No Habría Llegado A Los 50 «Me Gusta» Sin Vuestra Ayuda. ¡Gracias Por Este Sueño!

Writing prompt. Dialog: 1.

-"How do you make beer?" Asked Ryan.

-"As far as I know, It's like making bread , but you add water." Said Muck

-"It can't be, my cousing works in a bakery, they use water to make the dough." Ryan took a sip of orange juice.

-"Well, if you know so much, why are you bothering me?" Muk protested.

-"I've never claimed to be an expert, I just know water is used in both processes, I was asking out of curiosity."

-"Ok, but why is beer a subject matter now? It's not even noon!"

-"I've heard some cats are collecting postcards as a hobby, well I want to make beer as a passtime."

-"You mean, penpals?" Asked Muk with a grin.

-"No, no! I mean the square thing on the postcard!" Ryan, as short tempered as he was, slammed the table, spilling some juice and almost tipping off Muk's cup of coffee.

-"whoah! Slow down pal! You were talking about beers, why this craving all the sudden?"

- "I don't want to drink them, I want to make them, as a change of pace."

-"So, are you quitting the job anytime soon?" Asked Muk before taking a big gulp of black coffee.

-"No, It'll be a passtime. Look at Tom, the poor guy never took a day off, no passions, not even a single nap. And now he's shaded, a walking corpse!"

-"I see what you mean, it would be a shame to lose you, including your charming personality." Muk smirked.

Ryan was about to protest, but he keep it to himself.

The waiter brought the check, Ryan invited the breakfast.

-"It's called a stamp." Said Muk, while giving his friend the knife.

And they crossed the door thresshold at the same time.

In 24 hours...

24 hours is such a long time. especially for those who want to hook up. My body yearns for his touch. I want to wake up.

My heart doesn't want me to sleep. I can't breathe. I need him! His delicious embrace To rest on top of his chest.

I miss his hypnotic scent. A couple of cuddles, and I lose myself. Please do not stop I belong to you.

In less than a day My dry dream will melt away. By tomorrow noon I will be kissing you.

A short conversation

The old-fashioned red telephone rang. The sound was heard in every corner of the house. Weirded out, the one drinking coffee started to answer. It was a friend who two days ago kicked the bucket.

-- But why are you calling me? Asked the one whose coffee was turning cold. -- I missed you, and I want to check how you are doing. -- That's very kind, but you are not supposed to be talking to me.

In the small studio, the conversation went on. While outside, there was a howling storm. With dry sweat on his chest, The coffee drinker pressed the handset on his head.

-- I can't see very much from here; I'm not in the mood to move. -- That's because you are affected by a lack of life. -- Don't be silly; it happens all the time!

Surreal, yet so mundane Who would have guessed? A dialogue with a recently lost friend But the living one was now impatient.

-- I mean, you're deceased, you are not supposed to contact me. -- I reckon so, but it wouldn't hurt to talk while having some tea. -- Do you drink? But you didn't like it!

A sigh was heard from the other side. It was clear that the lost one was ready to puke it all out. And what he said made our drinker pale for quite a while.

-- life is what happens between lunches. I forgot to exist, and it took a few punches. I know it's manipulative, but please do not be mean. and accept my sincere apology.

The not-so alive one hung up the phone. What's more ghastly than guilt and woe? What's more unforgivable than lost love? From the small studio, a cry was heard that lasted a month.

A Midsummer Night's Melancholia

With dry lips, she contemplated the night Lonely, sad and thirsty for such a long time, She cried for she didn't know how, but her memories of glee turn to sorrow dust.

It was a still and silent summer night. On top of the world, she behold the closed house Once filled with laugh, now it's empty with shouts Anything not bolt to the ground, now is resting by the street light.

One step in front of the other, The dulled naked feet, step down By the edge of the moonlight She contemplated the summer night

Her cries were heard by no one except for the wind, Now sitting, arms crossed, eyes closed, gentle weep The cheery night did not care for her, Only when they were together everything seemed to be OK.

Now loneliness was by her side, Better forgotten than being forced to smile Yearning some rest and peace of mind Hoping to drink clear sky by the next morning light

Those heavy moments shall end soon

Feeling the green under my feet

Letting the cold air caress my cheek

Eyes closed, eating my own dreams

Recalling those night drinks

I'm balancing over the knife edge.

So long, I'll miss you, old friend.

Fresh toast, fried eggs

That morning was a living hell.

I woke up from such a sad slumber.

I poured me some cold water.

Someday, the nightmares will be over.

Now, they are inside my brown jotter.

Lots of artist sing about love, woe and abstract perceptions. Hovewer, I propose to sing about mundane things, such as that slice of pizza that calls upon you at night when you're 12 beers deep, or that thing that lives in the walls and steals your left socks.

Life is to short to worry about emotions.

Writing dialog 2:

Two friends were drinking ice tea on top of a bridge, overlooking a dead road.

-"So... how was your week?" Asked Suzzane, mixing some sugar in the cold infusion.

-"Nothing out of the ordinary; I went to a cemetery," said John, sitting on the bridge's guardrail.

-"Thank god you didn't do anything weird! what happened? was someone you knew?"

-"No, the professor recommends that I see some scultures for my anatomy assignment," answered John nonchalantly, serving himself another glass of tea.

-"Let me get this right," said Suzzane, with a contagious smile. "When someone says sculture, do you think of cemeteries?"

She had a quirk when talking about something funny; she would move her hands as if they were a tennis fan, moving his head from one opposite side of the field to the other in mere seconds.

-"No, it wasn't my first pick; museums aren't cheap, you know." John almost choked on his tea. He was about to ask Suzzane about her week when suddenly heaven became real and in technicolor, a great roar could be heard from miles, John almost lost his balance from the guardrail, the silvery light became lighting shooting upwards, breaking that afternoon's peace in the valley, shaking bones, breaking glasses, and damaging eardrums. The rocket, the last wonderful thing humanity created, was now in high orbit, leaving a white, fluffy cloud where it once flew.

They were rigid, looking upwards, not in glee as Suzzane's little brother, but with disdain. The first rockets were a great talking point among the people of the valley, some sort of privilege and pride they share and show like a medal to the region, "They are close to the stars!!" Would said journalists but now it's more like a nuisance. The Mac's and Roudy's were the first families to leave, followed by the Carlson's and the Evans. Soon the grand majority of the town was a collection of empty spaces, lost in time while the future was roaring and flying no more than 6 miles from them.

Suzzane broke the silence.

-"The old tongues said that winter and fall were below 68 degrees, and that the rockets brought longer days and shorter nights." Said Suzzane contemplating the amber liquid flowing from the broken glass.

-"I went to the cemetery because it's quiet, no packs of people, no flashes, no laughs. I mean, what kind of museum puts on display bright colors and chalkboards? Cemeteries have that hidden effect on us; it's no place to be joking; it's solemn. A radiography of time, where different art styles and movements solidified for eternity, did you know that the real Gioconda was burned for her smile? Cemeteries have this aura of the past, the unbearable past, where all the bad, decadent, and violent were normalized, a place where museums go to die, where memories are set in stone, crimes and regrets are visible for you to be horrified or wonder, not only did I finish my sketches, I came with horrible conclusions."

But before John could elaborate, another wonder of humanity rose free from gravity. A deafening chorus made by millon dammed souls.

In order for something to prosper, other things or someone must be wretched.

-"I'm sorry about your father. I know things seem bleak, but he will get a job really soon." Said Suzzane, enveloping the broken glass in newspaper.

-"Thanks, it was a long week." John sighted, jumped from the guardrail to Suzzane, helped her put the glasses in the basket, and they started to descend the bridge.

-"My little brother is obsessed with space; he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up."

-"Good for him, I guess; at least he doesn't need to commute that much from here."

And they walked together, alone, in the middle of the dead road to their homes.

Just another day...

Another comunist eating a big mac

It's so hot in the summer; it's a waste of time.

Free thinkers are chugging Simon's chyme.

[Chorus]

Just another day in paradise!!!

Don't sit around; you better get green bucks!

While the fascists are doing peace signs

Happy Birthday, Rosy! Have some rotten pie!

[Chorus]

Just another day in this futuristic grime!!!

Life and microchips were a mistake.

A crisis is caused by greed and pain.

Don´t ask your grandma, or she'll rot in hell.

[Chorus]

Just another day is what it takes!!!

Just don't look at the news!!

Panic and powder are on the Day view!!

Shit eating grins showing a school phew phew!!

[Chorus]

Just another day in disgust!!

"The law is made for you to abide!"

exclaimed the micro-plastic rich with pride.

While politicians are launching the last genocide.

[Chorus]

Just another day in paradise!!!

False Diamond

The golden edge was intact.

Every piece was left behind.

A far cry and a lost vow.

It's up; no more jolly facade.

Now I walk alone among the displays.

Hiding from the dull gray dismay.

Dry eyes are hunting me down.

My only witness is a crow.

Stomach open, red liquid flowing with rage.

The sound is dimming. An angel touched my hair.

No more sight, heart beating fast,

A last breath, no more thoughts...

Walking home

I was walking on the train tracks alone. While rainy, foggy darkness was surrounding me, I can barely see thanks to my phone. walking next to a ditch stream, knee-deep.

My only witness was a cute little bird. Jumping, flying, chirping, and crying While I'm under my umbrella made of blue. Against the fabric, the water burred

Walking through a deserted rural zone In the distance, I could see the next station light. My trousers are being moisturized, and my head is dry from the storm. But I had to be careful not to jam my shoes on the track.

The night is cold. My hands are shaking. No reflections; I can't see my breath. There is no option but to keep walking. Each step on the quebracho Railroad ties gets me closer to my bed.

Suddenly, a cold breeze sent shivers down my spine. Something was coming, but the little bird told me not to look back. I shall be fine as long as I keep moving forward. It was the entity that was roaming around.

-"Hello young boy", the suave voice said. A sharp pain on my shoulder almost made me faint. But the bird told me not to look back. That's how it gets you, you shall never be seen alive.

-"It's rude to not answer in kind." I could feel a strong grip behind my neck. I acted as if I didn't care; I carried on with my long steps. But the presence was persistent enough to be contemplated.

-"If you don't talk to me, you'll regret it now!" The bird could not speak up, for it was pulled back fast. The last thing the birdie could tell was not to look back. Now we were alone—it and I.

I tried to run to the next station light. It was in vain; I was far away. And the creature was clawing my legs. -"It's over, young one; you shall be a nice dessert."

Ears on the wet ground I couldn't help it, but I laughed aloud. Its claws lifted my face. -"What's so funny, or did you just lose your head?"

With a quick kick, I made it stumble to the tracks. -"The train is almost here, you ghastly clown," and then I got up. The wretched-looking thing did not understand. But the train took all its remains to the moon and out.

Emerging from the dark fog The silent metal snake carried out its route. From that night forward, I did not travel alone. Because I can see it's wicked grin when I keep my eyes close.