La Voz continues to receive new short stories that will compete in the XII edition of this literary contest. On this occasion, participants must tell a micro-story, real or fictionalized, in which the radio is the protagonist of it. As in previous editions, the maximum length of the stories must be 100 words, including the title if any.
One more year, the Tourist Centers will collaborate with the contest, whose participation period will extend until August 31.
Each author may submit a maximum of five stories, which may be signed with a pseudonym, although they must always indicate a name and contact telephone number. All those who wish to participate can send their stories to [email protected].
The stories will be read in the "Reading on the Radio" space of Radio Lanzarote (90.7), and published in La Voz de Lanzarote. Both publication and reading will be subject to the space and time availability of both media.
The decision of the contest, which will be made public in the second half of September, will be made by a jury formed by journalists from Radio Lanzarote-Onda Cero and La Voz de Lanzarote, who will choose three winning stories and seven finalists.
The winner of the first prize will get a dinner for two at the Castillo de San José restaurant, while the second prize is one of the unusual experiences for two people from the Art, Culture and Tourism Centers of the Cabildo de Lanzarote. Finally, the third prize is a meal for two at the Monumento al Campesino restaurant. All prizes are for adults.
Loss
When I got home, Mom's expression told me that something bad had happened. I ran to my room and there it was, on the bed, without a trace of light... My heart raced as I remembered, sitting next to him, so many shared moments, so much complicity, so much company. I caressed him, I went through every corner in search of life, but it was useless "How did it happen, Mom?", I asked sadly. She shrugged, ruffled my hair and, with her eyes on the bed, replied: "It was probably an electric shock; now you can buy a new radio, son, one of those with internet... and with headphones".
Untitled,
Don Julián has been an enemy of the present for some time now, bad tongues say that he suffers from oblivion. But I learned that changing stations suits him. Every morning he wakes up with the radio on his back, as if it were his memory. Sometimes I don't understand it, but Don Julián is an expert. When he listens to it, he makes a vacation face and that makes me happy. I will only tell you that in summer I refresh him with two newly bought batteries. And believe me that I cure him, because he sings me all the lyrics.
Maybe he dreams of dancing,
Tomás does not laugh, he does not speak, not a single word comes out of his mouth, not a phrase, not a scolding, not an affection. His arms do not warm with a hug of those tender, ephemeral or long. His eyes do not look into the distance... nor at what he has next to him.
His legs do not travel a path already set. Tomás does not know what his future will be, he does not remember his past. He looks at the white walls like someone who enjoys watching a painting.
A melody plays on the radio. The thumb of his foot moves.
Maybe he dreams of dancing...
Is there someone there...?
That day, long ago, and through a small window, like the grille of the confessional, the events bubbled like a pressure cooker and were juxtaposed to each other. In the living room, the family remained expectant with, all five senses, before that brown wooden device, as valuable as it was essential. The conflict about to erupt kept everyone holding their breath. At the back of the room a resolute and unwavering voice: "without the radio, the extinction of the species."
The kids, amazed: do they all fit in there?: the magic of the radio.
Untitled,
The bells are ringing so loudly tonight... that they make the old knocker of the
door, as if someone were begging to enter. I turn on the transistor and hide my head under the blanket. The radio waves bring me a voice that tells me about lost souls and forgiveness... A warm, welcoming voice, like that of an affable grandfather... I notice
that I am short of breath and I try to sit up, but the blanket has become as heavy as a slab. It smells of damp earth, recently removed... And some black birds, in mourning, descend from the sky and perch on my barren tombstone...
The friends of the waves,
His wife had been dead for a week when those white beings took her away. They left him food for a month and blocked doors and windows from the outside. "So you don't infect friends and family," they told him... And they forgot about him.
Now, two months later, he lies "asleep" on the floor. The radio is still on. And
his friends of the waves continue talking to him, but in a low voice, so he doesn't wake up.
Untitled,
I isolated myself from the everyday, imbued in the magic of the radio.
Everything around me was unreal; when abstracted within the waves, that "cloud" of then, transported me without moving a comma, beyond the borders.
Despite the frequent interferences of the time, the midday love novels always sounded perfect from beginning to end. The mantra of, "that an image is worth a thousand words" would be quarantined, since we would be talking about complementary forms of expression; where, both one and the other need each other, don't they?
Untitled
It would be four in the morning when the vigil weighed like a slab; and after hours of insomnia I said to myself:
- This is as far as we have come -I connected with my favorite station, and instantly, an enveloping Arabic music acted as therapy. I begged for the swaying in the shadows to last at least until six and, from that hour, God will say. My prayer was fulfilled. Meanwhile, the sensuality of the beautiful melody stretched until I don't know when.
I fell asleep and once again the magic of the radio enveloped me in a cloud.
Melody,
The wind had whispered some memories in his ear. He had called Radio Lanzarote 90.7, to dedicate an Adele song: "When We Were Young" On the other side of the station, was Juan. He had seemed to hear her voice, and his face had lit up, with an eternal smile. Trying to add up the bill, the numbers did not add up. The papers fell to the floor. His favorite song was playing. He got up from the chair, singing non-stop.
The radio voices of the radio, had revived love. Distance did not matter.
