Little Maria

Below is the eighth segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

“Feel lucky today, Adela. Breathe the clean, fresh air. Listen to the singing of the birds. Smell wild flowers. Shake my hair loose and let it fly. Quiet is suddenly all around me, and I can listen to myself thinking for the first time since I was kidnapped. Maybe there is a future for me after all, like Big Mamá said.
Work alone, the way Mario told me to. Not with the other workers I saw on the way here, before we entered this small narrow valley, hidden in the shadow of these high mountains. The work is easy, and much better than the hard work at the factory. All I do is water the coca plants with the black hose. The shrubs are about my size, no more than one meter and twenty tall. They don’t seem thirsty to me at all. But still, I fill the shallow circles that surround them with water.
The water is streaming so nicely and then, when it’s full, I move the hose around to the next plant. Feel the gentle touch of the breeze coming down from the hills. Hear the birds singing and the wind whispering, as if trying to tell me some secrets. See the water swirling and see yellow butterflies fly all around me. My wish at this moment is to be a yellow butterfly.
But then, suddenly, I see a long shadow in the water circling the plant. Hear footsteps too. When I raise my head to look, the man is too close for me to run away. He is tall and old and Gringo. He is wearing boots and cowboy hat, like in that movie we saw together once, Adela, in our village. Remember?
The hose drops down from my hand as if it has a will of its own, and I take a few steps back. That’s when he takes his hat off and throws it on the ground. His head is bald like a melon and so ugly. He looks me up and down. What for? He smiles an evil smile. You’re all mine, Little Maria, he says in Spanish with an American accent.
How does he know my name? Hate that name so much. One day I’m going to change it. Turn around and begin to run. He chases after me and grabs me from behind. Scream as loud as I can, but nobody hears me. Where is Mario? Where is Big Mamá? Where are the other workers I saw when we drove in here? Where is everybody?

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Little Maria

Below is the seventh segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

“Here they don’t even talk much. Learned why on my second day on the farm. Big Mamá took me away when we came back from the factory. Could hardly walk, I was so tired and hungry. Thought she was showing me the farm, the horses and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. But instead she led me outside the walls and showed this me this big hole in the ground full of snakes. A real snake pit, Adela, I’m not lying to you. A worker was feeding them mice. Saw a skeleton there too.
You see this snake pit, Little Maria? Big Mamá asked me. Yes, I see it, I answered. If you ever talk with anyone, she warned me, about anything that happens to you here, during the day especially, you’ll end up down with the snakes. You understand?
Yes, I understand. What else could I say? What could I tell anybody anyhow? There is nothing to tell, and nobody to tell anything to but you, Adela. Maybe it’s better for me to die here, I was thinking. Jump down into this snake pit and die and be like that skeleton down there. So I took one small step forward, as if to see better. But Big Mamá held my hand firmly and took me away from there.
Don’t be stupid, Little Maria, she told me on the way back, speaking suddenly with a softer voice. We need you here. And you… you have good things coming to you in the near future. Then she led me back to our sisters’ hall.
Why did she tell me that? And why do they need me here, anyhow? Me, Little Maria as they call me. Did she see something in my eyes that made her say that? And why, walking back from the snake pit, did I suddenly feel some warmth coming from her hand, holding mine? As if she really cared about me. As if she really believed good things would happen to me soon.

*
Now I know why. I have a strong feeling, especially on this morning when Mario is taking me away from the bus, when he is driving me through the flat fields toward those rolling brown hills, that one day soon I’ll be back home. That’s why the girls who go to the coca field never come back.”

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Little Maria

Below is the sixth segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

“Maybe you knew something I didn’t. Mami always said I was a bit slow. But if I was slow it was all because she sheltered me so much. Think of her now, and of my two brothers, Jose and Joseph. For the second night there is no family sandwich, because the middle girl is missing. Can’t even laugh at our family joke anymore. What do they think of me now? Do they think I ran away from home? That I don’t love them anymore? Of course I do. They must know that.
Cover my head with the stinky blanket. Feel as if a dark, heavy cloud is covering my soul and pressing hard on my chest. Want to go home and be with my Mami. Want to hear her telling me a goodnight story and give me a big hug and a soft kiss. Begin to cry again, just thinking about it. Without voice I cry because I don’t want the other girls to hear me. Like soft rain my tears fall, all night long.

Winter:

It rained during the night but it’s a clear and sunny morning now, when Mario is pulling me off the bus before it leaves the farm. He is the man who took me away from my village and touched me in my private part. He is driving me away in that same beautiful black car as he did then. Don’t know where he is taking me. Don’t know why he is taking me. Afraid he is going to touch me again. Terrible as everything is, I now miss my sisters. Hard as the work at the factory on the edge of that ugly, dirty town is, I now want to go back there. Maybe I got used to it.
Every morning before dawn I get up, eat hardly anything, then ride in this noisy bus to town, to the clothes factory there or sometimes also to the assembly plant. Work all day there like a slave on the sewing machine, or at the assembly line, then come back to the farm, eat nothing much then go to sleep on the mattress that’s on the floor. Only one day off, Sunday, to wash our clothes and ourselves. Get to read the Bible if I’m lucky. It’s the only book they have here at the farm. You are free to read anything you like, Adela, but not me. You remember how much I like to read, don’t you?
Don’t know the date, or even what day of the week today is. Don’t know how many days and weeks I’m already here in this farm. Some girls call it the Coca Farm, but I’m yet to work in the coca field or in any other field. Every few days a different girl will go to work there. Most times she won’t come back. Don’t mind going away and never coming back. It’s so sad here, and the girls are so sad too. Not like you and me, Adela, back in our village. We used to sing and laugh and play every day. Miss it so much. Miss you too. Do you ever think of me at all?”

Leave a comment

Filed under Crime, Culture, Literary

Little Maria

Below is the fifth segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

Know already what virgin is. Mami warned me to stay that way until I marry the man I love. You and I talked about it a few times, Adela, remember? Feel like talking directly to you now. Do you hear me at all?
Big Mamá hands me a torn nightgown, thick and rough like an onion sack. She bundles my clothes into one little pile, my lovely school skirt I love so much as well, and hands it to me. She then lifts me up like I was some little doll and places me on a stool. She is using this threatening voice again, telling me to listen up. Nothing I can do but listen. Her teeth are yellow and some are missing. She has a small mustache too, almost as thick as my Papi’s. You’re going to sleep now, she continues with her instructions, because tomorrow morning you’ll get up early to work. You’ll wear these clothes, she points at my school uniform that’s under my arm.
Will I go to school too, I ask her. Big Mamá strokes my hair gently. Such a surprise. Surprise that it feels so good. She even smiles at me with her ugly yellow teeth and says: This place is your school, Little Maria, and I’m your teacher and your headmaster. You’ll do as I say, and everything we’ll be all right.
Don’t know what she means by that. This place is not my school—I love my school. Think about it when she leads me back to the hall where all the girls are. There is only one naked light bulb at the center, hanging down from the cracked ceiling, spraying fuzzy yellow light around. Find my mattress, where there is now also a thin, partly torn blanket. Put my bundle of clothes down under my head like a pillow and cover myself with the blanket. But I’m still cold.
There is an icon of the Virgin Mary in the corner and one candle burning underneath it. Each girl in her turn kneels down there and says her prayer under the dark eyes of Big Mamá. She forces me do so too, so I say a prayer for my Mami to come over quickly, save me from these bad people and this horrible place and take me back home. Then I lie down again like all the other girls.
Good night sisters, says Big Mamá. No more talking. She turns off the light and leaves, closing the squeaking door behind her. Then it is quiet, but not for long. Hear whispers in the dark. Some of the girls get together around one mattress. Not me—stay still. Think of you, Adela: what are you doing right now? Hope you took my schoolbag with you. Will need it when I get back to school. Be sure to tell Senora Molina what happened to me so I won’t get tardy marks and be punished when I come back. Would you write down our homework assignments for me? Sure you would. You are my best friend ever. You are my real sister, even if you called me a retard once. Why did you call me that, Adela? And why did you drop my hand and allow me go to that car?

Leave a comment

Filed under Crime, Culture, Literary

Little Maria

Below is the fourth segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

Hear Big Mamá’s voice comes from far away, telling the girls to be nice to me because I’m new at the farm. Anybody caught telling Little Maria lies will be punished, she warns them. You know how and you know where. All the girls but me nod their heads. Then Big Mamá orders me to follow her. Never obeyed anybody in my life the way I obey her now. Not even Mami or Papi. Not even Mr. Dominguez, old grumpy, the school principal in our little village.
Only when I get out of the hall do I see that it’s already evening outside. Most of the day I was away from this world and they didn’t even call a doctor. What if I was dying? Who cares. Not even me.
We walk in a long narrow corridor. See some dogs outside in the dusty yard. Hear music and laughter coming from open windows. How could it be: music and laughter here, in this awful place? What kind of a place is it, anyway? Dare not ask Big Mamá that.
We enter a dirty bathroom that has a toilet hole and a metal tub with a shower above it. She instructs me to take off my clothes but I refuse to do it in front of a stranger. Mami warned me not to do that. But the evil giant grabs my hair, my beautiful brown hair I love so much and bangs my head against the cold wall. You’ll do as I tell you, Little Maria, she yells at me as she waves a fat finger in my face. Or you’ll be dead tomorrow!
Do as she says. Not because I’m afraid of dying. Oh no—I would prefer to die. But she knows how to cause great pain, Big Mamá. That I already know. Learned my lesson twice. My head hurts so bad but the cold water takes some of the pain away. Turn my back to her as soon as I can. No matter, she turns me around and turns the water off. Looks at me naked, up and down. Nobody ever looked at me like that before. Orders me to lie down in the cold tub. Do as she says again. Shiver very hard, like a flame in the wind. Maybe because I’m so scared.
At home we don’t even have a bathtub. Think about it when she spreads my legs and places my feet on the edges of the tub. She looks down at my private part and I look up at the dirty ceiling. She touches it with her fingers and I see the spiders crawling slowly in their cobwebs above. She examines it but not like that ugly man did, the one who grabbed me away. She doesn’t hurt me so much. Why are they all so interested in my private part?
You can’t trust them animals, comes her answer as if she heard my question. Then she smiles and says: Good, Little Maria, you’re still a virgin. Get dressed.

Leave a comment

Filed under Crime, Culture, Literary

Little Maria

uw-6aeditedBelow is the third segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

I wake up lying on a narrow mattress thrown on the floor, without a bed even. One side of my face is burning but the rest of my body feels so cold and numb. Above me I see a crowd of many faces: girls like me with dark falling hair and brown eyes, my age or maybe just a little older. They look at me with sad eyes. Never saw such sad eyes before, as if someone placed old eyes in these young faces. One of them is holding a wet cloth to my burning cheek. She takes it off and puts it in a little bowl of water that’s on the floor beside me.
What’s your name, she asks me. Maria, I whisper. Me too, she says. That’s why I hate my name so much, it’s so common. Where am I, I ask her. The farm, she says.
What farm?
They look at each other, then around. Are they afraid to talk about it?
It’s a coca farm, one of them volunteers. Soon you will see.
A door opens and they all fly away. Like angels they fly. Maybe I’m in heaven after all. A coca farm in heaven, that’s it. Can hear clapping. Not the clapping of wings but of Big Mamá’s hands. She is standing by the door to the narrow hall we are all in. She is like a storybook giant. Her body covers the whole doorway. All the other girls gather around a long table near the entrance, where one of the girls is already busy bringing food to the table. Think she has wings the way she moves. Am I dreaming?
Don’t think so. Because I hear Big Mamá calling me from the doorway: We’re waiting for you, Little Maria, come join your sisters.
Stay still on my mattress. So she is Big Mamá and I am Little Maria. How come? I’m not little and I’m not hungry. Hear myself saying that: I’m not hungry.
Big mistake. Now she is coming over. Dear God, please stop her!
She stops by my mattress and kicks it, but not too hard, saying: You’re going to eat, Little Maria, hungry or not!
She may think I’m little, but I’m not stupid. Her voice is harsh and she raises her hand too. Know already what’s coming to me if I won’t get up. So I do. Leave my little piece of heaven and join the other girls at the table. After I sit down Big Mamá says the blessing and then we eat. Or pretend to eat the way I do. Terrible food: dirt soup and some dry tamales. My tummy and my head are aching for my mother’s food, poor as we are. See myself sitting there, suddenly, at our round little kitchen table at home, doing homework after school. Just the way it always is.

Leave a comment

Filed under Culture, Literary

Little Maria

uw-6aeditedBelow is the second segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

***

But the sun keeps rising. How come? Doesn’t care much about my darkness and my sadness. Brings a new day with her too, bright and chilly morning when we arrive at a farm, after driving almost the whole day and night. Don’t know where we are.
All I know is, during the night they stopped only once for an hour or two to eat and sleep in the car. Not me—I didn’t eat or sleep at all. The man who grabbed me and held me also touched me in my private part. Nobody ever did that to me before. His fat finger went inside and hurt me so bad. They were laughing about it later but I kept crying. Like I do now, when he gets out of the car and pulls me along with him.
Can’t see what the outside looks like. High walls are surrounding this place, that’s why. Don’t want to see it, anyhow, want to go back home and be with my Mami. Promised her yesterday morning before leaving the house to school that I won’t be late. More than anything else in the world I now want to help her in the kitchen and learn how to sew. But how can I explain to her why I’m so late? How can I tell her what this man did to me in the car? She would never believe me, I know her. She would tell me it was one of my stupid dreams. Better for me to die right now.
We found another girl for you, Big Mamá, the man who drove the car tells a big fat woman who comes out of the farmhouse. She wears baggy pants and sloppy, thick shirt over her mountain belly. Not even a skirt or a dress like the women in my village wear. She’s not damaged, says the ugly man who grabbed me and held me all night when he hands me over to her, but keeps crying all the time like a baby.
I want to go home, I say, trying to control my cry. I want my Mami. These are the first words I say since they took me away from Capirato, my home village. Maybe because she is a woman, and a Big Mamá, she would understand and send me back home. But her arm, the way she holds me, is even stronger and more hurting than how that ugly man held me. And her voice is threatening when she tells me: I’m your Mami now, so stop crying!
Cry even louder when she says say that. She is not my Mami. She is…
Slaps me. So hard she slaps me that I see only dark skies and lose my balance. But not on the ground I fall—falling and falling into deep and empty space. Going to die. Dear God: please let me die.

Leave a comment

Filed under Crime, Culture, Literary

Little Maria

UW, SWBelow is the first segment of a new short story, Little Maria. While the story is new, it is based on a chapter from my novel, Unidentified Woman, a literary crime about rape, revenge and redemption. I believe it stands alone as is, and will reward you handsomely when you read it.

Fall:

“If life is a garden,
Women are the flowers.
Men are the gardeners,
Who pick up the prettiest ones.”

I sing this song while jumping rope with Adela, my best friend, before going off to school. I’m only twelve, but Mami keeps telling me I should grow up and stop jumping rope. Do things girls my age are supposed to be doing, like helping her in the kitchen and learning how to sew. I hate it when she says that. I’m holding tight to the rope that connects me to my childhood, afraid of losing it, afraid of growing up. It’s as if somehow, don’t know how, I know what lies ahead.
The dirt road to school, that’s what lies ahead. Adela and I run hand in hand there, skipping between the small stones, still singing that silly song a boy at school taught us yesterday, about the flowers and the gardeners. And laughing about it too, questioning who is the prettiest one: her or me? And this boy, Angelo his name, is he in love with me or with her?
We come off the bend to the only half-paved road in our poor little village, happy to bounce on solid ground. Just then a black car suddenly stops near us, making noise and raising dust. Never before in my life have I seen such a beautiful, shiny car. I can see myself reflected in it, like in a twisted mirror. But only for a second, because the back window rolls down immediately and a man pokes out his head, asking me for my name. Maria, I say. I hate my name, I really do. It’s so…
He tells me to come over and show him the way to our school. Adela whispers in my ear that I shouldn’t do it and drops my hand. But I do it anyhow, maybe because Mami always told me to obey men. Especially older men like him. When I get closer he opens the door suddenly, grabs my hand and pulls me inside. He is very strong, so it’s easy for him to place me in the backseat between his legs and push my head down. All I can think of is my schoolbag: why did I leave it behind on the dirt road? No matter, Adela will bring it to school with her. Of course she would. That’s where we are going, isn’t it?
The car answers me by taking off screaming. I want to scream too, but I can’t. His stinky hand is on my mouth. It hurts me so I bite it. He curses bad words and hits me on the back of my head. Now I really scream. He is strangling me. I can’t breathe. His firm thighs clap my hips. I can’t move. I can’t shout. I close my eyes.
When I close my eyes, I’m afraid the world that was promised to me—going to school with Adela, meeting Angelo and our other friends there, studying history which I like the most, our day-trip next week to the Mayan ruins, even graduation and going to high school in town—may be gone and lost forever. And together with the cloud of dust I imagine the speeding car is raising behind as it leaves our village, an evil cloud is falling all over me. Covering me with eternal darkness and sadness.

Leave a comment

Filed under Crime, Culture, Literary

News Flash—Old and New!

In February of 2012 I was fortunate enough to be declared the winner of “Moment Magazine Memoir Contest,” awarded for my short story entry titled, “The Sweet Life.” The award ceremony was held at the Spertus Institute in Chicago, with participation of Moment Magazine’s editor and publisher, Nadine Epstein, and the author Shalom Auslander, who was the contest judge.

Only a few weeks ago, totally by chance, I discovered that a radio station in Chicago, WBEZ 95.1 (NPR Affiliated) had broadcasted the award ceremony and reading that came with it. And so, if you have some minutes to spare—and you really want, rather need to get away from the depressing news of these days—take a listen, in particular as I read from my award-wining short story.

Here’s the link to the radio broadcast

Leave a comment

Filed under Culture, Literary

Sex War One

Sew War One, CoverTo give you a taste of my book, “Sex War One,” I’ve been posting segments of my award-winning short story, “The Monster,” which serves also as the basis for this book.
Sex War One – a dystopian, Sci-fi novel – is available for purchase in all eBooks & iBooks stores & devices. “Fast-moving plot and skillful Sex War One – my dystopian Sci-fi novel – is available for purchase in all eBooks & iBooks stores & devices. “Fast-moving plot and skillful characterization,” said the Science Fiction Studies journal. “This book unifies within it the principles of major Science-Fiction literature,” said This World. Kindle Edition & Smashwords Edition (for iTunes, Kobo, B&N & more.) For further details please check my books page.

Here then is the last segment:

He wanted to protest but quickly realized his present situation did not allow him to do so. He still had his wits about him, which was a good sign. He knew that everything was done under N.R.’s instructions, and that a constant struggle – maybe even hatred and resentment – would forever rule the air between them. The look she directed at him was full of investigative curiosity. She didn’t believe his explanations, he suspected.

He left them shortly thereafter and went up to his room, thinking that at least this stage was successfully accomplished. The Monster no longer existed within the “sane” colony’s walls. She wouldn’t disturb the “proper” way of life here anymore, or threaten in any way the “forward” progression and development of this golden race.

He rushed to take a long, decontaminated shower, as if wishing to shed down the drain each and every remnant of his sojourn outside. He felt he had to get rid of the impressions that the world he had visited left him with. Especially, he had to let go of the bug that may had bitten him and taken possession of him. Over there in the cave’s ground, with that daughter of nature.

Afterwards, following a meal he hastily prepared and ate, he lay down in his bed, listening to his beloved music; music from a different world and era, preformed by the colony’s music-computer. Maybe a man named Beethoven composed it originally; maybe it was based on his Moonlight Sonata. He had read about him once, being deaf and all, and had heard this piece of music once before. He remembered it fondly, and so had chosen to enter the word “moonlight” into his electronic distance-device. He was honoring not only the memory of a bygone world, age and man, but also – still so alive within him – the magnificent moon and moonlight he had witnessed before entering the colony.

He remembered the dream he had dreamed in the cave. He thought about it and about what had preceded it. What he had gone through with Z.Z. He didn’t have a word for it – or was afraid to search for it. He was not completely at ease yet, revisiting in his head all that had happened to him outside during that long, eventful day, and all the places and vistas he had seen.

Finally, a good feeling began to spread throughout his body and mind, unassisted by drugs and pills. He felt stronger; he felt wiser. He needed only courage.

Leave a comment

Filed under Destopian, Literary, Sci-fi