Gimmie that $500
Okay, so I found this student contest on the Skype website for the best Skype story 250 words or less, so I figured I would give it a shot. Here is what I came up with. I think it's pretty hilarious, but I should warn you, this is not how I actually feel. It's just a story I wrote, so don't get freaked out by how sad the narrator is. I think it's good for $500 in half.com spending ...
There is a hint of paiea escaping the Barcelona kitchen down the hall, and my mother never cooked paiea. Seven hours of time difference, but it smells even stranger. A cold raspy “¡Cena, Tomás!” from the kitchen, and all I want is a burger. But when in Spain, I guess.
There is a difference between Spain and home, but I can’t put my finger on it. The ground in the Metro station is filthy, just like home, passers-by refuse to acknowledge your existence, just like at home, I guess the escalators only go up here, but that’s not it. The walls of the Metro walkway sing with the reverberations of a lonely man’s guitar, pulling me towards my train. As I toss a couple extra cents into his scuffed guitar case, he raises his heavily bearded face towards mine and winks. Nobody owns the blues, I guess.
Inside a phone booth in the middle of a thousands of people in Plaça Catalunya, I take out my wrinkled 20€ calling card to try to give my mother a quick ring. Just to hear her voice, right? “Esta tarjeta no tiene minutos, click.”
The rusty bed frame squeaks as I lay down, sweating because nobody uses air conditioning. I pick up my laptop — at least I can count on you — and open up Skype. Immediately, “Hello? Tom? I miss you, too. You know you are so lucky to be in Spain right now.”
Yeah, I guess she’s right.
It was so hard to get Skype into the story, so I just kind of tacked on the whole last bit for the sake of the contest. Maybe I'll actually do something with the first part some day.
–Tom
There is a hint of paiea escaping the Barcelona kitchen down the hall, and my mother never cooked paiea. Seven hours of time difference, but it smells even stranger. A cold raspy “¡Cena, Tomás!” from the kitchen, and all I want is a burger. But when in Spain, I guess.
There is a difference between Spain and home, but I can’t put my finger on it. The ground in the Metro station is filthy, just like home, passers-by refuse to acknowledge your existence, just like at home, I guess the escalators only go up here, but that’s not it. The walls of the Metro walkway sing with the reverberations of a lonely man’s guitar, pulling me towards my train. As I toss a couple extra cents into his scuffed guitar case, he raises his heavily bearded face towards mine and winks. Nobody owns the blues, I guess.
Inside a phone booth in the middle of a thousands of people in Plaça Catalunya, I take out my wrinkled 20€ calling card to try to give my mother a quick ring. Just to hear her voice, right? “Esta tarjeta no tiene minutos, click.”
The rusty bed frame squeaks as I lay down, sweating because nobody uses air conditioning. I pick up my laptop — at least I can count on you — and open up Skype. Immediately, “Hello? Tom? I miss you, too. You know you are so lucky to be in Spain right now.”
Yeah, I guess she’s right.
It was so hard to get Skype into the story, so I just kind of tacked on the whole last bit for the sake of the contest. Maybe I'll actually do something with the first part some day.
–Tom

1 Comments:
you are adorable.
I MISS YOU COME HOME
i am a little drnk.
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