Why would someone want to go to that island? By Carlos del Puente Stories,

Why would someone want to go to that island? Uncle Larry mocked, stroking his wild mustache, letting grow without any abundant scissor company long years, with a fatty napkin. "It's just a lot of rocks with an unpleasant reputation, if you ask me."  The family gathered around the table, the air full of aroma of the questionable meat of aunt Edna meat. The theme of the mysterious island had been a hot issue for weeks, since the local Tourism Board had begun to administer its ridiculous ads.  "But the landscapes," my mother sighed, her eyes glazed with the same emotion that had put her in trouble before. "They say it's nothing we have seen."  "Yes, and that is probably because nobody returns to tell the story!" Uncle Larry's laugh resonated around the room, bouncing on the walls covered with old plastics accumulated during the twentieth century, and causing the spider lamp to be a rattle.  My twin brothers, Tim and Tom, exchanged a complicated smile. They had heard this argument before. "Mom, you are not really thinking of going, right?" Tom asked, his voice a mixture of fun and concern.  "Well, I've always had an adventure spirit," she replied with a brightness in the left eye that was the most open.  "And look where he took you with dad's magical beans," Dad intervened, his voice as dry as the meat cake.  The room exploded in laughter, but the brightness in Mom's eye did not vanish, on the contrary: more brightness. She had always been the one who pursued rainbow when she was very small, with the flagrant innocent childhood. While Dad was firmly planted in the hard ground of reality.  "Besides," he continued, "not every day you can see a real -life monster." "Real life monster?" I released, my curiosity woke up. "What is this monster?"  The room was alone in silence and all the eyes turned to me. My twin sisters, Sally and Sally, stopped their disputes over who obtained the last slicing of bread.  "Oh, only an old missing story," said Aunt Edna, stirring the hemiplegic hand disparagingly. But the way he avoided visual contact suggested that there was more. "A monster called belief," Uncle Larry began, lying in his chair, as usual, during the largest parts of the day of the day much of the night, with a petulant look. "Supposedly lives in a cave and eats anyone who tries to explore the island."  The laughs decreased, replaced by complicated silence. The only sound was the occasional tintineo of a fork against a dish and the distant buzzing of the dishwasher who in his agitation seemed an old truck whose engine pieces chrotized with uncontrolled agitation.  Mom looked around the table, her gaze landed in each of us. "But think about it, children. What happens if it's true? What happens if there is something worth seeing?"  Dad coughed, probably trying to contain his laugh. "Is it worth eating?" "Exactly!" Tim exclaimed, hitting the table. "We could be famous! Think of YouTube views!"  "Famous or not, I don't let you go," said Dad firmly.  "But dad," Tim complained. "It is probably just a myth."  "What if not?" Dad answered. "What happens if it's like Uncle Larry's cholesterol, hidden in sight and ready to jump?"  The room exploded again, the tension dissipated when Uncle Larry touched a napkin playfully. But when laughter calmed down, I couldn't help thinking about the monster called belief. Was it really a myth, or was there a real truth in history? And if it were real, what did it mean to those of us who still had so much to believe?  My parents, noticing my contemplative gaze, shared a look of knowledge. They knew that I had always had an inclination for the peculiar. "You can believe in that if you want," said my father, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "But remember, belief can be as dangerous as exciting."  Mom nodded, her eyes still dream. "But sometimes, it is emotion that makes life worth it."  The twins put their eyes in unison with the same look, while Sally and Sally shared a secret smile, clearly plotting something. Our grandparents, Nana and Pops, remained silent, their illegible expressions behind their thick glasses whose mounting had been crooked by inacostumblated posture caused by slight fading. They had always been the enigmas of the family, whispering stories of their own adventures that seemed too extravagant to be true.  The days became weeks, and the island's talk and his monster became quieter. But I could not shake the idea of ​​my mind. One night, after everyone went to bed, I got into the attic. The moisture aroma of the ancient books filled the air while leafing through a dusty chest, looking for any indication of a family secret that could shed light on the existence of the monster.  Among the yellowish newspapers and faded photographs, I found an old map, its frayed edges and its almost invisible ink. It was labeled 'The island of fantasy' with a raw drawing of a cave and the ominous words 'belief' scribbled in the corner. A chill ran through my column as I traced the island's contours.  The twins, after hearing the expression, sneaked behind me, looking on my shoulder. "What's that?" Tim whispered, his voice betrayed his emotion.  I turned to look at them, holding the map as a treasure. "I think it's a map for the island," I said, trying to keep my voice stable. "And it seems that it was drawn by one of our ancestors."  His eyes opened in par, and without word, we plot a plan. We went to the island ourselves and discovered if belief was more than a fire story. With a mixture of emotion and fear, we swore to keep it among us, knowing that if Dad learned, our adventure would end before it began.  The next morning, we woke up early, we packed some supplies and split in our mission, leaving a grade note at the kitchen table. The sun was just beginning to rise, throwing a spooky shine on the horizon. When we approached the dock, the silence of the early hour was broken only by the occasional squawk of a seagull and the rhythmic period of the waves against the shore. The boat that we borrow from Uncle Larry gently swing in the water, apparently anxious to be on the way. We entered carefully, trying not to wake the fishermen who had left their nets stacked on the dock. While we were pushing and the engine came true, I could not avoid asking me if we were about to discover something incredible or walk directly towards the jaws of the beast that awaited us on the island of fantasy.  Tim took the rudder, his face with a fake concentration mask while directeding us through the foggen waters. The twins, Sally and Sally, sat on the back, whispering conspiratorially and occasionally laughing, while I sat next to him, the map was placed in front of me. The sea was calm, almost too quiet, preparing something, as if it were lullably lullably for a false security feeling before the storm would surely arrive.  We had packed light: a flashlight, some snacks and a first aid kit. But it was the tacit hope that filled our backpacks to the edge. The hope that we will find something incredible, something that would make our lives feel less ordinary, less predictable.  As the island approached, the fog became thicker, wrapping around us like a shroud. The air became colder and the silence was drilled only by the occasional cry of an invisible bird. The island rose before us, an irregular silhouette against early morning light. The mouth of the cave yawn like a smile without teeth, calling us closer.  We step on the shore, the cold and humid sand under our feet. The beach was full of the remains of the dreams of the previous visitors: broken flip flops, forgotten glasses and wrinkled travel brochures that promised paradise but delivered something completely. We follow the map along the winding road, the vegetation that grows denser and more sinister with each step.  The entrance of the cave became bigger with each step, the darkness inside swallowing the light of our flashlight. "Are we really going to do this?" Tom asked, his voice a staggering echo in the vast space.  I looked at it, then to the twins, their faces have a mixture of emotion and fear. "We have come so far," I said, trying to sound safer than I felt. "We can't go back now." With a deep collective breathing, we venture in the belly of the beast, the humidity of the cave walls leaked in our clothes and the aroma of the earth and the salt water filling our nostrils. The air was full of anticipation, the echoes of our steps bouncing on the walls of the cave and towards the unknown.  We had not gone far when we listened to it: a low guttural growl that seemed to resonate the nucleus of the earth. The twins clung to each other, with very open eyes of terror. Tim's grip on the flashlight was squeezed until his knuckles were white.  "Maybe we should have listened to Uncle Larry," he murmured.  "Or maybe," I said, my quieter but equally determined voice, "we are about to prove that he is wrong."  The growl became stronger, the ground under us trembling. We appreciate our rhythm, our hearts accelerated over time with the steps of thunderous that seemed to follow us. The cave narrowed, the walls approached as the jaws of the monster we are looking for.  And then, just when we thought we could not go further, we saw it: a blink of light, a ray of something beyond our wildest imagination. The growl became weaker, replaced by the sound of hasty water. The air became warmer, and the smell of something sweet and intoxicating filled our nostrils.  We went to a camera that challenged the description, a place where the laws of reality had been bent and turned on a canvas of surreal beauty. The walls were made of crystal, rainbow melted by the floor and a waterfall from the roof, filling a pool that shone with a neon shine. In the center of the chamber was the monster belief throughout its glory. It was not the terrifying beast we had imagined; Rather, it was a creature of such an ethereal beauty that brought tears to our eyes. He looked at us with a knowledge smile, as if he had waited for us all the time.  The air tension dissipated, replaced by a feeling of astonishment. We approach cautiously, insecure what to expect. The monster spoke in a voice that was relaxing and dominant, his words echoed through the camera. "You have come to see what is beyond the veil of doubt. But be careful, because what you find may not be what you are looking for."  We look at each other, the severity of the words of the monster sinking. The bravery of the twins had faded, leaving only the four, trembling slightly in the presence of something so deeply strange and powerful. However, fear had given way to a new emotion, an emotion of how unknown it was much more powerful than any horror story. "What do you want from us?" I asked him, my voice was a simple whisper in the big space.  The monster, belief, laughed between teeth, the sound similar to the tintineo of the wind bells. "Just what you want to give me," he replied cryptically. "But remember, the price of wonder is often high."  We approach the bright pool, its surface is a mirror for our own reflexes. The water spread with each step, as anxious to share its secrets. Tim took the lead, immersing his hand in the water tentatively. He felt warm, almost cozy, and the light danced in his skin, painting it in colors that did not belong to our world.  One by one, we reach the pool. At the time our fingers touched the water, a vision was developed before each of us, a look at the depths of our own beliefs. For Tim, it was a world where his comic heroes wandered freely, his battles resonated in the streets of our quiet city. Tom was standing on the moon, the immensity of the space that extended before him as a silent sea and illuminated by the stars.  Sally and Sally's visions were more capricious: a land where animals spoke in riddles and trees had fruits that could answer any questions. And for me, it was a place where every story I had read was real, where I could enter the pages and live the adventures with which I only dreamed.  As the visions faded, we looked at each other, with very open eyes of astonishment. We had found what we had come: proof that belief could shape reality. But since the monster had warned, the price was high. With each vision, a piece of us remained in the pool, absorbed by water, leaving us slightly altered, changed forever by the power of our own convictions.  The twins looked at each other, their illegible expressions. Tim's hand hovered on the water, as if contemplating one more sauce. "We should go," I said, my firm voice despite the desire in my heart. "We have seen enough."  But before we could turn to go, 'Belief' spoke again. "You have tried the fruit of wonder, but there is more on this island than it seems. Stay if you dare, but know that the way back may not be as clear as the one that followed here."  The air got heavy with the weight of the decision. We had come to look for adventure, but what we had found was something much bigger and much more scary than any monster: the understanding that belief could create and destroy. As we return through the cave now familiar, the walls that approached us once again, we talked in Shouted tones about what we had seen. The twins were silent, their usual jokes silenced by the seriousness of our experience. The return boat ride was bleak, the engine drone contrasts with the silent astonishment that filled us. We return home, the sun now tall in the sky, and we found our parents waiting for us, their expressions a mixture of relief and curiosity. They did not ask where we had been, as if they already knew. We are not talking about the monster or the cave, the visions we had seen or the price we had paid.  Life resumed its normal rhythm, but we remained tormented by the island of the Flims, the whispers of our beliefs resonate today. The family dinner conversations became calmer, the less frequent laugh. We had brought more than a simple story; We had brought a piece of the monster itself.  And so, we live with the knowledge that belief could be both a gift and a curse, a bridge towards the impossible and a barrier to truth. The island remained a subject of silent whispers and knowledge looks, a shared secret that tied us in a way that could not. We had faced the monster together, and in doing so, we had learned the most important lesson of all: that sometimes, the most dangerous thing we can do is believe too much in ourselves.  The twins, Sally and Sally, became more introspective, their jokes and disputes replaced by a new curiosity about the world that surrounds them. They began to read, question, look for the answers to the riddles that only they understood. Tim and Tom, once so anxious for adventure, now found emotion in quiet moments, the mundane suddenly infused with the magic of the possibility.  As for me, the writer of this story, the island had unlocked something inside me, a door to a world where reality and imagination danced together in a delicate ballet. I wrote incessantly about our encounter with 'Belief', filling notebooks with stories of surreal landscapes and the whispers of forgotten beliefs. However, every time I put the pencil to the paper, I felt a stab of fear, a reminder of the power that now exercised. Our family gatherings acquired a new tone, our most significant conversations, our most nuanced debates. The absurdity of the existence of the monster became a metaphor for the absurdity of our own beliefs, the things we appreciate that no one else could understand. Uncle Larry's jokes lost their bite, and Aunta meat cake Edna knew a little less questionable.  But the deepest change was in our mother. His spirit of adventure had been tempered by a new respect for the mysteries of the world. I still watched the horizon with that same brightness in the eye, but now I was mixed with a quiet wisdom, knowing that sometimes the most wonderful things are the ones we carry with us, not those we find in distant lands.  The seasons passed, and the memory of our adventure is distant, such as the echoes that fader from the monster's voice. However, it remained part of us, a constant reminder of the power and danger of belief. And from time to time, when the moon was full and the night was still, we listened to a low and distant growl, a whisper from the island of fantasy that seemed to say: "Do you remember me?" And we would do it, with a chill and a smile, because we had danced with the monster and lived to tell the story.  One night, while the fireplace crepitated and launched flickering shadows on the walls of the living room, we gathered while Nana and Pops told us stories of their youth. They talked about strange lands and curious creatures, and for the first time, their stories did not seem so absurd. They had seen the world through the eyes of "belief", and the magic they had sought once they had found them.  The twins, Sally and Sally, approached, their shared secret is a link that even the most ingenious joke could even match. They whispered together, their heads bowed to dusty encyclopedias and tattered maps, plotting new adventures that did not require crossing the treacherous sea. They talked about hidden forests and forgotten cities, their imagination is a more powerful force than any monster.  Tim and Tom, on the other hand, became guardians of skepticism, their eyes always look for the truth behind the myth. They challenged each other and the world that surrounded them, testing the limits of what could and could not believe. They built gadgets and carried out experiments, their curiosity a lighthouse in the shadow of the cave that once had kept us all.  As for me, I wrote. I wrote about the monster and the island, the beauty and horror of the belief. I wrote about the family we had been and the people we had become. And with each word, I felt the presence of the monster, a soft push that reminded me to step carefully between the facts and fiction. The house was full of a new quiet, a peace that was occasionally perforated by the laughter of the twins or the noise of the last invention of Tim and Tom. Our parents saw us with a mixture of pride and caution, knowing that we had seen something they would never do.  And in the attic, where the map of the island of fantasy remained hidden, I sat for hours, the moisture aroma of the old books was a comfort while reflecting on the nature of belief. It was a force that had united us and a force that could tear us with the same ease. However, while we had ourselves, as long as we remembered the monster's smile, we were able to navigate the treacherous waters of our own convictions.  Because the monster called belief had taught us that the most incredible trip was not that of a distant island, but the one we took inside ourselves. And as we grew up, our beliefs evolved, formed by love and loss, for triumph and despair. We learned that sometimes the terrifying belief was the understanding that I could change, that the monsters we feared could become our most appreciated companions.  The map faded more with each passing year, the edges are curved like the pages of a very dear book. However, the memory of the island remained as vivid as the day we left, a reminder of the wonder and terror that lay beyond the horizon of our understanding. And so, we continue, our lives a reality of reality and imagination, woven by the invisible threads of belief.  As we grew up, so did the whispers of the island of fantasy. It became a legend in our small town, a past story of one generation to the next, the truth of our encounter stretching and transforming as the shadows into the walls of the cave. Some said we had conquered the monster, others that we had been consumed by him. But we knew the truth, and it was a secret that we protected fiercely, a link that had forged us more than simple brothers.  A summer, as the air was filled with aroma of flourishing flowers and the buzzing of lazy bees, the twins, Tim and Tom, decided that it was time to prove their new skepticism. They built a raft, more ambitious than the boat we had taken years ago, and sailed under the appearance of a fishing trip. The twins had never been separated for so long, and Sally and Sally saw them go with a mixture of admiration and anxiety.  The days they became weeks, and our laughter tensed while we waited for the news of his return. The silence of the house broke only for the ticking of the grandfather's clock and the occasional sigh of our mother, his eyes never left the horizon. Then, one night, just when the sun painted the sky with tones of pink and gold, the twins stumbled upon the door, their torn clothes and their faces full of adventure stories. They had not found 'belief', but they had discovered something much more valuable: the strength of doubt.  They talked about a land where the impossible was mundane, where the same air was full of aroma of contradictions. They had seen things that challenged the explanation and yet they had returned unharmed. The twins had learned that the true power of belief was not in the monsters he could convene, but in the questions he could silence. Their trip had taken them away from the security of our coast of belief.  While we listen to their stories, the weight of the monster's words made us heavier. The price of wonder was steep, in fact. But as long as we sat in the brightness of the west sun, I could not help feeling a sense of pride, amazed by the path they had chosen. In the end, it was not the monster we had to fear, but the belief in ourselves to conquer our own illusions.  Our family grew, our beliefs evolved, and the island of Flimsia remained a lighthouse in our collective memory. We often visit it in our dreams, our thoughts and our stories. And although we had left him behind, he had never really left us. Now it was a part of us, a reminder that the most terrifying and beautiful belief was his power to shape the world around us.  As we aged, the twins, Sally and Sally, became the guardians of the map, passing it to their own children with a warning and wink. And the house, once full of the echoes of our youth exuberance, was silent, filled with the whispers of a thousand incalculable stories.  In the end, the monster called 'belief' had not been a creature of the cave, but a reflection of our own hearts, a force that created and consumed our deepest desires. And while we sat in the twilight of our lives, surrounded by the laughter of our grandchildren, we knew that the most wonderful landscapes were not on any island, but within the unlimited kingdoms of our own imagination. What if they had eqivated from island?

By Carlos del Puente relatos