muy nerviosa. La puerta se abrió. Y detrás de ella había un señor alto, con pelo negro y los ojos azules. Llevaba puesto unos vaqueros, una camiseta de manga corta verde y un par de zapatillas. Encima de su ropa llevaba un delantal de cocinar. Me quedé contemplándole unos segundos, hasta que me di cuenta de que se parecía un montón a mi padre.

– ¡Elena! ¿Qué haces tú aquí? ¿Cómo has llegado aquí?
No era un señor extraño que solo se parecía a mi padre, sino que era mi padre.
– ¡Papá!
Me eché a sus brazos. Nos quedamos abrazándonos por unos minutos hasta que me dejó entrar al piso. El interior del piso estaba decorado muy modernamente. El primer cuarto al que entrabas era la cocina y el salón. Tenían un sofá blanco y una televisión muy grande. Las paredes estaban pintadas de color beige, pero en una de las paredes habían pintado un retrato en blanco y negro de mi padre, de una señora de pelo oscuro y liso y de un bebé de pelo rizado y rubio. Me di cuenta de que la señora era mi madre y de que yo era ese bebé de pelo rizado y rubio.
– ¿Quién llamó a la puerta, cariño? – dijo una voz de señora.
– Era Elena – respondió mi padre.
Me di la vuelta y la señora se puso a llorar y me abrazó. No nos habíamos visto en once años. Era mi madre.
Al día siguiente les enseñé a mis padres mis dibujos. Les gustaron mucho. Se disculparon por haberme dejado en casa de Rosalía y que lo tuvieron que hacer porque habían decidido que querían encontrar más información sobre el Mundo de la Luna. Luego me explicaron que no pudieron volver a Las Aguas por que el rey del Mundo de la Luna les había condenado a no poder volver a su mundo porque no le había gustado que mis padres entrasen en el Mundo de la Luna.
Desde ese día, estoy viviendo en el piso de mis padres en el Mundo de la Luna, pero todas las vacaciones de verano me voy a pasar unos meses en Las Aguas con Aroa y con Rosalía. No podía olvidarme de ellas, Rosalía me había criado y yo le quería a Aroa como si fuese mi propia hermana. A mis padres les gustaría volver a Las Aguas, pero nunca podrán volver. Algún día tendré que crear un plan para que mis padres puedan escapar del Mundo de la Luna y volver a Las Aguas, pero hoy no.

Amber K. Holbrook Zulueta (2º ESO)