 PelucheBy Yubany Checo Nadie recuerda haberla visto salir con sus compañeros de oficina ni ser recogida por algún hombre al final de la jornada. No había rumores de amoríos ni susurros en los pasillos sobre su vida personal. Su existencia era un enigma, un misterio que todos aceptaban sin cuestionar. Pero cada San Valentín, rompía su rutina de anonimato: flores y un peluche rojo aparecían en su escritorio, y ella posaba para fotos con una alegría que parecía sacada de otro universo, una máscara de felicidad que ocultaba un secreto oscuro. Me gustaba revisar las fotos del grupo de trabajo para compararlas con las de otros años. Noté que su sonrisa no era espontánea más bien escondía una tristeza profunda. Esa noche, al examinar una de las fotos, me fijé en la dedicatoria de los regalos. Sentí curiosidad por saber quién enviaba las flores y el peluche rojo todos los años. Para mi sorpresa, no estaba firmada. El peluche rojo permaneció varios días sobre su escritorio. Llegaba a la oficina más temprano que nadie y, por más ilógico que pareciera, sentía como si me observara. Me acerqué, lo giré en mis manos, lo apreté y parecía un peluche común. Sin embargo, la sensación que me invadió me recordó las veces que mi madre me encerraba en el armario: el frío de la oscuridad. Gritaba tan fuerte que, al cabo de un rato, ella entraba tambaleándose para azotarme con un cinturón de piel. Las mujeres discretas siempre cautivaron mi atención. Las solitarias con aire de melancolía y contrariedad, rebeldes, sufridas, misteriosas. Ella era así, una mujer que podía darle un giro a mi vida, estancada durante tanto tiempo entre los estudios, el trabajo y cuidado de mi madre. De camino a casa me detuve en la floristería y pregunté si podía obtener el nombre de la persona que enviaba los regalados cada San Valentín. Después de una larga explicación comprendí las limitaciones de privacidad y las implicaciones legales que enfrentaría. Mientras me iba, vi al repartidor que había entregado los regalos esa tarde y salí a su encuentro. ―¡Hola! ―saludó. Me aparté con él a un lugar más discreto. ―¿Recuerdas la entrega que hiciste a la oficina Torre Mar? Sonrió como si mi pregunta le parecía curiosa. ―Señor, hago muchas entregas al dia. ―La de ayer lunes, un arreglo de flores y un peluche rojo tan grande como un bebé. Los autos de los clientes comenzaban a salir al parqueo, y sus luces me molestaban. ―Necesito saber quién lo envió. ―¿Qué dijo? ―repitió sin comprender. O quizás fingía no hacerlo. ―¿Quién lo envió? ―me sentí vulnerable al hacer la pregunta. Me sentí arriesgar mucho con la petición que le hacía. ―¡Esta loco! ¿Quiere que me despidan? ―respondió subiendo la voz. Levanté la mirada y respiré. ―¿Puedes averiguarlo en el sistema, supongo? ―Si lo hago, me despiden, ¿entiende? Él estaba convencido de lo que me decía, así que le ofrecí dinero. ―Soy pobre pero honrado ―dijo, con una frase que me resultaba familiar. ―Te los doy ahora mismo ―respondí sin dudar. Vi la indecisión en sus ojos y supe que estaba a punto de convencerlo. La noche prometía lluvia y las primeras gotas empezaron a golpear el toldo del establecimiento. Aunque el muchacho negaba con la cabeza, lo hacía con menos convicción cada vez. Doblé la oferta y todo quedó arreglado. Regresé al día siguiente a la tienda y me oculté detrás de unos arreglos de flores hasta que vi al mensajero. Me interpuse en su camino y él se acercó para entregarme una hoja impresa. Le pasé el dinero sin formalidades; él contó el efectivo, asintió y se alejó. El nombre del remitente era inusual (lleno de consonantes y escaso en vocales), y pasé noches buscando en las redes sociales sin poder concentrarme debido a los gritos de mi madre. Tenía que arreglarle el abanico, ya que los aguaceros, los mosquitos y el calor pegajoso de la isla la atormentaban. Miré el reloj y me di cuenta de que había olvidado darle sus pastillas, llevaba días sin tomárselas. Las fotos de los hombres que encontré podían ser sus abuelos: veteranos de guerra y profesores jubilados. A ninguno de ellos los imaginaba enviándole flores, mucho menos un peluche rojo. Un artículo en un vespertino local sobre un ingeniero desaparecido semanas antes de su boda llamó mi atención, pero lo descarté. Aunque mi búsqueda no dio los frutos esperados, tenía otro plan. Ese día llegué temprano a la oficina y dejé una nota sobre su escritorio. Horas después, ella me preguntó con desdén: ―¿Que harás ahora que lo sabes? Levanté la barbilla y la miré sin tener respuestas. No sabía qué más hacer. Ella tenía razón al decir que no había nada de malo en recibir flores y un peluche rojo. Me cuestioné y reproché mi actitud infantil: ¿cuál era mi problema con eso? En los días siguientes, evitaba cruzarme con ella en la oficina, sintiendo una mala conciencia por haberla cuestionado sin motivo aparente. Sin embargo, la curiosidad me consumía, así que comencé a seguirla hasta su casa. Me estacionaba a cierta distancia para vigilarla, apagaba las luces del coche y, con las ventanillas entreabiertas, respiraba la brisa que venía del mar. A veces, el sueño me vencía y despertaba sobresaltado. Repetí la vigilancia por varias noches hasta asegurarme de que vivía sola. Sentí una chispa de esperanza. En las semanas siguientes, traté de acercarme a ella con sutileza. Buscaba coincidencias en la cafetería, la saludaba y le hablaba de mi madre enferma. Mi plan funcionó. Me compartió detalles sobre su transición de la medicina a las finanzas y su escepticismo hacia el matrimonio. Aproveché para disculparme por lo sucedido y ella pareció no recordarlo. Hablar con ella se convirtió en una necesidad diaria; cuando no lo hacía, sentía como si me faltara algo vital. Empecé a soñar con ella y comprendí que se había vuelto imprescindible para mí. Me ilusionaba la idea de tomarla de las manos y besarla. Durante ese tiempo descuidé a mi madre. A veces creía escucharla llamarme, pero el cansancio me impedía ayudarla. Fue una mañana cuando me llamaron a la oficina para informarme que una vecina, amiga, la había encontrado muerta. Me sentí culpable por lo que le había pasado a mi madre y, en mi tristeza, anhelaba la compañía de la mujer. Después de mucho insistir, logré que me invitara a su casa. Supuse quería conversar sobre nosotros en un ambiente más relajado. Quería que todo fluyera, disfrutar de su compañía y conocer más sobre su vida, en especial la historia detrás del peluche rojo. Su casa era pequeña, con poca luz, tal vez dos habitaciones. Era una en las afueras de la ciudad, cerca de los antiguos apartamentos construidos durante los doce años. La sala y la cocina estaban sin pintar y con manchas de filtraciones en las paredes. Las habitaciones tenían cortinas de lentejuelas en lugar de puertas. El aroma a incienso que emanaba de un mueble de bambú me envolvió. En el fondo, un cuadro oscuro mostraba a una mujer bordando un paño sobre el rostro de un hombre. Mi casa era más grande, y pensé que ahora, sin mi madre, podríamos vivir juntos. La seguí por un pasillo adornado con agujas y conos de hilo, hasta que pasamos frente a una puerta cerrada con candado y finalmente llegamos al desayunador. Ella buscó hielo y llenó dos vasos. Escuchaba voces que por un instante parecían lejanas y otras veces estar metidas en un lugar de la casa, pero no les presté atención. El calor me empezaba a molestar. Los mimes entraban hasta donde estábamos acompañados de un olor a podrido que llegaba con el ir y venir de la brisa. Ella destapó una botella de ron caribe y pensé quería que nos relajáramos. Bebí y me solté los botones de la camisa, ella se levantó para ir a su habitación. No tardó en regresar, ahora en tacones y vestida con una bata de seda estampada en negro y rojo. Las medias le subían hasta los muslos. Si no hubiera reconocido sus ojos, había pensado que era otra mujer. Su cabello estaba recogido en una especie de cola de caballo y los bordes de sus ojos delineados en verde. Lucia imponente. Noté que sostenía un cono de hilo y aguja de coser. No le pregunté asumiendo que era parte de un juego erótico al que nos dirigíamos. Se acercó a mí. ―¿Que harás ahora? ―preguntó susurrándome al oído palabras en un idioma que no entendí. La confusión me enloquecía. Me tomó de la mano y la seguí torpemente derribando varios objetos en el camino y disculpándome como un adolescente borracho en su fiesta de graduación. Ella colocó su dedo índice sobre mis labios y con firmeza me pidió que guardara silencio. Pasamos a su habitación. En un rincón, entre vi una fila de peluches rojos, todos sin ojos salvo uno colocado en un rincón apartado que me pareció el mismo que había visto en la oficina. Ella sonrió y volvió a decirme algo pero no entendí. Le respondí con una sonrisa que parecía incontrolable. En un rincón de la habitación noté un vestido de novias y, al lado, un maniquí vestido con un esmoquin. Sobre una mesa, un ramo de flores seca, una cristalera llena de bombones y lazos blancos, y al fondo, una sesión de fotos de novios y una vieja botella de champaña aun sin destapar. Percibía todo borroso. Me sentí flotar y caí sobre una superficie blanda y giratoria. Abría los ojos, pero los destellos de luz en mi rostro me obligaban a cerrarlos de nuevo. Las sombras iban y venían y mis brazos yacían caídos a los lados. Estaba desnudo. Intenté levantar la cabeza, pero ella se montó sobre mí y entonces recordé mis sueños. ―Solo relájate ―dijo ella―, no te esfuerces, no te dolerá. Pero la palabra “dolor” agitó mi corazón y sentí algo frio deslizarse suavemente por mis parpados. Una, dos, tres veces. En realidad, no me dolía. Un líquido tibio empezó a recorrer mis mejillas hasta llegar a mis orejas. Aunque no quería admitirlo, lo reconocía por su olor. Traté una vez más de levantarme sin embargo mis músculos estaban tan relajados que no pude. Mi lengua pesada no podía articular palabras. Escuchaba el tic-tac de un reloj, gavetas abrirse y cerrarse, y el sonido de objetos metálicos siendo colocados sobre una bandeja. Luego sentí algo considerablemente grande a mi lado. Ella empezó a tocar mis ojos mientras exhalaba sobre mi cara. Sentí sus pasos alejarse y los ruidos cesaron como si el mundo a mi alrededor se hubiera apagado. Mis dedos empezaron a moverse. Busqué a los lados con mis manos, sintiendo una textura de piel muerta, músculos secos pegados a huesos. Intenté abrir los ojos, pero seguían pegados. Deslicé mi índice hasta encontrar un paquete de hebras finas como si fueran cabellos. Bajé con las puntas de mis dedos por lo que parecía ser la frente, los pómulos, ojos, nariz y una cavidad abierta llena de dientes. Entonces grité, llamándola por su nombre, sabiendo que estaba cerca, quizás contemplándome. De inmediato, escuché sus carcajadas, largas y cortas, pero igualmente estridentes. ―Esta vez funcionaran, mi amor ―le oí decir―. Espero un dia me lo agradezcas. Y grité más fuerte. ―El implante está hecho ―continuó ella―. Sabes, nada de decirme que no te casarás conmigo. Así son las cosas. Nacimos para estar juntos…sabes que no puedes hacerme enojar. Empezaba a recobrar la fuerza en mis extremidades. La escuchaba hablar y sabía que no se dirigía a mí aunque no sentía a nadie más en la habitación. Estaba seguro de que solo éramos ella y yo. Volví a llamarla. Me haló de la mano con fuerza hasta ponerme de pie. Caminé como pude, tocando las paredes para no caerme. Imaginé que recorría un pasillo que ahora parecía interminable. Llegamos hasta unos escalones de madera. Un candado se abrió, seguido de las cadenas y las cerraduras que fueron removidas. ― ¿Qué mal hice? ―le pregunté, pero ella guardó silencio. Abrió una puerta y me empujó dentro. El hedor a mierda, orina y carne podrida era insoportable. Varias voces se alternaban en largos quejidos. Sentí cuerpos arrastrarse, caminar pegados a las paredes y me quedé quieto por unos segundos. Di pasos cortos, colocando mis manos al frente para evitar obstáculos, pero terminaron cubiertas de fluidos y pastosidades. ―¿Quién está ahí? ―pregunté. Dos voces quebradas me respondieron. ―Bienvenido ―¿Dónde estoy? ¿Quiénes son? ―Tranquilo, ahorra energía y come― dijo una de las voces―. La necesitarás. No vayas a gritar porque ella se enfadará y vendrá a tomar otro pedazo de tu cuerpo para sus peluches. ―Ya tendrás tiempo para contarnos cómo te atrapó. La comida está en el suelo, debo buscarla y estar atento cuando ella la arroje. No siempre alcanza para todos y no todo lo que está en el suelo es comida, aunque después de varios días, eso dejará de importarme.  Yubany Checo tiene cursos de escritura académica con la Universidad de Duke, escritura creativa en el Taller Literario Narradores de Santo Domingo (TLNSD y en la Asociación Dominicana de Ficción Especulativa (ADFE).
Su primer libro de cuentos Pequeñas Sombras Humanas (2019) ganó el concurso del Ministerio De Cultura “De la idea al objeto” organizado por el TLNSD, disponible en Amazon. Dos veces ganador de NanoWrimo (2018, 2019), tercer lugar en el Concurso de Cuentos Casa De Teatro Internacional (2018), finalista en el Concurso de Cuentos de Alianza Cibaeña (2019), concurso Juan Bosch y Lauro Zabala de micro cuentos (TLNSD, 2019). Expositor sobre la narrativa de Virgilio Diaz Grullon en el marco de la 22va FIL Santo Domingo 2019 en la sala Virgilo Diaz Grullon del Centro Cultural Banreservas.
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 Angel at My WakeBy Joseph Martinez III Gaby, sat on the living room floor at the coffee table. She gripped the safety scissors, cuting three notecards in half, giving her six pages. In careful and mostly ornate writing, she printed the three prayers she knew across five pages. On the last page, she drew a happy face. She folded one notecard in half to be the front and back covers. Six-year-old fingers set and bound each page with a glue stick. She wrote Prayer Book on the front. “After you learn them, you won’t need the book.” Gaby placed the booklet between the arms of her toy bunny, a stuffed rabbit named Puffles, to ensure it was the correct size. “Tonight we’ll say the Our Father.” She cleaned the table and carried Puffles and prayer book to her bedroom. Her parents, Marc and Alyssa, watched Gaby walk down the hallway. They followed her to her bedroom where Gaby placed the rabbit on her nightstand in a sitting position. She opened the prayer book and set it between the rabbit’s felt paws. “Follow along, Puffles.” She made the sign of the cross on the bunny and then crossed herself. “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” She held the arms of Puffles the bunny together with her left hand and put her right hand over her heart. “I have to hold your hands for you so you can pray, too.” Marc smiled and caressed his wife’s back. “Gaby’s so precious,” he said, “Darling, go tuck her in.” Alyssa walked to her daughter’s bedside where Gaby was already in bed, but kicking the sheets for more legroom under the covers. Alyssa pulled the blanket to Gabriela’s neck. “Grampa is smiling at you, sweetie.” “Why, mommy?” Gaby blinked her eyes. “Because you prayed for him.” Gaby tilted her head, “It’s not for Grampa, mommy.” Alyssa grimaced, “Oh! I’m sorry. It was for Aunt Becky.” “No, mommy.” Gaby shook her head, “It’s for the Devil.” Alyssa wanted to yell, scream for her husband. She just sat on the bed. Marc was in the doorway. He squinted and held his eyes tightly, wondering if he’d heard correctly that his daughter was praying to Lucifer. Alyssa brushed imagined bangs from her daughter’s forehead. “Baby girl, why are you praying to the Devil?” “No, mom.” Gaby rolled her eyes. “I’m praying for the Devil.” Alyssa straightened the lace collar of Gaby’s pink nightdress. “Okay, precious… why are you praying for the Devil?” Gaby sat up and looked into her mother’s face. “Because nobody likes him. He must be very lonely.” “But he’s a very bad man.” Alyssa knitted her brow in mock anger. “He deserves to be lonely.” Marc moved to the bed and sat next to his wife. He gently squeezed his daughter’s leg through the blankets. “Yes, Gaby. He’s the Devil. He does bad things.” Gaby rolled her eyes at her father. “Daddy, he only does bad things because he’s sad. Like El Goony Man.” Marc rolled his eyes at his daughter. “Gaby, El Goony Man is a wrestler. He’s not the Devil.” “And the Goony Man is not real,” Alyssa added, “wresting is just pretend.” Gaby’s eyes opened in shock. “He’s not real?” “Ixnay on the ake-fay.” Marc pinched his wife and interrupted, “Why don’t you check on Jaime? I thought I heard him crying. He probably spit out his pacifier.” Alyssa curled her lip where she flared one nostril. “Don’t dismiss me in front of our children. Ever.” She then turned to Gaby, corrected herself, “I mean, the Goony Man is on TV, uh, but he has friends that help him. The Devil doesn’t have any friends.” Gaby crossed her arms. “That’s why he’s sad. If he had friends, then he would do nice things.” Alyssa was about to speak, but Marc interrupted, “Okay, Gaby. You’re right. Now you have to go to sleep. You can tell us more tomorrow.” Gaby lay down to go to sleep and pulled the blanket up under her arms. “Yes, Daddy.” Marc stood, “Good girl.” He put his hand on Alyssa’s shoulder. He whispered in her ear, “Let’s go, hon.” Alyssa stood and walked out of the room and into the hallway. She waited for Marc to join her. She looked at her husband, “Why did you just tell her to go to sleep? Don’t you know how big a problem this is?” “Darling, you were going to argue theology with a six-year-old.” Marc shook his head slightly and looked at the floor. “I just thought we could do a better job if we waited until tomorrow.” She crossed her arms, then nodded in agreement. “Okay, maybe we need more time to think about what to do,” she stuck her index finger in his chest, “but you better not cut me off like that, again. It diminishes my authority in front of her.” “You’re right, I’m sorry.” He shrugged and opened his arms to hug her. She cocked her left eyebrow at him, “This is your fault because we don’t go to church more often.” She turned and walked back to the living room. --- The smell of roasted walnuts filled the kitchen. Alyssa mixed several spoons of finely crushed pieces into a pot with cornstarch, cinnamon, sugar, water, vanilla, and evaporated milk. Marc walked into the kitchen guided by his nose. “I love that smell. To what occasion do we owe this bounty of atole?” “It’s December.” She turned to him, “And it’s Gaby’s favorite Christmas drink.” He winked at her. “You’re going to bribe her for information.” “No, I’m going to persuade her with kindness.” “Jaime? “Letting him sleep late.” “Well then, darling, good luck. I’m off to work. I’ll sneak out so you can have some private time” “Call me at noon.” “I always do.” Marc blew her a kiss as he walked out the door. Alyssa took the pot off the stove before it began to boil. Letting it cook for a while creates a thick film on top. Marc liked it, equating it with pudding. Alyssa thought it had the texture of skin and always threw it away. “Gaby! Hurry up! I have a surprise for you before I take you to school!” Gaby ran into the kitchen and took a deep sniff. “Atole! Is it nuez? I love nueces!” She pulled a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “Nueces! Nueces!” “Of course!” Alyssa slowly poured atole into Gaby’s favorite plastic red cup. “With extra pieces.” She used the spatula to spoon larger pieces from the bottom of the pot. When the cup was a little over half-full, she set it in front of Gaby. “Careful baby. It’s hot.” “Sí, mami.” “So, Gaby,” Alyssa sat next to her daughter, “how long have you been praying to the Devil?” “Praying for the Devil, mommy.” “Excuse me, mija. Praying for the Devil.” Gaby blew on her atole. “Awhile.” “Did you see one of Daddy’s scary movies? You know you’re not supposed to, but just tell us next time and we’ll watch it with you.” “No. I just thought about it.” “Ay, dios mίo.” Alyssa rapped her fingernails against the table, “praying to the Devil.” “Praying for the Devil, mom.” “That’s right, baby.” Alyssa puckered, “Why did you decide to pray for the Devil?” “I told you. Because he’s lonely.” Alyssa scrambled for questions a first grader could answer. “Did somebody tell you to?” “No.” Gaby took a sip of her atole. It was still hot. “Is there someone at school who likes the Devil?” “No, mommy. That’s why he’s lonely, remember?” “Nobody told you? A teacher? The coach?” “No.” Gaby gently stirred her drink. “One of the big kids?” “No.” Gaby tried another sip, this time using a spoon. “Is it someone’s mom or dad?” “No.” The drink was just right. Alyssa stopped guessing. She closed one eye and ran a list of Gaby’s friends and associates. She thought of one name, stopped, smirked, went pale. “Gaby, dear?” “Yes, ma’am?” Gaby had finished the drink, tilted the cup to her lip, and scooped the softened, walnut chunks into her mouth with the spoon. “Is it Mr. Puffles?” Alyssa cleared her throat. “Does Mr. Puffles talk to you?” Gaby tilted her head and rolled her eyes at her mother. “No, mami. He’s just a toy.” Alyssa scooted her chair closer to Gaby. “Then why did you make him a prayer book?” “Because,” Gaby wiped her mouth with her napkin, “it’s for pretend.” “Of course it is, baby.” Alyssa stroked her daughter’s hair. “I’m just worried that you like the Devil.” Gaby got up from her chair, put her hands on her hips. “We’re just friends, mom.” Alyssa stared at her daughter. She couldn’t remember when she was called ‘mom.’ Up to then, she was ‘mami’ or ‘mommy.’ Even in her birthday cards. “Are you mad, mommy?” Gaby asked. “No, baby.” Alyssa stood up from the chair. “Go get ready so I can take you to school.” “Yes, mom.” Alyssa waited for Gaby to leave before studying the salt shaker, wondering if it wouldn’t shatter if she squeezed it. --- Marc made his daily call home at noon. “Hey darling, how did it go?” Alyssa was back in the kitchen, squeezing the salt shaker. Puffles was set in the center of the table inside a circle of salt. “I called St. Augustine’s.” “And?” “The father said he doesn’t do exorcisms on people or toy rabbits.” “I would think so.” “He also said we should go to church more often.” “Really? Father Mike?” “No, Father Raphael.” “He’s the boring one. Did you try anyone else.” Alyssa stared at the toy rabbit. “I went on the internet and found some information and a few numbers. There was this one preacher.” “And…” “He could drive the demon out of Gaby and Puffles for three-thousand dollars.” “Hon, you just do what’s best.” Marc paused to let Alyssa yell, curse, scream, whatever. The silence unnerved him. He tried a little humor. “But, uh, try to keep it in our budget.” “Por qué estás siendo un pendejo?” The humor didn’t work. Marc tried the direct approach. “What triggered you the most?” “She called me mom.” “She’s called you mom before.” “She’s never called me mom mom. She always calls me mami or mommy.” “Yes, she has. She calls you mom whenever she thinks you’re not listening.” “It’s dismissive.” “Sort of, I guess.” “Like when you call me hon.” Alyssa paused to let Marc reorder his thoughts. “No, darling, I call you hon when you’re too serious.” “Whatever.” Alyssa picked up Puffles. “We’re going to church every Sunday from now on. And we are going to make regular donations.” Marc coughed. “I’m not tithing to a random church.” Alyssa responded in deliberate syllables. “We are going to put something in the basket every Sunday.” Every coin and bill they found was donated to the church until Marc convinced Alyssa to place it in Gaby’s angel bank. At Candlemas, the account balance was not $666, but $40.11. Puffles got a real prayer book and had a patch of St. Benedict sewn onto his back. Veladoras of Saints Michael and Joseph were placed in every room. After spring break, some of the forty dollars was used towards Gaby’s campaign for mayor of her class. Her teacher, Ms. Weaver, called her class “Weaverville” with all the students as citizens. Elections were held for every major office. Gaby won by the wide margin of 25 to 6 on a snack-based platform. She encouraged regular snacks throughout the day because that’s what was done at her daddy’s job and he was happy when he got home from work. Ms. Weaver agreed to the initiative and placed a basket of nutritional treats on her desk. Marc was flattered that he was asked to be assistant mayor. Alyssa waited for something bad to happen to counter the good fortune. The bathroom sink got clogged two weeks into Gaby’s term, and Alyssa was satisfied. From that point, random good fortune was attributed to demonic pacts and misfortune was considered divine justice. --- The night of Good Friday, Marc heard laughing from Gaby’s room. He pressed his ear against the door. Gaby yelled, “And the big bad wolf ate all the enchiladas!” Her laugh had a deep echo. Marc walked in her room to see Gaby playing with piglet finger puppets. She had three on her hands. He walked in and sat on her bed beside her. “I like that ending better, mija.” Gaby smiled at her dad. “So does the Devil.” “The Devil?” That would explain the deep-voiced echo in the laughter. “It was his idea.” She pointed at her dresser. Marc looked over at Gaby’s dresser. “Is he there right now?” From his angle, the only thing he could see was the top of his reflection in her mirror. “I don’t see anyone.” “He laughed so hard that he fell backwards.” She rolled from side to side in a belly laugh. Marc stood and walked to the dresser mirror, looking past his reflection, waiting for the jump scare. He saw the reflection of Gaby talking to the piglets on her fingertips. He reached towards the glass, slowly, like in every horror movie had ever seen, wondering which of the usuals would happen: his hand going through the glass like water; a monstrous hand grabbing his own and pulling him through the other side; grinning apparitions appearing behind him; or shadows slowly smothering him like oil. “Daddy?” Gaby’s interrupted Marc’s paranoia, “Do you think the Devil likes verdes or rojos?” Marc forced a tight grin to cover the palpitations his daughter had just spiked. “I don’t know, Gaby. He’s red, so probably the rojos.” “He’s not red, Daddy.” She pulled the puppets off her fingers. “Don’t be racist.” “I’m not racist, sweetie. It’s just how he looks in all the pictures.” If he hadn’t leaned forward onto the dresser from anxious giggling, Marc would have missed seeing the hand puppet of the big bad wolf lying on the rug next to his feet. Marc didn’t tell his wife anything about what happened that night. He did, however, spend some hours looking on the internet on how to close mirrors. To settle his mind, he waited until Gaby was asleep before putting an egg under her bed. --- Three months and two dozen white eggs later, Alyssa had finished continuing education classes on parapsychology and demonlogy. She dropped the one on Introduction to Wicca because it wasn’t about witchcraft but used the free, fourteen-day trial coupon for an online exorcism course. Gaby and Jaime were at a Summer retreat/catechism class so Marc took the day off so he and Alyssa could come up with a new plan of action. She had made some simple sandwiches for lunch and set the serving plate in the center of the dining room table. Marc placed two small dishes and poured them each a glass of hibiscus tea. They sat to eat and talk. Marc put two sandwiches on his plate while Alyssa was saying grace. She reached across the table and put his sandwiches back on the serving plate. “You’re still not taking any of this seriously! Our daughter has invited the Devil into our home! She started by just talking to him. Now, she says they watch movies together and play games on her tablet.” Marc quickly crossed himself and reached for the sandwich he had already taken a bite out of. “Hon…I’m sorry. Preciosa…it’s been several months. Gaby doesn’t tell her friends at school about it. She hasn’t told anyone in the family. At this point, I think he’s just an imaginary friend.” Alyssa stood and slapped her hand on the table. “Have you ever heard of a child, any child, having the Devil as an imaginary friend?” “Maybe she got the idea from a cartoon or a movie.” He grabbed another sandwich. “I remember seeing him in Looney Tunes. I even think he was in Chapulίn Colorado. I think.” “Since she was born, she watches only what we watch. She listens only to music we listen to, and she reads only the books we buy her.” Alyssa tightened her hands into fists and pushed them into the table as she sat down. “We didn’t invite the Devil into this house and I don’t know how he got in here!” Marc finished that second sandwich and took a good gulp of tea to swish his mouth clear before speaking. “That’s just it. He has to be an imaginary friend because the real Devil would be in here doing all kinds of evil things…to you, to me, to us, to anyone who visits.” Alyssa reached over to caress Marc’s hand. “Maybe you’re right, but maybe you’re wrong.” “Mi amor,” Marc put his hand on top of his wife’s, “I got a promotion last month. Why didn’t the Devil have me fired?” Alyssa pressed her hands against her face. “I was thinking about that and I believe that he is tempting us with success.” “Then I’m going to buy a lottery ticket tonight.” “Cabrόn!” She pulled at her hair, “This is the Devil we are engaging. The father of lies, prince of hell, the ultimate evil force. He will do anything to take our little girl!” “Maybe our daughter just wants someone who believes in her imagination!” Marc almost lunged forward but caught himself, “I mean, maybe she’s just acting with us. Maybe she wants attention.” “I know it is the Devil.” She crossed her arms with her fists digging into her armpits. “We will know by next August with the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, won’t we?” --- August never came. On Fourth of July weekend, the police report read that a female driver of a blue SUV exited a restaurant parking lot. Her driver’s side view was blocked by a wall, so she moved slowly down the entryway. She could not remember why she did not back up when she saw the oncoming car, just that her foot froze on the gas pedal allowing her vehicle to block the right lane of a two-way street. Marc was driving under the posted 50 mph speed limit. When the lady in the blue SUV moved in front of him, his options were to either drive into the wall on his right, swerve left into oncoming traffic, or slam his brakes and skid into the taller SUV. He turned the car slightly to the right, so when he skidded, his side would take more of the impact. The morning after the accident, the wall blocking the woman’s line of sight was immediately torn down. Eventually, the city reduced the speed limit on that street from 50 mph to 30 mph. The ER doctors reported that the driver of the SUV sustained no injuries, but was shaken by the incident. Marc’s back injury was due to his body being turned when he struck the driver’s side door upon impact. Alyssa’s neck lacerations were caused by the seatbelt scraping across her skin as she looked down into the back seat. Jaime was secured in his five-point harness, and sustained a few bruises on his chest. The EMTs on the scene determined that Gaby would have survived if she hadn’t unbuckled her seatbelt to get her toy rabbit which had fallen to the floor of the car. Alyssa decided the funeral should take place as soon as possible, even if they were on crutches. Marc convinced her to hold off for two weeks so they could give their daughter a proper burial. Jaime wanted to keep Puffles, Alyssa wanted to throw it away, but Marc convinced them to put in the coffin because that’s what Gaby would’ve wanted. After the service and the wake, Alyssa had them go back graveside and spend some private time with Gaby. The roads of the cemetery were roads in name only. Most of the remaining asphalt had broken into pieces that settled awkwardly into the ground. The heavy showers of the week only made the trek more difficult. They decided to park in the lot and walk. Marc liked rain and intentionally forgot the umbrella at home. As they approached Gaby’s grave, Jaime pulled on his mother’s dress. “Some man is standing next to Gaby.” Alyssa watched as the man reached into his pocket and removed a strand of black beads. It was a rosary of obsidian. The polished black sheen gave the impression that it would crack under the slightest pressing, but he held the rosary in a fist so clenched that his hands turned red. Jaime saw an outline of wings. A small tuft of gray feathers peeked from under the man’s topcoat. “Hey mister,” he tapped the man on the back, “are you an angel? I bet you’re an angel.” “Jaime,” said the man, “I was His first angel,” Lucifer pocketed the rosary and continued, “and your sister is number three-billion, four-hundred and twelve million, six-hundred and seventy-three thousand, two-hundred and nine.” Jaime’s eyes widened. “Wow! Really?” Lucifer patted him on the head. “Yes, really.” Alyssa looked at Lucifer quizzically, stunned more by the precision than the relatively low number. “Uh, excuse me, Sir, but…” Lucifer interrupted, “I know that doesn’t seem like a lot, and, well, it’s because angels are made, not born.” Alyssa’s eyes widened. “For almost two years, she was my grace.” Lucifer looked at the small headstone. “She was my joy. And now, I’ve lost her.” Tears beaded on his left cheek. “She was so good. Beautiful. Amazing. She didn’t deserve this.” Marc cleared his throat, took a step towards the Devil, “Why?” Lucifer squinted his eyes. “Why, what?” “Why did you take away my little girl?” “I didn’t. I couldn’t.” The Devil stopped for a second with his mouth slightly open. “I don’t have that authority. And definitely not that kind of power.” “But you kill people all the time,” Alyssa spoke curtly, “you are evil.” “Why would I kill her?” Lucifer was genuinely stunned. “Where did you think she would go when she died? As long as she was on Earth, I could see her.” Alyssa choked words through froth. “You visited my daughter?” “I saw her win the mayoral election of her class,” he chuckled, “and every night she said she wouldn’t go to sleep until she saw me smile.” Marc stepped next to his wife. “Did you fix the election?” “Gosh, no.” Lucifer looked into Marc’s eyes. “I only help the weak. She was smart and assertive. I admire the independent. They don’t need me.” “But you still cause people to die.” Alyssa nudged her husband on his side, “Murders…robberies…wars…” Lucifer pursed his lips in an angry pout. “Auto accidents?” Alyssa echoed. “Auto accidents.” Marc’s eyes widened. “Auto accidents?” “I don’t make anybody do anything. You do what you want to do.” The Devil turned defensive. “I didn’t invent guns or cars and I definitely did not make that lady get behind the wheel.” Lucifer quickly glanced downward and took a quick breath. “And,” he looked into Marc, “it wasn’t my idea to give you free will.” Alyssa leaned into the face of the Devil. “You were the snake.” “Yeah!” Marc stepped next to his wife. “I mean, you were there. Right?” “There was no Eden.” Lucifer looked at Jaime, who was sitting on Gaby’s gravestone, making mudpies out of the loose soil. “Paradise is an everlasting state of love.” He closed his eyes. “There was no Adam…no Eve…no Lilith. But there sure as hell are a lot of jealous Cains and arrogant Abels still around.” He snapped a tear off his cheek. “That’s what set Gaby apart from all of you.” The Lord of Darkness wiped his eyes with the knuckles of his thumbs. Jaime stood and offered Lucifer a mudpie. Lucifer smiled, hid the mudpie in his coat, and made gobbling sounds while pretending to eat it. Marc wanted to pat the Devil on the back and tell him everything was going to be all right. He just kept his hands to his sides and pressed them against his legs. Alyssa used the awkward moment to pull Jaime to her. She turned, “We should apologize to Gaby. It was disrespectful to fight here.” Lucifer stepped to Gaby’s grave and knelt at her marker. He reached into his pocket for the obsidian rosary. The Devil looped the beads through well-manicured fingers and pulled his hands apart to form a holy cat’s cradle. He relaxed his fingers to cup it in his left hand. He gently set the rosary on the cross that had been carved in the stone above her name. He manipulated the beads into the shape of a small heart and pressed it firmly into the cement. No sizzling, no smoke. “Goodbye, Gaby. See you never.” “Mister Lucifer,” Marc pulled Alyssa to his side. “I think Gaby would like it if you came to visit her once in a while.” Alyssa nodded. “I don’t think that could do any harm.” “Thank you, but she’s not here, anymore.” The Devil looked up into the drizzle. “This is just a marker for memories.” He started walking away. “Bye.” Jaime waved. “Bye-bye.” Lucifer tipped his black fedora and walked across the loose earth of wet graves and disappeared into the horizon. There were no hoof prints in the mud. The earth did not tremble and crack under his step. The grass did not ignite from the heat of his hellfire. He left neither stench of sulfur nor smoke of brimstone. His walk did not leave pools of fire, only size-nine footprints filled with rain.  Joseph Martinez III has been an adjunct professor of Speech Communication for several years. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas – El Paso. He has spent most of his life in the performing arts as an actor, director, writer, and stand up comedian.
The Wasp and the RoachThe Wasp and the Roach: 6 Methods to Escape Extermination The Emerald Cockroach Wasp, Jewel Wasp, or Ampulex Compressa, are solitary insects. Endoparasitoids, entomophagous parasites, cannibals. The wasps sting cockroaches, the Paraplaneta Americana. The poison turns their hosts into zombies to be hollowed out by the wasp’s larva. The wasp’s first sting is aimed at the cockroach’s thoracic ganglion to induce a biochemically transient paralysis. The second sting is aimed at the head ganglia of the cockroach, disabling their escape reflex. Most pests are attacked by at least one type of specialized parasitoid. Parasitoids perform an important ecosystem service. In the process of generating their offspring, they suppress pest populations. In May 1940, the Experiment Station of the Hawaiian Sugar Planter’s Association sent Dr. R.E. Turner to the French Pacific colonial archipelago of New Caledonia to retrieve A. Compressa. Cockroaches threatened colonial economic interests in the Hawaiian Islands, and so the invasive Jewel Wasp was introduced as a form of biocontrol from the far west of the Americas and east of Europe. Escape Vector 1: Into the Mind My brother, Maverick, called me again. I was on campus picking up a research poster I had presented earlier that day on the history of the Mexican folk song “La Cucaracha.” His voice shook, and he asked if I could give him a ride. I immediately agreed to pick him up. He was an hour away in the middle of Dallas. He had been undergoing ECT treatments for bipolar disorder recently. On top of the electricity, over the past decade, his brain had been cooked well by antipsychotics that made him ridged in the body and slow in his head. He did not have his car because his license had been revoked. Earlier that week, he had been walking up and down the street with his shirt off, unable to explain his state. My parents had called the police. That morning, I sang to conferencegoers as they passed. “La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha…” I would let them finish the lyrics if they knew them. Most people sang the lyrics that they knew, the white lyrics. “La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah…” We would laugh when I sang the rest, the Villista version popularized during the Mexican Revolution. “Ya no puede caminar Porque no tiene, porque le falta Marijuana que fumar.” I wanted to be the one to pick him up. I did not want him to go back to the psych ward. I have done my time cocooned in those white walls. After I was released, I applied to grad school. I had to prove that I was not insane or that the word was arbitrary. Around that time, Maverick took a one-way ticket to Hawaii. He called it a paradise and talked about “Kaddie,” a mixture of Ketamine and Adderall. Apparently, Maui Wowie was not strong enough for him. Some say that marijuana and other pre-Hispanic medicinal traditions elicit psychosis. Maybe they bring our attention to how little things make sense. Several Spanish-speaking women ruined my hook and sang the lyrics verbatim. I had the most rewarding conversations with them. I sang the lyrics probably 15 times, and by the end of the conference, the lyrics whistled through my calavera. My antennae were visible; maybe that was why people were drawn to my poster. One asked nervously if I was of indigenous or Spanish descent. My research topic and how I look are thrown off by my last name - Campbell. At least nobody asked me directly if I was a white Anglo-Saxon protestant, a W.A.S.P. But it was obvious that they did not care about this; they each scooped generous helpings of my flesh and spread it across their attention spans until I was hollowed and bleached stark white under the bright lights of the conference room. “La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha Ya no puede caminar Porque no tiene Porque le falta Flesh on their bones” I told the conferencegoers, “Cockroaches are a part of the Blattidae family; Linnaeus chose this name because of its Latin prefix, Blatta, which can be translated to “He who shuns the light.” I just wanted to go back to my darkened apartment and remember that I had flesh on my bones, but I thought of my brother running through the streets looking for a dark space to hide, and I knew that I needed to find him wherever he was and tell him where the darkness was. Vector 2: Self Destruction or the Resilient Multitude After the conference, a Chicana playwright with a Wikipedia page visited our graduate class and asked us what we wanted to talk about. Everyone wanted to know more about her work. Still, I asked her how to survive without having our identities flattened by academia. She gave a brittle laugh, and I guessed that the question came off as naive. She said she was an artist and did not know how to help me. But she said that theater and research could be worldbuilding; her work in schools, prisons, and writer’s workshops created something that could not be commodified, moving us “Towards A Politic of Collective Self-Defense Instead of Individualized Self-Care.” She told me that funding for ethnic studies was rising, to tell other cockroaches where the money was, or to give away my excess stipends when I could. I thought grimly about how pest control companies like Orkin primarily fund the study of cockroaches. How could I save my spirit for my family? In a protean scramble, am I to be impervious to the passage of time? Am I to feed on the decay that comes with it? Universities extract more than can be repaid in currency and career. I wanted to tell her that it felt odd that a bug was under such bright lights and intellectual scrutiny. It was about the hours I spent being dissected and dried for preservation and further examination while my family and friends aged into creatures living in places that I found hard to recognize. I did not know how to say that, and I do not think she knew how to do it either. I thought about Audre Lorde. “For the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.” Could someone with six hands and antennae find a way? Robin Wall Kimmerer writes, “If time is a turning circle, there is a place where history and prophecy converge—the footprints of First Man lie on the path behind us and on the path ahead.” Flying down the highway, away from the university, I felt that there was nothing but linearity and that I was too late. I found Maverick outside of a closed-down Sherman Williams. The faded logo painted the world pink. He reeked of alcohol, and his eyes were glazed from some supplementary downer. Like me, he does not trust medicine from people who do not need it. But I have learned to talk and write, rationalize my individuality, and always prove that I can do things without prescriptions. He could not answer my questions; I knew that he would be going to the psych ward the next day for going AWOL, for running amok. He knew that, too. Driving to my apartment, he asked if I would stop for water. I agreed and gave him my credit card. He spent fifteen minutes in the gas station. I called my girlfriend and asked her to pick up fried chicken. My family used to eat fried chicken every Sunday after church when I was young. I wanted to be sure that the alcohol he was stealing would not be taken on an empty stomach. Maverick returned with his pants full of boxed wine, somehow proud that he had not used the money I had made grading and writing papers for fifteen dollars an hour with no insurance. I was somehow proud of him for refusing a lousy gift, even if he relapsed. I knew where he was going the following day. Orange unit, he returned like clockwork. An orange had been inked on his ankle to match a Christian woman he had met while on suicide watch together. She had paid for the tattoo. She wanted to be married soon, with an expensive dress. My brother does not work. I do not think he can work. Vector 3: Paradise He chugged the stolen wine while sitting in my rolling desk chair, which I spend so much time making money in. He spun around, laughing loudly, listlessly. I gave him the nicotine vaporizer to try to calm him down. He could not stop laughing. He asked me to punch him in the face as hard as I could, and I told him I would after he hit the vape. He told me not to be offended but that I couldn’t knock him out. I told him I did not think I could, that I may be too chicken to try and hit him. He was crying. I wanted to distract him and asked if he wanted to hear my presentation that morning. He agreed and asked if we had anything to eat. I gave him the chicken as I began my presentation with my poster on the ground before us. “So, do you know the song La Cucaracha?” I tried my hook. “La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha…” He ate the chicken while staring behind me at something or nothing. “This fucking chicken is undercooked. Mom and Dad still buy it every Sunday, and it’s fucking getting worse every time we get it.” “I remember when we would eat this chicken and sit around after church, and Dad would talk about the sermon.” “Yep. And it’s gone up over five bucks in our lifetime. People tell me that I’m still young.” “You are.” “My demons aren’t. They’re old and can’t be killed.” I rolled my eyes. “Oh, like Beelzebub or Mephistopheles or something.” “No, like greed, guilt, and violence.” “Oh, you mean Moloch. The same demon likely spurred on the Spanish Colonists…” As I continued forward, he was left behind. He began to whimper, but I kept my presentation going. An intense focus on research has conditioned me to remain steady in my delivery and to disregard my feelings and those of the people around me. Lovely linearity. He was eating while he cried, spinning in my chair, a self-fulfilled prophecy. He spoke through mouthfuls of chicken. “I am in hell. I think my show has reached its finale. It's your time in the spotlight, isn’t it?” I glanced around my apartment. I smirked. “Hell isn’t so bad.” He huffed. “It isn’t Hawaii.” I sighed. “What is with you and that place?” “It was paradise.” “For whom exactly? You lost your mind out there. Hawaii, to you, is an idealized paradise used by imperialist neoliberalism to maintain sovereignty over the indigenous people through tourism and agricultural exploitation. You wore Hawaiian shirts and learned the creole, but they knew you were a tourist haole mestizo addict from the States.” I immediately felt like biting off my tongue. Who am I to throw the first stone? I shook my head. He did not speak. I stuttered. “Remember all the chickens on Kawaii? I bet they are better to eat than this GMO garbage.” He began to pull at his clothes, sweating and moaning. He undid the watch on his wrist and tossed it onto my poster, ripping a hole in the paper from the weight and the metal. I recognized it as my watch, which I had saved up for years ago. I had left it at home when I went to college. It was made of polished metal that warped the reflection of the wearer. The impact of the watch and the torn surface of the poster board stopped me for a moment. The poster had not rippled; it had ripped. I slipped the watch on, but he had refitted it to his thicker wrists, and it slid down my arm. “Why don’t we go see our family in San Antonio? I am sure Nana will want to see us. That’s what makes it hell, a world without bonds. We almost lost you in Hawaii.” I slipped off the watch and looked up to hand it back to him, but he did not meet my eyes. His were closed. He had bits of the paper chicken box stuffed in his mouth, and he had been shoving the plastic fork into his gums. Blood pooled on one side of his bottom lip. I carefully took the shredded paper box and the bloody fork away from him. I put on his shoes for him and helped him to his feet. Vector 4: Cast Out and Away He scuttled around as I flew above him, buzzing in the otherwise silent streets outside my apartment for about an hour. I still held the watch. He followed a few feet behind me as we walked. He hissed, clicked, and growled, unwilling or unable to talk, except when a jogger or biker passed. Then he would yell in their face until they sped off. I kept checking to see if he was still behind me. I noticed that he had lost both shoes and was wearing dirty socks. I could not let him be found like this. “La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha Ya no puede caminar Porque no tiene, porque le falta Las dos patitas de atras” I told him that I needed to call a ride and wait. I told him I did not want him to be seen like this. He did not stop and walked past me. I followed behind him, and I called after him. He did not respond. I followed him for another hour on foot. He walked slowly, and all I could think about was going to sleep. I had office hours the next morning and fifteen pages to write by the day after. I thought about getting fired for not doing my work. I thought about my research and how I was behind. I convinced myself that the “dead” in “deadline” was literal. I thought about everything, missing everyone and everything other than me. It is what I have learned to do. Just as Maverick has learned to run, I have run to the learned. Both methods offer the same result: separation and extermination. The duration and the speed of death are what differ. Survival is a brittle laugh in a fugitive space. As I followed him through the night, I became convinced that he was not trying as hard as me to survive and that he did not deserve his life. I flew behind him, iridescent, and watched his glossy red-brown back twitch in the streetlights. I called after him. “If you keep stomping around drunk out here, you're going to get dizzy. Just come back to my apartment. I don’t want to have to drag you.” “What?” “I don’t want to have to drag you back.” As if sensing a change in air pressure, he pivoted, charged toward me, and bowed up, creating the illusion that he was larger. He put his ear to my mouth, listening for me to renege. He did not look at me and whispered quickly, as if pouring out a secret he had kept with him his entire life. “It’s not the wine that’s made me dizzy. It’s you.” I was silent. “Your words are poison. Your writing is poison, too. Every idea you have is poison. I know what you are doing. You can’t fool me. You made me sick. You did this to me.” I did not ask what he meant; I already knew. I did not move because I knew that he was going to be violent. The Chicana playwright with a Wikipedia page warned us with Sun Tzu, “Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.” Unfortunately, the usage of this wisdom is not limited to revolutionaries but also sell-outs that are pacifists until they are scared. Maverick leaned back and kicked me swiftly in the stomach. I stumbled backward and coiled. He looked at me without recognition. As a child we had a family dog. He was huge, and my father would sic him on me. My dad called me “chew toy,” and the dog would chew on me until I bled. He told the dog to attack me one day, but I was fed up. I stuck my fist down his throat and let him chew on it as I punched him in the side until he whimpered. I cried, and I turned to my father. He looked horrified as if I had poisoned myself. He asked, “Do you think you went too far?” I lunged at my brother and felt my fist collapse his flesh, and it felt like punching the family dog all those years before. I felt something in my stinger break. “Ya no puede caminar.” Vector 5: Pessimism, Bad Faith in Weltanschauung My brother went to the ER that night and Orange Unit the following day. He was treated for a suborbital fracture and a laceration above his eye where I had stung him. The next day, I walked out to the scene of the fight. Our watch sat in a pool of dried blood. He had left it for me to find. The face was broken, and the hands no longer moved, but it ticked away the seconds even still. I held it to my ear as I drove to the university. I broke my pinky - my stinger. I did not land the punch right. It took me a week to go to a doctor. I was walking on campus, my face pulsing from the pain that I felt I deserved. Typing for so long had left my hand aching, and I felt flush. I could not type anymore. Looking around at the students and the well-placed trees, I felt strange. My eyes welled up with tears. I had never noticed how beautiful the campus was, my umwelt, how everything was so bright and clean. Why would I think this? A more rational question might have been, “Why would I not think this?” Was I becoming a W.A.S.P.? Was I already a wasp? Was this paradise? I remember how my brother spoke about Hawaii. It was about time I had my pinky checked out. I went to the University Health Center. I waited in line wearing my brother’s hand-me-down, wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, and broken watch on my wrist. A nurse came to the counter and told me they had no appointments that day. They asked me to wait to see if an appointment would open before the end of the day or to come back tomorrow. I got up to leave, telling her I needed help that day. “But sir, you have already waited a week, why can’t you wait another day?” I could not explain to her why I had waited a week to get treatment without sounding insane. I did not know how to say I could wait for the rest of my life to fix my pinky. But I could not wait there. Vector 6: Metamorphosis I shed the Hawaiian shirt and dropped the broken watch. I flew, with buzzing translucent wings, to the nearest superstore. I bought myself a new watch.  Colton Monroe Campbell’s fiction focuses on racial identity, mental illness, academia, and insects. His identity as a mixed-race Chicano studying for a PhD in the Chicana/o Studies Department at UNM offers a unique perspective. America’s obsession with separation and extermination is, for la raza, not limited to Mexico’s border with America. Campbell works to draw attention to forms of biopolitical control that affect the mental wellbeing of Latinx people within the U.S, in a search for methods of collective resilience and resistance.
 PajonúBy Alex V. Cruz —Que caliente está hoy. El pajón de Robertico era su orgullo y felicidad. Los rizos, de un castaño oscuro con puntas doradas por el sol caribeño, llegaban casi a sus hombros y rebotaban al caminar como resortes de metal. Su pelo, al que todos llamaban “malo” era su fiel compañero. En las pocas noches de frio, cuando sus sabanas translucientes no eran suficiente para mantener la calidez de su cuerpo, sus rizos se extendía hasta cubrirlo por completo, haciéndolo parecer a las ciguapas que residían en las lomas de Tenares. Ya casi llego pensó Robertico, su mochila pesada con sus libros de bachillerato colgaba de su pecho para que su espalda no sudara la camisa escolar—la que repetiría el próximo día. En las tardes de Guanábano, un pequeño pueblo del Cibao, entre Moca y la Vega, donde sus habitantes son tan mezclados como un buen jugo de morir soñando, se escuchaban las burlas bullosas de sus compañeros escolares. —¡Pajonú! Le gritaban camino a casa, donde lo esperaban su madre y su padre con el arroz y las habichuelas del mediodía. Robertico, quien había aprendido a caminar en el otro lado de la calle, los ignoraba mientras sentía el calor planchante entres sus rizos alocados. Las gotas de sudor se deslizaban de su cabeza, bajando por las patillas y manchando el cuello de su uniforme, dándole el olor propio de tierra negra y fértil. El golpe lo tomó por sorpresa. Primero sintió un empujón en la parte posterior de su cabeza, seguido de un agudo dolor que lo dejó viendo estrellas como en los muñequitos de sus tardes infantiles. Al tocar el área con sus dedos trigueños, sintió la humedad metálica que enchumbaba su pelo. Perdió el balance, y su caída fue acolchonada por la mochila. —Dile a tu papá que no sea a tan miserable—le gritó el chico de su escuela, el que le había lanzado una roca filosa de la tierra ardiente—y que te dé dinero pa’ que te corte ese pajón. Ambos chicos continuaron su rumbo bailando al ritmo de un merengue explosivo que sonaba por las bocinas de un colmado que se especializaba en la venta de cervezas en vasitos plásticos. Robertico, quien prefería el amargue de las bachatas de los noventa, perdió el sentido, pero no antes de sentir una decepción rotunda por su pelo, que no tuvo la valentía de enfrentarse a sus agresores, detener la roca, y lanzárselas de regreso como los tantos peloteros que se juntan todas las tardes en el play de pelota. Quizás su pelo sí era malo después de todo. --- Robertico despertó con el ruido familiar de su abanico rotante, a cual le quedaba solo una de sus tres hélices, y el zumbido de los mosquitos que buscaban como escabullirse por los pequeños agujero del mosquitero viejo. Tenía un dolor de cabeza intenso que lo quemaba por detrás de sus ojos. Estaba sin camisa, pero aun sentía la hebilla de hierro de su correa clavándosele en su cadera huesuda. Era de noche, pero por la pared de madera veía la luz de la pequeña sala, y escuchaba en el pequeño televisor la novela mexicana que su madre veía todas las noches antes. Por el aire rumeaba el olor tenue de plátanos hervidos y salami frito. —Cenaron sin mi—protestó Robertico a la noche. Su pelo estaba quieto, y en ese momento recordó todo lo que había sucedido esa tarde mientras regresaba a casa del liceo. Su mano derecha intentó llegar hasta su cabeza para inspeccionar la herida, pero el enojo con su pelo venció su curiosidad y decidió dormirse a ver si se le iba el dolor profundo que sentía tanto en su cabeza como en su corazón. Mas tarde en esa misma noche, entre la penumbra de un hogar dormido, donde solo se escuchaba los grillos del patio y los pasos de los difuntos husmeando en vidas ajenas, Robertico sintió como su pelo se estrechaba lentamente hasta llegar a sus manos, donde entrelazó sus dedos, invitándolo a conocer su mundo. Entraron por la frente en la raya central que dividía su pajón entre este y oeste. El camino fue arduo y largo, y Robertico se arrepintió varias veces de emprender en aquella travesía, pero ni sabia como regresar a su cama, ni sabia como reaccionaria su pelo. Poco a poco se adentraron al bosque que era su cuero cabelludo. Allí, Robertico admiró los gruesos troncos de su pelo que espiraban hasta el cielo antes de doblar y caer, desapareciendo en la distancia. Sus manos acariciaban cada tronco que alcanzaban al desplazarse sin rumbo por esas tierras familiares, pero a la vez tan extrañas. Robertico enterraba los dedos de sus pies en la tierra negra que pisaba, dejando en su propio cráneo la prueba de su existencia. Del cielo caían copos de caspas que recordaban a Robertico la nieve que veía en las películas navideñas. Me hace falta una buena lavada de cabeza pensó. Encunó sus manos en espera de sentir un tierno frio al hacer contacto con la caspa que caía, pero en vez sintió un tibio que no esperaba, y desde la distancia le llegó un olor a madera quemada. Se hizo camino entre su pelo y llegó a un claro montañoso donde todo los troncos estaban cortados casi hasta la piel. Las montañas que veía era su propio cuero cabelludo retorcido y cocido con un nylon grueso. Pero lo que presenció entre esas montañas de piel roja y sangre seca fue aun peor. En la distancia habían chozas de yaguas y palmas encendidas en fuego y haciendo llover cenizas por todos lados. Hombres blancos de una pestilencia colosal dirigían a esclavos negros en cadenas unos detrás de otros. El fuego continuaba creciendo y quemando todo lo que encontraba en su camino. Robertico, en un abrir y cerrar de ojos, se encontraba en el centro de las llamas, cocinándose como pollo a la brasa, mientras los habitantes de piel canela eran torturados y acribillados en sus propias tierras. Los gritos de aquella gente desesperada por sobrevivir el infierno en el que se había convertido su cálido mundo se grababa en la sangre que corría por las venas de Robertico. Sus ojos estaban hundidos en lágrimas por el ardor del fuego y las desgracias que presenciaba. El humo abrumador se apoderó de sus pulmones causándole una toz que le hacía vibrar la garganta. —¿Y aquí que pasa?— gritó el papá de Robertico, quien entró a su habitación tras escuchar la tos de su hijo. Al ver las llamas que consumían el mundo que habitaba la cabellera de Robertico, su padre agarró una toalla y a fuetazos apagó el fuego que devoraba su pelo. —Mañana mismo te cortas ese pajón. Robertico, quien quedó solo y confundido una vez que su padre regresó a dormir, se arrascó la cabeza cerca de donde estaba la herida cocida y pensó: ¿Tendré piojos?  Alex V. Cruz, a Paterson-born speculative fiction writer with Dominican roots, writes short fiction in both English and Spanish. Graduating Magna Cum Laude from Columbia University, he holds a degree in Creative Writing and Hispanic Studies. He is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish at NYU. Notably, Alex is an alum of Clarion West 2022 and a member of Tin House's 2021 Young Adult Workshops. His works have been published in notable online magazines such as Quislaona: A Dominican Fantasy Anthology, SmokeLong, Acentos Review, LatineLit, with two forthcoming stories in Azahares. He is an active member of the Dominican Writers Association, passionately supporting fellow Dominican writers by teaching free publishing classes. Alex is dedicated to sharing his knowledge and empowering his community of writers. Join him on Instagram, Twitter, and Threads using the handle @Avcruzwriter.
Announcing Winners of 2024 Extra Fiction Contestfor Short Stories in English and SpanishFor the first time in seven years of conducting the Somos en escrito Extra Fiction Contest, we have first places winners in both English and Spanish story-telling. A different judge presided over each competition. The top winners will receive a $100 prize; they and the runners up earn publication in Somos en escrito Magazine. The judges this year are Ernest Hogan, perennial arbiter of English languages entries since the contest started, and Roberto Perezdiaz, who assessed the Spanish language entries. Hogan is considered the godfather of Chicano sci-fi literature; Perezdiaz is a publised writer in his own right and a career translator.  The top winner for an English language story is: Jan Karlo Lopez for The Pepper Inspector. His autobio reads: “…a pathological liar turned writer. His self-published short-story digital anthologies and physical Zines have generated over a thousand dollars in revenue. Some of the profits were used to purchase school supplies for Oak Cliff (Texas) teachers, or donated to a foundation that buys shoes for underprivileged kids in Oak Cliff, and the rest was either spent on food, drugs, or traveling.” Jan Karlo is Oak Cliff born, raised, and resident but leaves as often as financially possible. He has been published in Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, In Parentheses, LIT magazine, and Thirty West Publishing House which nominated his story for Best of the Net. Runners up: Colton Campbell, for The Wasp and the Roach. Joseph Martinez II, for Angel at the Wake.  First place in the Spanish language competition is: RaXel Gallegos, por Calmate un chingo. According to her autobio, Raxel is: “…an Afro-Indigenous masewalli /human/2spirits/Indigiqueer, currently learning how to become complete within the incomplete-ness of colonial obstructions. An aspiring anti-colonial, de-colonial, and re-Indigenizing educator. They have used IN XOCHITL IN CUICATL as a methodology to integrate non-canonical contemporary Indigenous literary works; no longer giving into arguments of whether Indigenous literatures have literary value within English and Spanish academic circles. Their/her/his/ writing style no longer respects the imposition of grammar as a form of mental policing that keeps minds within the parameters of colonial writing systems; for them, commas, tildes, and letters are nothing else but an ornament.” Runners up: Alex V. Cruz, for Pajanú. Yubany Checo, for Peluche All their short stories will be published in the coming weeks. Besides publication, each writer will receive a copy of Our Creative Realidades, published in 2024 by Somos en escrito Press, a collection of varied genre by Raza writers dedicated to expressing a world view from our perspective, not that imposed or peddled about us in in mass communications, social media, and corporate America.
HEADS UP FOR 2025 EXTRA FICTION CONTEST Contest submission is free and is open for any person born or residing in the USA of American Indian, Chicano/Mexican American, Puerto Rican, or Latin American origin. There is a $100 prize for first place winners. Manuscripts must be unpublished, in English, Spanish, or Ingléspañol. Put “[year] Extra-Fiction Contest” in the email subject line. Submit your manuscript using 12 point Times New Roman font (.docx) plus a short bio in third person as a separate Word documenr and the author’s photo in jpg format. (label the photo using your name, not author photo) to [email protected]. One submission per author, 6,000 word limit; contact us beforehand if the submission is over 6,000 words. THE SUBMISSIONS PERIOD OPENS August 1st and the deadline is November 1st. Extra-fiction stories published in Somos en escrito during the year may be considered for the contest.  Calmate un ChingoBy RaXel Gallegos Me desperté con un dolor de muelas, Y el precio pa’ sacarlas sigue alto Cuando era joven nunca confíe en los dentistas gringos les valían padres los dientes y solo te sacaban el dinero —grandpa’! Y si lo llevamos con las makinas? Pa’ q’ le ayuden —tus pinches makinas ni q nada! Tráeme las pinzas me lo voy a tumbar! —but grandpa’ es su wisdom tooth —y cuanto pinche wisdom me dio! Nunca confíe en los humanos, que les importaba más el dinero que el dolor ajeno. Yo que voy a andar confiando en makinas sin alma, igualadas, desgraciadas . . . pero si confío más en esas cosas que en los matasanos! Llevo dos-tres trecenas con este dolor. El cerebro se me hace agua. Ni agua con sal a la mano, ni agua dulce ni agua salada, pura agua amarilla cae del cielo. —grandpa’, what if we go to Tenochtitlan? They have really good medicine people! They use their hands for surgeries and no machines! —ya estoy muy viejo! Este cuerpo ya no me alcanza pa’ regresar . . . pero ustedes pueden ir . . . demi no se preocupen . . . yo ya voy pal spirit realm . . . ya luego me convocan . . . ahorita ya no me alcanza el alma —grandma! —a quien le llamas grandma chamaque! — los Muwekma ya regresaron de las Africas, con el knowledge del halfmoon! and others have returned with the seeds. Hay círculo el Domingo, pa' que este ready viejille! —orale, pues avisale a todes! ¡Qué la alianza se reúne en Sunday! It’s resurrection Sunday! It is resurrection Sunday: I'll never forget the day Black Jesus came back. So young and powerful. Standing against the State: Duality, Jesus Jones from Tennessee. Because Sunday always comes. I'll never forget the war. I'll never forget. Niñx corriendo, animales corriendo . . . their machines take my job like they took my mother’s job. Tanta gente sin trabajo, tanto nativo sin trabajo, los cholos sin trabajo, los filipinos sin trabajo y los indocumentados con un chingo de sueños . . . Y pues gente sin trabajo, es gente en ocio, y gente en ocio es gente que no tiene nada y sin nada nos quedó todo. Pinchx gente soñadora. Soñaron tanto que nos pusimos las pilas pa’ construir casas con basura y cuando mandaban sus makinas, no importó porque era basura y basura hay en todas partes y la imaginación y tiempo nos sobraban. El pedo fue cuando usaron toda la fuerza de la ley . . . mataron a tantos, a tantos nos quitaron los úteros, removieron cerebros, tomaron mujeres y niñx . . . los hicieron makinas . . . para tener a los bebés de la supremacía . . . en sus sueños turbios de colonizar el espacio, los desiertos y los océanos . . . en sus sueños turbios esperando a exterminarnos . . . y esperaron y esperaron en sus tanques en montañas lejanas, en desiertos, en cohetes, en ciudades bajo el mar, esperaron a que muriéramos como cucarachas en tierras nucleares, contaminadas, esperaron tanto a que muriéramos que los pendejxs se quedaron sin aire en sus makinas donde soñaban que solo elles tenían derecho a vivir, donde nuestras matrices tenían bebés sin almas, los mismos que se los tragaron vivos . . . Y entonces fue cuando el viento y la madre mandaron un mensaje. Lo recuerdo claramente, la economía decayó, los bancos cerraron, el pánico tenía a muches peleando por comidas enlatadas . . . En menos de tres años ya había sociedades militarizadas, había gangs, gente pensando en colonizar otra gente . . . y es que no conocíamos nada más, y es que había círculos pero no pa’ todxs, aunque los mexicas siempre nos invitaban a danzar . . . recuerdo que corría de abajo pa’ arriba trying to find food, protect myself from others, but then I found the children, babies abandoned in a hospital where most humans had been replaced by machines . . . makinas can’t feed babies . . . Makinas can't take care of babies . . . In the early 2000's my mother told me a story about how babies survived the big earthquake from the 1900's. The babies in the hospitals survived days, weeks, months with no food or water. Babies are strong and know how to enter survival mode. Babies survive everything except the lack of warm arms around them. When I found the babies in the hospital, the doors were locked under a crisis mechanism in case there were wars . . . o algún tipo de catastrofe natural. The doors and windows estaban lokeadas con paredes de acero so no one could come in or out . . . I entered the place looking for medicine, antibiotics for a cut in my hand after a dog attacked me and I grabbed un pedazo de vidrio con la mano pelona . . . one of the windows didn't shut correctly and no one had tried going into the hospital . . . Pharmacies are easier to enter. I found what I was looking for when I heard children laughing. I thought I had lost my mind. I thought the spirits were playing with me. I was afraid, I'm always afraid of spirits, they just say too much and too little. children laughing in a world where wombs were taken . . . I found soulless children. They were so tiny. The older ones were taking care of the babies and they all took naps together. They were giving love to each other in a world that had put our children in cages . . . I hadn't seen a child since 2037, when the government decided only the rich could have children but nature denied them fertility so they took ours . . . The children weren't afraid of me . . . They shared their food with me . . . and that night I had a dream . . . My grandma showed me her children playing, my mother asking me if I were to have children . . . ok . . . it was a nightmare, but I understood what I had to do. So I took my phone and googled it . . . I know i know, some people back then thought that if Black, Brown, and Indigenous peoples are left alone with our fates into our own hands . . . they thought that we would just die, but we kept everything going . . . we are so capable that all this time electricity has been free. So I googled: 2spirit powwow . . . I left the children to go there. Before, leaving children unsupervised would’ve been neglect and probably I would’ve been taken to jail . . . but when the market failed, everything else failed with it. I think the point is, I was forced to find help, and I could only go to the people I trusted the most, the Indigequeers! Because they know things, because they dream big. The responsibility of having to take care of children made me allied to others and others became allies of the cause, we were all worried about them. And by them I mean you and your siblings Quetza . . . by them I mean you . . . After some years el pequeño Quetza, con dieciséis años me llamo vieja: —Vieja, calmate un chingo! Estando enferma y cansada de tanto pinches hacer. Me senté, a morir en las alucinaciones de la fiebre. Calmate un chingo me dijo el morro . . . calmate un chingo . . . y entre las alucinaciones vi que ya no había porqué correr . . . pa’ qué militarizar, pa’ que desgastarnos, pa’ que seguir en survival mode, pa’ que? . . . I heard Jesus Jones say: Sunday always comes! I heard Tricia Hersey whisper: stop working and start dreaming . . . Después de tres días, reviví. Y me puse a bailar y me puse a ver el cielo lleno de smoke y el agua ácida cayendo del cielo. Y en 2077 mandé a Quetza por nopales a México-Tenochtitlan, en donde se hizo una gran alianza Indigenista en donde naciones enteras soñaban con tomar todo el continente y las islas back; the land back dream became a reality. And yes, the land was left infértil, but las naciones Mayas ya vivían en el 501 desde hace 56 años, lo que hacía falta eran alianzas across Turtle Island, el Anáhuac y Abya Yala. Y hacía falta plantar nopales. Poco a poco la gente se relajó y siguió soñando nuevas realidades sin militares, sin armas . . . nos pusimos las pilas pa’ sembrar . . . Pinche muela me duele un chingo: —Quetza! —Grandpa! — andale no tengo tiempo pa’ tus tonteras . . . anoche soñé . . . it is time Quetza. Listen carefully, child. I can’t go to the circle but you already know what to do. Take these letters and the elders will read them. And when you return we leave Turtle Island. Ya no me quedan energías. — Si vieja! Ya no me quedan energías, pero en mi juventud no tan joven me calme un chingo y disfrute la vida. Cante canciones y baile en fiestas y vi morir a muchos, pero también vi retoños de nopales y frijoles en tierra infértil, retoños que crecen de los cuerpos caídos en las calles. Destruimos el cemento y el pasto volvió. Y ahora que han traído las semillas y que nos han compartido el knowledge de halfmoon, me voy en paz. Me voy en paz. Me convertí en padre-madre de 12 hijes como mi abuela, me convertí en abuel@ de perros, gatos, cucarachas y cualquier bicho que los niñes traían . . . me relaje un chingo, mientras nos dejaron como perros pa’ morir, pero no paso . . . pero no paso: Pa’ mi muchachx Quetzalcoatl de Xesús: Me relaje un chingo, gracias mi chilpayate! Que Tonanzin, Tonatiuh, el viento y el agua te bendigan. ¡Me ponen un altar mendigos o les vengo a jalar las patas en las noches! Que si Martita quiere, que siga aprendiendo otomí, el idioma de mis madres. Y si X38 quiere mandamelo a Tenochtitlan! Ya vez que se le se le dan los idiomas al xamake. Y que en mi tumba escriban los nombres de mis madres y mis padres y sus naciones. Para que el día en que me visites y te pregunten quien eres les diras ke ere’ mi chamacx. Quetzalcoatl de Xesus hije de padre-madre Xel, hije de Maya (Mam- de nombre Juan por 7 generations), de abuelas Pame-Guamare (Otomi- Doñas por seven generations). Quetza, que he visto el futuro en mi dolor de muelas, que se relajen un chingo que vamos en la generación 9 y que el último día, será el día en el que el sol no brille más. Quetza, yo se que querías que escribiese más cosas del mundo de antes, pero este viejo ya tiene 120 años, la memoria ya no me da pa’ más. Disfruta la vida y a ver si ya en estos días el agua vuelve, no se les olvide hervirla y no se te olvide alimentar a las lombrices pa’ fertilizar la tierra. Y diles atodxs que como me chingaban con que comerse las cucarachas era mala idea y ahora son los mejores tacos de la ciudad! Con amor, Tata Xel  RaXel Gallegos is an Afro-Indigenous masewalli/human/2spirits/Indigiqueer, currently learning how to become complete within the incompleteness of colonial obstructions. An aspiring anti-colonial, de-colonial, and re-Indigenizing educator. They have used IN XOCHITL IN CUICATL as a methodology to integrate non-canonical contemporary Indigenous literary works; no longer giving into arguments of whether Indigenous literatures have literary value within English and Spanish academic circles. Their/her/his/ writing style no longer respects the imposition of grammar as a form of mental policing that keeps minds within the parameters of colonial writing systems; for them, commas, tildes, and letters are nothing else but an ornament.
 The Pepper InspectorBy Jan Karlo Lopez The Pepper Inspector stands at the inspection line next to his Gringo supervisor. His build sticks out compared to all the other lab workers but the coat that he’s forced to wear because his Gringo supervisor gives him the run around to avoid purchasing one that fits his arms and shoulders. Due to hazard issues he can’t purchase his own. They watch two employees wheel a container into the quality control room. They remove the tarp revealing a large quantity of green bell peppers. The hottest approved for cultivation and distribution since the ban on spicy salsa, stemming from a batch that sent a family of four to the hospital which prompted the officials in charge of the newly formed Texico, to implement their quality checks, to avoid losing tourism dollars. The two employees exit the room, leaving the inspectors. The Gringo Supervisor grabs a pepper at random and places it on his desk, with his utensils, he slices down the middle and cuts those pieces into two slices. He pushes half to the side. The Pepper Inspector grabs a wedge and the Gringo Supervisor does the same. They take small bites. The Pepper Inspector gives a passing grade on the tablet and hands it to the Gringo supervisor for approval. The Gringo Supervisor coughs, wheezes and spits out the chunk. He stumbles to the mini-fridge and chugs a bottle of milk. Wiping the sweat from his forehead he presses a red button on his desk. The container filled with the fresh peppers gets pulled into the incinerator where it is turned into ashes in seconds. He turns to see the Pepper Inspector who stands with his lunch bag in his hand. The Gringo Supervisor checks the time, “We still have five minutes,” he says, “bring in the next batch,” he shouts into his radio then takes another sip of his milk, “and bring another gallon of milk,” he shouts again “that last batch is going to burn coming out,” he says to the Pepper Inspector and radio. After work the Pepper Inspector visits one of the few botanicas still operating. At the counter he doesn’t say a word, he slides his lunch bag to the cashier who opens it. His eyes widen at the sight of the peppers. “They’re hot,” The Pepper Inspector says. The Cashier takes the peppers out of the lunch box to sniff them. He’s pleased with the quality. Hitting a switch by his waist the statue of the Santa Muerte behind him slides to the side, leaving a doorway open where a live band plays. The Pepper Inspector follows the music. The Santa Muerte statue slides back in place, closing the entrance and exit. On the other side there’s a Speakeasy, fully equipped with a kitchen and stage where the mariachi band plays their music at a Jazz volume. Because of the noise complaints the decibel level threshold had been lowered drastically. The Pepper Inspector sits at the bar and orders a shot of mezcal while admiring the traditional plates coming out the kitchen. The Bartender serves him his shot and a bowl of salsa with a side of chips. “It doesn’t meet the Spicy Salsa standards, buen provecho,” the Bartender says.The Pepper Inspector sips on his shot and watches the news report on the tv behind the bar. “This is the Real News network, no more fake news,” says Chad Tyler, the news anchor for Real News Media, the official news network of Texico. “Today we are discussing another terrorist attack from the group that identifies as Mejicans. They cause all kinds of ruckus with their music then disappear when the cops show, wasting taxpayer money, and a sign of disrespect to our law enforcement. It’s hard to enjoy this beautiful country and relax with loud music blasting from the restaurants to the beaches. Ruining the safe haven for anyone escaping whatever is left in America. Their latest attack sent literal shockwaves throughout the country as they jumped in sync, scaring the new locals into thinking an earthquake was coming. Police stations were flooded with calls from worried naturalized citizens wondering what’s being done to stop the earthquake. If you, or anyone you know, has any tips or leads to their next attack, please reach out to the number below and help us stop these terrorists, and for those still stuck in their Spanish speaking ways, here’s our translator John Flowers to help with translation,” Chad Tyler concludes. The camera zooms into John Flower’s mustache, unable to show his face because of the law prohibiting dark skinned people on tv. The bar goes mute awaiting his translation. Since Spanish was outlawed at the creation of Texico, none of the transplants understand nor speak the language. The natives kept the language alive to communicate in secret. “Que se vayan at la verga estos gabachos, no se preocupen, ojalá regresen por donde vinieron,” John Flowers translates and the bar breaks out in cheers, laughter, then they toast. Some of the band members let out a grito before being told to quiet it down. “I’ve seen you before,” says an attractive Lady sitting at the stool next to the Pepper Inspector, who doesn’t respond. “Where do you work?” She asks. “Was it in the mezcal or salsa?” the Pepper Inspector responds. “I wasn't aware it worked that fast,” she says. The Pepper Inspector attempts to speak but his vocal chords won’t work, he lets out gasps of struggling breaths. His vision blurs, the audio shifts down some octaves. He falls back, watching the attractive Lady drink from the straw in her glass. Two men try to catch him before hitting the ground but a third jumps in at the last minute to help. The weight of his eyelids becomes too much to hold and they shut. When they open he’s met with faces covered with bandanas. He recognizes the group from the news report. They part through the middle and the attractive Lady from the bar emerges. “I wish we could’ve met in better circumstances, but your answer was the deciding factor,” she says. “What do you want from me?” The Pepper Inspector asks. “Our bands can only play so loud for so long before the officials start putting 24 hour surveillance in all the tourist areas. The fake earthquakes put us all at risk if we go too far.” “Better to bring it all down and rebuild ourselves,” says one of the faces in the group. “You’re the Pepper Inspector,” she says, “for the salsa company that holds the contracts for almost all the restaurants and stores in the most popular areas in Texico. You are the Salsa Gatekeeper. I believe you know what we’re asking of you. You are an educated man of means, how else can you explain your position as a person of color in that company.” “I’ll probably lose my job,” he says. “No, you will and when that happens, you will have a spot in our organization. Redeem yourself from the harm you have caused your people, if you still identify with us.” “There’s another inspector there, he won’t approve the shipment,” he says. “Don’t worry about that Gabacho, we’ll take care of him when the time comes. We will be in contact when everything is in play.” She responds. When she’s done speaking a black cloth covers his head and two sets of arms snatch him, walking him into another seat. Based on the sliding door, he's in a van, within fifteen minutes he’s pushed out and given a drink. He wasn’t far. Most likely a warehouse in the area, he thinks. “It helps flush your system,” the voice says. The door shuts and the van leaves. The Pepper Inspector removes the cloth from over his head. Then he twists off the cap to the drink and chugs it in one gulp. He tosses both in the trash and gets in his car. He hears breathing behind him then a cold nose of a handgun kisses the back of his neck, he leans in closer to ensure the barrel is real, it is, 9MM. “I’m a businessman. I don’t want to hurt you. That’s not what I’m here for.” The Businessman says. “I’ve never been kidnapped twice in a day,” The Pepper Inspector says, putting the car into drive and hitting the gas. “I’m not kidnapping you, you can go home. My people are waiting for me there, we got tired of waiting at your car. We assumed they must’ve got to you first.” “You’re not with the Mejicans?” “Please, why would I run around covering my face with a bandana? We hide in plain sight,” he says and leans forward so the Pepper Inspector can see his face in the mirror. “I’ve seen you around the plant. Brown faces stick out.” “We know about their plan and how vital you are. I’m here to put a stop to it. They’ve been costing my friends a substantial amount of money.” “You like where things are heading?” “I have as much control as you do, but the Company I represent owns the fields the peppers are grown on, the staffing company that employs the workers that pick them, the warehouse that packages, distributes, and the trucks that deliver them along with some of the restaurants. Do you know where I stand on this?” “What do you want from me?” “Absolutely nothing, all that we ask is that you continue doing the great job you’re doing.” They pull into the Pepper Inspector’s apartment parking lot where he sees a truck waiting out front. “We also own shares in the Salsa company you work for. I made some inquiries about you to HR and they had little information on you. No family, never married, no kids. All your paperwork was lost when Mexico was dissolved I assume. You could disappear tomorrow, and no one would notice. I mean who would care? Maybe the Salsa company. They’d probably call in a welfare check with your perfect attendance record. Anyways, it was nice chatting with you. I know you’re going to do what’s best for everyone. See you at work tomorrow. If not, your absence will slow down production, and that’s the last thing we want, right?” the Businessman says exiting the car and entering the black truck. The Pepper Inspector walks through the parking lot where some of his neighbors cook out, drink, and play loud music. They’ve been pushed to live in what is called Barrioville. The cops don’t bother coming to patrol here unless they are investigating a crime on a new local. Never having trouble sleeping, the Pepper Inspector stays up all night. Before he can do anything a rooster crows and the morning light seeps through his blinds onto the kitchen table where he sits. He paces around his apartment, staring at a painting on his wall. Two roosters in mid flight and mid fight. Still wearing yesterday's clothes he picks up the phone to call in. His Gringo Supervisor gives him a hard time then he hangs up. The Pepper Inspector removes the painting from the wall that hides a safe. He carefully turns the knob to the numbers that only he knows and the locks slide out of place. The heavy steel door is pulled open. Inside there’s a smaller box that he grabs and pulls out a key hanging on a referee whistle. The Gringo Supervisor works the quality control room alone. The Businessman sticks his head in. “No Assistant today?” He asks. “No, first time calling in since he started, must be really sick. I told him yesterday that the batch was too hot.” “I bet you did,” the Businessman says and walks out. He steps into the restroom to make a call. The attractive Lady answers. “You shouldn’t be calling me to this number,” she says. “I wanted you to know that your Pepper Inspector didn’t show today.” The Lady walks out a building escorted by her men dressed in black suits, no bandanas but their eyes look familiar. “Coward,” she says to herself while entering her SUV. “You might want to find another puppet.” Her other line rings, it’s her head of security, she turns back and sees her men waving their arms and what looks like her driver who needs help standing. She checks her driver and sees the Pepper Inspector aiming a gun at her then she sees the dart in her arm. “Doesn’t feel so good does it? Asks the Pepper Inspector. His voice shifts down in pitch and her vision hazes over. She leans into the seat, her phone falls to the side. The Pepper Inspector grabs it and puts it to his ear. “Mi Amor? Are you okay? Contestame!” the Businessman shouts. The Pepper Inspector hangs up and turns it off. The Businessman pulls out another phone. “Where is she?” He asks. “I dunno foo, she got in her truck and left,” says the foo on the other side. The Businessman pulls out another phone, that makes three. “Oh shit foo, they don't know where she went, her driver was knocked out in the bathroom.” “I’m sending my people to help look for her, they’re on their way, let your people know,” he says and dials his third phone. “Take everyone to the bean factory, right now, help them with whatever they need,” he orders. “Her car doesn’t have a tracker,” he asks on the other phone. “I dunno foo, I just wash her truck.” “I’m on my way,” the Businessman says walking out into an empty parking lot. “How am I supposed to meet yall out there if y'all didn’t leave me a truck,” he shouts before an SUV pulls up. “Somebody had enough sense to come back.” He says hanging up. He opens the door to the SUV and hops in. He sees his Amor passed out in the seat. He recognizes the Pepper Inspector and at the same time feels a burning sensation on his neck. He pulls a dart out then slumps back into the chair, the Pepper Inspector walks around the SUV to close his door and then back into the driver's seat to leave. They both wake up tied at the wrist and ankles to rocking chairs. Their vision clears and the sound becomes crisp. “You knew we drugged you at the bar. Who are you? The Lady asks. “I’m the Pepper Inspector. I work for the Salsa company. ” “Bullshit,” says the Businessman , “You’re ex-military. We’ve hired people like you before.” “You took me without firing one shot. We can use you,” she says. “He’s not for sale,” the Businessman says. “How do you know?” She asks. “He’s unofficially retired, in hiding, because he’s seen and done too much. They don’t let the good ones go, they use them up until they’re another hero with a grave decorated in medals.” “He’s right,” says the Pepper Inspector pulling out a pistol, “I can’t risk your plans ruining the life I worked hard to create,” he screws in a silencer, “I’m sorry but I can’t,” he aims at the Businessman. “Wait, wait, wait” shouts the Lady. “We won’t say anything if you let us go, but if you kill us, our people won’t stop until they find you.” “Find me? They can’t even find you, and they don’t even know you’re gone,” he says to the Businessman . “What do you want from us?” The Lady asks. “I want you to leave me alone, but it’s too late for that. There’s no going back from here.” “We won’t say a thing, we promise. Call it even for yesterday.” “What about him? He doesn’t look like the forgiving type.” The Businessman snarls and spits on the floor. “You two wouldn’t listen if I asked nicely. Now we have two options. We either trust each other or kill each other.” “What can we do for you to trust us?” The Lady asks. “You, I need one million Texico dollars. Him, I don’t think there’s anything I can ask for. More money would only give him another incentive to kill me.” She kicks the Businessman in the shin, “Say something, I’m trying to save our lives.” “He’s right,” says the Businessman , “When my people find out I’ve been picked up, they’re going to think I flipped. It’s his head or mine.” “Tell them you were with me,” The Lady pleads. “And blow our cover?” “They know! You think they're idiots? My people know and they are idiots.” The Pepper Inspector checks his phone, “That settles it,” he interrupts, “Take the truck, transfer the money and you two are free to go.” “I can’t transfer that amount of money. I need approval from higher-ups. I don’t even have access to the funds.” “Then get access. Tell your people this is a down payment for my services. I don’t think I’ll need to explain my rates,” the Pepper Inspector says to her. “I’ll need a million from you too,” he says to the Businessman, “I doubt you need permission. I know what they'll do to me but what would they do to you when they find out you’ve been sleeping with the enemy? What would they do to your family? Your son? Your mother? Your Wi…” “Okay.” The Businessman says cutting him off. “You’ll get your million, as long as we both walk out free right now.” The Pepper Inspector holsters his pistol and pulls out a switchblade. He walks behind them both. The Businessman hears a snap, then the tension on his wrists and ankles alleviates. He cuts her ties next. The Businessman’s phone rings. Everyone pauses, the Pepper Inspector puts up his blade. “Are you going to get that?” the Pepper Inspector asks. The Businessman answers, “Yeah, I got her. We wanted some alone time, she’s getting dressed right now. We’re on our way back,” he says and hangs up. They walk to the SUV as the Pepper Inspector watches from the front door of the office. “How do you think he’s getting away?” She asks. “He must have a burner vehicle stashed close by. He’s a professional if you couldn’t already tell.” He gets in the SUV, she sits in the passenger side. “How are you going to explain how my driver got knocked out?” She asks. “We don’t explain anything to anyone. We’re the bosses, that's one of the perks. If any of the higher-ups hear about this then you have a leak.” “Always one to look at the silver lining. So when were you going to tell me about your wife and son?” “I have a son. I don’t have a wife.” “Then what was he going to say before you cut him off.” “You don’t have a million dollars to give him?” “Why are you changing the subject?” “No, I’m wondering why he let us go so easily. He could’ve asked for more.” “No, you’re changing the subject. You claim I’m your Amor but didn’t tell me about your family?” “We can talk about that later. We just finished being kidnapped. He wanted us to leave for a reason. He didn’t even give us any way to communicate with them.” “I don’t think he’s going to have a problem getting in contact with us, he’s a professional, if you couldn’t already tell.” “It doesn’t make any sense. It’s too much of a risk to let us go.” They turn into the parking lot where their men are assembled. “Yeah but remember what he said, we could either trust each other or kill each other,” she says. They park and open their doors. “Damn Foo, what’s this back here for?” Are the last words they hear before the truck explodes, taking out both crews simultaneously. The following day the Pepper Inspector clocks in. The Gringo Supervisor is already there. “Glad to see you back today,” he says to the Pepper Inspector and turns his back to wash his hands. “You’ll have to cut your lunch short today, and stay a bit late. Oh, and come in early for the rest of the week so we can catch up. We are backed up on all the batches from yesterday. I didn’t want to test without you here,” suddenly an arm wraps around his neck and squeezes tightly until the Gringo Supervisor blacks out. He awakes tied to his work chair next to the Pepper Inspector approving the backed up batches. “What are you doing?” Ask the Gringo Supervisor. “I can get you fired and put in jail for what you’ve done.” The Pepper Inspector looks at the Gringo Supervisor and then at the red button used to activate the incinerators. He places the tablet in the face of the Gringo Supervisor who approves the batches with the tip of his nose.  Jan Karlo Lopez is a pathological liar turned writer. His self-published short-story digital anthologies and physical Zines have generated over a thousand dollars in revenue. Some of the profits were used to purchase school supplies for Oak Cliff teachers, or donated to a foundation that buys shoes for underprivileged kids in Oak Cliff, and the rest was either spent on food, drugs, or traveling. Jan Karlo is Oak Cliff born, raised, and resident but leaves as often as financially possible. He has been published in Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, In Parentheses, LIT magazine, and Thirty West Publishing House where his piece was nominated for best of the net.
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Somos En Escrito: The Latino Literary Online Magazine
is published by the Somos En Escrito Literary Foundation,
a 501 (c) (3) non-profit, tax-exempt corporation. EIN 81-3162209
is published by the Somos En Escrito Literary Foundation,
a 501 (c) (3) non-profit, tax-exempt corporation. EIN 81-3162209
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