Dispatch #56: Writing In The Field Part II

La Nuestra Senora de La Guadalupe Iglesia

by Lupe Fernandez

I sit on a hard bench in La Nuestra Senora de La Guadalupe Iglesia mid morning. I like the quiet, the cool breeze from the side door, the natural diffused light, an occasional echo of whispering women, a toot of a traffic copes whistle a block away. Birds chirp on trees outside, distance laughter of school children.

And nobody bothers me.

Sunday afternoon I had attended mass. I had a paper pamphlet to read along with my Tia and my mother. Spanish in an echo chamber is difficult to understand; I contented myself with admiring the interior. Even though we sit in the back of the church, the mass of bodies made the place humid. Perhaps a wink of drowsy eyes or an unconscious nod of my head, but I swore I saw the statue of Juan Diego, perched above the altar in adoration of La Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, move.

Established Mexican legend states in December 1531, ten years after the destruction of the Aztec Empire by Hernando Cortez, his Spanish soldiers, local allies, gun powder, Toledo steel and small pox, a converted indigenous young man baptized Juan Diego had a vision of the La Nuestra Senora in the hills of Tepeyac, outside of Mexico City. He gave evidence of this vision to doubting priests in the form of the image of The Virgin imprinted on his clothing.

Forward five centuries and a plaster mannequin is positioned in a kneeling reverence at the painting of La Nuestra Senora bordered by two Mexican flags. All in sight of the faithful attending mass.

But what if Juan Diego moved? What if the censor smoke drifting above the altar made him sneeze?

Juan Diego is conscious. He stands on a high perch, sees the astonishing throng below, shouting, pointing at him in a language foreign to him. Not Nahuatl, dialect of the Aztecs. Not Spanish Castilian. Not Latin.

Screams. Shouts from the audience. A woman faints. Others pray frantically. The priest is furious. Some pendejo is playing a very disgraceful, sacrilegious joke. The priest orders one of the church’s volunteers, a young boy in a white shirt, black pants and a satchel slung over is shoulder to get that miscreant off the ledge. Our young volunteer rushes up the back staircase leading up to the painting and opens the access door.

Meanwhile Juan Diego is in a panic. Too high to jump down. He must escape.

A man in short pants, striped shirts and scarf yells at Juan Diego, calling him a trick of Satan. Ten the phones come out and the flashes begin. Juan Diego is dizzy, ready to fall when the access door opens and the church volunteer appears. Juan Diego sees his escape and rushes the door. The volunteer grabs Juan’s arm and feels the cool smooth touch of painted plaster.

Everything happens so fast.

Juan Diego is gone. The church is searched from this perceived prankster. The audience rushes the altar, demanding answers. Others flee the church to spread the Good Word. A Sign. Juan Diego is alive. This is the work of La Nuestra Senora.

The situation escalates...

Mass is over. I remain in the church playing the story in my head. A volunteer just paused by the bench to ask me what I was doing. I tell him in the American Spanish I am studying La Senora and Juan Diego and writing my thoughts. Even if I could communicate my true intent, I suspect he would politely ask me to leave or question my sanity. But he leaves to prepare for mass at one pm.

I remain on the hard bench, sweating to finish a synopsis. When I return home, I will type up my scribbles, save the file Juan Diego Sneezes in my premise folder, waiting for the day to written.

Dispatch #51: The Tax Man

by Lupe Fernandez

From the Department of Where Ideas Come From

I watched the final episode of The Walking Dead. Yes, there was zombie action, but the greatest horror was what people did to each other. I've always wanted to write a horror story, but I didn't want to use the usual suspects. Vampires. Werewolves. Zombies. Asparagus.

I wanted something bland and ordinary. Something appearing non-threatening at first appearance. Something or someone we face everyday or at least once a year.

The Tax Man. Everybody pays taxes. Sales tax. Gasoline tax. Income tax. If you don't pay, the consumer is penalized.

Was gazing upon a flimsy tax table? Was sitting in a dark room listening to the howl of coyotes? Did I smell the acrid burning of hair?

No, I was in the bathroom doorway on my way to the commode. The window was open. A pleasant breeze ruffled the curtain. Sun washed the gray driveway below. The faint laughter of children echoed in the neighborhood.

Then I thought...

The Tax Man will make you rich. But if you owe, you’d better pay or he’ll take a 50%...of everything. Your house. Your wife. Your life.

The Tax Man offers to make clients rich, but clients must be a steep tax. If they owe or refuse to pay, The Tax Man will pursue his clients for payments. Nothing will stop. Not death.

A poor guy shows up rich at his new school. Brags he won’t pay taxes on his new-found wealth. He’s warned about The Tax Man, but he’s not scared of a short, portly man, wearing wrinkled clothes and carries a shiny briefcase. But our poor guy turns up dead. Fifty percent of his body is messing. Literally sliced in half.

The Tax Man works on a sliding scale. He starts with 10%.

Ten 10% of your organs, limbs, brain.

Want a tax break? Inform on others who owe.

How can the The Tax Man be defeated?

I envision a YA contemporary horror story.

What happens next? I have no idea. Perhaps I should step into the bathroom doorway again. Seek out the commode.

Or should I flush this idea down the toilet?

Dispatch #19: I Saw It on Amaryllis Street

by Lupe Fernandez

Another in the a series of "Where Do Ideas Come From?"

On a cold, crisp Wednesday morning, I step out to the curb and watch a waste management truck pick up a green plastic bin of residential garbage. All along the street, the green and black bins - black for recycling - wait to be emptied. The waste truck uses an mechanical prong to pick up the bin and dump its contents into the hulking truck. There's a loud grinding sound of gears and hydraulics at work.

I'm fascinated and my mind starts to wonder and I imagine this scene...

I step up to the curb. The clouds clear and the sunset is a beautiful orange fire.

This girl in a grimy green tunic shivers next to me. "I like when it rains," she says, rubbing an gray lesion on her cheek.

"Yeah?" I say, watching the vapor pour from my mouth. She's standing too close to me. I hope she doesn't notice I smell like rotten fruit. "Everything's all wet." I tug the sleeves of my black tunic over my scabby hands.

"It makes everything clean." She hops in place; her left leg is shorter than her right. "The air smells new. I don't know. Makes me hopeful. Know what I mean?"

"I never noticed," I say. I look down the street. "They always come around now."

The girl pulls up her tunic pant leg to keep it from staining. She stumbles and grabs my shoulder to keep from falling. A warmth floods from her hand into my arm and spreads across my chest. I take a deep breath and suddenly feel hopeful. Her teeth chattered.

"They should come in the afternoon when it's warmer," I say, "I mean who decided this. This is so stupid. They should like built a shelter or a have heaters or something." There's a blanket in the shed. I turn to walk off the curb and back onto the sidewalk, when my body goes rigid. A gurgling hiss comes out of my mouth. I leap back to the curb.

"You shouldn't do that," she says.

"I'm okay," I say. The signal shock makes the stabbing chest pain come back. I don't scream this time. I'm good at hiding  defects. "Did they put you out last night.

"Can you believe that?" She laughs. "Last night. They couldn't do it this morning. I mean why green? I don't look good in green."

Geese honk and fly by overhead in a V formation.

"Lazy parents," I say. I'm burning inside.

The girl points to another set of pick-ups across the street to distract. "Look, it's 2216 and 2218." She laughs again. How can she laugh about this stuff? "They've been out there for a week and no pick-up."
"A bunch of losers," I say.

Others line up on the curb and mumble; their breaths puff vapor with every quick exhale. 2216 in the black tunic coughs and then everyone starts coughing all along the street. Fat grey clouds return and smother the sun. The sky spits rain.

There's complaining from both sides of the street.

"Yay!" the girl tilts her head up and smiles. Fat drops plink on her face.

Then we all hear the beeping of the truck. Everybody shuts up. "I wonder which one it is?" I don't look.

"It's always the green one," she says. Her nose and cheeks flush red.

"You should tell them to put you out in the morning."

"They don't listen to me." She rubs her red filmy eye.

The green squat truck grumbles around the corner; the carrier pod spouts vapor from its exhaust. It stops by 2211. From the side of the pod, a yellow prong folds and slips under 2211 shoulders and flings her into open carrier hatch. The prong folds back into the pod and the truck moves to the next pick up, and so on down the street.

"They're stupid," I say.

The girl looks at my black tunic. "Black looks good on you." She traces the white symbol on the chest of my tunic. I hold her trembling hand. "I've never talked to a Return before. What's it like?"

The beeping truck pulls in front of us.

"It's a mistake!" I yell at the truck. "She should be in black." The cab has no windows, so nobody's listening.

"It was nice talking to you."  Her hands slips away from mine.

The truck prongs spring out, catch her under the shoulders and she's gone.

My fingers dig into my palms. When the black truck comes and takes me to the station, I'm not coming back. I'm not come back until I find her.

...and scene. The next time your stand on the curb and hear a garbage truck coming down your street, you should...well, I'd be careful.