There once was a penguin. White and black feathers, orange beak. Quick uncertain steps and bright eyes, looked sad or afraid. A pocket watch in solid gold quadrant with the sapphires and rubies: an accessory of some value, in fact. Slamming the door behind him, go up the icy road and deserted, panting and stumbling, his hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground in a hurry.
The three killers, however, stood still and rested. Two of them were smoking, the third simply stared into space. Hands in his pockets, too.
Pinay cooked homemade biscuits, the kind with chocolate surely your mother or your grandmother prepared you will have some time. The Pina I could cook a dozen each batch. Three fired in the morning, four in the afternoon. Every day for twenty years. Same faded pink apron, spoon the same dark wood, same oven mitt. The biscuits were placed carefully on a tray, where they remained for a day or two. They were then thrown into a plastic bag, which was filled within three or four days. And at the end of the bag disappeared out the door. The Pina was proud of his cookies.
The rabbit red, as you can imagine, there was giving into it. The rabbit was yellow and his partner, then, the bunnies would probably be born of a beautiful orange hue.
Druid, hooded, black and hunched over his desk, wielding bottles and graduated cylinders. Not wearing masks or goggles, over time had developed a certain tolerance to the fumes produced by the substances they handle. Slowly, meticulously pouring the fluid white in a saucepan placed over a flame. A few drops and mix, waited a few seconds and start again.
The minstrel songs and stories, strumming his guitar. The joker was me.
And the penguin flapped its wings .
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