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Weekly Contest #361
Midnight skies illuminate alluringly the twinkling lights on the hilltops of Petare or Catia, Caracas’s slums. Do not be fooled by their romantic pull in the evening cover-up. The illusion crashes once the dawn bursts revealing thousands of ranchos* (*self-made shanty) peppered over perilous hillsides. Its populace had ambitiously moved there with the prospect of jobs, education, progress in the classic socialist dream. For them, it was a temporary abode. Not an awaiting funeral pyre.Still, children enjoyed carefree childhood days. They domi...
Weekly Contest #356
In a language without words, a lingering spell was cast over four-year-old Mayra’s waking day. Locked into watching the meticulous preparation her papa, Rogelio, begot from his craft-skilled father, she doted their secret bond. He masterfully ground the beans to make the perfect espresso. It closed off its final journey blurting a wheezing, cauliflowered-shaped puff as if proudly granted a listed status. Out in the world, it carried over into normalising Mayra’s everyday. When he brushed her shoulder, its swilling, misty twirl poured out her...
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