A Pretty Strange Dream.

Now I have some pretty exotic and detailed dreams--I guess that is why Isaac hear's me laugh while I'm asleep. I chalk it up to my overactive imagination and my love for reading—so my fantasy world can be highly detailed. Ask anyone from my D&D group. Well, I had a nice one last night and I thought I’d share it with you:

A family from outer space visited earth. They didn’t have bodies like you or I so they manufactured some to “wear” during the course of their visitation. The bodies were highly detailed and gender appropriate. The family consisted of two parents and one son. Their visit wasn’t covert at all (like on 3^rd Rock from the Sun). Instead, they had the government’s approval to stay as long as they wanted. I was a government agent assigned to their well being and answer any questions they had. I had a partner that reminds me now of Wanda Sykes. Together, we were to educate them on the human experience and the American life. I don’t know how I was picked for such a job but hey, it’s my dream right?

So the story picks up on a regular day during the work week. The son is in class and I am at the office. The father is with “Wanda” (I can’t actually remember her name so I’ll call her Wanda.) He is hosing down the drive way—not to clean it mind you, just to see the water cascade in sheets. He is fascinated by it.

            “Are you gonna clean it?” asks Wanda.

            “Clean it? Is it dirty? And if I clean it, won’t it just get dirty again?” says the father.

            “Well then why are you hosing it down?”

            “I like the water. We don’t have such things from my planet.”

            “You don’t have water? How do you drink?”

            “We don’t need to drink. This stuff is so different.” As he says this, he turns the hose onto himself and proceeds to soak himself.

            “What you need is a baptism. Have you been saved yet?”

            “Saved? From who? Is there danger?” He drops the hose and looks around some what alarmed.

            “From the devil. Don’t you have Jesus on your planet?”

            “No, he never visited. From what I’ve heard, some people here killed him.”

            “Well, I mean God. Don’t you have God?”

            “Oh, that is Jesus’s father right? No, he never visited either.”

            “Of course he has, he’s the God almighty! He made the entire universe. You, me, everything.”

            “Why do you keep talking about him? No one has ever seen him or heard from him except others that no longer exist. Yet you talk about him like he could show up any moment.”

            “He can. He is very much alive. He is the father of all life.”

            “I know, I know, you, me and everything right? Your obsession with this person is strange.”

            “All of your family needs to learn about him and be saved.”

Suddenly it’s late in the afternoon. Wanda and I pull up to the house for our routine afternoon visit. We walk right in to find all of them secluded in their rooms. Wanda goes to the parent’s room while I visit the son. I knock on his door he calls me to enter.  I enter another hallway with two more doors: one his bedroom and the other the bathroom with the shower running. His head pops out the bedroom and with a grin invites me in. He is a tall (about 7’) and has a swimmer’s build. His hair is jet black and his skin a pale tint. He is standing before me in his boxers.

            “I was just about to take a shower. Would you like to join me?”

            “Uh, no. We don’t actually bathe together routinely on this planet.”

            “You should, it is great fun.”

            “I’m sure it is. Have you been bathing all day?”

            “No, I just got home.”

            “Ok, good. I realize that you and your parents enjoy the water a lot but it isn’t good for you to stay submerged in water too long. Your bodies may lose too much of its natural oils it needs to survive. Over long periods of time, you could cause yourself injury.”

            “Ok, I won’t stay in all night.”

            “Another thing,” I walk over to his personal sink area he had in his room. He has all his drinking glasses filled with water. “When you rinse out your glasses, you can put them here to dry out. You don’t have to leave them filled.”

            “But isn’t that what they are for?”

            “Yes, but you don’t have to fill them up all the time. Once you’ve cleaned them and let them dry, you can put them away in your cabinet.” I open the cabinet to find he has filled all those glasses too.

            “If you leave water in them, the water tends to go stale.”

            “Is that why they taste different? I didn’t know what it was. Is stale a bad thing?”

            “I’ll explain more on that later. Right now, Wanda and I need to go file our reports. We’ll be back later to explain more.”

            “Well, you will but not Wanda.”

            “What? Why is that?”

            “My dad has just put her on fire.”

            “What?”

            He stares off into the distant for just a bit and says, “Yup. Just now. She won’t be working here anymore.”

            “Oh, you mean fired! She’s just been fired. Fired! Why?!”

            “It appears she’s obsessed with some dead guy that she insists his father has visited our planet.”

“I better go check up on her.”

“Are you coming back for dinner? We’re gonna eat—a lobster.”

“Uh, I’m not sure.” I go outside to find Wanda pacing back and forth by the car. I don’t say a word while she starts shouting.

            “They canned me. Me! They can’t do that. Just who in the hell do they think they are!”

I get in the car and she gets in too. Next thing I know, the alarm is going off.

           

Coming Soon In The Pecan Grove Review XIII

I have another short story coming out in the Pecan Grove Review XIII (PGR).  Though I work for the Pecan Grove Press, the PGR is a separate animal all together.  For those of you interested, I present it here in its entirety with limited commercial interruptions:

Fiddle, Faddle, Feedle

                By Luis A. Cortez

                The unusually large and blazing sun climbs to its zenith casting a watchful gaze below to see a lone soldier lying under a blackened dead tree.  The branches seem to bow towards him as if to caress Refugio—now in the throes of death. To him, he thinks he can hear the roaring flames of the sun and stretching wood of the tree. His soiled white shirt is marred with an ever growing blood stain. His hands cradle the bullet wound that lies under his heart. In the distance, he can hear the battle raging over the next hill for the little unknown fort occupied by the gringos. His breath is shallow and it is beginning to get harder to breath. He licks his dry lips and he imagines his lungs filling up with blood. If the blood pouring out his body does not kill him first, surely he will simply drown here in the desert.

                “Pinche gringos,” he laughs at the irony. He sees a shadow move about his legs. He looks up to see a brown owl sitting on a low hanging branch taking an interest in him.

                “It looks like I’m not going to die alone.”

                The owl looks away as if curiously drawn to something else; the sounds of battle pressing on.

                “I’m sorry, mi amigo, that I am not more entertaining for you. Perhaps if I were feeling better, I would do a little dance for you, eh?” Refugio laughs at the idea of him dancing for an owl in the middle of Texas—so far from Mexico City, his home.

                The owl turns back to Refugio, regards him for a second or so, and says, “Fiddle!”

                “Fiddle?”

                “Fiddle!”

                “You’re a strange owl, senor. I was told that owls said ‘who’, not ‘fiddle.’” At this curiosity, Refugio moves to hoist himself up to get a better look at the owl. As he does so, his hand brushes up against a full water skin beading with cold water droplets along its leather hide. This was not here before. He recalls drinking the full contents of his water skin some time back. He picks up the new skin, moistens his lips, pulls back the top and quenches his thirst. He keeps his eye on the owl and the owl, in turn, watches him.

                “You didn’t bring me this did you?” Refugio ponders the idea for a moment before admonishing himself. “Of course you didn’t! You’re just a pinche bird!  Refugio, you’re going crazy.”

                “Faddle!” The owl screeches.

                Refugio falls silent. He just sits there trying to hold himself up to stare at a brown owl sitting on a low hanging branch.

                “Faddle!” the owl screeches again and Refugio visibly jumps at the owl’s proclamation.  The owl spreads its wings and flaps furiously. A single brown feather shakes loose and flutters to the ground to rest on the back of Refugio’s hand. Suddenly, Refugio feels a sleek, smooth movement traverse around his wrist. He looks now to see a large grass snake coiling around his arm. He screams and tries to shake it loose but the pain of his open wound over takes him and he collapses to the ground. The grass snake licks wickedly at the blood soaked shirt and after a few seconds looking at the wound, the snake dives into the bullet hole!

                Refugio screams in shock and pain as the snake writhes to enter his body. Just as Refugio is about to seize the snake and throw him away, the owl swoops down to clasp the snake and carry it back to his perch. Refugio cannot believe his eyes as the snake, trying to get away from the owl, is brandishing the bullet slug in his mouth. The owl begins to eat.

                “I know you, tecolote,” Refugio announces as he clasps onto his injury. He rocks back and forth trying to sooth the angry wound.  His vision blurs in and out of focus. The loss of blood is beginning to take its toll. He raises his hand to make the “sign of the cross” first touching his forehead, “En nombre de padre…,” he begins but the owl suddenly discards the snake onto Refugio making him jump to shake the dead and mutilated snake off him. In the distance, despite the battle, Refugio can make out a wild cackle. Refugio turns his attention to the bird.

                “There was an Owl lived in an oak,” recites Refugio, “Whiskey, waskey, weedle!”

Refugio recalls his time in California on one of his many duty assignments. There he met a soldier from the United States Calvary. They exchanged anecdotes and scary stories while getting drunk late into the evening.

“And all the words he ever spoke,” Refugio calls out but his vision is blurry again. The Owl seems to fade away leaving an old crone standing in front of him.  “Were fiddle, faddle, feedle!”

“No, no, mijito,” says the old woman, “I need a young man to get me around. You will make a fine horse, you will.” Again she cackles. Her face is a twisted visage of wrinkles. One of her eyes is milky white. Her shawl is tattered and her dress is poorly stitched up. Her image fades away and the owl has returned.

“Feedle!” cries out the owl while thrashing his wings again. A number of feathers fall from the owl to land on Refugio’s legs. Quite unexpectedly, Refugio is overtaken with a new pain rushing from his feet. He screams out and tries to shake the pain from him but the pain endures. Refugio has forgotten about his bullet wound. He tries to scramble to his feet but his legs fail him. Then, to Refugio’s shocked amazement, his left boot bursts open to reveal a misshapen foot. The toes look to have merged together and his ankle has expanded ripping his sock and revealing brown fur. He continues to scream as he hears his bones snapping and resetting themselves. His right foot does the same. His legs have transformed into the legs of a horse.

Refugio begins to panic. His mind races back to the story the corporal shared.

“A Gunner chanced to come that road, Whiskey, waskey, weedle!” Refugio drew out his pistol and pointed it at the owl. “Says he, ‘I'll shoot you, Silly Bird!’”

As he tries to finger the trigger, he notices his fingers are now melded together. The finger nails are turning black and brown fur is growing out his skin. His whole body lurches forward as his shoulders push apart. He can sense his neck growing, what seems to him, to a monstrous length.  He tries to scream but his voice breaks and he sounds like a neighing horse! He fumbles the pistol and tries to regain his composure. He levels the gun onto the owl who his now thrashing about on the branch. Between heaving breaths and concentrated effort, he says, “so fiddle…faddle…feedle!”

A clap of thunder rolls across the sky and the owl seems to implode leaving only a bundle of brown feathers to fall to the ground. Refugio is wracked with pain once again and he passes out to the fading cackle in the distance.

He awakens to the voices of two military medics. He opens his eyes to see them standing over him. He tries to talk but all he can manage is a groan.

“No se preocupe. We’ve got you. You must have one hell of a story to tell. How did you get all the way over here on two broken legs and a bullet wound?” Refugio tries to raise his head but finds it to too heavy to lift. He raises his hand to see five blood stained fingers. He thinks to himself, “maybe I dreamt this. Maybe it was a hallucination?”

The other medic says, “I think he ate a bird. Look at all these feathers!”

Two Love-vely Bunch of Coconuts on a Sunday Afternoon!

This past weekend, Mike, Ken, John, Jonathan, Isaac, and I made our way up to Sherwood Forest Faire. It is a renaissance faire that is much smaller than the Texas Renaissance Faire we attend in the fall. It’s about two-hours away vs. the four Houston trip and so, for the second year in a row, we just made a day trip of it. I blew about 70 bucks on a rental and drove us up and back. We all had a blast! Ken wore his Roman soldier armor, and Isaac and I wore our senatorial robes. Though I could certainly do an hour-by-hour replay, I will save you all the trouble by only highlighting two of our favorite moments! Needless to say, the mead was flowing; otherwise, we wouldn’t be nearly as bold as we were!  

To begin with, once we got there, we wanted to show Mike the jousting—yes, Mike is a Renaissance Virgin. So we headed over to the lists—that’s where the jousting takes place—but realized we were a half-hour too early. We went, instead, to get some food. We approached a vendor that sold all kinds of fried stuff: mushrooms, fries, sausages (Italian and Polish), artichoke, steak on a stick, and various other oil-immersed goodies. Isaac was eyeing the sausage, and I wanted the artichoke.  It smelled delicious and I guess everyone else thought so too because there was a rather lengthy line waiting for service. We took our place in line and watched the vendor—simply because he was so animated.  The vendor was announcing each order in a loud, comical manner, and asking for the currency in pounds. Of course, we all knew he meant dollars and everyone went along with it. Isaac was enchanted with this guy especially since he really made a big deal whenever he was tipped! It went something like this:

                “ OOOOne order of sausage and fries!!!!! That’ll be 8 pounds, my Looooord!  Neeeeext!!!!” But before the guy left, he took his change and left a dollar in the tip jar. “ Ooooooh! We have a tipper!!! Thank you, sir!!!! Thank you! Many blessings on your hhhooouse! Neeeeext!!!”

This went on for every customer. I guess Isaac thought this guy was doing an awesome job at entertaining us because when Isaac’s turn came up, he left the guy a couple of dollars but they were folded up in such a way as to like  a bunch of bills. In a louder (if that was possible) voice, the vendor really shot off and said,

                “Ooooh! Thank you, my Loord!!! You are toooo generous! Somebody give that man a kiss! Somebody kiss’em!”

Isaac, however, just laughing the whole thing off, turned around and started walking towards me—as I had moved out of the line to make it easier for everyone.  The vendor, however, wasn’t giving up:

                “Haaang on!!!  Sir! Sir! You sir!! Is no one gonna kiss that man!!!??!!  Hey you!!!”

By this time, people stopped and turned and those in line stopped Isaac to tell him the vendor was talking to him.

                “Come back here! If no one is gonna kiss you, then I’ll do it myself!!!!”

At this, everyone broke into laughter but I quickly put myself in front of Isaac and shouted back!

                “OOOh hell no! This is my boyfriend! No one kisses him except me!!!!!”

                “Well, give him a kiss then!!!!”

At that, I spun around and planted a kiss squarely on Isaac right in front of everyone! I didn’t give a damn! I was claiming what’s mine!  We got some cheers and some claps but I think everyone just looked away! HA!!!

The second incident happened much later in the day after poor Isaac was really tanked. We were winding up the day with a final trip to the hatchet throwing booth—seeing Isaac and Jonathan throw hatchets while drunk is hilarious as hell—when we were stopped by one of the park employees. He announced himself as John Little. And, yes, he certainly did look the part! He was a tall burly man with a rosy nose and cheeks.  

                “Pardon me, my lords, I pray thee a word. Today I am going to get married but those two guards guarding the chapel won’t let me in! Seeing how you two are dressed so, you must be lords of Rome (At this point, he notices Isaac has purple trim on his toga) In fact, you must be Caesar! That means you must be Brutus (me) and he (Ken) must be your Praetorian Guard! I am certain with masters such as you accompanying me, I can get me in the chapel! (Directed to Ken) You look scary enough! Show me your war face!”

At  that, Ken says: “Grrrr.” Not shouts. Not growls out. Not even a nasty cat grrr. He just lifts his lip while standing there and says: “Grrrr.”

“You see?!” continues Little John, “with that, I’m sure we can get in! So will you help me so I can get married?”

Keep in mind, he is saying this in a loud voice and we are definitely in ear shot of—oh, it seems—the entire park so suffice it to say that put us on the spot to help this character. Ken shrugs at me and Isaac is waiting for me to respond and I just can’t pass this golden opportunity up so we swing around and march right up to the chapel.  Little John is delighted and he leads us. We get there and just as Little John steps up, these two (Latinos) English guards stop Little John and bark out:

                “No, no, no! We already told you; you are not allowed in here.  The Sheriff of Nottingham is already inside and he left strict orders for you and any of your lot not to be allowed admittance.

                “But…but…but…I have two lords and…and…they want me to show them the chapel!”

                Realizing what is happening, Isaac turns to me and asks, “Please speak for me? “And I respond, “Uh uh, this one is all yours. Do it! Just have fun with it!” He looks up to Little John and steels himself. He then steps around Little John and yells out,

                “Do you know who I am! I am Caesar! Emperor of GREECE!”     <---silly me, and here I thought we were Romans.

                The guards look like they’ve been slapped in the face! I can’t tell whether they are surprised by his outburst or whether they are trying not to laugh but they repeat the title over to each other:

                “ Caesar of Greece?! Ceasar of Greece?!  Oh! That sounds important!”

                Without missing a beat, Isaac continues: “I’m here with Brutus (points to me) and my guard (Ken says grrr.) and we want to see this chapel!”

                “Well,” says the guard shifting uncomfortably, “we better let you in then.”

Poor Isaac is never gonna live this one down!

Chicago style deep dish pizza--with San Antonio influences

Yesterday afternoon, Isaac and I tried our hand at making a Chicago style deep-dish pizza! It was an adventure, to say the least, and one that I advise should not be taken lightly. To begin with, we made our own crust. We had a recipe so it wasn't like we dream it up from scratch--Oh my, can you imagine the hell that would be?

I started the dough at 4pm. It takes an hour to proof so just after 5, I punched it down and rolled it out. I used a springform pan for our creation so as to make it easier to remove from the tin. After laying out the dough and spreading it out across the pan and up the sides, I let it proof for another twenty minutes. During that time, we prepared all our toppings--well, not really toppings as they went inside the pizza. We sliced up the mushrooms, onion, red and green bell pepper. We cooked the Italian sausage and chopped up the Canadian bacon. Once the dough proofed for a second time, we were all set to lay "in" the pizza. We started with layering the mozzarella cheese--we used slices. The meats came second: pepperoni, sausage, and bacon. Finally, all the veggies: bell peppers, onion, and mushrooms--we didn't cook any of the vegetables. We let the oven do that.   finally, we topped it off with more mozzarella cheese--this time, shredded. Notice I haven't mentioned the sauce yet. I didn't forget. We didn't use any until the last stages of our creation! Once the toppings were layed down, we put another layer of dough on top! We punched a few holes to vent and then covered the entire thing up with sauce. We dabbed it with garlic (as we forgot to include that in our ingredients until the end!) We sprinkled it down with parmesan and mozzarella cheese. We baked it 400 degrees for forty minutes!

It came out a little charred on top but the inside was pure perfection! We enjoyed it thoroughly! As we sat there (Isaac, Ken, and I) scarfing down our pizza, we talked about what we would do differently. I thought the sauce was enough but the boys wanted more so next time I will probably coat the first layer of cheese with sauce and place the meats and add another coat before layering the veggies and then add the final layer of sauce once I place the dough top. Also, I probably will not place cheese on top until half the cooking time has expired. This will still give the cheese plenty of time to melt but not so much time as to char. One last note: the bread came out really thick. Thicker than I remember from Chicago. So next time around, I think will roll it out a bit thinner. I can't wait to try this again!

The emergence of the Bear and Cub Press

So Isaac was bit by the conference bug really bad! We already know he is a great commentator of life's little (ahem) quirks, but now he wants to publish! Hmmmm...food for thought here.

Metal is mettle is metal

It's Tuesday afternoon. My boss's door is open and the light is turned off. I have just finished my lackluster lunch and I feel numb.  Tomorrow morning, Isaac and I will be traversing the American skyline on our way to Chicago for the AWP Annual Conference and yet, I'm not excited. My boss and I have been planning this trip since last April. He has been to Chicago before so he has regaled me with stories of the Windy City and how much fun he's had there. Until the end of May, we--my boss and I--continued to hammer out the details of the trip; but then the world changed for us: my boss was diagnosed with cancer. He tells me that his prognosis is good but he attends chemo therapy twice a month. He tells me that he feels great but we all see him stagger and hear him throw up in his private restroom. He asked me, while reeling from the news of his cancer, "What are we going to do about AWP!?" I suggest Isaac go with us so as to lend a helping hand. Having seen too many of my own family members sucumb to cancer, I know only too well treatment for cancer robs the strength and tires the muscles. Like a shark in the throes of feeding, chemo eats everything in its path and does not discriminate friend from foe. In December, we booked our flights. Isaac and I scrambled to get the $300 dollars necessary for his flight. We did it thanks to Mom. I finally got everything together and waited for today. If we could just make it one more week. We would be back with vivid memories of worthwhile adventures but alas, my boss is too weak to make the trip. He has just informed me that he cannot make it and is leaving it to me to handle the conference on my own.

Tomorrow morning--just before 7am, Isaac and I will board the plane. He will be excited and I will be nervous. We will joke around and make each other laugh and the plane will have at least one empty seat. The excitement of the adventure is heavily diminished knowing the last trip my boss could make happened a year ago.

Egads! Not Since April 2011 Have I Posted Here!

Ten months ago, I posted a story that still makes me laugh when I read it and I have had countless adventures since! Like the time Isaac and I erupted into a shouting match while poor Ken and Jonjon sat in the backseat, hungover as hell, huddled together like frightened puppies on our way to the Texas Reinassance Festival. Or when I finally convinced Isaac to move in with me only to realize that, once again, Isaac had to work the week of his move and so I was left moving everything (again, with the help of Ken and Jonjon--guardian angels if ever there were any.)

And though it reads as if I'm about to paint to a sob story here, let me say now that Isaac moving in has been such a blessing. I have always been a joyous person--not absolute joy, but joyous all the same; Isaac coming into my life has magnified that joy many times over. Thank you, Isaac--my seraph.

This April will mark my forty-fourth birthday and I have yet to contribute anything permanent in this society--well, aside from debt! (Bwahahahahaha!) But seriously, as many of my close friends know, I am a storyteller and, personally, I think I can spin a pretty good yarn! So inspired by my dear friend, Manny, who once said, "All the good things happen on even years!"  (I'm probably butchering the hell out of what he actually said but what the hell) I am resolved to make this year: 2012--the year of my 44th birthday--be the year I make all my good things happen. This will be the year I begin "my" career as a writer, an artist, a creator!

Don't worry, Isaac, I won't quit my day job--not yet anyway. But mark the calendar! This is the day! Huzzah! Let us begin to spin that yarn!