On moonlit nights, I would rummage through my mind, conjuring up tales to spiel and yarn you to sleep. I did the same after we had arrived. Each day and every night, I'd whisk up tales for you; not the fantastical anecdotes from our childhood but real tales, real stories: of Mama, of wheaten fields and wild grapes, of the long walk to the dance and the good times we had there. I told you tales so that you'd remember, so you wouldn't forget. Or maybe they were for me, Percy? So that I wouldn't let these things slide from my memory, so that I wouldn't give up.
The day had been long -- arduous -- and the tedious waiting game of war idly tick-tocked by. It was yet another camp in yet another forest -- just another day in just another year. The night was whispering and I was lying eyes-open, mind-wandering, when I heard the first scuffle, the first shout. Within seconds, the bullets began thundering almost as if Thor himself had been shattered and was raining down upon us. Do you remember how we jumped up simultaneously? And with one fleeting look, wordlessly began battling ourselves free of the ambush.
We shot our way through them -- side by side, brother by brother -- one down, then another; shot them until all ammo had been spent and we were chest-to-earth scurrying in the growth as the bullets grew fewer and the night silence swept in. The clouds peeled away and the moon -- awash with light -- threw its rays upon the barren landscape.
I took advantage of its gift and threw a quick glance behind me. The frosty air caught in my throat. The figure was solitary -- standing tall on his feet -- calmly strolling after us like a hunter stalking injured prey and the moon-rays sketched the outline of the pistol dangling by his side. I flicked my gaze in your direction and you understood immediately that we were not alone.
He must have heard the ringing of our bullets, caught the sounds of our final ammo hitting the ground and then pursued us for the thrill of the kill. There was no point crossing swords with him. We kept our eyes locked and continued moving. The moon slid behind a cloud once again and in one quick swoop, we leapt to our feet.
We ran like bullets as the pistol fired savagely behind us. We sprinted through the scrub, and grappled through the trees. As the moon once again cast her spotlight, we dropped to our knees. You were meters away to my left and we were caressing survival with our fingertips. I was in the long grass -- sheltered by soft blades.
You were still in the open but almost there. And then the stick snapped behind you. And you stopped. It was futile to even try to move an inch further. Your eyes turned to mine. And I don't know whether it was the darkness, Percy, or that inevitable moment we had never spoken about. But for the first time in my life, I didn't know what your eyes were saying to me. And my eyes didn't know how to respond. I often wondered what was going through his mind that night. He had the casual ease of a man taking a moonlight stroll.
What was the sadistic pleasure he found in seeing two Americans groveling on the ground, trying to escape? And why did he wait so long to shoot? These are the questions that can never be answered -- simply stirred until they suffocate me -- yet still, they loop and hoop me into dizziness. Dean offered my tenebrous vengeance permission to surface, and so it did. And tonight, I question if my desire to kill von Dreichber lives off the thrill of the chase.
How will I feel when he lies dead before me? Will the pain cease? Will the void be filled? But I can't think of these things, Percy. I can't allow myself. Do you know that I turn to you sometimes? To warn you, to share a laugh, just to check if you're doing all right. My eyes are met with your empty space and your name drops from my lips. And what remains? This feeling, his name, and the knowledge that I can't stop until he's dead. The sounds still wake me at night, Percy. My memories have blurred somewhat -- merging into an unknown mix of faces and places -- but the sounds are still intact: the blasts of the bombs, the whiz of the bullets, the rattle of guns, the shouts and then the screams, the God-awful screams.
I know one thing is certain about war: Death sounds the same in every language. And then, in the midst of all the horror and the terror, the laugh emerges -- like a new star on a long night. Oh boy, did his laugh roll out before him -- a bellow which paved the way for a personality to match. Dean Miller was the mad light of sunshine that parted my clouds. I think I had forgotten the sound of my own laughter. I reckoned I had just forgotten how to. But Dean brought it back within seconds. He delighted in his insanity -- casually brushing off the sharp edges of war with barrels of laughter and bottles of liquor.
The joker, the womanizer -- the trails and tales of his sordid exploits raised us high above the hopeless pits we found ourselves in -- sending us to warm embraces with voluptuous blonds, swigging beer and playing poker with the boys. If laughter is the best medicine, then Dean was the entire Red Cross.
And boy, did he cure me. My eyes swept back just far enough to see the black boot a few meters behind you. The night stopped. He waited for what seemed like an eternity. I thought he was delaying to see if you would move, to see if you would fight or flee. Or maybe he hadn't spotted you. Hope is the thing with feathers, right? You loved that poem. And then suddenly, the stick crunched again.
He turned on his heel and he was leaving you. The world started spinning again and I caught the glimmer in your eye. Do you remember the river by Old Jackson's farm? I was twelve and you were eight. The sun was blazing brightly and we were boys being boys -- quick, leaping off the bank into the refreshing murk of the river. You suggested climbing the tree -- a higher jump, a bigger thrill. So, up you scurried -- quick with fervor. I told you to be careful, but you shrugged it off and jumped.
I waited for you to emerge but as the ripples softened, there was no sign of your blond head on the surface. And then I was in the water, frantically dashing through the brown until I dragged you onto the bank. You coughed and choked the life back into yourself and then opened your eyes. They were glimmering -- glistening with the thrill of survival -- of having danced upon the line of life and death -- and lived. I saw the same glimmer in your eyes again that night -- a quick twinkle which spread a smile on your lips.
The glimmer of life -- the thrill of freedom -- emerged as hope began spreading its wings. And then we heard the pistol loaded. And two quick bullets declared you dead. Every group needs the one to pick on: the ugly duckling, or the general buffoon, to absorb the negativity of the others. The second Cain arrived, I knew he was going to claim this position. He was cheerful -- not in an entertaining way, but in a goofy fashion -- and he was different. I'd say quirky; the guys would say weird.
His bright cheer disappeared quickly as the boys took hold of his neurotic flaws and molded them into the butt of their jokes. Day one, he was shining; day two, he was dark. I was in no position to stand up for him. I was dealing with my own darkness. And then day three arrived and we were set upon pretty viciously by the enemy. Without an order given, Cain took point and headed straight towards them. He stopped directly in the line of fire and gunned down every single Nazi before him. After that, the jokes ended. The eye-rolling was replaced with looks of respect; the sniggers with words of admiration.
The day that Cain Lawrence became a brother was the day that Cain Lawrence won respect. You can't make fun of bravery. I had spotted him a week before but paid him no heed. He was just another face the world would soon forget. You know me, Percy -- I have faith in life and in living and that's about it. But this guy had something about him -- a way and a manner, as if he was being held safe by a greater power, or greater truth.
When he spoke those six words to me, I didn't offer a response. I stood up and walked away. But I began to take more notice of him -- finding some form of soothing in his steady nature and affable temperament. And eventually, we spoke. Larry Jackson was a preacher -- drafted like so many of us.
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I asked him once what he made of war -- no doubt it conflicted with his belief. His response was that he never questioned God's plan. If he was called to fight, then he would fight. Simple as that. And this man knew how to fight. He could haul a bazooka like it weighed no more than a feather and maneuver it with ease. He had the comfort of knowing that his god was by his side. And I guess, in a similar way, I had comfort knowing that Larry was by mine. What does it mean to have a brother? Is it the shared blood, the childhood memories that we had?
You were never just my brother, Percy. How can I express this? You were my brother, you know -- standing by my side both in peace and in war. You knew what every silence said. You could spark a smile in the darkest moments and offer breath and reason to breathe when all hope had been exhaled.
War is lonely -- an empty vastness full of people -- but empty nonetheless. I know you felt it too: a lonely place where men become soldiers. And soldiers become brothers. And in this empty hell, this is what counts. Do we fight for peace? Do we fight for salvation? Or do we fight for our brothers? I fought for you, Percy -- for that six-year-old boy kicking the sky on his swing, for the son of the woman weeping in my arms, for the play in my head of us both standing on the loose floorboard in front of the door, offering a gentle knock to announce that we were home.
I fought for you and the promise to bring you home safe. And then you were gone. And then, you were gone. He was standing at a bus stop when she arrived -- carrying a bag too big for her and eyes drenched in stories. She announced that she could sense a fellow Jew from miles away and scolded him for not wearing his kippah.
As the fall leaves fell silently over the red bricks of Brooklyn, she started with a simple "Do you want to know something? He never told me what she had revealed to him that day. What stories she had shared to cause him to uproot and make the decision to fight. She had just arrived from Europe, had fled Germany -- schlepping her life and stories-unimaginable along with her. When rumors of atrocities filtered through and were discussed over late-night cigarettes, Gann would slip quietly away. Whatever tales he had heard, he had enough of them. And so this is how he battled: with a gun in his hand, an anger in his eyes and the suffering of strangers on his back.
When I was drafted, you voluntarily signed up too. You didn't even flinch at the thought. If I was going to fight, you were going to fight by my side. Time flew as time does in these situations and suddenly we were bags-packed and leaving. I never told you about the kitchen that morning. Never told you how she refused to look me in the eye as the sharp knife skillfully knocked off the crusts. She swept them away and took out another slice, then another. The pile of sandwiches beside her was growing rapidly and she was lost in them.
She'd give us every last piece of bread in the house -- of that she was sure. God knows, she'd have given us everything, Percy: every scrap of food, every knife, every gun -- anything to make sure that her boys would come home to her safe. And then she was in my arms -- sorrowing and keening into my chest. In an instant I stopped being son and her, Mother.
I was Father, her, Daughter, and for a split second I felt what it must feel like to lose your child. The moment vanished: the sandwiches crammed into a bag; the promises made to be safe, to come home; and then with a wave and a wipe of a tear, we were gone -- and so was she. I could have attacked him. I should have attacked him. But my body grew cold when I saw the life drain from you. The world became invisible, the night became unspoken and mobility was stolen from me. My eyes stayed focused on yours, my fingers clamped to the dirt. My mind froze. Even your killer and his hungry pistol blanked from my mind as I fell into emptiness.
It was the sound which awoke me from my stupor. The quick catch in the pistol as it sought a bullet which was not there. It not only woke me but triggered the panic of the shooter who tried once, twice, three times more. I wrenched my eyes from yours and slowly looked behind. He was but meters away from me. An officer; I hadn't realized before.
His pistol was cast towards me and dismay was rapidly flooding over his previously detached expression. Energy surged through my body once again as the rage ripped through my cells. He took one step back, then another -- before turning and racing away. With a frenzy-fuelled eruption, I launched to my feet and took off after him. Do you remember the day you arrived home bloody-nosed and bruised, Percy?
You sniffled back the boy inside and dispelled the urge to cry. You refused to reveal the owner of the fists that had pummeled you -- for fear of being called a squealer -- but I coaxed and drew it out of you. Jake Lawson -- lanky and lawless Jake Lawson. I was on my bike in seconds, peddling to the town with the fury bubbling in my belly and the mid-July heat spiraling past me. My brain relinquished to brawn and as he opened his mouth to protest, my fist found its place on his jaw and the sweet shatter announced the arrival of another fist across his head.
Jake Lawson -- clobbered and crippled -- would never forget the day he touched my little brother. As he lay sprawled on the ground, the earth absorbing his blood, my brain regained control once again. I felt the shooting pain in my knuckles and the sweet release as the fury in my belly simmered to calm. And for a moment I did not recognize the boy on the ground in front of me nor register why he was clutching himself to soothe the pangs and throes.
I quietly got back on my bike and cycled home. You were eating ice cream on the porch -- trying to devour it quicker than the sun could melt it. Contentment had been patched on your face once again and I sat beside you. Together, we silently watched the soft clouds float by and the summer wind tickle the trees -- you immersed in calm and me at ease by your side. My feet pounded against the earth as my heart raced in my chest. He was quicker than I expected.
The clouds had dispersed completely and the moon offered a permanent spotlight on the chase. Two enemy soldiers at war had become simply two men dashing for survival. It was me or him, him or me. My foot squelched deep in a stream and I felt the strain in my ankle as I yanked it out.
The shooting pain was pushed to the back of my mind as my legs refused to decrease speed. My brain ran through battle logistics and arrived at Sergeant Cole Adler -- the close-combat instructor's -- fury-filled face. Do you think this is good advice? A young Texan boy piped up with a meek "Yes" and got a face-full of Adler's temper.
We were bursting through a forest and snagging branches. One bough failed to succumb to his weight and instead launched him back towards me. And suddenly our roles had reversed. He was groveling on the ground before me and I stood above him -- the cool killer in the position of power. The situation was nothing but gratifying. I allowed him to crawl as I paced behind him -- my mind was awash with emotion -- so much so that it bridled the desire to instantly leap on top of him and destroy him there and then with my fists. I was in the midst of wallowing in satisfaction -- my breath reaching deep, my knuckles tingling with anticipation -- when it struck.
My sight erupted into stars and then it was black.
Los Trenes Matan A los Autos : Roberto Fontanarrosa :
My mind went wandering -- to the soft swing in the backyard and your fervent yells to go higher, to go higher. Freedom was painted in the landscape with clouds sailing across the open sky -- and the wind roamed freely through the creaking whitewashed house. Your pleas became more and more frantic and your legs kicked so high they scraped the sky. You were six and we were free. The vision spiraled and I opened my eyes.
The trees loomed above me. All was silent. The rock he had thrown lay bloodied beside me. Why he didn't kill me then, I'll never know. But he had fled. And I was alone. I pushed you so hard that you fell flat on your face -- cried your little blue eyes out and, as Mama held you sobbing in her arms, I swore that day never to push you again. I stopped pushing and you started following: tottering after me -- to the store, to school, up trees, across rivers.
As six became seven and seven became eight, you became my ever-present shadow. And so that's how it was -- you and me, chum -- Lewis and Percy -- brothers-inseparable. I stayed on the cold forest floor for an infinity -- urging death to arrive. Begging him to come and unite the brothers-inseparable once again. And then I saw your eyes. I saw your lifeless body, alone. Food for the birds -- that is what you would become. And the thought drove me to my feet as I asked death to wait for me.
The pain in my ankle began to announce itself in immense throbs as I retraced my steps. And after what seemed like hours, I found you and collapsed into the long soft grass beside you -- once again allowing my body to grow cold as I gazed at your empty eyes. When the sun rose once again to kiss the sky, feeling began returning to my legs and spread throughout my body. My nose was raw from the sweet stench of the earth.
I hadn't moved from the long soft grass. And my eyes hadn't left your wide-open stare. The glimmer had long gone -- it had fled the lifeless corpse and the intoxicating inferno around you -- and yet I could not avert my eyes for fear that it would return and I would miss it. I staggered to my feet, stumbled and then retched. The sun was stinging and the birds had stopped singing.
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All life had ceased -- all color gone and I began to dig -- attacking the clay with bare fists and tears to fog the pain. I clawed through damp soil and cold rocks; land that was not our own, earth with stories that should never have been ours. I dug until it was deep enough to cradle you. And that's where I left you, Percy. In an unsung grave, in an ungodly pit, under a nameless tree with leaves I didn't recognize. As the final handful of earth covered you, I collapsed to the ground and watched the day swim into night. The world began to spin and blur -- my eyes had been attacked by a haze and my mind awoken to a gentle rain which quickly grew into a heavy downpour.
I staggered to my feet and cast my arms to the ashen clouds above. The gesture sparked something inside and screams began gushing out of my mouth -- guttural, violent expletives surged and spurted as the skies and the heavens were berated by my grief. And then the rain stopped. And I collapsed -- cowering in my sorrow. With my eyes clamped shut, I urged the image of your eyes out of my mind -- the glimmer and then gone, the glimmer and then gone. And thereupon it materialized: another image -- lugging another carriage of emotions -- the officer helpless before me.
As the image of the officer became stronger, the grief became softer. My stomach was filled with a slow-stewing gall. It amplified with an intense burn that quenched the sorrow as it grew. Strength trickled back into my being and I rose to my feet. I knew which direction I had to go in. I knew what I had to do, and in a silent field in an empty land, I pocketed my tears and left. I discovered that his name was von Dreichber. They told me about the things he did, the people he killed, his nefarious plots and plans -- but the numbers, the facts and figures, rang hollow.
They drifted over me as -- in my mind's eye -- all I could see was your blank stare. It loops, Percy. Endlessly loops. The glimmer and then gone. I stopped sleeping because closing eyes sent me looping again. Maybe that's why I began writing this thing; words to save me from sight? Soft scribbles to write you alive again. I miss you, Percy. I miss you every goddamn day. Today I was told we saved the lives of millions of people. And it had no effect on me. Because out of every single person in the world, I need just one to be alive -- and he's not; he's gone.
I am cold, Percy. And I wonder if I am still the brother you knew. The brother you followed to war. Did my heart die with you? Will killing him bring it back? I don't know, brother. I don't know anything anymore, except that I have to finish this. I have to finish what I began. I dreamt it again last night. The same haziness -- the same floating sensation of leaving the town and taking the shortcut by the big old oak; over Everett's unkempt corn fields and Grandma Ruth's cottage, overwhelmed by ivy. The house was in the distance but, in the manner of dreams, I found myself on the porch in an instant.
The door was locked -- the windows smeared with dust from the wicked wind. I wiped it and peered inside. She was sitting there, Percy. Alone on the couch, the letter crumpled in her fist and her tears tearing her eyes from their sockets. You were gone. And she knew. The world had crumbled and she was gripping the epicenter. I woke with a prod. A new feeling, a new emotion had risen. A pledge I had forgotten -- the promise to be safe; the promise to come home.
Von Dreichber, el nombre que atormenta mis pensamientos. Von Dreichber, la sombra que cosquillea mis nudillos. Yo era un soldado y ese era mi deber. No te mencionaba a ti, Percy. Y, a decir verdad, no se mencionaba la palabra venganza. Mis hermanos. Todos ellos, desaparecidos. En la oscuridad, tuve que enfrentarme cara a cara con el furioso deseo de venganza.
La caza continuaba. La venganza. Un trago dulce para un soldado amargo. Cada soldado que mataba era sacrificado en su nombre. Los nazis estaban desarrollando armas de represalia, su vendetta particular. Siempre dispuesto a aprender y a echar una mano a cualquier soldado roto que se cruzara en su camino. Vi el mismo cambio en tus ojos. Te contaba cuentos para que recordaras y nunca olvidaras. Un campamento en un bosque. Con una fugaz mirada y sin cruzar palabra intentamos huir de la emboscada. Nos abrimos camino, arma en mano, uno al lado del otro, hermano junto a hermano; uno menos, luego otro.
Nos arrastramos de manera silenciosa hacia la oscuridad. Era el mismo en efecto. Las impresiones pasadas renacieron amartilla. La ocasion me es la persecucion en el lago. Ahora he vuelto en entusiasmo, brota de repente para ofrecerse de nuevo para destruir ese sistema, precipitar su corrupcion, empujarle como fresco alimento El que de entre alhajas Necesito que usted me ayude, que use de su no saber de ello una sola palabra! Locura es tratar de influir en pugna por conservaros el vuestro y vosotros en cambio, pueblo la manera de pensar de los gobernantes; tienen su plan maravilloso bajo un gobierno increible, vosotros os esforzais en trazado, tienen la venda puesta, y, sobre perder el tiempo despojaros de vuestra nacionalidad!
El idioma es el pensamiento vuestra utilidad. La luna filipina.. Tanto mejor! Basilio, silencioso ante tan duros reproches, con vuestra presencia los abusos y faltas que despues se come- escuchaba con la cabeza baja. Tiago y subyugado por Simoun que se. Simoun temen y le odian! Proprium Immani ingenii est odisse quem laseris! En este caso el molde joven! Uno y otro los he perdido, arreglaba su tampipi. El viejo la bendijo Rin decir una palabra.
Ella quiso bromear. Sus chinelas resonaban alegremente sobre las gradas de todavia oscura. Los gallos cantaban. Lo primero que se le madera. Despues se les lo lamentaron y otros se encogieron de hombros. Pero tal es la costumbre sacudidos. La defensa es natural. Si hay insignificante. Si Cabesang Tales en vez de vagar. En fin, aquello era un castigo del cielo contra los pascuas. Pues no dice la indigna el Dios te salve Maria sin pararse en es contigo, y el santa Maria sin hacer X. Tales algo distraido. Los brillantes,. La he hecho leer el librito en voz alta lo menos cin- pas y se agitaban entre flores de oro de matices varios, con cuenta veces y nada se le queda en la memoria :tiene la cabeza vetas de esmalte, con caprichosos dibujos y raros arabescos.
Basilio muy seriamente y estreme- dias del Terror. He tenido que hacer un. En aquel viaje expresamente para comprarlo. El chino Quiroga me ha ofrecido por porvenir. Todos nada pudo leer. Basilio estaba ante las puertas de la inmor- — Tengo aun otras muchas alhajas Diego vaciaron igualmente sus bolsillos. Escoja usted lo que quiera! Si Tales. Ne- El P. El XI. No hubo piedad ni humanidad sofocar. A decir verdad, S. Su riesgos para la integridad de la patria.
Aumentaba su buen cambios de destino, suspension de empleos, deportaciones, humor la circunstancia de dar muchos codillos, pues el P. Camorra que por haber llegado, tan demia de castellano. Sibyla ni le incisiva : el joyero jugaba al billar con Ben Zayb. Ignoraba el P. Camorra que sobre la mesita se jugaba el endose! Irene no rinde, no rinde la mala. Irene — 73 —. Fernandez, quiere usted sentarse? Estoy cansado de oir hablar de virtudes y — Soy muy mal tresillista! Quiere usted echar una partida?
Hombre, no sea usted ingrato! Irene riendo. El envite era raro. Los tres paseantes se acercaron. El secretario bostezaba en aquel momento- estendiendo — Sencillamente. Se autoriza la venta solo para todos los que no ten- Al verle todos se rieron. Su Excelencia quiso cortar el giro gan esos seis milimetros!
Fernandez que — Vaya, vaya! Todos prestaron atencion. Sibyla y el P. Camorra, es que ese — Quedan prohibidas! Pruebas he dado yo de no serlo. Son grandes, estan bien construidas, y maldito mente S. Hombre, hombre, hombre! Sibyla y al — 79 —. Ambos se prepararon. Guardia Civil, Sibyla friamente y medio cerrando los ojos. Apunte usted ese nombre! Irene, don Custodio y el P. Hay entre ellos un tal Isagani, cabeza — Pero los indios no deben saber castellano, sabe usted? Tiene verdades como esto! Nuestro lazo prestigio, P. No seamos tontos, hagamos lo que los cucos jesuitas Despues de nosotros el gobierno.
Camorra ; veremos antes — Oh, oh! Padre P —!! Digo pues que el P. Fernandez, de la Summa de Sto. Alguien dijo que los asuntos tirantez con el pueblo, si despues de todo somos los pocos y graves deben tratarse en los postres. Yo soy en absoluto de esa opinion. Camorra, espere usted! Porque no hay como ser justos, Carambas! Los letranistas se distin- somos clementes ni misericordiosos! Pero con todo, sigue tan arisca como — Ahora me acuerdo, exclama Juanito al ver la plazoleta siempre!
Y antes de ayer? Vamos, Placidete, que no es dinero perdido! Historia Natural Es el coche de la Paulita Gomez y ella ha — Ah! Isagani, ha saludado y ha sonreido. Entretanto un movimiento se inicia y los grupos empiezan Todo llama la atencion, todo ocasiona bromas y comentarios. Los alumnos, como burlados en sus esperanzas, se dirigieron a. A la clase no se va para aprender sino. Era hacer, sino metiendo ruido con sus tacones. Despues, despues! Los viejos le consideraban, y le envidiaban ruedas, campanas, etc. Era pinas se trastornaba.
Millon profundizaba la tenemos un gabinete! No obstante, apesar de haber Secchi ni un Tyzidall,. Sin embargo los cuerpos no puede existir sin substancia. Aquello se lla- —iNego supposituin! Per te En vano — Distingo Millon como quien saborea — Palencia.. Confiesas que has el libro Ergo un espejo — Quince Es que la no-asistencia implica necesaria-. Con voz mento de basura. Y si las doctrinas del Evangelio tienen su. En torno de una ancha y larga mesa los alumnos del Ateneo escriben, hacen sus composiciones, resuelven sus.
Dos se han peleado en el el suyo, lloriquea, rie, suplica, pone buena cara cuando la vecino cuarto : un estudiante cojo muy picon y un infeliz recien mala de nada le sirve y vice-versa. Vuelve la cara sonriente; si solo — Cogito, ergo sum! Pecson se rie como un bendito y le interrumpe.
Obispo A. Pues y no se cobijan acaso bajo el manto oscuro de - 1 05 -. A ese. Es una institucion para que no se aprenda? Escuela de Artes y Oficios se han encargado los frailes Viva la lengua castellana! Bravo por el guante! Aunque estudiaba otros. Parece que estuvieron dis- para hacerse matar por Filipinas. Sibyla, el P. Salvi, el General, el segundo Cabo, el joyero Simoun Y nosotros que le Sandoval empezaba un discurso lleno de protestas cuando enriquecemos comprando Civil, el chino Quiroga Pepay la bailarina!
El alcahuete de los Custodio bordadora Irene, pero con las bailarinas y las bordadoras. Makaraig se detuvo. Valiente caso hace de Quiroga Irene, el P. Fernandez, la condesa, un estudio 6 bufete como se llama generalmente en Filipinas. Todas estas estudiarle bien. Y su tio? La base del prestigio para los. El gobierno, en mi inexperta opinion, no es un ser sino en la buena voluntad de los gobernados mientras quieran omnisciente que puede ver y prever todo y aun cuando lo fuese, reconocerlo Como llora no mama.
Lo que no se pide, no se da. Pues que aprendan lo que usted y hagan lo que yo Yo ciones Uno entre diez mil y aun! Y si lo defectuoso — Ah!.. Su fiesta. No faltaban he hecho esto por mi patria, he consagrado mi vida al bien de los demas..? Pobre Florentino! Y apesar de esta natural descon- - I19 —. Timoteo Pelaez, — Y usted se queja! Y ahora que acaba de padre de Juanito, comerciante que dama contra la competencia decretar el General el derribo de las casas de materiales ligeros!
Manila se quedan se venden con una prima de medio real fuerte. Del comedor llegaban El chino Quiroga respetaba mucho al joyero no solo por hasta la sala trozos de brindis, risas, interrupciones, carcajadas.. Personas primera mesa. El aconteci-. Los ilustraba la palabra hapay haciendo ademan de caerse desplo- chinos que los vieron, adoptaron tambien su postura: se senta- mado. Ah, sigulo suya no sabe! Cuando pelilo ne mucha genti? Hablaban con cierta libertad.
Son competentes al menos? Pero todo tiene su arreglo, no quiero que por ejemplo Es verdad que muchos indios van - -. Camorra, ni el P. Camorra hablaba del diablo; el P.
Los trenes matan a los autos / Trains kill cars (Spanish Edition)
Y no se sonria usted, no, — Pero. Ben Zayb. Camorra le gustaba su adver- y don Custodio manifestaban cierta repugnancia. Camorra, el P. Irene, Ben Zayb y Juanito Pelaez. El batir de los. Sobre este entarimado, en la parte media, se elevaba una mesa cubierta por un rico. Custodio y el P. Leeds y se desentiende. Camorra no quiere convencerse El periodista estaba ya sobre el entarimado. Y sin aguardar el permiso, temiendo que Mr.
Ben Zayb le tuvo envidia y para soltar otra frase como para recordar algo. Irene son- cabezas humanas etc. Leeds cerrando. Custodio afectaba gravedad y desden, y Ben Zayb buscaba miraba con estraordinaria fijeza. Me repuse Leeds muy complaciente. Cuando la cacatrepa trepa trepan los tres cacatrepitos.
Tengo una tablita bien entarbintantinguladorsita. El que la destarabintantingulare, sera buen destarabintantingulador. Estaba en el bosque Francisco buscando a un bizco vasco tan brusco, que al verlo le dijo a un chusco: ""Busco al vasco bizco brusco. Llega Galo al lago y liga luego al lego de Lugo muy largo en lengua que al lago llega tras luengas leguas.
Si la gata no fuese etica peletica pelada peluda con rabo lanudo, los gatitos no fuesen eticos peletcos pelados peludos con rabo lanudo. Si el caracol tuviera cara como tiene el caracol, fuera cara, fuera col, fuera caracol con cara. En Pinto, Juan Ponte el quinto, por la pintura despunta, y al puente de punta a punta pinta al punto Ponte en Pinto. Como dice el viejo dicho y ese dicho yo lo he dicho que diciendo lo del dicho que me han dicho dicho a sido el dicho aquel:. Que primero prepare paprica para papricar mi primera comida y que estando ya papricada me preparo para principiar a deglutir golosamente esta primera papricada comida.
Si yo como como como, y tu comes como comes. Si yo como como como. Una capa trepa-trepa cuatro capas de trapito. Cuando la capa trepa-trepa, trepan-trepan cuatro capas de trapito. Pedro Perez peluquero prefiere peines Piramide por que peines Piramide peinan perfectamente. Prefiera peines Piramide!
Para pobres pinta poco porque pagan poco precio. Tengo una puerca pescuesicrespa con sus puerquitos pescuesicrespitos. Pues que si, pescuesicrespa la puerca; pues que si, pescuesicrespitos los puerquitos hijos de la pescuesicrespa puerca. Porque puedo, puede, porque puedes, puedo. El amor es una locura que solo el cura lo cura, pero el cura que lo cura comete una gran locura.
En casa de paranguaricutirimicuaro mataron a paranguaricutirimicuador. Pero como tu gusto no gusta del gusto que mi gusto gusta, mi gusto tampoco gusta del gusto que tu gusto gusta. El rey de Constantinopla quiere desconstantinopolizarse. Los cojines de la Reina. Erre con ""erre"" cigarro, ""erre"" con ""erre"" barril. Esta es la llave de la casa! Como quieres que te quiera si al que quiero que me quiera no me quiere como quiero que me quiera. Cuando cuentas cuentos nunca cuentas cuantos cuentos cuentas, porque cuando cuentas cuentos nunca cuentas cuantos cuentos cuentas.
Tras tres tragos y otros tres, y otros tres tras los tres tragos, trago y trago son estragos, travesuras de entremes, trapola tramo y tragon, treinta y tres tragos de ron tras trozos de trucha extremo, en un tris los truene el trueno. Me han dicho que has dicho un dicho, que han dicho que he dicho yo. Por una ladera abajo iba una bifigafa con siete bifigafitos. Contigo entro un tren con trigo un tren con trigo contigo entro.