Las cosas que llevaban los hombres que lucharon (1990)
The Things They Carried is Tim O’Brien’s classic collection of stories about the Vietnam War based on his own experiences as a soldier. Originally published in 1990, I would consider it a must-read book for anyone interested in learning about war and its repercussions. While the interconnected stories present a thought-provoking reflection on the war, a few other themes emerge throughout the text such as memory, imagination, and the somewhat foggy combination of these two concepts. As a whole, the book also demonstrates the power of storytelling and the impact it has not only on those who listen or read stories, but also on those who tell them. The story we’ll read is called “Stockings”.
Stockings
Henry Dobbins was a good man, and a superb soldier, but sophistication was not his strong suit. The ironies went beyond him. In many ways he was like America itself, big and strong, full of good intentions, a roll of fat jiggling at his belly, slow of foot but always plodding along, always there when you needed him, a believer in the virtues of simplicity and directness and hard labor. Like his country, too, Dobbins was drawn toward sentimentality. Even now, twenty years later, I can see him wrapping his girlfriend’s pantyhose around his neck before heading out on ambush. It was his one eccentricity. The pantyhose, he said, had the properties of a good-luck charm. He liked putting his nose into the nylon and breathing in the scent of his girlfriend’s body, he liked the memories this inspired, he sometimes slept with the stockings up against his face, the way an infant sleeps with a flannel blanket, secure and peaceful. More than anything, though, the stockings were a talisman for him. They kept him safe. They gave access to a spiritual world, where things were soft and intimate, a place where he might someday take his girlfriend to live. Like many of us in Vietnam, Dobbins felt the pull of superstition, and he believed firmly and absolutely in the protective power of the stockings. They were like body armor, he thought. Whenever we saddled up for a late-night ambush, putting on our helmets and flak jackets, Henry Dobbins would make a ritual out of arranging the nylons around his neck, carefully tying a knot, draping the two leg sections over his left shoulder. There were some jokes, of course, but we came to appreciate the mystery of it all. Dobbins was invulnerable. Never wounded, never a scratch. In August, he tripped a Bouncing Betty, which failed to detonate. And a week later he got caught in the open during a fierce little firefight, no cover at all, but he just slipped the pantyhose over his nose and breathed deep and let the magic do its work. It turned us into a platoon of believers. You don’t dispute facts. But then, near the end of October, his girlfriend dumped him. It was a hard blow. Dobbins went quiet for a while, staring down at her letter, then after a time he took out the stockings and tied them around his neck as a comforter. “No sweat,” he said. “The magic doesn’t go away.”
Set in Los Angeles, The Big Sleep follows private detective Philip Marlowe as he investigates a case of blackmail for a wealthy client.
Let’s read Chapter Two!
The butler stood in front of him and said: “This is Mr. Marlowe, General.”
The old man didn’t move or speak, or even nod. He just looked at me lifelessly. The butler pushed a damp wicker chair against the backs of my legs and I sat down. He took my hat with a deft scoop.
Then the old man dragged his voice up from the bottom of a well and said: “Brandy, Norris. How do you like your brandy, sir?”
“Any way at all,” I said.
The butler went away among the abominable plants. The General spoke again, slowly, using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work show-girl uses her last good pair of stockings.
“I used to like mine with champagne. The champagne as cold as Valley Forge and about a third of a glass of brandy beneath it. You may take your coat off, sir. It’s too hot in here for a man with blood in his veins.”
I stood up and peeled off my coat and got a handkerchief out and mopped my face and neck and the backs of my wrists. St. Louis in August had nothing on that place. I sat down again and I felt automatically for a cigarette and then stopped. The old man caught the gesture and smiled faintly.
“You may smoke, sir. I like the smell of tobacco.”
I lit the cigarette and blew a lungful at him and he sniffed at it like a terrier at a rathole. The faint smile pulled at the shadowed corners of his mouth.
“A nice state of affairs when a man has to indulge his vices by proxy,” he said dryly. “You are looking at a very dull survival of a rather gaudy life, a cripple paralyzed in both legs and with only half of his lower belly. There’s very little that I can eat and my sleep is so close to waking that it is hardly worth the name. I seem to exist largely on heat, like a newborn spider, and the orchids are an excuse for the heat. Do you like orchids?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
The General half-closed his eyes. “They are nasty things. Their flesh is too much like the flesh of men. And their perfume has the rotten sweetness of a prostitute.”
I stared at him with my mouth open. The soft wet heat was like a pall around us. The old man nodded, as if his neck was afraid of the weight of his head. Then the butler came pushing back through the jungle with a teawagon, mixed me a brandy and soda, swathed the copper ice bucket with a damp napkin, and went away softly among the orchids. A door opened and shut behind the jungle.
I sipped the drink. The old man licked his lips watching me, over and over again, drawing one lip slowly across the other with a funeral absorption, like an undertaker dry-washing his hands.
“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Marlowe. I suppose I have a right to ask?”
“Sure, but there’s very little to tell. I’m thirty-three years old, went to college once and can still speak English if there’s any demand for it. There isn’t much in my trade. I worked for Mr. Wilde, the District Attorney, as an investigator once. His chief investigator, a man named Bernie Ohls, called me and told me you wanted to see me. I’m unmarried because I don’t like policemen’s wives.”
“And a little bit of a cynic,” the old man smiled. “You didn’t like working for Wilde?”
“I was fired. For insubordination. I test very high on insubordination, General.”
“I always did myself, sir. I’m glad to hear it. What do you know about my family?”
“I’m told you are a widower and have two young daughters, both pretty and both wild. One of them has been married three times, the last time to an ex-bootlegger who went in the trade by the name of Rusty Regan. That’s all I heard, General.”
“Did any of it strike you as peculiar?”
“The Rusty Regan part, maybe. But I always got along with bootleggers myself.”
He smiled his faint economical smile. “It seems I do too. I’m very fond of Rusty. A big curly-headed Irishman from Clonmel, with sad eyes and a smile as wide as Wilshire Boulevard. The first time I saw him I thought he might be what you are probably thinking he was, an adventurer who happened to get himself wrapped up in some velvet.”
“You must have liked him,” I said. “You learned to talk the language.”
He put his thin bloodless hands under the edge of the rug. I put my cigarette stub out and finished my drink.
“He was the breath of life to me–while he lasted. He spent hours with me, sweating like a pig, drinking brandy by the quart and telling me stories of the Irish revolution. He had been an officer in the I.R.A. He wasn’t even legally in the United States. It was a ridiculous marriage of course, and it probably didn’t last a month, as a marriage. I’m telling you the family secrets, Mr. Marlowe.”
“They’re still secrets,” I said. “What happened to him?”
The old man looked at me woodenly. “He went away, a month ago. Abruptly, without a word to anyone. Without saying good-bye to me. That hurt a little, but he had been raised in a rough school. I’ll hear from him one of these days. Meantime I am being blackmailed again.”
Seguimos leyendo ‘El Alquimista‘. La gran razón de su vida: viajar.
🌴🐑🐫☀🔥🌴🐑🐫☀🔥🌴🐑🐫☀🔥
At the break of dawn the shepherd positioned the sheep according to the direction of the sun. “They never have to make a decision”, he thought. “Perhaps that’s why they’re always together with me.” The sheep only felt the need to drink and eat. As long as the boy knew the best pastures of Andalusia, they would always be his friends, even when the days were always the same, with long hours spent dragging along from sunrise to sunset, even when they had never read a single book in their short lives, and weren’t familiar with the language of the people who told of the new events and happenings in the villages. They were content with water and food, and that was enough for them. In exchange for that, they generously offered their wool, their company, and, once in a while, their meat.
“If today I turned into a monster and decided to kill them one after the other, they would only realize it after almost the whole flock had been wiped out”, the boy thought. “Because they trust me, and they’ve forgotten to trust their own instincts. Just because I lead them to nourishment and food.” The boy began to surprise himself with his own thoughts. Perhaps the church, with that one sycamore tree that grew inside of it, was bewitched. It had made him have the same dream for the second time, and it was causing him a sensation of rage against his always faithful, loyal companions. He drank a little bit of wine left over from the previous dinner, and tightened the jacket around his body. He knew that within a few hours, with the sun at its peak, the heat would be so intense that he would no longer be able to lead the sheep across the countryside. It was the hour in which all of Spain slept in summer. The heat lasted until the night, and during all this time, he had to carry his jacket. Nevertheless, when he thought about complaining about the weight, he always remembered that thanks to the jacket he hadn’t felt cold during the morning.
“We should always be prepared for weather-related surprises”, he thought, and he felt grateful for the weight of the jacket.
The jacket had a purpose, and the boy had one as well. In his two years on the plains of Andalusia, he already knew by heart all the cities of the region, and this was the great purpose of his life: travelling. He was thinking about explaining to the girl this time why a simple shepherd knows how to read: up until he was sixteen years old he had been in the seminary. His parents wanted him to be a priest, and the cause of pride for a simple peasant family, that worked to earn just enough for food and water, like his sheep. He studied Latin, Spanish, and theology. But ever since he was young, he dreamed of seeing the world, and this was much more important than learning about God or the sins of mankind. One evening, while visiting his family, he had gathered up the courage and had told his father that he didn’t want to be a priest. He wanted to travel.
Seguiremos leyendo ‘El Alquimista‘. El pastor Santiago conoce a la moza de los cabellos negros.
“I need to sell some wool,” said the shepherd to the trader. The man’s shop was full of customers, and the shopkeeper kindly asked the shepherd to wait until sunset. The boy sat down on the ground of the shop and took out a book from his knapsack. “I didn’t know that you shepherds were able to read books,” said a feminine voice next to him. She was a typical young girl from the region of Andalusia, with her black hair, and eyes that vaguely reminded one of the old Moorish conquerors. “It’s because the sheep teach more than any book ever could,” responded the boy. They were talking for more than two hours. She told him that she was the daughter of the shopkeeper, and she talked about life in the small village, where every day was the same as the day before. The shepherd talked about the fields and pastures of Andalusia, and the most recent things he saw in the cities that he had visited. He was happy to be talking with someone other than the sheep. “How did you learn to read?” asked the girl at one point. “Like everyone else,” responded the boy. “In school.” “So, if you know how to read, why aren’t you something more than just a simple shepherd?” The boy apologized as best he could in order to avoid responding to that question. He was certain that the girl would never understand. He continued telling his travel stories, and her little Moorish eyes opened and closed with fear and surprise. As time went by, the boy began to wish that day would never end, that the girl’s father would be busy for a long time and would order him to wait three days. He realized that he was feeling something that he had never felt before: the desire to stay in the same city forever. With the girl with the black hair, his days would never be the same. However, the shopkeeper finally arrived and ordered the boy to shear four sheep. Then he paid the shepherd what he owed him and he asked him to return the next year.
Now, the same village was only four days away. He was excited and, at the same time, unsure: perhaps the girl had already forgotten him. Many shepherds passed by there to sell wool. “It doesn’t matter,” said the boy to his sheep. “I also know other girls in other cities.” But deep down in his heart, he knew that it did matter, and that shepherds, like sailors and travelers, always knew one city in which there was someone who could make them forget the joy of traveling around the world.
Os traigo una fábula para seguir vuestros sueños. Empezaremos a leer ‘El Alquimista’. Además de ser un libro corto y enganchante, también es ideal para iniciarse en la lectura. Estoy seguro de que os va a atrapar. Sin más demora, ¡Pongámonos manos a la obra!
Lectura en inglés.
Prologue
The Alchemist took a book that someone from the caravan had brought. The volume didn’t have a cover, but he managed to identify its author: Oscar Wilde. While he leafed through it, he found a story about Narcissus. The Alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a handsome boy who every day would go to gaze at his own beauty in the lake. He was so fascinated with his own reflection that, one day, he fell into the lake and drowned. In the spot where he fell sprouted a flower which they called Narcissus. But this was not how Oscar Wilde brought the story to an end. He said that when Narcissus died, the Oreads, the nymphs of the forest, came and saw the lake transformed, from a freshwater lake to a pitcher of salty tears. “Why do you cry?” asked the Oreads. “I cry for Narcissus,” responded the lake. “Oh, it doesn’t surprise us that you cry for Narcissus,” they continued saying, “after all, despite the fact that we all always followed him through the forest, you were the only one that had the opportunity to see his beauty up close. “So, Narcissus was beautiful?” asked the lake. “Who besides you could know? the Oreads responded, surprised. “After all, it was over your shore where he would lean every day.” The lake remained still for a few moments. Finally it said, “I cry for Narcissus, but I had never realized that Narcissus was beautiful. I cry for Narcissus because each time that he leaned over my shore, I could see in the depths of his eyes, my own reflected beauty. “What a lovely story,” said the Alchemist.
Part 1
The boy’s name was Santiago. It began to get dark when he arrived with his flock of sheep at the entrance of an old, abandoned church. The roof had caved in a long time ago and an enormous sycamore tree had grown in the place that used to house the sacristy. He decided to spend the night there. He made all of his sheep enter through the run-down door and then he placed a few pieces of wood over the door so that they could not escape during the night. There weren’t any wolves in that region, but, one time, one of his animals ran away at night and the shepherd spent the entire day after looking for the stray sheep. He laid his jacket out on the ground and he lay down on it, using the book he had just read as a pillow. Before drifting off, he remembered that he needed thicker books. They took longer to read, and in the evening, they made more comfortable pillows. It was still dark when he woke up. He looked up and saw that the stars were shining through the half-collapsed roof. “I would like to sleep a little more,” he thought. He had had the same dream as last week, and again he woke up before reaching the end. He got up and took a sip of wine. Then he grabbed his staff and began to wake up the sheep that were still sleeping. He had noticed that when he would wake up, the majority of the animals would also begin to wake up. As if there were some mysterious energy that linked his life to the lives of his sheep that for two years had been travelling across the land with him in search of water and food. “You’ve all gotten so used to me,” he said quietly, “that you know my schedule.” He reflected on this for a moment and thought that the opposite could also be true: that he had become accustomed to the schedule of the sheep. Nevertheless, there were some sheep that were taking more time to get up. The boy gradually woke the sheep one after another with his staff, calling each by their name. He always believed that the sheep were able to understand what he said to them. That’s why he usually read passages of books that had impressed him to them or talked to them about the loneliness and happiness of a shepherd in the countryside, or told them about the most recent new things that he would see in the cities he tended to pass. However, in the last two days, there had been only one thing on his mind: a girl, the daughter of a trader who lived in the city where he was going to arrive within four days. He had only been there once, the year before. The trader was the owner of a fabric shop and he always liked to see the sheep sheared in his presence to avoid being cheated. A friend of his had pointed out the shop and the shepherd took his sheep there.
Que trata del libro de terror escrito por R. L. Stine
Lectura en inglés justo a tiempo para el mes de octubre. Lector, ¿estás listo para el horror? Egg Monsters From Mars (Los Monstruos Ovíparos De Marte) es un libro de terror de la serie de libros Goosebumps(Escalofríos en español) escrita por el autor estadounidense R.L. Stine. Es otra historia fácil de leer, divertida e ideal para iniciarse en la lectura.
🥚Chapter 2🥚
“Ahhhhh!” The shout vibrated through the air. I turned around towards the house. One of the Hair Sisters waved her hand wildly, calling the other girls. I picked up my basket and ran towards her. “They’re not cooked!” I heard her yell as I was getting closer. And I saw that the thick, yellow yolk dripped down her white t-shirt. “Mom didn’t have time to cook them”, announced Brandy. “Or paint them.” I know it’s weird, but there just wasn’t time. I looked up towards the house. Mom and Dad had disappeared. “Be careful”, Brandy warned her guests. “If you guys break them..” She didn’t finish her sentence. I heard a splat. Then, laughter… A boy had slammed an egg against the wall of the house just for the heck of it. “Cool!” exclaimed a girl. Anne’s big shepherd dog, Stubby, came running out of the doghouse. I don’t know why he likes to sleep there. He’s almost as big as the house. Nevertheless, I didn’t have time to think about Stubby. Splat! Another egg exploded, this time against the wall of the shed. More laughter, Brandy’s friends thought that this was really entertaining. “Egg fight! Egg fight!”, two kids started chanting. I ducked when an egg flew over my head; it landed with a loud crack on the driveway. Eggs were now flying everywhere. I stood there surprised, watching everything. I heard a high-pitched scream. I turned around to see two of the Hair Sisters. The thick, yellow liquid dripped down from their heads. They screamed and shook their heads, trying to get rid of the yellow sliminess with both their hands. Splat! Another egg slammed against the wall of the shed. Crack! The eggs bounced on the driveway. I crouched down and looked for Anne, I figured she probably had gone home. Anne can enjoy a good time; however, she’s twelve years old and is way too sophisticated for a childish egg fight. Well, when I’m wrong, I’m really wrong. “Think fast, Dennis!” Anne yelled out behind me. I threw myself on the ground just in time because she launched two eggs at me at the same time. Both of them passed buzzing over my head and fell on the lawn with a gross crack. “Stop!” “Stop!” I heard Brandy desperately scream. “It’s my birthday! Stop it! “It’s my birthday!” Ouch! Someone hit Brandy in the chest with an egg. You could hear loud laughter. Sticky, yellow puddles covered the lawn of the yard. I looked up towards Anne. She was smiling behind me, about to throw another egg at me. It was time for action. I reached my hand into my basket and took out the only egg that I had found, I lifted it above my head. I was going to throw it… but I stopped. I lowered the egg and I stared at it attentively. I observed it carefully, there was something wrong with the egg. Something really wrong.
🥚Chapter 3🥚
The only egg I had managed to find was way too big. Bigger than a normal egg, approximately the size of a softball. I held it, examining it carefully. The color wasn’t normal either; it didn’t have the white, creamy tone that all eggs have; it wasn’t brown either. The egg was pale green. I held it up to the sunlight to make sure I had seen it correctly. Yes, it was green. And why did it have those cracks that were all over its shell? I slid my index finger over the dark, jagged lines. No, they weren’t cracks. They were some sort of vein, blue and purple veins that went through the green eggshell. “How weird!” I murmured out loud. Brandy’s friends were yelling and shouting. Eggs were flying all around me, an egg crashed on my shoes and the yellow yolk spilled over my shoelaces. But I didn’t pay any attention. I rolled the strange egg around gently between my hands. I brought it closer to my face and looked carefully at the blue and purple veins. “Oh!” I let out a shout when I felt it throb. The veins were throbbing, I could feel their rhythmic beat. Pum. Pum. Pum. “Wow!” “It’s alive!’ I shouted. What had I found? It was something completely strange, I couldn’t wait to run to my work desk and examine it. However, first I had to show it to Anne. “Anne!” “Hey, Anne!” I called her and started to run towards her, carrying the egg up high with both hands. I watched the egg carefully. Because of that I didn’t see Stubby, her big shepherd dog, that ran in front of me. “Oh no!” I shouted as I fell over the dog. I landed on top of the egg making a loud bang.
Que trata del libro de terror escrito por R. L. Stine
Lectura en inglés justo a tiempo para el mes de octubre. Lector, ¿estás listo para el horror? It Came from Beneath the Sink! (¡Lo Encontramos Debajo Del Fregadero!) es un libro de terror de la serie de libros Goosebumps(Escalofríos en español) escrita por el autor estadounidense R.L. Stine. Es una historia fácil de leer, divertida e ideal para iniciarse en la lectura.
¿Crees que Kat empujó a su padre? O tal vez la culpable sea la esponja malvada? 😱🧽
🧽Chapter 5🧽
Mom, Daniel and I gathered together around Dad. His eyes flickered open. He blinked. “Uh?” he muttered. “What happened?” Dad shook his head and leaned on his elbows to get up. “I think I’m fine, kids”, he said in a quivering voice. Dad tried to stand up, but he collapsed to the floor. “My ankle. I think it could be broken”, he groaned in pain. We helped Dad make it to the sofa, I stood at his side and Mom stood at his other side. “Ouch, it really hurts”, he complained. He rubbed his ankle gently. “Daniel, bring a little ice in a towel for your father”, said Mom. “Kat, go get a cold drink.” “Now, honey”, whispered Mom, drying Dad’s forehead, “tell me what happened.” When I returned running to the living room with a glass of cold water, Mom and Dad had the strangest expression in the world written on their faces. “Kat”, said my mom angrily, “did you push your father?” “Why did you push the ladder?” asked Dad, rubbing his ankle. “Huh? What?” I blurted out. “I didn’t push you! I would never do that!” “We’ll talk about this later, young lady”, said Mom sternly. “Right now, I have to take care of your father.” She leaned over him and placed the ice pack on Dad’s hurt ankle. I felt like my face was becoming red. How could Dad think that I had pushed him? I lowered my gaze and I realized that I still had the sponge. And I noticed something else. Something strange and frightening. Instead of beating gently, the sponge vibrated in my hand. It vibrated wildly. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. It vibrated… as if someone had turned on a blender to the highest speed. The sponge was practically purring with excitement. Gu-ahh. Gu-ahh. I sat down on the floor of the foyer, trembling. “What’s happening here?”, I asked myself. Daniel thought that I had pushed him. And later, Dad had said the same thing. They both thought that I had pushed them. Why? Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. The sponge continued pulsating and it felt hot in my hand. I felt a chill of fear. Suddenly, the sponge seemed to be something terrifying. I didn’t want to have that thing close to me… or my family. I ran out in a hurry. I found a big, metal trash can close to the garage. I lifted the lid. I put the sponge in. I firmly closed the lid. On the way back to the house, Mom called me into the living room. “I think your Dad’s ankle is only twisted”, she said. “Now, tell me what happened.”
It was Thursday, I was sitting at my desk and writing the names of the guests invited to my birthday party. There were only two days left until the big day. I had to give Mom the list today, so that she could call the other parents for Sunday. I heard Daniel chatting with Carlo while they came up the stairs loudly. “Look at it… it looks like an old sponge. But it’s alive!” explained Daniel. “I bet it’s a prehistoric creature, like a dinosaur or something like that.” I jumped up and I ran out of my room. “Hey!” I shouted at Daniel. “What are you doing with that?” I pointed to the sponge that he had in his hands. “I threw that thing away.” “I found it in the trash can”, Daniel replied. “It’s way too interesting to throw away. Right, Carlo?” Carlo shrugged his shoulders, his coarse, black hair grazed his shoulders. “It looks like an old sponge. What’s so special about it?” “It’s very special” I replied. “And that thing is definitely not a sponge.” I took out a bulky book from my new book shelf. “Look through the encyclopedia”, I explained. “What it says about sponges.” “You should have left it in the trash, Daniel.” “You really should have left it.” “What does the encyclopedia say?” asked Daniel anxiously, getting comfortable on the bed. He had the sponge in his hands. “It says that sponges don’t have eyes”, I answered. “And that they can only live in the water. If they stay out of water for more than thirty minutes, they’ll die.” “You see, Carlo? It’s not a sponge”, Daniel declared. “Our creature has eyes. And has been out of water since we found it.” “Well, I don’t see any eyes. And I don’t think it’s alive”, said Carlo without conviction. Daniel jumped up from the bed and offered the sponge to his friend. “Take it. Look at it.” Carlo handled the sponge carefully. His big, brown eyes got even bigger. “It’s hot! And… and… it moves. And it’s writhing! It’s alive.” Carlo turned around to look at me. “But if it’s not a sponge, then… then, what is it?” “I don’t know yet”, I admitted. “Maybe it’s some type of supersponge”, Daniel said. “So powerful that it can live on land.” “It could be a cross between a sponge and some other animal”, added Carlo, looking at the sponge. “Can I take it to my house for a bit? It will really get Sandy’s attention.” Sandy is Carlo’s babysitter. “I’ll bring it right back”, promised Carlo. “No way, Carlo”, I quickly said. “I think I’ll keep the sponge here until I know exactly what it is. Here… inside this old hamster cage.” “Please”, begged Carlo, petting the sponge on its wrinkled head. “See? I get along well with it.” “There’s no way! I replied. “Daniel, tell your friend to stop bothering me.” “Okay, okay”, muttered Carlo. “Listen, what does this thing eat?” “I don’t know”, I replied. “But it seems to do well without eating. Put it in the cage.” Carlo reached the cage and put the creature in it. While he was doing that, an expression of terror appeared on his face. I saw that his hand was trembling. Then, he let out a horrifying cry. “Ow! My hand! It ate my hand!”
Que trata del libro de terror escrito por R. L. Stine.
Lectura en inglés justo a tiempo para el mes de octubre. Lector, ¿estás listo para el horror? How I Got My Shrunken Head (Cómo Conseguí Mi Cabeza Humana Reducida) es un libro de terror de la serie de libros Goosebumps(Escalofríos en español) escrita por el autor estadounidense R.L. Stine. Es una historia fácil de leer, divertida e ideal para iniciarse en la lectura.
💀¡Dos cabezas son mejor que una!💀
💀¡Dos capítulos son mejor que uno!💀
🌴💀Chapter 2💀🌴
What I saw was a head. A human head, wrinkled and leathery. Approximately the size of a tennis ball. Its pale and dry lips were stretched out and pulled back into a smile. The neck was sewed up with thick black string. Two completely black eyes looked at me fixedly. A shrunken head… A real shrunken head! I was so shocked, so seriously surprised by finding a shrunken head upon opening the front door that it took me a while to notice the lady who was holding it. She was a tall lady, approximately my mom’s age, maybe a little older. She had short, black hair with gray streaks. She wore a long raincoat that was buttoned-up all the way even though it was a hot, sunny day. She smiled at me. I couldn’t see her eyes. They were hidden behind a pair of big, black-framed glasses. She held the shrunken head by its hair, its thick, black hair. In her other hand she carried a suitcase. “Are you Mark?” she asked. She had a smooth, sweet voice, like an actress in a commercial. “Uhhhh… yeah” I answered, looking fixedly at the shrunken head. They never look so ugly in the photos that I had seen. So wrinkled and dry. “I hope I didn’t surprise you with this thing”, the lady said smiling. I was so eager to give it to you that I took it out of my bag. “Uh… give it to me?” I asked without taking my eyes off the shrunken head which stared at me with those black, glass eyes. They looked more like the eyes of a stuffed animal than the eyes of a human being. “Your Aunt Benna sent it to you”, said the lady. “It’s a gift.” She gave me the head. But I didn’t take it. I had spent all day capturing shrunken heads in the game. However, I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch this one. “Mark… who is it?”, my mom appeared behind me. “Oh… Hello!” “Hi!” replied the lady warmly. “Did Benna write and tell you guys that I was coming?” I’m Carolyn Hawlings. I work for her. On the island. “Oh… Goodness! exclaimed Mom. “Benna’s letter must have gotten lost. Come in. Come in.” She pulled me backwards so that Carolyn could enter the house. “Mom, look what she brought for me”, I said pointing to the little green head that was hanging by its hair in Carolyn’s hand. “Gross!” shouted mom, putting a hand on her cheek. “It’s not real, is it?” “Of course it’s real!” I shouted. “Aunt Benna wouldn’t send a fake one, would she?” Carolyn went into the living room and put down her suitcase. I took a deep breath. I gathered up some courage. And I stretched out my hand toward the shrunken head. However, before I could touch it, Jessica came in… and she took it from Carolyn’s hand. “Hey!” I shouted, catching up to her. She got away quickly, laughing, with her red hair flying behind her. She carried the head with both her hands. Then she stopped. Her smile went away. And she stood looking at the head horror-stricken. “It bit me!” Jessica screamed. “It bit me!”
🌴💀Chapter 3💀🌴
I stood there breathless. Mom squeezed my shoulder. Jessica started to laugh; it was one of her dumb jokes. She tossed the head from one hand to another and smiled at me. “You’re a dummy, Mark. You believe anything.” “Just give me back my head!” I shouted angrily. I leaped across the room and grabbed the head. She started to pull it to take it from me, but I grabbed it firmly. “Hey… you scratched it!” I screamed. It was true. I held the head close to my face to examine it. Jessica had put a long, white scratch on the right earlobe. “Jessica… please” begged Mom, crossing her arms and lowering her voice. That’s what Mom does when she’s about to burst. “Behave. We have a visitor.” Jessica crossed her arms and pouted. Mom turned toward Carolyn. “How’s my sister Benna?” Carolyn took off her glasses, and put them in the pocket of her raincoat. She had silvery eyes. She looked older with her glasses off. I could see hundreds of tiny wrinkles around her eyes. “Benna is doing well”, she replied. Working hard, too hard. Sometimes she disappears into the jungle for a couple days. Carolyn sighed and starting unbuttoning her raincoat. “I’m sure you know that work is Benna’s life” she continued. “She spends all her time exploring the jungle of Baladora. She wanted to come too, but she couldn’t leave the island. Instead, she sent me. ” “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Carolyn”, Mom said warmly. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were coming, but any friend of Benna is more than welcome.” She took Carolyn’s coat. Carolyn wore khaki-colored pants and a short-sleeve shirt of the same color. Her clothes seemed to really be an outfit for exploring the jungle. “Come, sit down”, Mom said to her. “What would you like to drink?” “Coffee would be good”, replied Carolyn. She started to follow Mom into the kitchen, but she stopped and smiled at me. “Did you like your gift?” I looked at the wrinkled, leathery head I had in my hands. “It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed. That night before going to bed, I put the head on my dresser; I brushed back its thick, black hair. Its forehead was dark green and wrinkled like a prune. The black, glass eyes looked forward fixedly. Carolyn told me that the head was more than a hundred years old. I leaned against the dresser and I looked at it attentively. It was hard to believe that at one time it belonged to a real person. Yuck! “How could that person have lost their head?” I asked myself. “And who decided to shrink it? And who had preserved it after they had shrunk it?” I wished Aunt Benna were here. She would have explained everything. Carolyn slept in the guest room that was downstairs. We had been sitting in the living room, talking about Aunt Benna all night. Carolyn described the work that Aunt Benna is carrying out on the jungle island and the amazing things she is discovering there, in Baladora. My Aunt Benna is a pretty famous scientist; she’s been in Baladora for more than 10 years. She studies the animals of the jungle and also the plant life. I loved listening to Carolyn’s stories. It was as if my computer game, Jungle King, had become real. Jessica wanted to keep playing with my shrunken head, but I didn’t have any intention of letting her. She had already scratched its ear. “It’s not a toy. It’s a human head”, I told my sister. “I’ll trade you two toy balls for the head”, offered my sister. I mean was she crazy? Why would I trade a priceless treasure for some toys? Sometime I worry about Jessica. At ten o’clock at night, Mom sent me to bed. “Carolyn and I have a lot of things to talk about”, announced Mom. I said goodnight and headed upstairs. I put the shrunken head on my dresser and I put on my pajamas. The dark eyes of the head seemed to flash for a second when I turned out the light. I got in bed and got under the covers. The silver light of the moon shined into my room through the window, and I could clearly see the shadowy head that sat on my dresser. “It’s got such a hideous smile”, I thought shivering. “Why does it have that scary look on its face?” I answered my own question: “Mark, you wouldn’t be smiling either if someone had shrunken your head!” I fell asleep looking at the dreadful little head. I slept deeply, without dreaming. I don’t know how much time I slept. But at some time in the night, a terrifying whisper woke me up. “Mark… Mark…”
Que trata del libro de terror escrito por R. L. Stine
Lectura en inglés justo a tiempo para el mes de octubre. Lector, ¿estás listo para el horror? Egg Monsters From Mars (Los Monstruos Ovíparos De Marte) es un libro de terror de la serie de libros Goosebumps(Escalofríos en español) escrita por el autor estadounidense R.L. Stine. Es otra historia fácil de leer, divertida e ideal para iniciarse en la lectura.
¿Qué fue primero, el huevo o el monstruo?
🥚Chapter 1🥚
Egg Monsters From Mars – Chapter 1
My sister, Brandy, wanted an egg hunt for her birthday. And she always gets what she wants. She flashes her smile, that smile that makes her dimples show, and puts on her baby face, opens her green eyes and she plays with her red hair. “Please? Please? Can I have an egg hunt at my birthday party?”. There’s no way Mom and Dad could say no to her. If Brandy were to ask for a red, white, and blue ostrich for a birthday present, Dad would be painting it right now in the shed. Brandy is good at getting her way, really good. I’m her older brother, Dennis Johnson. And I’ll admit it, it’s even difficult for me to say no to her. I’m not small nor am I pretty like my sister. I have straight, black hair that falls over my forehead, I wear glasses, and I’m somewhat pudgy. “Dennis, don’t act so serious”. Mom always tells me that. “Dennis is an old soul”, my grandmother Evelyn always says. I don’t actually know what that means, I suppose it means that I am more serious than the majority of twelve-year old kids. Maybe that’s not true. I’m really not that serious all the time, it’s just that I’m curious about a lot of different things: I’m really interested in science, I like studying about insects, plants, and animals. I have an ant farm and two tarantulas in my room, and I have my own microscope. Last night, I studied a snail with it. It’s a lot more interesting than you guys might imagine. I want to be a scientific researcher when I grow up. I’ll have my own laboratory, and I’ll study whatever I want. Dad is a chemist. He works for a perfume company. He mixes substances together to make new aromas, he calls them fragrances. Before Mom met Dad, she worked in a laboratory experimenting on rats. So, both my parents are happy with my interest in science, they encourage me to continue forward. But that doesn’t mean that they give me everything I ask for. If I were to ask my dad for a red, white, and blue ostrich for my birthday, you guys know what he’d tell me? He would say: “Go play with your sister’s!” Anyways, Brandy asked for an egg hunt for her birthday, which is a week before Easter, so it’s not really anything ridiculous. We have a big backyard, it extends all the way until a thin stream. The backyard is full of bushes, trees, and flowers, and also there’s a humongous doghouse , even though we don’t have a dog. There are a ton of places to hide eggs, so Brandy got her egg hunt. She invited all of the kids in her class. Maybe you guys think that an egg hunt couldn’t be something exciting. But my sister thinks so. Brandy’s birthday arrived. It was a hot, sunny day, only a few cumulus clouds were high up in the sky. (By the way, I like studying clouds). Mom headed hastily to the backyard after breakfast, carrying in her hand an enormous bucket of eggs. “I’ll help you hide them”, I told her. “That wouldn’t be fair, Dennis”, replied Mom. “You’re also going to participate in the egg hunt… don’t you remember?” I had almost forgotten. Brandy usually doesn’t want me to be around when her friends are here; nevertheless, now she had said that I could participate in the egg hunt and so could my best friend, Anne Gravel. Anne lives in the house next door, my mom and her mom are best friends. Mrs. Gravel gave my mom permission to hide eggs in her backyard too. So, it was only fair that my friend could take part in the egg hunt too. Anne is tall, really skinny, and has long reddish-brown hair. She’s taller than me; almost a head taller. For that reason everyone thinks she’s older than me, but she’s twelve too. She’s really funny, and is always joking around. She makes fun of me because she says I’m too serious. But I don’t care, I know she’s only joking. That afternoon, Anne and I were in the driveway and saw my sister’s classmates arrive. Brandy gave each of her friends a little straw basket. They were really excited when Brandy talked about the egg hunt, and the girls became even more thrilled when she told them what the grand prize was… one of those expensive dolls called American Girl. Of course, the boys started to complain. My sister should have had a prize that a boy would like. Some of the boys started using their baskets as Frisbees and others started to fight on the lawn. “I was much more sophisticated when I was ten”, I whispered to Anne. “When you were ten, you liked the Ninja Turtles”, replied Anne lifting her eyebrows. “That’s not true!” I protested. “Yes it is, I remember”, insisted Anne. “You would wear a Ninja Turtles t-shirt every day.” I kicked some gravel on the sidewalk. “Just because I wore a t-shirt doesn’t mean that I liked them”, I replied. Anne brushed back her long hair. She laughed, mocking me. I hate when she does that. “You had Ninja Turtles cups and plates at your tenth birthday party, Dennis. And a Ninja Turtles tablecloth and we played something called Throw the Pizza to the Turtle.” “But that doesn’t mean I liked them,” I exclaimed. Three other girls from Brandy’s class arrived running through the grass. I recognized them, they were the Hair Girls, as I called them. They aren’t sisters, but they spend all day in Brandy’s room brushing each other’s hair. Dad moved slowly through the lawn towards them. He had the video camera out. The Three Hair Sisters waved to the camera and shouted: “Happy Birthday, Brandy!” Dad records all of our birthdays, vacations, and important events. He keeps the tapes on a shelf in his office. But we’ve never watched them. The sun was shining. The lawn had a sweet, fresh smell. It was spring and the trees were starting to blossom. “Okay… everyone follow me!” ordered Brandy. The kids lined up two by two and three by three, with their baskets in their hands. Anne and I followed them, Dad walked behind us, filming everything diligently. Brandy guided us to the backyard. Mom was waiting there. “The eggs are hidden all over the place”, announced Mom, waving a hand in the air. In any place you can imagine. “Okay, attention! shouted Brandy. When I count to three, the egg hunt begins! One…” Anne bent down and whispered in my ear: “I bet you five dollars I find more eggs than you.” I smiled. Anne always knows how to make things more interesting. “Two…” “You’re on! I said to her. “Three!” All the kids cheered. The egg hunt had begun. Everyone started to look in the backyard, bending over to pick up eggs, some made progress by crawling on the lawn, others worked as a team, and others looked for eggs by themselves. I turned around and saw that Anne crouched down and was moving quickly toward one side of the shed. She already had three eggs in her basket. “I can’t let her beat me!” I told myself. I got down to work. I passed in front of a group of girls who were around the doghouse and I continue moving. I wanted to find an area to explore alone. A place where I could grab a lot of eggs without having to compete with the others. I ran through some tall grass, heading to the rear part of the backyard, I was completely alone, close to the stream, and I began to search for eggs. I spotted a hidden egg behind a rock, I had to move fast, I wanted to win the bet. I crouched down, I lifted it up and quickly tossed it in my basket, after I kneeled down, I placed my basket on the ground, and I started to search for more eggs. Nevertheless, I jumped up when I heard a scream.
