1. To Forget (Short Story)

    AS PROMISED, A NEW PIECE OF WRITING. I WROTE THIS IN 9TH GRADE:

    There she stood: hyperventilating and placing her freshly bought items inside her grand room. Her lips curved into a fake smile. Her eyes scrutinized the drugs and the alcohol on the bureau. In that distinct moment she remembered. The bitter emotions seeped through her body; they fought to release themselves and did so through languid tears. Soon, her face was saturated with tears and she opened the bottle. She wanted to drown the pain; she wanted to attain peace. While she clenched the bottle, the clear-cut memory arose; there was no denying it. 

    The car. The body. The shock.

          She fervently took a sip and sniffed the grainy powder in her fist up her nose. With this, her thoughts twirled and twirled until blood slowly loomed out from the wall, which was reminiscent of the accident. Then, the effect of the drugs slowly subsided. She kept drinking until the bottle was at the verge of being hollow. “Just a few more drops,” she told herself. Her head spun; she barely remembered the incident. Her sneaky facade of inebriated state would only last temporarily. She lost her coordination and stumbled onto the icy, creamy-white floor. The pain passed unnoticed while tips of her fingers brushed the lines of cement that separated each block that made the floor whole.

    Hours glided by, and soon her consciousness came back, she could think straight now. The silver keys on the rug affirmed that she could not escape the fact that she had killed. The recent memory was ever so palpable and acute like film. Midnight was the time that she had gone driving through a neighborhood when her prune-like cigarette escaped her clumsy hands. “My headlights are on and no one’s out this time of night. I’ll just take a sec.” The voice inside her head told her otherwise, but she did not listen. While stretching her hand to grab the wrinkled cigarette, she heard a scream and she instantly hit the brake. She had undoubtedly hit someone. Her heart thumped wildly and blood flooded all over her body making her head throb. Next to her car a lady was crying and hitting the pavement with her clenched fists. Realization made her brain snap back to life and perspiration oozed down her forehead. That lady was not the victim; that lady was completely unscathed. She rapidly exited her car and a puddle of blood was the first thing she saw. “The son; a boy; oh God!” she exclaimed in the privacy of her thoughts. She couldn’t stay; she couldn’t bear it. Not then, not ever. 

          There she lay, remembering the atrocious tragedy; recalling how she had fled the scene. She recollected escaping. The shops and buildings smudged by because of her rapid speed. Before hitting the accelerator, she saw the mother crying over the body of her son in her periphery vision. The boys’ mother’s piercing glance played over and over in her head. “I didn’t mean to!” she shouted into the emptiness of her room. She threw the bottle at the wall in haste and fragments of glass burst to pieces. She cried and cried, trying to erase the memory. Not even drugs and booze could do that. She wanted to forget; to erase it completely from her mind, but her attempts were futile. The shuddersome memory would haunt her forever.
  2.  Mexican Smells (FLASH FICTION)             Black smoke swirls from behind the bus as it stops. Marta coughs lightly as a response, something she’s gotten used to every morning. She wraps her knit scarf around her throat and climbs inside the bus. She eyes Doña Pepa, the lady from the marketplace and decides to slide in next to her. Coming from Santa Anna, it’s not unusual to share a bus seat with a neighbor, or even a family member. She sighs as she remembers Armando’s floppy hair from that morning, how he quickly ate his quesadilla and left to tend to his Tejuino* stand. Marta’s eyes gleam out toward the awakened city of Guadalajara from the foggy bus window. Ese niño no para, she says to herself. “That boy does not know when to stop.” The bus thumps and wobbles to the side, as passengers hold on tighter to the slimy metal poles. *** When Marta first met Mrs. Castellanos she wore her long black hair in a bun, and her best white-laced apron. Her previous boss, Mrs. Gomez had moved to another state and had recommended Marta. Mrs. Castellanos showed Marta around. Three patios, two dining tables, one TV room, eight bedrooms, two living rooms and a terrace later Marta gasped, mouth wide open. Slowly but surely, Marta learned her way around the house, quickened her pace, and finished her duties in a flurry. She would always leave the bedrooms for last. She enjoyed admiring the teenagers’ rooms. La Señora had two adolescent children, whom she never cooked food for: Bernardo and Mariana. Marta would make tasty mole: tortillas wrapped around chicken pieces topped with a chocolaty sauce, peppered with a hint of chipotle. Bernardo and Mariana would praise her for her meals. The only time they ever addressed her was at the kitchen when she served the food. Her communication stemmed from glances of approval pertaining to her spicy Mexican dishes, and her zesty flavors simmering inside Mrs. Castellanos kitchen pots. During chilly autumn mornings Marta wished for Mrs. Castellanos’s life to be her own. For them, everything looked effortless, nothing brought up struggles. They had too many clothes to count, no dirty house to worry about, and no real fear of the world. “Here, take these old clothes. We have no need for them anymore,” Mrs. Castellanos told her one afternoon, as she handed over a white plastic bag to Marta. She recalled telling Mrs. Castellanos that if she ever needed to get rid of something, to hand it over to her. She would get good use out of it. Euphoria encircled Marta’s thoughts; these clothes would get her closer to moving forward in her life.             Armando, her son, would have new t-shirts for school, and keep the old ones to wear under the scorching sun while he sold Tejuino in the hottest mornings. At home, Marta ripped the bag open, the plastic squeaking with every tear. As she analyzed every cloth piece, she noticed brands, brands, and more brands. Big words sewed onto each shirt reading fancy foreign names. To Marta, clothes were enough, not what label name was on them, as long as they served their purpose. Maybe the better life involved being too picky. Nevertheless, she wanted her life to be so much better. Mariana spent endless hours on her computer, just staring at the glowing screen. Marta didn’t understand. Girls in her neighborhood played outside, kicked the ball on the soccer field with the boys, making the dirt on the field levitate with every kick. For Mariana it was just the click-clack from the keyboard. She just locked herself up in her room, and only went out at night to parties she would come back home drunk from. When Marta stayed over one night she heard Mariana’s footsteps, heard her barfing near the kitchen sink. But when a maid listens she keeps everything to herself. Bernardo thumped away at his controller. His school bag never moved from that one corner in his room. Why does he even go to school then? Marta would muse. My son works extra hard for his grades, gets up extra early to roll through the streets selling drinks. Bernardo only worried about what type of Armani perfume he wore for his outings. Armando, on the other hand went to school in the evenings, his day always filled, having to balance work with schoolwork. Marta was proud of her son. When the sun rose, she would bless him by gesturing with her hands the Virgin’s blessing upon his face every day. He would come home to shower before school, his cinnamon skin beaded in sweat. “Mami, I’ll see you tonight,” he would whisper, always looking forward to Marta’s kitchen smells. Mrs. Castellanos did nothing to motivate her children. She wasn’t really there; although physically she was, her superficiality would overshadow any emotional connection with her children. Every morning she would go to hair salons, long breakfasts with her comadres, and get her nails done. Coming home with long white-tipped nails which enhanced her smooth hands; hands that Marta could never have. Hers were calloused and plain, hers were made for bleaching clothes and mopping floors. Oh if only she could be like La Señora. Her life would be so much better. *** When Marta got her first raise, she felt like she was dipping her toes into the stream of prosperity. With the money she had saved over the years, including the short months working with Mrs. Castellanos, she was ready to ride the bus home and buy something special. Clothes? A big TV screen for Armando and herself? How about a new couch? Marta fidgeted in her seat, and flattened out her skirt in anticipation. As the bus stopped, and Doña Pepa scurried off toward the cobblestone roads of Santa Anna, Marta went straight to the market. Her nostrils flared as she smelled and decided what seasonings to purchase, and her pupils widened as she eyed freshly baked bread. When the stars popped up through the sky, Marta laid out her newly bought tablecloths on the tables outside her humble home. As pots bubbled, and salt was sprinkled, smells and steam traveled through the town, calling her family and friends to the table. Chiles rellenos, mole, tortas ahogadas, tacos, quesadillas, gringas, and beans were only but a few of the dishes Marta had managed to make for her neighborhood. Armando finished his shower and ran to the kitchen, hunting the strong smell of chiles. “Mother, what is all this?” he asked, astonished. As he asked this, Doña Pepa entered the house. “It’s been too long since a family reunion.” Marta answered. “Doña Pepa, call the townspeople, tell them supper is ready.” Swarms of life-long friends and family members served themselves and smiled. They all shared the warmth, and the flavor of real Mexican unity. Her life was so much better. *Tejuino: A cold beverage made from fermented corn popularly drunk in the Mexican state of Jalisco. It is often served with a scoop of shaved ice.

     Mexican Smells (FLASH FICTION)

                Black smoke swirls from behind the bus as it stops. Marta coughs lightly as a response, something she’s gotten used to every morning. She wraps her knit scarf around her throat and climbs inside the bus. She eyes Doña Pepa, the lady from the marketplace and decides to slide in next to her. Coming from Santa Anna, it’s not unusual to share a bus seat with a neighbor, or even a family member. She sighs as she remembers Armando’s floppy hair from that morning, how he quickly ate his quesadilla and left to tend to his Tejuino* stand. Marta’s eyes gleam out toward the awakened city of Guadalajara from the foggy bus window. Ese niño no para, she says to herself. “That boy does not know when to stop.” The bus thumps and wobbles to the side, as passengers hold on tighter to the slimy metal poles.

    ***

    When Marta first met Mrs. Castellanos she wore her long black hair in a bun, and her best white-laced apron. Her previous boss, Mrs. Gomez had moved to another state and had recommended Marta. Mrs. Castellanos showed Marta around. Three patios, two dining tables, one TV room, eight bedrooms, two living rooms and a terrace later Marta gasped, mouth wide open. Slowly but surely, Marta learned her way around the house, quickened her pace, and finished her duties in a flurry. She would always leave the bedrooms for last. She enjoyed admiring the teenagers’ rooms. La Señora had two adolescent children, whom she never cooked food for: Bernardo and Mariana.

    Marta would make tasty mole: tortillas wrapped around chicken pieces topped with a chocolaty sauce, peppered with a hint of chipotle. Bernardo and Mariana would praise her for her meals. The only time they ever addressed her was at the kitchen when she served the food. Her communication stemmed from glances of approval pertaining to her spicy Mexican dishes, and her zesty flavors simmering inside Mrs. Castellanos kitchen pots.

    During chilly autumn mornings Marta wished for Mrs. Castellanos’s life to be her own. For them, everything looked effortless, nothing brought up struggles. They had too many clothes to count, no dirty house to worry about, and no real fear of the world.

    “Here, take these old clothes. We have no need for them anymore,” Mrs. Castellanos told her one afternoon, as she handed over a white plastic bag to Marta. She recalled telling Mrs. Castellanos that if she ever needed to get rid of something, to hand it over to her. She would get good use out of it.

    Euphoria encircled Marta’s thoughts; these clothes would get her closer to moving forward in her life.            

    Armando, her son, would have new t-shirts for school, and keep the old ones to wear under the scorching sun while he sold Tejuino in the hottest mornings. At home, Marta ripped the bag open, the plastic squeaking with every tear. As she analyzed every cloth piece, she noticed brands, brands, and more brands. Big words sewed onto each shirt reading fancy foreign names. To Marta, clothes were enough, not what label name was on them, as long as they served their purpose. Maybe the better life involved being too picky. Nevertheless, she wanted her life to be so much better.

    Mariana spent endless hours on her computer, just staring at the glowing screen. Marta didn’t understand. Girls in her neighborhood played outside, kicked the ball on the soccer field with the boys, making the dirt on the field levitate with every kick. For Mariana it was just the click-clack from the keyboard. She just locked herself up in her room, and only went out at night to parties she would come back home drunk from. When Marta stayed over one night she heard Mariana’s footsteps, heard her barfing near the kitchen sink. But when a maid listens she keeps everything to herself.

    Bernardo thumped away at his controller. His school bag never moved from that one corner in his room. Why does he even go to school then? Marta would muse. My son works extra hard for his grades, gets up extra early to roll through the streets selling drinks. Bernardo only worried about what type of Armani perfume he wore for his outings. Armando, on the other hand went to school in the evenings, his day always filled, having to balance work with schoolwork. Marta was proud of her son. When the sun rose, she would bless him by gesturing with her hands the Virgin’s blessing upon his face every day. He would come home to shower before school, his cinnamon skin beaded in sweat.

    “Mami, I’ll see you tonight,” he would whisper, always looking forward to Marta’s kitchen smells.

    Mrs. Castellanos did nothing to motivate her children. She wasn’t really there; although physically she was, her superficiality would overshadow any emotional connection with her children. Every morning she would go to hair salons, long breakfasts with her comadres, and get her nails done. Coming home with long white-tipped nails which enhanced her smooth hands; hands that Marta could never have. Hers were calloused and plain, hers were made for bleaching clothes and mopping floors. Oh if only she could be like La Señora. Her life would be so much better.

    ***

    When Marta got her first raise, she felt like she was dipping her toes into the stream of prosperity. With the money she had saved over the years, including the short months working with Mrs. Castellanos, she was ready to ride the bus home and buy something special. Clothes? A big TV screen for Armando and herself? How about a new couch? Marta fidgeted in her seat, and flattened out her skirt in anticipation. As the bus stopped, and Doña Pepa scurried off toward the cobblestone roads of Santa Anna, Marta went straight to the market. Her nostrils flared as she smelled and decided what seasonings to purchase, and her pupils widened as she eyed freshly baked bread.

    When the stars popped up through the sky, Marta laid out her newly bought tablecloths on the tables outside her humble home. As pots bubbled, and salt was sprinkled, smells and steam traveled through the town, calling her family and friends to the table. Chiles rellenos, mole, tortas ahogadas, tacos, quesadillas, gringas, and beans were only but a few of the dishes Marta had managed to make for her neighborhood. Armando finished his shower and ran to the kitchen, hunting the strong smell of chiles.

    “Mother, what is all this?” he asked, astonished. As he asked this, Doña Pepa entered the house.

    “It’s been too long since a family reunion.” Marta answered. “Doña Pepa, call the townspeople, tell them supper is ready.” Swarms of life-long friends and family members served themselves and smiled. They all shared the warmth, and the flavor of real Mexican unity. Her life was so much better.

    *Tejuino: A cold beverage made from fermented corn popularly drunk in the Mexican state of Jalisco. It is often served with a scoop of shaved ice.

  3. passionatesoul: Just Like Any Other Day for a Bookworm Raindrops squiggle down the window, like small worms trying to find their way through muddy paths. The hot steam from my coffee rises, and as it warms my cheeks I shudder, revitalized from the palpable cold whiffs permeating from the outside. Then, I crisscross my arms to hug my shoulders—a reflex to the sudden weather change caused by the rain.  I’ve always said my perfect afternoon scenario is watching raindrops dot windows, hearing the constant rhythm it evokes, and breathe in the cold air. But most of all: the smell. The smell of rain once I step outside. The busy coffee shop is active yet peaceful. The sound of blenders, the smell of roasted coffee beans, and chocolate syrup fills the air. A smirk creeps into my face as I drink it all in, and put my book away. But for a moment, my attention goes elsewhere. Scruffy short black hair. Mild freckles. Eyes on paper. Coffee to his right. This guy must be my age I reflect, analyzing his features and original clothe pieces. Just like him, I have come here to enjoy a good read, adding atmosphere by coming to a coffee shop, mixing concentrated sight with delectable smells. I reflect upon my newly walled-up confinement to find myself again. This week my enjoyable loneliness has crossed the line and grown.  I have secluded myself from my once-filled social agenda. I decided I needed at least a week for myself, with so many things going on one tends to lose oneself. But I decide enough is enough. “Whatcha reading?” I bravely ask, hoping not to sound too pushy. “A Clockwork Orange” he says, staring up from his book. Recalling the title, I engage further. “Oh, I’ve heard of it. Loads of people have recommended it to me. It’s still in the growing heap of unread books on my desk” I say casually, guessing the conversation will probably end there, as he seems so focused on his book. To my surprise he puts the book down.  “I see… you have one two. I hate those. I keep buying books even though there are loads I have yet to take off the shelf. So the pile just grows.” I manage to let out a giggle and take a sip from my coffee. “Yeah, I can tell we both hate books. We just wanna toss them all into the fire like in Farhrenheit 451. Who needs them right?” I say sarcastically. He smiles back, accepts the comment as a good conversation starter.             “I’d be just like Montag, going against society and all. Rebelling, to save literature and the power of words.” He says using his hands, and throwing a wink my way. “Well Montag…” I begin with a different tone of voice. “In that case I’d be Juliet from Romeo and Juliet, easily swayed by well-crafted words, just not impetuous. What’s your name in the real world?” My question makes him laugh now. Or is it my question? My Juliet comment maybe? “Yep, she was pretty impetuous, just went off with a guy she met in a couple of days and got married. Name’s Cameron. And you?” Just as I’m about to answer, a quick breeze brushes my cheeks, and my legs feel tangled. I blink. My balcony stands before me, my legs entangled in warm sheets. A dream, I think to myself. Of course. I take the sheets off with a groan. Just like any other day for a bookworm. Making up unrealistic stories even in my dreams, with smart, quirky characters, and entertaining dialogue that flows perfectly, in situations only possible in books. A thought quickly crosses my mind. Well, not always impossible. I look on my bedside table, and eye a crumpled sheet of paper. I open it, only to find a number and name: Guy Montag…a.k.a. Cameron. I bite my lip, ecstatic.

    passionatesoul:

    Just Like Any Other Day for a Bookworm

    Raindrops squiggle down the window, like small worms trying to find their way through muddy paths. The hot steam from my coffee rises, and as it warms my cheeks I shudder, revitalized from the palpable cold whiffs permeating from the outside. Then, I crisscross my arms to hug my shoulders—a reflex to the sudden weather change caused by the rain.  I’ve always said my perfect afternoon scenario is watching raindrops dot windows, hearing the constant rhythm it evokes, and breathe in the cold air. But most of all: the smell. The smell of rain once I step outside.

    The busy coffee shop is active yet peaceful. The sound of blenders, the smell of roasted coffee beans, and chocolate syrup fills the air. A smirk creeps into my face as I drink it all in, and put my book away. But for a moment, my attention goes elsewhere.

    Scruffy short black hair. Mild freckles. Eyes on paper. Coffee to his right. This guy must be my age I reflect, analyzing his features and original clothe pieces. Just like him, I have come here to enjoy a good read, adding atmosphere by coming to a coffee shop, mixing concentrated sight with delectable smells. I reflect upon my newly walled-up confinement to find myself again. This week my enjoyable loneliness has crossed the line and grown.  I have secluded myself from my once-filled social agenda. I decided I needed at least a week for myself, with so many things going on one tends to lose oneself. But I decide enough is enough.

    “Whatcha reading?” I bravely ask, hoping not to sound too pushy.

    “A Clockwork Orange” he says, staring up from his book. Recalling the title, I engage further.

    “Oh, I’ve heard of it. Loads of people have recommended it to me. It’s still in the growing heap of unread books on my desk” I say casually, guessing the conversation will probably end there, as he seems so focused on his book. To my surprise he puts the book down.

     “I see… you have one two. I hate those. I keep buying books even though there are loads I have yet to take off the shelf. So the pile just grows.” I manage to let out a giggle and take a sip from my coffee.

    “Yeah, I can tell we both hate books. We just wanna toss them all into the fire like in Farhrenheit 451. Who needs them right?” I say sarcastically. He smiles back, accepts the comment as a good conversation starter.

                “I’d be just like Montag, going against society and all. Rebelling, to save literature and the power of words.” He says using his hands, and throwing a wink my way.

    “Well Montag…” I begin with a different tone of voice. “In that case I’d be Juliet from Romeo and Juliet, easily swayed by well-crafted words, just not impetuous. What’s your name in the real world?” My question makes him laugh now. Or is it my question? My Juliet comment maybe?

    “Yep, she was pretty impetuous, just went off with a guy she met in a couple of days and got married. Name’s Cameron. And you?” Just as I’m about to answer, a quick breeze brushes my cheeks, and my legs feel tangled. I blink. My balcony stands before me, my legs entangled in warm sheets.

    A dream, I think to myself. Of course. I take the sheets off with a groan.

    Just like any other day for a bookworm. Making up unrealistic stories even in my dreams, with smart, quirky characters, and entertaining dialogue that flows perfectly, in situations only possible in books. A thought quickly crosses my mind. Well, not always impossible. I look on my bedside table, and eye a crumpled sheet of paper. I open it, only to find a number and name: Guy Montag…a.k.a. Cameron. I bite my lip, ecstatic.

  4. Coconuts (Flash Fiction)

    Flies swarm around the coconuts’ open cocoons, hoping for a taste of juice. But he doesn’t let them. Pedro shoos them away, he doesn’t let them have a taste of the freshness. People gather. They cluster around his whitewashed plastic table. “Cocos frescos” he bellows, puncturing straws into the opening green layers that rim the inside of the white fruit. Pedro’s scruffy beard heightens his playful smiles as he beams at his buyers. His humid tank top sticks to his cinnamon brown skin like glue. He smells of salt and sweat. Chopping coconuts brings pleasure, offers freshness from a hot day at the beach to his rambling customers.

    Coconuts are hard—can break one’s head. Coconuts quench thirst. Coconuts help the marooned and the shipwrecked survive in desert islands. Coconuts, help Pedro provide. During breaks Pedro pushes through the rumbling waves, immerses himself into salty splashes. Las olas, his favorite place to be. Walking near the shore, as the sun starts to hide behind the horizon, foam is heard bubbling as the waves unwind and retreat, the sand soaking up the salty residue. The sun dips under. Foam bubbles away in between his toes. His body claps against the wind, and he closes his eyes.

    Night brings forth las estrellas—silver thorns decorating the black atmosphere. They give him comfort. Underline his dreams. Pedro walks on the cobblestone road in his raunchy town of Lo de Marcos. Bungalows, trailer parks, bilingual menus provided in restaurants. Daily, the beach is filled with passersby, who get excited with cheap beach tattoos and braids with colorful beads. For Pedro it means more coconuts are sold.

    As Pedro trudges through the dunes, leaving the shops and taco stands behind; he hears breaths of pleasure by the moonlight. Standing behind a palm tree he sees lovers coiling in the sand, wrapped in a turquoise blanket. The stranger grabs the woman’s long black hair, and curls it up in between his fingers. Pedro leaves. It’s not his place to be. But pain simmers inside of him as he remembers. Passionate kisses under the moonlight. Late night dippings into the ocean. Shared coconuts on slippery black rocks. Whispers and secrets with Her beneath the stars. Running back to his stand, he gathers up a few coconuts, brings them to the beach. Tears hang on his lower lids, as he throws a coconut into a sharp-pointed rock. Juice spilling. Tears spilling. In the middle of the night when the breeze blows palm tree leaves to the sand, and when the stars shine brightest, you can hear Pedro and his coconuts—cracking.
  5. Blurred Identity (SHORT STORY) Raindrops hit the pavement, making the dust from the streets levitate. Umbrellas up. In New York, people are prepared for anything, something I have yet to learn. Unfortunately for me, the only protection against the rain was my freshly bought book, Blurred Identity. “Great,” I muttered. Rain hitting heavily on me, I jogged across the wet street and stood under a breakfast joint whose entrance shielded me from the storm: “Joe’s coffee & pastries.” How cliché, I thought. Before I could put my book back into my purse, pieces of scattered paper slapped my face and my book thumped to the floor. “Oh crap,” said someone in front of me. I gathered the crumpled sheets from the floor, and gave them back. “Thank you,” said the stranger. He had tousled black hair, and wore a fedora. His coat was light brown and his crooked smile was engaging. His facial features were very pronounced thanks to a strong bone structure. “Your book…” he sighed, as he picked it up. Its cover was decorated with droplets of rain, its pages soggy, making the book full of lumps. “That’s fine, books with no bent edges or coffee stains have no personality,” I said, grabbing it from him. He was taken aback from my answer and pointed at my book. “You like when objects bring back a memory?” he asked. I stared at his dated brown loafers. “That too.” “You’re still missing that coffee stain. What do you say we go inside and have some warm coffee?” he challenged. I smiled, and answered by gesturing toward the breakfast joint. By now, the rain was falling lightly, just a drizzle. I breathed in that faint smell of rain, and entered, ringing the little bell attached to the door. “Name’s Ernst by the way,” he added. “Ernst Bucklevaugh.” A jaded waitress led us to our table. “Interesting name.” I feel as though I’ve heard it before, I puzzled. “I’m Eve. Just Eve.” I placed my book on the table and he opened a menu. “So I don’t get the privilege of knowing your last name,” he stated. “No, not yet,” I intoned. The waitress came back, and Ernst ordered a coffee and a Danish roll. I just ordered coffee. “So, do you go to college here?” he asked. “Yeah, it’s my first year. I’m a New York newbie. But I’m getting around.” The waitress came back with our drinks, and I noticed that her nametag read “Shirley.” I decided to cordially acknowledge her. “Thanks Shirley.” Her face changed, and she smiled warmly. “So, Ernst, what do you do for a living?” I asked, as I took a sip from my cup. For a minute he struggled with the weight of the answer. “I travel,” he confessed.  “So, you’re a man of the world,” I guessed.  “You could say that.” He sipped his coffee and took out a polished pocket watch. “I hope to see you soon Eve, I would really like your help sometime.” He seemed uncomfortable now, unsure of his words. “With what?” I furrowed my eyebrows together. “I can tell you like to read Eve, you are inquisitive. I can tell you assimilate into your surroundings well. You are prepared.” Now he was confusing me even more, starting to scare me even. “What do you mean, Ernst?” I managed to say as I accidentally slapped my cup of coffee, and it tipped over. But when I looked back up Ernst was gone. I grabbed a few napkins to soak up the coffee, but for my book it was too late.  A huge coffee stain had seeped into the edges of its pages. I decided to open it and analyze the damage. Right there in the very first paragraph was my answer, which just posed more questions: “Ernst Bucklevaugh was no ordinary man. Every day of his life included risky escapades. Ernst traveled around the world, and even through time to find the perfect helpers; it was his specialty. He was gathering up a group of individuals to help him with…” As I closed the book, a quick shiver invaded my shoulders. Shirley came back with the bill. “Well, hon, I sure hope those two cups of coffee were sufficient.” Two cups? I just drank one, but Ernst… “Excuse me but, did you happen to see anyone come in here with me?” Shirley bit her lower lip as she tried to remember. “Not that I recall hon, I take note of every customer who comes through that door.” I need to read less and get some more sleep, I thought.  “Thanks for stopping by, hope you come again!” she continued. As I walked out into the bustling streets, breathing in the recent smell of rain, I took out my copy of Blurred Identity and couldn’t help but think: I have a feeling this is going to be a very good book. This piece was awarded an “Honorable Mention” from The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Picture credit: passionatesoul.tumblr.com© 

    Blurred Identity (SHORT STORY)

    Raindrops hit the pavement, making the dust from the streets levitate. Umbrellas up. In New York, people are prepared for anything, something I have yet to learn. Unfortunately for me, the only protection against the rain was my freshly bought book, Blurred Identity. “Great,” I muttered. Rain hitting heavily on me, I jogged across the wet street and stood under a breakfast joint whose entrance shielded me from the storm: “Joe’s coffee & pastries.” How cliché, I thought.

    Before I could put my book back into my purse, pieces of scattered paper slapped my face and my book thumped to the floor. “Oh crap,” said someone in front of me. I gathered the crumpled sheets from the floor, and gave them back. “Thank you,” said the stranger. He had tousled black hair, and wore a fedora. His coat was light brown and his crooked smile was engaging. His facial features were very pronounced thanks to a strong bone structure. “Your book…” he sighed, as he picked it up. Its cover was decorated with droplets of rain, its pages soggy, making the book full of lumps.

    “That’s fine, books with no bent edges or coffee stains have no personality,” I said, grabbing it from him. He was taken aback from my answer and pointed at my book.

    “You like when objects bring back a memory?” he asked. I stared at his dated brown loafers.

    “That too.”

    “You’re still missing that coffee stain. What do you say we go inside and have some warm coffee?” he challenged. I smiled, and answered by gesturing toward the breakfast joint.

    By now, the rain was falling lightly, just a drizzle. I breathed in that faint smell of rain, and entered, ringing the little bell attached to the door.

    “Name’s Ernst by the way,” he added. “Ernst Bucklevaugh.” A jaded waitress led us to our table.

    “Interesting name.” I feel as though I’ve heard it before, I puzzled. “I’m Eve. Just Eve.” I placed my book on the table and he opened a menu.

    “So I don’t get the privilege of knowing your last name,” he stated.

    “No, not yet,” I intoned. The waitress came back, and Ernst ordered a coffee and a Danish roll. I just ordered coffee.

    “So, do you go to college here?” he asked.

    “Yeah, it’s my first year. I’m a New York newbie. But I’m getting around.” The waitress came back with our drinks, and I noticed that her nametag read “Shirley.” I decided to cordially acknowledge her. “Thanks Shirley.” Her face changed, and she smiled warmly.

    “So, Ernst, what do you do for a living?” I asked, as I took a sip from my cup. For a minute he struggled with the weight of the answer.

    “I travel,” he confessed. 

    “So, you’re a man of the world,” I guessed. 

    “You could say that.” He sipped his coffee and took out a polished pocket watch. “I hope to see you soon Eve, I would really like your help sometime.” He seemed uncomfortable now, unsure of his words.

    “With what?” I furrowed my eyebrows together.

    “I can tell you like to read Eve, you are inquisitive. I can tell you assimilate into your surroundings well. You are prepared.” Now he was confusing me even more, starting to scare me even.

    “What do you mean, Ernst?” I managed to say as I accidentally slapped my cup of coffee, and it tipped over. But when I looked back up Ernst was gone. I grabbed a few napkins to soak up the coffee, but for my book it was too late.  A huge coffee stain had seeped into the edges of its pages. I decided to open it and analyze the damage. Right there in the very first paragraph was my answer, which just posed more questions:

    “Ernst Bucklevaugh was no ordinary man. Every day of his life included risky escapades. Ernst traveled around the world, and even through time to find the perfect helpers; it was his specialty. He was gathering up a group of individuals to help him with…”

    As I closed the book, a quick shiver invaded my shoulders. Shirley came back with the bill. “Well, hon, I sure hope those two cups of coffee were sufficient.” Two cups? I just drank one, but Ernst…

    “Excuse me but, did you happen to see anyone come in here with me?”

    Shirley bit her lower lip as she tried to remember. “Not that I recall hon, I take note of every customer who comes through that door.” I need to read less and get some more sleep, I thought.  “Thanks for stopping by, hope you come again!” she continued. As I walked out into the bustling streets, breathing in the recent smell of rain, I took out my copy of Blurred Identity and couldn’t help but think: I have a feeling this is going to be a very good book.

    This piece was awarded an “Honorable Mention” from The Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

    Picture credit: passionatesoul.tumblr.com© 

  6. Just Like Any Other Day for a Bookworm Raindrops squiggle down the window, like small worms trying to find their way through muddy paths. The hot steam from my coffee rises, and as it warms my cheeks I shudder, revitalized from the palpable cold whiffs permeating from the outside. Then, I crisscross my arms to hug my shoulders—a reflex to the sudden weather change caused by the rain.  I’ve always said my perfect afternoon scenario is watching raindrops dot windows, hearing the constant rhythm it evokes, and breathe in the cold air. But most of all: the smell. The smell of rain once I step outside. The busy coffee shop is active yet peaceful. The sound of blenders, the smell of roasted coffee beans, and chocolate syrup fills the air. A smirk creeps into my face as I drink it all in, and put my book away. But for a moment, my attention goes elsewhere. Scruffy short black hair. Mild freckles. Eyes on paper. Coffee to his right. This guy must be my age I reflect, analyzing his features and original clothe pieces. Just like him, I have come here to enjoy a good read, adding atmosphere by coming to a coffee shop, mixing concentrated sight with delectable smells. I reflect upon my newly walled-up confinement to find myself again. This week my enjoyable loneliness has crossed the line and grown.  I have secluded myself from my once-filled social agenda. I decided I needed at least a week for myself, with so many things going on one tends to lose oneself. But I decide enough is enough. “Whatcha reading?” I bravely ask, hoping not to sound too pushy. “A Clockwork Orange” he says, staring up from his book. Recalling the title, I engage further. “Oh, I’ve heard of it. Loads of people have recommended it to me. It’s still in the growing heap of unread books on my desk” I say casually, guessing the conversation will probably end there, as he seems so focused on his book. To my surprise he puts the book down.  “I see… you have one two. I hate those. I keep buying books even though there are loads I have yet to take off the shelf. So the pile just grows.” I manage to let out a giggle and take a sip from my coffee. “Yeah, I can tell we both hate books. We just wanna toss them all into the fire like in Farhrenheit 451. Who needs them right?” I say sarcastically. He smiles back, accepts the comment as a good conversation starter.             “I’d be just like Montag, going against society and all. Rebelling, to save literature and the power of words.” He says using his hands, and throwing a wink my way. “Well Montag…” I begin with a different tone of voice. “In that case I’d be Juliet from Romeo and Juliet, easily swayed by well-crafted words, just not impetuous. What’s your name in the real world?” My question makes him laugh now. Or is it my question? My Juliet comment maybe? “Yep, she was pretty impetuous, just went off with a guy she met in a couple of days and got married. Name’s Cameron. And you?” Just as I’m about to answer, a quick breeze brushes my cheeks, and my legs feel tangled. I blink. My balcony stands before me, my legs entangled in warm sheets. A dream, I think to myself. Of course. I take the sheets off with a groan. Just like any other day for a bookworm. Making up unrealistic stories even in my dreams, with smart, quirky characters, and entertaining dialogue that flows perfectly, in situations only possible in books. A thought quickly crosses my mind. Well, not always impossible. I look on my bedside table, and eye a crumpled sheet of paper. I open it, only to find a number and name: Guy Montag…a.k.a. Cameron. I bite my lip, ecstatic.

    Just Like Any Other Day for a Bookworm

    Raindrops squiggle down the window, like small worms trying to find their way through muddy paths. The hot steam from my coffee rises, and as it warms my cheeks I shudder, revitalized from the palpable cold whiffs permeating from the outside. Then, I crisscross my arms to hug my shoulders—a reflex to the sudden weather change caused by the rain.  I’ve always said my perfect afternoon scenario is watching raindrops dot windows, hearing the constant rhythm it evokes, and breathe in the cold air. But most of all: the smell. The smell of rain once I step outside.

    The busy coffee shop is active yet peaceful. The sound of blenders, the smell of roasted coffee beans, and chocolate syrup fills the air. A smirk creeps into my face as I drink it all in, and put my book away. But for a moment, my attention goes elsewhere.

    Scruffy short black hair. Mild freckles. Eyes on paper. Coffee to his right. This guy must be my age I reflect, analyzing his features and original clothe pieces. Just like him, I have come here to enjoy a good read, adding atmosphere by coming to a coffee shop, mixing concentrated sight with delectable smells. I reflect upon my newly walled-up confinement to find myself again. This week my enjoyable loneliness has crossed the line and grown.  I have secluded myself from my once-filled social agenda. I decided I needed at least a week for myself, with so many things going on one tends to lose oneself. But I decide enough is enough.

    “Whatcha reading?” I bravely ask, hoping not to sound too pushy.

    “A Clockwork Orange” he says, staring up from his book. Recalling the title, I engage further.

    “Oh, I’ve heard of it. Loads of people have recommended it to me. It’s still in the growing heap of unread books on my desk” I say casually, guessing the conversation will probably end there, as he seems so focused on his book. To my surprise he puts the book down.

     “I see… you have one two. I hate those. I keep buying books even though there are loads I have yet to take off the shelf. So the pile just grows.” I manage to let out a giggle and take a sip from my coffee.

    “Yeah, I can tell we both hate books. We just wanna toss them all into the fire like in Farhrenheit 451. Who needs them right?” I say sarcastically. He smiles back, accepts the comment as a good conversation starter.

                “I’d be just like Montag, going against society and all. Rebelling, to save literature and the power of words.” He says using his hands, and throwing a wink my way.

    “Well Montag…” I begin with a different tone of voice. “In that case I’d be Juliet from Romeo and Juliet, easily swayed by well-crafted words, just not impetuous. What’s your name in the real world?” My question makes him laugh now. Or is it my question? My Juliet comment maybe?

    “Yep, she was pretty impetuous, just went off with a guy she met in a couple of days and got married. Name’s Cameron. And you?” Just as I’m about to answer, a quick breeze brushes my cheeks, and my legs feel tangled. I blink. My balcony stands before me, my legs entangled in warm sheets.

    A dream, I think to myself. Of course. I take the sheets off with a groan.

    Just like any other day for a bookworm. Making up unrealistic stories even in my dreams, with smart, quirky characters, and entertaining dialogue that flows perfectly, in situations only possible in books. A thought quickly crosses my mind. Well, not always impossible. I look on my bedside table, and eye a crumpled sheet of paper. I open it, only to find a number and name: Guy Montag…a.k.a. Cameron. I bite my lip, ecstatic.

  7.   Monsignor’s Envelope   The small T.V. was so enthralling and hypnotic, that when Elaine called her children Paul and Marie to do a favor for her, they brushed it off and continued to blink their eyes in unison as the T.V. blinked along with them, with every change of the channel. “Could one for you please go to the grocery store down the street and get a few shopping items for Mommy?” she asked. No answer. Elaine’s youngest daughter, three-year-old Kelly, was sitting near the dining table watching her mother cook a pie, and write down the items on a list. Elaine knew she would get no answer from her two older children—after all their favorite show of the day was on. Letting an exhausting sigh, she placed the grocery list on the counter. Paul being the oldest felt he had to at least respond after a while. “Mommy, do you still want me to go to the store?” Elaine was now getting clothes out of the drier, and had left Kelly in the kitchen. “My show is over now,” Paul concluded. Fifteen minutes is what it took her oldest son to acknowledge her request. She went back to the kitchen to get the grocery list for Paul. As she reached toward the counter, she realized the list was gone. “Kelly?” she bellowed. No Kelly in sight. “Paul have you seen your sister?” she asked. Paul went to his room, the living room, the playroom, and back. “No mommy I don’t see her.” Where could she be? Elaine thought. After looking under beds, inside closets, and going to the backyard and patio she began to panic. She couldn’t have gone far. Not in her condition. Kelly was missing a limb. She had just gotten a prosthetic a few days before, and was getting acquainted with the contraption. When Kelly was born she had a condition in her blood, which made her leg turn blue. The bloodstream was contaminated, and it was sure to spread. To save her, the doctors had to cut off her leg. Elaine and her husband were thankful, but they knew the road ahead would not be easy. The first few weeks the baby had to receive painful shots of medicine into her little body and had to go through constant checkups with the doctors. They, living in Mexico, found it hard to attain medical assistance within their budget. Their daughter required therapies and other surgeries every other few months that shortened the limb even more. Their funds were dwindling, so Elaine decided to pack up and go to Salt Lake City—to Shriners Hospital for children, an institution that provided medical assistance and helped families purchase artificial limbs—where they could be eligible for medical assistance. Once there, generous families of all religious denominations housed Elaine and Kelly during their stay in the city. Elaine lived close to a man named Monsignor William H. McDougall who had survived Japanese entrapment during WWII. During the wartime he got on a ship that sunk down into the depths of the ocean. All the passengers had to fend for themselves in the dangerous waters. He made a promise, right then and there, surrounded by hammerhead sharks that had invaded the turbulent waters. If he survived, he promised to devote his life to god. One by one his comrades screamed, as the jaws of the sharks tore into their skins, and the ocean was stained with blood. Monsignor was no believer, but he learned the value and power of prayer that day, and became a firm believer ever since. He met Elaine one day at a church service and one day in a visit he told Elaine about the four anxious hours he spent in the water hoping the sharks would not finish him off. The lifeboat that rescued him reached Sumatra, and was taken prisoner by the Japanese, put into prison camp, surviving that as well. She knew no one in Salt Lake city, was a total stranger, but she would visit Monsignor when Kelly was in surgeries. Elaine had been taught by nuns in High School when she was a teenager, and was a Catholic herself. Monsignor talked about his experiences, and gave her a copy of his book, which narrated his conversion and his involvement in the war, including his captivity: “Six Bells off Java” and “By Eastern Windows.” Monsignor was a man whose rule of life was that “nothing was too much trouble in loving one’s neighbors.” Elaine told Monsignor of the struggles with her daughter, and although the hospital paid for some of the expenses, she still stressed over money and care, when she thought of her return to Mexico. “That girl is a fighter, you’ll see dear Elaine, God will care for you and her,” he would encourage her. One week near Christmas, Elaine went to visit Monsignor for company and wisdom, as was customary. Monsignor McDougall received her with open arms. As the kettle spit steam through the kitchen, Monsignor got out teacups and shiny spoons. “Well Monsignor, Kelly has to go through some more treatments this week, I just wish the expenses weren’t so crippling to my pocket.” Monsignor just smiled, and went to get the kettle. He poured the hot liquid into the teacups, and as he began to respond to Elaine’s comment, the steam from his tea made him look ethereal-like. “My dear Elaine. Someone has heard of your predicaments, and they wish to help you and your little girl.” Elaine was dumfounded. But how? She knew no one, only a few of the doctors, nurses, and those who had provided warmth and housing when she first got to Salt Lake. Had Monsignor spread the word throughout his community? “They would like to remain anonymous,” he finished. His wrinkled hand suddenly appeared with an envelope, and he gently put it into Elaine’s hands. She was hesitant. “But Monsignor, surely someone else will have better reasons for need and better use for it than me.” Monsignor McDougal drank from his teacup and gulped. “My dear, everyone deserves good-will, if we compare ourselves with those worst off, no one would feel they deserve anything. One thing we must all learn is to let go of our pride and learn how to receive,” The man was right. And she knew it wouldn’t be easy to admit and accept help. Such a humbling act. When she got home that night she opened the envelope, and enclosed in it were a thousand dollars. Her gratitude was shown through her tears as she held the envelope in her hands, and they slid down her cheeks only to stop at her jaw and drip down to the tile floor. She suspected the obvious, and did not put it past Monsignor to do such a deed. Still—she wonders. From that day on, and through the years as Elaine became economically stable and the good lord blessed her with more than enough for stability, she was always persistent in the act of giving back to other’s and helping those in need. To her, the envelope was something she believed she did not deserve; others might be in greater need than her. A gesture that although she consumed, had to be passed on one way or another to the hands of those also in need of a little miracle, in a chain effect of newfound humility    “Honey we should look for Kelly out in the street.” Her husband said, breaking her away from her memories of Salt Lake and the kind Monsignor’s gift near Christmastime. “The store!” Elaine said, in a light-bulb moment, as it all clicked. The missing list. The missing Kelly. The kindness of a child. Elaine and her husband ran as fast as they could to the grocery store near their home, past blurring oak trees as they ran, stepping on the cobblestone rode, and dashing past the church. Once they got to the store, they were not expecting the scene that unwove before them. Their three-year old daughter Kelly had a small basket with grocery items and was about to pay the cashier. Yes, their older kids preferred to finish their show instead of helping their mother with an errand. But Kelly took the job into her own hands. She limped all the way to the grocery store, with her new prosthetic that wasn’t adjusted yet. “Well isn’t she something!” the lady behind the counter exclaimed. In that moment, Elaine remembered Monsignor McDougal’s words back in Salt Lake: “That girl is a fighter, you’ll see dear Elaine,” he had said. Answering the cashier lady’s statement, Elaine grinned and agreed: “She sure is.”   *Monsignor William H. McDougal died on December 8, 1988, remembered by retired Bishop Federal as a man whose “rule of life was that nothing was too much trouble in loving one’s neighbors. He survived shipwreck and imprisonment to become a priest. Yet he always claimed that his greatest adventure began on May 11, 1952, when he was ordained to the Catholic priesthood in Salt Lake City. He wrote two books detailing his wartime experiences: Six Bells Off Java (1948) and By Eastern Windows (1949). He served energetically as rector of the Cathedral of the Madeleine in Salt Lake City for 21 years and became known for his advocacy of the rights of the poor, the unborn, and the homeless. (http://historytogo.utah.gov/people/utahns_of_achievement/williamhenrymcdougall.html)

     

    Monsignor’s Envelope

     

    The small T.V. was so enthralling and hypnotic, that when Elaine called her children Paul and Marie to do a favor for her, they brushed it off and continued to blink their eyes in unison as the T.V. blinked along with them, with every change of the channel. “Could one for you please go to the grocery store down the street and get a few shopping items for Mommy?” she asked. No answer. Elaine’s youngest daughter, three-year-old Kelly, was sitting near the dining table watching her mother cook a pie, and write down the items on a list. Elaine knew she would get no answer from her two older children—after all their favorite show of the day was on. Letting an exhausting sigh, she placed the grocery list on the counter.

    Paul being the oldest felt he had to at least respond after a while. “Mommy, do you still want me to go to the store?” Elaine was now getting clothes out of the drier, and had left Kelly in the kitchen. “My show is over now,” Paul concluded. Fifteen minutes is what it took her oldest son to acknowledge her request. She went back to the kitchen to get the grocery list for Paul. As she reached toward the counter, she realized the list was gone. “Kelly?” she bellowed. No Kelly in sight. “Paul have you seen your sister?” she asked. Paul went to his room, the living room, the playroom, and back. “No mommy I don’t see her.” Where could she be? Elaine thought. After looking under beds, inside closets, and going to the backyard and patio she began to panic.

    She couldn’t have gone far. Not in her condition. Kelly was missing a limb. She had just gotten a prosthetic a few days before, and was getting acquainted with the contraption. When Kelly was born she had a condition in her blood, which made her leg turn blue. The bloodstream was contaminated, and it was sure to spread. To save her, the doctors had to cut off her leg. Elaine and her husband were thankful, but they knew the road ahead would not be easy. The first few weeks the baby had to receive painful shots of medicine into her little body and had to go through constant checkups with the doctors.

    They, living in Mexico, found it hard to attain medical assistance within their budget. Their daughter required therapies and other surgeries every other few months that shortened the limb even more. Their funds were dwindling, so Elaine decided to pack up and go to Salt Lake City—to Shriners Hospital for children, an institution that provided medical assistance and helped families purchase artificial limbs—where they could be eligible for medical assistance.

    Once there, generous families of all religious denominations housed Elaine and Kelly during their stay in the city. Elaine lived close to a man named Monsignor William H. McDougall who had survived Japanese entrapment during WWII. During the wartime he got on a ship that sunk down into the depths of the ocean. All the passengers had to fend for themselves in the dangerous waters. He made a promise, right then and there, surrounded by hammerhead sharks that had invaded the turbulent waters. If he survived, he promised to devote his life to god. One by one his comrades screamed, as the jaws of the sharks tore into their skins, and the ocean was stained with blood.

    Monsignor was no believer, but he learned the value and power of prayer that day, and became a firm believer ever since. He met Elaine one day at a church service and one day in a visit he told Elaine about the four anxious hours he spent in the water hoping the sharks would not finish him off. The lifeboat that rescued him reached Sumatra, and was taken prisoner by the Japanese, put into prison camp, surviving that as well.

    She knew no one in Salt Lake city, was a total stranger, but she would visit Monsignor when Kelly was in surgeries. Elaine had been taught by nuns in High School when she was a teenager, and was a Catholic herself. Monsignor talked about his experiences, and gave her a copy of his book, which narrated his conversion and his involvement in the war, including his captivity: “Six Bells off Java” and “By Eastern Windows.” Monsignor was a man whose rule of life was that “nothing was too much trouble in loving one’s neighbors.” Elaine told Monsignor of the struggles with her daughter, and although the hospital paid for some of the expenses, she still stressed over money and care, when she thought of her return to Mexico. “That girl is a fighter, you’ll see dear Elaine, God will care for you and her,” he would encourage her.

    One week near Christmas, Elaine went to visit Monsignor for company and wisdom, as was customary. Monsignor McDougall received her with open arms. As the kettle spit steam through the kitchen, Monsignor got out teacups and shiny spoons. “Well Monsignor, Kelly has to go through some more treatments this week, I just wish the expenses weren’t so crippling to my pocket.” Monsignor just smiled, and went to get the kettle. He poured the hot liquid into the teacups, and as he began to respond to Elaine’s comment, the steam from his tea made him look ethereal-like. “My dear Elaine. Someone has heard of your predicaments, and they wish to help you and your little girl.” Elaine was dumfounded. But how? She knew no one, only a few of the doctors, nurses, and those who had provided warmth and housing when she first got to Salt Lake. Had Monsignor spread the word throughout his community?

    “They would like to remain anonymous,” he finished. His wrinkled hand suddenly appeared with an envelope, and he gently put it into Elaine’s hands. She was hesitant. “But Monsignor, surely someone else will have better reasons for need and better use for it than me.” Monsignor McDougal drank from his teacup and gulped. “My dear, everyone deserves good-will, if we compare ourselves with those worst off, no one would feel they deserve anything. One thing we must all learn is to let go of our pride and learn how to receive,” The man was right. And she knew it wouldn’t be easy to admit and accept help. Such a humbling act. When she got home that night she opened the envelope, and enclosed in it were a thousand dollars. Her gratitude was shown through her tears as she held the envelope in her hands, and they slid down her cheeks only to stop at her jaw and drip down to the tile floor. She suspected the obvious, and did not put it past Monsignor to do such a deed. Still—she wonders.

    From that day on, and through the years as Elaine became economically stable and the good lord blessed her with more than enough for stability, she was always persistent in the act of giving back to other’s and helping those in need. To her, the envelope was something she believed she did not deserve; others might be in greater need than her. A gesture that although she consumed, had to be passed on one way or another to the hands of those also in need of a little miracle, in a chain effect of newfound humility

      

    “Honey we should look for Kelly out in the street.” Her husband said, breaking her away from her memories of Salt Lake and the kind Monsignor’s gift near Christmastime. “The store!” Elaine said, in a light-bulb moment, as it all clicked. The missing list. The missing Kelly. The kindness of a child. Elaine and her husband ran as fast as they could to the grocery store near their home, past blurring oak trees as they ran, stepping on the cobblestone rode, and dashing past the church. Once they got to the store, they were not expecting the scene that unwove before them.

    Their three-year old daughter Kelly had a small basket with grocery items and was about to pay the cashier. Yes, their older kids preferred to finish their show instead of helping their mother with an errand. But Kelly took the job into her own hands. She limped all the way to the grocery store, with her new prosthetic that wasn’t adjusted yet. “Well isn’t she something!” the lady behind the counter exclaimed. In that moment, Elaine remembered Monsignor McDougal’s words back in Salt Lake: “That girl is a fighter, you’ll see dear Elaine,” he had said. Answering the cashier lady’s statement, Elaine grinned and agreed: “She sure is.”

     

    *Monsignor William H. McDougal died on December 8, 1988, remembered by retired Bishop Federal as a man whose “rule of life was that nothing was too much trouble in loving one’s neighbors. He survived shipwreck and imprisonment to become a priest. Yet he always claimed that his greatest adventure began on May 11, 1952, when he was ordained to the Catholic priesthood in Salt Lake City. He wrote two books detailing his wartime experiences: Six Bells Off Java (1948) and By Eastern Windows (1949). He served energetically as rector of the Cathedral of the Madeleine in Salt Lake City for 21 years and became known for his advocacy of the rights of the poor, the unborn, and the homeless.

    (http://historytogo.utah.gov/people/utahns_of_achievement/williamhenrymcdougall.html)

  8. Those Were The Days             The light streaming down on the dining table was dim. The rain had come down the sky like a perfect curtain. Outside, raindrops squiggled down the windowpanes of the kitchen.  The sun was breathing its last breath, the sky painted in swirls of reds, yellows and pinks. My mother stared out into our garden from the large windowpane that covered half of the upper wall. She was wearing a peach colored blouse with embroidered flowers on the neckline. Her highlighted blonde hair was in a short ponytail. The city of Guadalajara could be seen playing with the palette from the sky. “Not at the table, please” my mother said, when she saw my cell phone vibrate and play my favorite tune. I slid my phone in my pocket pretending to turn it off, but put it on silent. “I love living at the top of the mountain, we have a perfect view of the whole city,” my mother reflected. I smiled in agreement. One of the windows from the kitchen was still slightly open. A gush of wind blew my long blonde hair to the side, and I quickly put the strands of my hair that covered my face, behind my ear. As I stood up to close the window, my mother gestured for me to stay seated. “It makes me remember Aquellos días.” She said, breathing in the fresh smell of the rain. I of course ventured for an explanation. “Which days do you mean, Mami?” I asked with squished eyebrows. She gave me a weak smile and clenched her two hands under her chin, as she got ready to speak. *** Carmen would sit in the white rocking chair every time the rain decided to pour, or drizzle. Her mother Hilda would come out with a beautiful bun, which she pinned up every morning with care. She would always bring Carmen a plate full of mandarins and oranges, and then go back inside to prepare dinner for the family of nine. Carmen would peel the oranges and the mandarins, and proceed to eat them in wedges. The roof from the cement garage protected her from the water splashing down on the ground next to her. As juice exploded from the fruit inside her mouth, her brown eyes would watch the tip-tap of the raindrops hit the pavement, or scurry down the side of the sidewalk of her street. It was her favorite thing to do.  Her younger sister Amparo, whose name meant “protection” in Spanish, would rush down the main door’s steps looking for Carmen. “Let’s go to the store.” Amparo would beg. Carmen agreed. After all, La Tienda was just a few blocks away, and she craved candy on rainy days. “Don’t forget to take umbrellas,” Hilda would shout from the kitchen. But Carmen and Amparo never wanted protection from the rain; instead they would go out to the street and splash around in the puddles. “With the most simple thing, I was happy,” my mother said. The sisters would kick water towards each other, and laughs could be heard all through the neighborhood.  Carmen’s four brothers would fold paper together, and make paper boats. “Barquitos de papel” my mother said, as she narrated. After the boats were completed, Carmen would follow her brothers out to their street named Sierra Leona. Her brothers loved placing the boats on the rain’s currents at the edge of the sidewalk. Some would go off to the sewer, and never return. Her brothers always wanted to get wet once it stopped raining. They would wait for passing cars to drive over puddles on the sidelines. “Here comes one!” they would say to one another, and as the tires ran over the puddles, the water would wet them like a sprinkler. On the days when the rain was falling too strong, Carmen would go outside to her roofed garage and play jump rope. “Oh, how she loved that jump rope,” Aunt Amparo told me, every time she reminisced about the childhood she had shared with my mother. *** “The youth never goes out to play anymore. That was our entertainment back then.” My mother said, with a tinge of sadness in her voice.  As she concluded her story I couldn’t help but crave an orange or a mandarin, and sit outside to watch the rain. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of those memories, of the good old days, days where life’s simplicities were enough. Once again my mother breathed in the smell of the rain from the open window; the scent of the humid grass, and the wet pine trees from our garden. And it was right there that I knew: every time she breathed in the smell of the rain she was there again. Sitting on her white rocking chair, peeling fruits, splashing in the puddles, and jumping rope. If only I could go with her. Picture credit: passionatesoul.tumblr.com© 

    Those Were The Days

                The light streaming down on the dining table was dim. The rain had come down the sky like a perfect curtain. Outside, raindrops squiggled down the windowpanes of the kitchen.  The sun was breathing its last breath, the sky painted in swirls of reds, yellows and pinks. My mother stared out into our garden from the large windowpane that covered half of the upper wall. She was wearing a peach colored blouse with embroidered flowers on the neckline. Her highlighted blonde hair was in a short ponytail. The city of Guadalajara could be seen playing with the palette from the sky.

    “Not at the table, please” my mother said, when she saw my cell phone vibrate and play my favorite tune. I slid my phone in my pocket pretending to turn it off, but put it on silent. “I love living at the top of the mountain, we have a perfect view of the whole city,” my mother reflected. I smiled in agreement.

    One of the windows from the kitchen was still slightly open. A gush of wind blew my long blonde hair to the side, and I quickly put the strands of my hair that covered my face, behind my ear. As I stood up to close the window, my mother gestured for me to stay seated. “It makes me remember Aquellos días.” She said, breathing in the fresh smell of the rain.

    I of course ventured for an explanation. “Which days do you mean, Mami?” I asked with squished eyebrows. She gave me a weak smile and clenched her two hands under her chin, as she got ready to speak.

    ***

    Carmen would sit in the white rocking chair every time the rain decided to pour, or drizzle. Her mother Hilda would come out with a beautiful bun, which she pinned up every morning with care. She would always bring Carmen a plate full of mandarins and oranges, and then go back inside to prepare dinner for the family of nine. Carmen would peel the oranges and the mandarins, and proceed to eat them in wedges. The roof from the cement garage protected her from the water splashing down on the ground next to her. As juice exploded from the fruit inside her mouth, her brown eyes would watch the tip-tap of the raindrops hit the pavement, or scurry down the side of the sidewalk of her street. It was her favorite thing to do. 

    Her younger sister Amparo, whose name meant “protection” in Spanish, would rush down the main door’s steps looking for Carmen. “Let’s go to the store.” Amparo would beg. Carmen agreed. After all, La Tienda was just a few blocks away, and she craved candy on rainy days.

    “Don’t forget to take umbrellas,” Hilda would shout from the kitchen.

    But Carmen and Amparo never wanted protection from the rain; instead they would go out to the street and splash around in the puddles. “With the most simple thing, I was happy,” my mother said. The sisters would kick water towards each other, and laughs could be heard all through the neighborhood.  Carmen’s four brothers would fold paper together, and make paper boats. “Barquitos de papel” my mother said, as she narrated.

    After the boats were completed, Carmen would follow her brothers out to their street named Sierra Leona. Her brothers loved placing the boats on the rain’s currents at the edge of the sidewalk. Some would go off to the sewer, and never return. Her brothers always wanted to get wet once it stopped raining. They would wait for passing cars to drive over puddles on the sidelines. “Here comes one!” they would say to one another, and as the tires ran over the puddles, the water would wet them like a sprinkler. On the days when the rain was falling too strong, Carmen would go outside to her roofed garage and play jump rope.

    “Oh, how she loved that jump rope,” Aunt Amparo told me, every time she reminisced about the childhood she had shared with my mother.

    ***

    “The youth never goes out to play anymore. That was our entertainment back then.” My mother said, with a tinge of sadness in her voice.  As she concluded her story I couldn’t help but crave an orange or a mandarin, and sit outside to watch the rain. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of those memories, of the good old days, days where life’s simplicities were enough. Once again my mother breathed in the smell of the rain from the open window; the scent of the humid grass, and the wet pine trees from our garden. And it was right there that I knew: every time she breathed in the smell of the rain she was there again. Sitting on her white rocking chair, peeling fruits, splashing in the puddles, and jumping rope. If only I could go with her.

    Picture credit: passionatesoul.tumblr.com© 

About

Name's Rocío, it means "dewdrop" in spanish. Female. 20. Freshman in college.

Writing is a necessary endeavor in my life, it's like therapy. It heals. Please reblog my posts, as long as you give me credit.

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This work by Rocio Guenther is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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