Smoking Dead. S. Bonavida Ponce

helicopters flying through the air, we could see strange men. Mr. Juarez stood on the edge of the building not knowing what to do. Then a voice sounded from a megaphone, “We are the Mounted Police of Canada. Be still, sir. We come to save you. It was a giant helicopter, the bad guys who smoke started howling very loudly, the bad guys who smoke are really annoyed by the noises. Inside the helicopter some clowns with red noses held out a rope and told us to tie it under our arms. I was the first one to go up. In addition to the clowns and the Canadian Mounted Police, some men in brown skirts were looking at us. “We are Shaolin Monks, not small subjects,” that's what they told me. And then they picked up Mr. Juarez, who was crying a lot. I didn't cry anymore. At that moment I looked at those red noses of the clowns and I knew that the world would be a better place again.

      Now I have to leave you dear diary.

      I am in a safe place and the clowns will take care of us. Here I have many things to do.

      Signed: Pepa Frank.

      ~~~~~~~

      A chubby tear rolled down Peter's cheek. That was something unbecoming of a male with hair on his chest. He clarified his voice and tried to hide the best he could.

      “It’s hot Corinne, isn’t it? Don't you think that this incredible story of survival and courage so authentic made me cry? It's this terrible heat. An emotional account of the first days of salvation. What did you think?”

      “ZZZzzzz...” For every answer, a little grunt came out of Corinne's throat. Her posture seemed to indicate a deep trance in the country of Morpheus, neck slightly tilted, temple leaning against the window. She seemed really asleep.

      “Corinne?” A new drop of sweat fell on Peter's temple.

      “Well, at least she hasn't seen me cry.”