Fortunately, Unfortunately - by Ryan Osmond

Ryan Osmond

Fortunately, one day Kyle won a lottery ticket. Unfortunately, it was in Japan.

Fortunately, there was an airplane in 20 minutes. Unfortunately, the time he got there, there was a thunderstorm.

Fortunately, the clouds lowered, so the plane could lift off. Unfortunately, it started to hail.

Fortunately, he parachuted into Japan. Unfortunately, he landed on a fire.

Fortunately, the fire got put out. Unfortunately, he fell in an open manhole.

Fortunately, there was another manhole near by. Unfortunately, there was a giant troll ready to attack him.

Fortunately, it was only a statue. Unfortunately, now he was a mile away from the lottery ticket office.

Fortunately, there was a taxi. Unfortunately, he was short on money.

Fortunately, there was a bank. Unfortunately, by the time he got back from the bank the taxi was gone.

Fortunately, he brought a phone. Unfortunately, the new taxi ran out of gas.

Fortunately, it was right at the lottery ticket office! 

THE END

About the author

Ryan is an amazing  Canadian-Mexican 8 year old boy. His creativity is beyond limits. Used to have an imaginary friend called Guga. He loves  snow boarding, surfing, camping, rocks and backyard science. Ryan lives in Vancouver, BC with his parents, He is my best friend's son and Godson by heart...he is my beautiful, beautiful boy.

Could the real good reason please rise?

It is Sunday September 4th, 2011, 4 PM in Sao Paulo, Brazil, where I am spending my long weekend, working. It is kind of crisp outside but hot as hell in the office; a mild sore throat and the feeling of “it is Sunday, shutdown and leave” is overwhelming.


It has been more than two months since last time I posted in my blog or read yours. TWO MONTHS!! Amazing how time flies and takes toll where you least expect it. It is hard to start after such long absence, especially difficult to decide what to write and which story is the proper one for a good comeback, knowing that, must likely and with perfect sense, I’ve lost you all.

So, instead of starting with a random pick of my weird deep stories, life lesson, travel anecdote, or funny remark (but saving them for later), I’ve decided to start by explaining, as good as I can, the reasons behind my lack of commitment to write…but it is up to you to tell, which ones, if any, are real!

What could have happened in the life of a regular Josephine for the last two months? What in my world could be so overwhelming, powerful and reasonable enough to encourage the natural born procrastinator in me?

Stay tuned for more…

PART I – LOCKED IN THE PAST


PART II – THE GIRL WHO LOOKED FOR FACES


PART III – EDWINA MELTY HANDS


PART IV – A MACARON RAIN


PART V – UNDER THERE… UNDERWEAR?

It happened one night... a Magpie Tale

It happened one night, long time ago. I was young, vibrant. Italy and its magic romanticism. It was more than 21 years ago and I can still feel the crisp breeze of Venice with the small intricate alleys and the multitude walking, dancing, singing, living a carnival night. Masks were mandatory; Bellini the drink of choice. St.Mark’s square was never more crowded yet intimate, sublime. And there I was, believing in destiny and totally willing to make it the night of my life.


Today is my daughter’s wedding, my little girl. I am in my room, in front of my dresser, looking at myself in the mirror, brushing my hair, getting ready for the big event. I open one drawer and there it is: the little mahogany box engraved to perfection… a box that has been with me for more than 21 years…all the memories flashed right back: my long deep blue satin dress, purple and golden mask decorated with peacock feathers, our walk in the middle of the night. He was the mysterious dandy in a perfect black Italian suit, sober gray mask with just an elegant discrete glitter that with the moonlight seemed sometimes silver and others light purple, but all times sexy. His voice was deep, like a caress… his seductive moves gave me no room for second thoughts. He kissed me under Casanova’s balcony… we’ve got lost in an endless embrace, our hands belonged together, we were part of the crowd yet were alone in Venice, living the greatest love affair, my dream.

My daughter comes in to my room looking for her grandma’s broach; she is stunning, a mix of childish innocence and yet such a confident woman. I see her getting in and saw the same 4 year old that used to rush in to play dress up with my shoes, necklaces, makeup; I guess that’s how mothers see their daughters no matter how old they get. The moment she gets in I instinctively hide the box from her; is not the time, nor the place. Today is her day. She takes the broach, gives me a quick butterfly kiss and storms out when her friends, the bride’s maids, are calling her back to her room to continue with the ritual. Then I went back to my box, my memory box...the next morning we were still together, went to a cozy café and ordered two ristrettos with pastries; we talked, we laughed, we looked at the people walking by. He excused himself for a minute, and the nice waitress approached me and asked - “how do you do it?” I didn’t understand her question, so I replied with an apologetic - “excuse me?” and she confirmed back - “yes, I want to know how do you do it, what is the magic, for him to look at you like that, is like nobody exists by you…” I was floating, my heart was pounding, my brain was totally lost in the moment and then he came back, with a box wrapped in quaint paper, almost like the kind used in hardware stores, brown with gondola motif. “This box is for you, for you to remember me by and it is for me, to always remember where I met my angel…and it is for us, and only for us, to never forget that we belong together, just you and me, even if we have other people in our lives, people that may be more important or that may take more time from both, this is a homage to the greatest love affair of all times” - I was speechless …we kissed, he touched my nose, we giggled and hugged once again.

I put on my mother of the bride dress, wear the special pearls and color my lips with a pinkish gloss. I take a last look at myself in the mirror, to see me again, more than 21 one years after …my hair is now shorter, grayer, my face showing some lines… I close my eyes to take a deep breath, my hand softly touching the box, my box… our box… and then I feel his arms around my waist, the same voice that melted my heart  years ago - ” Are you ready, my angel? Our girl is waiting for us… I think you are, you look beautiful” - I open my eyes and look at him in my mirror, his eyes still giving me the same look that took my breath away in Venice - ”Almost my dear, just the final touch”- I opened the box and took the bottle of perfume, Italian cologne to be precise, the same one that sealed our pact after that magic night and that I only wear when I am with him, with the love of my life, my one and only, the only one.

For my husband, my best friend...my everything.

This is a Magpie tale - Mag 33 - for other Magpie tales click Magpie Tales

Matryoshkas

Olga and Verushka, legendary Russian dolls; they can dance, they can sing, they can fill a room with joy. They are happy all the time, they are beautiful and alive; so delicate yet so strong and as different as two little rain drops.

I discovered them together, more than twenty years ago. They were sitting on a piano, making jokes, blowing some smoke. The place was packed with curious people, we all wanted to see why, from all places in all Tombstone this was the one preferred by all.

We took pictures, they kept laughing… they made us feel vibrant and young. With our sarsaparilla sparkling making a toast to the Russian dolls.

Twenty plus years had passed since then, the Russian dolls became adults. Verushka moved up north where is cold, exchanged the feathers for a coat; she is a mother of three little miracles that make her day full and her nights sometimes long; always making sure everybody is ready, spreading hugs, kisses and love.

Olga grew older, she married her true love. She has no kids, but two loving dogs. Switched from the piano to other keyboard, constantly traveling observing the world. Her hair has grays disguised professionally, her eyes are starting to show some lines; she still loves music, to dance and sing, friends and good moments complete the scene.

I found their picture at the bottom of a miracle’s chest. I looked at them, still so young…made me remember, they are Russian dolls…just open the layers, pop-up the first and then some more, keep digging further until the final one, the center piece is the heart and soul…forever seventeen, forever young; layer after layer becoming a whole…to make them better but never old.

To my high school friend Veronica... to my high school self.

E L Á R B O L

Hermosillo, Sonora, México; 21 de abril del año 2010.




Soñé que me decían que existía un niño que vivía en uno de los árboles de mi casa, que estaba solo, que quería jugar, pero que solamente otros niños lo podían ver, más no tolerar su presencia por que no estaba en este mundo. En mi sueño decían los mayores que lo podían sentir, que siempre su presencia estába ahí, pero que nunca lo vieron. Los perros siempre ladraban al pie del árbol en dónde decían que el pequeño vivía.

Soñaba que me preguntaban por el pasado de esa casa, qué historía tendría, qué habría ocurrido, qué sabía yo; por qué estaba sucediendo eso, si algún otro niño había visto lo que hoy sucedia. En mi sueño siempre dije que nunca aconteció algo similar, nada siquiera remoto a lo que platicaban.

Como buen sueño, la descripción del niño me pareció curiosa, decían que tenía la cabecita de lado, que se subía al árbol de la manera más ágil, que bastaba que un adulto le dijera que se fuera para que emprendiera la partida. Pero que él solo quería jugar.

Recuerdo que en mi sueño me preocupé, que sentí la piel de gallina, sudé y hasta dudé en salir al lugar dónde estaba el árbol. Ladraba el perro en ese rumbo y más me estremecía, nomás pensaba qué tan de lado tendría la cabeza el pequeño, qué tan arriba del árbol lo habría hecho retroceder el perro, por qué estaba sucediendo esto y no sé que otras tantas tonterías que vienen en cadena cuando atraviesa uno por un temor, pero al final de cuentas estaba solamente soñando.

En mi sueño no podía dejar que el miedo fuera victorioso y empezaron a presentarse otra serie de imágenes y otra serie de argumentos de por qué no debía seguir temiendo. Finalmente opté por ponerme debajo del árbol y hablar de frente, preguntarle qué necesitaba (que por lo menos nosotros no lo necesitábamos ahí). Sin embargo, le dije, que pediría por lo que a él lo tuviera penando; pero que ese lugar era un pedazo de algo muy grande, que se forjó sin miedos. Recé un par ó más de oraciones, recordé a mi difunto Padre y simplemente volvía a al interior de mi casa.

Tengo el recuerdo de que se me dijo que jamás volvieron a sentirlo, que solo vieron un viejo gato negro por el árbol. Ningún niño tuvo miedo de volver a jugar ahí.

En el alba de esa mañana mis oraciones fueron en la vigilia, mis temores al igual que en el sueño solo están en el subconsciente. Basta pararse en frente de ellos y tal vez digan que jamás los volvieron a ver.

Gus the whale

Las Vegas, Nevada. December 2, 2009.

I was waiting for my dinner, at The Pub. Having a nice Murphy’s red and listening to the bar singer decently pulling off a Garth Brooks tune that made me call my sister. I wondered about the pub’s logo: a big whale spouting fire. I wondered. Could it be Moby Dick? Is Melville even Irish, anyway? The bartender was a nice guy, probably in his mid 40’s or early 50’s . Hard to tell. He started talking to me, not in a rude –hitting on me – kind of mode, but in a friendly – I love my job - way. So I asked: why the whale? Is it Moby Dick? And then he said: oh no, it’s BIGGER than Moby. It’s Gus. Do you know about Gus?, he said. And then the story came, while sipping my Irish beer and listening to the pub’s singer version of Friends in low places.



Legend has it that back in the 1500 or 1600’s, European pirates where sailing the Caribbean, when they spotted the biggest sea creature ever seen: it was a whale, bigger and longer than their boats. They went greedy and opened fire with all they’ve got. But the creature got mad after all this teasing with tiny little bullets, so it came after the big pirate boat, opened it’s big wide mouth and swallowed the whole boat, pirates and armor included. It didn’t take much for Gus, the Whale, to ingest the entire pirate crew, boat and all.

Dead silence. Full whale… but then, an intense fire came out from its spout… and so the whale continued sailing the wide sea.

From that time on, every time you see a whale spouting fire, is either that it ate the powder barrels from a pirate ship or that the sturdy pirates are still in it, smoking their cigars and firing their pistols from the creatures underbelly, trying to get out of it.

I liked the story, it was better than expected. It is always a good feeling when you find somebody enjoying their work, giving you their best in an environment so easily corrupted by the sad look of the occasional depressive drinker or the bitter foreigners hiding from the loud singer that is too much for their phlegmatic taste.

EL DÍDIMO

Hermosillo, Sonora, México; 25 de enero del año 2005

En sus pensamientos siempre tuvo una resolución muy simple: hacer lo que él quería. Bajo ese limpio razonamiento Cortacio Buelna decidió de una vez regir su destino, el de su familia y de lo que sería su negocio. No se requería de gran imaginación para que de un golpe se eliminara todo aquello que tuviera un grado de dificultad, de pericia o todavía de aquello que tuviera que ver con la voluntad de hacer.

Cortacio Buelna era de las pesonas que con determinación habían decidido hacer de la inercia un arte y, como tal, acorde a una disciplina enérgica, de no entrometerse en el destino que los astros querían. Un mínimo esfuerzo podría cambiar la inercia, nada peor para el que apuesta en grande al favor de esas fuerzas.

Entre las coronas ganadas por Cortacio, por los logros a base de inercia, tendríamos como estelar el abdomen pronunciado, desparramado y fuera de cualquier forma estética que pudiera adoptar “algo” en el universo; abdomen o crítica del ser físico que rechaza lo que le dio origen, efecto que la química da a todo aquello descompuesto o adulterado. Otra de las coronas era su semblante, franco, sincero, de pronunciada estupidez, que había logrado para sus planes y “acuerdos” con los astros. Las demás coronas no ameritan descripción, seguían los patrones.

Cortacio Buelna, creyente de la naturaleza, de la mutación para la sobrevivencia, concibió una estrategia para seguir en su estado inmóvil, sin tener que molestarse en la delegación directa de los quehaceres cotidianos que lo podrían abrumar, tuvo la clarividencia de idear un plan que le daría el control de su destino y de su forma de vida a una potencia nunca antes imaginada, un plan maestro que, incluso, lo ocultaría de las voces críticas, que le repudiaban su estilo, de los que compadecían a su familia, de los que, en cierta forma, envidiaban su vida franca.

El plan era sencillo, como era de esperarse, pero no eran muy diferente de muchos otros, solamente debía explotar una necesidad, o más bien un gusto con valor, y como buen observador, en su ángulo de la estática, ubicó quién desearía “la mercancía”. En una comunidad en crecimiento, la fuente de la felicidad eran los pequeños descendientes, quienes imaginaban la compañía de algún cachorro.

Difícil de creer carencia similar, pero el azar parece tener pactos en primera instancia con los análogos de Cortacio. La concepción era buena, la dificultad para obtener el pequeño animal podía superarse gracias a fuentes y cuestiones de las circunstancias. Un pequeño perrito macho venía en camino, pero no vendría sólo, vendría con el complemento natural de más de edad, con la madurez necesaria para iniciar la idea de Cortacio Buelna.

La afirmación de que la naturaleza siempre hace su trabajo no es del todo cierta, lamentablemente, para Cortacio, hubo necesidad de esfuerzos, mínimos, pero fueron ejecutados, pero que importaba, era cuestión de meses para que el pequeño macho estuviera en su momento; el negocio era inminente y la puja por los futuros cachorros ya había comenzado, el plan adelantaba por mucho a lo que se había imaginado Cortacio, no habría que hacer más; la competencia sería nula, jamás una hembra saldría al dominio de alguien.

Ante la emoción y cantidad de planes que circulaban sin parar en el mundo de Cortacio Buelna, arribó el noveno mes del cachorro, etapa en que la anatomía muestra su cauce, en la mayoría de los casos, en éste, el dídimo no apareció en la superficie y con ello tampoco surgirían los sueños de Cortacio. Sin esa pareja nada se podía hacer, todo quedaba arruinado. Cortacio maldijo su desgracia con el mayor esfuerzo que jamás le hubieran visto; nadie lo entendió, por qué no había nada que entender.

En la soledad, Cortacio comprendió que el universo trasciende más allá, que aún las fuerzas inertes producen consecuencias infinitas y que los seres sólo tratan de canalizarlas. El mundo reducido a la potencia de Cortacio era abrir consecuencias sobre consecuencias. Un estilo de vida representaba una concepción del mundo, por lo que habría otros más que se ubicarían junto con él, sólo era cuestión de tiempo para el choque. El universo hizo lo simplemente lo suyo.