Jaime Calle Moreno
Bio
Spanish and a journalist by nature, an absolute passion of mine has always been writing. Short stories, articles, opinions, books and everything and anything in between. Knack for languages and international oriented.
Stories (5)
Filter by community
Where Do The Trees Sleep?
Friday, 15th August 2053 – 11:58 P.M. Petra, my dear. I haven’t written in a while, not just because Saklaus and I have been moving for a week or two now. It just wasn’t a great time. Lots of sleepless nights. I’m used to it now, just had a couple bad ones in a row. Too many of them around, damn Followers of Jörðians. But we made it out of a difficult zone, the post-forest was as bleak as ever. Remember those trees? I remember you’d always look up at them, as if looking at God himself, in awe and wonder. That smile you’d get, it’s still etched in my memory, still so vivid.
By Jaime Calle Moreno4 years ago in Fiction
Jungle Flame Memories
Father was a farmer, growing beautiful trees with branches laden with olives that would sometimes reach the ground. It was hard to grow them, in that climate, but we made do. A small track of water from the Iça River passed through just near us, and we would go and see the water flow slowly, just like our lives. His father was also a farmer, same thing really. They were always so careful of the ground. “Don’t step there, that’s for this and this vegetable.” Their voices so clear in my head even now, after so many years.
By Jaime Calle Moreno4 years ago in Fiction
The Bull and the Boy
The small canoe boats floating along the Ganges, the famous and sacred steps of the city of the dead’s riverside packed with pilgrims, tourists, book-readers and locals, a young small shoe-less boy peering over at his family, and what I can only describe as a gargantuan bull, all in one frame. This picture, and the voyage I had to take that led to me this moment, this fleeting moment, is one that needs a deep rewind.
By Jaime Calle Moreno5 years ago in Photography
The Man With No Name
As the grey light appeared in between the chimneys, The Man With No Name’s eyelids gently opened as the brightness targeted him like a sniper. London’s chimneys were dancing in the grey light, occupying the place where rays of light were supposed to be. The smell of soot and coal permeated the air aggressively, attacking the pleasurable smells, dispersing and suffocating them. The flight of a few seagulls in the distance, too far to distinguish, and the machinations of industry sounded out their groans and grunts, as they stretched their metallic limbs at the sight of their masters. The city was coming alive, and No Name was as well.
By Jaime Calle Moreno5 years ago in Criminal
