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cheese moon
Chapter I, once upon a time

Chapter I, once upon a time

Fantasy is not just a literary genre, it is a universal language for those who dare to daydream.

It is the whisper of the winds that carry ancient stories, the voice of the trees whose roots touch the confines of time. It speaks in languages we have never heard, but have always understood. Its words slide through the air like the mist in an enchanted valley, drawing invisible landscapes, full of light and shadow, where the boundaries blur on the horizon.

Right in the heart of this, imagination acts as a compass that guides those who enter its vast territories. Dreamers, with eyes full of stars, are the explorers of these worlds, walking along invisible paths where each step is a new page that writes itself.

In this language there are no barriers, neither time nor space; It is the place where castles float above the clouds, oceans hide forgotten empires, mountains hold the secrets of gods and giants, and dragons fly above reddish skies.

Fantasy is also a refuge for souls that carry the weight of a reality that is too rigid. For those whose hopes have been extinguished, it is an open door to infinite possibility. In its stories, they find solace, a piece of heaven where they can imagine what could be, what should be. Reality becomes a blank canvas, and with fantasy as a paintbrush, dreamers paint different futures, better worlds, and, above all, a place where everything is possible. Where the impossible love between a simple mortal warrior and an all-powerful sorceress tells the story of a boy who discovers that his shadow can come to life and take him to a hidden kingdom; it whispers the epics of a ship that sails over seas of dull clouds searching for the rainbow.

Fantasy is, ultimately, the promise that magic exists. Not the magic of spells and incantations, but the magic of possibility, of dreams that push us to explore, to discover, to be something more than what we are. It is for those who believe that in every dark corner there is a hidden treasure, that in every goodbye there is a new beginning, and that, beyond the last sunset, there is always a dawn waiting.

For this and much more, Arturo fell in love with fantasy literature.He grew up in a small town in western Aragon, where stories were the only escape from the daily monotony. His parents, both workers at a local factory, did not have much time to read, although they always made sure that their son had access to a wide variety of books in the community library.

It was there, among dusty bookshelves and under the soft light of lamps, that he discovered his first book.

He was ten years old when he came across an old copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit." The worn cover showed a small hobbit next to a majestic dragon, and from the first chapter, Arthur was fascinated. Tolkien's words transported him to Middle Earth, a place of adventure, magical creatures and unlikely heroes. Every night, he lost himself in those pages, longing to be part of those epic journeys.

He discovered that through words, writers could create entire universes, full of complex characters and intricate plots. Each book was a door to a new adventure, and Arthur soon became an avid reader, devouring everything he found about wizards, dragons, faraway kingdoms and brave heroes.

"And so," Arthur said, his tone solemn as he waved a lantern that served as the story's sword, "the brave warrior princess defeated the evil of her people. Because in the world, good always wins in the end."

Maria sat in front of him, cross-legged, a cushion on her lap, staring at him in fascination. The room was dim, barely lit by the dim artificial light. The siblings had built a makeshift tent out of sheets and blankets, a small shelter where the two of them felt safe from the outside world.On the floor between them was a pile of small objects they had collected during the day: a couple of old buttons, a bird feather, a rusty key, and a small, oddly shaped stone that Maria had found by the river.

"So, does good always win?"

Arthur shrugged. "In my stories, yes. Evil never wins."

"And in other stories? Has evil ever won?"

Arthur lowered the lantern, looking down at the floor for a moment. It was a difficult question, even for him.

Finally, he shook his head.

"I shouldn't. Because if evil wins, then people lose hope. And without hope, there are no more stories."

Maria seemed to think about this for a long moment, playing with the quill they had found.

"So, do you always have to write stories where good wins?"

The older brother paused, thinking once more. He was delighted to satisfy his little sister's curiosity.

He raised the flashlight again, shining it on the ceiling where the shadows danced again. "Not always. But even if good doesn't win at first, it always finds a way to triumph in the end."

Maria looked at him with a small but satisfied smile. She knew she could trust Arturo's stories, because somehow they always made her feel safer, braver.

"You know what?" the young girl said, stretching out on her blanket. "When you grow up, you have to write a book. And I want to be the heroine," she said, tilting her head in an adorable pout.

Arturo lowered his stick and nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I promise."

Maria smiled widely, but then her expression became more thoughtful. "And you? Who are you in the stories?"

The young man shrugged again, sitting down next to her. He looked up at the ceiling, where the shadows on the blankets formed strange patterns that moved in the breeze from the half-open window.

"I'm the one who writes the stories. The one who makes them up."

With that promise, Arturo finished college, which opened up a new world of knowledge and critical analysis for him. There, he not only read more deeply but also began to understand the techniques and structures that authors used to construct their stories. He learned about mythology, symbolism, and the various literary currents that had shaped fantasy over the centuries.

He had always felt that words were his true home, even more than any corner of his hometown.

Fresh out of college, with his literature degree under his arm and a mind full of stories he had not yet managed to write, he found himself facing an abyss that all novice writers know well: the vertigo of the first step, the moment when the blank pages murmur mockingly from the desk.

For weeks, Arturo had sent resumes to publishers, newspapers, and magazines in the hope that someone would see in him something more than a recent graduate.

He knew he loved writing, but he wasn't sure if he was strong enough to face the doubts, criticism, and expectations that came with it.

He pulled out of his backpack a worn notebook, one he had carried with him throughout college. The pages were filled with fragments of ideas, characters, and unfinished dialogue. Some were promises of novels, others were simply flashes of inspiration that had never come to anything further.

One page in particular caught his eye. It was a list of his goals, written during his first year of college.

"Publish a book before I'm 25. Win a literary prize. Be a recognized author."

Arturo let out a bitter laugh. They were ambitious goals, filled with the confidence of a young man who believed that talent and passion would be enough to conquer the world. Now, reading them, they seemed far away, almost impossible.

"Writing the impossible as possible."

He stared at those words for a long moment, letting them sink deep into his mind. They were a reminder of why he had started all this in the first place. Not to win fame or awards, but because stories, in their purest form, had the power to transform what seemed unattainable into something tangible.

Writing, he thought, was an act of faith. Writing didn't just tell stories, it gave shape to worlds that existed only in the imagination. And that, precisely, was what kept him writing.

One morning, as he checked his email with the routine of someone already expecting bad news, a light flickered on his screen: a message from the literary magazine "Paper & Pen."

He had heard about it.

It was a magazine with the soul of a notebook and the spirit of a wandering troubadour. Its name was a metaphor in itself, a simple but profound promise. After all, what more does a storyteller need than paper and pen?

On the day of the interview, Arturo found himself sitting in front of the editor-in-chief, a middle-aged woman with silver hair and curious eyes, as if she could read the sea of stories he still didn't know how to tell.

"So you're Arturo, the recent graduate who hasn't published anything yet, right?" she asked, without malice, but with a disarming honesty.

Arturo nodded without further ado, feeling the weight of sincerity in the air. "Yes, it's me," he thought, aware of his own fragility, it was a sheet of paper still blank.

"Listen, I'll give you a chance," said the editor, taking a sheet of paper from her desk and handing it to him. "Write for us. Write whatever you want, whatever inspires you. I just need you to prove that you have something to say, something worth reading."

And so, with that simple offer, Arturo got his first job.

Located in a small building in the center of the city, with modest but cozy offices filled with books and manuscripts stacked in every corner, Arturo arrived for his first day of work.

An older man with a gray beard and bright eyes welcomed him with a warm handshake and showed him his workspace: a small desk next to a window overlooking a merely busy street.

"Welcome to Paper & Pen," don Juan said. A man of impeccable appearance, with gray hair combed back, always dressed in dark suits that contrasted with his inexhaustible affable smile.

At first glance, he might have seemed like one of those traditional publishers, who valued old scrolls the most. But it was enough to spend a few minutes with him to realize that beneath that

facade of an old-school scholar, the heart of a revolutionary beat.

He had witnessed the golden age of paper, and also the modern era. In his office, don Juan sat

surrounded by piles of manuscripts and a state-of-the-art computer.

For him, change in the literary industry was not a threat, but a door to opportunity for all. He had seen how readers' tastes diversified, how young, fresh, untethered voices began to find an echo in a public tired of predictable formulas. He understood that the market was no longer content with just established names, but longed for new stories, perspectives that offered something different, something real and close.

It is thanks to him that Arturo owes his work, when he developed his concept of looking for new faces for the magazine, young writers who, as he likes to say, "had fire in their eyes." He was not looking for perfection or impeccable technique; there were already manuals and courses for that. Don Juan wanted authenticity, even if it was in a raw, imperfect way and overflowing with emotion.

"The reading industry is continually changing," he told him on his first day, as they walked through the halls of the office filled with shelves and clippings of old articles. "Readers no longer seek only what gives them comfort; they want to be challenged, they want to see the world through new eyes."

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On a day-to-day basis, don Juan was the mentor that every young writer needs. He never imposed his vision and always knew what questions to ask. He was often seen having coffee with the newbies, listening to their ideas, discussing literature and offering them advice without it sounding like lessons.

"Literature is like a dance: you can teach the steps, but you can't teach the music." "That is born within every writer," he told her again. "People read on electronic devices, narrative podcasts are at their peak, and short stories are reviving on social media. Literature, like any art, must evolve, adapt, and, above all, breathe fresh air," he told a group of newbies. "That is why I never stop looking for new faces, those restless minds who, with their pen and paper, will transform the art of storytelling." Today had been a rainy day in the city, and despite the weather, the meeting room was full. Desks had been pushed to the sides, and a crowd of young writers, newly incorporated into the magazine, had gathered around a small improvised platform. In the center, with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, sat don Juan.

He had called together the new talents of the season to give them an official welcome, a ritual

that he himself had established some time ago.

"Listen" he continued, pausing dramatically, his eyes scanning the faces of each listener—I have seen many generations of writers pass through these doors. I have seen styles born, evolve, and disappear. But what always remains is the desire to tell something. It doesn't matter if they write about dragons, impossible loves, or the daily life of a small town. These are exciting times to be a writer. And I need you, there will be room for each one of you, if you prove to me that you are worthy.

Don Juan finished his speech with a forceful, almost lapidary phrase that resonated in every corner of the newsroom:

"And remember, young people, that if you do not write with sweat and blood, the words will be nothing more than dry ink on paper".

Silence took over the place for an instant, as if everyone was swallowing that last sentence. The team of new editors, a dozen young men sitting around the large oval table, exchanged uncertain glances. Arturo, who was in a corner taking notes, looked up and saw some of them begin to clap their hands together in a timid applause.

The first clicking sounds echoed through the room, but they were quickly stopped when don Juan raised a hand, gesturing for them to stop. He didn't need to say anything; the slight movement was enough to silence the murmur of applause.

A sly smile appeared on his face, one of those that showed both authority and a hint of mockery.

"There's no need to applaud. We haven't written a single line worthy of such applause yet," he said in his calm but firm voice. "Now, let's get to work."

The crowd slowly dispersed, some of them staying to talk among themselves, while others, more timid, returned to their desks. Arturo, on the other hand, remained still for a moment, watching his boss with curiosity and, steeling himself, approached him, who was in a corner of the room pouring himself another cup of coffee; his favorite drink for long editing days.

Don Juan looked up and smiled as he saw the young writer approaching. "Well, Arturo," he said, patting him on the back. "I see that the speech hasn't scared you. What can I do for you?"

"Good speech, boss. Although I must admit that for a moment I thought I was going to make them clap their knuckles on the table."

Don Juan glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, with a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "If they applauded now, they would later run out of energy to write anything decent. I prefer that they save their enthusiasm for their texts, not for me," he replied in his typical ironic tone.

Arturo nodded, laughing to himself.

He knew that don Juan enjoyed these verbal games, these exchanges where both could measure their words intelligently.

"And tell me, Arturo, were you also planning to join in the applause or were you just watching?" asked don Juan, looking out from behind a window and looking towards the inner courtyard of the publishing house.

"No, no, I already know how this works," answered Arturo, raising his hands in surrender. "But I was watching you, and it made me think of something..." he said, adopting a tone of false seriousness. "What will happen when your passion for modernization prevails even when a machine steals our jobs?"

Don Juan turned his head toward him, with an arched eyebrow and a sarcastic smile on his lips.

"Are you telling me that I should start to fear those artificial intelligence gadgets?" he replied mockingly. "What's next, Arturo? Are you going to bring me a machine that writes better than me?"

"I don't know, boss, but at this rate I wouldn't be surprised if we soon had a machine writing columns for Paper & Pen. We could call it "Don Bot.""

Don Juan laughed, a short but genuine laugh, and shook his head.

""Don Bot," huh? I like the name, but I'm afraid that machine would have to learn to drink black coffee and criticize mediocre stories before it could be called that". He patted Arturo on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"So, you don't think that those tools could be useful for our work?" he asked, testing the waters once more.

Don Juan paused, looking out the window at the gray sky. "I'm not saying that they don't have their place" he admitted, shrugging his shoulders "but writing, the art of telling stories, is one of the most human things there is. It is a reflection of our emotions, our experiences, our doubts and dreams. How could a machine understand that? How could an artificial intelligence write something with the same depth as a human being who has lived, loved, and suffered?"

Arturo nodded, finally understanding don Juan's point, and watched as don Juan opened the door to leave the room and walked away down the hall.

Before his figure disappeared around a corner, something burned in his conscience.

"Boss!" he called, taking a few quick steps toward him.

Don Juan stopped, turning his head in curiosity.

"What's wrong, Arturo?" he asked, with a half smile, thinking it was another joke.

Arturo swallowed. He didn't know how to say it without it sounding like a betrayal.

He scratched the back of his neck, a gesture he always made when he was nervous.

"There is something I must admit, and I think you should know it, since we have been talking so much about machines and writing from the heart." His words came out more hurriedly than he expected.

"What have you done now? Have you plagiarized Shakespeare or what?"Arturo laughed nervously and shook his head.

"No, nothing so extreme. But... sometimes, when I feel blocked or when I don't know how to continue a story, I have used artificial intelligence to get out of a rut."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Don Juan looked at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Arturo didn't know if he was disappointed, furious, or simply surprised.

"So you use those 'machines' to write, after all?" don Juan said, his voice low and calm, though his tone was ambiguous.

"Not to write," Arturo quickly explained. "I use the artificial intelligence as a partner to do a kind of brainstorming. Sometimes I ask it questions like "how could I continue this scene?" or "give me some ideas for this conflict." But then I always rewrite everything, adapt it to my style, make it my own. I know it's not the same, but..." he shrugged, suddenly feeling very small under his boss's critical gaze. "I didn't want to mislead you, don Juan. I just thought you needed to know."The boss stared at him, as if trying to read between the unspoken lines, as if he were evaluating Arturo from a completely new perspective. A few seconds passed that seemed like an eternity to Arturo.

"You know, boy," he began, in a more friendly tone than Arturo had anticipated, "I'm not surprised. Perhaps a little disappointed, because I would have liked to think that new writers were still fighting those blocks with just their minds and a notebook. But I understand that times change. And if I've learned anything in this life, it's that every writer has his methods and rituals."

Arturo nodded slowly, still feeling somewhat embarrassed. "I know, and I feel guilty about it. It's like I'm cheating."

Don Juan laughed softly, a short, dry laugh, like a snort.

"Cheating? Every generation finds new ways to deceive itself. Before, we were inspired by a shot of whiskey or by smoking until the room filled with smoke. Now it seems to be with machines and algorithms." His expression softened. "A partner in ideas, you say?" he asked thoughtfully. "I guess I understand the concept." But still, my pride as a writer would prevent me from resorting to a machine for ideas. I would rather beg for inspiration from my own readers." Don Juan stopped short, his eyes widening slightly as a sly smile began to appear on his lips. "Wait a minute... that's it!"

The editor-in-chief stepped toward the writer and raised his cup, laughing as if toasting an invisible audience.

"Listen to this, Arturo: instead of looking for ideas in a machine, why don't we ask our readers directly to give us their ideas? We could do something new, something interactive. A section of the magazine where readers send us short concepts, crazy ideas, or suggestions for stories. And we, the writers, will take those ideas and transform them into short stories".

The idea was as simple as it was brilliant: a direct collaboration with readers, giving them a space to be an active part of the creative process.

"This is what it means to adapt to the times. It is not blindly following trends or technologies, but finding new ways to connect. By asking readers to participate, we are not only inviting them to dream with us, but we are also giving them a voice. We are breaking the barrier between the writer and the reader".

It was the evolution they were talking about, but done in Don Juan's way: human, creative, and collaborative.

He looked at Arturo with an expression that was a mixture of satisfaction and pride. "You know, Arturo?" he said, taking a breath and crossing his arms. "When I talked about the need for new faces in this magazine, I was referring exactly to this. It's not just about bringing in young people to follow our old formulas. We need fresh voices that challenge our ideas, that make us rethink what we take for granted. If you hadn't mentioned artificial intelligence, it would never have occurred to me to involve our readers in this way."

"Thank you, don Juan, but..." he finally managed to say, with a shy smile, "I don't think I've done much."

Don Juan let out a soft laugh, a laugh that resonated with the warmth of someone who has found exactly what he was looking for. "These aren't just random comments, boy. Great ideas always start with a casual conversation. Now that we've lit this spark, I want you to be the one to turn it into fire. Do you remember that I mentioned that there would be room for each of you to bring your personal touch to the magazine?" Arturo nodded. "Well, this is your moment" he replied. "I want you to stay with the idea. It will be your space to experiment, to test this thing that we just developed together. I leave it in your hands".

Arturo's eyes opened wide.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice shaking with disbelief. "I mean, it's a big responsibility, and I'm new here..."

"Precisely because you're new here is why I want to give you this opportunity. You're not conditioned by our customs, you're not tied to the old ways of doing things. This is your chance to show what you can bring to the table and see how our readers respond".

Arturo was already full of ideas bubbling in his mind. Don Juan smiled, delighted to see that fire in his eyes.

"First, we are going to announce this new section in the next issue. I want you to write a short editorial explaining the idea. Tell the readers that we are opening our doors so that they can also contribute, that we want to hear their suggestions, ideas for stories. You can invite them to send phrases, concepts, even titles. It will be a collaborative section, where each week we will select some ideas and transform them into short stories".

Arturo could already see the idea taking shape in his mind. He visualized the readers sending their proposals, actively participating in the creative process. He felt that, for the first time, he was a professional writer.

"I promise not to disappoint".

"I have no doubt about that, Arturo. Now go to your desk and start working on it".

He designed a call for readers to send their ideas, which would be published in the next issue of the magazine. Together with the design team, they created an engaging "Shared Letters" page, clearly explaining how readers could participate and what to expect from the process.The first edition received an overwhelming response. Letters and emails came in from all over and Arturo and his team dove into submissions, selecting the most promising ones.The first story published was a fantastical tale about an underwater kingdom, based on an idea sent in by a young 14-year-old reader. Arturo personally took it upon himself to develop it, making sure it captured the essence of the original idea while adding his own more technical and professional touch.

And so, the next few weeks were a whirlwind of work. Arturo spent hours reading letters, each one containing unique and even quirky ideas. From stories about detective cats to tales of love on distant planets, there was no shortage of inspiration. However, turning those ideas into coherent and engaging stories was quite a challenge that required all of his creativity and literary skills.

He looked out the window at his small office littered with crumpled papers and spent pens. By the time he finished the first draft of his next story, the sun had already begun to set behind the city buildings, bathing everything in a soft, golden light.

Most of the proposals were interesting, but nothing excited him enough to write anything worthwhile.

It was then that, as he shuffled through a pile of discarded letters, his fingers brushed against a small envelope, slightly bent at one corner.

There was nothing special about it at first glance, but something made him pause. He opened it carefully and pulled out a sheet of paper, where a clumsy, slightly slanted handwriting occupied the center:

"Go and tell the enchantment,that when day and night cross,the Diurnals keep the rootsand the Nocturnals seek the stars."

idea written by A. Soler

Arturo recited the words quietly, letting them roll off his tongue, feeling their weight. There was something deeply poetic about them, something that went beyond their form. They weren't just words, they were a riddle, a fragment of a larger story he could barely glimpse.

The idea was actually simple, almost schematic. It spoke of two opposing realms, separated not only by their nature, but also by their history and the magic that arose from them. The Day People, who ruled the light, used advanced technology and the power of the sun, while the Night People, who dwelled in the darkness, had developed an ancient magic that only flourished under the eternal moon.

A story about the conflicts between day and night, the sun and the moon, he thought, as his mind began to recall a moment from his childhood: Maria, his sister, lying beside him in the garden at home, looking at the stars.

"Can you imagine living on a planet with two sides?" she had said once. "One side with sun forever, and the other with moon. I would be on both sides, of course."Arthur had laughed at the time, joking that he would rule the side of the moon. But now, as he read the letter, he felt an inexplicable connection between that old conversation and the words in front of him.

He could write something quickly, something that would fit into the journal.

But as he wrote, the words seemed to take on a life of their own, developing into something bigger, more complex.

He couldn't help but smile to himself. That little idea, so simple on its surface, was crying out for more than just a short story.

It wanted to be more. It wanted to be real.

He ran his hands over his face, thoughtful. The letter spoke not only of the divide between the two realms, but also of something deeper: the internal struggle of the individuals who lived in those worlds, of the ideas of justice, power, and peace. On one side, light was seen as the path to progress and order, but also the oppression of those who couldn't keep up. On the other side, darkness, which promised freedom and knowledge, but also chaos and sacrifice...

Before he knew it, he had begun to write something more than just a short story.

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