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The book she left upon the bench was opened by some undetermined page, and a cold wind coming all of a sudden paged the book to and fro, as if some supernatural entity was trying to read the book chaotically, in such an extravagant order. Let´s go home this instant, said the mother, it´s getting windy. And then, they disappeared somewhere behind a pack of frozen white dead bushes. You see, said he, I would like to be that kid´s father. How awful! , shouted his friend, looking at him scared. You surely don´t want that! , and then continued as if explaining an obvious universal truth to such an slow student in some a-long-time-ago forsaken classroom, to be engaged is to be dead, my friend , he frowned. Don´t look at me like that, you know I am right. No, I don´t. That wind breezed again, and he decided it was the right time to come back home. That woman was not mistaken at all: it is getting awfully windy. So, what? , asked his friend. So, I´m making a move home. You come? His friend seemed to ponder for a bit, then responded: Sure, my cigar´s done. There´s nothing here for me, any more.

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I started making up stories early, when I was 7 years old. I know some of them are saved somewhere, but I can barely remember exactly where. So, I content myself thinking them safe. I´m Spanish but I like writing in English.

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