Mum comes home twice a week

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.

Autorentext

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.