All Posts Tagged ‘Memories

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Target of jokes

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When I was little, I was the target of jokes of choice for my classmates, because I couldn’t speak properly Spanish. I had went to school not knowing a single word of the language, because we were immigrants and at home we spoke Croatian.

I was constantly making mistakes and messing words. I remember that even the teacher laughed on me once I made a mistake when I was trying to tell her that I wanted to leave because I was having a migraine and she provoke, with her answer, the laughter of the whole class. I was really desperate so I left and went home.

There was another little girl with problems with the Language. We didn’t know, but she had a neurological illness. She had trouble understanding the meaning of some words. Sometimes, the teacher asked us one by one about the correct use of some prepositions or adverbs and that girl always failed. The others laughed at her. Not me. I found it too cruel. I couldn’t but feel sorry for her.I wanted to help her but I didn’t know how .

Not too long after that, she died from her illness. That day all the jokes and laughs in the classroom became bewilderment and tears.

Ragtag Daily Prompt: Target

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Bastion

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My city keeps its ancient walls all around the old quarter, with its bastions, battlements, bulwarks, part of its moat, its beautiful citadel, even a gate with a wooden drawbridge which is still working.

Obviously, they no longer are used as a defence against the enemy, and around the city walls there are parks and green areas. When I was a kid I used to play knights and princesses over there with my brother and my sisters.

A stick as a sword and our imagination in such a scenery made wonders. We made up thousand of stories; each one more fantastic than the previous. We could play for hours and never get bored.

Now I don’t see so many children playing around the city walls the way we used to. Maybe knights and princesses and castles are not “cool” any more, or maybe is hard for kids to imagine adventures of the lost centuries outside a video game. Who knows!

Ragtag Daily Prompt: Bastion

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Nightmare

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Speaking about nightmares is dangerous. I don’t know if there are out there reading this , dream interpreters who can deduce things about my inner self I don’t want to reveal.

I’ll write though about a recurring nightmare I have had for a long time.

To explain it I have to describe a little one of the main streets of my city. It has two big roundabouts with a big fountain in the middle. When I was a kid, I couldn’t distinguish one from the other and I thought that there was only one fountain, so I couldn’t understand why sometimes there were certain buildings around and sometimes there were other buildings completely different. When I went for the first time for a walk with my parents all the way down that street and we passed by the two fountains, I understood and got somehow oriented.

In my nightmare I’m out doing some errands and arrive to one of the roundabouts. Suddenly I lose balance and fall down. I get completely dizzy, and when I open my eyes, all the buildings and the streets around the fountain are different. I get up and try to go home but the streets keep changing its place, so I get completely lost. I feel like in a labyrinth. Finally, when I think I recognise something near my home I end up in a cul-de-sac where there is only a dirty, black charcoal warehouse, guarded by a threatening dog growling and barking loud.

Then I wake up.

In the picture, one of the fountains of my confusion 

Ragtag Daily Prompt: Nightmare

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Sleepy interview

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A seasoned journalist from my newsroom had had a harsh polemic with a politician, the secretary of education of the regional government. She basically called him a liar in a column. He was furious and he threatened with stopping the source of info about his department. I was then one of the youngest reporters of the newspaper, but my boss sent me to try to fix the problem by offering him a broad interview about his goals and projects.

Reluctantly, he accepted and told me to go see him right after lunch.

My first interview with a  member of the government! I got ready with a battery of questions written in my notebook and my tape recorder.

Those days – it was my first year in the newsroom and I was the reporter for everything – I had been working non stop from early in the morning till very late at night and I was exhausted.

When I arrived to the office of the politician, I noticed, pretty surprised, that he was scared of me, a beginner. He awaited me ready with a stack of notes with all kind of data about all the questions I could possibly ask. I have never felt before like that the power of my profession.

It was summer, the day was very hot, the sun was shining and he had lowered the blinds to maintain the office fresh. I sat down in a very comfortable chair in front of him, turned on my tape recorder, asked my first question, began to take notes and the next thing I remember was an uneasy silence.

I opened my eyes and saw a descendant line in my notebook. I looked up and saw the man looking at me flummoxed. I just had fallen asleep! In the middle of the interview!
I looked at my list of questions, uttered the second one, and… yes. I did it again: another silence, another crazy line in my notebook…
– I’m sorry… I began to say
– Would you like a cup of coffee? he interrupted me
– Please
We managed to finish the interview and it was a good one.

(In the picture, me, as a reporter)

Flummoxed

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A confusing call

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A very mild earthquake shake my city many years ago, and it was all over the news. I was making the news, because I was working in a local newspaper at the time. It was before the Internet was an available tool.

My boss told one of my coworkers, to call to the National Seismological Institute to have the precise data of the epicentre, intensity and everything else.

He placed the call and somebody answered at the other end of the line. He began to ask technical questions to check if we had the right info. The man who answered him, asked for a few moments and then he began to confirm exactly every one of the data we had published.

Asked about the place of the epicentre, He showed an acute knowledge of the area, giving data about small villages and their idiosyncrasy. The journalist was deeply impressed.

When he told the man at the other end of the line that it was very proud to know that all the technical data were exactly as we have already had published in our newspaper, he heard the words:

– This is because I’m reading them in your newspaper.

My colleague became angry

– What lack of professionalism! I’m calling asking for the official data and you are reading the newspaper!

– Then call the National Seismological Institute and not a private home!

We all laughed.

When the journalist placed the call, he had punched the local prefix instead the prefix of de city where the Institute is located. He had made the assumption that the man who answered the call was a worker there, but instead he had called a regular citizen from the neighbourhood, excited to cooperate with the local newspaper.

Assumption

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My trip to Trier

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Many years ago, in the early nineties, my boss sent me to Eastern Germany for a week to visit an engine factory which was producing pieces for a car manufacturer of my community.

The reunification of Germany was very recent. And the big western firms had just landed there occupying the old factories they had lost when the country was divided after the WWII. The firm I was going to visit had just installed the new state-of-the-art chain of production inside the old building and had trained the workers to start the production immediately. Finally, little by little they were repairing the building.

It was really interesting to see How they were doing the transition from the communist way of working to the Western way. Very efficient. The main problem, they explain us, was that the big communist factories that had given jobs for thousands and thousands of workers with obsolete systems, now could improve the production with only the 30% of the workers, so the unemployment was high those years.

Our hosts booked for us rooms at a hotel near Trier, the home town of Karl Marx. It’s an area were there are almost no catholics. But we were going to be there in Sunday and I wanted to go to Mass. A young man who was our driver, promised me he would do everything possible to find me a church.

On Sunday, very early in the morning he came to pick me up, and drove me for half an hour to a place were there was a regular one-story house, very old in appearance, all outside covered by dark grey concrete, that seemed a family house instead of a church.

I had no inkling on what was going to find inside. The door was open, so I went in and the first thing I saw was an enormous organ with a man playing Bach beautifully and a space with the walls covered with child’s drawings, and like ten or twelve pews full of people in front of an altar.

I know no German, but I was deeply moved by the celebration because of the faith and the sense of community I could feel in those people. When we finished I had to wait for my driver . And I could see that the mass goers were looking at me quizzically. A woman left the group and approached me. She could speak a little English, and she asked me if I was going to stay with them, because the community wanted to welcome me. I explained to her that I was a Journalist and I was going to left next day and she seemed disappointed.

She explained me that they were a little community but very active, with a little Sunday school. That they were there for me in whatever I could need. I certainly felt welcomed and part of a community in which I only partook one Sunday, thanks to my kind driver.

Inkling

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Fernando

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There was a living legend in my newsroom. A seasoned coworker who had lost his right arm in an accident during her youth, but was able to write fast enough with his left hand. He had a vast culture and he had among others a very popular column about music, his passion.

He was known among us because he had answers for everything . His memory and his encyclopedic knowledge was impressive. Before the times of Wikipedia and google, when we needed some data, we asked him because it was faster than go to check in a book or an encyclopedia. Sometimes my coworkers used to asked him difficult questions just to try him. In my 27 years working besides him I never caught him in a fault.

Only once, he didn’t know the answer to the question a journalist made him. But he sure knew where to find the answer in a few seconds. Even when the Internet was the king of the information, we used to check with him. He was fast, reliable, and human.

Bright, with a peculiar sense of humor. Resorting to him you would take back an answer and a smile or a laugh. Fernando (FPO) never disappointed us. Only when he got ill too soon and passed away. The companion and friend left us, The legend remain

Legend

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Underdog team

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As a University student I decided to sign up for the basketball team of my faculty: Journalism. We were the underdog team in the Second University League. We were all new players, in our first year at the University and our trainer was a student on his third year. Nobody took us seriously.

I usually played as power forward, and had pretty good success with long shots. I didn’t like too much the hand-to-hand fight under the basket.

My problem was that because an operation I had had in my right leg due to a tumor in the tibia I had stopped playing for several years and I just had come back to the court during my last year of high school, so I needed extra training to play decently. But my studies won’t let me enough time. Nevertheless I was a regular player on the court, so that gives an idea of the quality of the team.

Anyway, we began to play against the nurses team, the favourite, and we, as predicted, lost the match. What a drag! We were so excited in our first game.. But then the following match, against Philosophy, we surprisingly won. and we celebrated like if we had just won the championship. The next week our opponents didn’t appear, so we won again.

And so the season was advancing and we were adding points to our classification. we finally ended in the second place after the nurses and were able to raise the team’s category to the First University League.
Underdog

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Not fair

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When I was a student at the University, my father was one of my teachers. I studied Journalism and he was a teacher of Literature, Technology and Ethics. I could attended at his classes which were magnificent above all the Literature an ethics ones. But he couldn’t examine me because I was his daughter.

He was known because he never let his students fail in an exam. They knew all of them would pass, but nevertheless they studied a lot for his exams. How did he get it? Nobody knew. He used to tell them if they wouldn’t work enough then, they will fail later in life. And he was able to convince them.  He was really kind and always open to talk with his students.

So, when all my classmates had guaranteed that they would pass the exam, I had to go to render my exam to a different professor. In Ethics I had to face  the toughest teacher of the Faculty who asked me tricky questions without any mercy. I didn’t want mercy, just justice. And that was not fair. At the end I passed, but it was hard.

In the picture, dad at the University

Mercy

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Lost Nest

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Mom's 1

Now that my mom has passed away, her nest is empty. Her house, a meeting point for all of us, plenty of great remembrances, is now a sad and solitary place. The place where I used to go to find refuge and solace is gone.

Soon it will begin the time of Advent and after that, Christmas. Every year I used to spend many time with her, planning what to do, what presents get ready for the kids, how to set the simple grotto scene in the living room, under the Christmas tree full of decorations and lights.

And because she was so sick and paralytic, I was the one doing all that things under her loving directions, while we listened to traditional carols .

We used to laugh like kids at the slightest reason or without any reason at all.

I loved the moment when I had finished decorating the tree and the whole living room. It was usually at the evening. I used to turn off all the lights except the ones on the tree and the grotto scene and all the other decorations. Then I used to go to my mom’s room and bring her, pushing the wheelchair, to the living room.

The wonder in her face was my best reward. Her eyes were bright and smiling and my heart was dancing. I’m going to miss you so much, mom!

In the picture, my mom’s armchair, empty

Nest

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Disturbing Moonless Nights

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As a reporter I had to report about a shooting between policemen and terrorists that took place in a natural landscape of great beauty, a narrow gorge formed by a river.

Apparently, four terrorists were making plans for an attack while spending the day by the river, when they were intercepted by the police by chance.In the shooting a policeman died and another was wounded. The terrorists fled along the riverbank and disappeared into the vegetation.

The river is not practicable to swim because it has dangerous swirls and very deep pits and the only accesses to the gorge are the ends of the old railway tunnel wich runs well above the river bed. The police closed the two ends, as soon as the shooting occurred, so that the terrorists had no way of getting out of there.

And the manhunt began with the special forces using choppers in the air and dogs on the ground. The moonless night fell, black as tar. There was no trace of the terrorists. At dawn, one of them, badly wounded in the head, surrendered to the special forces that were combing the area and took them to where the others were at the river’s edge. they were dead. They had decided to commit suicide before being captured. He had tried to commit suicide but he had missed the shot. It was a pretty mysterious how the police didn’t hear the shots while combing the place.

I was horrified by everything that was happening. I had been the first journalist on the scene with my photographer and I was there when the terrorists were still on the run. Pretty dangerous despite we were going everywhere with the police.

The next night, a neighbour from the town closest to the place called my newsroom saying that shots had been heard again in the gorge. The terrorists were already dead. The special forces gone. ¿what could possibly had happened? My boss sent me to investigate.

I was very young and was in charge of another journalist even younger than me. We went with a beginner photographer. We arrived at the gorge and again we found ourselves with a dark and moonless night. But this time was scarier because we were completely alone. No police, no other journalists. no living soul.

We asked in the village and nobody had heard anything. When we arrived with my little Panda car at the black entrance of the tunnel I knew that there was no possibility of turning around to leave in one mile, and I felt responsible for the other two who were with me. So I decided to go around to the exit of the tunnel to see what we could find there.

Everything was dark and silent and again nobody had heard anything. We went a little further to the police station to which the dead and wounded policeman belonged to speak with their pals and they confirmed that everything was quiet. So we went back to the newsroom with nothing to report other than an update about the health of the wounded police officer, but at least we were safe and sound.

Black

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Dad’s angel

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Every Christmas eve, my dad used to build a grotto scene in the living room with little figurines of st Joseph, the Virgin Mary, the Baby Jesus and the shepherds, under the Christmas tree.

He had a beautiful a valuable figurine of the angel who announced to the shepherds the good news and he always put it in the scene gingerly at the end. When the angel was in its place it meant that everything was ready and the feast could begin.

Then, we could gather around the scene and the tree and pray, sing carols and finally open the presents.

The figurine, dad’s angel, no more than six inches tall, was very artistically done had every finger modeled one by one and a very peaceful face. It’s been more than 60 years than my dad bought the figurine and it looks completely new.

Now my sister keeps it in her house. She also takes very good care of it. It brings very good memories of all those Christmas at our home when we were all together and happy, and everything had some kind of sweet magic.

Those were wonderful years and now we are trying to build similar memories for the youngest in our family so they could also treasure wonderful memories of family life
Gingerly

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Gratitude

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me

I suffered a deep depression while working in the newsroom of a newspaper. One of my coworkers, a great friend of mine, knew all about of my condition. When that all begun, I only could feel an enormous tiredness and I couldn’t stop crying. This was pretty embarrassing while I was in the newsroom full of people who could see me.

My friend always noticed that I had begun to cry before anyone else, and saying nothing she quietly, used to came to my desk and tell me: come with me. We then used to go out of the building, to the parking lot, to get some fresh air and she would comforted me and wouldn’t let me until I recomposed myself somehow, before coming back to continue working.

Eventually I went to the doctor and I had to stop working for a while. She was a great help for me in those dark days. I’m deeply grateful to her for had “rescued” me during those dreadful hours. She’s still my best friend.

Gratitude

in the picture, me, one of those years

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Surreal

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As a reporter I witnessed a police operation against a violent terrorist cell in my city, and two years after, I was called to take the stand as a witness during the trial against the terrorists. They promised me total discretion and that my name would not be disclosed.

I had to go to Madrid because the crimes related to terrorism are competence of a National High Tribunal. Once there, we, the witnesses, were waiting for the beginning of the trial, when a bus with supporters of the terrorists coming from my city arrived. The clerks and the security guards wanted that we were called by our names publicly in front of all those people who were looking at us as the enemy. Finally, talking with the security guards, we entered the building thru another door.

While I was waiting for my turn to take the stand I was searched thoroughly by a police woman, like if I was a criminal instead of a witness. Then, when my turn finally arrived, I entered the courtroom, and I had to stand next to an armored glass cage where the accused were. One of them had threatened me to death two years before when the police operation was taking place. I looked at them. They were laughing at me.

The first thing the judge said was ask me about my name and surname and repeat them aloud several times, because my surname is not very easy to pronounce for a Spaniard. Next he said aloud my address. So, that was the total discretion they promised me. The alleged terrorists in the cage were laughing loud, apparently having a great time. (They explained afterwards to me that it is a tactic of them to intimidate the witnesses).

To my surprise, the District Attorney didn’t know what to ask me. He didn’t know I was a journalist and that I had written everything I’ve seen in my newspaper. He didn’t know that I witnessed how one of the suspects opened the door of a hiding place where there was a large cache of weapons… I couldn’t believe it.

Finally, I finished answering questions and was dismissed. When all that was over, I wanted to refresh my mind and I decided to go to visit some museums in Madrid.

I went to El Prado, and when I was inside, suddenly there was an alarm and we were all evicted by bomb warning. I went to the Thyssen Museum, and it happened again.

So I decided to take a walk far away from the courthouse and wait calmly for the hour of my trip back home. Surreal
Surreal

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Beach

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Ocean Beach, San Francisco, seventeen years ago. That place was then the escape valve of my stress, the confidant of my sorrows and joys, the scenery of my solace.
Yes. Those were wonderful and difficult years at the same time. I was far away from home, trying to heal deep wounds in my health and my soul and build a new life. I had got a job as a stringer for a news agency. I had to build my net of sources because I had had to begin from scratch. Everything was new and exciting. I had my home office and I had to work hard in the morning and the afternoon. But usually at 5 pm I was done.
It was time for my walk on the beach. I let the roar of the waves and the wind enfold me, so I could think calmly about what had happened during the day, or simply empty my mind and enjoy the nature.
I loved to observe the flight of the pelicans. Or the funny behaviour of the beach birds.
I miss those walks so much…
It has been a long time since I left the States, but I’ll never forget those wonderful walks on the Ocean Beach in San Francisco

Beach

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Faraway

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Faraway, where my memories live, there is a small island with its shores bathed by crystalline waters. My boat seems to fly between the blue bright sky and the green bottom of the sea. He is waiting for me on the beach, smiling. Faraway, where my memories live, there is joy.
Now I’m stuck down here, in a dusty and dirty world filled with anguish, pain and death, trying to survive. But I have hope because I have known happiness and I know it’s possible, no matter what happens, when there is love.
I want to leave behind me joyful memories, like the ones I treasure, to spread hope
But I feel guilty, because when I see what’s happening in the world I get gloomy, and instead hope I convey sadness
Faraway, where my love is waiting for me, there are no tears.
Faraway where my love is waiting for me, there is peace

Faraway

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Never

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If you could read a book containing all that has happened and will ever happen in your life, would you? If you choose to read it, you must read it cover to cover.  

How boring! Me, reading my own life? I have better things to do. Living the few years that I have before me, for instance. Time flies.  there’s no time to lose. Besides, there are lots of things I prefer to forget. Other things that I can remember vividly and I treasure in my memory without need of a book. I would rather like to read about the people I’ve met during my life, above all when I worked as a reporter. Important people and common people who shared with me their experiences and then vanished from my life. I would like to write their life stories. Many are no longer with us. Others chose a criminal life or are in prison. Others are real life heroes living among us. As for the future, I prefer to don’t know what will happen exactly. Life is interesting when the future it’s open. I’m too busy living the present  and trying to do it the best way I possibly can.

This Is Your Life

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Victorious Wheel

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They had worked hard for centuries on the field, faithful to many peasants and lords. They had left their trace on the soil, marking thousands of paths over the wet and muddy soil of winter, or the dry and dusty ground of summer. No matter how hard the weather were, they were ready to go wherever was needed, hitched to the horses. Sometimes to work in the fields, sometimes to carry weights, sometimes to give a ride to their masters.
Time passed and the gum wheels became popular. Then they were discarded. Later, tractors arrived and nobody cared any more about the old wooden wheels. Many perished, rotted after years abandoned outside the old barns. Only had remained some pieces of rusty iron in remembrance of those glorious days, when wooden wheels were essential.
But in the village there was a family with love for the old memories. The grandfather had rescued the wheels of the old carriage just in time. They painted the wood with the bright colours it had had in its best times, and they put the victorious wheels that had survived the modern times, by the main door of the house.

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Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Anything Man-Made

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Again, no one

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From a famous writer or celebrity, to a WordPress.com blogger or someone close to you — who would you like to be your biographer?

I was about to write a new post about this theme when I searched in my archives and I saw that I was going to answer exactly the same than a year and a half ago when this prompt was published for the first time: I don’t want to bother anyone with my biography. I’m sure that no serious writer would be interested in my little adventures as an immigrant child in Spain and later as a Journalist with a no so happy end. To don’t talk about the little interest my story would have for the big audience.

There is nothing special about me. I can write my memories by myself. Or share them little by little through this blog. Remain in the memory of the people I don’t know is not in my dreams.

The only interesting thing about my life is the historical facts I have witnessed first hand: the establishment of the democracy in Spain after decades of dictatorship, the hard years of terrorism, the rupture of Yugoslavia and the Balkans War, and the current political crisis in countries of the European Union, among other happenings. But everything about those years and their facts is already written in books and press reports.

My little story in the middle of all that, has no interest at all. I’ve met many people during my career whose lives deserve a book and they have not an author.

Your Life, the Book.

 

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His fist and my nose

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Tell us about a time when everything seemed to be going wrong — and then, suddenly, you knew it would be alright.

The trial was routine  At least I thought so. A question about drug trafficking. Three defendants. I had to report about the trial for my newspaper. I have done it before. But this time one of the defendants was from a known family and when they saw me taking notes began to harass me. They  didn’t want the name of their son and brother on the paper. I told them It wasn’t my fault he was trafficking with drugs and that I only was going to report about the trial.

When we were exiting the court room the mother was hysterical yelling at me. Her husband and her other son were assisting her. Everybody was looking at us. I decided soon it was no use to try to calm her and the best thing I could do was to leave.

I was in the exit corridor when I heard people running and screaming at my back. I turned and I saw a fist coming against my face. I closed my eyes and mentally prepared for the punch. Never came.

I opened my eyes and saw the fist still there frozen, unable to reach me, at an inch from my nose. A police officer intercepted the defendant’s father at just the right second.

Finally the police and the lawyers succeeded calming down the family and we all could left the Court House safely.

Daily Prompt: Exhale.

Good ending posts by other bloggers on the next page:

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No living actors for mom and dad

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Cast the movie of your life.

The movie of my life? Oh my! what a disaster. But if you insist:

I would chose Sandra Bullock as me

220px-Sandra_Bullock,_The_Heat,_London,_2013_(crop)

Jack Nicholson as my boss

UnknownAnne Hattaway as my best friend

220px-AnneHathawayJan10and Dianne Keaton as my older sister.

220px-Diane_Keaton_by_Firooz_ZahediI couldn’t find among the living actors and actresses who to portrait my dad and my mom and is a pity because their life is worth to tell in a movie. A life plenty of adventures from the moment they met each other during WWII and get married. With a lot of suffering ( prison, prosecution, 12 years of forced separation ) and  a happy ending. They loved each other so much they were faithful until they get reunited. They were together until my dad died after 56 years of marriage.

I witnessed their love and I can tell you it was impressive. I remember one day, when my dad was in wheelchair almost unable to move and talk.  He asked me to go out. He wouldn’t tell me where. Only “to the city”. I always did what he wanted, so I got ready. It was complicated because my car was small, but there we went. He gave me directions and finally we arrived to a boutique he new my mom liked. I parked, unfolded the chair, helped my dad to sit in, we entered the perfume boutique and he simply said to the lady: “please, give me the best you have for my wife”. Her birthday was coming. He could send me to buy something to mom, and stay at home, but as sick as he was, he wanted to go by himself to buy the best gift for his wife.

Daily Prompt: Ready for Your Close-up.
More bloggers’ movies in the next page:

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The elevator

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English: Elevator door of the Pera Palace Hote...

English: Elevator door of the Pera Palace Hotel Italiano: La porta dell’ascensore dell’hotel Pera Palas (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Daily Prompt: Elevator.

We were coming back home from school, my baby sister and I. We opened the main door and took the elevator and suddenly a strange man came running and before we could do anything, entered the elevator and closed the door behind him. It was a very old elevator, a narrow wooded case into a cage-like structure, with a mirror in the opposite side of the door. We were going to the sixth floor. The highest.

The man said he was going to the second floor. But when the elevator stopped he wouldn’t go and said it was a mistake. He had to go to the third floor. He was smiling, but looked nervous. I was terrified. He was wearing an old grey coat but was sweating. Once in the third floor he said it was a mistake again. I tried then to exit the elevator with my sister but he wouldn’t let me go. So I put myself between the man and my sister. I didn’t understand anything. I only smelled danger. The man asked to go to the fourth floor. I didn’t try to go out because the man blocked the door. So we stopped, he smiled, sweated more and more , and I pressed my sister against the mirror harder and harder. she didn’t understand. She was too young. I was so scared I couldn’t even cry. We started to the fifth floor

The man began to ask me about my dress and then I finally began to cry aloud for help with all the strength I had. Thanks God a neighbor did hear me, opened his door and asked what was happening. Then the man fled running the steps down. I was trembling. When we arrive home I only could cry. Mom was so concerned. She asked me about all the details of the story. I was embarrassed as if it was my fault a man just tried to assault us in the elevator. I told her everything. As always. Mom consoled me and taught me that it was not my fault there were bad men in the world. So we prayed to God because we were grateful nothing happened despite the big danger we were in that day.