Several years ago, I wrote a short short story for a creative writing class at Northwestern.  I was supposed to imitate a writer. At the time, I was reading some of Garcia Marquez’s tales. So I selected him. I hope you like it. Here it goes:

              The Wrath of Heaven or Hell                     

Before Lorenzo Lopez retired for the day, he took a few precautions.  He shut the window tight, nailed big planks of wood to seal the windowpanes, and closed the curtains. The main entrance to his apartment was secured with an iron bar, and his bedroom door blocked with a heavy dresser he had propped against.  He did not know what he was afraid of, but feared the wrath of heaven or hell.  Thoughts of an attack by wild crows with iron beaks or giant green beetles with radioactive antennas plagued him. After he had hung garlands of garlic on each of his bedposts to scare off vampires, he rushed to bed and threw a blanket upon his head. Rosary in hand, he waited for the grandfather clock to peal twelve times and announce the arrival of Friday the thirteenth.  He would have preferred to stay under the sheets until the fatidic day had ended. This routine had worked for as long as he could remember. On this occasion, however, major reasons were forcing him to venture out of the house.

“You either go before the judge next July the thirteenth, or you’ll be deported,” his lawyer had said.

He tossed and turned all night. During the few minutes that sleep took over his mental chaos, nightmares tormented him with grotesque visions of wild elephants tramping on him, boa constrictors coiling around his neck, or quicksand swallowing him up.  The next day as soon as the sunlight seeped through a small crack between the planks of wood, he stood up.  He put on a white long-sleeved shirt and white pants to walk undetected through clouds of killer mosquitoes. His baseball gloves came in handy just in case the bus door would decide to crush his hand. He had asked a neighbor to let him borrow a football helmet under the pretense his cousin in college needed one.  Lorenzo was afraid that ostrich-egg-sized hailstones or a downpour of meteorites would kill him before he could reach downtown Chicago.  He crammed it onto his head. He then tucked his legs into big firefighter boots to wade through the streets for fear that Katrina might resurrect and flood the city. He got dressed, removed the bar, eased the main door unlocked, and gingerly pulled it in.  As soon as the door stood ajar for an instant, a beam of sunlight ricocheted on a broken mirror lying on the ground and hit his face. Panting with fear, he slammed the door shut,

“God, have mercy on me! A Death’s mirror!”