https://www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/storyblog/What is important for a writer? To read or to be read? It seems to me that every writer's dream and activity are quite centered on being read. Of course --and I hope you agree with me--, you cannot be a true writer if there is no pecuniary value to your talent. Not that you want to become a millionaire overnight, but at least you should feel appreciated. Even children know this in a certain way. So this it. My first blog, on which I will write my fast fiction stories, and my commentaries to them, or to yours. I hope to be brief and to the point; I know you will have your own opinions, which I'll read eagerly. Hugo La Rosahourly12000-01-01T12:00+00:00https://www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/storyblog/751990“There was once a chance I didn’t take,” said Robert. “It happens to everybody,” said the Psychiatrist. “Yes, I know.” “So you see, you understand it is something natural,” concluded the Psychiatrist, as he saw the hour on the clock against the wall. (Tick, tack, tick, tack, tick, tack.) “No. I don’t understand yet,” said Robert. “I certainly missed a big chance in my life, and I didn’t take it; not because everybody does it. I regret it immensely, I mean that.” “What is that you regret...https://www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/storyblog/751927It was cold. Somebody knocked at the door; it was 10:15 p.m., and the drizzle had not stopped, not for a single moment. Gerry the old man in the wheelchair felt uneasy about who that might be, and at that hour of the night! He was about to tell his wife to open the door, when somebody, probably the voice of a police man broke the ominous silence: “You there, inside the house, don’t open the door, we have him surrounded. It’s a thief!” “Oh my, oh my,” said the wife to the old man resting on...https://www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/storyblog/750903To enter the movie theater, for us boys of nine and ten years old, was like entering into a magical world of the senses. What awaited us behind the semi-darkness of the corridor following the ticket booth was unimaginable. Our young hearts were eager and ready for another slice of the world, or so we thought in our fancy. For it was, precisely, this lack of experience, which turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy of joy and adventure; it was pure enchantment; our minds were open for the...https://www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/storyblog/749876Fast Fiction The sun was quite strong at lunch hour. We had come to the spacious front patio of the factory to play football soccer; no need to speak of work and the miseries of our situation as illegal aliens. This was glory time, a time in which nothing would insist on us, except the passing availability to own a piece of our lives, the win or lose time, without any other hidden agendas. Some of us have come from countries as far as Colombia and Peru; others as close as Honduras and Mexico;...https://www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/storyblog/749875Fast Fiction. George, eleven years old boy, is at the outdoor line-up, on the schoolyard. December; it’s cold. He is looking askance to the other side of the patio where a blonde little girl, age 10, is looking at him with languid sadness. Her name is Francine, her teacher just called her name. She seems a new student. While he is there, the boy behind George, on the line, starts a conversation with him about Santa Claus. George, who believes in Santa Claus, seems annoyed at his friend’s...