Tomato Ville

Everything ended. The lights disappeared slowly. The noise started to die, from a high excitement state to a state of sadness.

Eyes stared at the scene, the beautiful dresses, most of them rented, were tragically splashed by an impossible to remove red. A few faces turned away in horror looking for a shoulder to hide behind so their eyes wouldn’t fall on the morbidity, then looked back at the center of the room. A sob broke the silence, and then it started to grow until it became a desperate cry that soon was joined by a thousand other voices, inconsolable screams of pain which gave a hint of the magnitude of the tragedy that had taken place in the center of the room just a couple of minutes ago, when everything was laughter and dancing.

He was dead, and with him dreams and hopes, the promise of a better life for everyone.

A commission crossed the door talking and laughing. They didn’t understand. Their cameras hanging over their chests, their burlesque eyes looked between entertained and confused at the red stains that covered the whole room, and then the crying reached it’s peak.

He was dead, and with him dreams and hopes. Everybody cried for him. There wasn’t a single photo that proved his existence, only the memories that every inhabitant kept and will treasure forever.

Tomato Ville had been so close to making it to the Guinness World Record Book, five minutes before they could have created history. Damn kid who kicked the world’s largest tomato.