She woke up surrounded by sirens. Her body covered with plastic couldn’t move, but she was still alive. If someone noticed it she would’ve survived - without a kiss.

I hadn’t met my true father until the Revolution.

The corners of his mouth became deeper while he lifted his lips and his face was brighter than white. When he carried me outside on his shoulders everyone looked the same.

Later I learned it was an infection spreading beyond the country’s borders. They called it change, then.

I never knew a song could free a Nation.

Birds were chirping outside. In the room it was becoming night:

– I’m tired of washing your pants. You need to be more careful when playing. - She yelled, while scrubbing.

Once he left, silence stood there - the birds and his mother too, waiting for him. The night came back, as usual, but he didn’t

My parents tried to abort me, but it was too late. I survived despite their shame. Gestation lasted a minute. The womb was ready, so hot I boiled. My birth was premature. A slip in a split second and I had a name to be cursed.
She was distracted and he went unnoticed. Now they blame the unwanted child. I am a stain in a white dress, source of embarrassment and sorrow. I shall never be ignored.

After choosing a topic you can press the underlined text for definitions.

Topic: MacDonald’s



Past the golden arches everything seemed colorful to the random passerby. The uniforms that this corporation had its employees wear made them feel jaded. The old school clients and the tinfoil hat users, however, know that a much sinister pickle took place in that site. Fifty years ago…


Would you like to know more?

Press a button: [Y] [N]


It was all grey inside. Literally, grey matter all over it. That’s what made the Big Mac taste so good. It seems urban myths are true after all; MacDonald’s turned us into zombies…


Hey! Don’t go, I’m not done with the story yet!


– “Damn machine, it’s reporting gibberish. It’s Wikipedia all over again! When will they end this?”, the boy wondered while the machine kept playing the tampered record:


The Hacker’s Alliance shall not be defeated. «Resistance is futile!».

They nearly killed us in the sixties.

We were made Public Enemy Number One. Everyone was informed about our weaknesses. They shattered our homes and tried to run away from our vengeance.

A black hole in their tactic was our ally. They wandered in scientific debates, losing momentum for global actions.

We were slaughtered, but it made us flourish. We raced. What else could anyone expect? Our name is Malaria; survival is our nature. Darwin tried to warn them.

He traded the rainbow suit for a dress. It baffled Darwin, I’m sure:
- How could a multicolored shark exist and - even more puzzling - why did it evolve into a Mermaid?
The answer relies in Science-Fiction.

When the sunlight fades and the moon replaces the sun, a little boy starts to shiver. In the school’s backyard the wait for his mother ends just a few seconds before the last ray shines through the clouds. If the traffic wasn’t so deafening one could have heard him sighing, from the backseat, wishing he could control time and the four seasons.
- And why not the world instead? The words escaped from his mouth, while she was applying lipstick yet again. She took a glance at him through the mirror, but his reflection wasn’t there. - What are you up to now, Phillip? Her question wasn’t met with a reply. Anxious, she looked behind. Her eyes found him crouching at the back of a seat.

***

At home, it is always the same scene with dinner. He throws a tantrum and, after he calms down, handles the spoon in a slow pace, trying to delay the inevitable. She is observing across the kitchen and a wrinkle of worry appears to have grown deeper in her face. When he swallows the last bit his face translates its taste - but cold soup is the least of his troubles. As soon as he finishes the ice cream he’ll be sent to bed.
Inside his room, the shadows inhabiting it assume shapes that scare him, while colliding with each other. He carries me around all day fiercely and trusts me to keep his secrets and hold his belongings, but at night (when he’s about to be alone) I suddenly become the monster underneath his bed.

We had to face the consequences. We murdered a teacher. That was the only known crime in Belusa. If we were in the Milky Way we’d be safe, but here we are facing death penalty.

Our story begins with a day, like every one’s does in this alley. It was our first stay in this system. We’d been brought by our mothers to have a proper education, as they said. They didn’t spare any efforts to bring us across the Universe, if that was what it took for their kids to have a chance to prevail in life. We wasted it. We might as well dance in their graves, now. They are also going to die, if the Council deems us responsible for our actions. Our defense is pleading temporary insanity.

It did make us go nuts, though. Not him, the trousers. He wore polyester trousers. It was unbearable. We had to do something about it. We tried sending him mail, but it always came back as unread. Then we sent him a basket of stylish suits, made with nanotechnology. You know how expensive those are! And yet, he kept wearing that damn old-fashioned fabric. We couldn’t help ourselves and now we have a trial to attend - we’ve beaten up the wrong guy.

I’m bittersweet when I wake up.


Soft and slow. My voice is on play:
I wake up everyday.
When I suddenly do it’s all harsh and bleak.
My eyelids start to open while my body remains silent. I uncover myself from the sheets of depression in a slow dance with my mind. Everyday.
Surrounded by walking corpses. Talking corpses. Non-stop talking. They shatter the stories I lived while asleep from my memory. They expel them with their voices. With their sharp loud voices.
I begin to wonder where I can buy a piece of silence – for when I stop dreaming.
I imagine I’ll have to die for it.
I’d die for silence (I guess).

Even my window screams, with all the daylight. The harsh light. It tells me to do things:

Dress up! Make breakfast! Be polite and nice to the annoying walking corpses in your house! Take the Bus! Say “Good Morning” to everyone with a smile - even if it’s not a good morning for you; even if they don’t care about you! Go to class! Pay attention! Have good grades! Save your money! Beware of Wolves!… I’m a girl, so I have to be nice and cuddly. I have to be tidy and clean. I have to be a woman. I have to…
At this point I no longer am certain if this is the window talking or if it was me all along.

The air is cold when my feet push it against the wooden floor. I have no socks and feel like Oliver Twist. Only I’m a girl.

I lift my hand so it can open a drawer. My head tilts down and my eyes search for something to wear. Something that matches. Brown and white. Brown and black. Black and white.
I push yet again my feet against the wooden floor – it squeaks while warming. I then raise the volume of the radio playing one of those 80’s electric songs and I feel my lips drawing a smile in my face. Alone, I get warmer.

I obey the window’s screams, so I can just get my dose of silence. My daily need. My addiction.

I hate waking up in the morning. I don’t know why. All I can do is guess.

I don’t hate the sunlight. I don’t hate the birds I hear twittering amidst the urban noises. I don’t even hate the people I can see, from my window, walking onto their business. It’s nothing like that. I guess I just hate waking up.

***

It is a hard task, to wake up. You have to quit dreaming. I always wondered why. Did the dream exhaust all its possibilities? If that’s true, how can you return in the following night?

***

The sun comes. Everybody wakes up – except me. I’m part of the résistance.
I’m also drunk and you never listen to me. You chose to keep your pace. You see me from afar, but when you get closer you dress yourself in distance. You are naked – you undress empathy in the street. You make your eyes look towards the horizon, but your landscape is dull. Grey, like the city we live in.

I lost my senses after your last words.
When I woke up I felt pressure breaking my chest. I opened my eyes and couldn’t see past my body. I was running down a dark abyss, surrounded by water and deadly fauna. I was sinking so slowly a snail could surpass me and win the race – if there was one.
Your revenge was bittersweet. You left me for dead with an oxygen container. I appreciate the irony in my last blow. You always said I never let you breathe.

She wore the Apocalypse and smirked.

Office Report #3679

Seattle, 2/3/2147

     Our narrator fell into a pit of whispers. Last month he filed a complaint. The security team followed it and concluded that his voice had exhausted all its possibilities. We informed him that it was beyond our control to fix it. He has quit his job. I believe he can be found somewhere, reading in mute.

Mark Haddock,

Director of Office Relations.

By: Eloísa Valdes.