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unsweetened TV couples innovative visuals with creative writing and poetry featured in UNSW’s literary journal (unsweetened), published annually by ARC in conjunction with the UNSW Bookshop.

Find out more about unsweetened TV:

View the Showreel… Read the ‘How to’ section… Find out how you can contribute…

Check out our recent productions…

Corridor… Twin Blue Lines… The General’s Dream… Winter Is…  Randy the Hedgehog…

Find out more about the contributors…

Michelle Rowan… Elizabeth Adams… Jess Simmonds

Read the full poem

Corridor

By Crystal Gail Koo

there is something in the confines of corridors

that fails to forget the vastness of experience

and in every corner every crack of light is a

detail containing the trace of sights smells

sounds of things long left behind in the moment

between loved and lost like a flower in a vase

so frail that hands cannot hold without breaking

that minds cannot hold without changing but

only a corridor can cup it in its silent palms and

only when everyone has abandoned the moment

the time when the days had gone so freely will

it open its hands and let it disappear into the

bluest sky

About the Author

Crystal Gail Koo graduated from UNSW and left Sydney with a Masters in Creative Writing at the end of Session One, 2007. She has been published in the Philippines and in Sydney’s Philippine Community Herald. Crystal is currently working on a research proposal for futher studies and a screenplay for Sydney’s Philippine Community Council. This poem was written for her friends in 4D, New College, in memory of the madness that has transpired within those hallowed walls.

About the Producer/Director

Find out more about Elizabeth Adams.

(Prepared for the unsweetened TV ‘Beta Presentation’ in October 2007. Editing by Jess Simmonds.)

Read on for the breakdown of works…

Corridor – Elizabeth Adams

Twin Blue Lines – Elizabeth Adams

The General’s Dream – Michelle Rowan

Winter Is – Michelle Rowan

Randy the Hedgehog – Jess Simmonds

unsweetened TV Showreel – Jess Simmonds

The story was written by Tom Hogan. Animation, imagery and sound editing by Jess Simmonds. The music was provided royalty free by www.freeplaymusic.com

Read the abridged and original versions of the story…

Randy the Hedgehog (abridged)

by Tom Hogan

Randy The Hedgehog awoke to a wonderful sunny morning.

He acknowledged his pointless existence in the existential world in which he lived; he analysed
his predicament, and it dawned on him that he had no reason to live.

Luckily, he was then attacked by a hawk, who slaughtered him mercilessly.

Randy the Hedgehog (original)

by Tom Hogan

Randy the Hedgehog stopped walking for a moment.

He had been on his way towards the lake, just like a normal day, to get a drink and some food.

Something was wrong, and it was something very, very strange.

That morning he’d woken up like a normal day. He shuffled around his burrow for a bit, thought about what he would do, before heading outside to do it.

Nothing strange about that, he thought. And with that, Randy the Hedgehog continued walking.

After a few minutes of admiring the scenery, the sunshine, the grass and the water in the distance, he passed Timmy the Turtle.

“Good morning, Timmy! Would you like to come to the lake with me, for a morning drink?” Randy asked.

Timmy slowly lifted his head, the same way the sun would lift itself off the ground each morning, and turned towards Randy. “That sounds like a mighty fine idea! I’ll come with you to the lake.” And so the two friends walked together. Timmy could walk right next to Randy, because his hard green shell protected him from Randy’s spikes.

Randy was used to scurrying around to get things done. Needless to say, he had to walk slowly so that Timmy could keep up. But something was still bothering Randy, and he couldn’t figure out what it was.

He decided Timmy could help him.

“Timmy,” Randy asked, carefully. He didn’t want to sound silly in front of his friend. “Is something different about today?”

“What do you mean?” asked Timmy in his low voice.

“Well…” Randy thought about how he would try to explain himself. A few moments passed before he was able to continue speaking. Randy never had to think about what he was about to say. This wasn’t a problem right now, because Timmy was used to taking things slow. “Something feels different about today. I’m not sure what it is, but it is making me nervous! Does that seem silly?”

“Everything is fine and dandy, Randy.” Timmy said, chuckling at his own joke. “Nothing is different. Today seems to be just like every other day.”

“That’s what I thought, but I keep feeling like something is different.” The two were coming up to the water’s edge now.

“Everything is fine, Randy.” Timmy said.

Perhaps Timmy is right, Randy thought. If I can’t think what is wrong, then nothing is wrong.

They were finally standing at the water’s edge when Henrietta the Hawk landed on a branch in a nearby tree.

“Hello Henrietta!” Both Randy and Timmy called out at the same time.

“Good morning boys!” Henrietta replied warmly. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is! The sun is shining and Timmy and I are about to get a drink from the lake!”

“Isn’t that nice?” Henrietta called out. “It’s good to see two friends playing together.”

Randy liked Henrietta. She was very nice and was looking out for her children. He considered Henrietta to be the closest thing to a mother he had.

“You can join us if you want.” Randy said. “There’s always room for more friends.”

Henrietta smiled and said that she would love to, but she had to get food for her babies who were waiting back at the nest. “Maybe next time!” She said and looked at Timmy.

During the conversation, Timmy had been looking in the water, but he hadn’t been drinking. Randy thought this was strange and asked Timmy what was wrong.

Timmy said nothing; he just moved his head down, closer to the water, with his eyes wide open.

Randy decided to take a look as well…

At first, Randy didn’t see anything strange. All he could see were ripples slowly moving across his reflection which was peeking over the edge of the grass.

“What are you looking at, Timmy?” He looked over at Timmy, who had leaned in so close that his nose was almost touching the water.

Randy tried to look closer, which was hard because of his round body shape. Timmy had a long neck, but Randy had short legs and almost no neck to speak of. Nevertheless, he leaned over the edge as far as he could and looked down.

There was nothing there, just his reflection staring right back at him.

Randy looked so hard until he squinted and his eyes began to hurt. And then… he saw it.

It’s me, Randy thought. It’s not just a hedgehog. It’s me. I’m Randy the Hedgehog.

“Since when have I been Randy the Hedgehog?” He asked no one in particular.

That’s what felt so different about this morning! He thought. I woke up and thought about what I was going to do… I’ve never done that before! I’ve never had to think about anything and now I’m thinking about everything!

He paused for just a moment, and then loudly he called out “I CAN TALK! SINCE WHEN CAN I TALK?!” Timmy was startled, he looked up at Randy. “Timmy! Timmy! I can talk! I looked in my reflection and I realised who I am! I realised that I exist! AND YOUR NAME IS TIMMY! TIMMY! This is amazing!”

Randy stopped, and realised that someone was watching him, and had been for quite some time.

Suddenly Henrietta didn’t look as friendly as she did before. Her eyes were black and she was perched high above them, staring down, leering.

“Timmy…” Randy said, as Henrietta spread her wings. “Run… Timmy. RUN!” Randy turned and ran as fast as he could, but realised Timmy wasn’t close beside him. Randy spun back around, just in time to see Henrietta’s beak pierce through Timmy’s soft, green skull. Randy was just close enough for Timmy’s blood to splatter across his face, stinging his eyes.

“Wha…” He managed to say.

Henrietta pulled her beak out of Timmy, letting his head fall lifeless to the grass. “Don’t say anything,” she said quietly. There was still an eyeball dangling by a bloody thread from her beak. “I woke up this morning and realised not only that I was a bird of prey that killed innocent others… but that I liked it.” Randy’s thoughts raced; If he tried to run, she would surely kill him.

“Y-y-you…” He stammered. “You killed my mother! And now you’re back for me!”

“Your mother was a good for nothing whore. And now it’s your turn to die!” Henrietta lurched forward, and the next few seconds went very slowly for Randy, but in reality only lasted a fraction of a second.

The hawk screeched and loomed over him, he was terrified, but something had to be done. He pushed himself up onto his hind legs, and jumped, spinning towards Henrietta, his spikes like rotating spears of death. Each one ripped into Henrietta’s flesh, much the same way a meat grinder would rip apart a newborn baby. She then fell under Randy’s weight onto the grass where she was immediately crushed, spurting all the internal organs and their contents out of her anus.

The world was getting darker. Randy lay on his back in the blood soaked grass for a few moments. Eventually he pulled himself up.

“I’m too old for this shit.” He said, lighting a cognac-dipped cigarette, and then stumbled on all fours, the stink of death following him through the gathering mist, back home.

About the Author

Kylar Loussikian is currently completing his Commerce/Arts degree majoring, he claims, in Making Money. Kylar enjoys a variety of activities to pass the time, including creative writing and insulting both those who wear loafers and those who consider beige to be a colour. Tired of lecturers drawing seemingly ridiculous conclusions from texts, Kylar created a story that can be read in many different, equally useless ways.

About the Producer

Find out more about Jess Simmonds

Read the full text…

More…Winter Is.

By Chris Long

Tomatoes that taste like frost

And crumble in your mouth like snowballs

The metallic kiss of morning coffee

The gasping husk of a dying fire

Winter is smoke up a chimney
Winter is cold feet and sweaty hands

Starchy clothes on unwashed skin

A hug that splinters apart

Like a glass bottle in the freezer

A bed that swallows you in the evening

And spits you into the world each day

Every morning the cruel echo of birth

When you were plunged into the scalding cold

Winter is what waits outside the womb
Winter is tiles that snap at your heels with icy teeth

A tap that coughs cold water on your numb hands

The lukewarm bath that traps you with

Chains made of cold air and a towel just out of reach

The gaping mouth of an open window

That breathes the cold in like a lonely spirit

Winter is woven from shivers and gooseflesh
Winter is fueled on the warmth of

Two hands rubbed together

A cauldron of soup

The specter of summer

And the radiation of a million TV sets

(Winter is…)

About the Author

Chris Long  is in the first year of a seven-year Arts/Medicine degree. While usually more of a prose storyteller, Chris has taken to poetry since medical studies swallowed his time. Chris likes music, travel, the beach, the town, the sun and summer. This poem is a little ode to everything we know and love about winter.

About the Producer

Find out more about Michelle Rowan

About the Producer

Read the full text…

The General’s Dreams

By Rodrigo Acuña 

(Note: see below for Spanish translation)

    The old man woke up gasping for breath. Salty water trickling from his forehead, he was disorientated and his dry mouth yearned for liquid. After several minutes, with a gentle rhythm, he sat up on his bed to look for his slippers so as to go to the toilet. At age ninety his body had withered – become rancid in fact – but if you observed his face he still looked like a pleasant man who could have filled many people’s lives as a caring grandfather.

   “And viejo, are you going to get ready and join me for breakfast or are you just going to sit there like an old fool?” said Lucía several rooms away.

   “Shut up, I’ll be there in a minute!” the General snapped as his anger rose but then quickly subsided once the smell of his maid’s coffee reached his nostrils. They had been through so much together it would be false to state that there was no love between them. Lucía had always plotted with him, simultaneously playing the role of the obedient wife, always showering their guests with compliments so as to further her husband’s opportunities. Her aims in life were simple: to have a ‘happy marriage’, ‘children’ and ‘money’ – lots of it.

   Material wealth was the real measure of a person’s worth in her world. She once had to remind el Tata of that when he had (carelessly) not swindled enough on a deal when privatising (another) sector of the economy. The General and the kitchen table alike had absorbed her rage. In her view, such lack of concern for ‘their interests’, though only momentary, was tantamount to betrayal. But for now, though her hands had rarely been acquainted with a saucepan, it was time to have breakfast and act the good wife.

   Today the General was moody and petulant. Glancing over his paper he saw a picture of some of the current leaders of Latin America at a conference. Humble white, brown and black faces peered out, looking jubilant, a reflection of their supporters from their various lands.

   “Here we go again!” he said aloud, “that monkey from Venezuela and that Indian from Bolivia are signing some new deal while that turd in Havana laughs!”

   The General had never really held deep ideological convictions; the coup d’état was always more about intoxicating himself with power. Keeping up his old rants was a way of reassuring himself that what he had done was right, even noble.

   “If only those bastards in Washington had supported me in staying in power,” he called to Lucía, “those Indians would know their place! … They only need you when you are useful but then, just like a condom, the gringos throw you away once their interests have been protected… Sons of bitches,” he muttered to himself as he retraced in his mind his downfall, step by step, to his current house arrest. A few hours later, after another mundane routine, he returned to these thoughts before going to bed.
* * * 
   The mathematics of the scenario were impossible. Cramped into the two square meters between those bulging and yet inflexible walls, he could see over three thousand bodies, decayed faces, damaged human beings. The copper-haired young schoolteacher, Manuel, who had cast his vote because he could not stand watching his pupils’ talents go to waste, was there. So too was Paola, a mestiza seamstress who had been attracted to ridiculous ideas – something about living with dignity and having a say in how her society ought to be run.

   On an old wooden chair, the General sat motionless. For what seemed like hours, almost complete silence reigned until a storm of screams began – screams which could only have been produced under hours of interrogation, electric shocks and spells into unconsciousness, interrupted by buckets of cold water. In silence, others from that human mass walked up to the General and displayed their wounds. Slowly, one man limped forward and held up the broken hands of a body that had been bashed repeatedly and riddled with bullets. Opening his mouth to sing, the terror that gripped him was unbearable once he realised his voice could no longer express his humble past, his ideas, his defiance. With a violent jolt, the General turned away, only to encounter a shoeless child who spat upon his face.

   The disfigured bodies, the screams, the smells. Then there were the dogs that surrounded those wretched people. They weren’t the elegant thoroughbred German Shepherds that his troops had used to hunt down political enemies and that his intelligence officials had even used to rape women. These were the hungry mutts – sore-covered and flea-ridden – that one finds in every shanty town across Latin America – the type that poor circuses pay local kids to slaughter so they can feed their overgrown cats.

   As if to avenge their own hungry and infected lives, the dogs barked savagely. Those whose masters had been killed at the hands of the General’s thugs launched themselves in rage to tear the flesh from his body. Suffocating with distress, boots, punches, screams, foul water, blood and infected wounds followed, his body pleading for the relief of unconsciousness that was always denied.

   As weeks turned into months, the General’s dreams continued, worsened, until one day, unexpectedly, his victims stopped and walked out of the cell.
* * * 
   Diego Rodríguez was driving his cab and listening to a tawdry Colombian cumbia when suddenly the news was announced. Pausing for only a second, he turned to his passenger and said aloud, “Well there you go! All the commies, greens and faggots will be out on the streets in a matter of minutes to celebrate – but do they really know what he did for this country?” Not waiting for his passenger to respond, Diego continued talking, repeating the arguments he had heard on talkback radio that morning, but that he believed to be truly his. Abruptly switching to discuss football, his incoherent screed continued until his passenger paid the fare.

   A smug, city man, Diego had little to boast about. Working between fourteen and sixteen hours a day on Santiago’s smog-filled roads, he drove almost endlessly to pay the bills on the humble house that he and his wife had built on a cheap plot of land. Once home, Diego was often too tired to caress his wife, let alone make love to her. Work, alcohol and football were his life.

   At home, Valeria, Diego’s wife, had a different perspective on the news. She had herself known one of them – ‘the disappeared’ – but she planned, despite her sadness, to join the many in her street tonight who would celebrate the jackal’s death.

   Catalina, who always enjoyed watching her mother’s wit triumph over her father’s crudity, suddenly asked, “Would you like me to go to the shops mama, to get something for the party?”

   Surprised at first by her perceptiveness, Valeria was quickly reminded of her five-year-old’s unusual intelligence. Even at her young age Catalina had already read most of the books in her run-down, little school, and her teacher often made visits to the house insisting that, together, they must find a way to send Catalina to a school with more opportunities. Maybe the future would be different for her, thought Valeria, whose own education allowed her to read and write at a basic level, but not much else.

   “Sí niña, go to the shop and buy three loaves of bread,” said Valeria.

   Catalina always managed to make an adventure from such trips to the shop. The tasks were always too easy but the fun lay in observing her small corner of the world, its people, their interactions and idiosyncrasies. Thus far, there was much to see and in a moment of play she decided to jump in a puddle. Satisfied with her mischievousness, she then stepped back, only for her gaze to fall upon a wall displaying a poster of the new president. Realising that the president was in fact a niñita, a girly like her, Catalina started to giggle.

   The image seemed odd to her, but also quite right. Why couldn’t the president be a niñita? After all, she thought to herself, I am the smartest in my class and I wear a dress. Pausing for a few seconds, she pondered on her conclusion and brashly assumed that only a fool would question it. Tipping her petite body over, she brushed some mud from her jacket and skipped away with joy.

   If only the scruffy, black mongrel that saw all this could have talked, he would have told Catalina that disappointments come in all genders, but that hope for better days is necessary – essential, in fact, for maintaining one’s sanity. Something about scratching off the fleas and ticks that ride on the backs of others would also have been mentioned.

—

[Spanish Version]

Los Sueños del General
Por Rodrigo Acuña 
   El viejo despertó luchando por respirar. Agua salada goteando de su frente, estaba desorientado y su boca seca ansiaba líquido. Después de varios minutos, con un ritmo delicado, se sentó en su cama para buscar sus pantuflas para ir al baño. A la edad de noventa su cuerpo había marchitado – de hecho estaba rancio – pero si uno observaba su cara, él todavía lucía como un hombre agradable el cual podría llenar las vidas de mucha gente como un cuidadoso abuelo.  

   “¿Y, te vas a preparar para desayunar conmigo o te vas a quedar ahí sentado como un viejo tonto?, dijo Lucía varios cuartos más allá. 

   “¡Cállate, estaré allí en un minuto!” el general regañó, mientras su ira subía pero rápidamente descendía una vez que el olor del café de su criada alcanzó su nariz. Ellos habían pasado tanto junto que sería falso decir que no había amor entre ellos. 

   Lucía siempre había complotado con él, simultáneamente jugando el papel de la esposa obediente, siempre dispensando a sus huéspedes con halagos de manera de aumentar las oportunidades de su esposo. Sus objetivos en la vida eran sencillos: tener “un matrimonio feliz”, “niños” y “dinero”, en grandes cantidades.

   La riqueza material era la verdadera medida del valor de una persona en su mundo. Ella una vez se lo había tenido que recordar al Tata cuando él, descuidadamente, no timó lo suficiente en un acuerdo mientras privatizaba otro sector de la economía. El general y la mesa de la cocina ambos absorbieron su rabia. En su opinión, tal falta de preocupación por lo “intereses” de ellos, aunque sólo momentáneamente, era equivalente a traición. Pero por ahora, aunque sus manos raramente habían conocido una sartén, era hora de desayunar y de actuar la buena esposa. 

   Hoy el general estaba malhumorado y caprichoso. Hojeando su periódico vio la foto de algunos de los actuales líderes de América Latina en una conferencia. Humildes caras blancas, marrones y negras miraban, lucían felices, siendo una reflexión de sus partidarios de varias tierras.

   “¡Otra vez lo mismo!” gritó en voz alta, “¡ese mono de Venezuela con el indio de Bolivia están firmando un nuevo acuerdo mientras esa mierda en la Habana se ríe!

    El general realmente nunca había tenido profundas convicciones ideológicas; el coup d’état siempre fue más para emborracharse con el poder. Continuando con sus viejas rabias era una manera de reafirmar así mismo que había hecho lo correcto, incluso noble.  

   “Si sólo esos bastardos de Washington me hubieran apoyado en mantenerme en el poder”, le dijo a Lucía, “¡esos indios ahora conocerían su lugar! … Ellos sólo te necesitan cuando eres útil pero después, igual que un condón, los gringos te tiran una vez que has protegido sus intereses… Hijos de puta”, él murmuró para sí mismo mientras recalcó en su mente su derrota, paso a paso, hasta su presente arresto domiciliario. Un par de horas más tarde, después de otra rutina cotidiana, él retorno a estos pensamientos antes de irse a la cama.    
* * * 
   Las matemáticas de la escena eran imposibles. Apretujados en dos metros cuadrados entre esas abultadas e inflexible paredes, él podía ver más de tres mil cuerpos, caras descompuestas, seres humanos dañados. El joven profesor con pelo de cobre, Manuel, que había emitido su voto porque no podía soportar más que los talentos de sus estudiantes se desperdiciaran, él estaba allí. También estaba Paola, una costurera mestiza que había sido atraída a ideas ridículas sobre vivir con dignidad y tener una opinión en cómo su sociedad debe funcionar. 

   En una vieja silla de madera, el general se sentaba inmóvil. Por lo que parecían horas, el silencio casi completo reinaba hasta que una tormenta de gritos comenzó, los gritos que sólo se hubieran podido emitir bajo horas de interrogatorio, descargas eléctricas y periodos de inconsciencia, interrumpidos por baldes de agua fría. En silencio, otros de la masa humana caminaban hacia el general mostrando sus heridas. Lentamente, un hombre cojeó adelante y elevó las manos quebradas de un cuerpo que había sido golpeado en varias ocasiones y acribillado a balazos. Abriendo su boca para cantar, el terror que lo consumió era insoportable una vez que se dio cuenta que su voz ya no podría expresar más su pasado humilde, sus ideas, su desafío. Con un salto violento, el general se dio vuelta sólo para encontrar a un niño descalzado que le escupió en la cara.

   Los cuerpos desfigurados, los gritos, los olores. Pero después estaban los perros que rodearon a esa gente desgraciada. No eran esos elegantes pastores alemanes de raza que sus tropas usaron para buscar enemigos políticos y que sus funcionarios de inteligencia incluso usaron para violar a mujeres. Éstos eran los desgraciados hambrientos – llenos de heridas y pulgas – que uno encuentra en cualquier barrio humilde en América Latina, el tipo que los circos pobres le pagan a los niños para que maten, y de manera, ir alimentando sus crecidos gatos.

   Como para vengar sus propias hambrientas e infectadas vidas, los perros ladraban en forma salvaje. Aquellos quienes sus amos habían sido muertos por las manos de los alcahuetes del general, se lanzaron con rabia para rasgar la carne de su cuerpo. Sofocando con angustia siguieron, botas, puñetes, gritos, agua podrida, sangre y heridas nauseabundas; su cuerpo pidiendo el alivio de la inconciencia que siempre se le negaba.

   A medida que las semanas se tornaban en meses, los sueños del general continuaron y empeoraron, hasta que un día inesperado, sus víctimas pararon y caminaron fuera de la celda. 
* * * 
   Diego Rodríguez estaba manejando su taxi y escuchando una cumbia barata cuando de repente anunciaron las noticias. Tomando una pausa por sólo un segundo, se dio vuelta a su pasajero y anunció en voz alta, “¡Bueno ahí lo tienes!  Todos los comunistas, verdes y maricones van a salir a las calles en unos minutos: ¿pero saben realmente lo que él hizo por este país?” Sin esperar a que su pasajero responda, Diego continuó hablando, repitiendo los argumentos que él había escuchado en la radio esa mañana y que él creía ser verdaderamente los suyos. Abruptamente cambiando para discutir el fútbol, continuó su incoherente y monótono diálogo hasta que su pasajero pagó la tarifa.     

   Satisfecho, hombre de ciudad, Diego tenía poco de que cachiporrearse.  Trabajando entre catorce y dieciséis horas por día en las calles de Santiago llenas de humo, él manejaba casi sin fin para pagar las cuentas de su humilde casa que él y su esposa habían construído en un pedazo de tierra barata.  Cuando llegaba a casa, Diego estaba muchas veces muy agotado para acariciar a su esposa, menos aún para hacer el amor. El trabajo, el alcohol y el fútbol eran su vida. 

   En casa, Valeria, la esposa de Diego, tenía una perspectiva diferente respecto a las noticias. Ella personalmente había conocido uno de ellos – los desaparecidos – pero planificaba, a pesar de su tristeza, juntarse con la mayoría de personas en su calle que en la noche celebrarían la muerte del chacal.

   Catalina, que siempre disfrutaba observando el triunfo del ingenio de su madre sobre la crudeza de su padre, de repente pregunto: “¿quiere que vaya a la tienda mamá, para comprar algo para la fiesta?”

     Sorprendida al principio por la percepción de su hija, Valeria rápidamente recordó que su niña de cinco años tenía una inteligencia poco común. Aun a su joven edad, Catalina ya había leído la mayoría de los libros de su deteriorada y pequeñita escuela, y su profesora muchas veces hacía visitas a la casa insistiendo, que juntas, ellas deberían encontrar la manera para mandar a Catalina a una escuela con más oportunidades. Quizás el futuro será diferente para ella pensaba Valeria, cuya propia educación le permitía leer y escribir a un nivel básico, pero no mucho más. 

   “Sí niña, anda a la tienda y compra tres panes de molde”, dijo Valeria.

   Catalina siempre lograba hacer una aventura de estos viajes a la tienda.

   Las tareas eran siempre demasiado fáciles pero la diversión estaba en las observaciones de su pequeña esquina del mundo, de su gente, de sus interacciones e idiosincrasias. 

   Hasta el momento, había mucho que ver pero en un instante de juego, ella decidió saltar en un charco.

   Satisfecha con su picardía, ella luego dio un paso atrás y sin querer su mirada se fijo en una pared con un póster de la nueva presidenta. Dándose cuenta que la nueva presidenta, de hecho, era una niñita como ella, Catalina comenzó reír un poquito nerviosa.   

   La imagen le parecía rara pero también muy adecuada. ¿Por qué la presidenta no podía ser una niñita como ella? Después de todo, ella pensó para si, yo soy la más lista en mi clase y yo uso un vestido. Deteniéndose brevemente por algunos segundos, ella contempló su postura y audazmente concluyó que sólo un tonto la cuestionaría. Inclinando su pequeñito cuerpo hacia delante, se limpió algo del barro que tenía en su chaqueta y fue saltando contenta.

   Si solamente el perro negro descuidado que vio todo esto hubiera podido hablar, él le hubiera dicho a Catalina que las decepciones vienen en todos los géneros, pero que la esperanza por mejores días es necesaria, de hecho, esencial para mantener la cordura. También hubiera mencionado algo sobre sacarse las pulgas y garrapatas que se montan sobre las espaldas de otros. 

About the Author/Sobre el autor 

Rodrigo Acuña was conceived in Chile, born in Peru, raised in Australia and graduated from the University of New South Wales in 2006 with combined-honours in Politics and International Relations and Spanish and Latin American Studies. In 2005, he was awarded the Benchmark Prize in Hispanic Studies by UNSW. Rodrigo writes on Latin American affairs publishing regularly with New Matilda.com. 

Rodrigo Acuña fue concebido en Chile, nació en Perú y creció en Australia donde se recibió de la Universidad de Nueva Gales del Sur el 2006 con honores en Política, Relaciones Internacionales y Estudios Latino Americanos. En 2005 fue premiado el Premio Benchmark en Estudios Hispánicos por la misma universidad. Rodrigo escribe sobre política latinoamericana y publica regularmente con la revista New Matilda.com.

About the Producer

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Basically, here is a short run down of the do’s and don’ts (please note that for more legal information, go to Creative Commons)

• Copyright aims to protect the author or creator from unauthorised reproductions or adaptations of the original work, be it books, paintings, software, drawings, photographs
• Copyright is a type of intellectual property (IP) which protects creative and inventive efforts
• Basically, if you didn’t create it, then you probably don’t own the copyright and you need to get permission to use the work, and if you can’t get permission, then you shouldn’t use the work!

If you want to know more about copyright, follow the links below:

Creative Commons – find ways to protect your creative works but still allows others to use and adapt your works

Attorney General’s department A Short Guide to Copyright – a short guide that outlines the do’s and don’ts under Australian Copyright law

Australian Copyright Council’s Information Sheet- An introduction to Copyright in Australia

World Intellectual Property Organisation’s Basic Notions of Copyright and Related Rights – more information about IP from a global perspective

• Partners in Rhyme – free music and sound effects
• Archive.org – free moving images, audio, text and live music
• Public Domain Footage – free images and footage
• The Free Sound Project – free sounds
• Freeplay Music - free music tracks, limited use without a license, e.g. educational use.
• Creative Commons – free audio, video, images, texts and copyright licensing

• http://www.videomaker.com/article/10102/
• http://www.microcinemascene.com/articles/comments/creating_a_shot_list/