El sueño del gato is the fifth collective volume published by the Escuela de Escritores of Madrid, a collaborative work that brings together short stories and narrative texts developed through its creative writing workshops. This publication consolidates an editorial tradition that highlights the talent of its students and faculty, reflecting the literary maturity achieved within its pedagogical framework.
The book presents a series of brief pieces revolving around the symbolic figure of the cat, explored through multiple narrative registers: the fantastic, the intimate, the everyday, and the metaphorical. Through diverse styles, the texts address themes such as identity, dreams, memory, human relationships, and imagination as a space of creative freedom.
More than a simple thematic anthology, El sueño del gato showcases the pedagogical approach of the Escuela de Escritores: narrative technique, the exploration of one’s own voice, and formal experimentation. Each story reveals the plurality of perspectives that can emerge from a shared literary prompt, confirming that collective writing does not dilute individuality, but rather strengthens it.
With this fifth volume, the School reaffirms its commitment to literary education and the promotion of new voices, offering readers an engaging collection that celebrates writing as an act of imagination, discipline, and sensitivity.
In this book, Ana Magnolia Méndez participates with the short story “Álgida.”
Álgida
How many times did I hear you say the same words? I do not remember, but the echo of your voice—now silent—still resounds in my head.
The fact that you can no longer speak, nor insult me, nor throw in my face your intelligence against my stupidity, your professional success against my failure, or your lineage against my surname, certainly makes things easier.
Perhaps you are the one who holds the answers my life needs in order to finally find its meaning. Although it might be better if I answer myself: Why did I have four children with you? Why did I endure your blackmail, your mistreatment, your humiliations?
I am almost inclined to believe that I am the one responsible for my own misfortune and for these twenty years of open agony by your side.
My sister came to see you, and you opened your eyes. With them, you tried to force her out of your room, out of your house—but your eyes forgot that you no longer speak, much less command in what is, ironically, the house you bought with your money and in which today I am the only authority.
Now that she has left and I notice you calmer, I want to tell you something. I presume that at last the moment has come. You are clean; the nurse Luis hired keeps you impeccable. You ate your soup, and you look at me tenderly—just as I always dreamed you would. But I do not wish to disturb you, so let me go straight to the point:
Why did you call me “álgida”?
The word sounded so forceful in your mouth, so thunderous… but I did not understand it. It was understandable for you to call me ignorant, since I know there are many things I do not know; or ugly, because after my last delivery my mouth remained slightly crooked. But álgida? What was that?
I confess that for years I lived with the doubt, until one day I dared to take one of the children’s dictionaries and look it up. There it was, as threatening on the page as it had been on your lips.
Since that day, it has tangled itself in my mind—like when the doctor explained that the accident had left you unable to speak or move, though not unable to hear, understand, and eat; or when they told me you were gay. I honestly do not understand much, but what I do understand now is what the word álgida means. Still, why did you say it to me?
I cannot deduce it, Omar. Frankly, I cannot guess. It is not because we have been together for twenty years and have four children in common. Truly, with you I never felt absolutely anything. It was merely a performance of less than ten minutes that would leave me afterward with my álgida eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Nor was it because, on most nights while you and Luis were out partying, I soothed my own longing for you and imagined you in all the ways I had dreamed, fantasies that allowed me to fly to incredible places and feel like a fulfilled, happy woman.
No, Omar, it is not that. As you know, you are not the only one who has been in this beautiful bed that you bought.
Do not look at me like that, Omar—or did you not know about Luis? I thought you did, since you were always such good friends. You yourself said Luis was like the other part of you—not only your lifelong friend, but your brother, your confidant, your other half, the one who would never betray you, your trust. Your eyes are about to burst, Omar!
Calm down. And sincerely, I am sorry. I did not know you were unaware. What I do want to tell you is that with him I never remained staring at the ceiling. And if one day I happened to glance at it, I swear I did not see its whiteness, nor the cornices, nor the line of one hundred black ants climbing from the left corner to the lightbulb—because I am sure the ceiling opened, and I saw the sky.
My sister told me to seek my own answers. And she is right, Omar. I do not want to torment you. I want you to live with dignity, for your bed to be made, for Luis to continue managing your money, your business, and all your other affairs—just as you would have asked if you could speak. I could not do it. I am too ignorant and too ugly for that.
But before I open that door and let your lineage in, I need to tell you something: evidently, I am not álgida.
But, Omar… what are you?
