Louisiana Pies

I used to write a lot of stories. Or at least, I used to think about them. Now my life goes on, rather noneventfully, and there is nothing for me to write about… or is it?

I found myself telling Himura a very long and boring story about himself abandoning his swampy estate in Louisiana with a beautiful black woman named Betsy to attend a famous bakery in Los Mártires. Betsy is supposedly running away from voodoo, but she knows Himura is actually on his way to meet a girl who buys apple pie every morning on her way back home after grocery shopping. Of course, Betsy is part of the voodoo cult she runs away from, and tries to poison the girl through a new cherry pie she convinces her to buy. Thus she can keep Himura forever, since he is not really planning to go back to Louisiana.

Days have elapsed since then, and the story still lingers in my mind. I don’t care if it’s extremely boring and stupid. I like it. It’s my story.

Man, I should be writing right now…


I wanted to call you Imouto because Oniichan is the only one who takes care of Imouto even after she gets married and has kids, and slaps her husband when he makes her sad.

Diverge, Converge

You know what would be nice? Being able to live two separate lives which converge at the point where I made that weird turn, yeah, that turn. Then I’d be able to see which of those lives could’ve been better, discard one and relive the other.

But I certainly cannot do that.

Now I wonder and wonder and wonder, what if what if what if… What if I still heard the rackety trains going by at night while the shadow of raindrops drew patterns on the white wardrobe, what if the river still dominated my landscape, what if grey were still the most fashionable color in nature… What if I hadn’t chosen distance, and with it forgetfulness… For then I made another turn, a violent one, and I still cannot resign myself to the idea of such a loss.

These roads weren’t made to do any reverse motion, but sometimes they twist and twirl until you get to see them again —maybe from a bridge, maybe right there in a crossroad, made to be retaken at another point…