365 Fiction Bites

I have so many feelings right now. My number one feeling is I am in the mood for rice. A lot of rice. Colored rice. Like that Basmati one that is so unbelievably amazing I can't understand why anyone would grow it or cook it or season it any other way.

The thing is I don't even want to eat it. I just want to look at it and hear it talk to me. Colored rice does that sometimes.

Second of all, I want to drown in music. And, going back to the colored rice, I want nothing but neon colors in my rice. I need bright colors, the kind that very seldom appear in nature, to cancel out my color blindness.

It is the out-of-this-world metabolism that this rice posseses. Its rhythm, in sync with itself. The fact that I could take it or leave it. I would gladly take it, and still if denied to me, I would still be able to go on with my life as if I never had heard of it. Mulit-colored rice, you say? What a funny strange concept.

Still, I'd almost rather take it. And let it flutter with my water.

I was ten, she was nine. We did not ride on horses made of sticks. I watched her from the distance, looking forward to those delicious twenty seconds a day I devoured her vision with guilty joy.

That year my class had a two-day end of term field trip. My best friend and I were put on the same cabin with some other three or four girls I felt quite partial about. I remember that night, coming back from dinner she and I sat on the little cabin porch and started talking about nothing. Well, she did. As usual, I'd rather do the listening.

My thoughts had already drifted a bit, gone to the safe place they were most used to go these days, which was to her. The nine-year-old that seemed so much younger than me, only a fifth grader. My friend had gone quiet for a moment and started talking with a tint of embarrassment. She rapidly confessed to me that she thought she might like this boy from our class. Something in my mind just finished connecting the dots.

'Fuck. So, we're supposed to like boys already and I have to be the weirdo in yet another thing. And it has to be at this. Fuck.'

Su cuerpo estaba enfermo. Desde que creía, realmente, no estar sano, su cuerpo estaba enfermo. Lo mismo estaba convencido de tener sentimientos reales por esa persona, esa misma en la que estás pensando tú ahora. Se había empeñado en llamarlo amor. Y, ya se sabe que en ocasiones las mentiras, de tanto repetidas, se terminan convirtiendo en una realidad.

Freedom always walked around barefoot. Mostly she would wear socks, but she had taken one off to fully experience the cold touch of the linoleum floor. Her right leg was crossed over her left, and her right foot was swinging subtly back and forth.

She tucked a lock of rebellious curly hair behind her ear, deep in thought. She smiled the most mischievous of smiles and lifted both of her bony arms up in the air, as if to stretch out. Something was on her mind. Something irreverent, no doubt.

If you lend me a pencil, I'll draw you a pretty picture. If you give me the pencil, I promise to use it for good and not for evil. But I can't promise I'll use it for anyone but myself. That anyone includes you.

Your breathing got into that rhythmic fight for air a while ago, and a few drops of sweat have already juiced their way to your forehead. But you keep pushing it, 'cause this is your favorite part.

Up and down, your arms can barely take it anymore. You are afraid they might give up any second now, but you gotta keep going. Can't stop now, the best part is about to come.

The peak of a workout, the pinnacle itself, is the moment your entire body aches and screams and begs of you, stop, have mercy and stop before your strain muscles tear, your heart beats itself out of your chest and your blood reaches its boiling point.