I Hate Those Summer Nights

Linux pronoums: she/bang!

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.

I just want to burn time until there's no more time for me to burn.

Thoughts on the last night train

At night, reality seems fake. Through the train window, I see building silhouettes. An image on top of the other, so there's a future to make.

Is it shyness, or did I really make a mistake? His touch, aura, and passion seem rehearsed. Nice hugs turned to claws, cutting me like cake.

Do I forget to talk? Why can't I speak? His torso is now over me, and I feel his mad heartbeats. I'm drowning, I can't breathe, and he is kissing my cheek!

I'm hurt, but I don't cry. Deep inside, I enjoyed all of that. Now my future is another nocturnal destination.

Seriosly, how on earth people write a lot lot like novels and encyclopedias?

Blue Strawberry

Blue Strawberry Walking by the street Amazed by such lovely boutiques Green thoughts, yellow felicity

I used to be loved. Sharing pink phrases Lots of red thoughts Drinking down brown praises

Freezing cold blue with milk Toasted with some aquamarine Our favorite dessert When we used to share mistakes

Now, the present is here. Colored me impress The Black Day still has a gift to send. Blue strawberries to my dearest friend

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.

Several questions at night

Have you ever had an endless dream? illusions of being alive, Christine. Do you like the taste of lips in rouge? What kind of person do you take me for?

Have you ever looked in the mirror at midnight? Those eyes, like a starless nocturnal sky What did you see? I couldn't think. How on earth are those windows still intact?

I was trapped in a silk pink fabric. Abandoned in a corner of your room. Did you hear my heavy breathing? Or do you just sit there alone?

Reason is not your guide. It's pointless to sit and talk. Do you still have the time? Could you give me those hours back?

I opened the door and said goodbye. But you continued to cry. No more; I put the fabric over you. I will never use that reflective door.

Do you have a favourite conspiracy theory

I'm between that conspiracy about bots managing internet traffic, data mining and manipulating the public's opinion to certain agendas and the alleged vampire attacks in central america staged by some US agencies in order to cause mass hysteria.