🎃 Local Stone...

 "Write a scary story." 

The evening. What is the evening?

Dead. What is dead?

Cruelty. What is cruelty?

Reality. What is reality?

You will find a poisonous answer soon.

 

FROM "LOCAL STONE: THE MEXICAN CITY PLAGUED BY DEATH."

"God damn, Stone! Fourteen guys more have been shot dead this morning. Fourteen! Did you hear that, Pilo?" A distance voice yelled while hearing the local news on an old radio from 1944. The noise bounced on every wall through the seven-meter-long hallway until it got to Pilo's room. It seemed as if the sound had been produced next to his ear.  

    "Wait, what?" the guy opened his eyes. Pilo had woken up. His breathing was heavy, disturbing some may assume. Scared and shocked are the words he identified the most later that day. "Fourteen guys, damn. I hoped it would be less. Fourteen families will see their son's bodies today. Fourteen..." He felt an immediate burden over his shoulders; his twenty-two-year-old mind was impacted. He sat up; after that, he did his daily breathing exercise. 

    Caria stood still in front of the kitchen court for two more minutes. The reporter recommended to stay at home, said goodbye, the news finished. Static was the only sign of life in that unpainted and damp kitchen. The black-and-yellow radio tried to get another frequency. It could not. She moved from her leaning position, looking up and down with despair and tiredness. 

    "Move on, lad! We've got a great workload." Pilo's mom muttered. Her black bags were well rounded, her mouth dry and decolored, her tin shape inconsistent. Caria went to her room, left the door open, and screamed: "If we do not go now, we won't finish by sunset, and I don't want to finish like Martinez."

    He was fully aware when he remembered what happened to his friend last week.

    The camera embodied in his left eyebrow started ringing; it stopped when Pilo pushed it. "Please, recite your engagement letter. You have got two minutes," it said. Pilo stood up from his bed, cleaned the dirty mirror in front of him, took out a note from his back pocket, and read it aloud. 

    "My job is serving people. I will pick up the body and leaving in the front house of his relatives. No, I will not be interested in the dead person. I love what I do, and no feeling is needed. Yes, I accept if I die, the company will not take charge of it. If the Yeserit sect kills me at night is because of my imprudence. I love what I do, and I commit to doing it tomorrow, too."

    "Thank you, have a great day." the miniature machine ended.

    "Hey, Mom! did you see my blue gloves? The white ones are full of blood and moisture. I saw them behind the couch, but I don't remember."

    "Do you miss Martinez?" said Caria. Her tone was far beyond gloomy and depression.

    "Mom, we are not going to suffer the same ending. We must leave now; picking up that amount of bodies will demand nine hours," shouted Pilo.

    "At least his head is good decoration. Isn't it?" finished the lady.

Onward...