I Want to Fly

By Luis Carlos Molina Acevedo

“I Want to Fly”, is a short novel. It tells the story of a peasant woman who accidentally discovers she has the ability to be a witch. At first she refuses to admit it. Then, the circumstances of life, takes her to want to be a witch. She performs the ritual to fly. Since then, her life changed.
The book narrates the events experienced by this woman to become witch, and what she makes later. Witchcraft becomes for her a medium to access knowledge. The flight on broom, allows her to broaden their horizons and meet new people and new places. Witchcraft, open the door of knowledge, for the women of her time and geography.

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Oct 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9783959269636

Luis Carlos Molina Acevedo

Luis Carlos Molina Acevedo was born in Fredonia, Colombia. He is Social Communicator of the University of Antioquia, and Masters in Linguistics from the same university. The author has published more than twenty books online bookstores:I Want to Fly, From Don Juan to Sexual Vampirism, The Imaginary of Exaggeration, and The Clavicle of Dreams.Quiero Volar, El Alfarero de Cuentos, Virtuales Sensaciones, El Abogado del Presidente, Guayacán Rojo Sangre, Territorios de Muerte, Años de Langosta, El Confesor, El Orbe Llamador, Oscares al Desnudo, Diez Cortos Animados, La Fortaleza, Tribunal Inapelable, Operación Ameba, Territorios de la Muerte, La Edad de la Langosta, Del Donjuanismo al Vampirismo Sexual, Imaginaria de la Exageración, La Clavícula de los Sueños, Quince Escritores Colombianos, De Escritores para Escritores, El Moderno Concepto de Comunicación, Sociosemántica de la Amistad, Magia: Símbolos y Textos de la Magia.

Book preview

broom.

DISCOVERY OF LIFE

Who flies, who goes and who comes back, it is not known. But, look me; I am more whole than you. At my age, I'm still here. Some say I'm forties. Others say I'm fifties. And others say that I overcome sixties. But most importantly, I am not afraid to tell the story, lived by own experience. Maybe, I would be afraid if I were young. But I never felt a fear in my life as those women who burned in Salem. It should be noted that in our history, words have been the existence of things. Here, there is only the nameable. Those who see reality too heavy or can not understand it; they eventually called fantasy or myth, everything that exceeds their proven knowledge.

By that time in Freeland, things were not like today. There was no radio and television. The film existed, but we did not know. Instead, the newspapers sold in the village, but it was as if they did not exist, because we knew not read. I just did learn to spell in the short year I went to school. I had to walk an hour in the morning to get to the adobe house, named school. There, it had no chairs, nor chalks. I was commissioned to collect, in my way, a few earthy stones of the river, to write on the blackboard. One day, the rain had no intention to stop. The other boys were leaving for home, in middle of rain. Some sheltered with plastic, and other splashing water from the streams. Montoya, the teacher, was the one who dared not leave. He was standing with his impeccable suit, watching the rain fall. I offered my plastic borrowed, and after wield apologies, he finished by showing their big secret. He held up shoes to reveal broken in the soles, disguised with cardboard, unable to prevent the sinking of socks. Then he told me he added three months without receiving his salary, although not lacking food, but clothing was woven over and over again to disguise the misery. When the coffee harvest began, the school year was over and study for me. I already had the education that a woman needed at that time; I had learned the art of cooking; I knew darn clothes deteriorated by use, and I knew how to crochet. I was prepared to serve at man who I will marry in the future. The greatest difficulty was in the making of thin round maize loaves. In that, my mother had more expertise. She was going round and opening with your fingers until the mixture formed a nearly translucent sheet, round like the moon. Then, she unloaded it on the grill which was put at heat on the mouth of the wood stove. The coals without fire roasted the round maize loaves. After a while, she turned and then she withdrew, toasted and crisp. With a knife, she removed the black. For the rest, I threshed corn to make porridge. I washed the dirt from the coffee plantations, housed in the clothes of my brothers. And almost I finished my first quilt of white yarn.

That morning, I had to milk and I went to the paddock to bring the cows. I must reunite them with calves, which were locked in the house since the previous afternoon. When I got to the paddock, I saw the bull with the rod to urinate grown ten times. This was pink. He was raised on a cow wanting urinate her. At the moment he entered her, my father appeared saying: What Are you doing watching these things? You go to the house quickie I carry cows.

I walked away from there without knowing if the bull urinated or not the cow. By the way, I was thinking how grotesque it was everything. Cow fidgeted like to dislocate the hip with big animal weight. And I still hit upon not answer why he had to urinate above her.

After a while, my father arrived with four cows to milk. His face wrinkled to scare my questions. And I acted like the girl who surprised in any wrongdoing. My parents liked the way I milked. The cows gave more milk, because I imitated, with my hand, the hungry muzzles of calves when it sucks the udder. They are very clever. When they feel their child, they release all milk, but if it is a stranger, they retain the milk. That morning I got more milk than usual and almost killed calves, of hunger. My father rewarded the calves, with plenty beverage bran and molasses. They love the sweet as children. I liked sweets too. My father brought me some when he went to the market on Sunday. I rationed them for the whole week. They were always more abundant when my mother came to attend the high mass. She pandered my childhood gluttony, and together we walked the town in search of goodies.

Sundays were the happiest days of my life. At the time of prayer, my father used to sing his songs accompanied by the treble guitar. Other times, the corridor of the house was full of ghosts, myths, legends and stories carried by the voice of him. He gesticulated and he was dramatic with his whole body. Thus, he made the stories became very real. He was interrupted only after dark. Then, he lighted the fuel cap. So throughout the house, the night was turning into day. He just lighted the cap on Sundays. The other day, tallow candles were responsible for frightening the darkness. I put the container with milk on the floor, to remember one of the stories told by him in the afternoon of last Sunday. I remember he began: "Once upon a time, there is a witch in this town, very evil and wicked, that the mules and beasts she liked to braid their tails and manes. She was laughing at midnight by courtyards and fields. Honeymooners, she pressed their chests and left them speechless. The other day, Father Andrew came to town to replace the defunct Reverend. This wicked witch wanted to play a joke to the new priest. She climbed astride him when he was asleep, and she had him for more than two hours without being able to scream. And the little father, who was not dumb, the next day he watered throughout the sacristy a handful of salt. When