A Romance in the Cemetery

          It seemed to be a normal evening. Mr. Antonio left home and was heading to his night journey in the municipal cemetery. He was expecting that it would be only some more boring and tiresome hours of work.

          As soon as he arrived at the place, he started to walk silently, counting hours for that night to end quickly.

          Suddenly, he heard some noise. Something, besides him, walked around the cemetery. He trembled with fear.

          Would it be a thief? Drug users? A ghost?

          He needed to figure it out. He walked slowly. He didn't want them to notice his presence. After some footsteps, he saw the shadows of two people over the cemetery wall. He could not see the people, only the shadows.

          He remained stuck where he was, watching. And got surprised with what he saw: the shadows seemed to hug each other. A true embrace.

-A couple. -He whispered.

         He got even more curious. He wanted to know who those people were and why they chose a cemetery to date.

         Walked a bit more, but realised that the shadows were kissing then. As he didn't want to be inconvenient, he returned a little. The shadows looked happy. The old man felt touched with that scene.

          He did not need an explanation, a reason, didn't even need to comprehend that situation, after all, they were happy.

          Suddenly, the shadows stopped kissing. And, holding hands, they walked towards the way out. For Mr. Antonio, knowing who those people were did not matter anymore. Despite that, he went after them, just curiosity. When he turned right, he stopped, shocked. Actually, those shadows did not belong to proper people, they were two skeletons that walked calmly, crossing the gate of the cemetery and disappearing next.

          The old man got confused. He sat on the ground and stared at nothing.

          Those skeletons, whom did they belong to?

          Did they belong to a man and a woman? To two men? To two women? To black people? Or to white people? Did they belong to thin people or fat ones? He would never know.

          The only conviction he had was that, regardless of everything he believed in or used to think it was right, they were happy.

Lianderson Ferreira

Eighty-six Years Old

          The sun had risen; the birds started to sing and wake up the people from the neighbourhood with that graceful sound. The old ladies greeted on the street and opened the window of their houses to receive the light of that great day. Mr. Charlie had woken up as well. He put on his slippers, brushed his teeth and washed his face. Looked at himself in the mirror: a new sign of the age became visible on his face. Walked towards the kitchen and prepared his morning tea. He was going upstairs while he put the cup close to the lips.

-Oscar, I will prepare breakfast. Get up from that bed, otherwise you will miss the class. –He said by his grandson’s bedroom door. –Oscar, did you hear me?

-I heard you, grandpa. I will be downstairs in a moment. –the boy answered.

          Oscar got up from his bed and, still sleepy, walked towards his toilet. Washed his face. Looked at himself in the mirror: a new acne had appeared. He took a shower and got dressed. Breakfast time.

-You took a long time. –His grandfather said to make conversation.

-No, I didn’t, grandpa. I came downstairs very quickly.

-What are you going to do after school?

-I’m going to meet some friends. –Oscar said, biting a piece of toast.

-But, will you be at home until five? Remember our tea. And, today, it’s not just some usual tea, it’s my birthday’s afternoon tea. –Mr. Charlie said a bit disappointed.

-Of course, grandpa, I will be at home before that. Now, I’ve got to go. –Oscar said, while was grabbing his backpack and getting up. Kissed his grandfather’s forehead and whispered: -Happy Birthday, grandpa. Not every day someone turns eighty-six. –He smiled.

          Oscar was the only person that was left in Charlie’s life, as well as he was the only relative Oscar had. They two were, besides grandfather and grandson, friends, mates, brothers.

          At school, the same usual shit, nothing new: boring teachers, boring classes...

          Oscar was looking forward to the moment he would meet his friends.

          The bell rang. At the front gate, Ruth, Leanne, Max, Tom and Tylar.

-Hey, mates. –Oscar said as soon as he met them.

-Hey ya, where are we going to? –Ruth asked.

-There is a party two blocks from here, in a very well-known pub. They must be waiting for us. Shall we? –Tylar said.

-Let’s go! –They answered.

          Party. Joy. Fun. Drinks. Music. Dance. Smiles. Drinks. Food. Presentations. Games. Drinks. Cigarettes. Cigarettes. Drinks. Drinks.

          Some stars were already easily seen in sky; the moon was appearing timidly, getting out of the back of dark clouds. And the party was on. Nothing mattered, they were there just for fun. Nothing mattered.

          Eleven at night.

-The day was very funny with you all. –Oscar said.

-So, we can do it all over again next week. –Max said laughing.

-Bye, mates. –The boy screamed, waving to his friends.

          Oscar picked the key from his pocket and as soon as he put it in the lock, realised something: the door was open. “That’s weird”, he thought.

          It was almost midnight and his grandfather hadn’t closed the door yet? He entered. The lights were off. He thought about going upstairs to his bedroom, but needed a glass of water. He turned on the living room lights and there he was, back turned and sitting on an armchair: his old and beloved grandfather.

-Grandpa? Why haven’t you slept yet? –Oscar asked, getting closer slowly. As soon as he noticed there was no answer, he spoke again: -Grandpa? –Nothing was heard.

          Oscar looked at the little desk in the living room and, on it, a cake with a melted candle, some biscuits and a cup of cold tea. He looked back to his grandfather, he was holding another cup of tea, his eyes were open and, on his face, some tears were drying.

          That was exactly when Oscar understood everything: He had missed. Missed his best friend’s birthday, missed his mate’s eighty-sixth birthday, missed his brother’s last moments, but, besides everything, he had missed the chance to say goodbye, to say those few words that would have made all the difference to that great man that he admired so much: “Grandpa, I love you!”.

Lianderson Ferreira

Footsteps

       Around 11.00 O’clock p.m., in a dark evening, with no moon, no stars, I was coming back home after a long and exhaustive day of work, walking along a dark street and, apparently, desert. The silence was loud. It would be possible to hear pins dropping on the ground. But, suddenly, I heard some footsteps. Strong and hurried footsteps, as if they were trying to reach someone.

       I looked back, the noise paused and I saw nothing. I continued to walk, a little less slow by this time. And the noise of the footsteps restarted. What would that be? I was not even a bit curious to find out. I hurried. And the hidden footsteps followed my rhythm. I ran. I didn’t know from what I was running away, but something told me that I had to run as quickly as I was able to. The footsteps did the same thing. I shouted.

       I got to run even quicker. That street seemed to never end. No cars, no houses. Only the footsteps and me.

       I stopped for a second, breathed in and tried to hear the footsteps. I didn’t need to try that much, they kept firm and increasingly hurried. What would that be? I wondered once again. But the footsteps were getting closer. I wouldn’t be able to keep the rhythm any longer. I teetered, stumbled several times, but I knew that I couldn’t stop. The noise was louder and louder, stronger, closer. The footsteps had reached me. So, suddenly, I fell off my bed. And woke up!

Lianderson Ferreira

Memories

The living-room clock struck 3:00 p.m., she got up from the sofa and went to the window. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. It was dark outside, but not as dark as her heart.

It had been exactly three years since her son had left to the war. In her boy’s bedroom, she insisted on keeping everything as he had left. The same bed sheet, the same messed-up desk which still had Robert Musil’s book open on page ninety-eight, she even insisted on keeping on it the cup of tea that he used to drink before sleeping.

Her husband had passed away a few months ago; she had never experienced that loneliness. She used to think she was too much old for morning walks or comings to Sunday masses and she was not able to see that much to pass her time at a sewing machine.

She closed the window and walked towards where the old piano was. She sat down, cleaned up some powder which had gathered over it and tried some notes. She remembered the time when her husband used to play some good jazz on Monday nights, when he came back from the government department while she followed him by drinking some French wine. She made herself be standing and started crying. She cried as much as she had never cried during those three years, because she realised that she wouldn’t have her husband back and her son would never come back home.

That was the moment when she made a decision. She left the living room without hurry and walked towards the bathroom, picked up a bottle of her medication which Adalberto, her private doctor, had prescribed to help her sleep. She passed by the kitchen and brought a glass of water with her to the bedroom. She took ten pills at once. She thought that taking away her own life would be a lot easier. She lied down on her bed and waited for the sleep to come up to her slowly, and, the next day, there were no memories anymore, no more tears, no more pain... there wasn’t anything else but the certainty of death...

This short story was written by one of my mates, 

Amanda Luna.

A Fallen Angel

Well... First of all, I’m the narrator and you shall never know who I am, you don't need to see my outside to know in deep what I am from the inside. I'm going to tell you a story about an angel, a fallen one, to be specific. Don't you worry, he's fallen but he's not mean at all! You must be wondering "why is he fallen if he isn't a bad angel?" and now you must comprehend that intense love can also take you away from your path and it isn’t a bad thing. From the beginning:

Miguel wasn’t very tall, actually, pretty short... Tiny eyes, his skin tone was gold and bright as the colour of his eyes, he would be an ordinary angel, if he didn’t have those beautiful and big wings that could take him anywhere he wanted to. But the most important thing about him is that, besides the beauty, he was usually concentrated in something good, he was always trying to find his love, he didn't want something or someone to call his, he wanted something or someone to fill his empty and good heart and that is when the story begins…

It was a normal day in his life, he was flying around and meeting new people until the moment he saw a pretty girl, but she wasn’t like the others that he had ever seen, those red cheeks and those eyes got him as easily as stealing a child’s candy. He couldn’t let her go without talking to her, he tried to approach several times, but the girl didn’t notice the angel and that made Miguel realise that the girl wasn’t okay, that she wasn’t protected, she needed his attention.

He followed her for fifteen days in a row and he found out that she has always been putting herself in troubles and that she had a secret place, a random place with trees and sand; he also found a way to contact her: he left a part of his feather every day that she was there, but he knew that, by doing that, he would lose his life as an angel and he would become a human and that was what happened. His fall was so big that he also lost his powers, therefore he was a fallen angel without any power, he could be seen but couldn’t be felt… Then, he was the one who needed someone to help him; the girl, for the first time, felt his presence and helped him.

Thus, he learned a lesson with her, he’s never needed a love to see him, he has always needed someone to feel his presence.

This short story was written by one of my students, Rebeca Bivar,

as a way to evaluate the use of the English language

to express her feelings in a creative way.