SHORT STORY

                    From over two thousand years ago reverberate the words of Cicero:          "Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents , and everyone is writing a book ."

                  -Why are the clouds so low?                   -I don't know, but it doesn't smell like rain.                   The sky is covered in heavy rolls of fast moving clouds. It's dark as if night is going to take over.                   -It looks like a boiling foam... ash?!                    I don't answer her.                                    The field is flat with grey grass. The color of the grass scares me, I sit on my knees to better see it. Can't tell ...

                   Those who are not dead twist, bend and talk.                    If only the dead could speak.                            

                The house is empty.                 -Finally, a summer morning with a quiet house.                He got up and went to the bathroom. Teeth brush. Shower.                Downstairs he turned on the TV, still naked. His eyes are still sleepy. Just a lazy morning after two months of working round the clock and round the globe in the militarized junta that is telecom business.                His eyes switched from staring deep in to the TV to the moving trinkets on the shelves,next to the windows as the light coming from outside changes to a dim grey. His hands clutch the sofa as the house starts to tremble. He stands up in a crouched position ready to jump to save his life . Tripping on the coffee table and coat hanger he rushes outside slamming the door. ...