The Day He Left.

How are we going to tell the world that he left?

We have checked our calculations over and over again.

We have used the best computers, we looked through the strongest telescopes. Advised the most brilliant minds. But over and over we came to the same conclusion, he is nowhere to be find, he left.

They will ask “why?” and we cannot answer.

“Are all our prayers being for nothing?” they well cry.  And we cannot help.

“Please ask him to come back” They will cry. “We don’t know were he went”, we will mumbled.

“Are we all alone?” The boy asks his mom.

“We have each other” mom replay to her son. 

“Who is going to watch over us? Who will judge us?” The boy continues to ask.

“It’s all up to us” mother hugged her son.

“Is he ever coming back?”  I don’t know my boy.

Continue to pray my boy, prayer has a great power, when you pray my son, look inside, the answers are there. Don’t stop to believe, believe from your core. Pray from the inside out.

The boy closes his eyes, his mother saw his lips moving soundlessly with his own silent pray.

“Why are you smiling?”  the mother asked her son after he opened his eyes.

“He doesn’t need to come back, the boy answer”,

“He never left”.  

Advertisements

A Good Guy

Everything is normal, right? I’m just driving to get the milk. In the background the car radio is playing soft music, and between songs there are news flashes, mostly about corruption and murder and terrible things that other people do. Other people—not me.

I’m a good guy. I’m still wearing my suit; I didn’t even have the chance to change before I left my house. But it’s okay I say to myself. After all, I am not like all those awful individuals described on the radio or the evening news.

To leave the house after a full day at work and spend another hour looking for parking just to get the Goddamn milk is something that proves I’m a good guy, right?

My wife Lora had all day to do it, but she didn’t. “It’s the baby—I was busy with the baby,” she told me, when I opened the fridge and asked, “Where the hell is the milk?” That is her new excuse—the baby. She wanted this baby, not me.

“It’s going to help us,” she told me. So I gave her a baby. If that is not proof that I care about my wife, I don’t know what is.

It’s not only that. I work hard and head home straight after work. I don’t cheat on my wife.

But she keeps doing the one thing I have asked her not to do. “Don’t push my buttons,” I have told her over and over again. But Lora always finds a new reason to do it. Now it’s the baby; before that it was the “I’m pregnant” bullshit. And before that was her “I work full time” excuse. But it’s not only Lora’s excuses and stupid reasons—it’s all the show after that. Is it my fault that she didn’t do what she was supposed to do? Or is it my fault that she always struggles to get up, or that she fixes her hair with a shaky hand? Like it’s so important how she looks at that moment.

All of this just pushes my buttons even more. I cannot stop whatever happens next. If she will stop pushing my buttons, these things will never happen. It’s her—she just needs to stop doing that.

I’m driving my car close to a crosswalk. An old woman is standing on the sidewalk waiting for the traffic to stop so she can cross. I stop the car to let her cross the road. I really want to buy this milk and get back home, but I’m stopping anyway—it’s a nice thing to do, right? The old woman smiles at me when she passes in front of my car. But suddenly her smile disappears, and she gives me an accusing look, her wrinkled lips moving slowly as she says, “You.” She probably just wants to say thank you. It’s my imagination playing with me. Everything is fine, right?

I’m almost at the supermarket. A big pickup truck cuts me off from my right side, and the driver shouts, “Too slow!” But to me it sounds like he said the name Lora.

It’s my imagination again, I tell myself. But for some reason I start to sweat. My hands feel really sticky on the steering wheel. I find a parking spot close to the supermarket entrance and walk inside. I’ve just got to get the milk and get out.

“Where can I find the milk?” I ask one of the workers. He looks at me in disgust, but he points in the direction I need to go. Before I leave him to get the milk, he says, “Over there,” but I hear “Lora is dead.”

“What?” I say with a choked voice.

But he turns and walks away.

I almost run to the register. Panic is overtaking me. I tell myself to try to relax—that I am not a bad guy. Everything is normal. Everything is okay, right?

I pay for the milk, and without waiting for the receipt or the change, I grab the bag and walk out. Before I go through the exit doors, I hear somebody saying, “Thank you for shopping with us, you piece of shit.” He didn’t say it, I think. It’s all in my head, right?

I run to my car. My breathing is heavy, and I’m sweating even though it’s cold outside. Driving back home, the radio features more stories about other people doing bad things—murder and rape—but it’s other people, not me.

When I open the front door, I can hear the baby screaming. His crying pierces my eardrums.

“Lora!” I shout, but I can barely hear myself over the baby’s crying. There is no answer.

And then I see her. She is lying on the kitchen floor. Lora is dead, you piece of shit, a voice is rumbling like thunder in my head. It’s the same voice that tells me I’m a good guy, a nice guy.

I do my best to think clearly and bring the friendly voice back into my head, but I cannot do it with the baby screaming and screaming.

This cannot be happening. I’m a good guy. I really am.

Lora is lying there with her bloody hair wrapped around her dead fingers. That was the last thing she did before she died—fix her hair. Like it’s so important how she looks.

“I bought the milk!” I shout at my dead wife. “It was your job, but I did it!” I shout as loudly as I can, trying to be heard above the baby’s screaming.

I just need a few minutes to think clearly, but the baby’s high-pitched screech is making my skull crack.

She wanted that baby, not me.

“It’s going to help us,” she said.

I’m not a bad guy. I’m a good husband. I come home straight from work. I don’t cheat on my wife. I’m not like other people you hear about on the evening news.

But this baby is really pushing my buttons.

Purple kid

When people ask me, why do I have a gun? I answer, it’s for self-defense, nothing more. But its not the truth, the real reason why I carry a gun is because it gives me the ability to kill myself at any given time. Actually, when I think about it, it’s kind of self-defense. Pulling the trigger and blow my head off is the only way for me to escape from the purple kid and his green eyes.  

It wasn’t always like that, in the beginning the purple kid was shy, he followed me from a distance. He was to afraid to come close.  But little by little he became more daring. He got closer. He started to walks right behind me. I could feel his green eyes stubbing my back.  

Until one night he came closer than ever, it was late and the street was empty.  I turned around and I shouted at him “leave me alone”. But he just looks at me with his big green eyes and said “green is for guilt” the green in his eyes become darker, now its not the light green anymore but a heavy and dark. “we need to go back there” he told me, with tears in his eyes. “Please go away” I answer him. “please go away”. But he didn’t go, the purple kid came inside my home. He is the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning. He is always there looking at me, his voice become stronger, he is not crying anymore.  “green is for guilt”, we need to go back there” he keeps telling me”. “it was long time ago, I don’t remember anymore”. I cry, “we need to go to remember” the purple kid answer.

Its raining heavily.  We are going. The purple kid is not a kid anymore, he is bigger and stronger than me. “don’t stop, keep walking” he commands me. “I don’t know where to go” I beg. “green is for guilt, you know where to go” the purple kid reply.  Its far in the forest, but we eventually got there. 

Everybody knew about this place. “Who was the monster that did all of this?” everybody asked. Some of the police yellow ribbons with “crime scene” written on them are still fluttering in the wind. A monster left her victims here, that is what the yellow ribbons suppose to say. It’s all coming back to me, the screams, the blood. Yes, the glorious blood. The purple kid is inside me now. My eyes are green.  “Did you bring your gun?” He is whispering in my head. 

                       Green is for guilt, I answer.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

My Little Maggie

Hey big brother, don’t open the door, not right now, soon but not now.

You are a sick, sick in the head. there is nothing there, nothing.

We cannot see each other yet, but soon big brother.  

I swear to God, if I will see you sitting in the hallway starring at this fucking door again, I will beat the shit out of you.

Don’t worry big brother, they cannot hurt you, I will protect you. I know what to do.

Why you are so different, why you cannot be like other kids. I hate being your mother. You are embarrassing me.

Soon we will be free, big brother. Close your eyes and ears tonight. I need to practice.

You little psychopath. Why? please tell me why did you kill the cat?

I’m sorry big brother, I know you liked that cat. But I love you enough, more than all the cats in the world.

Pack your clothes, you are leaving tomorrow. You are going to a place where disturb kids like you go.

Hide under the bed tonight. Ignore the screams. We will be free tomorrow big brother.    

Yes detective, two bodies husband and wife. With a knife both of them.

What about the kid? 

The kid is in the hallway, pointing at a door .  

Did you open the door?  

 Yes, we did, detective.

Nothing is there, just an empty room with a bed frame not even a mattress.

What’s the kid’s name?  

It’s a girl detective, her name is Maggie.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

The Two

Two jumped off the border between the endless darkness and the blue world. Their heavenly bodies crossing the sky like burning meteors. Their wings pulled back to descent faster. They don’t have time to lose.                                                                                 They are not allowed to interfere with his work, his perfect work.

He watches his blazing sons speeding towards his masterpiece. With a snap of a finger he can disintegrate them to less than dust, but he didn’t. like an artist watching his creation about to be ruined, so was he, his love for them chained his hands. 

“We are breaking his heart” the young one said, while they got close to the blue and green. “We are doing what must be done”, answer the older one. “ Good got no meaning or value without his dark counterpart”. “Perfect will never hold his own, it will be just an illusion that will crumbled and fall”.

“I can see the place”.  Said the older one. Their bodies cooled down from the soft breeze while they slow down. They felt the wet grass under their naked feet when they finally landed.
“Are you sure?” Asked the young one. “Yes, I am” answer the older one while looking on his father superb creation. “Do you have it?” ask the older one. “Yes I do”, answer the young one. “Give it to me”, said the older one with a commanding voice. The young looked with amazement at the impressive tree they stood beneath. “Give it to me” urge the older one. The young one reached under his robe and with a shaky hand gave his older brother a beautiful red  ….                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Me

I’m looking at you, at all of you. Looking at your tired faces, on your cheap clothes. On your rough hands from pushing cleaning carrying. Your mouth, that will always say “yes” just to keep his lousy job. I imagine you as a fish swimming in water so disgusting that he cannot breathe. Your pathetic pay- check is your only chance to get your poor fish head out of the water for a brief breathe before you dive back into this poisoning swamp you call life.                             

Your eyes, yes! your eyes are my favorite. Your wearied eyes. The way your simple eyes are looking at me, is the reason that I take the subway at 5am. I got enough money to take a stretch limo to my office, you know what?  I can fly with a private jet every morning around town if I wanted. But what’s the point of that? How you will see me if I’m behind tinted windows or flying high in the sky? No, I want you to see me on your way to another day of hard labor. I want you to look at my leather boots and ask yourself how much did they cost?  My boots can take you and your family to a vacation in an exotic place that you probably never heard of.  Only my watch can keep your fish head and the other fish you call a family above the water for a year. Yes, yes, look at me, try to visualize my house my car my life style. You cannot, and that is the point. For you I am superior, I’m above you, I am sitting on cloud nine way above your shit-pool. 

“I am the one you wish to be”.                                                                        

Two stops to go before I leave my personal amusement park and climb back to my perfect life. Only two stops to go and he sit next to me, this fat man, his legs almost touching mine. His dirty working boots close to my alligator skin boots. His hoody taps my expensive Italian suit. With his chubby fingers he is holding his primitive flip phone and staring at a picture on the phone. I can see it, it’s a photo of a few kids and a woman. And then he smiles, it’s a real genuine smile. This fat stupid man is actually happy.  What the hell? I ask myself. You are fat, fat people are not supposed to be happy, you are fat and poor. I am happiness. You need to look at me and realize just how much your life has no meaning. I live in a penthouse you live in some shithole. I got a jacuzzi, while you stand in line for your turn to take a cold shower. That people on your phone, what can you buy them? I can buy anything I lay my eyes on. So why the hell you are so happy? Who gave you the right to smile as everything is just great in your life? I am great, I am awesome. You are nothing but a fat fish in the swamp. My blood is boiling, he doesn’t care about me, he is not examining me, admirer me. comparing his nothing to my everything. Why?

I cannot help it, I turn my head to him and ask, what’s your story? 

He takes away his eyes from the phone and with a biggest smile that I saw in my life he said “I am the one you wish to be”.        

The Lion

The lion gazed at his reflection in a small puddle of water. I am old he thought. I’ve been old for a long time, But I’m still a lion. An alligator crawled close to the old lion, almost rubbing its tail on the lion’s legs. “I remember the days when alligators wouldn’t dare come close to a lion, but it’s different now”, the old lion thought with resentment, it’s just doesn’t seem right.


The lion marveled at the sun kissing the horizon, it’s beautiful he thought. The red color of the sky began to give away to the darkness. I remember when night was the time for a lion to be a lion. Not anymore.

“Are you hungry?” The lion heard a cheerful voice behind him. The lion turned around to see a young gazelle standing proudly. “So are you hungry?” The young gazelle asked again, moving her ears in excitement. “You are too young to be chosen” said the lion. Why you? There were no more sick, and all the old got eaten already. “I wasn’t chosen, I volunteered.” Said the gazelle, almost jumping with joy. “You’re suppose to run and I’m suppose to chase,” said the lion in frustration. This is wrong, this is not right. “You are an old silly lion” giggled the gazelle. “It’s different now, no more violent death, no more dying by surprise. You are a lion, lions need to eat. I am a gazelle , I am the lion’s food.”

Enjoy your coffee sir, said the young barista to the old man. The old man looked around. He saw a world that he couldn’t understand, young people holding smart devices that made the old man feel stupid. He looked at the menu again, just to see what it was that coffee he actually ordered. The old man felt lost and out of place. “It’s not right.” he said to himself, while looking up at the last red line in the sky giving way to the dark. There was a time that an old man was a lion.