Winners of the Short Story Prize of the Teatro Real

Maria Llorens Cortés, with the story titled Pélida's rest, Y Eva Maria Torrecilla, with the work The date of Apollo, have obtained ex aequo the first prize from Short Story Teatro Real for Young People convened last February, on the occasion of the premiere of Achilles in Skyros, Francesco Brusa, whose theme was the myth of Achilles.

In the same call they have been finalists Javier Quevedo, with Ghosts, Y Miguel Reviriego Antón, with Last missive before going into battle.

The judge, formed by journalists and writers, Concha Barrigós, chief editor of culture of the EFE Agency; Jesus Garcia Calero, head of culture of the newspaper ABC, Y Juan Cruz, attached to the address of EL PAÍS, has highlighted the quality of the thirty stories presented and has valued the literary and artistic creation they represent.

On Pélida's rest, by María Llorens, the jury has indicated that “it is a vibrant and tender story, featuring Achilles living an everlasting love story with Patroclus. The award-winning story effectively combines narrative strength and poetic tension that endow it with subtle beauty. Magic and hopeful sadness come together in a story full of tenderness ".

Apollo's arrow, by Eva María Torrecilla, places the story at the time of the Trojan epic and narrates the death of the son of the goddess and the mortal at the hands of Paris “with a very attractive poetic and cinematographic structure that recreates, in different planes and with verisimilitude, the last moments of the hero ".

Both stories will be published on the Teatro Real website, and in future printed editions of the institution, and its authors will be part of the Friends Foundation without fees for a year and will receive two tickets for the premiere of the opera Rusalka, de Antonín Dvořák, which will take place next November, within the Season 2020-2021 The Royal Theatre.

Both finalists, Javier Quevedo, Y Miguel Reviriego Antón They will get one year of permanence in the Friends Foundation and two tickets for one of the functions of the aforementioned opera.

Achilles in Skyros, work recovered by the Complutense Institute of Musical Sciences (ICCMU) for the Real, It was never released due to the declaration of the state of alarm that has impeded the normal development of our daily lives.

Apollo's arrow
por Eve Blakesley

Troy burns.
Its temples, houses and palaces are consumed in a gigantic pyre; inside
the muffled screams of those who will never get away alive escape. In the
streets, the survivors are harassed by the Greek troops, that thirsty for blood,
spear through the bowels of the city, ending the lives of men,
women and children alike.
And yet, those poor souls already rushing across the Styx lagoon
I do not care about them. The corpses that carpet the beautiful gardens of the royal family
Trojan is meaningless to me.
Just like this damn war. Just like my own life. They are nothing but
illusions sent by the gods to torture me, to remind me that, as much as
i wished it, i can't die.
I squeeze the sword between my bloody fingers. It's a reality that I believed
accept long ago, but after the death of Patroclus, something tore inside of me, something
dark and visceral.
A desire born of the deepest pain.
A need to follow Patroclus into the very arms of Hades alone
for contemplating him one last time.
But nevertheless, i can't die. The great hero Achilles, feared and loved at the same
time by the gods, he's condemned to lead a cursed life, longing for what
will never have again.
The pain seems about to tear me in two, and as the only way to free it,
I raise my sword and pierce the chest of a too young Trojan soldier,
too gullible, who was preparing to string me with his spear. In his eyes I see the
hope of becoming a hero for your city; the childish dream of being the one who
defeated Achilles. The very fool has been no more than a mere puppet of the
gods, a pawn in the middle of an absurd war, and as I ripped the sword from his
still throbbing chest, I see how hope is diluted in your eyes before your
body plummeting on the ground.
For this I was born. For this the gods chose me: death, war, the glory.

My mother's words echo like a cold whisper in my ears, brought
from my most primary memories: If you stay, you will live long years, but without glory. And
you go, you will achieve immense fame among men, but your life will be fleeting.
And here I am, with the glory between my fingers, but without a trace of death that
I long to get. The gods must be making fun of me and my misery, and furious,
I raise my sword again to cut another Trojan's neck, as young and confident as
After, another arrives. And other. The Trojans arm themselves with their despair and I
offer their last defense; but nevertheless, their spears slide on my armor and their
swords, too slow, seem to be repelled by Athena herself.
The most sensible soldiers begin to back down, realizing that his war
I was lost even before I started. I stand before them, resollando. He
helmet oppresses me; the heat of the fire that rises behind me, licking the sky
night, seems about to make me burn.
I take off my helmet with a rough wave of the hand, throwing it over the pile of
corpses around me. After, I raise my back and point it at the soldiers,
throwing them a challenging smile.
"Who will be the next to face Achilles?"? -scream-. Who will dare
defy the gods themselves?
I almost seem to savor the chill of terror running through the bodies of the
soldiers, whose weapons tremble in his hands. I notice how the smile stretches my
lips, but then one of the soldiers looks up at the end of the
gardens. I follow the direction of his eyes to find the figure of a man leaving
of the palace. He carries a sword at his belt and a bow in his hand, and for a moment, me
seems to be seeing the god Apollo, already prepared to fulfill my deepest wishes.
But nevertheless, when man separates from the palace shadows and fire
brightens the attractive features of your face, I check that it's only about the prince
I tilt my head towards him, measuring you from a distance. I remind you of the day that
I faced his brother, prince hector, at the foot of the Trojan walls. Paris,
far from showing the same value as his brother, stayed hidden high up in the
ramparts, protected behind the figure of his lover Helena, and did not make a single move
when I pierced Hector's chest with my spear. Nor when I tied his corpse to a
car and dragged it around town.

But nevertheless, now, after so long, It seems that pain has nested in your
alma, because he looks at me in the same way that I looked at Hector: with hate
inordinate of the one who has lost what he loves most in this world of misfortunes.
-What are you looking at, the prince? What are you waiting for to avenge your brother? -the
scream, raising my sword before him.
Paris raise your head. His youthful face, with golden eyes and sharp features,
outlined by beautiful brown curls, transforms into a mask of anger. No development
the sword; instead, raise your bow, pulls an arrow from the quiver behind him and

He doesn't even have enough courage to engage in sword combat
with me.
A snort full of contempt escapes my mouth, and shaking his head, the
I turn my back. Arrows cannot kill me; nothing can do it. Start to
walk towards the soldiers, But then I hear the murmur that Paris dedicates to the
-Gods, let me carry out my revenge.
The way he draws his bow reaches me, the sound of the string
stretching. I smile and I keep walking.
—Apolo, guide the arrow into the heart of my enemy. Let the shot be
accurate, I beg you…
I raise my sword towards the soldiers, willing to string them, but then a
ray of pain paralyzes my leg. I look down to see the arrow that ends
of going through my heel: a pool of black blood begins to stain the earth.
I tilt my head towards Paris, that he has turned pale and hastens to load the bow
with a new arrow. He is such a weak man that the most pious for him would be that
will end its miserable existence. But nevertheless, before i can bend down to
rip the arrow from my heel and rush to cut Paris's neck, the pain that
it goes up my leg it makes me unbearable.
An intense agony is born somewhere in my chest. I gasp and look down
towards the pool of blood that surrounds me. It's too much blood, too much pain, for
a simple arrow wound. Weakness spreads through my body like one
disease, and soon I fall to my knees to the ground, soaking them in red.
Maybe this is death? Will i fall here, at the mercy of a mortal's arrow?

I drop the sword, that collapses with a sharp metallic sound to the ground;
I lay my hands on the ground and gasp, with labored breathing and a happy heart
For the first time in years.
Yes, here is the death of the hero Achilles: I feel it in my bones, what do I know
they become brittle every second; I notice it in the steely taste that floods my
tongue; I feel it in the histrionic laughter of the gods, that come from Olympus like
a faint rumor.
My death, so longed for, so dear… I hug her like I'm melting
with Patroclus himself. A smile comes to my lips without being able to avoid it. Known
the presence of prince paris behind me. Say something, I don't understand what, though
it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.
I collapse in my own blood, as black as the night around us.
So I sign my end, I, Achilles, fallen like the most pathetic of mortals
before the weakest of men. My eyes slam shut, without a single
I remember can come to my mind, without being able to tie myself to anything that I had in life.
When I open them again, spreads out before me, eternal, gray and smoky, the lagoon
At last.