Dia de los Muertos

Here is another installation of fiction. The assignment for the week was to fashion our homework after the Rick Moody short story, "Demonology". Our attempt was to write a piece on death and grief in the First Person as Third, Past Tense:

           

  After the snow flurries of fall on the northern border of America, it was hard to believe it was almost November there in Mexico. The weather was a balmy 80 something degrees, and the bath water of the Pacific sparkled under the meringue puff clouds like a polished piece of turquoise, or aquamarine, or some other glistening gemstone. It was the best time of year to be in this fishing town, and dad had just emerged from the waves like Poseidon, God of the Sea, with his limit of yellow fin and jack fish nearly as big as he.

            He wasn’t planning the dive, he didn’t even have his swim trunks, but the lapping of the waves, the glistening jewels, the Siren’s song called him forth, stripping down to his tiny cut off jean shorts like it was still the 70s though we were a couple decades advanced, and dove head long into the break before I had realized he wasn’t walking beside me, much less listening to the rambling of this land-locked Siren. When he resurfaced, he said this bounty was for me, but you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. That dive was all for him. All of his dives were always all for him. It was enough just that he said it. As a woman who loved him, and there were many, I could forgive him this tryst knowing how much his affair with the Other, Oceana, meant to him. He really believed that those gifts she gave him were for me. After all, that is what we were here for, wasn’t it? To eat the Fruits de la Mer and honor the dead? To have the experience of another culture in the protective custody of my uber-manly father?

            That man made friends with everyone—he also pissed everyone off. But who wouldn’t love him? With his charisma, looks of Adonis, eyes as blue as that Mexico sky, and a liver fortified enough to drink the local cantina out of tequila, you couldn’t fight the amigos off! The anger came from getting hooked. One would by the bull to the sinker, then come up spluttering from a realization that reality was slightly different from the goods they had been sold. But for the night, all that glittered was gold. Tell us that one about how you punched the shark in the face, and ripped out its teeth with your bare hands, Muchacho!

             We drank as the sun sank, and the Senioras prepared, all paint and pageantry. We gorged on ceviche, and even my cup flowed with Aztec gold, though I was still under age back in the States. Two of the day’s catch were sacrificed to Chalchiuhtlicue to honor his love for her, and to appease her thirst for fresh flesh. This was Dia de los Muertos, and honoring the customs of this land was the real reason we were here, despite evidence otherwise. He explained that the veils between the worlds were particularly thin on days like this, and that his mistress was a jealous one, with not much compassion for the living, dead, or otherwise. He respected her power, and she kept his soul fed. They had an understanding, and she was the only woman to whom he would ever fully keep his word.

            That night, when the dancing in the square was done, he slipped off to have one last waltz. Who was I to judge? For all I knew, this was another part of the pilgrimage, the cycle of life, living and dying, burying and conceiving. Was I jealous? Of course. But also, I was used to it. And after we were back at home, he would pick up his progression of seasonal beds to harvest and plow. But this time was ours. So, who was I, the seed of his free-floating spirit, to tether him to my side, when I should have been as dead under covers as those ghosts we tributed this night, just hours ago?

            As He and Her harmonized with the alley cats, howling like Banshees ‘til the moon had grown tired of their efforts, I walked out to see that ocean break. I wanted her to suffer like I did when he chose she over me—and, yet, she was always suffering. Her tears swam in the surf, her cries wafted on the waves, the flotsam and jetsam flowed to shore with each passing moon, on the relentless current of time.

            Yemoja lay softly illuminated by her Seven Sisters, and I prayed. I prayed to be graced by her beauty, that he would love only me. I prayed for her captivity, that he would love only me. I prayed for her apathy, that he would love only me. I prayed for her power and her freedom from attachment, that he would love only me. I prayed, and I waited for her response, but she had none. Not for me.

Dank

Here is another installment of fiction from my work with The Writers Studio in SF:

            

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, Baby. Get ready to hang. We’re coming off the Mountain now. I’ll be there in about two hours. I need you ready to work. Love you, Sweetie. See ya soon.”

            “Bye baby,” and I hit end call.

            1:30 am. At least I get a few more winks…

            I’m up! I’m up! How long has it been? (Sigh) Great. It’s 3:15, and I don’t hear the truck yet. Better get the coffee going.

            As I sit in the still silence of the void between days, the darkness before the dawn, I can feel my pulse starting to quicken. My adrenal glands are already pumping even before the smell of coffee stumbles over to knock me in the face.

            The last of the black medicine sputters out of the brewer as Aaron runs up the walkway in the dark, dressed all in black with his hoodie up, carrying bags and bags of Hippie Gold. This is the first week of October—harvest season—and we now have over 50 pounds of wet material to dry and process in the next two weeks; our year’s livelihood is riding on this trip.

            No sooner has he thrown the first Hefty bag down, than I’m tearing it open to release the moisture, running cords along the ceiling and under the lights so we can get the tree limbs of dank up and drying. The colas are so dense this year we run a big risk of rotting, even with our immediate action.

            I ask what happened. The Boys weren’t supposed to cut until Thursday—the trichomes have only just started turning amber, and premature product doesn’t get a premium price at The Club. He says the rains came. They had to make the call. Do they keep the plants up through the rains? If it lasts only the night, then it could be a great last push, and we could gain some valuable weight. But if the rain lasts longer, and if the days don’t get warm and dry out, these nuggs would rot for sure, not to mention those bastard budworms. With no cell or Internet reception in the trenches of the Emerald Triangle, it comes down to your gut—what does that asshole tell you?

            50 pounds is a great deal of weed—even wet—and this task alone will probably take me a good two hours. Then I need to set up the fans, and start trimming off the large sun leaves. Trimming will take a hell of a lot longer than the hanging, but if we don’t get the main stuff off, the house will just get too moist, even in the dredged desert of Folsom. I’m still not sure how we’re going to keep the neighbors (and cops) from getting suspicious as the house starts to stink like a dead skunk, but that’s a problem for another day. In the words of Scarlett O’Hara, “I will think about that tomorrow”. For now, though, I probably won’t see sleep again for another eight to twelve hours. Not that I would be able to sleep, anyway, given the state of things currently. Between the police, and thieves, I’ll be on guard for a while.

            “Hey Babe! Get the fuck in here!!! I think we’ve got a problem.”

            Well that’s no good! No lady likes to hear that from her man, especially not when so much is on the line. I’m in the middle of putting up the last bag, when he pulls me away to check out what’s happening to that first lot hung under the halogen track lighting of the back bedroom. The cannabis has started to crawl with almost microscopic critters leaving cottony trails in their wake.

            Fucking spider mites.

            No worries. We’ve handled this shit before. It’s just a drag to have to fuck with this right now.

            The room gets quarantined.

            The dope gets bagged back up.

            The product not showing signs of infestation gets checked (and rechecked) with the jeweler’s loop; and moved from a warm, dry location (the favored climate of the dreaded mites), to a dark and cold territory.

            This is no way to dry any herb, much less $150k of premium purple dank. We will have to be even more diligent now.

            Jaime decided to focus on pure indica strains this year, since it retains more weight after drying than its sativa counterpart due to the density of the bud structure. The clubs will pay top dollar for a quality strain, and it’s a black market fave (especially with the High School kids), but now that means there is a much greater chance that the last five months Aaron’s spent on the Mountain, working Jaime’s property, could be in vain—and our rent is coming up on three months over due. If we can’t get the money for this round, then there’s no apartment—and definitely no lights—and we can’t bring our indoor crop to fruition. I’ve almost graduated, ironically, from a paralegal program, but I need a few more months of stability, and I’m not going to let some creature no bigger than a pin head fuck up our six-figure investment, damn it!

            Aaron loves this adrenal rush of an adventure—he’s eating it up, as I choke on my own stomach. He’s been doing trips to the mountain off and on for the past twenty years since he dropped out of high school. When I met him four years ago, he had a whole wardrobe of tactical combat gear and an arsenal of very real guns to go with his fantasies of being a rouge operative. He’s also been studying Tom Brown Jr.’s tracker manuals since he was knee high to a grasshopper, and has actually picked up a few things about covert conduct, and what to look out for from the other side. The dude is crazier than a shithouse rat, but I love him. I think the costumes, props, livelihood all add to the glamour of this movie we’re in; he spins plenty of webs of his own with how he lives his life, and has even caught a tasty tidbit or two in that trap along the way.

            We are nearly done putting out this fire. I can feel the hysterical laughter starting to rise in me as the panic wears off and I start to relax. Everything’s going to be fine, and it looks like fucking Christmas! Only, instead of stockings, we have the sticky icky bomb diggety. I can’t believe the life I get to live!!! Maybe this is why Aaron and I have stayed together so long—we’re both drama addicts who love the seedier side of life. We see the beauty in grit, and love the thought of stickin’ it to The Man.

            I start to get turned-on, and then stop.

            What was that?

            I hold my breath as I listen.

            Shit, there it is again! It sounds like somebody running through the back yard!

            Fuck.

            It’s four o’clock in the fucking morning, who could that be?

            Are we busted? Have they seen the crop? Where are they now?

            Aaron is out the door before I can even register what the hell is happening. He’s barefooted and shirtless, but that doesn’t stop this crazy son of a bitch. He’s grabbed a kitchen knife, God only knows what he’s thinking of doing with that if he finds someone!

            Holy Shit!

            Something just exploded. It sounded big, and it sounded like it was on the side of this building.

            Now I’m in here all alone, I can’t see (or hear, for that matter) The Dude. I have no idea where the explosion came from, either, but you can rest assured, I will not be heading out of this house any time soon. If it’s the DEA, they will just have to come in here and drag me out.

            What I am looking for, though, is the fire. I hear the trucks now, so at least I know this attack wasn’t directed at us. But, what the hell happened?

            Aaron’s only been gone for about twenty minutes, but it feels like hours! When he comes in, he has the story for me: a house around the corner and up the street was car bombed—a lover’s quarrel. While the woman and her children were asleep in the house, the estranged boyfriend exploded her minivan. No one was hurt.

            Wow. Thank God for small favors.

            Folsom might have a world-class prison, and good ol’ boy cops with something to prove, but it’s still a small town. With this kind of ruckus, the whole force will be tied up for days with paperwork and the investigation, leaving us to our semi-legal project free and clear. I never thought I would be so happy to be present during a terrorist attack!

            When I see Aaron’s bare chest enter the house unscathed, I remember to breathe again. A couple tears escape down my cheeks, and I collapse in his arms, kissing his stubbly face. He kisses me back. At first I feel his distraction. But, as the realization sets in that we are out of the woods, his kisses become more passionate, more ravenous, and we start groping our remaining clothes off.

            Soon we’re fucking on the floor (we will pay for that when we are done) with the kind of fervor one can only feel after having life threatened—rabid, drooling, juices flying. We are alive and free, and this is how we are shouting it to the world, to each other. We are in love, not just with one another, but with life—and more specifically, with this life.

            He comes, and we collapse on the kitchen linoleum in a heap of sweat and trim. Maybe a few winks can be found here…

            After all, we deserve it.

            

Squirrel

I just stared a writer's workshop with The Writer's Studio here in S.F. This is one of our first projects, so I thought I would post it to see what y'all think. The assignment was to practice writing in the First Person from the perspective of a critter. Since I've been tormented by the fluffies in the backyard, I figured this might be catharsis to see things from their perspective. We only need to share the first page of what we write, so the story trails off a bit toward the end.

Another sunny October in San Francisco—Indian summer, I guess—and this, the last big push of harvest season before winter. We’ve got to squirrel away enough food and replant the crops before the rains come to keep up our stores up for next year.

On this lazy day, however, I was lounging around the nest, enjoying the quiet the kids left me when they headed off on their own this last spring. The man, also, has been away all summer foraging for his own prizes, leaving me to fend for my self. But really, we have a great spot in The City, so even in the throws of wet and rain, our supplies never dwindle too low—the conveniences of a metropolis…

Though I was up with the sun, I had taken my time this morning getting ready: stretching my limbs in my daily yoga routine, fluffing my tail, preening my silver fur, breaking fast on a few peanuts and sunflower seeds; and now was languidly day dreaming under the eucalyptus tree, half way to la la land when I heard her.

The weather stripping on the back door crackling ajar

Drawers full of silver tools jangling shut

The suction of the fridge

Swoosh of the pantry

Bags crackling

Whistling

With a leap and a bound, I was over the fence, through the fallen leaves, and up the flight of stairs to her door before she could pour her cereal. We have a rapport, this human and me. I look cute, and she feeds me.

I remember when I was pregnant. Hers was the only house that cared enough to leave us some nourishment (even the peanut basket had gone empty over the holidays). She, however, always found it in the kindness of her heart to leave the compost bin open and low to the ground on that back porch. I don’t think we would have made it through those dark months if it weren’t for her generosity!

Since then, we’ve developed our trust and communication. Sometimes she will leave gifts of walnuts or avocado. Other times, she just leaves the back door open so I might traipse in and scavenge for myself through the kitchen scraps.

Occasionally, I’ve had to get her attention and let her know that she’s been a little stingy. When this happens, tactics such as pulling up flowers or knocking over planters has sufficed to keep her on point. Thankfully, I hardly ever have to resort to such devices. The garden has been so full of delicious sunflowers, and succulent tubers, all I have to do is knock over the stems or pull up the roots and chomp away.

At first, I wasn’t so sure about this bumbling creature knocking about in the garden where I have sown my seeds for so long. She cut down the forest of nasturtium and clover, after all, and that canopy was my cover from the hawks as I scurried about vulnerably on the ground. Then, she started tilling up the ground and had me really worried when she cast out next year’s harvest!

In the end, though, I realized what a blessing this particular human was to the bounty of my life once all those flowers started to bloom. Now, I have fertile ground to plant all of my native seeds AND the abundance of juicy ornamentals to supplement the gems of her back porch offerings. Maybe some day, after she’s proven herself, and if she approaches very slowly with no sudden movements, I will allow her to brush my tail