Over the Ice Box; Short Story


John Mackenzie, an advertisement Co. Executive had an important meeting he was late for. The reason he was late? He no longerd care. That simple. He had lost all interest in his “important job” 5 yrs. ago…

The world of adds and catchy headliners, once his biggest dream, became boring to him, one sunny morning as he drove away to his work morning meetings.

He felt he had wasted¬†40 yrs. of his life in commercial adds and lame stupid advertisents and sales, as his boss had told him on the phone the night before. And he didn’t disagree with him.

He had to catch up with the new trends and step up his game, his boss admonished him over the phone. He wasn’t comfortable with that but to his boss Bill, it was all to normal to call his subordinates and employees names and make them feel very little. He did it for their own good, he always said. And John couldn’t care less. He just didn’t want to take it anymore. But didn’t wanted to quit either. He wanted to prove his self worth.

So every morning he went for a walk before the meeting. Now her was making his ideas flow as he jogged and organized his schedule to make more time for his Advertisement campaigns and adds.

He really didn’t care much for his boss’s ideas but he signed his big fat checks and John and his high maintenance fianc√© got used to it, and to Bill too, after all he was a cool nice guy in the end.

Besides John wasn’t ready to let some noobs take his place and make him, an already seasoned and skilled Advertise Executive, look like a fool or worst looking irrelevant, like an old icebox.

His thoughts and ideas kept flowing while he ready himself to cross the busy 5th Ave. in NY. he saw two servers in black and white uniforms, looking like the pinguin from batman in that garb, except one of them was tall and skinny, just like his old self, and the two funny looking men where pushing a large square box of ice.

It had some items inside and two large dead goose wrapped in newspaper and cellophane paper. They were ready to slide that icebox on the street and cross 5th Ave. heading to a fancy French / International restaurant few blocks down. “The French ¬† ¬† and their goose!” He thought. And hailed a taxy as he kept watching that unusual big box of ice. It seemed it was giving him some sort of sign ¬†but he wasn’t sure what kind of sign or what it was.

He shook his head and walk in the direction opposite to the French Restaurant and towards his work. There his boss received him with an upset and tired look on his face.¬†“You are late!” said his boss, Mr. Bill Warren, looking and sounding like the white rabbit from “Alice in Wonderland” , as he looked as his pocket watch when he saw John getting out of the elevator and entering his office.

John looked at Bill’s funny figure and angry face and smirked walking into the office and closing the door behind them. John and Bill¬†immediately started discussing a new campaign for an international whiskey millionaire account. It was very important to Bill and he trusted that John was the right guy to work with them.

After an half an hour of meeting they both knew what to present to their client Mr. Welch who had come directly from London to meet with John and  Bill Warren. The meeting was expected to smoothly so none of them were really worried about it.

Bill’s assistant Rita Sanchez interrupted their meeting as it was ending and right on time to announce a call for John. It was his ex-wife Joan. She needed him to watch their 9 year old son during the weekend, since she was going away with her friends to Atlantic City casinos.

He knew she was lying and that his fiancé Carissa was not fond of children, but he  had no other choice but to have little John Eduard Mackenzy with him for the weekend. Besides he loved seeing his only son anytime he could.

Joan had an older daughter too, from her prior marriage, but his step daughter was never fond of him or her little brother, and wasnt old enough to take care of herself for a whole weekend. She was only 15 and prone to fights with her almost 10 yr. old sibling.

Regardless John had promised Joan¬†that he would look after Mandy as well. His weekend wasn’t going to be easy. Hopefully Carissa was in a nicer mood and willing to help him looking over the children.

As soon as he finished his conversation with his ex-wife, He saw Rita staring at him and flirting as usual. Since he had no wife now, his divorced was final led a month earlier, he decided to ask Rita out, but not at that moment. It wasn’t the time yet. He hadn’t decide how things will Clarissa would work out. So he decided refrain his animal impulses to take her on that same desk, and simply smiled back and gave¬†her a small tap on her soft sculptured shoulders and walked away back into his own office.

Rita had a nice scent, a beautiful smile, and a lovely body, he thought of her face and smile as he began his work for the day. All day he thought how and when he would ask her out. And if he wanted to end his relationship with Carissa or not.

But mixing pleasure with business wasn’t usually his thing. People at work called him the iceman or icebox¬†when it come to relationships and women. He loved women, but he was just to cold with them. He was a player, only a nicer quiet one….






Poesia Viva

Un dia, casi cerca del ocaso

la ojas de oto√Īo cubrian pasos

y la colorida alboreda se pinto de payazo

con miles colores como un ruise√Īor

y ese dia me tomo en sus brazos

para decirme adios.

De rabia moria

y desidi desde ese dia

matar en mi toda poesia,

mis letras no escritas perdieron color

hice con sus tintas una sada y un pico

para enterrar mi dolor

Y en una noche en tinieblas

bajo una timida luna llena

cabe nuestra tumba.

La tumba de nuestro amor.

El sepulcro de sus ultimos besos

y con ellos todos mis versos.

Pero hoy a la noticia de su regreso

los desentierros

y con ellos

renace mi poesia de nuevo.

Limpio bailando mi lapida vacia

sacudo de mis pies el polvo del tiempo,

el polvo del desierto que fue mi alma fria

y con flores  de azaares rocio mi cuerpo

que el besaria al terminar el dia.

                                                        Pero jamas regreso.

Hoy camino por un oto√Īo macabro

de llanto y de espanto

de esos donde la reencarnacion de animas

y el celebrar la muerte

parecen coexistir.

Un olor a Flores secas y perdices muertas

se dejan en mi un sentir en mi jardin

y en las noches muero de locura y nostalgia

Y al ver en las calles y plazas

a un fakir pasar

con sus turbantes de hilos

y sedas finas

y sus diamantes y piedras en sus sortijas

o cuando veo amantes besarse y reir

como chiquelos empezando a vivir 

siento que quiero escribir cartillas

llenas de poesias y sonetos

para recordar sus besos

y su forma de reir

aunque entre tanta agonia

quise huir de las letras

y mate en mi la poesia

cosa que una vez le jure que jamas haria

pero asi como el enterro su amo

yo el mio lo sepulte

ignorando los versos

que me pedian gritos volver y renacer.

Ignore entre llanto sus reclamos

y entre cuadernos y librillos baratos

los aprisione

 en limbos de gaveteros y estantes de cedro y cahoba


en algun rincon de nuestra vieja alcoba

y amarillos retratos.

Pero el volvio una noche de repente a mis brasos

y todo lo que en mi moria  olvidado

tomo un nuevo un nuevo color

un nuevo matis que hizo llover

versos, hikus, y todo lo hermoso escondido en mi ser

y  mi moribundo cuerpo

y mi moribunda poesia

clamaban de alegria al revivir.

Y en unos minutos perdidos

de siglos muertos

y recuerdos

mal revividos

mi poesia

fertil como un campo de sorzales renacio al fin

en un viaje de misteriosa alegria

donde todo fue luces que se encendian

y apagaron con majica rapidez

y asi mi poesia pudo  renacer ,

cual paloma resucistada.


Tal vez vive aun en mis cuentos largos

                            disfrazada de poemario                                  

o en letras mal compuestas

que guardan aun

una secreta esperanza

de que el amor antiguo vuelva y reviva

viejas a√Īoranzas.

Pero desde desde aquel primer dia

tomaron  un giro al fracaso

las esperanzas mias,

que en mi pecho tejia

con telas de oro y tegidos de sedas

entre bordadas iniciles y vanas letras

que decian AMOR.

Hoy dia camino un nuevo  camino

donde suelo escribir

lo que no se vivir.

Pero hoy aprendi con la sabia poesia

que ya es tiempo  de renacer, crecer

y creer.

Si no sabes amar

jamas entenderas

que es simplemente hermoso 

ver una poesia nacer!


Claire is Not at Home; Claire is Back Home (New Chapter)

Claire is finally rescued. But all she could do was re-play a “dream game” in her mind. They, the kidnapped young children, ¬†stayed in their induced games for hours with a blanket over their heads. She herself spent many hours on those ‚Äúdream games‚ÄĚ ¬†too and the only face representing those video games was the face of the late Apple company magnate Steve Jobs.

Claire was unhappy and not at home at all literally. She could face her reality of been a ‚Äútaken‚ÄĚ young woman. And although she had no idea of who Steve Jobs was it brought her a sense of solace and safety. His face was the face shown at the beginning of those digital dreams they were submitted to, in order to control them,and brainwash them. ¬†There their reality was different, and they, she, had the control. Their reality was quite different. Her reality was the opposite as her dream-game world.

Claire had being not only rescued from her kidnappers by some computer hacker who found not only her but close to 50 other young men and women, that had been submitted to an online mind control ¬†game. And one of them was finding a way to escape, but the anonymous hacker they dubbed Hero, help them escape. Ironically their Hero was no other than Claire herself. She had found a way to not succumb into the video mind controlling games. She diverted her thought into things she could relate to and missed. Yet she told the reporters, policemen, and everyone that she survived thanks to Steve Job’s face on the pc they were connected to and on a secret phone she got, and who she felt kept telling her to go on and never give up. She was obsessed with Steve Jobs work and words. Somehow she kept his words with her at all times. ‚ÄúNever give up on your dreams to succeed. Never give up.‚ÄĚ

Now Claire was safe and back home. But her memories kept going back to a particular video game and the abandoned wearhouse buildings where they were kept hidden, abused, and even tortured. At least she had time to play her videos game for few minutes without no one knowing. One of her guardians was her accomplice, he only wanted to feel her boobs in return for letting her play her phone video game versus the mind controlling computer games, nothing else. So she agreed. They had a pact. And a strange friendship. She found herself  thinking about him and his whereabouts once she was returned home.

But (Was Claire really back home? Or was she still living in a dream? Did she meet with ¬†her friendly kidnapper‚Äôs employee again? Will she ever be ‚ÄúClaire at home‚ÄĚ again? ¬†Read more from Claire, after she was rescued, on my short Police Fiction Novel “Claire is Not at Home” and “Clair is Back Home” here in my websites http://www.evelynrdz.wordpress.com & http://www.evelynrodriguez.wordpress.com)¬† Continue reading “Claire is Not at Home; Claire is Back Home (New Chapter)”

What is my color and my race?, I’ve being asked!!

True race doesn’t lay on the color of your skin. It lays in the percentage in your blood and DNA. Stop acting stupid like all the racist bigots of many cultures and races like fanatic Muslims and so on…


As the top student of my old College Sociology class I was assigned an unusual project (at least to my impression). I was supposed to research my family tree and then explain with what race I identified the most with, and to the teacher’s surprised I picked five different races, not the tipical, one, two, or three, that most students usually picked.

Here was the races’ list I was given?

Am I;

White ?

Black ?

Spanish ?

Asian ?

Middle Eastern ?

Indian ?

or Jewish?

And why I identify myself with that particular race?

Well it took me a long time to gather facts, since I never ¬†met my father and I look more like him that my late mother, was Puerto Rican-White. Well thinking about my mom I found out I was “Spanish” with a strong White European background in our family DNA. And tracing what my father might have being, it was hard to ¬† Descifer if he was a dark Spanish male, mixed with Black, Middle Eastern, Asian, or Asiatic/Indian, through some people who saw him, before I was born were able to tell me that he was part Indian and part Black. I decided to give him a fictional nickname, “The Moor” because that’s how I always imagined him and my vision of him was confirmed based on my family friend’s tale. I then sat down with my notepad and pen and paper in hand and I wrote my five choices.

I’m Spanish. Me llano, Evelyn Rodriguez. Hola!!

I’m Black. ( A medium milky chocolate beauty, curvy buttocks and wide hips don’t lie, lol )

I’m White (My perfil¬†and my mother’s White DNA gave me the right to claim white as my race)

I’m Indian ( My father, who I long ago forgave for abandoning me, gave me his Indian race and features and the right to embrace the Indians a great part of me.)

And I’m Asian, don’t Indians come from Asia. Plus my eyes and fine straight black hair allows me to claim it, probably as technicality.

The result of my project? Well, I got a -B, because according to my professor  I did not understood the project and selecting five races was deviant. But I rather be deviant and get a B than deny my own ethnicity and the races who made the gorgeous me. The    Whole and grounded self in me.

Ain’t I a Woman?

May I say a few words?

“Let’s never forget history; History cannot, should not repeat itself.”


Ain’t I a Woman?
By Sojourner Truth

I want to say a few words about this matter. I am a woman’s rights. [sic] I have as much muscle as any man, and can do as much work as any man. I have plowed and reaped and husked and chopped and mowed, and can any man do more than that? I have heard much about the sexes being equal. I can carry as much as any man, and can eat as much too, if I can get it. I am as strong as any man that is now. As for intellect, all I can say is, if a woman have a pint, and a man a quart ‚Äď why can’t she have her little pint full? You need not be afraid to give us our rights for fear we will take too much, ‚Äď for we can’t take more than our pint’ll hold. The poor men seems to be all in confusion, and don’t know what to do. Why children, if you have woman’s rights, give it to her and you will feel better. You will have your own rights, and they won’t be so much trouble. I can’t read, but I can hear. I have heard the bible and have learned that Eve caused man to sin. Well, if woman upset the world, do give her a chance to set it right side up again. The Lady has spoken about Jesus, how he never spurned woman from him, and she was right. When Lazarus died, Mary and Martha came to him with faith and love and besought him to raise their brother. And Jesus wept and Lazarus came forth. And how came Jesus into the world? Through God who created him and the woman who bore him. Man, where was your part? But the women are coming up blessed be God and a few of the men are coming up with them. But man is in a tight place, the poor slave is on him, woman is coming on him, he is surely between a hawk and a buzzard.