José Manuel Fajardo

I was born in Grenada, Spain in 1956; in other words, in the past century—a long, long time ago. For years, I lived in an unpleasant, tiresome part of Madrid. My favorite distraction was reading adventure stories. I would imagine that I was a dread pirate or an explorer discovering new worlds. During summer holidays, my father would read bedtime stories to my sister and me. I remember the year he read us H.G. Wells's story about the war of the worlds, where Martians invade the Earth. It was hot, and every night, my head full of flying saucers, I would go out on the balcony to see the stars. Sometimes, as I watched, a glowing white line would streak across the sky like a line of chalk on a blackboard. These were falling stars, but I would pretend they were really spaceships with extraterrestrials on board. I enjoyed reading, but I liked making up my own stories even better. I liked it so much that when I grew up I became a writer. I still remember my childhood nights, and now that I am no longer a child, I wrote this story to share with other children the excitement of those falling stars that used to kindle my imagination.