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.

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?