All You Can Eat

The restaurant served pizza, steak, burgers, French toast, and pancakes. They also had salad.

Olig's eyes widened at this banquet. He'd never seen that much food before.

Five bucks. That's all that he needed.

He grabbed a plate, threw three pizza slices, and topped them with a burger and a juicy steak. He snatched a small bowl, tossed some salad, and juggled his way to the nearest table.

Olig placed the food on the table and admired his catch. He looked at his belly. "You're going to grow," he said.

A robust man pointed at Olig. "I used to be as skinny as you." The man grabbed his generous stomach. "But I grew." He laughed, sprinkling food toward Olig.

Olig nodded and sat. He looked around. A plump lady swallowed a pizza slice in a single go. A kid with two straws in his nostrils munched on a huge burguer.

Nausea hit Olig, and he stormed out of the restaurant. He inhaled the night's air and shook his head, thinking. I'll never be like them. Never.

Two years after he arrived at the promised land, Olig sat at a restaurant, waiting for his food to arrive.

A young waitress with a perfect smile placed a plate on the table. "House special."

"Thanks," said Olig, eyeing the lobster and steak dish. A mash potato wall surrounded the meal.

As the waitress walked to another table, Olig admired her slim figure.

He sighed. "I used to be that skinny."

Pet Love

I sat on a bench, enjoying the day, when my dog climbed on my lap. He looked at me, tongue hanging out, with those eyes that say, “I love you, Master,” and I wondered. What did I do to deserve his unconditional love?

Can people love each other like that? Like dogs?

We have a strange relationship with our pets. We jailed them, give them the same bland, boring food every day, and in exchange they give us their love. Why?

Imagine that an ugly giant caged you inside a gigantic house, where the steps stood four feet high, and the furniture seemed unreachable. Would you roam inside this place? Would it get old? This monster would feed you, let’s say, boiled chicken and water every single day. Would you love him? Would you care for him?

I never understood dogs.

Now, cats are a different story.

Writing Interruptus

New idea, Write!

Darkness covered the castle where--

"Excuse me." I look up to find a young girl with dark short hair.

"Yes?"

"Are you a writer?" She chews her gum.

No, I'm making brain tacos. "Sort of."

She points at my laptop. "What are you writing about?"

Hell if I know. "Stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

I scratch my head, and it's not because I feel uncomfortable. I just have dandruff. A flew flakes fall. "Just started this story. It's about a castle and--"

"Vampires? Cool!"

I wait a few seconds, trying to cool down. "No, it's not about blood suckers."

"Really?" She turns around and leaves.

I take a deep breath and go back to my writing, but my muse left with the girl. This is the moment to ask the brain.


Darkness covered the castle where the battle began. Ghosts hovered above it, scaring...

Scaring what? I close my eyes and concentrate.

"Aha. So, you are serious," a guy says. I open my eyes. A mature man is talking on his phone. "I cannot do this. You know that. We're going to lose thousands." He hangs up and shakes his head.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. The castle and the ghosts. E-mail. When was the last time I checked it? I open my mail. Curtain sale. Delete. Free Disney vacations. Delete. New friend request from someone I've never heard of. Delete. No more unread messages. Facebook? Twitter? Nope. I take a deep breath and type.


Dark ghosts hovered above the castle, an omen of the oncoming battle. Birds flew away at the sight of the wandering souls.


A girl with short dark hair rode a black horse, heading for the castle.


"Ramona!" A man standing at the entrance raised his hand. "So, you 'are' serious."


Ramona locked her eyes onto his, frowning. "I am. You must pray to the skies. To the birds."


"I cannot do this. You know that."


She stepped off the horse and grabbed the man's neck. "Pray. Pray for them. Before we lose them."


"We're going to lose thousands."


She relaxed and moved his hand away from him. She knelled and look at the sky. "Lord. Help us in our quest."

It's not exactly what I had in mind, but it sort of works. I guess getting interrupted helps.

Breakfast Tacos

Are breakfast tacos food for thought?

I think so.

Whenever I can, I treat myself with two or three egg and [chorizo, bacon, potato, name your own] tacos. As they travel down to my stomach, ideas pop up in my head. It gets better. When I finish my delicious tortilla and egg delicacies, I feel like napping, and writing too. That's when I pen some of my best work.

This morning I went to a new place and stomached three gigantic tacos. When I was done, I felt like vomiting. Mhh. Why not write about vomit? Ideas!

- The FBI chases a dude who vomits radioactive material. Mhhh. No.
- A dude chases the FBI because they vomited on him. Nope.
- An alien made of vomit lands on planet Earth, and chases the FBI and the radioactive vomit dude. Interesting...
- Radioactive zombies rule Earth! Two words: chee sy.
- Zombies, FBI dudes, vomit, and videotapes. Nah.
- Zombies, dreams, stomach, tacos, egg, dlsl;a khajh 76 gsaj.

Yawn.

Time for a nap.

Caffeine Distraction

Do your characters talk to you?

Mine don't.

They scream.

That's a good thing, I guess. But other voices talk to me. Yeah, I know. You're thinking, "This dude is crazy." No, I'm not. Well, just a little.

Who are these people? you may ask. Actually, they're real persons who talk, talk, and talk when I'm writing. They are like the people who clap in the middle of a Classical concert. So, so distracting.

I was writing in a coffee shop when one young girl, let's call her Latte, said, "You've seen the latest? It's so, you know... WOW. So good." That didn't make sense at all but of course, that ignited my curiosity, so I listened.

"I didn't, 'cause I was with you-know-who, and he was so handsome, and cute, and--" said the other girl, who I'll call Java.

"I know!" Latte interrupted. She sighed. "I wish I had a boyfriend like yours. He's so--"

"Awwww," said Java, staring at the window, pointing outside. "Look at the doggie. So cute. I want to punch him."

Latte sipped whatever she was drinking, looked at the sky, and moaned.

"I'll call him Cutie. Is he a beagle?" asked Java.

Latte looked down, facing Java. "Ohmygosh, my latte-marianno-frotte-lotte is so, so out of this world."

Difficult to follow, eh? This is my typical morning at the coffee shop.

I need to find another place to write. Oh, well.

This is what I have to stand just to get my daily dose of caffeine.

Information Overload

The voices yell, and it's so confusing.

"Buy, buy, buy," says one voice.

"Check my new stuff," says another.

A million more shout. I look around and see no one. No one. Where's everybody. Where do these voices come from? I close my eyes. People breath and spit on my ears.

"Click here."

                                                             "Click there."

                            "Read this."

"Amazing."

I can't type. I open my eyes. My heart beats faster than Morse code. Calm down. Calm down. I slam the laptop screen shut.

The voices go away.

I run my hands through my hair, take a deep breath, and think of nothing.

Darkness.

      Warmth.

               Silence.

                         Peace.

The idea is now clear. I open the laptop, but the voices come back. I type as fast as my tired fingers can until my story is complete.

I stand and walk away.

Tomorrow will be another day.

Musical Writing

Do you listen to music while writing?

No? Well, I do.  =P

Music turns on the spark generator inside my head, igniting my imagination. I 'see' music, and it talks to me. "Write, Gerardo, write," it says in a perfect pitch.

Of course, it depends on the piece I'm listening. "Write until you brain bleeds, MF!" other type of music tells me.

Months ago, when I was listening to Mozart's Requiem Mass, a masterpiece of monstrous proportions, an idea hit me:

    What if...
    What if music...
    What if music created fear?
    What if people were afraid of the most beautiful music in the world?

That's how 'Merkherm's Symphony' started, and a novel was born. It's just an example of how music influences my writing.

I also like to explore and in my constant search for uniqueness, I stumbled upon a collaboration of two talented musicians:
    Gizella - http://soundcloud.com/gizella
    Mizimo - http://soundcloud.com/mizimo
Their mysterious sound is soothing, unique, strange--idea sparking type of music.

I cannot stop listening to their tunes.

¡Viva la música!

Pozole Rules

Muses are crazy.

Mine is hungry.

She pushed a plate of smoky pozole to me and said, "Escribe!" Yeah, my muse is a hot Mexican angel who loves Mexican food. And she always talks to me en Español, but demands me to write in English. I never understand her.

Whatever.

Guessing she would like me to write about pozole, I penned a Science Fiction short story instead. She frowned at me, and I looked the other way, saying, "Ni modo," which loosely translates to, "Couldn't help it."

She's not happy, but I am, because the angel-from-another-planet and pozole combination works wonders.

Have you ever tried pozole soup? Learn about this exquisite Mexican dish:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pozole

What's intriguing about this soup? You better try it!

Check your local authentic Mexican restaurant, and if you don't have one in your area, well, ni modo, which in this case translates to shrugging, frustration, and sighing.

Magic Glass Slab

Best reality check? The mirror.

It happened a week ago when my teacher walked up to me. "You're sellable," she said, as if I were an object, or gizmo, or whatever, which made me wonder why she said it.

"Sellable?" I echoed, clueless.

She frowned and wiggled a finger. "You should know what being sellable is, young man." I gave her a nice shrug for an answer. "You want to be a manager--climb up the corporate ladder, right?" She locked her gaze onto mine, but I froze and couldn't reply. "Right?" she emphasized that word, as if saying, 'You should know, ignorant.'

Time to lie, I guess. "Yes. I know."

"Good," she said, relaxing. "Because you're good looking, tall, and your accent is cute. That makes you sellable."

"Really?" I asked, still thinking she was lying.

She gave me a vigorous nod, accompanied by a grin, confirming I was indeed good looking, tall, and with a cute accent.

When I got home that night, I rushed to the bathroom and took a long stare at myself in the mirror, trying to find my new-found ‘good lookingness’ and ‘tallness.’ "Hello mirror," I said in a low tone, emphasizing my cute accent.

To my surprise, the mirror made a noise. "You're ugly," the shiny glass said. "Yes, you're tall but have this pronounced belly." If mirrors could frown, this one did. "And your accent?" The mirror scoffed, tarnishing a bit. "Nobody understands what you're saying."

I reached the wall, turned off the lights, and went back to the crystal slab. "You were saying?" I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.

"I can see you," the mirror sang.

Looking Back

When I was teenager an old man with tired eyes grabbed my arm. “Don’t look back,” he said. And I just tried to ignore him, but he glared and tightened his grip. “Don’t look back, boy.”

I shook my head, pulled out of his grip, and walked away as fast as I could.

“When you’re old like me, don’t look back,” he yelled behind my back.

At the time, I didn’t understand what he meant, and I never forgot this encounter, but I figured it out. He literarily had asked me to don’t look back. I just didn’t know when.

Now, I’m inside this dark hole where I can’t even see my fingers. Silence is broken by rats chewing on whatever is on the floor. Who knows what else is there. To think I could’ve avoided this if I’d listened to the old man. Don’t look back. He should’ve yell, “Don’t ever, ever look back.”

He read my future.

My "don’t look back" future.

But I did. I did look back. And took my eyes off the road.

I ran over a dog.

In dog country—stupid dogs. I like dogs but here they’re gods. I—I didn’t know.

The dog died and I was sentenced to spend my life inside this lightless pigsty.

“Don’t look back,” the old man told me.

I won’t. Even if I try, I can’t look back—I cannot see and it’s so freaking cold.

Dreaming Freedom

Pody saw his soul for the first time the night he refused to see the light.

He put a thick piece of fabric around his head, covering his eyes, and turned away of the potent ray. Day or night didn’t exist inside his cage. Only that dammed light, hitting them, cooking them, roasting them. If you are always awake, how can you sleep? How can you dream? Pody heard others talk about dreams, but nobody had ever experience one. You could cover your eyes, but the intense white rays would filter through.

But this night proved different.

He could see his soul, and he dreamt. In his dream his wings spread long, and he could fly too. He rose above tall mountains he’d never seen before. The world was colorful. And the night, oh the night, was wonderful with its dark mantle covering everything, the stars providing shy illumination.

Pody realized he wanted to live in a dream, or better yet, live outside his giant cage. But the dream only lasted a few minutes as the others poked him, yelled at him, and did all sorts of things to wake him. Were they jealous? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t live dreaming for the rest of his life, could he?

So he opened his eyes—just a little bit, squinted, trying to adjust to the rays, and a massive hand grabbed his neck, taking him outside his cage. Everybody yelled and flapped their wings.

Pody knew it was time to go the place where all the farmed chickens went and saw the world for the first time.

And for the last time.

Lost Apple

Steve Jobs passed away, leaving a huge legacy behind. For many, a brilliant mind, and an innovator like no other.

Sadly, the world lost its most precious apple.