Chocolation

The wallet hit Oca, the chocolate, on the head. “Ouch.”

It wasn’t the first time nor the last time he bumped into Oca ‘unintenionally.’ He was so rude, always bothering Oca. Of course, there were coins too, but they were nice. Oca liked pennies, they were small and rounded. Their smell reminded him of his younger years, when he used to be out in the open; the wind caressing his face. He loved to be high in the tree, and how people looked up to him.

A flat and thin piece of paper tapped on Oca’s shoulder. “Wally’s givin’ you shait?”

“I’m used to it, thanks.” Oca grinned at him. Such a nice dude.

Wallet eyes grew hateful. “Wanna pieze of mua? You pieze of paper.”

Mr. Receipt shook his head and turned around.

“Good.” Mr. Wallet opened and closed itself in a big slam. “Don’t mesz with da masta.”

Oca’s wrapping wrinkled. “Why are you so mean to him?”

“Hez stupid, besidez hez old and wrinkled.”

The receipt was indeed old and wrinkled, but that didn’t make him a bad thing. Oca knew bad and mean, his Dad warned him when he was a little grain of cocoa. He told him about the humans, and how all of the grains would one day be ground and become chocolate. That thought made Oca melt a little more.

“You should respect the old,” said Oca, her brow furrowed.

“Why? Hez so insignifecu—insinsfeu, no, insi. Ya know wha I mean!”

Out of the blue, the whole pocket moved violently. They flew one way to the other, hitting the fabric walls. Oca watched in horror. A human hand with its gigantic fingers grabbed several things; a coin, the wallet, the receipt until it scratched Oca’s surface. He knew what that meant: No more bumping into Wallet, no more chatting with Receipt, no more life. Life as he knew it would be over… soon.

Oca saw the blinding light of the street. Then the wrapping crumbled; the hand peeled it out. He gasped, he was traveling directly to a giant mouth… and it had teeth. His left leg melted away. His right arm and left hand followed, and so on.

The last thing he saw was a disgusting tongue moving inside the mouth, like a cobra ready to bite its victim.

Briefly, he went back to the tree. His parents smiled at him, and the wind caressed his face for the last time.

My Life in Five Minutes

Usually, a human life last years, decades, sometimes even a century… or more. However, life is so repetitive that it takes a set of incredible actions to make it stand out. Famous people, unforgivable people, heroes, artists, etc. made and make a difference. Legends are born and other persons talk about them. Generation after generation, the knowledge is passed and they become immortal.

In most cases, when they were alive—in their time—they didn’t feel any different; quite the opposite, most were rejected or couldn’t fit in the society at the time. Of course, there’s the other side of the coin, some lived great lives and enjoyed every minute of it… did they?

And then there are movies.

“What about the movies?” you may ask.

There’s this way to make the immortal more immortal, a picture is not enough. A motion picture can be a powerful way to teach us about these famous people, yet, these movies are usually two hours or a little less.

If famous people lives can be captured in film in two hours or less, how long would it take to show my life? This triggers several questions:

Is my life interesting?

Am I one more sheep in the herd?

Am I living life to the fullest?

Can I make a difference?

And the list goes on… and on… and on.

But, think about it, how long would the movie of your life be?

That’s a question that only you can answer…

That’s why I think the movie of my life is five minutes long…
Or more...
Or way more...
It could be less too...

Boogers on the Mirror

It’s been a while since Emma last cleaned the room; not because she forgot, it’s just that… she didn’t want to. She tried to remember when the last time was. Was it six months ago? A year? Two years? Who knows, who cares. In the back of her mind, she knew, but refused to remember.

That morning, she collected enough energy and was willing to get it done. She grabbed the mop, broom, and some dusting fabric. Brooms seem to last forever, she could swear that old broom was used to clean the room. Was it? But still didn’t remember when. With cleaning items in hand, she walked up the stairs and reached the door and then stayed put staring at the knob, moving her hand slightly and then retrieving it. Like if the handle would give her an electric shock. This continued for a couple of minutes until she took a big breath and opened the door in a single go. Dust flew, and the room, oh the room… not exactly what she expected. It looked so different with the spider webs, but at the same time, it was the same old place. Nothing had really changed, had it?

The room had an attached restroom. A tiny little one, with a toilet, shower, and sink crammed together. She looked at the mirror that sat on top of the sink; she looked at the dry gray strips on the mirror. With lump in throat she stared and then tears followed. She couldn’t help it. She was avoiding this. How old were these strips? It didn’t matter; it was a reminder of the last days of her son at home, when she could see him every day. But now he was gone, gone to another city, gone to college.

He would call once in a while, but it was never enough.

She didn’t dare to remove the gray strips. Before closing the restroom door, she took another look. The boogers her son splattered before he left spelled: “Mom, I love you.”

Square Writing

There was something about Iko’s voice that resonated inside Zou’s brain, but he couldn’t point it out. Zou smiled and concentrated while Iko read from the book.

“A square is a plain figure with four equal straight sides and four right angles,” stated Iko and looked at Zou. “Questions?”
“How do you draw a square?” asked Zou.
Iko frowned and replied, “Draw a horizontal line, then a vertical line, then a horizontal line, and a vertical line.”
“What if I draw it differently?”
Iko immediately raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Horizontal, vertical, horizontal, vertical. Get it?”
“Yes, I do. But, can I draw it, let’s say, horizontal, horizontal, vertical, vertical?”
Iko turned red.““Horizontal, vertical, horizontal, vertical. That’s the right way—the only way.”
“Why?”
Iko didn’t answer.
“I can use four triangules, put them together, and form a square. That’s another way.”
Iko blurted, “Horizontal, vertical, horizontal, vertical. Period.”
Sepulchral silence followed. Iko stared at Zou. Was he upset? There are thousands of ways to draw a square. “Why?” asked Zou once again.
Ten eternal seconds of silence elapsed in which Iko seemed like a chameleon; he switched from red to purple. But he finally managed to answer, “’Cus the experts said so.”
Zou raised an eyebrow. “What experts?”
Iko seemed to be thinking and then shouted, “’Cus the books said so.”
“Can I draw a square a new way?”
Iko blurted, “No.”
“Why?”
“’Cus I said so. End of discussion.”

From then on Zou knew he couldn’t discuss this matter any longer. Was his relationship with master Iko permanently damaged? Maybe. Squares don’t change, they are always, horizontal, vertical, horizontal, vertical. Right?

Broken Wings

It was only three weeks after Tetlza, the bird, was born, yet her parents pushed her over the edge of the tree. She had to fly. She needed to learn the hard way. But she didn’t know how and went down plummeting at fast speed. Her heart raced and her head spun in a thousand different directions. By instinct she shook her wings, but that proved futile. She spiraled down at an incredible speed. In a last effort, she moved her body until, somehow, she achieved stability. Then, she floated. Without even noticing, she hovered on the sky, shaking her wings at a paced rhythm. Was it time to try something different? She went up in the sky, towards the nest.

She was proud of herself. She flew on her first attempt; maybe she even broke the record for the faster learner ever.  As soon as she reached the nest, her parents waited with frowned faces and crossed wings.  Without saying a word, her father pushed her again, with such bad luck that she hit the tree and broke a wing. With only one wing, she fell down to the ground where she crashed. The end result: the other wing broke.

Hurting, she looked up and found her father shaking his head. Would she ever fly again?

Book Signing

I bought one of those magic slates. It’s white, thin, and, light. People call it e-reader. With excitement, I searched for books. I found a gazillion-million—too many choices. I settled for the number one bestseller. Oh boy, so cool. I read it in a breezy. It was so convenient: I could bookmark, add notes, even share excerpts in FaceBook. It was 21st century techno-coolness.

I found on the web about a book signing. To my delight, the author was one of my favorites. I had to drive one hundred miles—piece of cake, and it was on Saturday. I only had to wait a couple of days.

I drove to the bookstore. It was gigantic, books all over the place. Nerdy looking people read in the aisles while other people socialized at the cafeteria. But no signs of the book signing. I walked around, I felt like walking several miles. It was late and I couldn’t find the crowd. I went upstairs and, finally, found them. The author sat behind an old desk with people waiting in line in front of him. He smiled and scribbled something on a book. I was the last on line, I had to wait until all the people in front of me got their book signed—all two of them.

My turn arrived, “Hi,” I said. My stomach burbling with excitement.
“Hi,” he said, he was all business. His big belly showed he was an excellent writer and spent most of his time sitting in front of the computer. “Name?”
“John.” My heart racing.
“Nice to meet you John,” he said, showing a fake smile and tired eyes.
We stared at each other for a few seconds. He kept looking at my hands.
“Well?” he said with a raised brow.
“Uh?” I replied. What did he mean why well?
“The book,” he blurted.
“Oh, yeah.” I grabbed my backpack, took it out, and handed it to him.
He looked at me with an are-you-out-of-your-mind face. “What’s this?” He asked.
“The book,” I replied.

Then it hit me. Bummer, the book was “inside” my e-reader.

I wondered: what’s the future of book signing?

A summer day in Dallas

It's hot as hell!

THE END OF THE ROAD

Marilen dragged her feet. She followed the illuminated black and white path without thinking. When did she start? How did she get into this road? How much longer? Every step covered the glass floor. A strong light source came from underneath the ground. Then she stopped and looked back. She couldn’t see the beginning. She looked forward, same result. Was she in the middle of nowhere?

The ceiling had a faint white light here and there. There was something about the ceiling. Did she enter through the ceiling? How? Dizziness captured her and saw the walls dancing; she lowered her chin and the floor lights flashed at a frantic pace.

Where Am I?

Her last memory was inside the grocery store, at noon, she handed off money to the cashier, and then… and then…

Where Am I?

Oh yes, the shopping cart, the squeaking wheels rolling on the pavement. The sun burning her left cheek—it was so damn hot. Her car shone a few yards away…

Where Am I?

The squeaking was loud, very loud, deafening loud. But it wasn’t the shopping cart. Now, it was a car.

No!

A car ran at a fast speed in the middle of the parking lot. She jumped; the groceries flew all over in slow motion. And she avoided the vehicle and…

What Am I doing here? Where Am I?

And… and… what else?

“Hello,” said a voice. It came from the ceiling. “Are you OK?” OK echoing inside her head.

The black and white pathway colored, blur silhouettes moving. The sun hit her eyes—it burned. She opened her eyes and found a paramedic kneeling in front of her, “Are you OK?”

She nodded once, closed her eyes, and saw the bright white light at the end of the road. It was the purest form of white. She liked it—she walked towards it. Magnetic, she thought. It’s a life magnet.

A warm feeling invaded her. She walked towards the potent light until she reached the end of the road.

A lobe story

He remembered the first time he saw her. It was a foggy morning, when he looked at himself at the mirror he spotted her. She held at the same level than him. She stood close, very close, but he couldn’t walk and meet her.

How could left be infatuated with right? he thought. That’s how it started—endless love. Some days he wondered if she loved him back and, if she did, would she love him when he was old, hairy, and waxy? He knew he would. Eternal lobe love.

People said there’s a pipe connecting the left ear lobe with its right counterpart. But that’s a big lie, all ears knew the kingdom ended shortly after they became internal. Just to think of that would make him cry. The left ear lobe looked forward for the morning, the only time he could see her and say hi. But, oh irony, she wouldn’t listen because ears can’t really talk.

One morning he saw her wink at him; somehow she managed to wrinkle itself a little bit—an imperceptible movement. Warmth covered him. He tried to run, but ear lobes don’t run, they stay put and listen to undecipherable words only brains understand.

That’s how it was, that’s how it has always been, and that’s how it would be for the rest of their lives. Unrealized love, platonic love, lobe love.

Cold Coffee

Several hours passed by and the coffee cup sat on top of the desk unnoticed. Somehow, somebody prepare it and spent some serious time to make it perfect: Irish cream, sugar substitute, and a tiny little lemon twist—just to give a hint of sourness.

The night arrived and the once burning hot liquid stood there; the desk vibrated with the passing cars outside creating minuscule brown waves. It trembled as the cleaning crew entered the building, steps approached the office; they sounded like chains being dragged. The cup sweated tiny coffee drops anticipating the moment, the dreaded moment, the time to be thrown to the trash and become recyclable. But the cup knew better; she knew recycling meant torture, sometimes in the form of burning, some others pressed until it ran out of breath.

With a big slam, the door opened and a giant human appeared—the frightening cleaning crew. The darkness made difficult to visualize this person. Sounds of crushing things resonated. Then, the human picked up the trash can several feet high. A hand grabbed all sorts of things from the floor. But the coffee stayed put, it show honor and courage—that’s how it was.

Before the cup could spill a drop of coffee, the huge hand picked it up. Evil eyes examined the recipient and then the weirdest thing happened: the human poured the contents into his mouth. “Yuck,” he said and spitted. The coffee swung inside, a micro-sea in a cup. He walked while the liquid went one way, then the other. The voyage ended at the kitchen where the human eyed the cup, opened a door, and put the mug inside this prison. Shivering, it looked outside through the window. The human pressed a button and a loud hum started, the floor moved in circles; a warm feeling surrounded it. This lasted a minute or less, but it felt like an eternity.

The door opened and the hand grabbed the cup. A mouth appeared and took a sip of the coffee. “Ahh,” the human said, “that’s more like it.” With three big gulps, the rest of the hot coffee disappeared in the mouth. And the cup, oh boy, the cup stayed there, empty. Fearing the worst, it trembled. The hand approached it and, with a single movement, crushed the carton until it got reduced to a ball.

Finally, the carton ball flew in the air and landed in the trash to be recycled the next day, to be burned or crushed to the max. Would it be a cup again?

Nevereverland

Once upon a time, in a land not-that-far-away, lived a king that wanted to be in awe every single second of his life. One day he ordered, "Bring the clowns."

In an instant, the clowns--which were always on call and ready to go--showed up and performed the routine they've always performed and had been performing for the last twenty years (people say the oldest one was reaching 50). Their faces, covered in makeup, showed uninspired smiles and grins. Everybody could tell their misery.

Rufus, the king's advisor, stood up and clapped like if his life depended on it. He shouted, "I have never, ever, never never, seen an act as amazing like that in the history of the our kingdom." He took a big breath and added, "I thank you for being unique and funny."

These words brought a smile and a sense of awe to the king. He stood up and with a big smile said, "Thank you, you've brought happiness to my life." The king clapped once and the clowns disappeared as fast as they appeared.

Less than an hour later, the King yawned and said, "I need music." This time it only took one minute to move a concert piano in front of the king; a short and skinny guy followed and sat in front of the piano.

People quieted down but a fly interrupted the silence. The king shook his right hand and frowned. Behind the curtain, a belly dancer appeared with a fly swat and danced at the rhythm of the piano as the player played a fast paced song. The insect--the flying one, not the one playing the piano--glided in the air, making its characteristic and irritating sound. With a quick move the dancer target the fly and smashed it against a wall. She bowed in front of the king and showed him the fly swat with fresh blood from the victim.

The king shed a tear and said, "It's--it's--it's beautiful, almost poetic."

Rufus added, "I--I, in my whole life, never, ever, never never, seen a fly being killed in such a sweet and poetic way. Words get in the way, it's impossible to describe." And then clapped; the crowd followed. A standing ovation with people cheering.

The insect--the one playing the piano--stood up and bowed. People called him that way because he was short, skinny and, like Rufus used to say, nobody never, ever, never never, liked this dude. This time absolute silence inundated the palace. He walked away and vanished behind the curtains.

The king, once again, yawned and scratched his head, dandruff flakes fell down and floated in the air.

Rufus interrupted the silence. "Can you believe this?" He pointed at the falling flakes. "It's the middle of the summer and the king has brought us winter." Then he clapped and added, "I have never, ever, never never, seen something like this. Our king, as generous as he is, has brought us winter on summer." He raised his arms and shouted, "Take the sleds out. Let the kids have winter fun."

People ran and crashed with each other.

A minute later, the king yawned and stretched, the level of awesomeness had evaporated. He grabbed his sword, walked up to Rufus, and said, "I have never, ever, never never, liked you. You are as real as a flying elephant." Then he buried the sword in Rufu's chest and he dropped to the floor. The king stared at him, until Rufus stopped moving.

"Never in my life, I killed somebody with this sword. Never, ever, nunca, nada." he took the sword from the body and cleaned the blood with his velvet cape. "Who wants to be the new advisor?" the king yelled.

Nobody replied, the palace was empty. All the people went home to bring sleds, but they would come back later and then the king would let them know how they should never, ever, never never, be bored.

One hundred years

How does one hundred human years compare to dogs years? People say one person year iequals seven dog years. Is life relative? How long does a fly live? How long does a turtle live? How long does a tree live? Should we ride the train of life or watch it pass? Insects, animals, people, come and go during our life. But, have you ever thought how time passes for other living beings? I can imagine being a tree--one of those that live hundreds of years--and watch people run, and everything around me revolving.  What if I was a fly? I would see people walk at an incredible slow pace. How about dogs? Do they see us as friendly but slow?

How long is a day? For a fly, it could be equivalent to three years. Can you imagine that? On a single day, three years pass. Celebrating Christmas three times. Would you celebrate at breakfast, lunch, and dinner? When do you sleep? For how long? Would you sleep for a second and feel rested? If you are tree, would you sleep for a year and feel rested?

One hundred years... It's relative, isnt't it?

Chapters 13-17... DONE!

After a prolific week, I finished the novel and found some interesting twists.
Second draft is around the corner!

Chapters 11-12

Interesting week: I was able to create another two and a half chapters.

Four more chapters to go on the first draft--or should I say draft 0.5?

First draft progress bar:

Chapters 9-10

Another productive week.

Chapter 9 was challenging and got stuck. I follow the advice and continued writing until I got it done.

Sometimes the brain goes on strike and the fingers have to work overtime.

First draft progress bar:

Chapter 8

Chapter 8 is the longest one so far. It took a while to develop; story is getting more complex.

I found that it's interesting and hard to describe the worlds the hero is visiting. It's also worth mentioning that there are several new characters that are taking a life on their own.

First draft progress bar:

Chapters 5-7

Chapter 5, oh boy, was a tough one.
I got stuck and hated it.
Fortunately, I found my way out and now I sorta like it--I'll rewrite it in draft 2.

I'm now in the "meaty" part of the story, the characters have entered the new and mysterious worlds.

First draft progress bar:

Chapters 2-4

It was a very productive week, things are coming along nicely.

Chapters 2, 3, and, 4 are done!

I have some loose ends here and there. I'll address them in draft 2.

I'm about 20% progress, 80% to go.
Things look promising. However, I'm getting to the difficult stuff. I don't expect to write as much as I did last week.

One of the things I'm wondering about is the use of certain words.
I know middle grade kids use these words but, I'm hesitant, I don't know if they would be appropriate.

Here they are:
  - Butt (butt-naked spanking--bully punishment or butt burning scene).
  - Crap (holly crap expression).
  - Sissy (don't be a sissy).
  - Ansole (word game, rhymes with asshole, making fun of main character) .

THE CHALLENGE - CHAPTER 1

OK. This is my first non-fictional post.

I decided to use this blog to keep me motivated about my new project.

Here's the deal: It's been several weeks since I decided to write a middle-grade fiction novel.

After ten story ideas, several pseudo plots, research, and a little fine tunning, I picked one story. I wrote a first chapter and came out bad--very bad. But, it was a good start. I re-wrote the whole stuff and now looks promising.

Time to give Chapter 1 a rest and start with the second one.

Will I finish the first draft in less than a year?

It depends

The bag of doughnuts disappeared from the break room. It was time to perform a deep investigation and ask the  suspects:
John yawn, "Wassup?"
"Somebody stole the donuts."
John yawn, "What donuts?"
It was time to ask someone else, Elsa looked at me, her hands trembled a bit, "I didn't do it."
"Did you steal the donuts?"
She looked away, and then gave me her I-hate-you-a-litlle-more look, "What do you think I am? A thief?"
No luck here either, last suspect. Peter cleaned his mouth with a napkin.
I asked him, "Do you know where the donuts are?"
He replied, "Whaaat dun-nus? Hooow manny?" and then gulped whatever he had on his mouth.
"What did you say?" This time I stared at him.
His blurted, "I didn't," then he looked at the floor and sighed, "I was hungry and they were there... you know..."

Case solved!

DJ

My brother bought a new gizmo: it’s a small wooden box with a metallic silver plate on top. The cover has some sliders, a couple of buttons, and a small red light. The back has some connectors and a power cable. It looks modern, a design proper for this space age. It’s 1976!

I stare at the device and can’t figure out what’s for, “Cool! What are these sliders for?”

Bert plays with them, up and down they go, “Sound level, that’s what they are for.”

Sound level? “Ah…  and this button?”

Bert pushes the button, nothing happens—it’s unplugged, “Power.”

What does it do? “Is it a radio?”

Bert laughs, “Not a radio, it’s a mixer.”

“Mix-what?”

He grabs the box with both hands and rotates it until the back is in front of him. He points two set of connectors labeled “Input”. Each one has two plugs, one red the other white. They are marked “L” and “R” respectively. “Here’s where you plug the turntables.”

He rotates the box slightly and touches another set of red and white plugs,  “The amplifier cable goes here.”

Turntables? Amplifier? Mixer? “What do you mix?”

He gives me “the look.” The one he uses when he sees a puppy—I hate it. I’m no puppy, “It’s a sound mixer. DJs use them at the discos.”

He stares at me waiting for an answer. What’s a DJ? A disco? I heard of them but never been to one as they only allow 18 an older and I’m only 16. Should I grow a mustache?

He nods his head, “Let’s go upstairs.”

I follow him to his room. He puts the device on top of his sound system and moves some cables. He first plugs the turntable, then the amplifier. He scratches his head and sighs, “We need another turntable.” He then looks around. Did he loose something? Finally his eyes stop at the cassette player, he tilts it and checks the back, “Aha! Let’s use this instead.”

He turns on the amplifier, turntable, and cassette player. The speakers hum, it’s kinda’ loud. Bert tightens the plugs and the hum goes away. He gets an LP, it has a girl with curly hair, she’s cute, skinny but sorta’ old, she must be 25 or so. I look at the cover. Donna Summer. I’ve never heard of her. Is she good? He takes the record out and puts it on the turntable. I wait a bit but there’s no sound. Bert plays with the amplifier, he turns a giant knob but nothing happens. He crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling. I look. There’s nothing there. What’s he staring at? He snaps his fingers, walks to the mixer and moves one slider up. I cover my hears as loud music comes out the speakers. He then turns the amplifier giant knob and music plays at listenable levels.

The beat is catchy. She sings super good. Cool!

Bert pops a cassette in the player and presses the play button down, “Look and listen carefully.”

He slowly pushes one slider down while the other hand moves the other one up. For a moment I can listen to two songs, but they sound like one, until there’s only one song, a new song. He says, “Voila!”

I stayed looking at him, then the mixer, and my jaw drops. How did he do that? Magic?

I want to learn. I want to mix. I like the music. I want to know how this works.

Disco rules!

The Feather

As a kid I didn’t understand my parents when they said, “I don’t have time…” I thought they had all the time in the world. I know I did, and that was good enough for me. As I grew up, I realized that I could do whatever I wanted--I still had control of my time. I finished elementary and middle schools all right.

Afraid of High school, I thought the challenging environment would consume all my time—wrong. I owned my time. College came: turn to spend serious time at the library. At the beginning, it proved to be tough, but, again, I could manage my time—great parties!

My first job: would this be it? I put all my energy and, by 5pm, I was as free as a butterfly. Where’s the closest bar?

I met the girl of my dreams. I know… not my high school sweetheart. I felt old at 30. I had to marry and have kids—the whole enchilada. Marriage tested my patient limits. At the end I realized I got angry at unimportant things; I let go. That made me happy. More activities got added to my list, but, I still had all the time in the world.

Kids came along; a lot of work, if you ask me. I started to understand my parents. Just a little bit. I had enough free time.

Another big change arrived: I got promoted--more responsibilities thrown into my bucket, which got close to full. Salary raises came along; added items here and there.

Thirty eight years later, I finally understood the whole meaning of, “I don’t have time…” My head hurt and didn’t have time to slow down. Little by little, my health deteriorated.  I lived on the fast lane.

One day, I sat on a restaurant patio; lunch time. I grabbed my “healthy” hamburger, with mouth open, I saw an object and it caught my attention.  Is it an UFO? I thought.  Nearsighted, I focused. A tiny floating vessel navigated peacefully in front of me.  It seemed to have a life of its own. Hypnotized, I stared at it for several minutes, until it landed on my leg. Afraid of breaking it, I took it for closer inspection. A feather, a simple and ordinary feather.  It made me think. Why not fly slowly and enjoy the view? If I continued living like this I would explode. An insignificant event gave me the key to regain my time.

Like the feather, I slowed down. I stopped and observed. I observed how my kids already grew. I realized how the city stays put—people run. I now enjoy going places and meeting new people.

I have time...

All of this because of a tiny feather.

Space Available

Patience ran thin for Paul, "This is the last place we check, I'm getting sick and tired of this." They looked in many sites, too expensive, far away, or small. Reluctantly they entered the building.

A big guy received them at the entrance, "What do you want?"
"We came to see the space available advertised on the web," said Rita with trembling voice--something intimidating about him.
His black eyes fixated on her, "I wouldn't recommend it."
"Excuse me?"
"It ain't right. Something wrong happened."
Intimidating and scary, what else could she ask for?
Paul asked, "Hi. I'm Paul, we want to check the place out."
Mr. Big swept him with his eyes and said, "PK's the name. You are on your own, I ain't getting inside that poophole."
"Why?" asked Paul.
PK blinked, sighed, and said, "People were killed and stuff."
An uncomfortable silence reigned for a few seconds.
"You better leave," urged PK.
Paul didn't budge, "We want to check it out regardless of your supertisions."
By this time Rita wished to leave but knew they should stick together.
PK said, "Your choice."

Paul looked at Rita, she nodded. They reached another door, opened it, and entered. Purple walls, old office furniture, and dust greeted them. A weak light coming from an old lamp lit the place. Paul glanced behind him: PK was gone. He was right behind us, he thought.

Rita sensed something, the faint wind carried a subtle smell, a decomposing smell, "What's that smell?" she said.
"It's just dust," he said and took a big breath.
"Something's rotten."
"You are right, the stink comes from that desk."
"Be better leave, this place gives me the creeps," she said, this time holding Paul's arm.
"C'mmon, you believe in ghost stories? Everything's fine; most likely we'll find a thousand year old sandwich."

They walked until they reached the desk. It was old, brown, and covered with dust. Sitting on top of it a gigantic CRT monitor sparkled. The monitor displayed some text--green letter on black background. At that point the stink grew to unbearable levels.

"This is bad, really bad. Something's dead, let's get out of here," implored Rita with cold, sweaty and trembling hands.

Suddenly they saw him. Right there, on the other side of the monitor, with his hands on top of the keyboard. Rita gasped and couldn't say a thing. Paul stared at him prettified. After a few moments, they looked at each other in disbelief.

Paul said, "It's, it's... not possible. We just--I mean--"

They ran towards the entrance. Paul turned the knob with no luck: the door was locked.

He got up and approached them; the stink followed him, "I told you not to get in," said PK, dead PK, decomposing PK, falling apart PK.

Without thinking Paul picked up a chair a threw it to PK.

Infuriated, PK grabbed his own arm, pulled out a chunk of rotten flesh, and said, "You want a piece of me?" and then threw the putrid muscle to them, "Now you'll join the club... you can use the computer to advertise the space available."

A day in a blink

"Old George," that's how they call him. He doesn't care, sounds affectionate. As years pass by he notices days shorten, to a point where they seem to last a few minutes. "Days are now dreamy. Is the dream of life," he asserts. Events that were certain to be real are not anymore, like living in a cloud, everything's foggy and mysterious.

"Life comes and goes. Some things are sticky, others not," George says. When asked about what's sticky he just burbles one word, "People." No more, no less. It's all about people.

"I used to think I was immortal and that I'd never die--made of steel or some indestructible material," he says, "but I realized I'll die someday and we are very fragile--made of crystal." The winter of his life,  days come and go, like a wave hitting the beach. "Same old, same old," he adds, "nothing changes. I see days folding faster and faster. If I blink, another day passes by; that's the way it is."

Maybe he's right, maybe life is made of dreams: life is an eternal dream. Maybe we are just dreaming; when we wake up a totally different world will appear--like being born again--and then life will start over and everything will be new and exciting.

We shouldn't forget that life is actually new and exciting--age doesn't matter...

Life is what we make of it...

Toast vs Toaster

Once upon a time there was a man who decided to burn a thin bread slice and, voila, he invented toast.

Who in their right mind decided to eat a burned piece of bread? Have you ever wondered how the toaster got invented? It's not like somebody decided to burn bread and make a bread burning machine. For that matter:
  Why is it called toaster and not burner?
  Why is it called toast and not burn?
  Why is it called toast and not toasted bread?

The most wonderful inventions are discovered by mistake--the inventor is usually forgotten in the archives of time.

Challenge:
  Invent a toaster that does not consume gigawatts of energy.
Suggestions:
  Hydrogen Toaster: fuel cells?
  Crank Toaster: people can exercise early in the morning.
  Match Toaster: phosphor tasting toast, yuck.
  Texas Toaster: only works on summer when temperature is 100+ degrees.

Toast anyone?

Red is red

Is red really red?
We all acknowledge that red is indeed red; we have red in traffic lights to confirm it.

What if one person's red is another's orange?
What if we could see other people's colors?
Would red be green?
Would green be red?
Is black and white really white and black?
Are colors gray levels?
Would you say, "You have pretty eyes: your pupils are magenta and the eye whites are... well, red. Er, why do the call them whites if they are red?"
Would cars look ugly if they are pink with green tires?
Would roads be white, black or purple?
Would rainbows be gray?
Would water be transparent or not?
Would the sea be green with red sky?
Would you say, "This is so romantic, the night is bright orange and the purple moon illuminates your blue face. I love your green tanned skin."

Red is red, isn't it?

2K+

"Monday to Sunday," said Rob with tired eyes, brain dead and almost falling asleep. He desperately needed to sleep.
Intrigued, Susan asked, "Less than a week. What happened?"
"Monday to Sunday," repeated Rob like a robot.
"I know. What happened?"
"Driving, noises, dirty windows, fog, and snow."
"Where?"
"Lots of snow, low visibility, and then something weird... the roads, dogs and rabbits."
"What are you talking about?"
"Dead dogs, ran over by cars, blood on the road, dog blood," Rob paused for a second and looked at the sky like if looking for a secret answer, "The rabbits ran, they were the lucky ones. Dogs were unlucky."
"You are freaking me out."
"The fog, no visibility, I ran my car over five dogs that were crossing the street. The rabbits were faster and saved themselves," his eyes saddened, "Poor dogs, too much driving, too much coffee."
She stayed there looking at him, paralyzed.
Rob continued, "I, I didn't want to. It was an accident. 2K plus."
"2K what?"
"I drove more than two thousand miles. I need to rest."

Rob closed his eyes and started dreaming. The ambulance closed its doors and started its journey to the closest hospital. Susan the paramedic worked hard to avoid Rob fall in the never ending dream.