The Hampster Wheel of Life

 * The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? Well. This is a little snippet where he meets with his agent.

Author's note: this story is set somewhere just before the year 2000, in my favorite place in the world: San Francisco.

~~~ 

    I do what I do because something in me compels me to do so. It's like breathing: if I stop doing it, I'd suffocate. But at the same time, I understand that without some commercial success, when I die, so do my words.

Jennifer is my agent because she understands this.

Never-the-less, her blunt approach to business can be a little off-putting. I'm seated in one of the purposely oversized, low-to-the-ground black suede chairs that she has set in direct opposition of her monolithic, solid oak desk. In the ambient light, bleeding through her sheer, rose colored drapes, it gleams like obsidian. Her ultra-plush, deep crimson carpet pools around the soles of my boots, making me feel the way I would if I were a guest of Elizabeth Báthory: history's 'Blood Queen' – intensely creeped out and yet, oddly comforted.

“Daemon, I don't know what to tell you.” She makes her way to the front of the desk and leans against it, crossing her feet, her arms. From my vantage point, sunk comically into my seat, she is like a well tailored amazon. Her black silk skirt suit, with its crisp lines, daring hem and clingy, low swooping scarlet blouse straddles the line between conservative elegance and provocative mischief.

“You're not a sell out, remember? 'I’m an artist'” she says, making air quotes. Her shoulder-length, auburn hair dances around her head like a brushfire. “I get that.”

Having to look up to make eye contact is a novel experience for me... It makes me feel like a little kid again.

“Really. In the two years I've been hustling your book, I've read it like eight times.”

Every available inch of wall space is neatly lined, in chronological order, with signed copies of every book she's ever gotten published. Behind her, the wall of glass that serves as her window, frames a perfect postcard snapshot of the city's skyline. She crosses her feet the other way, her four inch pumps pointy and metallic.

“I love it!” She leans in with her arms open in a wide 'Ta-Da' gesture as though at any moment she will pick me up and twirl me around the room. Strangely, I don't think I'd mind that.

“It has all the markings of a true classic, Daemon; gorgeous settings, heartbreak, romance... the 'human struggle'... it's honest and it's real. Really, real.” Now she's crouching, a hand braced on each knee, so she can look me in the eye.

“But that's not what sells and the publishers know that.” She walks to a bookcase and like a game show spokesmodel, motions to her successes. “This is what sells.” She grabs a book off the shelf and shakes it at me like she's quoting scripture; “Vampire fucking. Whiny little tween cunts desperately seeking the affections of some moody, unattainable douche bag with a six pack and a dark side.” She tosses the book onto her desk with a FWAPP! “That and twinky little wizards.” She laughs, then. “Write me something like that and I can guarantee you a movie franchise.” She scans my face, looking for a reaction. “No?”

“No...” I struggle in my seat, maneuvering to the edge. “Goddammit, Jen... I don't care about money... this is just...” my last chance? my dream?? the summation of my entire life's existence??? “…really important to me.” She's reached behind her desk to produce a crystal pitcher of water and two glasses, which she fills. “How could they turn you down?” I moan, “You said we had it.”

“No, I said we MIGHT have it.” She hands me a drink. “Literary fiction is a hard sell. BUT.” She sips at her glass. “They do see your works' potential for longevity.”

“So... what you're telling me is... maybe?” Maybe my shit-ass life will finally have some validation?

She shrugs. “Maybe.” She takes my glass – still full, and sets it back on the desk. “And 'maybe' is a helluva lot better than most people get these days.” I slump back, letting the chair fold in around me.

“Like I said,” she continues, “if you want fame and acclaim, write something they can talk about on those morning talk shows. We'll set up book tours, lectures... Then? Cash out. Buy a small island, retire early and spend your remaining days creating work that'll appeal to less than one percent of literate America.”

“And if I don't want to do that?”

She's crossed her way back to the front of the desk and is sitting on its edge. “Keep doing what you're doing. We'll get them, eventually. You'll tour, sell a respectable number of books, get a nod from academia – possibly even an art film or a Pulitzer.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. You just have to wait a little longer, okay? Let me do my job.”

“Okay,” I say with a heavy sigh. “I'll wait. But you're buying me lunch.” She's smiling and helping me out of the chair saying; “Of course,” when I suddenly notice {DEATH} seated crosslegged in the far corner, on the floor – reading my manuscript. Her pale kimono is tucked beneath her, her charcoal hair hangs low and stick straight, obscuring her face. An insane thought flicks across my mind;

Does she like it?

...

A Woman Scorned

The following is another out-of-context, random snippet: a taste of the three part book series that I have been slowly working on. As I mentioned, it is a passion project born of a desire to preserve my familial history, culture and traditions. 

Just as a reminder on the project:

"This epic narrative, which begins just after world war 1 and is set in Sicily, follows the transformational journey of Aradia Medrano, birthed twice into surreal situations: once as the avatar of the Mother Goddess, and once as a powerful vampire. But not just any vampire. A creature from Romani folklore called a Mullo. A "Mullo" is born of pain and suffering and injustice all served up fresh on a wrongful death and an improper burial. 

You might be thinking "Ravenant," and you'd be right -- sort of. When a poor soul rises from the grave to seek justice and/or revenge on those who wronged them in life, AND kills them by drinking their blood and then being cursed to roam the earth for all time, AANNNDDDD can only be stopped by their first born.... you get a Mullo. Or in my story's case, a Mulla -- which is the feminine version. 

I employed the stories of my elders to serve as the backdrop and origin of my character, took the lore of the Mullo, and added the mysticism of my personal family lineage. It is many things, this book. It's folklore. It's historical fiction. It's fantasy. And -- it's horror.

On the outside.

On the inside, it is an attempt to decolonize my people. It is me sharing pieces of my culture. It is reclamation, preservation and metaphor. It is survivor's guilt, loss and compounding generational trauma. It is the universal human experience of discovering and embracing your truest self, against all odds."

~~~  

Aradia was standing in the sun with the woods at her back, dazzled by the intense bright light of midday, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She squinted in futility until she was barely able to see through her lashes, noting that the cool air smelled sweetly of fresh lilacs and honeycomb. Above, exotic, brightly colored birds flitted from one tree to another, squawking cheerfully. The sun beamed fiercely and with impunity, but did so beautifully in an almost electric blue sky. It was a clear, unfiltered light that made all the colors beneath it vibrate in contrast as if soaked in pure pigments. In many ways, it reminded her of the impressionistic paintings of van Gogh that Sister Josephine would fawn over during their art lessons. Unfortunately, this was not ‘Sunny lawn in public park.’ So, temporarily blinded and thoroughly irritated, Aradia reached her mind through the infinite, inky void, visualized her favorite, dark-tinted cateye sunglasses that she kept on the dresser at home, and pulled them out from the air before her. With aplomb, she slid them on, sighing with relief; “Therrre we go.”

At last able to see more clearly, she walked out into the meadow towards the ancient Banyan in the center, and aimed herself at Mother Losna’s caravan. The tree’s extensive overstory provided a gorgeous mosaic of filtered light and shade that danced across the ground and over Losna’s home with the light breeze that blew through it. Its thickly bundled, incorporated trunk turned gently upwards. New roots reached down from older branches, each embellished with protective sigils.

Ahead, just off to the right of what was once her childhood home, was a small, round, makeshift table made of an old barrel and a repurposed tarot reading sign. Placed around this, were a few mis-matched folding chairs. There was a grand, colorful, patchworked umbrella set through its center, and numerous brown and green bottles hanging from all the lower branches that twinkled quietly in the daylight. On the other side, grew a modest garden of herbs, tomatoes, squashes and greens. Near the back, happily munching on some fresh grass and grain, was Johara, Losna’s cow-patterned black and white horse. A few meters in front of her doorway, she had a small fire going, with a pot of something bubbling over it. It looked storybook cheerful and deliciously inviting, as though it were an idyllic scene pulled from a children’s book. The caravan looked recently stained. There was a deep blue and gold painted paisley design around the doorway that was marked with a blessing carved in witches script along the top. This motif was repeated around each window, which were adorned with baskets of bright orange and gold gerbera daisies. Its rounded roof was newly patched and shingled; each sixteen spoked wagon wheel had been painted a bright red.

She chuckled to herself, shaking her head; “Of course she would set up camp beneath the literal tree of life.” She cupped her hands around her mouth: “ALLO!! TE ‘AVEN BAXTALE, MAMMA!!!” The door opened, and Losna stuck her head out cautiously. Aradia’s heart leapt.

“AY? WHO IS THAT?” Losna stepped down into the grass, wiping her hands on her apron. She too seemed refreshed; younger than Aradia recalled, as if the two were only separated by a few months in age. Aradia broke into a sprint.

“MAMMA!” she called out. She waved excitedly with both hands. “IT'S ME, ARADIA!”

Losna’s eyes boggled. “ARADIA?!” She opened her arms just in time to catch her daughter as she flew into them. They stood there holding each other for several minutes, laugh-crying, Losna gently rocking them from side to side; “My sweet baby girl, you came back to me!” she sobbed into Aradia’s neck. Eventually, they pulled apart, sniveling – their eyes puffy and wet.

“Oh Ma,” cried Aradia, “I thought I’d never see you again! There's so much I've wanted to tell you.” She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, swiped at her eyes, and looked upon the woman who had first mothered her, feeling every possible emotion. With a little squeal, she threw her arms around Losna, squeezed hard and kissed her cheek. “I missed you SO much.”

Losna held her child for a few more moments, tears streaming down her face; “Aradia, my light...” before she finally pulled away, turned and hooked her arm around her daughter’s waist, “You're just in time for supper. Come,” she said, leading them to the table, “Sit. Eat. Tell me everything I missed.”

So, for the next few hours – over Losna’s paprika soup, fresh tossed greens, cherry wine, and warm lemon bread, Aradia told her mother the story of her life. She spun the tale of days spent tending to the convent with Sister Josephine, the war, the death camps and occupation – her love, Luca. Ultimately though, she spent the most time talking about Losna Marie – her heart, her joy. She even spoke of the final hours leading to her death and beyond – all of it, right up to the moment when she first spotted Losna’s encampment nestled beneath the tree of life.

Losna was spellbound. “Is that what this place is?!” Aradia rolled her eyes dramatically at her and stuck out her tongue. Losna winked and finished her wine. “Where else would I go?” she said with a wave. After a long moment of silent reflection, Losna finally shook her head; "I'm grateful you had people to love who looked after you and loved you back. I just wish I could have been there to share it with you…” Aradia tried to look touched, but fell short, looking instead more guilty than anything else. “What a difficult road you’ve traveled,” she finished.

Aradia cast her eyes down and shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. “I wish you had been there, too. Losing you… shattered me.” Drops of starlight fell from her eyes and splashed on the table: “But it is what it is, Ma, y’know?” She mindlessly fidgeted with her napkin, smoothing it across her lap, smiling thinly. “I tried to keep moving on, just as you always taught me.” she sniffled. “It was hard, sure, but as fleeting as it was, there was also love and light.” her voice cracked; “Until there wasn’t.”

Losna sat back, crossing her arms. “The world is so broken, and we roma have suffered some of the worst of it – trapped in the middle of gadje conflict, just like always.” She shook her head angrily and spat on the ground; “The gadje,” she snarled, “Why do they hate us so much? We’ve never done anyone any harm.”

Aradia swiftly disarmed her mother's obviously loaded question; “I’ll bet they’re just jealous of our carefree and glamorous lifestyle,” she said, flipping at her hair. Losna chortled, and the two burst out laughing.

“Yeah,” said Losna, slapping the table, “THAT’S why. Or,” she said soberly, “maybe it's because they're so disconnected from their own lives and communities. Everything about the gadje is toxic and mahrime.”

Aradia shrugged. “Perhaps. There is resistance though, Mamma,” she said seriously, "There was this day, in one of those horrible concentration camps, where we gathered whatever we could use as a weapon, and stared down our oppressors in glorious defiance. So, maybe it's our stubborn resilience?” Losna’s brows went up. “Because no one died that day, Ma. And since then, we've been more inspired to fight for our liberation and sovereignty.” Losna nodded slowly. “We will claim our seat at the table, we just need to have faith.”

Losna scoffed. “Faith?? Ha! I’ll believe it when I sss–...” she cut herself short, clearing her throat, realizing whose company she truly was in. “You’re right, you’re right” She said with her hands up, “I know you’re right. I just… It would've been nice to’ve lived long enough to've seen it.”

They sat together uncomfortably and let the air between them settle a bit. “Mamma,” Aradia said carefully, tracing circles on the table with her finger, “where is everyone? Why are you here alone?” Losna did not respond. “I’ve been pretty much doing all the talking since I got here. Maybe what I should've done is listen,” she continued. “I’m sorry. I guess I let my excitement get the better of me.” She reached forward and grasped Losna’s hands; “Don’t you think we should talk about the night we were separated?”

Losna’s eyes welled up and she pulled her hands away, standing suddenly, shaking her head. “I-I CAN’T. No.”

Aradia stood up with her, hurrying around the table; “Mamma, hold on…”

Losna rushed towards her garden in a panic, her voice shaky; “Come see! I grew all our favorites here.” She zipped around to the other side of the caravan, just out of sight; “I got tomatoes!” she called back, “big as your fist.”

Aradia followed behind her, feeling worried by Losna’s erratic behavior; “Ma? Mamma, wait. Please! Talk to me… we’re together now, finally… you’re safe. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

As she got to the other side of the caravan, she found Losna sitting in her garden, hugging her knees, sobbing and muttering to herself; “No more no more no more NOOOOOO!” She began hitting her head with balled up fists. “PLEASE!! Leave us alone!! No more, NO!”

“Hey!” Aradia shouted, she ran to where her mother was and kneeled in front of her; “Heyheyheyheyhey!!” She tried in vain to grab for her hands; “No Mamma stop, I'm here now, it's OK.”

“What is?” Losna cried out, her face flushed in anger. “What is ‘OK’? Was it OK when my mother died from a treatable illness? Maybe you mean when you took the love of my life from me? Or my baby?” She flinched at that, a ball of self-loathing caught in her throat.

Unsure what to do, Aradia leveled her gaze, and tried placing an image of the Mediterranean on a clear, spring day into Losna’s mind to help calm her. Losna looked up, fluttering her hands around her head, like she was swatting at flies; “No!” She sobbed, “You can’t do that, you can't just take my pain from me, too – I won’t let you. It’s all I have left.”

“Mamma, don't…” Aradia tried, but got immediately shut down by Losna as she rose:

“All I ever did was struggle and fail!” She took a step forward; “and anytime I would come close to SOME kind of-of-of joy you … punished me for it!! Why?!” Losna’s brows furrowed; her jaw snapped tight. Embers from the campfire began catching on the table and chairs – the steps to her home. She slapped at her chest. “What did I ever do to make you so angry with me, except devote my ENTIRE life to you? My miserable, shit-ass, terrible life?!?” Aradia took a step back. “I did everything you asked of me! EVERYTHING!!”

Fire quickly began spreading around them, running along the ground in sharp zig-zags – climbing up into the tree. “Didn’t I follow the old ways close enough for you, oh mighty goddess of the fucking moon???” she mocked, “Prancing around with your nymphs, eating fairy cakes while everything around me ended in ASH?!”

Her hands clenched tighter and tighter, until blood started to trickle from between her knuckles. Almost instantly, the fire consumed Losna’s vardo behind her like dry kindling. In seconds, it was an inferno, moaning and twisting with the heat. Fire exploded through the trees’ canopy like flash paper. Johara screamed and trumpeted behind it, trapped on all sides by flame. Losna, suddenly calm, looked into Aradia's sad wolf eyes, just as the fire reached her, engulfing her utterly; “What did faith ever get me?”

Aradia’s heart broke, as she helplessly watched her mother burn alive in front of her. Losna didn't flail, didn't scream – never broke eye contact with her, right up until the last second when she collapsed onto the ground. The bottles hanging from the surrounding branches popped like gunfire all around them.

Aradia stood stunned in the center of the blaze, perfectly untouched, when – as if she were watching a film strip run backwards, everything stopped and began to rapidly restore itself in reverse. The beauty of the day. The smell of soup cooking over losna’s small campfire. The awe-inspiring magnificence of the tree of life. Aradia walked around to the front of the caravan while everything around her reset to exactly how it was when she first arrived. She got to the steps and looked up at the door just as the latch turned and out came Losna, wiping her hands on her apron. She stopped short, locking eyes with Aradia; “Oh my lords! ARADIA??? Is that you?!”

Aradia, still processing what just happened, regrouped herself as best as she could in the moment, and cautiously tried on a warm smile; “Va Mamma, it’s me.” She did a little wave; “Surprise…”

…

Losna ambled down the steps and into a tight embrace with her daughter, pinning her arms to her sides; “My sweet baby girl, you came back to me!” She cradled Aradia’s head, sobbing, rocking them both gently from side to side.

It’s like she’s trapped in a recurring dream, thought Aradia. She cautiously patted her hands at her human mother’s sides, trying her best not to cry: “I missed you so much, Ma…” she gasped, “It’s been… ah… too long.” Her heart sank. This was not the reunion she had hoped for. Aradia knew that she needed to be careful. If this was indeed a nightmare of some kind as she believed, simply snapping Losna out of it could be violently catastrophic.

What Humanity has failed to ever learn is that their time in the shadowlands is meant to be one of restoration, growth and recovery; existing as a place of actualization and manifestation. A place where they can reconnect with their loved ones – their ancestors, and prepare for their eventual rebirth. Its intent is one of blissful joy and refulgence. Some – those who feel they have gotten all they can from a mortal existence, choose instead, to stay. It’s where they can languish in a paradise of their own design, or finally let go of the material world altogether and focus on ascension; returning to the warm, welcoming heart of the Mother.

But as humanity pushes their industry ever forward, more and more of them come into the shadowlands bogged down by pain, regrets, and anger. Their shame and trauma rips at them, inadvertently creating an isolating environment of torment, self-loathing and flagellation.

So instead, Aradia started again, reenacting their reunion as best as she could, while still keeping an eye out for any chance to break the cycle.

Losna held her child, tears streaming down her face; “Aradia, my light...” she said, hooking her arm around her daughter’s waist and turning, “You're just in time for supper. Come. Sit. Eat. Tell me everything I missed.” Aradia let herself again be led to the table, and watched as Losna ladled some soup into a bowl for her. She watched her set out a basket of fresh tossed greens, the cherry wine and tumblers, and her special lemon bread as though she hadn’t JUST done the exact same thing a short time ago. Aradia focused hard to hold back her tears and appear calm, cheerful even.

“It’s really lovely here.” Aradia remarked brightly.

Losna sat across from her, slicing some bread for them both. “Do you like it? It’s not exactly the way I would’ve imagined things, but it feels safe, y’know?” She looked around, as though suddenly losing her train of thought.

“Mamma?” Aradia asked quietly, “Hey… where are you right now? How are you feeling?” Losna did not respond. Instead, she brought her attention back to her daughter and scowled; “You left me.” Aradia sat back into her chair. “Just like your father, you left me!” In the campfire, wood popped, sending a flurry of embers up into the air. Losna swiped her arm across the table in sudden, explosive anger, scattering everything off the table onto the ground. She jumped up abruptly, kicking over her chair. “How could you?!” she sobbed. “After everything we’ve been through together! We… I – needed you, WHERE WERE YOU?!?” she screamed.

Aradia flinched, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m so sorry, Mammi,” she said quietly, “I... I didn’t mean to. I was taken… lost.” Her breath hitched, tears like quicksilver clinging to her lashes.

Losna turned away, hugging herself. She spoke softly, just under her breath; “Why does everyone leave me?”

Aradia took a steadying moment, pressing her palms into her eyes. “Maybe… Do…” She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, and tried again, exhaling slowly; “I’m here now Daj… could we please just talk about it? The night we were… uh, separated?”

Losna’s eyes welled up, her jaw clamped shut; “No.”

Aradia turned to the campfire and saw glowing embers wafting up, floating here and there – catching on the occasional leaf, her chair. She got up carefully, maneuvering around the table; “Mamma, hold on…”

Losna darted towards her garden in a panic, her voice shaky; “Come see! I grew all our favorites here.” She zipped around to the other side of the caravan, just out of sight; “I got tomatoes!” she called back, “big as your fist.”

Aradia followed close behind her, knowing what was coming; “Ma wait – Please! Don't do this!!”

Like before, as she got to the other side of the caravan, she found Losna sitting in her garden, back against the wagon, hugging her knees – sobbing and muttering to herself; “No more no more no more NOOOOOO!” She began hitting her head with balled up fists. “PLEASE!! Leave us alone!! No more, NO!”

Aradia couldn't bear to watch Losna go through this horror another time, yet couldn't look away as she watched her mother scramble to her feet, looking upwards, wailing at the empty air above her; “All I ever did was struggle and fail!” She stomped her foot as punctuation; “and anytime I would come close to SOME kind of-of-of joy you … punished me for it!! Why?!” Losna slapped at her chest, scanning above her for a sign or some kind of acknowledgement of her pain, “What did I ever do to make you so angry with me, except devote my ENTIRE life to you? My miserable, shit-ass, terrible life?!?”

Aradia had seen enough. She knew that nothing she did would break this loop and she would end up getting drawn in, becoming trapped here, too. With a wave, The Mother calmed the campfire. The embers that had been swirling around them, landing here and there, harmlessly blew out. She walked to the garden, calling back her crown of starlight as she did, marched right up to Losna and placed her hands firmly on her shoulders, making direct eye contact; “Enough, Losna.” Her voice carried like the rumble of a summer storm.

Losna’s eyes refocused in and out, her pupils dilating as she came back into wakefulness. As soon as she met the Mothers’ gaze, her face immediately contorted into an expression of embarrassment and remorse. “I'm so sorry!” She fell to her knees, her forehead nearly touching the ground, and grabbed at the hem of the Mother’s skirt; “I failed you, my queen! Please have mercy on me, please! I’m so alone,” she wept, “I can’t take this pain anymore.”

The Mother was crestfallen; She looked upon her human caretaker in all her suffering – openly sobbing at her feet, and felt the white-hot flame of her anger stir deep within her for not taking better care of one so precious. After everything Losna had lived through, she had hoped that she would have reunited with Timbo, maybe even found her way to the rest of her ancestors, found respite; peace. Instead, Losna had carried all the pain of her loss, all her trauma – the ways in which, in her mind, she had failed – with her, creating a never ending loop of self inflicted punishment. She squatted low and tenderly helped Losna to her feet, calming her as she did.

Losna had always felt clenched – a sense of impending danger that kept her sharp, braced for anything. At that moment, her system came out of alert. She could feel something within her go slack, leaving her feeling deeply exhausted. She took a few slow breaths: looked around left, then right, then back to The Mother. “Wha… what’s happening?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, as though she had been sleeping. Her jaw cracked into a long yawn.

The Mother smiled warmly, seeing Losna return to her full mind. “My beloved, sweet, stubborn child…” She began; Her voice was the calm and soothing tones of an ocean on a still day. “You've put yourself into a kind of…” she paused, looking for the right phrasing; “ a ‘time out,’” she explained.

Losna began to look around – captivated, as if for the first time, nodding as she did; “A time out…” she wandered away from The Mother, weaving towards the back, running her fingers along her wagon, gazing up into the tree – instinctually stepping over and around tomato plants and the occasional squash. “Huh.” As she got to the back, her eyes brightened: “Johara!” She ran up to her horse, and hugged her neck. Johara rested her head on Losna's shoulder, softly nickering and snorting.

Losna came back around after a few minutes, grinning ear to ear; the mother standing patiently by the garden. “It's nice to have my horse here with me at least, thank you.”

“You’re surprised?” asked Aradia, “She never could be more than spitting distance away from you.”

Losna smirked, going back to her wandering; “The actual tree of life, eh?” She walked about in lazy spirals, running her fingers along its ancestral, hanging roots.

The Mother laughed, feeling Aradia’s relief just under the surface; “The actual tree of life,” she said with a nod. “It’s the first material thing ever made, did you know that?”

“Wow,” said Losna, impressed. She put her hands on her hips; “I was so sure it was going to be an oak. Or maybe an apple tree?” she patted one of the lower branches; “What is this, a Mangrove?”

Aradia turned her head to one side and squinted. “It’s a banyan, mamma.”

Losna wandered around the encampment for a few moments, repeating ‘banyan’ under her breath, before finally asking; “Why keep it here?”

The Mother scoffed; “I LOVE banyans. They’re my favorite tree. So what if I want to keep this one for myself?”

Losna clicked her tongue; “You know what I mean. Why keep the tree of life hidden like this?”

“From Humanity? Are you kidding?” asked The Mother, “Entrust this ancient, gentle being to people? They’d’ve burned it for kindling ages ago. Or worse! They would have built something stupid out of it, like a battering ram, or another pointless temple."

“Pointless?” Exclaimed Losna; “You think temples are pointless??” she walked her way back to where The Mother stood, intrigued.

The goddess sighed, her shoulders slumping just a bit. “The whole of the world is a temple, my love. Every blade of grass, every drop of rain – every leaf floating on the wind… is a song of praise.”

Losna nodded, processing; “A temple to praise The Mother, to relish in your glory.”

The Goddess teared up, shaking her head, and placed her hands on either side of Losna’s face; “No, dum-dum, it’s not your temple to praise me, don’t you understand?” Losna gazed blankly back at her; “It’s my temple to praise you.”

Losna lit up at the thought. She then rolled her eyes and scoffed. “No wonder you're so frustrated with us.”

The mother took her hands away, her expression darkening. “Not quite the word I would choose,” she sighed, “but… sure. Let’s go with that.” Losna’s easy grin, which had only just found its usual, comfortable spot, abruptly leapt from her face, like a startled cat. A cold chill skittered up her back, raising the fine hairs on her neck. She looked away nervously, desperate to change the subject.

The Mother, feeling Losna’s discomfort, tried on a playful grin, but Losna had redirected her attention to the tomatoes. “Nice garden.” she remarked, as though she were appraising the area. She stopped then and looked up at her caravan as though just now noticing it was there. Her brows furrowed, her mouth hung agape. In that moment, she had completely forgotten all about being in the presence of the Mother Goddess.

The Mother, somewhere between amused and annoyed, looked from Losna to the caravan and back. “What?” she asked.

“Aradia!” What the hell have you done to it?!” Losna spun on her heel, indignant – gesturing wildly behind her; “It looks like a blasted gadje’s fever dream!”

Aradia shook her head, obviously taken aback; “Me – what..? I didn’t manifest any of this!” she said waving around, “That was ALL you, Ma.” Losna’s face pinched. She swung back around murmuring incoherently to herself before going quiet. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again. She motioned at the windows. She indicated the wheels. After a few minutes of random pointing and muttering, she threw up her hands in exasperation.

Finally, Lonsa – in a calm, even tone said; “I like it, it’s pretty.” Gasping, Aradia pinched the bridge of her nose. “I mean, it’s more like how it looked when I was little – WHICH I LIKE,” she said putting her hand up, “just maybe not so… BRIGHT?” The Mother closed her eyes and peaked at an image swirling through Losna’s memory. Instantly, the colors toned down, weathering it a little, making it appear a bit more lived in, more ‘real.’ “There!” shouted Losna, a huge child-like grin on her face; “That’s perfect!”

“I’m so glad we settled that,” The Mother responded flatly.

Losna turned back around, a glib retort dying almost immediately on her lips as she gazed upon The Mother, the stars of her crown orbiting her head like a system around a sun. The gravity of where she was and what was actually going on, at last sunk in. Her tone quieted, turning serious. “You were never ‘the daughter,’ were you?” she asked.

Aradia shook her head softly. “No. But I was your daughter.”

Losna wiped at her eyes, and placed a hand to her brow, as though she were checking her temperature, “Not a goddess,” she said slowly, “not goddess-like, but the literal, ACTUAL Mother-Creator Goddess. All that time.”

The Mother dismissed her crown, stepped forward, and took Losna’s hands, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Muri Phuri daj, I am so grateful that you were there to teach and guide me as I came into myself,” she said, "Your strength, your resilience, your KINDNESS… you were truly a wonderful mother.” She delicately ran a hand down the side of Losna’s face “You were precisely the mother you were always meant to be, and exactly the mother I needed in order to fulfill my destiny.”

Losna sniffed; “But why choose me?”

The Mother smiled; “Because you wished it.” Losna’s eyes grew wide, her expression incredulous. “In truth, beloved, your connection to my ways – your faith – is what drew me to you.” Losna's jaw hung open, her knees felt loose. “After all,” she continued, “heralds are made, not born – forged in adversity. So I gave you the tools that were required to do what needed to be done.”

Losna stood awestruck, motionless, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

The Mother looked around. “Tell me, Losna; where is your husband?” A befuddled, hurt look bloomed across Losna’s face like a heat rash, her mouth opening and closing in quiet creaks and breaths. “This is your paradise, don’t you want him here?”

“Of course I do!” Losna finally blurted out. “I’ve mourned him since the day he left!”

…

The First Gate to the Underworld

The following is another out-of-context, random snippet: a taste of the three part book series that I have been slowly working on. As I mentioned, it is a passion project born of a desire to preserve my familial history, culture and traditions. 

Just as a reminder on the project:

"This epic narrative, which begins just after world war 1 and is set in Sicily, follows the transformational journey of Aradia Medrano, birthed twice into surreal situations: once as the avatar of the Mother Goddess, and once as a powerful vampire. But not just any vampire. A creature from Romani folklore called a Mullo. A "Mullo" is born of pain and suffering and injustice all served up fresh on a wrongful death and an improper burial. 

You might be thinking "Ravenant," and you'd be right -- sort of. When a poor soul rises from the grave to seek justice and/or revenge on those who wronged them in life, AND kills them by drinking their blood and then being cursed to roam the earth for all time, AANNNDDDD can only be stopped by their first born.... you get a Mullo. Or in my story's case, a Mulla -- which is the feminine version. 

I employed the stories of my elders to serve as the backdrop and origin of my character, took the lore of the Mullo, and added the mysticism of my personal family lineage. It is many things, this book. It's folklore. It's historical fiction. It's fantasy. And -- it's horror.

On the outside.

On the inside, it is an attempt to decolonize my people. It is me sharing pieces of my culture. It is reclamation, preservation and metaphor. It is survivor's guilt, loss and compounding generational trauma. It is the universal human experience of discovering and embracing your truest self, against all odds."

~~~

In a blink, Aradia was stretched out in repose on the sofa, gazing up into the sky, feeling a wave of peace and contentment wash over and around her. She was The Mother, but she was also HERSELF.

In that moment her anger and sorrow had at last left her.

She was with her first born, dancing in joyous reunion just as much as she was lying on the couch: the same, yet separate. She took a few breaths and sat up, looking about, reorienting. “Thank you Lupus.”

The shadow on the ground stirred; “Of course, my Queen.” Lupus materialized out of the shade just then – extending his front legs, spreading his toes and yawning long and deep in that uniquely satisfying, full-bodied way of all canines. From Aradia's vantage point, Lupus yawned so wide that when open, his lower jaw seemed to touch the ground, while his upper reached the sky, connecting the two.

“It had been a long time since I danced like that.” she said with a smirk.

She stood up and walked towards the great wolf, this time leaving only the slightest impressions in the grass. Behind her, the chaise lounge creaked, groaned and fragmented into tangled, thorny stems that reached up from a wide, knotted base dug deep into the dirt. The plush velvet cushions and coverings burst into a glorious bloom of blood red roses and deep green leaves, returning it once more to the land.

She padded over to where Lupus was laying, threw her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his. “You’re very soft, Lupus.” She said affectionately. The great wolf’s ears pricked up.

“Excuse me?” he asked bemused.

“You,” she said, running her fingers through his dense fur, “...are wonderfully soft.” She climbed up onto his back, sprawled out flat, and sighed. “Do I really have to go back?” Lupus looked over his shoulder, surprised by his Queen’s offhand remark. “I mean, I know I do but – really?”

Lupus cleared his throat; “Forgive me for asking, your Majesty, but are you… d-drunk?” Aradia burst out laughing. It was a loud, uninhibited, body-shaking laughter, punctuated by what felt like her making a ‘snow angel’ on his back.

This concerned the wolf.

“I wasn’t drinking!” she finally exclaimed. “I did, however,” she said after a moment, “enjoy a nice fairy cake from my very thoughtful daughter.” Lupus Rolled his eyes, understanding.

“Of everything that exists in existence, YOU… above all… should know better than to accept a ‘fairy cake’ from a fairy.” Aradia waved her hand at the empty air in front of her.

“Pfft. Don’t be such a drip, Lupus.” she said with a chuckle, “It was a small thing, and it made her so happy. Besides,” she said through a grin, “who do you think taught her how to make them in the first place?” She repositioned herself, leaned forward and looked the wolf god – upside down – in the eyes. “It’ll pass in a moment. I just wanted a taste of some uncomplicated bliss before continuing on. You should try it sometime, sweetie.” She kissed the top of his muzzle. “It’ll be good for you.” Lupus snorted, trying not to laugh. “Ok, she said. Maybe later.” She sat up straight, cleared her head and patted his side. “Shall we?” With a nod, Lupus trotted on into the woods towards the mountain. It was a short jaunt, having nearly arrived when they had first encountered Lotus. Still, the closer they got, the more the mountain seemed to rise, until – as they came upon its base, it had risen so high, that it nearly blotted out the sky. Lupus’ hackles bristoled.

As they got closer and stepped out of the tree line, a massive pair of wrought iron doors came into view. Children of both night and day seemed to wrythe upon it, some in torment, others in pleasure. Across the top in a long dead language was inscribed: ‘To learn the truth, one must first succumb to it.’ Aradia jumped down from Lupus’ back landing soundlessly onto a thick carpet of wild, knee high grass and stepped closer for a better look. In the center of the gate and far beneath the inscription, stood a lone, wood carving of a mighty, battle ready dwarf. It was clad in light leather-looking plating with golden accents, and the sun etched into its chest. This fine rendering had once been painstakingly stained with vibrant colors no doubt intended to intimidate and discourage wayward travelers from getting too close to the gates. Time and countless storms had faded its coloring, and had scarred it with a long crack that traveled down its left side from shoulder to hip. None-the-less, this proud sentinel stood with purpose; its long, red, braided beard resting proudly against its barrel chest. The eyes were deep set and hard to see. Its strong, squat hands were laced over the handle of an iron war axe; its facade covered in splashes of rust.

“The shadowlands are just beyond that gate,” announced Lupus. He lowered his head and whispered into Aradia’s ear; “Dramatic, isn’t it?” This made her giggle.

“Very.” she whispered back. The two continued forward until they noticed the Dwarf turn in their direction, making them both stop. They backed up a few paces, and watched the carving return to its original position. “You saw that, too, right?” she whispered. Lupus squinted at the figure.

“It’s bewitched,” he said matter-of-factly. “One of yours?”

Aradia shook her head. “No, that’s something my other half would have done.” She shook her head. “Poor thing.”

Lupus’ brows popped up, “Tagni?!”

Aradia shrugged, “If you like.” She raised her hand, and waved; “HELLO OVER THERE!” The guard did not react. She took a few steps forward. To her delight, as she approached, so too did the dwarf. It creaked forward, roots ripping out of the ground only to re-root with each advancing stride. It carefully matched her steps, quickly closing the distance between them. Aradia stopped. So did the carving. She stepped left and the dwarf mirrored her. Aradia tried a little dance move: a short hop and spin. The dwarf merely observed. “HA!” she exclaimed, “Gotcha!” she pointed at the carving, chuckled, and continued walking towards the gate. As she did, the figure lifted its weapon, ready to defend its post. It only got a few paces in however, when it abruptly stopped in its tracks, and froze. The carving’s mouth hung agape in a nearly comical expression of surprise.

“Mother!” it exclaimed, “You've come.'' Its voice was the sound of trees groaning against a hurricane.

It dropped its axe and fell to its knees, bowing low, its forehead touching the grass. “Forgive me! I did not recognise you.”

Aradia walked up to the dwarf statue, a warmth filling her heart and knelt down in front of it; “I have come to speak with Dis. Will you grant me passage?” The dwarf, lifting its head, but still averting its eyes, said; “Of course, my goddess.”

It shuffled up onto its knees and spoke at the ground, its hands clasped at its heart; “Respectfully your majesty, I must first ask for one of your garments before you may pass.”

Aradia cocked her head to one side, amused. “Oh, DO you now?” She grinned. It slowly nodded, taking on a more serious tone; “Yes ma'am, because ‘nothing may be received except that something be given in return.’" Aradia’s smile widened, charmed by the creature’s humble awkwardness, and intrigued that she did not know it. “What is your name, guardsman?”

The dwarf lowered its head and in a sad, quiet voice said, “I-I have none.” Aradia thought for a moment, reached out and lifted its chin, so that she might see its face. Not a wood fairy, she thought, not a cursed flesh and bone man… Just a bewitched piece of wood trapped in eternal servitude. Lines of long dried sap had run from its eyes and had collected on its beard. Touched, she placed her hand on the side of its face.

“You’re in pain.” She noted.

The guardsman pulled away, looking down. “I-it’s nothing.”

“May I help you?” She asked gently.

The guard looked back, fresh sap running slowly over its cheeks. “You would help me?” Aradia smiled compassionately, and pressed her forehead to its. The dwarf leaned in and opened its mind to her. In an instant, she knew; it was placed here by Dis more than an age ago – a bewitched stump, carved into the likeness of its predecessor, forever bound to its post. In the millenia that had rolled past, it had weathered much, alone. Here it remained, rooted in its position, guarding the only entrance to the shadowlands.

The shadowlands are where the souls of her children – those born of her and her other half, the light – go to rest before being reborn. Many have called it Heaven, Nirvana, Valhalla.

She felt its fears, its longing – its deepest desires. “Well,” she said, sitting back on her heels, “what shall I call you, then? ‘Guardsman’ seems too formal.”

The dwarf replied quietly; “You are the Mother, you may call me what you like.”

She leaned forward and kissed its brow murmuring; “From stars you were born, and unto stars you shall return.” In an instant, life had flowed into the carving, and by the time the guardsman knew what was happening, he was flesh, blood and bone – taking in his first breath.

He stood frozen, drawing a few more breaths – in and out. He lifted a leg and carefully set it back down. He pressed his fingers into his cheeks. He stuck out his tongue, and patted his chest. Then he abruptly turned and ran for all he was worth back to the gate, slapped it, and then ran all the way back, whooping and cartwheeling. Aradia clapped and cheered him on. The guardsman, overjoyed, rushed right up and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug, spinning her around. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!!”

Aradia laughed, swept up in his joy and hugged him back; “Welcomewelcomewelcome!!”

The guardsman, catching himself, pulled his arms back and took a few steps away from her, averting his eyes, nervously wringing his hands. “Forgive me Mother! I lost myself, I… I…”

Aradia took his hands in hers; “Hush now, chav. You have nothing to apologize for.” He recomposed himself quickly, while she bent down, gently lifted his head and looked deep into his eyes, which glinted like amber with flecks of gold and crimson. “I can see you are strong and loyal and good. I will call you Menowin.” The dwarfs' eyes brightened, as a thoughtful smile slowly cut through his bearded face.

“Menowin,” he repeated. “You honor me.” He bowed low at the waist.

Aradia curtsied, then removed her sash and presented it to him. “Will this do, beloved?”

Menowin, his cheeks flushed, nodded and reverently gathered up the garment, placing it over his arm, the fairy bells lightly jingling in his trembling hands. He turned on a heel and marched back to his original position at the gate, picking up his axe along the way. He tapped the ground three times with it and took a knee, lowering his head. At that, the writhing bodies pulled open the gates, so that she may enter. Lupus followed closely behind her, the two stopping at the threshold. Aradia turned to Menowin and smiled. He looked up at her, then at the gate. He had never seen it open before. “Uhm, Mother?”

“Yes?” she asked.

“What would you have me do now? I mean… what do I do?” Menowin shifted from one foot to the other.

Aradia looked thoughtfully at Menowin. “You’ve had ages to think about it, what do you want to do?” The dwarf tapped his foot, absently stroking his beard. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” she asked. He nodded. “How’s this;” she began, “You’re alive. You’re FREE. You can do anything, go anywhere.” She filled his mind with possibilities, reminded him of his dreams. “Whatever path you choose, whatever you decide to do with your life, just remember to do it from a place of love and kindness. And know that I am always with you, if you need me.” Menowin smiled big at that.

She then turned to Lupus whose head was hanging low. “I cannot go with you, my Queen,” he said, “for all must face death alone.”

She walked up to the great wolf and kissed him on the nose. “I know. Hey,” she said, feeling his grief, “I’m not leaving you ok? Remember, I am ‘She Who is Many.’” Lupus looked up with sad eyes. “This isn’t like last time, I promise.”

Lupus turned his head to one side “You’re sending the human part of you back, aren’t you?”

The Mother grinned wide. “I will send a part of me with her, yes. She has a destiny I need her to fulfill, whereas I have much to do here; in all the realms. And I will need you at my side.”

Lupus’ tail started to wag. He then reached forward, and nipped her shoulder, leaving his mark. A trickle of liquid starlight ran down the front of her. “I have marked you… the humanish you. When I am needed, call my name, and I will be at your side, as fast as thought.”

Aradia embraced the wolf again; “Look after Menowin. He’ll need some guidance. And Lupus?”

He raised his head; “Yes your majesty?”

“Go roll around in the grass.” She straightened up, squared her shoulders, turned, and walked forward through the gates, careful not to look back as they closed behind her, lest she succumb to remorse. 

 ...

 

Bouncer Cuts

 * The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? Well. This is a little snippet about the place where he likes to write.

Author's note: this story is set somewhere just before the year 2000, in my favorite place in the world: San Francisco.

~~~ 

    If you’ve ever flipped through a National Geographic or perused the Discovery Channel or – at least – been to high school, then you know; the ability to survive hinges on the ability to adapt.

This also holds true in the business world.

In defiant reaction to the past decade’s flailing economy, the city has begun to evolve by breaking out into a pandemic of creatively trendy, multi-purpose business establishments. It’s not a used book store anymore; it’s an art gallery with an espresso machine and a toaster that just happens to sell used books or, perhaps, it’s an ethnic “fusion” restaurant and bar with a cabaret license and an open mic. In this case however, the Brainwash is a laundromat cleverly disguised as an internet café with a bi-weekly poetry night. Upon entering, you might notice the pseudo-iconic, religious candles lining the windows or that the ceiling is edged with terrifically cheesy red, star-shaped twinkle lights. Every available wall of this kitsch Shangri-La has been brightly indoctrinated with framed collages of old Maytag pin-up propaganda. All the tables and chairs, which look as though they were rescued from the city dump, are very purposely mismatched, reconditioned and then arraigned into careful disarray. If you close your eyes, and this is my favorite part, you might hear a lone saxophone preaching in time to the HUM-SH-SH of thirty plus washers or maybe even a few words from the gospel according to Miles Davis weaving in and around the FOOM-CHIK-FOOM of a double load dryer or, like now, the silent wisdom of a local cellist stuffed into a corner, weeping a quite halleluiah.

It’s brilliant, it’s convenient and it reeks pleasantly of fabric softener and coffee.

As I cross the brushed aluminum threshold of the Brainwash, it’s all I can do just to keep myself from genuflecting.

…

With a melodic THOONG, the door swings shut behind me, leaving the horror of my morning tied up alongside a disgruntled schnauzer and a cluster of messenger bikes. Amir, the resident java jock, shoots me the male head jerk of acknowledgement as I approach the counter.

“Hello Buddy!” His flawless, academic English is British crisp with Middle Eastern undertones. “And will we be writing today, my friend?” Like many writers, I indulge in a superstitious methodology.

“Hey Amir,” I say, slipping into a comfortable smirk, “Maybe. Is Sabreal around?” Six years ago, fresh out of college and with the ink still damp on my Lit degree, I stumbled into the Brainwash desperately seeking sanctuary from my overly exclamatory neighbors: “Oh Baby” and “Big Daddy.” The ensuing fit of inspiration sparked a series of sexually charged satire that ultimately lead to my inclusion in the prestigious literary anthology: “The Best Writers You’ve Never Heard Of: Volume Eighteen.”

I’ve been coming here every day since.

Amir dips down behind the register and pops back a second later with a beat-up old bowling bag held together with something like a thousand stickers of concerts past. “I think she is in the back, my friend. Shall I go fetch her for you?” I can never tell if his over-the-top customer service is amusingly genuine or amusingly sarcastic.

“No, that’s OK, man. Thanks.” I grab the bag and aim myself at a small, out of the way table set in direct diagonal of the staging area.

This time of day, the place is still fairly empty though, as always, there’s a line up of people suckling on the Brainwash’s WiFi teat, furiously texting their “BFFs” or squinting intensely into their laptops or tablets to download the day’s fix of Electronic Methadone.

We are America, the anesthetized.

Not that I’m any better. I once spent six lonely hours on a sleepless night instant messaging who I can only hope was some girl in Florence and not some unemployed shut-in living out some weird fantasy in his mother’s basement. Computers, the internet – they’re tools that help me obtain as much instant gratification as I can handle. My writing however, is art and half of that art is in the process, which is why I go through all the trouble of maintaining my Royal beauty.

It’s with the kind of pride usually reserved for new mothers that I unzip the bowling bag and along with a ream of paper, draw forth the fifty-pound, all-metal love of my life: Lenore. My typewriter. Comparing this marvelous machine to a laptop is like trying to compare Rodin’s “Thinker” to a blow-up doll.

There’s a single sheet of fresh paper rolled through the carriage with the word “The” typed boldly in the upper left-hand corner. Unfortunately, that “The” has been there for almost a week. Sighing, I tilt my chair into the wall behind me and let my eyes go out of focus, drifting… “The.” The what? The… day. What day?

“C’mon Lenore baby, talk to me.”

~~~

 

 

A Taste

The following is an out-of-context, random snippet: a taste (one of many to come), of a three part book series that I have been slowly working on. It is a passion project, born of a desire to preserve my familial history.

I am Romani, a product of two immigrant families that found their way to the United States in the early 1900's. I was raised by my mother's side, and specifically by our familial elders. During the first ten(?) or twelve-ish years of my life, I was blessed to have been more directly raised by the few remaining immigrant members of my family. 

They passed on to me our language, our culture and traditions (romanipen), and all the stories of my maternal clan -- who we were, where we came from, and how we ended up in 'America.' 

We were 'outsiders amongst outsiders,' because unlike much our community, we were only "Catholic on the outside." On the INSIDE, we were goddess worshiping pagans. "Kitchen witches, midwives and herbalists," according to my great, great aunts and uncles. Through them I learned divination, fortunetelling, and the ways of the Strega. We were closed and private about who we were, and hid in plain sight amongst the Italian Catholic neighborhoods we lived in.

I was often told; "It's up to you to keep our stories, add to them, and pass them on."

This was due in large part to the majority of their kids -- my great aunts and uncles -- deciding rather unilaterally to assimilate and 'just be Americans.' Many of them were unaware of our lineage as it was, and only passively passed on traditions they never thought to ask about. I don't really know why our elders let that happen, but I figure that they wanted a safer future for the family.

But because my elders parented me, they passed everything to me, because -- quite simply, I asked them to.

In the last maybe ten or so years of my life, as more and more of my family dies off, and especially as a part of the Roma movement towards our peoples' sovereignty as a stateless nation, my promise to pass on our story has felt more urgent. I am the last living member of my familial line -- on either side -- who still lives by and practices our traditions.

I do not have children. Never wanted any. So the problem then presented itself: how do I preserve, add to, and pass on my elder's stories? Our history??

Initially, I just wrote down the stories as they were told to me. But like any good artist, I asked myself; "why?" Why would anyone care about these stories? (Outside my family or the Roma community at large, that is). As we are a people almost completely unacknowledged here in the U.S., I could not think of an effective way to drum up interest and really 'share' it all.

So I sat on it and waited for inspiration to strike.

Meanwhile, I had started playing an RPG with my friends: "Vampire the Masquerade." I am a goth, (since the late 1980's, at least) and am a little obsessed with vampires. Or a lot. OK, I am a LOT obsessed with vampires. The lore, the horror, the romanticism -- all of it. Gimme.

So, obviously, I made my character an extreme version of myself. This got me thinking on her backstory. Well, I had JUST typed up my family stories, so I referenced them for inspiration. And that's when it hit me -- I could write a novel (or three. Why not three? Some of my most favorite authors wrote things in threes.) 

As I outlined my project, it evolved into "The Sacred Pilgrim;” a three part fantasy narrative that chronicles the life, death and rebirth of a Romani woman born into a world of adversity, magic and mysticism. 

This epic narrative, which begins just after world war 1 and is set in Sicily, follows the transformational journey of Aradia Medrano, birthed twice into surreal situations: once as the avatar of the Mother Goddess, and once as a powerful vampire. But not just any vampire. A creature from Romani folklore called a Mulo. A "Mulo" is born of pain and suffering and injustice all served up fresh on a wrongful death and an improper burial. 

You might be thinking "Revenant," and you'd be right -- sort of. When a poor soul rises from the grave to seek justice and/or revenge on those who wronged them in life, AND kills them by drinking their blood and then being cursed to roam the earth for all time, AANNNDDDD can only be stopped by their first born.... you get a Mulo. Or in my story's case, a Mula -- which is the feminine version. 

I employed the stories of my elders to serve as the backdrop and origin of my character, took the lore of the Mulo, and added the mysticism of my personal family lineage. It is many things, this book. It's folklore. It's historical fiction. It's fantasy. And -- it's horror.

On the outside.

On the inside, it is an attempt to decolonize my people. It is me sharing pieces of my culture. It is reclamation, preservation and metaphor. It is survivor's guilt, loss and compounding generational trauma. It is the universal human experience of discovering and embracing your truest self, against all odds. 

The first installment spans the early 1900’s, through the mid 1950’s. We follow Aradia through childhood being groomed for her destiny by her mother, a talented woman known as Mother Losna. We experience World War 2 through Aradia's eyes. Our hearts are lifted when she meets her husband, and when their daughter is born - and stand solemnly by her as she later grieves their tragic deaths. Who is the architect of so much loss? Is it the will of the universe, or the carefully laid plan of a vampire known only as Luna? When she offers Aradia - at her darkest hour - a chance for justice, will she accept? What lies ahead as the Vampire ends Aradia’s mortal life? Walk with her, as she journeys through the seven gates of the underworld on a path of self discovery and empowerment to see what finally rises from the grave.

~~~

    The Vampire Luna awoke just as the final rays of sunlight faded from the sky, like a switch had been flipped. She looked over at the woman next to her and rolled onto her side, spooning. The woman’s hair smelled like wildflowers, and Luna drank it in, as she lightly ran her fingers down the length of the woman’s nimble form. She reached over and gently cupped the woman's supple breast, feeling its weight in her hand; sinking deeper into the tangle of her thick, ebony locks. “I love you,” she sighed, nosing the woman’s ear. “From the first moment I saw you, I was lost forever.” Luna rolled flat onto her back, twirling soft curls around her finger. “But can you ever love me, though?” She sat up, leaning her head against the plush, overstuffed headboard and gazed up at the swirling, sheer pink fabric draped inside the top of the canopy. “I was so nervous when we finally met, you know? I remember playing the scenario over and over in my mind trying to think of the perfect opener.” She laughed then, feeling embarrassed. “I guess it doesn’t matter much now.” She swung her long, pale legs over the edge of her queen size poster bed, and stretched. “You said you’d walk with me, do you remember that?” She stood, gathered her pink, marabou robe off the edge of the bed, and slipped it on – it’s train billowing behind her – her skin shuddering under its decadently gossamer caress. She crossed the terrazzo floor of the master bedroom to the double glass doors leading out to the veranda, and drew back the heavy, magenta curtains. “That was two nights ago,” she called over her shoulder, pouting. She paused, turned back and took in the beauty of the brisk Palermo autumn night.

Did I do something wrong? She wondered.

From her villa, set deep against the hillside, the vampire could see the entire city spread out before her, like an extensive menu at a posh eatery. She watched the lights come on, one by one, as fathers came home to their families, and mothers set the night’s supper out, and exhaled dramatically. “Two nights. Two nights, and you’re still not here.” She looked over longingly at the woman lying in her bed, sticky with viscera and gore; “It’s ok, my love.” The vampire thought briefly of the hundreds of birds camped at Aradia’s grave; “I too, can wait.”

She smiled to herself, revisiting some highlights of the night before with her newest plaything – a young, raven haired woman from Napoli named Guillia. Luna had chosen her, because of the ways she reminded her of her beloved romnij witch; lithe and caramel skinned – an enigmatic morsel with bewitching eyes ... and, as it turned out, very skilled fingers. She had been a lively and good humored girl, who was apparently backpacking through Sicily as part of her ‘year of self discovery.’

What nonsense, she thought.

“Excuse me, Madame Luna?” A small, rotund man with slicked back hair, oily skin, and a pencil-thin mustache entered the room; respectfully keeping his distance.

“What is it?” asked Luna impatiently, drawn from her musings. The man shifted from one foot to the other, nervously glancing at the bloody body still on the Madame’s bed. He absently licked his lips.

Broiled! No, ROASTED! He thought, fresh garlic, minced. Some locally pressed olive oil, rosemary… a little thyme, maybe?

He cleared his throat; “Will you be needing breakfast, Donna Luna?” He loosened his ascot, and unbuttoned his collar, exposing his neck.

Luna, still gazing ahead at the city, said; “No. Thank you, Vincent.”

Vincent re-buttoned his collar, tidied his tie, and smoothed out his pinstripe suit, easing a bit. “Very good. When you are ready Madame, I will update you on the details of today.” He glanced back at the woman lying peacefully on her side, as though deep in a dream – his stomach growled.

… Salt, pepper, dijon mustard... parsnips?

“Fine, fine,” Luna replied, half listening. It was now quite a long time ago, and yet, she could still recall the circumstances of her dark transition with perfect clarity. One does not forget one’s vampiric rebirth, after all. With her embrace, she had risen the very next night in her full glory, marveling at the newness of it all – ravenous. Powerful. “I did EVERYTHING right,” she muttered. Then, in a lightning flash of angry frustration, she spun around and was suddenly upon the man, having moved faster than thought. Before Vincent knew what was happening, an enraged predator was holding him up against the wall, her hands at his neck – his feet nearly a foot from the floor. “Where is my prize, you little Guinea shit?!” Spit and blood bubbled through her clenched teeth, her black eyes bored through him like hot pokers. The man struggled in vain, and clawed with futility at Luna's grip, terrified but also … deeply aroused.

His voice was strained and raspy, a trickle of urine dribbled from his pant leg; “I don’t know, my mistress!” The vampire hissed and with one hand threw Vincent down, who curled into a ball, quailing. Luna put her hands up and out, and took a slow, even breath.

“Of course you don’t, you illiterate bug.” She glowered at the groveling man and smirked.

Pathetic.

Thoughtfully, slowly, she raised a well pedicured foot, and presented it to him. Without hesitation, Vincent placed it tenderly in his hands and reverently kissed it, quietly moaning as he did; “This little piggy went to market...” He began.

She grinned; “Good boy.”

He had barely made it to the third ‘little piggy,’ when Luna, finally bored, kicked him away. In an instant, she had returned to her vista, and continued to gaze down at the city just as the last of the street lights came on.. “Eat what you want and then clean … that ... up.” She gestured at the bed, disgusted.

Vincent scuttled to the remains, and hungrily gathered it up into his arms, drool beginning to froth at the corners of his mouth. “Yes my mistress. Thank you, my Mistress. You are as generous as you are beautiful, my Mistress!”

Luna waved him away. “Go, pig.” He tossed the girl around his shoulders, his lips smacking, and backed quickly out of the room without saying another word. She closed her eyes and counted to ten in a half-hearted attempt at regaining her calm..“Where are you, my pet?”

...

 

 

Gen X Stuff

I am going to illustrate for you what being gen x is to me. So sit back and cuddle up, because it's story time with Bibi Felicia!

Brought to you by the number 69 and the letter “F” – keeping you well stocked with fucks through the most frustrating of times. 

 

Picture it! 1978.

This was the year that I learned two new vocabulary words: "Asthma" and "Allergies." This was also the year I learned about asphyxiation, when my wind pipe suddenly and unexpectedly snapped shut, rendering me unconscious. I don't remember much about that, but apparently I died for two whole minutes. So fast forward a bit to the hospital where I had been revived to find me out of sorts – wheezing and sputtering like an old car. 

 

It turns out I had asthma. If you don't know what that feels like, get an old drinking straw, flatten it out, and try to breathe through ONLY IT for a few moments. WARNING: you may pass out!

 

I was put through many uncomfortable tests in the following days... the worst one was a scratch test. This where a doctor called an “allergist,” injects a tiny bubble of concentrated evil called "allergens" juuuussst under the surface of your skin. They do this in a kind of grid – to see what happens!

 

So, these “doctors” covered my entire back with these poisons – which hurt me like fire – only to watch me adversely react to EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

 

Yup! Turns out I was allergic to literally EVERYTHING: animals, dust, mold and mildew, detergents, cleaners – the air... you get the point.

 

I was also allergic to all food stuffs except, I am told, red meat and oranges. Yum! 

 

Now, just to throw this out there: they were still figuring out antihistamines back then, and epipens, which were only developed the year before, were not made available to the general public until sometime around 1987 ish.

 

So what sage advice did my chain smoking doctor offer my mom? He said -- and I am quoting because it's a day I will NEVER forget; “Just let her eat whatever. She'll EVENTUALLY build up a tolerance.” In case you are wondering, that's the medical equivalent to “walking it off.” Yeah. 

Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in emergency rooms until I turned twelve and sure enough, my body did a complete 180 and was no longer asthmatic. 

 

And except for fur, a weed called “goldenrod,” maybe crabs? and kiwi fruit, I am allergy free. The lesson here, is that we are all stronger than we think, so don't give up, even if it kills you!

 

Toodles bitches!! 

 

 

 

Urban Crawing

I love traveling to new places. As an artist, I often get to travel on someone else's dime. 

"Hey we're doing a show in (insert name of city, here) at (name of gallery) and we'd love to have you be there for the opening." 

I'd negotiate travel cost and a place to crash as my fee, knowing that as long as I could get there, I'd be able to sell a piece or two, cover my expenses, and still have something left over for my savings. It was a win-win situation: the curator would get to parade 'the artist' around and impress the V.I.P.'s, the art groupies got to mingle and do photo ops, and the gallery would get a HIGHLY motivated sales person chatting up potential collectors. 

In cool circles, that's called a "scene." 

Inevitably, the opening would devolve into a full tilt rager, and that would be my cue to head out on my own and regroup. For me, these jaunts were equal parts work trip and mini vaycay, where I got to meet new people, see new things, talk shop, and grab some sweet, ironic, touristy bullshit.

My favorite way to do this, is to indulge in a little game that I call: Dicing. I came up with it in my freshmen year of college. I had just moved back to California, was living in San Francisco as a newly minted adult, and loved nothing better than to go on a late night urban crawl. Over the years, I've taken many, many folks dicing: friends, dates, family... weirdly, it caught on for a time and soon there were all kinds of people dicing. Since those days, I have made it a point of introducing fellow travelers and new contacts to my quirky little game but these days, with everyone lost in their phones, the practice has more or less died.

In recent years, it's pretty much just me out and about touring whatever city I happen to be in. By now, I've diced around Picadilly Circus, old Paris, Shanghai, most of Belgium, Berlin, Milan and every major city in the Sates, just to name a few. It's one of my small joys in life, and I always have the best adventures while doing it.

So what is dicing, you ask? Well, as I just happen to have written a thing about it...
~~~
To "dice" is to wander about the city and get – essentially – lost. Do this often enough, and you’ll see it all. Shake through the pockets, purses or messenger bag of any given local and you’d be sure to find a pair of garden variety, pick ‘em up at any liquor store, six-sided dice. Mine happen to glow in the dark, as my tendency is to 'dice,' 'toss' or 'roll' after hours.

A lot of times, if you need to clear your head or if you’re out courting or showing some out-of-towners a good time or even if you just feel like being out for the sake of being out, you'd grab your dice, give them a quick shake and toss them on the ground in front of you. How they land depends on what you do. For instance, you toss your dice and they line up left to right, three and five. From wherever you are, you’d go left for three blocks, turn right and walk for five, all the while doing whatever you’re doing and taking note of landmarks as they happen. If, on the next toss, the dice line up head to toe, you’d then total them up and walk that many blocks forward. On the rare occasion that you run out of blocks before making your count like, you hit the docks or a closed road, you’d just “bounce back” how ever many blocks you had left, and then toss anew. Some of the more cunning types talked about 'crapping.' Crapping is basically the same thing as dicing only done with a partner. At every toss, you and your buddy bet against each other; odds or evens, high or low.

Sometimes, you’d be sitting on a bench somewhere, having a burrito or a smoke or whatever and you’ll see a small crowd – maybe a roaming bachelorette party or a bunch of out-of-towners, crapping on the corner. However you wanna spin it, it’s the only way to REALLY see the city – just as long as you’re not in any kind of hurry. I’ve done this enough times that no matter where I go, I know exactly where I am and how to get to wherever I want to be.

Life should be so simple.

The Artist's Conundrum

In media and on television, there's this glamorized view of musicians, writers and artists like, once you sign that record deal or land that publisher or get that gallery exhibit, you've hit the big time and now money's going to start hemorrhaging from your asshole by the bucketful. 

Hell, I certainly thought so.

 But if this were actually true, the service industry would utterly collapse for want of able bodied staffing. Picture it:

* Restaurants would all be self-serve buffets

* No one would be there to park your car

* You're pouring your own mochas.

Capitalism, as we know it, would come to a screeching halt. Meanwhile, the arts would bloat and over-saturate its respective markets to the point of intellectual hedonism before finally caving in on itself; crushed by a level of smug pretense and self righteousness the likes of which the world has never seen before. 

In College – sleep deprived and either drunk or delirious, we hailed this event as: “The Artapocalypse,” noting that at the very least, the end times would be beautifully documented. 

We were grossly unaware of how much of a bubble the college experience can be and the subtle way it has of setting you up for disappointment. In my senior year, I was required to take a business class and an intro to marketing class. Now, at that point, I thought it was a complete waste of my time. I mean – OBVIOUSLY, my instructors were unable to fully recognize the sheer magnitude of my brilliance. Surely, upon graduation, agents and publishers alike were all going to vie for the privilege and honor it would be to represent me. My voice would be loud and strong and speak TO the masses FOR the masses. Critics would worship me. Sad boys would frantically expose their chests at my readings just so I could sign them. I'd inspire the world and spur a new movement with my unique style like the Beats once did, thereby changing the face of literature and the arts forever. Felicia De Rosa: “National Treasure” – beloved by all. That would be me. Fuck yeah.

If only.

The real, painful truth here, is that in order to simply get representation, you must first suffer through literally HUNDREDS of rejections. Phrases like; “Instant Classic” and “Overnight Success” are just made-up buzz-terms that weaselly marketing execs use to try and sell (insert creative endeavor, here) to we, the general public. 

The hard lesson we 'right brainers' eventually learn, is that success is subjective and depends wholly on how you perceive it. If it's creating… whatever... for the sheer joy it can bring you, then you more than likely have an alternate source of income and are, on the whole – a content and fulfilled person. 

If this is the case... for the record, know that your peers probably hate you. 

However, if success entails you doing what you do AND making a sustainable living while doing it... you best lube up because you're gonna get fucked. It takes commitment, endurance and cunning to eventually make it to a place where you are recognized and, hopefully, remembered for your efforts. It's from this point where you see the Piccassos and Morrisons and Benatars start to emerge. In the art world, that's Valhalla.

It's the means to an end. Yes, I do what I do because something in me compels me to do so. It's like breathing: if I stop doing it, I'd suffocate. But at the same time, I understand that without some commercial success, when I die, so does my work. 

A Trauma Kids' Thoughts On Modern Parenting.

I once read somewhere that “We are the imagination of ourselves...” – I’ve forgotten where – it could have been on a tee shirt, in a fortune cookie or in one of those shitty zines you find in an even shittier coffee shop… doesn’t matter. The point is, I never imagined my life turning out like this, wound up and twisted the wrong way. 

Each of us starts out the same: a pure, shapeless lump of potential. I hate that word – “potential”. To me, it’s synonymous with “failure”. It means not good enough or, at best, “half-assed”. Teachers tell parents that their kid has “potential” like it’s divine intervention. This wretched term translates to the parental ear as: “Your kid MIGHT discover a cure for cancer,” or “Your kid MAY become president,” or whatever their shortcomings and dis-proportioned expectations might be. It seems that in many cases, these people only become parents to distract them from the sad truth of their own un-pursued “potential.” Sadly, when a teacher tells them that their kid has “potential”, all they’re really saying is that your kid’s not a moron – be happy…

My own family experience was no less frustrating. For my parents, having a child was an act of reconciliation… a way of vicariously reliving their own lives with a sharpened sense of hindsight – lucky me, I was their collaborated effort. Growing up, I envisioned carefully laid blueprints showing what on me was to go where and how.

“No, Dear,” My mother would say to my father, “Those aren't her lips.”

I could see my father drinking gallons of milk and doubling up on iron and protein supplements months before clumsily coming too soon into my mother’s frustrated womb. This is a night I often curse. In my opinion, just because you can have children, doesn’t mean you should. It often baffles me on how much bureaucratic bullshit you have to sift through just to obtain a driver’s license… Prospective parents, I think, should have to take a test.

“Sorry folks, you got 48 out of 100 – 90 is passing.” BAM! Down comes the huge rubber stamp – ‘F’ in bright red neon. “Better luck next time.” This, of course, would send my father into a frenzy of male posturing.

“This is an outrage! Blah, blah, blah…” I can almost see him pounding on the table for punctuation as my mother calmly shoos him away. She always plays the good cop.

“Can’t you bend the rules this one time?” She’d have those blueprints out at this point, drawing the clerk in closer, making eye contact and slightly licking her perfectly lined lips; “We’ve been working on this for quite some time.” The clerk, no doubt, is watching his line zigzag out the front door.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he'd say severely, “No children for you.” He'd motion to a nearby security guard; “In fact, I’m sending this officer home with you to collect any plants or animals you may have. Good day.”

Ah, but only in a perfect world would such a scene transpire. As it happens, I was born into this world a healthy, unassuming, eight pound lump of –“potential.”

FYI? My first word was “ironic.” 

Blood Lust

See me, as I rise
Resplendent; piercing the dark
My eyes upon you
Shimmering, drenched in moonlight

Like whipped silk beneath my touch

Will you dance with me
Occupy the quiet darkness
Embrace living death
Step in my parlor, dear fly

Invoke my name, shun the light

Guide your mouth to mine
Hitching breath, soft tongues release
Your presence, fills me
Hot copper, spiced ambrosia

Flowing, spilling down my chin

Beg me not to stop
Drink of me and be reborn
My whimsy, my muse
Your breasts crush against my own

My fingers exploring you

Pleasure radiates
A cold wave that burns within
The tides wax and wane
Pull me closer, guide my hand

Drown in my oblivion

Worship at my shrine
For I am retribution
Mistress and mother
Claw marks, tooth and gash, arched backs

Be with me, love… evermore

 

Another excerpt!

* The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? 

This here is a flashback scene to when he was a kid...

~~~

“Goo-ood Times, Baa-aad Times – you know I had my share...”

The Pontiac’s top-shelf stereo system blared the blues inspired riffs of Led Zeppelin at critical levels, shaking and rattling the doors in time to John Bonhams' aggressive drumming. 

“When my woman left home for a brown eyed man, well, I still don't seem to cah-aaare...”

Dad wasn't into the soulless, commercial sound of contemporary music. No, he stuck to the classics:

* Lynnard Skynnard.

* Black Sabbath

* The Rolling Stones

He knew every verse of every song by heart and would passionately sing along to each and every one, creating duets and complex harmonies that would leave your jaw hanging in complete and total amazement. 

Unfortunately, Dad – as it turned out, was completely tone deaf. 

He butchered 'Walk This Way,' destroyed 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' and completely disemboweled 'War Pigs' before I finally had the nerve to stop him. With my hands pressed firmly against my ears, I turned to my Father and shouted: “DAD!” He turned the music down to a low rumble. 

“Yeah?”

I took a moment to answer, my ears still ringing, to briefly mourn the death of thousands of irreplaceable sensorineural fibers before responding. Dad dropped into fourth and swung the car onto the turnpike, the motor roaring back into fifth.

“Well?” I could tell that he was anxious to get back into the music.

“What the hell's so funny about fish, anyway?” I asked at last.

He looked confused. “What?”

“Fish. This morning you said you had fish for dinner and then you and Mom started laughing and I didn't get it and I'd like to so – what's funny about fish?”  

“It's grown up humor,” he said, leering,  “Ask me again when you get outta high school.” Dad scanned ahead, looking for cops as the speedometer creeped past ninety. “By the way,” he said, changing the subject, “Don't ever let me hear you cuss in front of your mother again, capiche?” His tone was deadly serious. Dad had only ever hit me once before, not counting the occasional, correctional “love smack” to the back of my head – and it was pretty awful: do as you're told and don't disrespect your grandmother. Lesson learned. 

“You swear,” I said, reproachfully. “All the time.”

“Yeah, I do. But I shouldn't. Not around your mother, at least. She deserves better.” A darkness crawled across his features then, briefly, like a passing storm cloud. He blinked his eyes a few times and shook his head, his quiet smile resurfacing. “Tell you what,” Dad said, “I don't mind you cursing around me or your friends but we'll both watch our mouths when your mom's around, okay?”

“No shit?” I asked cautiously.

He laughed. “No shit.”

“That's FUCKIN' awesome, Dad!” I sat a moment and pondered my new super power. “Does it fucking count if mom's in the fucking house, but not in the same fucking room I'm in?”

“Yes,” he said grinning.

“But what if she can't fucking hear me?”

“Your mom hears everything, you know that.”

“Yeah... Oh! But what if I'm real quiet, like this?” And in as soft a whisper as I could manage, I said; “Fuck.” 

“What do you have, tourettes? I said no, Daemon,” He barked. “Not if you whisper it, not even if you just mouth the word. Not. Around. Your mother. That's the deal, got it?”

“OK, OK but – what if I'm with Mom and I'm helping her with the fucking groceries and a jar of fucking  peanut butter accidentally drops on my fucking foot and it hurts real fucking bad and I can feel the word 'Fuck' want to fuckin' come out...”  He turns towards me, one eyebrow cocked.

“I'm listening...”

“Well, what should I say instead of 'Fuck'?”

“Darn.” Dad said instantly. “Darn or drat.”

“Or phooey?” I asked.

“Yep. Phooey works. So does Fudge, nertz, dang...”

I giggled. “Crap?” 

“Nope, sorry. Crap's off limits.”

“Dammit.” I hung my head dejectedly which made my father burst out laughing. I liked making him laugh. He reached his shifting arm around me then, man-hugging me.

“You're a good kid, m'boy.” He turned up the stereo and went back to checking for speed traps, chuckling to himself and muttering; “Something tells me I just created a monster.”

~~~

An Excerpt

* The following is an excerpt from a novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while, as I navigated some pretty wild life changes. It's a story about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published...

~~~

    I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes in the verdant patch of grass that grew over where the septic tank was, while Dad worked on his project Pontiac. It was summer break and hot enough to make everything doughy. Damp, suffocating heat pulsed in waves off the tarmac making even the smallest action happen in slo-motion. The noon sun rode high in a brilliantly clear, cerulean sky as Mom tended to her beloved garden. It was a beautiful ten by thirty foot menagerie of every herb and spice you could name festooned with bright red and yellow Gerber daisies. Off to one side she had a patch of Roma tomatoes, the other; Zucchini. The year before, her efforts were featured on the cover of “Gusto dell ‘Italia!”, THE locally produced herald of neighborhood happenings which Mom immediately had laminated, professionally matted and framed. This achievement hung as the centerpiece in our bright, everything-must-be-orange kitchen on the small bit of wall that faced our diner style breakfast nook and shared accolades with:

* My birth certificate.
* Mom and Dad’s wedding photo.
* An autographed picture of the Pope.

    Sadly, Mom’s garden seemed very out of place in what passed for the rest of our yard, which was little more than a dilapidated mine field of crab grass, fire ant colonies and the white, crusty remnants of Adolph, our neighbor’s prize winning Doberman.

    I was nine and three quarters and as I was small for my age, was not allowed too far off our property without parental supervision so, going out to play was a lot less exciting than it could’ve been.

    “Mom!” I could see the tension creeping into her shoulders as she came back from wherever her mind had taken her.

    “Dio lo aiuta… Yes?”
    “I’m bo-oooooooooored!”
    “So?” she said with a shrug, “Find something to do.”
    “There is nothing to do! That’s why I’m bo- oooooooooored!!”

    “Hey!” she said without turning, “No whining… It’s too hot for whining.” Then she grunted, uprooted a handful of weeds and chucked them behind her. “What about that story you’ve been writing? You know, the one about the wrestler and the priest?”

    “It was stupid.” I said, crossing my arms and kicking at the ground. “I ripped it up.”

    Mom sat back on her heels and looked out from under her floppy gardeners’ hat at me. “Jeeze kid, cut yourself some slack. Do you really think that Steinbeck got things right on the first try?”

    I hung my head, studying my feet. “I dunno.”

    “Well I do.” She stretched her arms out in front of her, flexing her fingers. “Good writing doesn’t just take talent, kiddo – it takes revision.” She rolled her head from side to side, cracking her neck. “Now where’s that father of yours?”

    I pointed towards the front of the house. “Workin’ on the car.”

    She sighed, calling out: “Honey?” waited a moment listening, then a little louder; “Hon-EEEE!” When he still didn’t reply, Mom threw up her hands, muttering; “Che pezzo di stupido…” before shouting; “SLIM!!” There was a faraway CLANG followed by a THUMP and an “Ow, Fuck.” When she needed it, Mom had a voice that could wake the dead.

    From the driveway we heard; “WHAT?!?”
    Mom gazed up to the heavens in exasperation. “FIND SOMETHING FOR YOUR SON TO DO!”
    “ARE YOU SERIOUS? I GOT HALF THE FUCKIN’ MOTOR APART OVER HERE, BABY!”
    Mom blessed herself. “CAN’T HE HELP YOU?”
    “NOT RIGHT NOW… MAYBE LATER!”

    Mom looked straight at me, taking another breath. “Bored, huh?” I nodded awkwardly. “OK,” Mom said, standing, “let’s take a break.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the mat she had been kneeling on, reached out her hand for me to take and led us out towards the front yard. As we passed Dad, his feet sticking out from under the Pontiac, Mom hissed; “Odioso zuccone” and kicked gravel at him.

    “Love you, too sweetie.” You could almost hear him grinning.

    Mom and I walked down the length of our street and across an abandoned set of train tracks, which didn’t seem to start or end anywhere, to Papa’s, the local gas station/pharmacy/deli/convenience store, for an Italian ice. Not sherbet, not sorbet but an Italian ice. I still don’t know what the difference is, but according to Mom, it was better. It didn’t really matter. An Italian ice – lemon, was more than a sensory memory in the making. It was and will forever remain, frozen summer concentrate in a paper cup; the kind that can only be eaten with what resembles a small tongue depressor.

    It’s true, just ask any kid.

    The door chimed as we walked in. “’Mornin’ Missus. Real scorcher, eh?” Papa was six and a half feet of raw leather stretched over a coat rack. “Go easy with that ice Son; you’ll freeze your brain.” He smiled his big mail-order dentured smile as he leaned over to tousle my hair.

    “It’s not the heat,” Mom said opening a Coke and grabbing another, “It’s the humidity.”
    “Isn’t that what they say about Hell?” Papa chuckled to himself as he handed over Mom’s change.
    “I wouldn’t know.” She picked up her small sack of purchases, tossed a sweetheart smile over her shoulder and, motioning for my hand again said; “When you get there, write me a letter.”

    We were nearly home when Mom reached into the bag and pulled out a balsa wood glider. “Here you go kiddo,” she said with a wink, “aim high.” It was assembled and ready to fly by the time I WHOOSHED passed Dad and the car and into the shade of the back yard, ratta-tatting imaginary zeros. Mom, the ultimate problem solver, knew that for half a buck, an imaginative kid like me could spend the whole day looping and power-diving the world and never once think to bug her. She had, in essence, bought herself the rest of the afternoon alone in her garden checking for aphids, while I bombed the shit out of World War 2 Berlin.

    At least, that’s what I was doing until a breeze blew my glider off course and into our neighbor’s yard.

    Adolph’s yard.

    Which is why I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes: 

 

    I was deciding how badly I wanted my plane back.