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White long wall that are filled with the dead; long time cadavers that might try and come out for air.
The clock strikes midnight, and during all this time the cats come out and play.
A pigeon flies further and further away. In the distance a “plop” can be heard.
The thing - It is now dead.

Melody appears to be sixteen when she first loses her virginity. Joseph Michael: long time neighbor, trumpet-player with the semi-long black hair, fat cheeks and quirky eating-related traits. It is a quick and unhygienic lay. The younger sister sits in the bedroom. She sings along to Aqua – her current trend. Who said that Puccini was the only one that had to be heard?

The pasta sauce boils while legs get tangled. Shaky hands explore what is exposed after all the clothes have been shed. Most of them, things that had never felt the sun burn; they name them as if playing a game: thighs, bellies, bums. They’re all fair play. Can you really blame them? It’s not like society handles nudity well.

The breathings calm down whilst the lemon in the ice tea slowly settles in the bottom of the blue-tinted jar. Dinner has been served. The parents have already called “another death, another job.” Another late arrival is the afterthought. This is but the life of the impaired, of the fucked up, of the reserved – or should one really say pre-served?

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The street is crowded. Smutty grime corpses fill the time with silence. The air with dread. Melody hums silly frill notes. She quiets down. She runs. “What to eat? What to pick?” Her blue skirt twirls. A smile grazes her face allowing dimples to emerge. “There’s just so much to eat these days!” Her mother’s squeaky voice reverberates inside her head. “Remember, Mel, ‘a thoughtful being is worth twice its weight’! You wouldn’t want the neighbors to starve… or would you, my sweet child?”

Some chops, she chooses. “That’ll have to do for now. Mother-dearest might even do her secret sauce.” The load slows her down. The birds fly around. Black winged ones with beaks as long as hands. Oh wait, those are hands! “Oh, you silly birds! Playing around with that which shouldn’t be touched! Tsk tsk I’m sure the mayor wouldn’t approve of such thing”. And just like that, they are dropped. Limbs fall down. Plop. The thing’s already dead.

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Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. Only one hour, five minutes, and thirty seconds left.

The rigid -yet stylish- ruby sofa makes his bum ache. “How long would they keep me company out in the chilly air? How rude of them.” A short pair of legs, a round stomach, fair skin and innocent eyes beneath a sloppy, and also-brown, mop of hair. They inspect through a bitty little hole within the stairs. Three bodies stock together, nutty grins hidden in their eyes.

Zero dot one. Zero dot two. Zero dot three. Slowly, but surely his temperature rises. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. Only forty minutes and seven seconds left.

He searches for his watch, but he just cannot find it. “This has been an odd visit. A failed one, nonetheless. Why didn’t they show up? Could it have started somewhere else?” He sweats. He doesn’t realize it.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

They snicker. Rapidly, the space between them becomes much too small, the young one having joined them not to long ago. Her Barbie-doll falls down and what is the result? A muffle sound. A wicked laugh. Chocolate boy gets up. “What was that sound?” He looks around. Up, then down. Left, then right. “It must be late! The moon is out. The moon is round…” He walks. He pauses. He stares. The soles of his shoes bite him. “Why won’t my parents find me? Oh boy, they really must be stranded.” His shirt is damp. His belt clinks. He walks away. One left foot. Two right foot. Three left foot. Four right foot.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. Just ten minutes, and forty-three seconds left.

The fog won’t clear away. The path is undecided. Where to go? Should we cross! When will fat boy finally give up? He glances ahead. Eight red eyes seem to come next. He panics. He runs. He falls. “Oh, mommy! Why did I have to take that call?” The fog that wouldn’t clear away makes her mind up. Three little chairs. Two colossal ones. That’s what comes next.

“Hello dear Carlos!” The mother says.

“Would you like a piece of bread?” The father offers.

“Perhaps some magic sauce!” Melody claims.

He tilts his head “It’s magical?” Carlos eyes must malfunction. Everything is red. She chuckles. “Oh, no… it’s really not! Come join us” The mother says. She chuckles. “Come join us.” Closer and closer they get.

No se como llamarte.

Me hieres y te hiero.
Unas, dientes y sangre.
Sal, agua, color y limón.

¿Que quieres?
¿Que si te veo? No, no te veo.
No te veo…. No, no te veo.
No veo tu cabello marrón, no veo odio en tu corazón.
Mi dolor, mi rabia, mi energía- ¿que me ciega?
Oh, como me ciega.

¿Simpatía? ¿Que tal un poco de empatía?
Mira de este lado, mira de aquel lado.
La vida no es más que un rombo, ¿no? ¿Que es un cuadrado?
¿Una proteína integral? Qué carajo.

Me hieres y te hiero.
Me muerdes… poco a poco te entierro.
¿Que estás vivo? ¿Y eso que importa?
Si es que por estar vivo es que te entierro.