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Even though the quality of the toys had decreased significantly, It was not until Santa could slid down the chimneys easily, without his big belly stopping his way, that he admitted that he was also affected by the economical situation of the country.
When I came out of the school, I saw one of my weakest student sitting in front of the iron statue of the founder of the school, he was staring at it with a sad and empty look on his eyes. So I, worried, approached him:
"Looking at the statue, uh?" I asked him in a friendly manner.
"Yeah." He answered with a sight.
"Is something wrong?"
"Nope, it's just that sometimes I would like to be made of iron like this statue" he said with melancholy.
"Why?"
"So no one could make me bent down to my knees and I could just remain on my two feet, standing strong."
"Oh, but I can make bent down this statue to its knee."
"How?" he asked me, confused.
"Look" I said, taking a lighter and a key-ring of a miniature of the statue out of my pocket. Then I put the mini statue in the ground in the same way the real statue was standing and, afterwards, I lighted the lighter and put it close to the knees of the key-ring.
"I don't understand."
"Look" I repeated, and after a few seconds, the fire started to melt the knees and legs of the mini statue and it fell to the ground bending down to its knee. My student looked shocked. "Get it?" I asked him, thinking that I had showed him something that didn't need an explanation.
"Yes, yes, thank you!" he told me with a big smile and shining eyes as he grabbed his things and ran out of the school.
The next day, you cannot imagine how much I regretted not explaining my point to my little student, when the fire alarm ran off because he had locked all the student that had bullied him in the gym and had set them on fire.
Even though he was sure that good things come to those who wait, he kept checking the clock every minute that seemed like an eternity.
That day I was tired, so I don't know if this story I'm about to tell is real or if it was just a prank of my imagination; but the other day, while I was in the dinning room of the witch waiting for my best friend, who was getting a tarot reading, between all the images of saints, the crystal balls, masks and the dream catchers that were hanging from the walls, the one that called my attention was one mask made of brown skin, with long black hair, two rounded holes for the eyes, big cheeks and a fine red line that represented the mouth slightly smiling.
When I saw that mask, I was so astonished by it that I couldn't take my eyes off of it during the whole time I was there, in the silence of the dinning room, where one could only hear the tick-tock, of the clock every time a second passed; therefore, you cannot imagine my surprise when, out of the sudden, the fine red line of the mask split into two finer red lines and said with a cold and deadly voice "Hello" but just in that moment, before I could even react to what had just happened, my best friend came out, pissed, of the room where the witch was reading her the tarot, and we left immediately afterwards.
Then, later on, when I told my best friend what had happened to me, she assured me that she hadn't seen any mask, in the dinning room of the witch, like the one I had told her about, and she also told me that I shouldn't worry about it, because it must have been just a cheap trick of that liar and fake witch.
Every time he went back home from work, he took the shortcut through the graveyard; but, this time, since he had worked extra hours and was really late, he decided to take the long road and not to go through the graveyard because there must lots of ghosts and he was afraid of them.
When he got home, he, himself, looked like a ghost, pale and cold, after seeing, through the long road, hundreds of ghosts whom, bored of being always in the graveyard, went out of it to take a walk, leaving the graveyard completely empty to not scare the people who take shortcut through it.
When he was little, the heir, he was never allowed to play with the umbrella inside the house because, according to all the women of the mansion, if he opened the umbrella inside the house his mother would die.
When the heir grew up, he asked his mother to change his last year car for one of the current year; although his mother, for teaching him a lesson of humility, said no. And he, pissed off, ran out of the studio of his mother, went down the stairs and to the lobby, where he picked up a black umbrella and opened it inside the house.
His mother, who had run after him to try to calm him down, saw him opening the umbrella inside the house and was so shocked for what he had done that she had a hear attack and dropped dead in the high part of the stairs.
At five to eight he took out his pillbox, played with it for a moment in his hands and, then, he stared at it, feeling disgusted, angry and impotent; he was sick and tired of depending of that little object and its content to feel good. Then, in his frustration, he threw the pillbox to the floor, just to pick it up, defeated, five minutes later because it was time to take his medication and he had started to feel bad.
When the therapist saw the shades of gray and black on the painting that brought him his patient, to whom he had recommended painting to let him show and express his feelings. He knew, immediately, that he had a lot of work to do.
When the doctor told the king he had the same flu, all the other commoners had, the king felt confused and doubted, for a moment, of the color of his blood. "Is it possible that through my veins run red blood as well as it does in my people?" he asked himself; but then, he looked around and saw the walls of his bedroom covered in Da Vinci's paintings, the floor made of marble, the big chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the big canopied bed.
"No" he answered himself, dissipating all his doubts "What was I thinking? It is impossible that I'm like one of them."
"So, what do you see?" ask the client.
"Nothing."
"How come you see nothing?" demanded the client.
"I'm sorry" answered the witch, worried "but the crystal ball just doesn't show me nothing in your future..."
"You are nothing but a great fake, rip off!" screamed the client, furious, and without letting the witch finish her sentence, she stood up and left the tent.
The next day, the witch read, sadly, the obituary of her client in the morning newspaper. The crystal ball never fails.
365 Microfictions, Flash Fictions, Micro-Stories and Short Stories written by Sir Helder Amos Copyright © 2011 -- Template created by O Pregador -- Powered by Blogger Templates
