INSTITUTO TECNOLOGICO DE TAPACHULA

NOMBRE: JUAN JOSE GARCIA MARTINEZ

JOSUE ORTIZ RAMOS

NIVEL: 4 GRUPO: “B” TURNO: MATUTINO DIA: SABATINO

INGLES II

TEMA: “STORY INVENTED BY STUDENTS”

FECHA: 16 DE DICIEMBRE DEL 2020

TAPACHULA, CHIAPAS
 TEMA: “THE TRAIL OF YOUR BLOOD IN THE
SNOW”

In 2020 at dusk, when they reached the

border, A very beautiful young woman
named maria realized that her finger with
the wedding ring was still bleeding. A week
ago the civil guard with a raw wool blanket
over the patent leather tricorn examined
the passports in the light of a carbide
lantern, making a great effort not to be
knocked down by the pressure of the wind
blowing from the Pyrenees. Although they
were two diplomatic passports in order, the
guard raised the lantern to check that the portraits resembled the faces. Maria was
almost a girl, with happy bird's eyes and a skin of mingle that still radiated the
Caribbean resold in the gloomy evening of January, and was tucked up to her neck
in a mink nape coat that could not be bought with the one-year salary of the entire
border garrison. On Sunday Peter Morales of Avila, her husband, who drove the
car, was a year younger than her, and almost as beautiful, and wore a Scottish
painting jacket and a hair cap.
Unlike his wife, he was tall and athletic and had the iron jaws of shy thugs. But
what best revealed the condition of both was the plated car, whose interior exhaled
a breath of living beast, as had not been seen by that border of the poor. The rear
seats were crammed with too new suitcases and many gift boxes still un opened.
yesterday There was also the tenor saxophone that had been the dominant
passion in Mary's life before she succumbed to the contrary love of her tender spa
gangster.
Last week When the guard returned his sealed
passports, Billy Sanchez asked him where he
could find a pharmacy to make his wife a finger
cure, and the guard yelled at him in the wind
asking in Indaya, on the French side. But
Hendaye's guards were sitting at the table in
shirt sleeves, playing decks while eating wet
bread in bowls of wine inside a warm, well-lit
glass garita, and it was enough for them to see
the size and class of the car to indicate to them
by signs that they entered France. Peter
yesterday sounded the horn several times, but the guards did not understand that
they were calling them, but one of them opened the glass and shouted at them with
more rage than the wind:
-Merde! Allez-vous-en!
Then Mary left last week in the car wrapped in her coat to her ears, and asked the
guard in a perfect Frenchman where there was a pharmacy. The guard answered if
I was born by habit with my mouth full of bread that that was none of your
business. And less so with such a drunken, and closed the window. Three years
ago he looked closely at the girl who sucked her wounded finger wrapped in the
flash of natural mink, and must have mistaken her for a magical appearance on
that night of fright, because she instantly changed her mood. He explained that the
nearest town was Biarritz, but that in the middle of winter and with that wind of
wolves, there might not be a pharmacy open until Bayonne a little later.
-Is it serious? He asked.

"Nothing," Babe Daconte smiled, showing her finger with the diamond ring on
whose yolk the rose wound was barely noticeable. It's just a puncture.

Yesterday morning Before Bayonne it snowed again. It wasn't more than seven
o'clock, but a week ago they found the deserted streets and houses closed by the
fury of the drunken, and after many laps without finding a pharmacy they decided
to move on. Pedro Sanchez was happy
with the decision. He had an insatiable
passion for rare cars and a dad with too
many feelings of guilt and resources to
please him, and had never driven anything
like that convertible Bentley as a wedding
present. There was so much his
 drunkenness in the steering wheel, that the
more he was less tired he felt. He was willing
to arrive that night in Bordeaux, where they
had the splendid hotel's bridal suite booked,
and there would be no opposing winds or
enough snow in the sky to prevent it. the day
before yesterday, she was exhausted,
especially by the last stretch of the road from
Madrid, which was a horn of goats whipped
by hail.So after Bayonne he wrapped a
handkerchief in the ring by squeezing it well to stop the blood that was still flowing,
and fell asleep thoroughly. Billy Sanchez didn't warn him until the edge of midnight,
after it's just snowed and the wind suddenly stopped among the pines, and the
landes sky filled with glacial stars. He had passed in front of the sleeping lights of
Bordeaux, but only stopped to fill the tank at a road station as he was still in the
mood to reach Paris breathlessly. Yesterday he was so happy with his large
25,000-pound toy that he didn't even wonder if he would also be the radiant
creature who slept by his side with the blood-soaked ring bandage, and whose
teenage dream, for the first time, was pierced by bursts of uncertainty.
Maria's parents had arrived last week at noon, and watched over the body in the
hospital chapel waiting until the last minute to find Billy Sanchez. Two months ago
his parents had also been informed, and were ready to fly to Paris, but in the end
they gave up a mix-up of telegrams. yesterday morning The funerals took place on
Sunday at two o'am, just two hundred meters from the sordid hotel room where
Peter dyed of solitude for Maria's love A week ago The official who had attended
him at the embassy told me years later that he himself received the telegram from
his chancellery an hour after Pedro Sanchez left his
office , and who was looking for him through the
stealth bars of Faubourg-St. Honoré. He confessed to
me that yesterday he had paid close attention to him
when he received it, because he would never have
imagined that that scabrow dazed with the novelty of
Paris, and with such a poorly worn lamb's coat, had
such an illustrious origin in his favour. On the same
Sunday night, while he endured the urge to cry with
rage, Maria's parents gave up the search and took the
embalmed body inside a metal coffin, and those who caught up with him continued
to repeat for many years that they had never seen a more beautiful woman, neither
alive nor dead. So by the time Pedro Sanchez finally entered the hospital on
Tuesday morning, he had already consummated his burial in the sad Pantheon of
manga, a few yards from the house where they had deciphered the first keys to
happiness. The Asian doctor who brought Pedro Sanchez up to speed of the
tragedy wanted to give him some soothing pills in the hospital room, but he turned
them down.

Last month he left without saying goodbye, with nothing to thank, thinking that all
he urgently needed was to find someone to break his mother into chains to get rid
of his misfortune. Last month When he left the hospital, he didn't even realize that
snow was falling from the sky with no trace of blood, whose tender, crisp flakes
looked like pigeon feathers, and that on the streets of Paris there was a party air,
two months ago because it was the first big snowfall in ten years.

The end
THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR YOUR
ATTENTION