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. As in previous editions, the maximum length of the stories must be 100 words, including the title if any.
Once again, 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 a 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 availability of space and time 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 lunch for two at the Monumento al Campesino restaurant. All prizes are for adults.
A compressed past
"The ground thundered and the sky roared, as they rode towards a dark encounter with horror. History would begin to be written in the present and a multitude of soldiers conquering new lands would be the cause for sacrifice."
The narration by a penetrating voice for the consciences of the listeners and between phrases, a pause with the sounds of the event to place us close to an event of centuries.
And meanwhile, he kept an eye on that little box of colors, as if from each point of light, the moments of that apotheotic contest came out.
No Title
It would be six in the afternoon of an autumn that looked like summer. With the exterior in semi-darkness, inside the bar people did not speak, they only listened attentively. In a corner of the counter, the hoarse voice of the commentator came out with all clarity, from that radio splattered with fried food. In silence, with murmurs contained because the owner is a fan of one of the opponents, the customers, only occasionally: "the referee is sold out". In the end, that brotherhood of soccer fans, reluctantly maintained between drink and drink the rules of their patron;
refugium peccatorum of a lifetime.
Two soldiers
Daring, brave, tenacious,...a soldier. In front of him another man, I suppose with the same qualities.
The two ready to defend their ideals in that regrettable war. All of them are.
The gaze of one fixed on the other, droplets of sweat, tight lips,...the weapons in their hands.
The echo of the shots merged into one.
Blood on the chest. Dust on the faces of the fallen men who looked at each other without hatred.
The radio of one of them spread its encouraging message: "The war is over".
Slight smile on both before closing their eyes definitively.
Under the blanket
My house was not a house of silences. The walls were filled with screams and black and white photographs.
Camouflaged smiles printed on paper.
I didn't laugh...because laughing bothered, I didn't give my opinion...because nobody cared. I learned to shut up. I didn't turn on the radio...because it bothered. I did it secretly, under the blanket the songs whispered softly to me, only for me.
One by one the members of the family were dispersing, they went far away. My house was getting empty.
I could finally turn up the music, dance in my living room and open the curtains.
No Title,
Madrid, August 2022. A crushing heat in the city. Two friends through the Plaza Mayor full of aimless passers-by. An old radio that sounds to the beat of an improvised dance. In the San Miguel market it does not seem to be a working day. Noisy and hungry crowds. With their bellies full they continue the walk up the precious street and make a stop at the French perfume store. Inside, an unexpected and comical encounter between 3 Venezuelans without knowing each other. Hugs and toasts with very cold water to celebrate. Madrid is wonderful, even if it is 40 degrees.
The visitors
The journalist went to Muñique to find out what had happened. He stopped at Tomasa's house who was listening to the novel on her transistor. The distrustful old woman knew something. I'm going to show you something, she said, approaching the garage. She opened it and on a mattress rested two gray beings with big eyes. Two nights ago they arrived, she explained. I think if they take a bit of sun and we put a hat on them they will get used to seeing them. They have nowhere to go. They don't say a word but we understand each other. I feel bad that they don't like my stew but they drink water and they love fruit.
Urbe
Definitely my grandfather does not like the city, he gets sick whenever he visits us; unbearable noise of horns, maddened stress of people walking fast because they are late who knows where, endless sidewalks avoiding colliding with scooters that sneak fast among the crowd, and when night falls treacherous and disorienting lights of traffic lights and shop windows.
Yesterday he didn't want to go out! He feels clumsy, he told me timidly how much he enjoys simpler but so pleasant things as sitting comfortably on the patio, listening to the radio and watching the pigeons fly while he takes a "drink" in secret.
The music
The whiteness of the room enveloped me like a straitjacket. I looked around and only saw a window with iron bars remembering that I lacked the freedom to leave that room. How had I gotten here? Surely I would have had a decompensation in my lithium treatment. I had been taking it since I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder decades ago.
I turned my head to the right. On the bedside table near the bed I discovered a small radio and a handwritten note. Mom, tune in to your favorite station. It will accompany you. You will soon leave the hospital. I love you.
No Title
When there were still no refrigerators, or appliances and only four or five cars circulated on the asphalt, the BBC was already entering our homes.
Isolated from the world as we were, only the voice of the radio through that Pyrenean station, kept us hopeful inside the bunker of the dictatorship. Without that vestige of light in the middle of the darkness, our daily life devoid of oxygen, would have been staggering from here to there, pursuing with all determination what was being stolen from us, without further ado and even worse, without the right to reply.
