General Blog Update: July 2018

I haven’t posted to this blog in several weeks.

I aim to make a post at least once a week, but two things have happened recently that have kept me away from here.

The first is the short story that I’m currently working on: “The Girl Who Wears the Cosmos as Her Dress”

I’ve got the general story and plot down, but I’m running into trouble with the details, scope, and focus of the story. Like I’ve mentioned before, this story is a major retooling of the first short story I ever wrote, but I get the feeling that overhauling the story way too much. So, on one hand, I’m sitting on the story so I don’t get lost in it all; I’ve found that time away from a text is a good way to edit. On the other hand, I’m constantly turning the story over in my head, trying to narrow down the focus and scope. To find “the point” in it.

The second is, well, better shown with pictures:

I went back to Arkansas for a week with my family to celebrate Independence Day and my brother’s birthday! The experience was relaxing and the time away from urban life was great for my mind.

The Natural State is full of wonder.

The scenery and vistas were once again beyond beautiful. It felt good being out there, exploring and sweating and getting dirty in the dense forests and mountains. It’s also given me a spark for a potential story. . .

And I also wrote a thing when I was out there. It’s not really a poem but it was something I felt compelled to write:

I spent some time away in Arkansas–

on mountains, on trails,

in forests, in rivers,

in cabins, in dirt,

in dust, in rain,

in sun, in shade,

by rocks, by trees

and fires and winds and hopes.

I thought of you every moment, and wished to share it all

with you.

But I also realize too,

when I look at your photo,

that I’m not even a thought floating in your mind.

I breathe.

I breathe in the earth and air

and skies and clouds and trees

and dirt and dust

and will create something out of it all for you.

Followers, I had a lot of dreams about her. I suppose that’s bound to happen when you’ve got a special person on your mind.

But a third thing has happened, too.

I’ve won another award for my story “The Legacy of Queso Champ!”

I’m not too sure of all the details yet, but the award is for the best undergraduate short story in a contest sponsored by the Texas Association of Creative Writing Teachers. I’ll be sure to post more information when I learn of it.

This award has vindicated my quest in becoming a published writer and has given confidence to my efforts. And I was counting on winning this award because I’ve got three particular goals set out for myself:

Win the Jesse H. Jones Writing Fellowship in the Dobie Paisano Fellowship Program, which is sponsored by the University of Texas.
Get accepted into either the New Writers Project graduate program at UT or the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa
Publish a book! (and hopefully move to Austin)

All in all, I’m basically just editing now and preparing to apply to the Dobie Paisano Fellowship. But I’m always collecting new words and ideas!

Thanks for sticking with me!

Goodnight, Judith

The first few pages of a short story about a man whose wife has recently passed away. The man confronts her estranged father and reflects on her memory.

Vince reads over a letter he’s finished writing for Mr. Esperanza.

Dear Anthony Esperanza,

I am writing to let you know that your daughter, Judith, is no longer. She passed peacefully. Her son, Hank, and I stood next to her.

I don’t understand how you are still here in this world and she is not. I don’t understand how you’ve outlasted her. It’s not fair.

Judith didn’t want a funeral, but she wouldn’t have expected you to show up in any case.

But I want you to know that your ignorance, your carelessness and your distance made Judith into the strongest woman I will have ever known. I know that for a fact, and Hank knows that, too.

Yet, Judith never once said she hated you. Perhaps that’s how you are still alive. She never wished you ill—she kept it to herself.

And she lived.

She didn’t live longer than you, but she lived better than you.

Regards,

Vincent

Vince knows little about Mr. Esperanza. The only thing he was sure of was that the old man still lives on Longshadow Lane.

After a short drive across town, Vince finds the place—a sad little house with fading, peeling white paint and sprawling crabgrass stretching out onto the sidewalk. Vince parks his car across the street from Judith’s childhood home and lifts the letter sitting patiently on the passenger’s seat. He checks to see if it’s still sealed, then slides it into his back pocket. After Vince shuts the car door, he hears the rumble of an engine and spots his old friend and Judith’s old neighbor, Chaz Sierra, mowing the lawn next door. Vince checks for traffic twice, then crosses the street over to Chaz. The lawnmower’s roar dies down before Vince reaches the sidewalk and says hello.

“Does Mr. Esperanza still live here, Chaz?” Vince asks. “It looks vacant.”

“That old bastard hardly ever leaves,” Chaz says. “And his grass gets so damn tall that I have to cut it myself sometimes.”

“Have you heard anything about Judith’s mother? Johanna?”

Chaz pivots his head from side to side.

Vince sighs. To Chaz, its sounds like Vince has been the one mowing lawns all day under the unrelenting sun of Texas.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you there much, Vince,” Chaz says. “But—”

Vince perks up.

“I have heard my mother say, once, that Mrs. Esperanza might have a whole new family somewhere out in Grand Prairie—”

“Grand Prairie? Vince asks. “That’s practically a million miles away from Thornton! Grand Prairie. . . .” He lets the city’s name roll off his tongue and disappear in the warm wind.

Vince looks at the little blades of green grass scattered across the concrete sidewalk, then shifts his legs to take another look at Judith’s old home. “Well, I’m gonna leave this letter next door for Mr. Esperanza,” he says before removing the small white envelope resting in his back pocket.

Chaz notices Vince’s eyes searching for Mr. Esperanza’s mailbox. He points it out for him.

“Thanks, Chaz,” Vince says. “I’m sorry there won’t be a normal funeral.”

Chaz nods. “It’s alright, Vince. The whole fireworks thing sounds like a better idea anyway. Sounds just like Judith.”

“But we’ll still have a eulogy, though. I’ll send you the info once me and Hank figure it all out,” he says, treading the sidewalk over to the house fading in both the sun and time. “And you should be able to see the fireworks from here.”

“Let me know before you light them,” Chaz says, grabbing the handle of his mower.

Vince gives him a thumbs-up. “Thanks,” he says again to Chaz, but the lawn mower’s engine fires up before the word reaches him.

Vince steps up onto porch and stands between the mailbox and front door. He doesn’t knock. The mailbox isn’t one set on a post. Instead, it’s one of those boxes that’s stuck up on the wall, nailed right into the siding. But when Vince raises the metal cover of the black mailbox, the front door next to him carefully cracks open. Vince turns and looks into the small opening.

A thin hand with shaky, gray knuckles grips—hangs—on a beaten brass knob. Resting against the inside of the door is the sunken eye and side of a scruffy, skinny face. . . .

My next story will be a reworking of the very first short story I ever wrote. It’ll be called:

Bad Juju

The first three pages of my latest story about a hard luck girl looking for her dog.

Judith stepped out of a bush that I’m sure was full of poison ivy. “He’s not here,” she said, scanning the dark shrubbery behind me with her bright LED flashlight. The sun had set hours ago, but Judith’s determination took no rest.

“Juju,” I said to her, trying to calm her down. “I’m sure he’s back at your house now. Dogs are like that. One time, my old dog Rocket ran out the gate.” I made a motion with my hand to imitate a dog running. “The next day, I found him sleeping outside right below my window.”

“I hope he’s okay,” Judith said. She looked down at her dirty Converse, her long brown hair hiding her face. “I need Lucky. He’s gonna be hungry. He’s scared—I feel it.”

I never felt so much worry in her voice before. I turned away from her because I thought she might start to cry, but instead she took a few steps and passed me—she was heading back to our neighborhood, now. I thought I should hug her or something—to try and console her, you know? But I didn’t want to get any poison ivy on me—I get a terrible reaction from the stuff. So I stayed a few feet behind her and followed her back to Longshadow Lane.

Surrounded by an intimate darkness, we flowed over the sidewalk like a pair of tired ghosts. We walked through a path of orange street lamps for about ten minutes, and it was silent—you could only hear our footsteps and a chirping buzz from crickets hidden in the dark grass, humming us all the way back to our houses.

I stopped when we reached the part of the sidewalk that led towards her front porch, but Judith rounded the turn and made a quick inspection all around the outside of her house and backyard. I lost sight of her for a few moments and I sorta hoped that she’d come running back carrying a happy little yapping Beagle safely in her arms. With that image of Judith and Lucky in my mind, I started to yawn and wanted to lie down in my bed waiting for me next door. Then Judith walked back to the spot where she had left me. Her slim arms were sad and empty and I saw no sign of relief in her worried look. She said nothing.

“Lucky’ll be here in the morning,” I told her. “Trust me.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. Then she finally looked me in the eyes again, “I need you here again—tomorrow morning—if he still hasn’t come home.”

“Okay,” I said. I nodded at Judith to show my support.

“We gotta find him,” she said. “It’ll be hell without Lucky.”

It didn’t really feel right to say goodnight at that moment, so I turned around and crossed the cracked sidewalk back over to my house without saying anything. I pictured Judith slipping passed her drunken dad, snoring in their living room, when I heard her big front door open and shut in the warm dark air behind me.

I managed to slide myself under the garage door and snuck quietly into my bedroom without waking up my parents. I got into my pajamas, lied down in bed and thought about Judith and her luck. I think the girl’s cursed or something. She’s always had bad luck. Everyone calls her Bad Juju, or Juju, for short. But I remembered that the worst of her luck didn’t actually happen to her.

It happened to her little brother, Henry.

When Judith was about thirteen and Henry twelve, he went out with some of his friends to play football down by the creek next to Esterfeld Community College. Halfway through their game, Henry threw the ball far into an ugly thicket. They all probably would have just left it there, lost in the shrubs, except for the fact that the ball belonged to Henry’s dad. You see, Judith and Henry’s dad used to play QB for Thornton High School—he led the Thornton Tigers to their first and only UIL championship title. So Henry had to find the ball or else he’d probably get his ass beat harder than Tigers had over the last decade because that ball was a game ball from the championship match at old Texas Stadium.

They all searched through that thicket until the sun had set, but Henry was lucky enough to find it. Henry also found an old rifle there, too. . .

A Guide to Pablo from Texas

I write fiction, but this blog contains many different examples of my work, like personal updates and observations that are not fiction.

This can be overwhelming to a reader visiting my site for the first time.

So I’ve created this quick guide to showcase appropriate examples of each genre I write in:

FICTION / NONFICTION – OBSERVATIONS / CREATIVE NONFICTION

Click on a quote if you’d like to read more!

[FICTION]

These are short stories I have written. They are not true accounts, but they are inspired by my own experiences.

– The Legacy of Queso Champ –

This story won the 2018 Charles Gordone Award in Undergraduate Fiction; it tells the story of a boyhood friendship as it progresses through time.

Back in elementary school, Queso Champ snuck around the bar of the cafeteria and swiped a whole package of Kraft Singles when none of the cafeteria ladies where looking. He ran back over to our table and devoured the entire pack in under a minute. . .

– What Happens When a Poem Goes through the Washer –

This story is about a young man’s night out at several bars, his drunken antics and his poetic hangover.

“What are we gonna toast to?” I asked as I turned towards her, glass raised in hand. With a big smile she said, “To NO more kisses!”

[NONFICTION – OBSERVATIONS/UPDATES]

These are true accounts regarding various aspects of my life, such as being an Aggie.

– Patterns, Perspective –

An observation on my iPhone camera roll, along with a little discussion of art.

I really don’t know what I’m going to do in the future. I have no plans. It almost seems hopeless. But I will go forward, without fear, into the vanishing point.

– A Visit to the Aggie Bonfire Memorial –

A random journey to a scared location in Aggieland; poems of life frozen in bronze; a realization of duty and honor.

I was absorbed in the sanctity of it all — the green plains and hills that surround the memorial remove you from the bustle of A&M and pull you into what is known as the spirit of Aggieland.

[NONFICTION – CREATIVE NONFICTION]

These are true reflections on my life, written in style that exceeds the normal creative significance of an observation or update.

– Tell Me of What I Dream –

An account of my struggles in dancing with death.

It’s like an awkward conversation; like asking your own ghost to remind you of dreams you’ve forgotten. I’ve had to ask twice.

– High School Boy –

In a letter to my younger, I try to say that life changes but problems remain familiar.

She’ll tell you of things she’s never told anyone and you’ll carry those secrets like a sort of unpronounceable cancer. . .

Farewell, Aggieland!

On Thursday, May 10^th, I graduated from Texas A&M University. I’m a former student, now.

It’s a bittersweet moment, really.

I really don’t want to leave this magical place. I’ve grown so much here.

Two days before I graduated, I saw the sun set on Aggieland while taking my final steps as a student across campus. I didn’t want to leave in hurry, so I took my time and I stayed until the evening. Finally, I made one last trip from the MSC all the way back to parking lot 55.

The place was practically a ghost town.

I took a good look at Evans Library one last time. I wrote some of my best stories in that place.

And right before I got to the parking lot, I took a glimpse at the Liberal Arts, Arts & Humanities building. It’s a great big beautiful building and most of my classes where held there. It was humid on hot days ’cause of all the windows and the WiFi was horrible. But–I’m gonna miss it.

I felt like crying, but I was more shocked, really. Then, two days later, I walked across the stage. Well, what I really did was “kick in the door” like Vinny from Jersey Shore: Family Vacation. My friends caught it on their cellphones:

I went to six graduations in total. We kicked off grad season with a campfire in the backyard.

And I went to Northgate every night from Tuesday ’til Saturday. It was a crazy week (I’ve got this awesome denim jacket now and I wore it about three nights in a row ’cause I like it so much; I also wore my overalls on Saturday, too). A crazy few days filled with celebratin’, singin’, hollerin’, shoutin’, sweatin’, drinkin’, swearin’, whoopin,’ eatin’, cheerin’ and laughin’. My Aggie family is a never-ending party.

We’ve had this old beer pong table for a few years. It was white at first, but then we tried to spray paint it maroon. The paint cans actually turned out to be red, unfortunately. Over the years, the paint slowly chipped off. Since we’re all graduated now, there won’t be any more parties at 306 Fairway, so Jose jumped off of Marco’s truck and slammed into the table to destroy it. It’s finally been decommissioned.

We took one last photo in front of the 306 house.

It’s only been two years since I took my first ever class at A&M (American Literature with Dr. Alonzo), but it’s been quite a wild ride. I owe it all to Marco; he was the one who invited me to a Midnight Yell back in 2014 or so. I fell in love with A&M that night. I’ve got that spirit, now. I’m never gonna take my ring off.

You know, it still hasn’t all hit me yet. Like I said earlier, I felt like crying and I still do, but I haven’t yet. The first half of my time at A&M had a lot of tears and a lot of lows. But the second half had a lot of laughs. Lots of highlights, especially my Aggie ring and that Gordone Award in undergraduate fiction. Almost dying in CHI St. Joseph’s really did turn my outlook on life around.

Lately, when I ever get hesitant on doin’ something, I ask myself this question:

Ten years from now, what will I regret more: doing this, or not doing this?

I was always shy and reserved before, but lately I’ve been pushing myself to get more out of life. I wrote in my first post that I want to live a life that exemplifies the motto, “who dares, wins.” I want to dare, to take chances and to chase success. I’ve got to do more.

So I’ve got a bachelor’s degree in English–I graduated cum laude. I’ve made it. I don’t think my education is over yet, though. And I’m not done writing, either. I’ve got another story in the works: “Bad Juju.”

Stay tuned. . .