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.

All Smoke

Faro knew he would die soon but couldn’t stop smoking.

Momma used to tell him, “That smoke makes you sick. Every time you exhale, a part of you goes away, son.”

Still, Faro didn’t listen. He knew smoking didn’t cause cancer, yet smoke was the number one cause of death among their people, but he was hooked and there was no way back. In a few days, he would disappear from this world. How to avoid this? Easy, stop it. But, to him, it was equivalent to drown in a cup of coffee--the most dreaded way to die.

The seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes into hours, and so on.

And he shrunk.

And shrunk.

And shrunk.
And shrunk.

And shrunk.

Until he was just a micro tobacco leaf.

One more hit and I’ll be done, he thought. I must stop!

But he couldn’t resist it. He exhaled deep and turned into nada, nothing.

-o-

Uncle Marlbo showed up to Faro’s funeral, his svelte figure towering the rest. He hugged--more like a chest bump--Faro’s Dad. “I’m sorry for your loss, brother.”

As stiff as he was, Dad bent the top of his body, trying to look at the ground. “I know—couldn’t do anything.” He sighed. “This. This is what smoking does. Faro was young and enthusiastic, but now we have nothing." He tried to bury his face in his hands but remembered he had no hands or arms for that matter. "Rest in peace.”

Faro's friends and family sobbed, tumbling into the ground and rolling.

All of them.

All the cigarette people.

Clap, Clap

Electronic sounds assaulted Koko’s brain with a dissonant symphony. People covered their ears and shook their heads. They scrambled to the door, yelling unintelligible words, but crashed against each other.

It happened again. Freaks!

They came back, bringing more bodies. Koko made a quick calculation: twenty-five soldiers, one hundred civilians, ten machine guns,  and… The noise stopped.

An explosion broke the silence, blowing the front door. Several people flew in the air.

A lost limb hit Koko’s face. Damn it! “Grab your guns,” she urged.

“Stop,” said a person standing by the door. “You don’t want to do that.”

Lork. Stupid Lork, wearing his stupid emerald outfit. Koko ignored his warning and launched toward him, but he raised his hand. A white light hit her, sending her to the floor.

“Told you not to,” he said. She squinted. Lork’s slim frame appeared in front of her, glaring. “So stupid,” he added, “Give it to me.”

She shook her head--she would never give up the location. She stood up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” He pointed at a girl. A man behind him activated his weapon, blowing her to pieces.

“No!” Koko took a small device out of her pocket and handed it to Lork. “Here.”

Lork kicked her on the abdomen. “Stupid girl.” He examined the rectangular artifact, and then turned around, heading for the door.

Breathing hard, Koko stood up. “This deserves an applause.”

At this, People rushed to the back.

He faced her. “Applause? A freaking standing ovation!” He cleaned the sweat rolling down his forehead and spit on the floor. “You’re of no use anymore. Kill them all.”

Koko clapped twice.

The small device blipped and then detonated, disintegrating any living being between a five meters radius.

Lork is now where he belongs... the freak.

Once Upon a Phone

A black object shone under the street lights. Milco took a closer look and found a phone lying on the ground and grabbed it.  It was one of those new ones, capable of connecting to the internet, taking pictures, and all sorts of things he barely understood. Who needs these fancy things anyway?

He decided to put the phone back on the ground but the cell vibrated on his hand and played a song he’d never heard off, “Let’s danz on the floor where you ain’t richer than me…” That followed by a storm of cursing. A name blinked on the screen, announcing the caller, “Retha.” That’s a nice girl’s name, he thought, but it could be a guy’s name too.

Without thinking, he answered, “Huh… Hi.”

“Who’s this? Where’s Lara?” said a female voice.

He moved his free hand to hang up but stopped midway. What did he have to lose? “Err… I found her phone lying on the ground, ringing.” Silence. “Hello?” Milco added.

“Who are you?” the voice inquired.

“I’m just a dude who found your friend’s phone. Name’s Milco.” He scratched his head.

“I’ve called her like a million times,” the girl said, “and I thought she was mad or something, but I guess she lost her phone, and that’s uncool. I mean, her whole life is inside.”

Milco sighed. Teenagers, he thought. “Whole life?”

“Yeah, it’s an FB phone. It pushes all the updates. Isn’t that the coolest?”

Milco arched an eyebrow. “FB?”

“As if… you’re joking, right? Facebook. How old are you?”

Once again, Milco thought about ending the call, but he was curious. “Twenty five.”

“What! And you don’t know what FB is? What planet are you from?”

“I’m just not a whole lot into technology.”

“Are you cute?” she asked.

She doesn’t even know me. “Well, I think I’m average.”

“Aha,” she said. “I’d like to meet you.”

“But—“

“To pick-up the phone,” she interrupted, “of course.”

“Oh, yes… I guess—“

“Where are you?” she asked.

Milco checked his surroundings, the street was empty. Where Am I? he thought but couldn’t remember.

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hold on,” he said and once again checked the street—no people. Odd. The phone displayed 10 p.m. What was I doing before answering the call? He made an effort: the street was crowded when somebody approached them. Them! He was with another person.

“I’m waiting,” the girl on the phone interrupted his train of thought.

“It’s just; I’m a little dizzy.”

“Are you drunk? You don’t sound drunk.”

“No, I’m not; I’m just—please hold.”

Who was this other person? Guy or girl? Definitively a girl. They’ve just met. An unnamed woman’s face appeared in his mind. She held a keychain on one hand and her phone on the other—just like the one he held right now. He played with the cell, looking for something, until he found a picture of the girl, her name showing below her photo, “Lara Camarillo.”

“You there?” the phone girl asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I think I know your friend. We were together.”

“Where’s she?”

He checked around but once again, found an empty street. Without notice, his head spun, and he felt as if he were floating. The street showed in the distance and to his horror, he saw himself lying on the ground, Lara by his side, a small carmine river running around them.

“Hello?” the girl on the phone asked. “Hello?” her voice sounded distant. “Hello? This is so uncool,” she added before hanging up.

Past, Present, and Future

It happened so fast. Andy crashed against the wall, and his bicycle broke in several pieces. That was the last thing he saw before waking up in at hospital.
But that was such a long time ago.

Drew knows that’s a thing of the past and tries to forget, but he cannot erase the horrorful images from his mind. Sometimes, they even repeat in his dreams, over and over. He believes these dreams are telling something, but he decides to ignore these warnings.

Andrew will die of old age, and will think nothing, absolutely nothing bad, will happen to him. That’s what he’ll say, and his family will support him. But he’ll be scared of the dreams for the rest of life. And all of that because of the bicycle nightmares he’ll have. Over and Over. For the rest of his life.

Life, Love, and Doors

“I’m going to tell you the story of my life,” said a tall, and not as slim as she wished to be, lady. The wrinkles on her forehead show she wasn’t the youngest of them all, yet her smile displayed proud yellow teeth, a golden one shone proudly.

The crow seemed surprised, unsure of what to expect.

“It all started when I found love,” she continued. “Love is everywhere. Love is incredible.” A shy tear tried to escape her left eye. “The story of my life starts when I found love. Love is a miracle.”

A bearded guy scratched his head in a sign of confusion, or perhaps his patience started to wane, who knows.

She open a thick folder and browse the inside, stopping in a page. “The story of my life. I spent most of my live not knowing what love was.” She raised her head and checked the people surrounding her. “When I was young, I never cared about love. I never called my parents.” She chocked down a lump growing inside her throat.

A bald man drummed his seat.

She stared at him, and he stopped. “Love opened doors for me. Life opened unknown doors. Love doors. Life doors…” She went on and on…. And on.

One man stood and left, pointing at the restroom. Several other people followed.

An old woman stayed, becoming the lonely listener. A sparkle in her eyes denoted a vivid interest, so the lady continued reading for another twenty minutes.

“And that’s how love opened doors in my life. That was the introduction to the story of my life.”

The old woman stayed mute. Perhaps she was speechless or maybe, just maybe, she was in total awe.

“Well?” the lady said. “What do you think?”

The old woman pointed to her ears and shook her head.

The lady’s eyes widened in horror. Had her story fell into deaf ears?

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.”