Steven Ramirez's Blog: Glass Highway, page 22

‘Arrival’ (2016)

Director: Denis Villeneuve

Writers: Eric Heisserer (screenplay), Ted Chiang (based on the story “Story of Your Life” written by)

Stars: Amy Adams, Jeremy Renner, Forest Whitaker

Drama | Mystery | Sci-Fi | Thriller

Paramount Pictures

PG-13

Log Line: When twelve mysterious spacecraft appear around the world, linguistics professor Louise Banks is tasked with interpreting the language of the apparent alien visitors.

Boy, did I need to see this! 2016 was a tough year for many reasons, both generally and personally. It’s not often I watch a movie twice in a row, but after seeing ‘Arrival’ the first time the other night, I couldn’t wait to put it on again. I’ve always been a huge Amy Adams fan—two of my favorite movies of hers being ‘Enchanted’ and ‘Julie & Julia.’ She’s one of those rare actors who can exhibit both vulnerability and strength at the same time and break your heart in the process. And as a professor of linguistics trying to solve an impossible mystery, she is at the top of her game.

I won’t recount the story here—you can watch the trailer for that. But I will point out a few things I felt made this film—nominated for eight Academy Awards at the time of this writing—brilliant. First off, the writing. The story by Ted Chiang is filled with a profound sense of human longing—a longing to connect with something bigger. Many people interpret this as a search for God in our lives, and I happen to believe that. But I think, in general, people want to feel a part of something outside ourselves. Something that gives life meaning and us a purpose. The screenplay, based on that story, captures this feeling beautifully and reinforces it throughout so that by the time you arrive at the end, you can see.

The direction and cinematography were perfect for this kind of storytelling. Everything that happens is seen through Louise’s eyes, and we unravel the mystery with her. As if things weren’t difficult enough trying to decipher an alien language, she is always surrounded by strangers—army personnel and CIA operatives—whose purpose she can’t fathom and who seem to be in opposition to what she’s trying to accomplish. Inside the massive floating spacecraft, we lose our sense of direction. And the playing with time itself throughout is hypnotic.

Of course, any good movie has lots of conflict, which in this case is presented in the form of people’s paranoia about the aliens. The armies of the world all want to know what the aliens’ purpose is in coming here and, judging from their actions, they are all on a hair trigger. The director Denis Villeneuve captures this intense struggle with simplicity and clarity. And to balance things out—because not everyone in the military can be bad—we have the character of Colonel Weber, who is just trying to understand. Oh, and that soundtrack! Pay attention to the horns every time we see the aliens.

In the wrong hands, ‘Arrival’ could have turned into ‘Independence Day.’ Thank goodness cooler heads prevailed! No doubt, I will see it again.

You can find this review at IMDb. Now, check out this featurette.

More Reviews

Did you enjoy this review? Check out my other movie reviews here.

For seven weeks, I will be posting chapters from my new satirical novel Chainsaw Honeymoon.

Blurb

Ruby Navarro, a bright, funny fourteen-year-old who loves horror movies, is on a mission to get her parents back together. But she can’t do it alone. She’ll need her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant student filmmaker, and a computer-generated, chainsaw-wielding killer. What could possibly go wrong?

Don’t get me wrong. I was psyched to be spending the entire summer with my dad. I loved Mom, but enough was enough. I needed to hang out with the Big Guy for a while. That was not to say Dad didn’t have his own issues. Currently, number one on his hit parade was a certain Stacey Navarro. I was going to have to play this very carefully. I didn’t want to give away too much info, but I also didn’t want to blow him off. He would totally see through that. Hmm, or would he? Mom once told me men were thick. Nevertheless, I thought it better not to take any chances.

We were weaving through midday traffic on the 405 in Dad’s new Lexus NX Hybrid. Ed was safely harnessed in the backseat. I had on my Wayfarers and, as we passed the Getty Center, I noticed some preppy from Harvard-Westlake oh-so-casually checking me out as he sped by us in his Porsche. Be cool, Ruby! I loved that Dad worked at a car dealership. We got to tool around in these fantastic late-model vehicles and pretend we were somebody. For all this bub knew, I was on my way to the Scream Queens set to do a walk-on with Emma Roberts.

I grabbed a snickerdoodle from the paper bag Mom had given me, checked on Ed, and fiddled with the GPS. Dad was too distracted to notice. Probably because he’d been looking forward to this day for weeks and, now that it was here, he didn’t know what to say. Typical male of the species. Look, I knew Dad loved me and all, but lately he seemed more like a stranger. And he was. Living apart from Mom and me had really hurt our relationship. Time to break the ice.

“I can’t wait for self-driving cars,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.

“What? Hey, don’t break that!”

Gently, he pulled my hand away from the controls and looked at me with these huge, sincere puppy-dog eyes. Oh, boy. I’d hoped to keep things light, but I could tell my father was in a rut and wanted to spill about the thing that was bothering him. I should’ve picked up on the clues—the nervous finger-tapping and the random humming—and misdirected him with a quick chorus of “Just A Girl.” But it was too late. Before I could open my mouth, Dad stepped in it with both feet.

“Does she talk about me?” he said.

I could feel my mouth going lopsided, which apparently is a thing I do whenever I’m confronted with the kind of bald-faced idiocy only a man could muster. I coughed, spraying cookie crumbs on the car’s nice clean interior.

“Dad!” I said.

He turned to me, looking confused. “What, honey? Are those snickerdoodles?”

Hmm, so we were playing hardball.

“She doesn’t say anything. She’s, I don’t know, getting on with her life?”

“I see.”

Do you remember Carl at the beginning of Season 4 of The Walking Dead, when Farmer Rick no longer permitted him to carry a weapon? That’s what Dad looked like. Not even an hour into my vacation, and summer already sucked. Nice going, Alan.

“And we’re not doing this third degree all summer,” I said. “It’s boring.”

“Sure, no problem.”

I might have gone a bit too far, having accused my own dear father of being the B-word. Boring. Like our neighbor Boyd, who taught geometry at a nearby charter school, drove a Corolla, ate Sun Chips, and was a champion thumb wrestler. Boyd, who liked to use words like “discombobulated,” “sammich,” “back atcha,” and “yea big.” Boyd, who was happily married to an equally boring woman named Barbara, had four healthy young children—all boring—and a twenty-year mortgage. Boyd, who took the family on annual driving vacations to visit relatives in Nebraska. Yeah, that neighbor. Great. Now I felt awful.

Dad let me stew in my own juices for a while. Eventually, we exited at Santa Monica Blvd.

“Want a burger?” he said.

It was like nothing had happened. Hmm… I think Mom may have underestimated men. Not that I’m thick! I totally saw what he was doing, but here’s the thing, I couldn’t turn down a burger. No way. Already imagining the succulent juices dribbling down my chin, I found myself laughing like the little girl he no doubt remembered. Oh, he was good.

“Can we go to Shake Shack?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

“Pleeeeeeze?”

“That place is always too crowded. Let’s try Irv’s.”

“Fine,” I said. “By the way, this wouldn’t be a bribe, would it?”

“Hey, would I bribe my own daughter?”

Can I get an amen?

* * *

If horror is my life, then meat is my passion. Beef, especially. So when Dad suggested a hamburger, you can see why I folded like a $5.99 camping chair from Walmart. Anyways. The traffic at Santa Monica and Laurel was nonstop and the parking nonexistent as we pulled up to the venerable Irv’s Burgers in West Hollywood. Fun fact for ya—Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin used to hang out there. Well, at the old location. Mom said they were famous musicians.

Eventually, we found a parking spot and were now sitting at a small outdoor table, eating cheeseburgers. The great thing about Irv’s is, it doesn’t matter how you are dressed or where you’re from or how old you are. We were like a family. One large, carnivorous family.

“I love burgers, don’t you?” I said, my mouth shiny with meat juice.

Dad was still distracted. “Yeah, I do. Listen—”

“I’m pretty sure I was a cannibal in a former life.”

“A cannibal?”

“Did you know scientists have learned that cannibalism goes back at least fifty-thousand years?”

Hoping to avoid any mention of Mom, I continued the anthropology lesson, but my father was finding it harder and harder to stay focused. Look, he’s really a very sweet guy—the best. And I’ll bet he had intended to keep the whole Stacey business to himself. But from the way he was looking at me, like I might be the NSA of Mom-tel, I knew he was going to pump me for information, or explode.

“Has Mom mentioned any male that’s not me?” Dad said, not making direct eye contact.

Though I felt sorry for the guy, I rolled my eyes and flung an angry fry at his head. It bounced and landed on the sidewalk, only to be inhaled instantly by Ed.

“I’m going to eat you, if you don’t quit it!”

To my surprise, he changed the subject.

“Listen, Rube,” he said. “Before we go to the apartment, I need to stop off at the dealership. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Sure, no prob.”

“Great. Are you done?”

“Hang on!”

Now, I am proud to say I’m a total vacuum cleaner when it comes to food. But as good as I am, I needed more than a few seconds to make half a cheeseburger, a basket of fries drenched in ketchup, and a large Diet Coke disappear. In the end, I beat my old record and came in at a minute-forty-five. In your face, Slimer!

* * *

It took us twenty minutes to get to the West Side. Dad worked at Lexus of Santa Monica and had been their top performer for, like, forever. Nevertheless, he hated the sales manager, Rick Van Loon. Though he had never put it into words, I could always tell there was this tension whenever those two were in the same room together. Sort of like Sam and Dean confronting Crowley.

“Wait here in the showroom and look at cars or something,” Dad said, handing me a brochure. “I need to see Rick.”

“Sure, Daddy-O.”

“And don’t ever call me that.”

“Roger that.”

Dad abandoned me, so to pass the time, I Snapchatted with Claire and Diego. Presently, I was sending them pics of Ed and me mugging inside the new cars while Claire gave us a quick clarinet concert and Diego showed me what it was like hanging curtains with his mom. When I turned around, I could see my father through the glass of Rick’s office, fidgeting and looking around.

Rick was standing in front of the big board, pointing at the names of the salespeople and their ranking. Dad’s name was at the very top, of course. I decided to eavesdrop and, putting away my phone, positioned Ed and myself outside Rick’s office, out of sight.

It was pretty obvious to me why Dad hated this guy. He was making these annoying clicking noises with his tongue as he used a dry-erase marker to update the numbers. Truly, he was a strange, grubby little poser who, despite his position, liked wearing ill-fitting Macy’s suits, and he had dandruff and smelled like Dentyne. On his desk sat a framed photo of himself with the governor. Photoshop, most likely.

Oh, and there was something else about Rick you should know. He was pretty much a washout with the ladies. I didn’t know if he insulted them or what. But he must’ve done something bad recently because one of his eyes was swollen shut and two fingers were taped together.

“Hot date last night, Rick?” Dad said.

Though Rick’s legendary facial tic was kicking in, he refused to take the bait.

“So! Looks like you’re a shoo-in to win the sales contest this month.”

Way to go, Dad! You know, I think my evil streak might have come from him. I could see he wasn’t letting this go. Smiling, he continued to poke the bear.

“Are you going to press charges this time?”

Rick’s cheeks got tight and the pupil in his good eye became a pinpoint. It was as if his entire face was controlled by a single wire that Dad was gleefully manipulating.

“My personal life is not up for discussion.”

Rick had said this with an air of importance only a short man could pull off. Boy, Dad must’ve gotten to him because the next thing Rick did was accidentally knock the photo to the floor, sending glass everywhere. As Dad helpfully picked up the frame, he noticed something. Now I saw it, too—it was the corner of another photo behind the first. What the…

Before Dad could say anything, Rick grabbed the broken frame and shoved it into a desk drawer.

“Thank you!” he said.

His face was three shades of red. Popping a couple of fresh sticks of Dentyne into his pie hole, he sat back and smiled like Dexter.

“Hey, are you and Stacey still trying to—”

Wait, did he just mention my mother? When the receptionist Gina came over, I ducked out fast, dragging Ed behind me.

Gina Wallace was a nice girl with unusually large eyes, a cute figure, and these tiny little teeth that reminded me of Del Monte white corn. Whenever I saw her, I got the feeling she was waiting for Rick to “come to his senses” and pick her, instead of going another round with the Ronda Rouseys of the world. Thanks to Dad, I knew Gina’s whole sordid history. Over the years, she’d nursed Rick through cracked ribs, broken toes, damaged kidneys, and a singed uvula, which happened the time he went out with a fire eater from a Polish circus.

“Alan, Ms. Heatherly is here,” Gina said, pretending not to notice Rick.

“I thought I was seeing her tomorrow. Okay, thanks, Gina.” Dad smirked at Rick. “Are we done here?”

“Sure, sure,” Rick said. “Mr. Contest Winner.” Then to Gina, “Can you get someone in here to clean up this glass?”

Rick always said “someone” when everyone, including the Pope, knew he meant Gina. And that poor girl would always pretend to call the maintenance guy, when I’d bet a dollar that in five minutes she would be back with a broom and dustpan. Sad, really, when you think about it.

As Dad strolled into the showroom, Gina and I watched as an attractive young woman wearing Armani checked out one of the new models. Gina tugged on Dad’s coat sleeve.

“Elizabeth Banks?” she said.

“Ooh, close.”

Adjusting his tie, he sauntered over to the woman, wearing that million-dollar smile. It was on.

“Ms. Heatherly! Alan Navarro. You know, you remind me of Charlize Theron.”

One of these days I was going to figure out how he did that. And I was about to say this to Gina when I noticed she was gone. A minute later I saw her walking into Rick’s office, carrying—you guessed it—a broom and dustpan. Easy money.

* * *

I hated Dad living away from us, but at least he had a nice apartment off Sunset in West Hollywood. It was relatively new and smelled faintly of paint. It had three bedrooms, one of which Dad used as his home office. He had done his best to make my room comfortable but, let’s face it, he was a guy, so. Though he had moved in a year ago, everywhere I looked, all I could see were stacks of moving boxes. Rather than deal with it, I shooed him out. I would have to make the best of things and live out of my duffel bag like a hobo.

After a dinner of spicy beef and Jasmine rice from the Vietnamese place around the corner, I sat at a small desk with my laptop, working away at my beloved machinima project while Ed lay on the floor, snoring. Other than horror, machinima was the best thing ever. Using a variety of software programs, I could create my own movies, populated by ghosts, demons, and evil clowns. Someday, I hoped to start my own video game company. Or I might write and direct movies. That would be cool, too.

This latest project was about a crazed killer. He didn’t have a name yet, but he wore the black hat and duster I designed. I had been having trouble with his chainsaw when I happened to connect with a software developer in Norway who liked to create cool weapons. I was able to import a lumberjack special that looked amazing. This guy even provided the audio for it.

A loud yawn startled me. It was Dad. How long had he been standing there?

“Come on, Rube, it’s late,” he said.

And by the way, when did he get all parental? Mom must’ve had a talk with him.

“No-uh,” I said. “I need to figure out this sequence.”

Between you and me, I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

Gently, he closed the laptop and guided me to my bed. As I dug through the duffel bag for my pajamas, I felt something foreign. Removing my hand, I saw Mr. Shivers. How had he gotten in there again? I thought I’d left him in the closet back home. Too exhausted to care, I tossed him into a chair, where he landed in a sitting position.

“Tomorrow, I could use your help setting up the Roku,” Dad said.

“Aghh, you’re so pathetic. Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”

I let go of a major yawn. Smiling, he gave me a bear hug, practically squeezing the air out of me.

“Ooh, I thought I heard a fart.”

“Dad, that’s so rude!”

“It used to make you laugh.”

“When I was five.”

“Good night, Rube. Brush your teeth.”

He and Mom had definitely spoken. I wondered vaguely if he was going to go off and practice The Beggar’s Sideshow per Mom’s instructions. Before he left, I broke down and decided to spill. After all, the man deserved to know the truth. I picked Ed up and put him on my lap for moral support.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“She is moving on, you know.”

He was leaning against the doorframe, staring at me intently. I could almost see the man hormones keeping his emotions in check. Barely. His face was a mosaic of disappointment, anger, and disbelief. He smiled sadly and, without another word, closed the door behind him. See, this is the difference between women and men. I would be throwing things at this point.

Lying in bed, I tossed around like a paper boat in a storm. I glanced at my phone to see the time. It was late. Ed was sitting on the floor motionless, looking at something. I followed his gaze. Across from me on the chair, Mr. Shivers sat staring at me, his eyes flat. I looked away and happened to notice the ceiling. A strange-looking stain was taking shape. It was blob-like and creepy. I hoped a pipe hadn’t sprung a leak.

“Nuts to you, Wes,” the doll said.

It took me a few minutes to calm down. As I closed my eyes, I pondered men versus women, crazed killers with chainsaws, and a plate of beef medallions I once enjoyed at a swanky hotel in San Francisco. Only now they were screaming like Mandrakes as I sliced into them with my gleaming steak knife.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

For seven weeks, I will be posting chapters from my new satirical novel Chainsaw Honeymoon.

Blurb

Ruby Navarro, a bright, funny fourteen-year-old who loves horror movies, is on a mission to get her parents back together. But she can’t do it alone. She’ll need her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant student filmmaker, and a computer-generated, chainsaw-wielding killer. What could possibly go wrong?

Horror is my life. Seriously. My idea of a Best Birthday Ever is to be at the Nuart when they screen the original 1977 version of Suspiria (we don’t show movies in LA—we “screen” them), munching on a large popcorn—thank you very much—drenched in Log Cabin syrup (I have to smuggle that in) and guzzling a Jarritos Tamarind soda (also smuggled in). Next stop, The Apple Pan for a steakburger—rare with extra onions, please—and one cup of black coffee, accompanied by a slice of warm apple pie topped with a humungous scoop of Danish vanilla ice cream.

What, too hipster, you say? Hey, I’m talking burgers here, people, not artisanal lawn furniture. Hipster, puh-leeze… Well, maybe a little.

Here are some things you should know about me. So, my name. Ruby Navarro. I turned fourteen this past March and somehow made it through ninth grade with a 3.85 GPA. I’m an Aries, which means I am eager, dynamic, quick, and competitive. At least, according to those astrology websites, which I never visit. Mostly. I am also precocious, which explains why I skipped a grade. My two best friends in the whole world—and the ones I would totally take a bullet for—are Claire Tran and Diego Rivera.

Claire is like my sister. Her Vietnamese name is Hang, which means “moon.” She’ll be fifteen at the end of November, which makes her a Sagittarius. She is inquisitive and energetic, and a traveler of the Zodiac. Diego, a Leo, will be fifteen in August, which makes him almost “driverable.” He is dramatic, creative, and outgoing. Not that I believe in any of that astrology jazz. But I will say the three of us make an awesome team. Claire and Diego are the only people in the universe who get me.

Back to me. I sleep like the dead, truly. It’s a medical fact. When I was a baby, doctors at Elm Street Pediatric Research for Effective Sleep Outcomes—or ESPRESO—which is a tad ironic, if you stop to think about it—had marveled at how vampire-like my “mimis” was. I mean, I hardly breathed. And when I did, it was in these huge, irregular, gulping gasps that scared my parents half to death.

According to my mother, the pediatrician had recommended everything: swaddling, SIDS pillows, behavior modification. Even a slowly spinning mobile hung over my crib, which, instead of rainbows and unicorns, featured tiny, gleaming silver daggers and gently tinkled the theme to The Addams Family television show. Yeah, Mom’s a “horrorista,” too, which is probably where I get it. Anyways, none of it worked. So my parents, the long-suffering Alan and Stacey Navarro, eventually gave up, and…surprise! I’m still here. Moving on.

* * *

School had already let out—whoo-hoo!—and summer was upon us. It was Tuesday, and a pretty important one at that. For the eleventh time that morning, Mom was climbing the stairs to the second floor of what some snoopy realtor once referred to as our “upscale suburban home” in Encino, CA. Ed must’ve had enough cardio for the day because I could hear him snoring peacefully somewhere near my bed. As Mom marched into my room, I braced myself. She was about to resume what the Navarro clan likes to call—Dunt-Dunt-DUN—The Beggar’s Sideshow.

So, all you derps out there who are heavy sleepers, you’ll get where I’m coming from. The Beggar’s Sideshow, which was shorthand for “How to Get Ruby out of Bed without Losing My Freaking Mind,” was a masterwork of music, yodeling, and found art that had been honed to perfection over a period of, well, fourteen years. It required, among other things, several large clocks of both the battery-powered and wind-up variety (each with an ear-splitting alarm), a creepy clown doll named Mr. Shivers (purchased at a yard sale when I was three that bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp in a blood-stained party dress and mysteriously repeated the phrase Nuts to you, Wes! in a Swiss accent whenever you pulled its string), an iPhone-Bluetooth speaker combo with the volume turned way up, and wait for it…

A cowbell.

You heard me right. I think Mom believed the cowbell was a stroke of genius because she was very fond of it. She had purchased it, as well as a cowbell beater, at a local music store owned by a nice family from Minnesota by the name of Swensen. When my mother first told this story, I lost it. Apparently, the pimply-faced kid who sold her the items had made an awkward pass. He, in fact, had said to her—and I quote—“Want me to come over later and show you how to use those?” Oh my gosh, so Chad Radwell!

Fortunately, the store manager overheard the horny little dweeb and said, “I told you boyce about talkin’ to the customers. Go checksie da toilet and give it a good scrub.”

Reportedly, “Chad” made a frowny face. “What, now?”

“Yup.” The manager turned to my mother and said, “Sorry. You gotta stay on ’em. Give me a jingle if you got any questions.”

Like a scene out of Fargo, am I right? Yer dern-tootin’!

Anyways. I was lying in bed, fully awake, thanks to some thoughtless jerk outside who felt it was a good time to fire up a chainsaw. But I will admit, I do possess a bit of an evil streak and wanted to catch Mom’s performance. So, I played dead. Standing just out of my reach, she raised the cowbell beater and launched into “Honky Tonk Women.” Usually I let her get about eight bars in before cracking an eye open.

“I’m awake,” I said, trying to sound all Liv Moore.

“Sure you don’t want to hear my solo? I’ve been practicing.”

At this point, I was pretty much done. “Can you please stop?”

“Come on, one chorus.”

“No-uh!”

And that, friends and neighbors, is The Beggar’s Sideshow. Tah-dah!

* * *

Breakfast was better. Once I get some food in me, I am actually quite pleasant. At this point, you’re probably wondering what I look like—the whole “Ruby vibe” and all. Well, I’m slightly below average in height. Mom says I might hit a growth spurt when I’m a junior. I have straight, shoulder-length blonde hair (courtesy of my mother, which I tend to keep in a ponytail), brown eyes (my father’s), and dimples, which only ever make an appearance when I’m tickled (which no one is allowed to do, by the way—not even my posse). My shoes consist mostly of high-top Converse sneakers in various shades. I tend to wear out the red ones. And my body, well… That’s my business.

“Mom?” I said, my mouth full of half-burnt raisin toast piled high with Philadelphia whipped cream cheese and dripping with Seville orange marmalade, which we’d recently purchased at Monsieur Marcel in Farmers Market.

“Yeah?”

My mother was already dressed for work—I’m totally stealing that Lavish Alice cape blazer—but had called in to say she would be coming in late. This was a big day for her, too.

“What time is Dad coming?”

She didn’t wear a watch and was always scrambling to find her phone whenever anyone asked her for the time.

“Any minute,” she said.

“Yikes, I haven’t even showered yet!”

Oh, that’s another one of my sterling qualities. I have zero ability to manage my schedule.

Smiling, Mom watched as I burst out of my chair and raced up the stairs, practically tripping over the dog, who had absolutely no business curling up on the bottom step. Fifteen minutes later, I was running back down, fully dressed and schlepping a camo Army duffel bag I found on sale at Wasteland.

“Is he here yet?” I said, out of breath.

“Not yet. Did you remember to brush your teeth?”

I practically raced to the foyer and deposited the duffel bag next to the front door when my phone went into the Poltergeist theme song. Groaning (I’m a groaner from way back), I pulled it out of my back pocket, saw it was Diego, and quickly texted Can’t talk. He replied Nos vemos, followed by a little taco emoji. I was pounding out Later, dude, followed by a series of inspired emojis, when I heard my mother’s voice from the kitchen and instantly rolled my eyes, since it is a scientific fact that the two are darkly connected, like barnacle geese and goose barnacles. Look it up.

“Last chance, Ruby,” Mom said.

I heard a light tapping on the cowbell and knew what was coming next. In fact, I lip-synced the words as they left her lips.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”

And there it was. Mom guilt in all its West Coast suburban glory. Where was Dad already? I needed to blow this pop stand.

“Mom, please, not again.”

She emerged from the kitchen, holding my extra one-terabyte hard drive. It’s funny. As mad as I get at Mom sometimes, I do love looking at her face. She’s beautiful, with these soft blue-green eyes I wish I had. Only, over time they had sort of congealed with fatalism and worry. Is this what it meant to be an adult? Sign me up.

“Thanks,” I said.

I reached for the device and tossed it into the duffel bag, where I discovered Mr. Shivers hiding in my underwear. I grabbed the doll and turned to Mom.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” she said.

I opened the foyer closet door and threw the doll in. Mom was on her knees, closing my duffel bag for me. I realized she was working extra hard at being mature, but it was pretty obvious she was worried about her only daughter. She was probably asking herself why she’d even agreed to this nutty arrangement. Actually, I was surprised myself.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was Claire. Not now, I quickly texted back. She responded with a sad face emoji.

“What if he doesn’t look after you properly?”

Mom was picking lint off her skirt, which unfortunately was a nervous habit I picked up.

“Mom, I’ll be okay. It’s not like he’s some pervy relative—”

“Ruby, where did you—”

The doorbell rang—saved!—but it set the dog off. Honestly, when it comes to doorbells, nothing beats a Shih Tzu. Ed bolted between my legs, almost causing me to trip, so he could get to the door first.

“Ed!”

It was Dad, of course.

I don’t know why, but suddenly, I let out this weird little laugh, sort of like that possessed deer head in Evil Dead II. In my defense, I hadn’t seen him since the 13 Frightened Girls concert, which he’d taken me to as a surprise, even though he himself prefers straight-ahead jazz. He always looks so impressive, too. I mean, not being a very straight-laced gal, I could still appreciate the sharp gray suit and slightly long dark brown hair. And he’s tall—I like that. When he walked through the door, I noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring.

“Hey, baby. You ready?” he said.

I was practically blinded by the million-dollar smile that had somehow survived the breakup. Even the dog was taken in, rolling onto his back and waiting for a belly rub.

Time to play it cool. “Could you get that bag?” I said. “It’s really heavy.”

But Dad wasn’t paying attention. No, he was looking at Mom. And it was awkward because I’m pretty sure he was still in love with her.

“Hi, Stace,” he said. “You’re looking good.”

“You, too,” she said.

She pretended to search for something in her purse. Wow, could it be she loved him, too?

“Dad, the bag?” I said, trying to break the tension.

He grabbed the duffel bag, and, like an old man getting up from the table at Hometown Buffet, he staggered out the door, muttering. Yeah, despite all his excellent qualities, my dad’s a mutterer.

“And make sure he keeps food in the house,” Mom said with a fatalism Anna Karenina would admire.

She slipped me a paper bag that was warm and smelled good. Unbelievable. Though she had been married to the man for fifteen years, she genuinely worried he would forget to feed me.

I touched her arm and gave her my most serious expression. “Everything will be fine.”

“I’m supposed to say that.”

As Dad jogged back inside, Mom hugged me deeply, as if she were never going to see me again. But I knew it would be okay, even though the thought of being away for the whole summer reminded me of how much we as a family had lost in the past year. It was unnatural and happened every day.

Ed was being annoying, sitting at my feet and whining softly. Feeling sorry for him, I knelt and waited for him to roll over so I could scratch his belly.

“Who’s going to miss me?” I said. “Who’s going to miss me bad? You are!” Then to Mom, “Can’t I take Ed with me?”

She scrunched her face and looked at Dad. “It’s up to your father.”

“Dad, pleeeeeeze?”

“Fine, but you’re walking him,” he said.

“Yay!”

I ran into the kitchen and returned with the dog’s food, bowls, and leash.

“Don’t forget to call,” Mom said, her voice wavering. Next up, the waterworks. It was definitely time to jet.

“Mom, we gotta go.”

I quickly headed out with Dad and Ed as Mom watched, biting her lower lip. Yeah, she’s a lip-biter. Wow, three months. How would she survive without her baby? One time while sleuthing, I ran across this old video from when I was practically brand new. Dad had been recording me as I lay in my crib. He loves making home movies; we have tons. Anyways, the two of them were talking.

“Is day care really the best thing for her?” Mom said as she tightened the sheet over the mattress and checked my sleeper.

“Come on, Stace,” Dad said off-camera.

I could tell they had done this bit a million times before because it sounded like a play.

“What better security can she have than two working parents? My mom—”

“Worked her whole life and managed to raise a wonderful son.” She made a face. “Alan, I know. But something in me—”

“Everything will be fine,” he said.

“Promise?”

Unfortunately, the tape ended there, so we’ll never know if he had actually promised her. I wondered which part of me Mom would get to keep and which was going with her soon-to-be ex-husband once the divorce was final. You know, that would make for an interesting science experiment. LOL.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

[image error]Sometimes, my wife asks how I can read scary books just before going to sleep. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember and it’s never bothered me. Like most people, I read for pleasure. But as a writer, I also read for understanding. Usually, when I read books about the supernatural, I intellectualize everything down to the story, writing style, and authenticity of the characters. I may have to revisit that approach.

The Haunted is the true story of the Smurl family, devout Catholics living in Pennsylvania who find themselves being infested with a demon and other vengeful spirits. Based on everything I’ve read so far about demons, this situation can occur when someone invites the demonic into their home through the use of Ouija boards, spells, or cursed objects like the Annabelle doll. Not so with the Smurls. This family did none of those things, yet the demonic entered their lives and plagued them for years, terrorizing individual family members—and even the neighbors.

Despite everything that happens, the Smurl family remains rooted in their faith. It’s the main reason they were able to manage for so long, undergoing multiple exorcisms and hordes of tourists wanting a glimpse of “the dark side.” As for me, I am comfortable in my faith and have always believed the demonic will leave me alone so long as I don’t seek it out. After reading The Haunted, I’m not so sure anymore.

You can find this review at Amazon US.

Synopsis

The world’s most famous demonologists, Ed & Lorraine Warren, were called in to help an average American family who were assaulted by forces too awesome, too powerful, too dark, to be stopped. It’s a true story, supported by dozens of eyewitnesses neighbors, priests, police, journalists, and researchers. The grim slaughterhouse of odors. The deafening pounding. The hoofed half-man charging down the hall. The physical attacks, a vicious strangling, failed exorcisms, the succubus… and the final terror which continued to torment the Smurls. In this shocking, terrifying, deeply absorbing book rivaled only by The Amityville Horror—a case also investigated by the Warrens—journalist Robert Curran digs deep into the haunting of the Smurl home in West Pittston, Pennsylvania, and the unshakeable family bonds that helped them survive.

Buy Links

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Amazon Canada

More Reviews

Did you enjoy this review? Check out my other Amazon reviews here.

For the next seven weeks, I will be posting chapters from my new satirical novel Chainsaw Honeymoon.

Blurb

Ruby Navarro, a bright, funny fourteen-year-old who loves horror movies, is on a mission to get her parents back together. But she can’t do it alone. She’ll need her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant student filmmaker, and a computer-generated, chainsaw-wielding killer. What could possibly go wrong?

They never get it right in the movies, the things going through your head at the very moment your killer bursts into the room, ready to chop up the party guests—including you and your family—into kibble. It isn’t your life flashing before your eyes like a silent movie or your favorite stuffed animal or the car you thought you’d own when you turned eighteen. And it isn’t the realization that you’ll never marry and have kids or visit Europe.

Nope. It’s something random. Like socks. In my case, it was a nonspecific cheeseburger—juicy and rare—with crispy fries in a cute, little, shiny metal cup. Oh, and a tall vanilla shake with twin barber pole straws. The thought of never experiencing that meal again brought down on me a deep sorrow difficult to describe in words. All I can say is, it felt like getting clobbered with Thor’s hammer.

I can tell you what the movies do get right, though. Everything. Slows. Down. And the air gets thicker than fireweed honey. And you can’t move because your fear has you trapped like a mosquito in amber. So, you might as well relax, jefe. The entire experience is like a dream really, only you know in your soul it’s not a dream—but you wish it was, because the reality that’s about to turn you into fish food is too horrible to imagine. And I’m all about horrible, so.

They say in dream time you can live an entire life in only a few minutes. If this was a dream, I wished I could wake up, hug my dog, and pound down a whole package of Pecan Sandies. But as I cowered against the wall, half-broken from being flung back like a shaving cream pie in a silent comedy, I wondered why I thought I could take on my nightmare of an enemy. It’s preposterous. I mean, I can’t even do ten push-ups! But there I was. And there he was.

Chainsaw Chuck.

Okay, so Chainsaw Chuck was the crazed killer I invented, only he was no longer a character in my machinima project, and he only recently had acquired that name, courtesy of a movie I was involved with. So much to explain, so little time. Anyways, this creature was flesh and blood, and he had come to kill his creator. Standing in front of me, big and scary, he wore his signature black high-crown, wide-brim hat—designed by me—and his weapon of choice dangled darkly from his left hand. An impressive monster, if I do say so myself.

Staring at me in surly silence, he gathered himself up and revved the deadly chainsaw, which echoed up and down the shadowy corridor. Sort of like what old dudes on Harleys do when a pretty girl walks by. I could see his teeth, which were gray and pointy. And I could feel his hot, deadly breath. Yep, I was going to die for sure. It wasn’t fair! Ed Wood, our over-caffeinated Shih Tzu, had followed me from the party and stood between the killer and me, barking like a maniac and tearing at his long black duster. I guessed my dog’s fate was pretty much sealed, too. At least, I wouldn’t die alone.

Why? I thought to myself again. No normal person would have chased this demon, let alone tried to take him down. That only ever happens in the movies—bad movies. No, in real life they would have gathered up their family and their two best friends and would’ve run like hell out of the stinking building while dialing 911 on their phone. Common sense, people!

Not me. I had to be the hero.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I sat on the floor, frozen, my knees tucked up under my chin. It was like I weighed a million pounds. Maybe if I made myself really, really small—like Ant-Man—he wouldn’t see me. Everything was slow and dreamy now, like “Last Kiss” by Pearl Jam. I love that song.

I noticed the gleam in Chainsaw Chuck’s tiny, savage eyes, and I knew this was it. The End. Fin. Fine. But I couldn’t help but feel this was a dream after all. A pernicious nightmare I was incapable of awakening from. Talk about your random thoughts. For some reason, I was picturing that poor idiot replicant Leon from Blade Runner. I could hear him in my head now, his eyes intense, his voice close and menacing as he was about to shove his fingers through Deckard’s eye holes.

“Wake up! Time to die.”

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

Hey, guys! Just wanted you to know that starting Tuesday, January 31st, I am posting chapters from my new YA horror novella Come As You Are at Channillo, a subscription-based online magazine that allows writers to share their work in regular installments. I will be publishing a chapter a week through the end of April, at which point the entire novella will be available for reading.

Please check out my series page. And happy reading!

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Synopsis

Ivan Stein isn’t sure he can survive seventh grade—let alone middle school. Living in a town known for its poverty and violence, he is regularly bullied—along with his best friend, Ollie. But fortunes can change.

One day, Ivan finds an old notebook in an abandoned locker at school. Despite a nasty warning from the ill-tempered janitor, he takes the book home and soon learns that it once belonged to another kid named Craig and apparently possesses occult properties—powerful magic Ivan can use to punish his enemies.

The notebook describes five tasks Ivan must complete to unleash the full power of the book. But what he doesn’t know is demonic forces control the book’s pages—raw evil that will inflict suffering on the good as well as the bad and demand as payment Ivan’s very soul.

Read Come As You Are

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Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

After making a spectacle of destroying his work, a disenchanted writer is visited by a hungry Muse, who agrees to help him fix his novel. But he has more on his mind than writing.

Carefully with the skill of a surgeon, I sliced the last of the pages to bits with the good knife. Though they represented six tortured months of my life, I felt a kind of giddy satisfaction at seeing the mad confetti I had created flittering to the floor like silent snowflakes.

My dog Fellini must have thought I was doing this for him because he started pawing at the shredded mound and barking in his classic urp-squeak. Fellini was a Great Dane-Chihuahua mix. Though he was barely the size of a starved squirrel, his undercarriage was prodigious, and he rode it like a cannon in a Missouri Fourth of July parade.

Anyway, there it was: my awful samsaric masterpiece of Love, Death, and Disillusionment. Two hundred forty-seven pages of pure, unfinished dreck in pieces.

It was supposed to be the story of a spiritual orphan of uncertain gender named Muck who drifted through life pleasing both men and women but never itself. I started out by convincing Muck to get a job selling accordions to the star-struck parents of tone-deaf grade-schoolers. Then, I suggested it seek enlightenment in Chihuahua, Mexico, where it could live with the Tarahumara Indians and make dolls from wood and bits of colorful clothing. On its day off, Muck would paint fantastic murals of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the inscrutable rocky faces of distant mountains under thunderous gray skies.

I tricked Muck into descending into hell in a gutter in South Central LA, bleary from cheap, potent wine and dirty needles. Finally, it died from ebola virus. I buried it in an unmarked grave in Berwyn, Illinois, where years later a girl with disappearing bone disease would weep because she remembered knowing Muck in a former life when she was a Carthusian monk.

As I say, it was pure dreck and deserved to be burned.

I swept the last of my novel into the trash and put away the broom. As I shut the closet door, I heard a dull thud. Lowering his head, Fellini let out a deep background growl.

“Stop, it’s just the broom. See?” I opened the door to prove it to him.

That’s when I saw her.

She was very pretty and had strong Mediterranean features. Dark hair and dark brown eyes—not old and not young—with pale, luminescent skin. Seeing me for the first time, she smiled as if encountering a dear old friend. There was something unsettling about her gaze, though; it was as if she were surveying the long, lonely desert of my secrets and disappointments. She was wearing a filmy, faded pink tunic and worn ballet slippers. I half-expected to see a wand. But all she had in her hand was a leather musette bag.

“That closet’s really cramped,” she said. Her voice was melodious and unbearably pleasant. She extended her hand so I could help her climb over the vacuum cleaner. “You should clean it out sometime.”

“I—”

Fellini bolted up the stairs, yipping. “Nice dog.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, my voice wavering. “But just who in hell are you?”

“Okay if I sit?”

I watched as she plunked herself down on one of the dining room chairs. It was the one with the loose armrest. She wiggled it and gave me an annoyed “Who’s your decorator?” look. Then settling in like a snowy egret on her new egg, she let out a little musical sigh that reminded me of a silken French bagpipe.

Defeated, I slinked over to the table. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Not yet.”

“Espresso, then?”

“That would be nice.”

She sat there for a long time, stirring her coffee and staring at a black-and-white photograph of a toothless woman in rags. I had taken it in college. The woman was probably dead from tuberculosis by now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” she said. “I was on vacation.”

“Oh?” I said, feigning interest. My head was throbbing now with gloppy, nagging questions I was certain she would never answer.

“Yes. I just got back from Tuscany.”

“That was fast.”

“It’s the harvest, you know.”

“I know.”

“Have you been to Florence?”

“No.”

“It’s incredible. When you walk the streets, you can just sense the magic. I was composing sonnets in my head! You feel, I don’t know, so creative there. Like you could write anything.”

She sipped her espresso, waiting for me to jump in.

“It’s funny how sometimes the words just come pouring out,” she said. “You’d really like to stop, but somehow you’ve just got so much to say and, well, you won’t be satisfied until you get it all down on paper.”

“Is there a point to this?”

She threw me a sideways glance, smiled enigmatically, and went on. I proceeded to get comfortable.

“Why, just the other day—actually it was before I went on vacation—I was helping an elderly woman in Guangdong who thought she had nothing in the world to say about Love because her husband had been dead almost twenty years. He insisted on being buried with his exercise balls for some reason.

“Anyway, I convinced her she had plenty to say. After all, her mind was still sharp. And she had her memories. And do you know what that sweet old lady did?”

“Wrote down her memories?” I said.

“Uffa! I knew you were no dummy!”

“Look, um… What was your name again?”

“Euterpe.”

“Now hold on!”

“They were supposed to send my sister, Erato, but she’s helping a famous Hollywood screenwriter through a personal crisis.”

“Anyone I know?”

“We’re not supposed to name names,” she said, touching her nose with her forefinger. Then, in a stage whisper, “His last movie bombed, though.”

“At least he got paid. Why didn’t they send Melpomene? After all, I was writing a tragedy.”

“The only real tragedy is that your book is so bad.”

“You’re a big help.”

“I am a help. You’ll see.” She pulled a surprising amount of paperwork from her tiny bag. “Now as you know, I am the Muse of lyric poetry and music. Are you musical by any chance?”

“Forget it.”

“Before I can start, you’ll need to sign this contract. There’s also a waiver and a model release form.”

“Model release—”

“In case we decide to use your photo on our website.”

“I’m not giving you permission to—”

“I’m kidding! Wow, lighten up.”

“And the waiver?”

“Just a formality, really. It basically states you relinquish the right to sue us later if your book doesn’t sell. Stuff like that. I mean, we can’t be responsible for the public’s taste.”

The documents looked like preprinted forms you could purchase in any office supply store. They were already made out in my name.

“I should really run these past my attorney,” I said.

“If you like. But I can’t start until they’re signed and dated.”

She was good. I scribbled my signature on each one. As I did so, she notarized everything and handed me a copy.

“You’re a notary, too?”

“Well, I can’t very well drag one around with me,” she said, squinting at the signature. “Now, Richard, how about showing me your work.”

“I’ve hacked it to pieces.”

“So print out another copy.”

“I’m out of paper. Can’t you just read it on the computer?”

“I hate computers. Go and bring me the trash.”

“But it’s all chopped up,” I said.

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Fine.”

Muttering, I brought the trash can over to her. Fellini was on the bottom stair, poking his head around the corner and wagging his tail. Euterpe sighed as she looked at the shreds of my misunderstood genius covered in cucumber skins, dog food cans, and coffee grounds. Reaching in, she pulled out the manuscript fully formed. Dusting it off she placed it on the dining room

table.

“Wait, how did you—”

“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”

She read for the next two hours. I pretended to have urgent business in the kitchen. I took out the garbage and put out the empty water bottles. I washed the dishes and cleaned the bathrooms. I took the dog for a walk. When I returned, I made more espresso. Once I thought I heard her giggle. I brightened until I realized that Fellini was licking her bare foot.

At last, she finished, closed the manuscript, and sat back, yawning and stretching. “Have you got any grapes?”

“Sorry.”

“Oh.”

She seemed more than a little disappointed. I remembered the cantaloupe and ran to the kitchen to cut up a few slices. When she saw it, she smiled.

“That was sweet of you. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Just curious. Women can be a real inspiration.”

“They can also be a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, dear. Someone must’ve cut you to pieces. Did you have it coming?”

“Most likely.”

When she’d finished the cantaloupe, she wiped her mouth daintily and pushed the plate aside.

“Now, let’s talk about your work.”

I felt my stomach churn. Suddenly, I didn’t want to talk about it. What I had done only hours before was emotionally sever myself from this moribund piece of claptrap. I was prepared to never write again. I didn’t ask her to come here, dammit!

“Yes, you did.”

“Did what?”

“Ask me to come here. Or rather, you asked Erato. But she wasn’t available as I explained earlier.”

“I don’t remember asking.”

“No? You stood over there in the kitchen, and you mutilated six months of hard work with the good knife. If that isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is.”

“You’re unbelievable. Wait, you said you were on vacation. How did you get here so fast?”

“Time passes differently for us.”

“Of course it does.”

“Okay, we’ve wasted enough time. Look. You’re not a bad writer. Per se. You do have your own voice. You like to take tragic turns, then make them funny. That’s good. It keeps the reader involved.”

This wasn’t so terrible. I was starting to like her.

“But you lack discipline. Your work wanders all over the place. You can’t seem to stick to the point. You introduce characters who don’t serve any purpose other than to set up the next joke.

“For instance, here on page fifty-seven. You have this homeless man peeing off a building. And on the street below, the bank manager flips open his umbrella because he thinks it’s raining.”

“I thought it was funny.”

“But we never get to see the homeless man again. Or the bank manager for that matter. This is the sort of thing I’m talking about, Richard. It makes the reader very, very angry. It says you think she can be easily manipulated.”

“Can’t she?”

“Oh, and another thing. Your story offers no hope.”

“So?”

“People need hope. Just saying.”

“Huh.”

“Overall, what you have to say is worth writing down. And I think I can help you.”

“You can?”

“Yes. What time is it?”

“After eleven.”

“I’ve got to go!”

“What? But what about helping me?”

“Tomorrow night. No! I can’t. I’m seeing someone else then. Thursday. I’ll return on Thursday.”

“But what am I supposed to do until then?”

“Read. For you, I recommend Joseph Heller. Catch-22. That’s one of my favorites. Maybe you could pick up some Philip Roth. And John Irving. Stay away from Thomas Mann. You’re not ready for him yet.”

Before I knew what was happening, she got up and went out the front door. Fellini barked happily and tried to follow her, but I caught him just in time.

“Good night!” she said and disappeared. I didn’t see where she went.

#

That first night was hell. I didn’t sleep. Sharing my distress, Fellini kept groaning as my tossing and turning bounced him from one end of the bed to the other like a volleyball. In the morning I ran down to Book Soup to pick up the books she’d recommended. For two days, I did nothing but read and order take-out.

It was a relaxing time. Instead of stewing in my own misery, I let myself be carried away by the words. I trusted the author completely and allowed myself to be led wherever it was he wanted me to go. I didn’t feel cheated.

Thursday night, I made dinner. I thought Euterpe would like it. I prepared a simple salad of mixed greens, Roma tomatoes, Greek olives, and feta with homemade Vinaigrette. I’d gone down to the La Brea Bakery and picked up a loaf of Italian bread. Now I simmered a sauce of olive oil, garlic, black pepper, fresh tomatoes, and Pecorino that I planned to serve over linguine next to the cold chicken. On the counter stood two bottles of an interesting Barolo I had found at BevMo!

It was around eight when she knocked. I’d been half-expecting her to come out of the closet again. When I opened the door, I found her in a low-cut black tee shirt, black tights, and red sequined high top sneakers. Her shiny, dark hair was up, pinned on either side with black combs. She was wearing red lipstick.

“Something smells awfully good.” Smiling, she came in and patted the dog.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“I’m always hungry.”

“Great. Would you like some wine?”

“Italian?”

“What else?”

“Perfect.”

I put on a CD of Maria Callas singing Turandot. Euterpe seemed to like it. We mostly listened to the music until I poured the coffee and Amaretto.

“You cook very well, Richard. I wouldn’t have guessed it from your book.”

“Why?”

“Well, nobody in it ever eats anything except canned beans, 7-11 hot dogs, and Milk Duds.”

“I was trying to show the poverty of spirit—”

“Through the cuisine, I know. It works. I guess.”

“You guess?”

She got up and stretched as I cleared away the dishes. I hadn’t noticed how firm her body was. I’d always pictured the Muses as generous and fleshy as in the seventeenth-century paintings I’d seen in art books.

“I work out,” she said.

We sat in the living room. I put on some Miles Davis. For a long time, she held the manuscript in her hands and patted it as if it were a purring cat. Before she arrived, I had determined to listen to everything she had to say and apply it to my writing. Finally, she opened the book to the first page, her delicate fingers with the red nail polish brushing past the

blurred, senseless patterns of light and dark.

It must have been the wine. I kissed her neck. It was fragrant like laurel. She didn’t startle or move away but pretended to consider the writing. Sliding closer, I gently took the manuscript from her hands and tossed it onto the floor. Turning her lovely oval face toward me, I kissed her red lips.

“Richard, I can’t help you this way.”

“Yes, you can. I don’t want to hear about the words right now. I just want to be with you. Please, Euterpe.”

She sighed. “This always happens when there’s wine.”

I kissed her again.

This time, she melted like a poppy drenched in honey. The last thing she said as I gently lay her on her back was, “We’re not supposed to get involved. It’s in the contract.”

We lay on the sofa for a long time. Fellini had fallen asleep next to Euterpe’s sneakers. Gently, she stroked the hairs on my chest, making little swirling patterns like tiny whirlwinds. Her body was so fragrant, it made me dizzy. I felt as if I were lying in a Tuscan field of wildflowers.

“What time is it?” she said.

“After midnight, I think.”

“We should’ve done some work. Come on, let’s do it now.”

I groaned as she pushed herself off me and got dressed. “Do we have to?”

“Yes. A contract is a contract.”

We worked until four. By the time we were on Chapter Eleven, I was exhausted. But she seemed as full of energy as ever.

“I need to sleep,” I said, rubbing my eyes like an exhausted toddler.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I tend to lose track of time.”

As she got her things together, I asked if she wanted to shower. Wagging her finger, she smiled wickedly and kissed me. Then, she slipped out the door. I went to bed and didn’t awaken until one.

#

Though we hadn’t arranged the second meeting, I knew Euterpe would be returning the next evening. After drinking three cups of strong Kenyan coffee, sucking on a navel orange, then walking Fellini, I showered and got to work on the changes she had suggested. It was remarkable. Everything she had told me was dead on. It was as if I were peeling away a dull, waxy coating and getting to the shining essence of my story—the thing I had always hoped was

there.

I didn’t have time to go to the store. I still had some wine and I had enough odds and ends to make a Sicilian-style pizza. The doorbell rang, and my heart leaped. On the one hand, I wanted to bury myself in her warm fragrance for a night and a day. On the other, I wanted to hear her every word—every criticism—about my evolving opus. I opened the door and found Euterpe with another woman who resembled her.

“Richard, this is Erato.”

“Hi.” All I could do was stand there frozen in stupid embarrassment. The smell of burning pizza brought me back.

Euterpe and Erato giggled a lot during dinner, alternately conversing in English and Italian. When we were finished, Euterpe helped me with the dishes. In the kitchen, I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward me.

“Ow!”

“What’s the idea?”

“What?”

“You know what. Why can’t we be alone?”

“Richard, I’m here to help you with your book.”

“But what about—”

“What happened before was a mistake.”

“You seemed to enjoy it.”

“Why shouldn’t I enjoy it? That’s not the point.”

“Oh, I get it. I’m not good enough. A mere mortal.”

“Stop it. You’re plenty good.”

“Then, why can’t we—”

“We can’t, that’s all. Now please, don’t make trouble. I’ve already been telling Erato how sweet you are.”

“I’ll bet.”

As I slinked back to the dining room with a tray of hazelnut biscotti, I put on my sweetest smile for Erato and hummed “La donna è mobile.”

Erato said very little during our writing session. She seemed to be fascinated with old Sex in the City episodes on cable.

“The changes you made are perfect,” Euterpe said and kissed my cheek.

“Don’t do that.”

“You’re not pouting?”

“What if I am?”

“Maybe if you’re a good boy and finish the book, we can see what else develops. By then you won’t be my client anymore. ‘Officially.’”

Inside, I was like Mt. Etna ready to melt Palermo. Outside, I smiled and said, “That will be nice.”

We made it halfway through the novel. Erato was asleep on the sofa where Euterpe and I had made love. I could hear Seinfeld faintly in the background.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Euterpe said.

Unlike her sister, Euterpe never seemed to tire. If I had asked her to, she probably could have run five miles, cleaned out the downstairs closet, and given Fellini a bath.

She woke Erato and kissed my cheek again. “I’m very proud of you, Richard.”

“Thanks.”

Sleepy and agreeable, Erato kissed me, too. Then, they went to wherever it was Muses go when they’re not on duty. This time, I wasn’t sleepy. I continued working, making the changes we had agreed on.

Whenever I work in my office, Fellini likes to sleep at my feet, lulled by the soothing sound of the little fan that keeps my computer from burning up and the steady tapping of my fingers on the keys. The book was taking on new dimensions. It was as if it had been in cardiac arrest all those months and Euterpe had given it the kiss of Life.

But there was more. She had given me the Kiss of Life. Though annoyed at having been denied her unashamed nakedness, I no longer felt the deep-seated anger that seemed to consume me for so long. For the first time, I was giving myself permission to let go. To stop the grasping and the criticizing and the loathing and just be—could I even say it? Happy.

That night falling asleep, I thought vaguely of Florence and how I should go there very soon before this wonderful feeling of carelessness and goodwill withered in the cold burning light of my regular solitude.

#

For the next three days, Euterpe appeared at seven and stayed until after midnight. Feeling she had made her point, she no longer brought Erato. And I no longer plagued her with low innuendo and impoverished pleading. On the third night at around eleven-thirty, we finished. All that was left was for me to make the final changes and have her proofread them. To celebrate, I made cappuccinos and brought out fresh cannolis I’d picked up that afternoon.

“You always know exactly what I like!” Euterpe said, wearing a little mustache of milk froth.

“I’m glad. I guess it’s my way of thanking you. For everything.”

“But you’re the one who did all the work.”

“It would never have happened without you.”

I kissed her cheek, then her lips. I could taste the coffee and the ricotta cheese. She didn’t seem to mind. But when my hand moved toward her breast, she moved away.

“Lots of times, my clients celebrate on the last day with champagne. It’s a kind of tradition.”

“I’ll make sure to have some chilled when you come tomorrow night.”

“That’ll be nice.”

Her voice was faint and distant. I recognized it as the sound of addio. We both knew there was no reason for her to come back. Just a few odds and ends for me to tidy up. Her returning now would just be out of politeness and professionalism.

“Tomorrow night then,” I said as she went out the door.

“Don’t forget the champagne.” She kissed me and disappeared into the moonless night.

#

When seven o’clock came again, everything was ready. The finished manuscript fresh from Staples was lying on the dining room table. Next to it stood two gleaming champagne glasses. I had decided on an Arugula salad and spaghetti puttanesca. For dessert, I had picked up two slices of tiramisu. La Bohème was playing on the stereo.

At seven-thirty, I turned off the music and ate my salad. At eight-fifteen, I boiled some pasta and ate the puttanesca. Finally, I cracked open the champagne, and flipping through the manuscript with a mixture of sadness and accomplishment, I drank a toast to myself. The tiramisu went well with the champagne. I carved off a tiny section and fed it to Fellini. He liked it.

I had known all along Euterpe wouldn’t return. She would only have had to try and worm her way out of staying the night. It was better this way. She had given me the help I needed. Why should I expect more?

At around ten-thirty, Fellini began scratching at the front door and whining. I stumbled to my feet, thinking that Euterpe might have changed her mind. When I opened the door, I found a note. There was no one outside, but I could smell her flower fragrance. She had come as promised.

The note was written on parchment with a quill. It was in

Italian.

Chi lascia la via vecchia per la nuova, sa quel che lascia ma non sa quel che trova.

It means, “He who leaves the old way for the new, knows what he leaves behind but doesn’t know what he’ll find.” The saying was familiar to me and made me smile. I drank the last of the champagne and went to bed.

#

As I settled into my first-class seat, the flight attendant was already asking me what I wanted to drink.

“Champagne,” I said.

In two months, my book would be in stores. It didn’t seem real, my time with Euterpe. Recently, I tried to find the legal papers and the note she had written me, but no luck. I was beginning to believe I had dreamed her up. Suddenly, she appeared in the cabin and sat next to me. She was dressed differently and had on a sharp pair of black Persol glasses. She wore a short black skirt, no stockings, a black sweater, and red barrettes that matched her lips and fingernails.

“Buon giorno,” she said, adjusting her seat.

“Buon giorno.”

I listened as she spoke to the flight attendant in Italian. Her accent was delightful. She didn’t strike me as a city girl. I imagined her growing up on a small country farm in Sienna. Carrying buckets of milk to an ancient stone building where they made cheese the old fashioned way.

“Excuse me for staring. I thought you were someone I knew,” I said.

“It’s not very original.”

“No, it isn’t.” I tried laughing it off. “I’m Richard.”

“Claudia.”

My champagne arrived, and I went to sip it. Instead, I gave it to her and ordered another.

“Grazie.”

“Do you live in Rome?” I said after a while.

“No, Firenze.”

“Really? I’m visiting there! It’s my first time.”

“And you travel alone?”

“Yes.”

“Better to see the city with someone.”

“I agree. Are you volunteering?”

She sipped her champagne with amusement. That’s when I noticed her leather musette bag.

“When you are in Florence,” she said, “you must visit Uffizi Gallery. There you will find Allori’s ‘Hercules and the Muses.’ It is quite stunning.”

“I’ll be sure to check it out.”

She yawned and said, “I often go there.” Then, she closed her eyes.

As I watched her sleep, I thought of how much my story had changed. Now, there was hope in the subtle suggestion that Muck and the girl with disappearing bone disease would be together someday in a distant, starry future that neither could have predicted.

I closed my eyes, and finding myself in a field of poppies at forty-one years old, I accepted the cup that was offered.

Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

I am about to perform an experiment. Instead of trying to publish my new novel, Chainsaw Honeymoon: A Ruby Navarro Disaster, on my own, I have decided to join Patreon, a crowdfunding site for authors and artists. I’m not really sure how this will play out, but I’ve created some rewards at varying contribution levels I hope you will like.

As part of my experiment, I plan to blog the first seven chapters of the novel beginning in February. It’s my hope that, as people read about Ruby Navarro and her insane adventure, they will be moved to join the Patreon community by making a contribution of as little as $1.

Please check out my page at https://www.patreon.com/stevenramirez. And if you have comments about the content or the rewards, I would love to hear them—good or bad. As I said, this is an experiment, and I’m anticipating things will change as I build my community of Patrons.

Chainsaw Honeymoon: A Ruby Navarro Disaster Synopsis

Ruby Navarro is not your typical fourteen-year-old girl. Sure, she’s bright and funny. But she’s also an incurable carnivore who adores horror movies—the bloodier, the better. A year ago, her parents separated, leaving her to live with her mom, Stacey, and her dog, an over-caffeinated Shih Tzu named Ed Wood. Now, Ruby loves her mom, but she also misses her dad. A lot. People split up all the time, and most kids might get over it, providing they could still Snapchat. Not Ruby. She has decided it’s her mission to save her family. And save them, she will!

Ruby is leaving home to spend the summer with her dad, Alan, a top-performing salesman at a luxury car dealership. At his apartment, she divides her time between her machinima project—a dark fantasy featuring a crazed killer with a chainsaw—and hanging out with her two best friends, Claire and Diego. While Ruby is away, her mom’s boss proposes marriage—ew! And Stacey is seriously considering accepting. In the meantime, Alan stupidly believes he can win back his wife and gets to work on a “best of” video reel, using years of mind-numbingly boring home movies. Ruby suggests contacting her dad’s younger brother, a talented but arrogant student filmmaker. But her uncle has other ideas, and he talks her dad into making a real movie—with actors and a script—a romantic comedy guaranteed to win Stacey’s heart.

As the movie takes shape, unexplainable things are happening to Ruby. Diego is acting weird around her—what is up with that boy! She’s having nightmares. Her doll Mr. Shivers might be trying to talk to her. And a creepy stain on her ceiling is turning into the killer from her machinima project. Oh, and people are dying—for realz. While on location for the movie, Ruby accidentally discovers that her uncle is actually using her dad’s money to shoot a horror movie, instead of the rom-com he promised. When Alan finds out, he gets into a fist fight with his brother, cuts off the production money, and returns home with his daughter.

But Ruby is still determined to get her parents back together. She gets her uncle’s girlfriend to help, and together they cook up a plan to get the movie back on track. Stacey, a certifiable “horrorista,” is totally on board. And Ruby’s dad? Well, “Mr. Rom-Com” is another story.

Photo courtesy of Juska Wendland via Creative Commons.

In a bar, a timid young man finds himself between a woman with a curious nickname and a nasty-tempered assailant.

“Five Fingers,” she said.

“What?”

I could barely hear her over the noise. Someone had just

asked one of the bartenders to turn up the TV. Loud games and beery voices

usually get to me. This time, it didn’t matter, though. She seemed to bring

with her a kind of peace in the middle of all this drunken racket.

“Five Fingers,” she said a little louder, smiling to herself.

“That’s your name?”

Her face was, I don’t know, angelic—not the usual hard-ass

kind you see in these places. She was small, too. Maybe five-three or five-four.

No visible tattoos. Her long, dark hair fell softly over her shoulders. Her

clear, dark eyes seemed deep and full of understanding. I immediately felt

something for her.

“I’m Tom.”

“Okay,” she said. “What is it you do?”

“Software developer.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Well, you know.”

The crowd roared as the ball was stolen with two minutes left

in the fourth period. Some idiot bumped into the girl, making her spill her

drink.

“Hey, watch it, will you?” I said, not wanting to sound rude.

“Watch it yourself.” His dull eyes were thick with beer and

tequila.

My stomach started to knot up. I could already see it coming.

The girl would have to understand. I’m just not good at this kind of thing. It’s

not in my DNA to take swings at other guys in bars. Besides, the last time

something like this happened, I got the crap kicked out of me. Two cracked ribs

and one capped tooth later, I felt I had learned my lesson.

She must have seen the fear in my eyes because when I turned

to leave, she reached out for my hand. It was a move anyone could have mistaken

for a friendly, meaningless handshake.

“Let me see,” she said, turning my palm up and examining the

dark lines. “You have tendencies toward Love. I can tell you care about things.”

“Not butt-kicking contests, though.”

“So what? What’s a jerk like that got to do with anything?”

“Shh!” He was still close by.

“You really need to relax,” she said. “Don’t take things so

seriously all the time.”

“You don’t get it.” Now I’m talking in a low voice through

clenched teeth like a bad ventriloquist. “These kinds of people can get mean. Then

they call you out. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Violence is useless in a literate society,” she said.

“Literate!” I laughed—I couldn’t help it. “We’re dealing with

the Piltdown Man. The Terminator. Jason Statham. Where does ‘literate’ even

enter into it?”

“Jason Statham?”

“You know what I mean.”

“And anyway, Piltdown Man was a fake,” she said.

“I know, but this guy’s for real. I’m just not comfortable.”

“Have you always been this paranoid?”

“Ever since I learned that there are people in the world who

want me dead.”

“Let me see your hand again.”

I liked feeling her fingers glide over my skin. The shiny,

dark red nails reflecting light, the soft fingertips lingering in places. It

tickled and aroused me at the same time.

“You have a very long lifeline. What’re you worried about?”

There were fifteen seconds left. Godzilla must have had a lot

of money riding on the game because now he was beating his fist on the bar.

“One twenty-eight to one twenty-seven!” he said. “C’mon, I

can’t lose now! Get me the ball and let’s go!”

It suddenly came to me that this cretin was my age. We might’ve

gone through school together, lived in the same neighborhood. His hands were

twice as large as mine. His neck was as big around as my waist. He had on heavy,

black Doc Martens that made him seem even taller. Maybe he was an off-duty cop

or a security guard. Maybe he played pro ball at one time and had to get out

when his knees turned to Jell-O.

Suddenly, he noticed me staring at him. Thinking fast, I dove

into the nut bowl.

“Cashew?” I said to the girl.

She laughed at me. The way she looked at me then, it was like

she was peering through glass at a frozen specimen of something delicate. Something

never meant to survive in the real world. And in her laughter, I could hear

pity for a person who was unable to stand up to stupid threats and leering

insinuations. At the bottom of it, though, there was forgiveness.

“Don’t worry,” she said. Her voice was calm.

I didn’t know if she meant not to worry about that animal

punching me in the nose or about my chances with her. In a little while, the

game ended. The Demogorgon lost by one point. He was furious. And drunk. Scooping

up his change from the bar, he faced me, a vicious light in his red-rimmed eyes.

It was like I had been the cause of his bad luck.

“You piss me off,” he said like a hairy boar.

The girl was sitting between us. I panicked. What if he

attacked her? I’m just not equipped to handle a situation like this. These

bartenders should have a crowbar or something they keep hidden on the floor

just in case. I didn’t want to get involved.

“Let’s get out of here!” I said and hopped off the stool.

“What?” The girl had been using a small mirror to check one

of her contacts.

He blinked at her, hoping, I guess, that she would get out of

the way so we men could have it out. But she just sat there, examining her eye

and flipping her hair back.

Desperate, I searched for a bartender. Most of them were busy.

One of them was way at the other end of the bar, laughing with one of the

cocktail servers.

“Hey, weenie!” Bluto said, sucking the phlegm from his raw

sinuses and swallowing it.

I refused to meet his eyes and instead shot quick darting

glances at the girl, who appeared rested and tranquil. This was like one of

those nightmares where you’re running around screaming your head off while

everyone else is stupidly blissful. Sweat was pouring from my pits. My legs

were twin lead pillars. I could hear my own scared breath rattling around

inside a puny chest cavity like the chains in some horror dungeon.

“Chris, no!” someone said.

But as the Hulk went for me, the girl stood quickly and

smacked him hard across his fat, fulminous face with her open hand. I couldn’t

believe it. He reeled back for a second, surprised more than hurt. That’s when

I saw it—the outline of five fingers, red and pulsing across the front of his

face.

Coming to his senses, he tried grabbing her. She took a step

back and fired an incredible kick to the head. It was like a lightning bolt. Then

she smashed each of his kneecaps. Finally, she finished him off with a

well-placed knee straight up into his groin. It was as if she’d seen the whole

thing in her head and had simply gone through the steps, one after the next; her

opponent had merely played his part in this weird Kabuki dance. The whole thing

took maybe five or six seconds.

The assclown sank to the floor sickeningly like a bag of wet

sand, moaning and holding himself in as many places as he could think of. There

was hardly any blood. Mercifully, his friends got together and dragged him out

through the back entrance. Straightening her skirt, the girl sat down again, seemingly

unaware of the wild stares and waggling tongues of the others.

“Tequila!” she called out to one of the bartenders who nearly

tripped over himself trying to take her order. “Five fingers!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“What’re you having, Tom?” Her voice was silky and seemed to

float above all the commotion.

“The same, I guess.”

“Good.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in violence,” I said.

“I don’t. But some people need to be taught a lesson.”

We sat there awhile, sipping our drinks and watching the

post-game show. I turned to her and saw that she was smiling.

“What happens next?” I said.

“You walk me to my car. There’s no telling what’s out there

this time of night.”

I can do this, I told myself. Then I paid for the

drinks and helped her off her stool.

Photo Courtesy of Kevin Friery via Creative Commons

Using her acclaimed culinary skills, a determined woman decides to teach her philandering husband a lesson. Unfortunately, the whole town ends up suffering.

Marta Gutiérrez de Alma had been cooking soup for days. She

told her friend Teresa that this was going to be the best soup she ever made. What

she didn’t say is that it would be her last.

She had dug out every pot she owned. Then she went to her mother’s

house and got more pots. Soon she was asking people for pots after Mass. The

town began to suspect that something was wrong with Marta.

To be honest, she hadn’t been right since her husband Cinto

went off with “that woman.” Making soup, people felt, was her way of keeping

herself occupied. And they had approved at first.

Marta’s mother Juanita became alarmed when she discovered

that the children hadn’t been bathed in days. The house was filthy, and there

was no food in the kitchen—except for the damned soup ingredients.

Something needed to be done.

So Juanita moved in with Marta, explaining to her own husband

that it was the only way to save her grandchildren from turning into criminals.

They were five and seven.

Juanita cleaned the house, bathed the children, and did the

dishes while Marta went out shopping for only the freshest ingredients to make

her amazing soup.

Marta bought ranch-fresh chickens and slaughtered them for

their necks and gizzards. She chopped, diced, peeled, minced, and sautéed until

her hands were swollen and bloody. The town felt that, even if Marta was well

on her way to the loony bin, she would leave behind a soup never to be

forgotten.

Finally, after seven days Marta said, “Está lista, mamá.”

With tears in her eyes, Juanita watched her poor daughter go

off to the bathroom to have a bath. As soon as she heard the sound of water

running and Marta singing a lively canción, she found a spoon and tasted

the soup. It was magnificent.

“¡Ay, pobrecita!” she said, weeping.

While she finished her second bowl, Juanita recalled that Cinto

had insulted Marta badly before walking out on the whole family. In his

pathetic drunken rage, he called her a soup monger and a hard-hearted cow.

He added that she never loved him and that cooking all the time

was her way of avoiding intimacy. He even went so far as to suggest that Marta

had grown their two children out in the little vegetable patch in the

back because he could not recall the last time they had slept together as man

and wife.

“¡Qué lástima!” Juanita said as she started in on her

third bowl.

When Marta was finished bathing, she announced that she was

going to get the biggest kettle she could find, fill it with the delicious sopa,

and take it to the plaza on Sunday. At first, Juanita didn’t hear her because

she was slurping so loudly. But as Marta repeated her intentions, Juanita began

to worry.

Her distress multiplied as Marta rummaged through all of the

pots she had borrowed, made ear-splitting clanging noises, and uttered strange

incantations under her breath. When she observed Marta setting aside an

enormous cauldron—one so big she could have bathed both children in it at the

same time—she nearly choked on a lemon seed.

“Marta, ¿estás loca? You’ll break your neck carrying

that thing all the way to the plaza!”

“Oh, no, mamá,” Marta said, laughing. “Don’t you worry

about me. I’ve carried around that drunken louse of a husband longer than that.”

“Hija,” Juanita said and crumbled back into her chair

at the kitchen table, burping politely into her napkin.

The plaza is paved in ancient cobblestones. There is a

beautiful fountain in the center covered in blue-and-white tiles. On one side

next to the girls’ academy is the Church of the Wary Bystander. Directly across

from it among the shops is the Bar Social.

Cinto and his woman spent Sundays there eating and drinking

like pigs while everyone else went to Mass. Marta knew this because Teresa had

heard it from her husband who claimed he heard it from a sailor who was

presently suffering from a dose of el chancro.

On Sunday morning Marta washed and dressed the children. Then

she bathed, put on the most seductive dress she owned, and prepared to deliver

the soup to the plaza. Juanita still couldn’t believe her eyes and tried to

stop her. But Marta was final.

“Look,” she said. “I’m taking this soup down to the plaza

whether you like it or not. Now help me get it up onto my head.”

For fifteen minutes the two of them struggled with the pot. Marta

had piled several towels neatly on her head to cushion her from the weight and

the heat. But it was no use, they just couldn’t lift it. Just then José Luis

came by.

José Luis was madly in love with Marta and was glad when Cinto

ran out on her. He saw this as a sacred sign from Almighty God that Marta would

finally be his.

After exchanging the usual greetings, she ordered José Luis

to help balance the soup on her head. With a lover’s devotion, he lifted the

cauldron and placed it on top of the towels as Marta crouched down.

Once everything was in place, she slowly rose and

straightened her back. Juanita, José Luis, and the children stared wide-eyed. And

when she jittered out the front door, the sound of soup sloshing inside the

pot, they were astonished.

It took Marta nearly an hour to get to the plaza, which was

only a mile away. She had to keep stopping and starting so as not to collapse

from martyrdom.

Juanita, José Luis, and the children followed a little way

behind commenting on the fact that Marta not only cooked an excellent soup but

carried it wonderfully. Then other townspeople saw the procession and began to

follow.

Crusty old men sitting in doorways, smoking and drinking

coffee with brandy, stopped in mid-conversation and watched as Marta struggled

past with a look of pride and determination. Rising painfully from their wicker

chairs and brushing the ashes from their faded sweaters, they decided to join

the parade.

By the time she reached the plaza, three hundred cheering,

pan-waving people had gathered behind Marta including two priests and six

acolytes. They watched deliriously as she knelt at the edge of the fountain and

waited for José Luis and another volunteer to lift the soup from her head. Then

carefully she removed the towels, wiped her face and breasts, and took a deep

breath. One of the priests was so moved by the spectacle that he started to

bless the soup. But someone cut him off with a vulgar noise.

A small boy ran to the door of the Bar Social and shouted to

everyone inside that Marta Gutiérrez de Alma was in the plaza with soup enough

for everyone. People began pouring out of the building with any glasses, bottles,

and funnels they could get their hands on.

Cinto and his woman just sat at their table with suspicious

looks on their faces, trying to fathom the significance of the strange news. Reluctantly,

they got up and went outside to join the others.

Cinto had to cover his eyes a little until they adjusted to

the bright sun. Then he spotted Marta looking more beautiful than ever, sitting

on the edge of the fountain and politely turning down the many requests for

soup.

He heard her say, “No soup. Not until Cinto has had his.”

With tears in his eyes, he realized that Marta loved him

after all and wanted to go back to being a devoted wife. When he suggested this

possibility to the other woman, she cuffed him on the ear, called him a sea

hare, and marched back inside.

“Marta!” Cinto cried as he pushed his way through the crowd holding

his ear. “I knew you still loved me! I knew it! You see, everybody! A good wife

knows how to please her man. Marta has made this whole caldera of soup

just for me, but I’m going to share it with the entire town!”

Marta smiled as people offered their congratulations and

admonished her to serve the stinking soup before it got cold.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s still plenty hot.”

Then she removed the cover and with the strength of an animal

lifted the colossal pot by herself and dumped its contents onto her startled

husband. People gasped in terror as the boiling carrots, onions, and potatoes

turned Cinto red like a giant lobster. His unholy screams could be heard for

miles.

“That is the last soup I will ever make for anyone!” Marta said.

As Cinto lay on the ground twisting in pain, Marta gathered

up her family and walked back to the house. The people watched her go, stunned

by the experience. Though they felt all kinds of sympathy for Cinto, they

couldn’t help but harbor a nagging resentment toward him since it was his fault

that they would never again enjoy the wonderful soup.