From dream to freedom (last part)

December 9, 2017

By Eddy Montilla.

(Taken from Real stories told as fiction)

Victor turned his gaze to the ceiling and noticed that all the five fans were hanging from it, right over the rotary table and the employees who were working in the middle of it. Either by a stroke of luck or by a trick of fate, it had turned out that the location of the fans coincided with the place of the lunch boxes he had already prepared and stored. Like before, he only had to double the number again. Then, he waited patiently until the boss were only several meters away from the center of the fans and then, as fast as he put the food inside the boxes every day (and he did it quickly), he began to throw the lunch boxes in the air hitting accurately either the low ceiling or the blades of the fans in their right or left side to his boss’s disgrace and luckily for the others. On that day, braised pork in a tangy tomato sauce and Neapolitan pasta were the main dish. The rest of the story is self-explanatory, I guess, since there was no part of the boss or his adorable suit without stain. The others, like children seeking refuge at the center of the circle, looked with astonishment how the lunch boxes turned into a rain of tomato sauce and pasta after hitting the blades.

Victor took out of his worn-out wallet a sum of money equal to the value of all that lunch boxes he had indirectly thrown at his boss and put it on the table. After that, he took a look at that factory and other workers, and later, he began to move slowly and serenely away that place with his hand into his pockets. Neither in the factory, city nor that country, he was never seen again.

Copyright 2017 littlethings4all.wordpress.com. All rights are reserved.

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From dream to freedom (penultimate part)

December 2, 2017

By Eddy Montilla.

(Taken from Real stories told as fiction)

Evening had fallen, but not the temperature, hence Victor´s sweat. The heat was so unbearable that workers don´t even feel up to saying a single word that could help break the monotony of their job. They just kept working, numbered and perfectly and slowly lined up as white domino pieces, but sweating as wild black horses galloping without any reason. Five fans moved trying to keep up appearances of job security to no avail since the faces and sweat of the workers brought the appalling condition and terrible humidity of that workplace to light.

I used to sing a song that taught me the value of friendship. The chorus said that when a friend is gone, there remains a gap that cannot be filled with the arrival of another friend. Today, I would give even “half of kingdom of paper and dreams” to meet the singer-songwriter and ask him: What if instead of one friend, all of them have gone away? Every day, I go straight to my room after work, almost always at the beginning of a new day and never get a phone call. I turn on my old computer looking of a single message and only find nothing. Over time, I have gotten used to waiting 365 days to be congratulated, words of congratulations that at my age are just a mere reminder of how old I am, similar to the few ones who sent them to me on that day. Nevertheless, I find myself a little bit less forgetful since I do not repeat the same phrases every year as if the copy and paste function of a computer were used.

Víctor closed his eyes trying to imagine what the last chapter of his life would be like in that place, but this time, he kept moving his hands. Few seconds later, he was forced to open them, not because of his boss’s customary yells, but when he heard the sobs of an old man leaving by the factory back gate. After that, he did not want to think anymore. I’d rather say: He could not think anymore because if a woman’s tears usually touch good people, an old man’s sobs are weights that oppress the soul. The rest of the workers remained in silent to a point that only the sound of the plastic containers could be heard. They continued their job, afraid of suffering the same fate as the old man. Only Victor gazed intently into his boss’s face that had shaped a grotesque and ludicrous landscape with its sign of fury and sarcasm at the same time.

When the boss felt the weight of someone’s eyes and had the feeling of being observed, he began to look for that man. The eyes of both gazed at one another. It was then that he went over to Victor enraged as an enclosed bull. This time, Victor was no longer fearing and quaking. He was waiting serenely for his boss with his hands into his pockets. And do not forget this: When a desperate person walks serenely or fear turns into calm, something big is going to happen and on that day, it really did. (TO BE CONTINUED…)

Copyright 2017 littlethings4all.wordpress.com. All rights are reserved.


From dream to freedom (part 2)

November 5, 2017

By Eddy Montilla

(Taken from Real stories told as fiction)

“I wanted to be an unpretentious writer or a good journalist.” He said in hushed tones. Today, I do not even write a letter of the alphabet, but numbers: How many lunch boxes I have prepared and how many boxes more are waiting for me until I can finally go to my room to take a rest for the next day because it’s not letters, but figures what ensure my subsistence: Less than 15 lunch boxes made, and my salary, already a pittance, is reduced; less than 10 and I will lose this job, the bane of my life, my Sysiphus masquerading as a saviour.

Victor continued thinking about his life and took without noticing his numb hands off the table with rotating movement that put in front of his eyes in small intervals the plastic containers and the different foods he had to package. The lunch boxes to be prepared every day were so many that he did not even look at the ten numbers outlining the steps to be taken. His work had become an almost daily routine and so had his life. A tear that never flew from his eyes for being deemed as a sign of imminent defeat (or perhaps for his deep pride of man) could be seen last week when he was tidying things up in his narrow room and made with his hands the same numbered steps he usually takes at work to put the food into the boxes: Automation has reached its zenith and his soul too.

He took a deep breath and repeated the same thing: “I just wanted to be an unpretentious writer or at least a good journalist. That’s all I wanted to be.” He said while he gently touched and counted each of his calluses on the right hand with his left index finger and did not have to do the same action with the other callused hand just by doubling the number.

“De nan blosadi drepensus togoshi”? (Why on earth have you stopped working?)” His boss asked with a face that looked like a chained bulldog.

Victor began to tremble in fear for the question and to sweat for another reason. It was no wonder since he could never find any trace of human sensitivity in this man’s face or words. In fact, the only visible aspect was his voracious appetite for money and banality, clearly reflected on the very expensive and impeccable way he always dressed, on his continuous gestures whenever he tidied up his suit and, above all, on the way he watched all his workers from his well heated in winter and air-conditioned in summer office, a place he never left except for rebuking or firing someone.

“Sorry, sir. You are telling me to keep working, right?” Victor said, trying to guess in his boss’s face what he could not understand from his words. Victor did not think anything until his boss went back to his office, but this time with his hands on the table.

When the absurd becomes normal, you have to make radical changes or accept your failure. And what could be more absurd than a place where you can stop thinking, but never stop moving your hands? My ten fingers, my two hands are the only things of value to this man. (TO BE CONTINUED…)

Copyright 2017 littlethings4all.wordpress.com. All rights are reserved.


From dream to freedom (part 1)

September 30, 2017

By Eddy Montilla

(Taken from Real stories told as fiction)

When I was a child, my mother told me more than once that the difference between a dream and reality was only one step either forward or backward. During my silent nights, with only loneliness for company, I always wonder in which direction I gave mine.

I have thought about my mother several times today. She could not finish her schooling, but she loves reading, making orange preserves and talking about politics. I think it was for her great ability in her second pleasure that the philosophers and intellectuals of my small town used to come almost every Saturday at twilight to the backyard of our small house for their gatherings. One day, during one of their customary conversations, one of them noticed how simple my mother’s garden was, only surrounded by roses, and paradoxically, how the beauty of our garden was, nourished by the same characteristic.

”What is the best place for a flower?” He asked, while rubbing his hands and looking at them with the same expression as scavengers usually have.

And their answers were as varied as contradictory: “Fallen petals floating in the still water of the bathtub.” One said. “On the bed, over a white sheet.” Another said. “How about in the kitchen to make a mother’s job more bearable or in a crystal vase in the living room to welcome the guests?” They continued their brainstorming sessions until it occurred to one of them to ask my mother the same question, I don’t know why, perhaps because he wanted to know how those who have never heard about Nietzsche or Hegel or have never read Oscar Wilde think. My mother, who came out the kitchen at that time with her preserves in hand, answered him quickly and naturally:

”Right there.” She said, while pointing out to them the stems. “The place where it was born.”

My mother, without understanding the reason yet, sold few preserves on that day and, as spontaneously as her answer was, they gradually began to leave our house, like the teachers of religious law and the Pharisees in the biblical passage of Jesus and the woman taken in adultery: “…beginning with the oldest.” (TO BE CONTINUED)

Copyright 2017 littlethings4all.wordpress.com. All rights are reserved.


Last Love Poems: Between love and friendship

July 22, 2017

By Eddy Montilla.

If you see her someday, there is nothing you have to say.

When time and distance presage the worst,

bare silence is better than plain words.

Show her your best smile, raise your head

and keep calm instead.

And she will come to understand

how sad sadness can be,

how deeply it can bore through your soul.

Talk to her about everything, but don’t tell her anything.

A long time has passed

and time says things, and it also betrays…

Please, don’t tell her anything…

don’t tell her how I have been,

If I smile or cry, if I cry or smile,

if I still go out in the evenings

for my long walks,

not a single word to her.

Don’t tell her the way I live; don’t tell her the way I’m dying.

If I can neither live in the present nor forget my past,

if I buried my future or I’m still looking for it,

if I joke as I did to make people laugh,

to hide my taciturn heart,

If my saddest poems come in autumn or spring,

just raise your head, show your smile, don’t tell her anything

because dry leaves are blown by the wind,

but the wind is also blown by the dry leaves.

If you see her someday, don’t show her anything.

Neither show her pictures nor videos.

That only helps to engender rumours

that will die at first light.

To recall distant memories and surf on the waves of nostalgia

will not make me grow, will not increase my hopes.

Today, at this point of my life,

I leave those things for a special night:

My room in half-light,

with Spanish Serrano ham and Manchego cheese

and a glass of red wine to nurture treasured memories.

If you see her some day,

keep walking forever, but stop for a while.

We both loved her and neither of us had her.

We both lost her. It’s time to forget.

You loved her outside; I loved her inside.

I loved her soul; you loved her smile.

We are friends, friends with ties,

ties that bind us to a friendship that will never die.

Copyright 2017 littlethings4all.wordpress.com. All rights are reserved.


Hell only lasts twenty years (last part)

May 6, 2017

By Eddy Montilla.

(Taken from Real stories told as fiction).

Chris ran his hands through his hair and later used them to cover his mouth. The back-and-forth movements of his eyes betrayed his calculations and skepticism. On their way back, Chris and Erika were both physically and emotionally separated.

”From here, I will go home alone. The dinner was good. Thank you very much for everything.” She said and went away while Chris stood frozen there, watching her become smaller through the distance until disappearing into the darkness. He did not know what to think or what to do. He just stood there completely indifferent to time, to the snow that started to fall, indifferent to that place and beyond. Some time later, once at home, he lay down on the bed, unable to sleep that night. His action did not worry him so much as the indelible impression that Erika’s impassive face and her twenty years of forced abstinence made on him.

”How on earth could her husband sentence her to something like that for a reason like that? How many Erikas are living here?” He asked himself.

The following days were long and confusing for Chris. He decided to make a long trip to think deeply about his future and, above all, because a bad experience is more traumatic when you are closer to it. At the station, his patience was tested when he couldn’t read the instructions on how to use the ticket machine. He was good at controlling his emotions, but always had difficult times when he had to conceal them. So, the customer behind him knew exactly what was going on, and with little spontaneous but correct English, helped him buy his ticket.

”Thank you, and you speak very well.”

”Oh, no! We can’t speak English and you know that, Chris. I am a psychologist. By the way, my wife told me that all the students had a wonderful time during the party the other day.”

”Why does he know my name? Is he Erika’s husb…? No way, Chris. He said clearly: “All the students…”

Chris felt safe and breathed a sigh of relief. He said goodbye to him amid the noise of trains that were coming and leaving the station.

”Thanks for helping Erika with her English!” He shouted.

Chris was petrified with his right foot on the ground and his left leg motionless in air like flamingoes fleeing from cold waters. He glanced at the sky, went back to where Erika’s husband was and while shaking hands with him, left the ticket on his palm.

”I return to San Antonio right now.” He said with his hands into his pockets and walking away calmly while Erika’s husband found himself dumbfounded for seconds trying to figure out Chris’ actions.

”Chris, are you all right? If you have problems, I can help you. I am a psychologist. Chris さん(san), Chris さん(san)!”

Chris stopped walking, turned around and told him: “Do me a favor, please. Use that ticket and go immediately to see a doctor, I mean, another psychologist, but more normal than you and ask him: “What’s Hell, doctor, twenty years without love when you are still young or the next twenty years when you realize you can’t make love?”

Copyright 2017 littlethingsforall.wordpress.com. All rights are reserved.


Hell only lasts twenty years (penultimate part)

April 29, 2017

By Eddy Montilla.

Taken from Real stories told as fiction

”I think it is a little bit late, Erika. Your husband must be impatiently waiting for you. So, I’m going to…”

”Not today.“ She interrupted him before he could start what he had in mind. “He went somewhere to participate in a conference and will be back tomorrow. I didn’t have to prepare dinner tonight.” She said, struggling to hide her happiness for that.

Her last comment let them extend their conversation till the “the breaking point”, this one that usually comes when silence turns into long and undesirable time intervals indicating that the moment to leave has come. In the second bar, Chris won the courtesy battle and paid the bill. When they left, there was not a soul (neither a good nor a bad one) on the streets. Time and the cold of that night had undoubtedly done a good job. Erika, however, led Chris through the most isolated and narrowest corners over there trying to make her best night in many years longer to no avail. In the worst-case scenario, she didn’t want to see it die there, in front that bar. Unfortunately, silence became quickly her worst enemy. The wind was howling around the streets, which led to the impression of being in a phantasmagorical place.

Bang!

They heard a dreadful and deafening sound of a metal advertising board blown off by the wind. They looked back quickly, but before they could understand what really happened, a big and black stray cat came from nowhere meowing boisterously from the gloom. There was not time for anything, and Erika did what a lot of women usually do in cases like this: She seized his arm. After the sudden scare, they both giggled and did what people do not usually do: They began to walk hands entwined.

”Wait a minute. What’s going on here?” He said to himself.

In his country, perhaps, he could find an explanation to that confusing situation, but there everything looked like a Gordian knot. They walked in silence and only when got to the end, they realized that it was a blind alley. Chris felt the same: “I had reached a dead end.” He thought. That was the moment when the unlikely turned into reality. The man who always weighed everything on the balance of reason, could stand no more and, for the first time in his life, he decided to feel the inscrutable ecstasy of betting on luck, and you know what? He won: He kissed her.

”She said and did nothing. What should I do now? To say I am sorry? That would bring more problems than solutions. Her feminine sense will make her think that it was only a whim for my part and her woman’s pride would be hurt, and once that happens, then it is when the war really breaks out. I have no choice but to continue what I started.” He thought.

But this time, Chris and his ineffable logical thinking both failed.

”No, Chris, please. That’s not right. Besides, I have forgotten how to do that.”

“Come on, Erika, you are exaggerating. Giving a kiss is not something people forget, let alone in a couple of days.” He said while thinking a way to leave the cumbersome situation he had made himself.

“And in 20 years?” Erika asked with an unfathomable expression. “When my husband knew that I couldn’t have children, he told me that it made no sense to make love. Since then, it has passed 20 years, Chris, 20 years… (TO BE CONTINUED).

Copyright 2017 littlethingsforall.wordpress.com. All rights are reserved.