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.”

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.