Ma.

Guadalupe Niklison

Lenguas Inglesa I

A Town Struck by Tragedy

I will never forget that cold winter evening. The town was as quiet as always;
only the birds could be heard, flying from tree to tree. The town people were
already in their homes and no one even suspect that something was going on
that would turn our lives upside down. I was born and raised in this town, thirtyfive of which I have dedicated to the grain, and I can testify that nothing had
ever interrupted its calm.
I was in my garden that evening, picking ripe tomatoes and watering the
flowers, when a deafening sound disrupted the silence and made the town
shake. I raised my eyes, as every other citizen most surely did, to meet
thousand little specks of gold illuminating the evening sky for a moment and
then falling to the ground. For a moment I stood still as I digested what that
beautiful display could mean. I run as fast as my old legs could carry me to the
main street where I met the rest of the neighbours gaping at the sight before
them. What once was the silo was destroyed, only dust and fragments of
concrete remained, as if a giant had come with its enormous feet and had step
in every inch of the building. The grain had, for some unknown reason, set on
fire, and the heat was such that the silo imploded, destroying what had been
the product of most of the town workers, including myself.
The bitter and sulfurous smell remained in town long after the accident and
dust covered everything. People whispered for days about what would it be of
us without the grain, of the measures the mayor would take on the tourism
plan to get some income for the town. But I was sure of one thing: the town

Ma. Guadalupe Niklison

Lenguas Inglesa I

would never be the same. Its beauty was now going to serve the hordes of
tourists, who will consume it just as every other product made for
entertainment.