Friday Fanfic

"The Final Meeting"

(A story inspired by an alternative version of Season 5. This may or may not be the last story posted on this site, depending on what changes get made on this site without my knowledge.)

It began with a knock on the bedroom window pane.

It started so softly that Xander had been certain that it was part of a dream. Then it grew louder to the point that he could no longer ignore it.

So he went to the bedroom window and pulled the curtain aside, only to see --

"Buffy!"

It was his old friend Buffy Summers and she looked so lost and all alone. She wore a big black coat and a red scarf that she had never worn before.

"Let me in, Xander," she said. "Please let me in."

"Let you in?" asked Xander. "Let you in? I can't let you in. What would Anya say?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Oh, really, Xander? Do you really think I care what Anya thinks at a time like this? Besides, she's not here right now. So go ahead and open the window and let me in."

"Anya's not here right now?" asked Xander.

Then he looked around and realized that Buffy was right. Anya was not in the bedroom sleeping besides him like she normally would be. In fact, she seemed to be nowhere around as far as he could tell. But how did Buffy know that?

"Come on, Xander," said Buffy. "I thought we were friends. In fact, the two of us were friends long before Anya came along. So why don't you just let me in for old times' sake?"

"I got a better idea," said Xander. "Why don't you come to my front door and I'll let you in that way. It would look less suspicious."

"Okay," said Buffy, rolling her eyes again. "If you say so."

A few minutes later, Xander was opening the front door of his apartment and greeting Buffy face to face. But then Buffy seemed reluctant to come in.

"You need to invite me in," said Buffy, looking more than a bit embarrassed. "It's not going to work if you don't invite me in."

"Why do I need to invite you in?" asked Xander. "You and Riley have been here dozens of times."

"Oh, please don't mention Riley right now," said Buffy. "Just let me in."

"Okay, Buffy," said Xander, sensing something serious going on. "Come on in."

"Thank you, Xander," said Buffy.

And with that, she ran into the apartment and embraced Xander as if he were a long-lost relative, an embrace that was only marred by the fact that it felt just a tad colder than one of Anya's hugs.

"Whoa, Buffster!" cried Xander. "It's only me. You've never hugged me like this before. What's wrong?"

"Everything," said Buffy. "Everything's wrong."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Xander.

"I broke up with Riley today," said Buffy, still hugging Xander. "We had a fight. He accused me of all sorts of stuff. He even tried to hit me. Tried, anyway."

"He tried to hit you?" asked Xander.

"Yes," said Buffy. "But don't worry. He'll never do that again."

"Who's worried?" asked Xander. "If I ever see him again, he should be the one who should be worried. All this time I thought he was a stand-up guy and then he goes and tries to hit my best friend. I don't care how long he's been in the military. There's no way he's getting away with that."

"It's okay, Xander," said Buffy. "It's been handled. I handled it. Riley will never hurt anyone else again. I swear."

"But still..." Xander started to say.

But Buffy just smiled and put a finger to his lips. "It's okay, Xander. I know what you're trying to say. And I've been thinking the same thing. Ever since I last saw Dracula."

"Wait a minute," said Xander. "You saw Dracula again?"

"Of course," said Buffy. "That's what the fight was about. Riley found out I was seeing Dracula again and he got angry about it. Apparently he didn't trust me to handle myself around him. Well, I showed him."

"Er, okay," said Xander. "By 'showed him,' do you mean --"

"Does it matter, Xander?" asked Buffy. "Does it really matter? Look, I know you consider the two of us to be friends but we both know that you in particular always wanted us to be more than friends. And now that's Riley's out of the picture, now's your chance."

"My chance?" asked Xander, wanting to be smarter right then but not quite managing it.

Then he thought of something. "Hey, what about Anya?"

"What about her?" asked Buffy.

"Well, I'm with her now," said Xander. "And after what I went through with Cordelia and Willow, why, I can't turn my back on her too!"

"Oh, it's so sweet that you can talk like you really believe that," said Buffy. "But we both know whom you really love and anything Anya has done during the last year is not likely to have changed that."

"You're wrong, Buffy," said Xander. "I love Anya. I really do. Maybe not as much as you loved Angel but --"

"Please don't bring up Angel right now, Xander," said Buffy. "If I wanted to see Angel, I'd be on my way to LA right now. But I'm not. I'm here. To see you."

"To see me?" asked Xander. "Why?"

"Really, Xander?" asked Buffy, rolling her eyes again. "Do I really have to keep repeating myself? Perhaps I should put it this way: Xander? Did I ever thank you... for saving my life?"

"Oh," said Xander. "This again. Er, oh, no, Buffy. You didn't."

Buffy smiled again. "Don't you wish I would?"

"Well, that boat sailed a long time ago, Buffy," Xander replied. "So if you don't mind..."

"Oh, stop making such a fuss, Xander," said Buffy. "Tonight's the night I finally pay you back for saving me from the Master. You should appreciate it."

"I should appreciate -- " Xander started to say.

Then a thought occured to him. "Hey, wait a minute! Why tonight in particular? What happened tonight that suddenly made paying me back so important? Surely your breakup with Riley was not that bad, was it?"

"Oh, Xander," said Buffy in an increasingly gruff voice. "Willow was right. Sometimes you really don't know when to shut up."

And then as Xander watched in horror, Buffy's face suddenly transformed into the face of a killer vampire.

Only to immediately dissolve into dust upon being pierced from behind by a crossbow bolt.

And of course, when the dust that used to be Buffy Summers cleared, Xander could see his girlfriend Anya standing in the doorway with a crossbow in her hand.

"Sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Xander," said Anya. "I always suspected something would happen some day. I just didn't expect it to be tonight. But fortunately, I had all the right ingredients for an invisibility spell and of course, I do know something about crossbows though I must admit I'm a bit out of practice... Hey, why are you looking at me like that? I just saved your life. I realize that you might be feeling a little odd right now but if it weren't for me, Buffy would have ripped your throat out just now. And I believe the correct response to me preventing that is 'Thank you!'"

Friday Fanfic

Buffy the Dragon Slayer

(An obvious continuation of last week's story.)

Chapter Six

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Buffy. "I'm gonna have to fight a dragon."

"Of course you're going to have to fight a dragon," said Laurel. "You knew that all along."

"No, you don't understand," said Buffy. "I'm going to have to fight a dragon right now. In the rain. Without my magic lotion."

Laurel replied, "Well, perhaps if we dab on the magic lotion extra thick and you kill the dragon in a hurry..."

"You can't kill a dragon in a hurry," said Buffy. "I've tried. Killing a dragon is a long and exhausting process. And I'll be doing so with half my protection washed away and doing so with a giant fire-breathing reptile that need only breathe on me to turn me to ashes. Oh my God, Laurel! What am I supposed to do?"

"Be brave, Buffy," said Laurel, trying hard to sound supportive.

"No, you be brave, Laurel," said Buffy. "Better yet you kill the dragon. I'll wait right here till you get back."

"Buffy," said Sir Roderick, "all this barking at Laurel isn't being particularly helpful. Someone in this village has to fight this dragon or else many, many people here are going to die. And unfortunately, you're the best qualified of the three of us to do so."

"But I can't help anyone if I'm in flames," said Buffy. "Please don't make me go out there. Please!"

"I would love to be able to comply with your request, Buffy," said Sir Roderick. "After all, I don't want you to die either. But my duty requires me to make you do your duty."

"Perhaps I can help," said a soft voice from the back of the dining room.

To be continued...

From whom does Buffy get help?

A. A witch?

B. A wizard?

C. A vampire?

Friday Fanfic

Buffy the Dragon Slayer

(An obvious continuation of last week's story.)

Chapter Five

For the next few hours, Buffy lost herself in the minstrel's music, not really caring that much about her evening meal even though Laurel practically had to spoon feed Buffy her dinner just to make sure she ate something.

Her favorite tune for some strange reason, was an odd little ditty that began with a wolf howl and a few notes from a church organ. How the minstrel managed to duplicate these sounds, Buffy had no idea, but the rest of the ditty was so easy to listen to that Buffy had a hard time keeping it out of her head afterwards.

Of course, Buffy wasn't the only person the minstrel Australis played for. Every so often, the innkeeper's wife Anastasia would request a song about rabbits for some strange reason. And Laurel would request a ton of songs Buffy had never heard of including one about a magic love potion and another one called "I Kissed a Girl." (Most definitely a guy song, Buffy thought, though for some odd reason, Australis did not sing it that way.)

Sir Roderick did not request a thing, choosing to stay silent while his Slayer enjoyed the music.

Buffy thought no more about anything apart from music until halfway through her dinner when she heard a roar of thunder.

"Funny," said Laurel. "I saw no lightning outside when I heard that bolt of thunder."

"Why would you find that funny?" said Buffy.

"Because thunder is always accompanied by lightning," said Laurel. "Unless it's something else we heard."

"Like what?"

Just then a beautiful brunette in a flowery dress showed up at the entrance of the inn's dining room.

"What is it, Baile?" said Anastasia.

"Come quick," said the woman called Baile. "The local bookshop is on fire."

"On fire?" asked Leandro the innkeeper. "You mean --"

"That's right, Leandro," said Baile. "The dragon is attacking our village. And by the way, Australis... As long as I'm here, could you play that song about provincial life? Because I just love that tune."

To be continued...

Friday Fanfic

Buffy the Dragon Slayer

(An obvious continuation of last week's story.)

Chapter Four

Part One

"Welcome to the Violet Moon," said the one-eyed innkeeper as Sir Roderick, Buffy and Laurel entered the local inn. "My name is Leandro Harris and this is my wife Anastasia. I hope you all enjoy your stay in my fine establishment as long as you're in town."

"And feel free to hunt most of the local wildlife while you're here," said Anastasia, a short blonde-haired girl who was just a shade taller than Buffy. "Especially the local rabbits."

"Er, Ana," said Leandro. "We talked about this. Not every guest we get is here to hunt rabbits."

"But they should be," said Anastasia. "Those rabbits are becoming quite a menace. I mean, it's not like they're so cute like everybody supposes. They got those hoppy legs and twitchy little noses. And what's with all the carrots? Why do they need such good eyesight for, anyway?"

"Actually," said Sir Roderick, "we're here to slay a dragon."

"I don't see why you're here to do that," said Anastasia. "It's not like a dragon ever stole anything from my vegetable garden. Rabbits, on the other hand --"

"Enough with the rabbits, Ana," said Leandro. "Why don't you go check on the kitchen staff? I expect our guests will be quite hungry after they unpack their stuff."

Anastasia just sighed and walked off in a direction that seemed to lead toward a kitchen.

Buffy just looked around and said, "Is there really a dragon around here?"

"Why, yes, there is," said Leandro.

"But he wouldn't attack in the middle of a rainstorm, would he?" asked Buffy.

"I don't think so," said Leandro. "Please don't tell me that a brave dragonslayer like yourself is afraid of a little rain."

"Well, actually..." said Buffy.

Just then Anastasia returned. "Dinner is almost ready. I trust you all have changed your mind about hunting rabbits."

"Leave them alone, Ana," said Leandro. "It's not lucky to harass a dragon slayer and her staff."

"Staff?" asked Sir Roderick. "You mean you think we're her servants?"

"Well, aren't you?" said Anastasia. "After all, she does all the work. Granted, it must be exhausting for her to be always stripping down in the center of a village and pulling a sword out of her womb but still -- "

"You think I do what?" asked Buffy. "Where did you get the idea that I do anything like that?"

"That's what all the stories say," said Anastasia with a shrug.

"Well, the stories are wrong," said Buffy.

Part Two

"Look at all the people, Stake!" said Messalina as she watched the new arrivals at the Violet Moon from the safety of the second floor. "Why do you suppose they're all here?"

"Not to hunt bloody rabbits, that's for certain!" said Stake, still missing the days when he wore a black toga -- though the black leather coat he currently wore was no mean substitute. "My guess would be that they're all here to kill the local dragon."

"Aww!" said Messalina. "I kinda liked that dragon. It always looks so cute when it chases the local villagers. So which one do you think is the Slayer?"

"My guess would be the blonde," said Stake.

"Oh, right," said Messalina. "You like blondes, don't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Stake.

"Why don't you think it's the redhead?" asked Messalina.

"Because that girl is obviously Jewish and the Watchers Council rarely uses Jewish girls as their Slayers," said Stake. "Not even half-Jewish girls."

"I knew a Jewish girl once," said Messalina. "I used to meet her outside the convent where I was preparing to be a nun. For the longest time, she was my only friend and we got along way better than I ever got along with any of the other would-be nuns. So naturally after Damon gave me the Dark Gift, she was the first girl that I killed."

At this point, Messalina's eyes went vacant and Stake could not tell whether she was reliving a happy memory or a not so happy memory. Not that it mattered much with Mess.

"Oh, Damon again," said Stake. "I thought you moved on from him."

"Well, he is a hard person to get over," said Messalina. "First he killed my friends, then he killed my family, then he killed all the other nuns, then he killed their friends and families and finally he killed me. But then the Gypsies cursed him and gave him back his soul so I guess that showed him."

"Anyway, it looks like it's going to rain outside so it's not likely she'll be fighting the dragon tonight," said Stake.

"You really think so?" said Messalina. "Because I saw a Slayer fight a dragon during a rainstorm once. She was a blackamoor. What was her name? Oh, yes... Niccola Wood. She was such a pretty thing."

At this point Messalina's eyes went vacant again. "She also had a lovely voice. She screamed so beautifully when she went up in flames. I don't suppose history is likely to repeat itself, is it?"

Part Three

As Buffy, Laurel and Sir Roderick entered the Violet Moon, they were enticed by the sound of a lute playing in a nearby room.

"Oh, cool," said Laurel. "They have a minstrel."

"Not just a minstrel," said Anastasia. "We have the great Australis, Aus for short. He plays here all the time -- except for nights of the full moon. For some reason, we can never get him to work on those nights."

Buffy could not help drifting in the direction of the music. She did not hear such music too often in her line of work and given all her current worries, she welcomed the chance to drown herself in the work of a master minstrel.

At least she did until she realized what she was listening to.

"Eighty men died and eighty men fried!" sang the minstrel. "Now their ashes are buried on the countryside. Ten, twenty, fifty or more. The bloody red dragon kept rolling up the score. Eighty men died trying to kill that freak. The bloody red dragon of Coven -- "

"You're playing that song?!" exclaimed Buffy.

"Hey!" said the redheaded minstrel who called himself Australis. "What's wrong with that song? I get more requests for that tune than for any other song that I play."

"'Rover vs. the Red Dragon' is not the type of song I want to listen to tonight," said Buffy.

"Why not?" asked Australis. "Don't you like songs about dragon slayers?"

"Hello," said Buffy. "I am a dragon slayer. But that song about some dog fighting a dragon -- "

"Hey!" exclaimed Australis. "For all you know, it might have actually happened that way."

"But it didn't," said Buffy.

"Well, at least folks around here find it entertaining," said Australis.

"Folks around here aren't going to be fighting a dragon tomorrow," said Buffy. "Don't you have any tunes that aren't dragon-related?"

"I'm guessing 'Sympathy for the Dragon' and 'Pfft the Magic Dragon' are out of the question," said Australis.

"Yes, they are," said Buffy.

"In that case, let's see... 'Play with Fire', 'Light My Fire', 'Ring of Fire', 'I'm on Fire', 'We Didn't Start the Fir --'"

"Don't you have any songs that aren't fire-related?" asked Buffy.

"Sure," said Australis. "'Momma I Just Killed a Man'."

"No," said Buffy. "I mean something's that more upbeat."

"Well, there's always the classic tune 'Here We Are Now, Entertain Us'," said Australis.

"That sounds cheerful," said Buffy. "Play that one."

To be continued...

Friday Fanfic

Buffy the Dragon Slayer

(An obvious continuation of last week's story.)

Chapter Three

"Oh my God, Sir Roderick!" cried Buffy. "Laurel's right. It is going to rain."

"It's okay, Elizabeth," said Sir Roderick. "You still have your scarf. You can wear that over your hair until we get a chance to get inside."

"I'm not worried about my hair, you ninny!" said Buffy. "And I told you before, it's Buffy, not Elizabeth. Only my mother can get away with calling me Elizabeth. Everyone else has to call me Buffy."

"Well, Buffy, if you're not worried about your hair, then why do you care so much whether or not it's going to rain?" asked Sir Roderick. "It doesn't look like it will be a particularly bad storm."

"Because I'm probably going to have to fight a dragon soon and I can't do that if the rain keeps washing off the magic lotion on my body," said Buffy.

"Oh, right," said Sir Roderick. "I hadn't considered that."

"Perhaps we can mix the lotion with something the rain can't wash off that easily," said Laurel. "Like chicken grease."

"Oh, great!" said Buffy. "The one thing that's going to keep me alive during the dragon fight and you want to risk diluting it with something as flammable as chicken grease. Why not throw me on a bonfire, why don't you?"

"Buffy, there's no point in attacking Laurel just because you don't like her ideas," said Sir Roderick. "She's only trying to help."

"Yes, she's trying," said Buffy. "Very trying."

"Buffy's just upset about this whole imminent death thing," said Laurel. "That surprises me because I read somewhere that all Slayers have a death wish. That death is their gift or their present or else something that looks really good when you see it all wrapped up but once you remove the ribbons and the bows and the paper -- "

"Laurel!" cried Buffy. "Not helping!"

"Well, we're not far from the village where we're supposed to be and there's an inn up ahead," said Sir Roderick. "Why don't we go over there, tie up the animals, and then make preparations for the dragon fight while we wait for the rain to blow over?"

"But how are we supposed to -- " Buffy started to say.

Sir Roderick interrupted. "One problem at a time. First, let's find the stable. Then we'll go inside the inn and discuss this matter. Normally we'd need to prepare for the fight anyway so we might as well do it this way."

"Well, I hope you come up with a solution, Sir Roderick," said Laurel, "because I'd sure hate to lose Buffy and besides, I don't look all that good in black."

"Laurel!" cried Buffy. "Again, not helping!"

To be continued...

Friday Fanfic

Buffy the Dragon Slayer

(An obvious continuation of last week's story.)

Chapter Two

"Speaking of chosen ones..." said Buffy.

"I wouldn't finish that particular sentence if I were you, Buffy," said Laurel. "After all, you are going to need someone to help put you put on the Achilles lotion before every dragon fight and it's in your best interest that that person be female, especially since there are certain female body parts that men are often reluctant to touch, particularly around that special time of the month. You've been lucky so far and with me on your side, you'll be luckier still. But you don't want to give me an incentive to forget certain body parts when I do my job, do you, Buffy?"

"Um, no," said Buffy. "Okay. Let's start over. Hi, I'm Buffy."

"Hi, I'm Laurel," said Laurel.

"Hi, Laurel," said Buffy. "Please forgive me for asking this but whatever made you decide to go into this line of work?"

"Hey, I want to fight evil too," said Laurel. "You can't imagine how often my people have had their homes and villages burned."

"Wow!" said Buffy. "They get attacked by dragons that often?"

Laurel chose to stay silent.

"Well, I guess we should be on my way," said Sir Roderick. "I'll go get my horse and you and Laurel ride the mule."

"Why can't we ride the horse and you ride the mule?" asked Buffy.

"Buffy, we've been through this before," said Sir Roderick. "It's because it's my horse."

"Well, as long as there's a logical reason," said Laurel. "At least it beats walking. Let's get started."

xxx

"So what does it feel like to fight a dragon naked?" asked Laurel as she and Buffy rode through the forest.

"Can you please stop asking that question, Laurel?" asked Buffy. "It's embarrassing."

"As embarrassing as having to take your clothes off in public and then fight a dragon?" asked Laurel. "Because that's what you do."

"Actually I don't take them off in public," said Buffy. "I take them off in private and then I go fight the dragon. Plus I have to put on the magic lotion -- or as you and Sir Roderick like to call it, the 'Achilles lotion' -- after I take my clothes off. After all, I may be many things thanks to my Slayer skills but I'm not magically fireproof."

"Well, would this magic lotion work on anyone?" asked Laurel. "Even me?"

"I don't know," said Buffy. "As far as I know, it only works on chosen ones. Sir Roderick has told me that others have tried it -- mainly men -- but for some reason, it never worked on them. I'm just lucky it works on me."

"What if you had to fight a dragon while you weren't wearing the lotion?" asked Laurel.

"Then I'd be in trouble," said Buffy. "But fortunately, that will never happen. The Watchers Council keeps a big supply of it on hand and it never lets Slayers like me go anywhere without it. Why do you ask?"

"Because we're not too far away from the village where the dragon is supposed to be at," said Laurel, "and it looks like it's about to rain."

To be continued...

Friday Fanfic

Buffy the Dragon Slayer

(A revised version of a story that I originally wrote for a R-rated fanfic site. Unfortunately, like most such stories that I've written, it tended to go beyond the parameters of the site into some unexpected territory so I thought I should revise it and post it here. I hope you all enjoy it.

Chapter One

In every generation there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the dragons, the basilisks, and the other creatures of darkness. She is the Slayer.
--Sir Roderick of Giles

Well, personally, I kinda want to slay the dragon. Let's go to work.
--Damon, He of the Daemonic Countenance

Ooh, shiny!
--Buffy Summerfield

"I have to go fight another fire-breathing dragon again?" asked Elizabeth "Buffy" Summerfield.

"Well, the delegation the villagers sent to our Watchers Council did feel that the matter was quite urgent," said Sir Roderick of Giles. "And you are the chosen one, Elizabeth."

"I told you before," said Buffy. "The name's Buffy, not Elizabeth. And frankly, I don't care if I was chosen. I didn't sign up for this. And if you think this matter is so urgent, then you go fight the dragon."

"I would if I could," said Sir Roderick, "but unfortunately, the Good Lord has not seen fit to bless me with the same abilities that you have. Besides, the ancient prophecies say that only a young maiden dressed in the garb of Eve may defeat the beast that breathes fire. And although more than a few young men on the Council have tried to defy that prophecy, all of them who tried have died horrible deaths."

"So go find yourself another young maiden," said Buffy. "Preferably one with a death wish."

"It does not work that way, Buffy," said Sir Roderick. "Suicide is a mortal sin. And anyway, the prophecies make it quite clear in other sections that the maiden has to be a chosen one, picked specifically by the Good Lord to fight dragons and other creatures of darkness. At least that's how the local monks translated it and they wouldn't lie to us."

"You trust monks to be objective about a prophecy involving naked women?" asked Buffy. "Now that's a laugh."

"Well, if you don't go fight this dragon, innocent people are going to die," said Sir Roderick. "At the very least, it will burn down the village and then move on. Maybe to this village. And then no one here will be safe. Not even your younger sister Dusk."

"Okay, okay," said Buffy. "I'll go fight your dragon. But I won't be happy about it. Just tell me you're bringing a female assistant along this time to help me put on that special lotion on my hard-to-reach areas. It gets too creepy when you or your dogsbody Wesley do it."

"As a matter of fact, I am bringing along a female assistant," said Sir Roderick. "Sort of a watcher's apprentice, you might say. In fact, here she comes now."

Just then a shy young red-haired girl with Jewish facial features entered the room.

"Buffy Summerfield," said Sir Roderick, "meet my latest Watcher-in-training, Laurel Rosenberg."

To be continued...

Novela de Mi Id

“In Fear and Trembling”

Chapter Seven

The hairy one proved to be a gentler lover than she had imagined. The first night had not been one of pain like her mother had warned and as succeeding nights wore on, she began to realize that her husband was quite gentle for a man who looked like a beast.

Nevertheless, there came a night when she awoke to find him staring out their bedroom window, his face focused on the distant moon.

“Come to bed, my heaven,” she said.

“I can't.”

“What is it?” She pushed away the blankets and walked over to him.

He was murmuring something. “I was conceived in darkness and raised in darkness. Now I conceive yet another in darkness and so on forever and amen.”

“What is it?” she said again.

He turned to look at her, and suddenly, despite her long white robe, she felt quite exposed. His attention seemed focused on the small triangular slit that had been made in her robe below the waist. It was a conception dress, to put it quite bluntly, and yet the way her husband looked at her now made it quite clear that conception was not quite on his mind.

“You are quite beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Too beautiful.”

“I don't understand.”

“They will separate us in the end. The beauty and the beast only live happily ever after in fairy tales.”

He stared at the night sky again. “Someday I will burn and so will all my children. But you -- you will be spared.”

“Why are you talking like this?”

“I have decided to go to the New World, away from the eyes of the Mother Church.”

He grasped her hand. “I want you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because you are my wife.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, why are you fleeing the kingdom?”

He looked away from her. “You would not understand.”

“Yes, I would. Just tell me.”

He turned toward her again.

“I am cursed.”

“Why do you say that? Because you're hairy?”

He shook his head and then fell silent.

Then he pointed.

On a path in the garden below their bedroom window, the bones of a small animal shone in the moonlight.

“I did that,” Don Felipe said. He looked at her again. “And God help me, someday I may do it again.”

Novela de Mi Id

“In Fear and Trembling”

Chapter Six

The next morning a sexless one appeared at the door. “Come with me,” it said.

He was escorted down a long black corridor to a solitary stone chamber. The furnishings were much simpler in this chamber than in the one in which he had slept the night before. For one thing, there were no windows or wall coverings and the floor was bare stone. The only piece of furniture was a wooden chair; its only source of heat was a modest fire. A brown-robed man sat in the chair. Besides him was a yellowing human skull. The man's head seemed almost as hairless as the skull. His hood was down and around his neck could be seen a crucifix and a rosary.

“Good evening,” the man said. “I am Father Jerónimo.”

The man patted the skull beside him and waited for an answer. When none was forthcoming, he continued. “I have heard that you have some objection to the Mother Church.”

Father Jerónimo patted the skull again. “Why is that?”

He replied, “For years, I have been a prisoner in the royal dungeon. Did the Mother Church lift a finger to help me? No. Why then should I be especially grateful to it for anything?”

Father Jerónimo frowned. “You owe the Mother Church more than you know. It was we who fed you and educated you. It was we who gave you clothes and arranged your marriage. Your own father cared little whether you lived or died. You saw that for yourself at the ceremony.”

“You mean that old man was my father?”

“Of course,” said Father Jerónimo. “But then I suspect that you had already guessed as much.”

He said nothing.

Father Jerónimo continued. “Anyway, the one reason you are here today is because of the Mother Church. Otherwise, you would have been exposed at birth.”

The hairless old man smiled and noted his visitor's reaction.

“What of my mother?” he asked.

“She died while giving birth to you, her only child,” said Father Jerónimo. “Why else do you think your father resents you so?”

He stared at Father Jerónimo, his assurance suddenly shaken. He took a step forward. “Why do you tell me this?"

“Just a warning,” said Father Jerónimo. “You are a good man in spite of your unalterable handicaps. Our kingdom needs good men like you to rule it. Especially since we are on the verge of becoming an empire. However, what she does not need is would-be heretics spitting in the face of her supporters and dragging the kingdom down to ruin. After all, we are first and foremost a Christian country. Our ways are Christian ways. Take care not to mock them for even you are not indispensable.”

Father Jerónimo patted the skull again. “Heed the lesson of the memento mori. We are all mortal. Never forget that.”

He just stared at the old man again.

“You are dismissed,” said the priest.

He just stood there.

“I said you are dismissed.”

He still did not move. “My name,” he said.

“What?”

“Say my name.”

“Very well,” said the priest. “You are dismissed, Don Felipe. But take care never to darken my door again.”

He smiled again. “You seem to forget that it was you who had invited me to come here.”

And with that, he left.

Novela de Mi Id

“In Fear and Trembling”

Chapter Five

That night they were left alone in a large bedchamber. The carpet and the drapes were all in bright red; the ceiling was inscribed with angels. On the wall beside the bed was a tapestry depicting the Annunciation and the Wedding at Cana. He remembered learning about these events from the sexless ones when he was a child but he was not sure why they were deemed appropriate for a tapestry in this room. Behind the bed and above the headboard was a wooden cross upon which a hook-nosed figure clad in a loincloth was nailed. This figure, too, was familiar to him from his childhood teachings but it still made him uneasy to look at it -- perhaps because no such figure had ever been used to decorate his cell when he was growing up.

He and his bride were silent as they entered the room. The sexless one who had escorted them inside leered as it departed and made a gesture of farewell.

His bride was the first to sit upon the bed, her white dress clashing with the red blankets and bed curtains. She pulled aside the blankets; the sheets beneath were pure white. But of course, she thought. Then she gazed upward at the eyeless angels.

Behind her, she heard the sound of shuffling feet. Her groom cleared his throat. “I suppose it's time,” he said.

He started to undress.

“No, not here,” she said. “Turn your back first.”

“But we are man and wife,” he said.

“The angels are watching,” she said and then she pointed upward.

“But those are only painted figures.”

“But they have human eyes.”

She turned toward him. “You still don't understand, do you?”

He shook his head.

“The Church, your father -- they will have men and maids watching us. To see that we conform to the Holy Law.”

“Why is that a matter for them?” he said. “I was taught that it was a matter between us and God.”

She winced. “It is. But God does not always punish the ungodly; that is the Holy Church's role. And if the Holy Church did not do its part, we might soon fall into...” She paused. “...bestiality,” she weakly finished.

“I still don't understand.”

“The servants are watching us to see that we couple in the approved manner. For if we do not, we imperil our very souls and they will feel obliged to report us to men who will save us from ourselves -- at the cost of our very lives." She paused again. “Do you understand?”

He smiled. “No, I don't. What harm can the two of us do to the Mother Church in our marriage bed? Surely the ceremony has already proved us to be good Christians.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Many a nonbeliever has called himself a Christian after the Reconquest yet still eschewed ham and pork. Some such folk even retained a separate set of dishes for Sabbath days. No, a good Christian must be Christian in all parts of his life -- and not just in public.”

“And the servants are here to see to that?”

“Yes, of course.”

He walked over to the wall, bowed to the crucifix, gently removed it from the wall and kissed it. Then he drove it upward into one of the angel's eyes. He heard a shriek of pain for his trouble.

“Bless this room and all in it,” he said, repeating words he had heard in his childhood, “For who knows what evil things lurk without?”

His bride's face contorted in fury. “You fool. You risk not only your life but mine with such blasphemy.”

“On the contrary, I am the Heir. You said so yourself. The one who shall someday rule this great kingdom. For me, there is no such thing as blasphemy.”

“You fool. Even a Prince of the Blood is not exempt from the stake.”

He smiled. “Tell me this. Did these men who watch us so closely care so much for my immortal soul all those years I was imprisoned?”

“That was different. You were born quite ill, or so the old folks said. Your father was not sure that you would survive.”

“So he locked me away from all mortal men and treated me like an animal -- just in case.” He smiled again.

He dropped the crucifix and walked toward the bed.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“That which a man usually does to his lawfully wedded wife.”

“But the servants...”

“Should get their own women.”

He started to undress her.

“No. Wait. I can do it. Please. Stand back.”

“You seem most frightened, my dear.”

“The tales I have heard the servants telling about you. About the encounter you had with the village girl. She said you were a sodomite.”

He laughed. “I'm afraid I don't know that word.”

“That you were a boy-lover. An eunuch. One who is incapable of physically making love to a woman like me.”

He smiled. “I know not what those first two parts mean, but I assure you that the third part is not true. And you will soon find out just how untrue it is.”

“Will I?”

He stared at her, his shirt half-unbuttoned.

“Certainly.”

Novela de Mi Id

“In Fear and Trembling”

Chapter Four

At dawn, they awoke him for the ceremony. He was brought to the great stone baths where the sexless ones unceasingly scoured and scrubbed him until he was achingly clean. Then they dressed him in fine silken underdrawers and lavender trousers. A hairshirt -- so redundant in his case -- and a silken shirt of purest white were chosen to cover the bit above his waist. Around his waist they tied a black sash and upon his head they placed a gold crown. They also gave him a cape -- a simple one made of red silk.

Then they looked at him and they saw that it was good.

On the way to the chapel, he felt nervous. His head was pounding as if it resonated with the beat of a giant pendulum. His mouth felt dry and feverish and his palms sweated as if he was in the midst of a great desert.

When he reached the door of the chapel, he noticed his bride standing at the far end by the altar. She was clad in a white dress and a wreath of flowers was around her neck.

A sacrifice, he thought.

And he wondered what had made him think of that.

The sexless ones prodded him forward. Reluctantly, with the air of a vain yet cowardly actor, he walked forward, trying to keep his feet and face pointed straight forward. As he neared the altar, he looked away from the black-clad sexless one standing there and gazed more at his bride standing on the right.

He walked right up beside her and the sexless one gestured for him to stop. He did so.

A black-clad old man whom he had not seen before came forward out of the shadows and stood beside him. In his hand was a gold ring with a red stone embedded in it.

The old man gestured and from out of a darkened alcove, music played. An invisible choir sang words he could not recognize.

Then the old man gestured again.

And the sexless one spoke.

Once again he did not understand the words being spoken yet every so often, the old man prodded him and whispered in his ear the words he was to say.

Then at last, the sexless one asked him in normal language to join hands with his bride and he did so. Her hand felt hot and sweaty but she did not draw away. However, her eyes kept looking at the old man with an expression of fear.

He wanted to say something to reassure her but he knew not what to say.

Then the sexless one uttered some more incomprehensible words and gestured. The old man handed him the ring.

The sexless one said a few more words and then gestured for silence. No one spoke. Then it continued and at the end of its speech, it pantomimed placing a circle on its ring finger.

The old man prodded him again. He looked down at the ring and realized what the pantomime had meant. He placed it gently upon his bride's finger. He tried to reassure her with his eyes but she kept evading his gaze.

He thought he heard her whispering words to herself but the words she said made no sense. I am not here, she said. This is all unreal. I am far away, dreaming in my bed, and I am not here.

The sexless one spoke again and then stopped and clapped its hands. It smiled and pantomimed a kiss.

He bent forward to kiss his bride and felt only hot, sweaty skin.

It should have been better than this, he thought.

The sad look in his bride's eyes told him that she felt likewise.

Then the old man slapped him on the back. “Congratulations, my son,” he said.

The old man shook his hand and retired into the darkness. It was only the sight of the sexless ones bowing in the old man's direction that told him that the old man had been someone of importance. And it was only the sight of his bride that told him that he had not dreamed this.

Novela de Mi Id

“In Fear and Trembling”

Chapter Three

That night they sent a servant into his cell to anoint him for the ceremony. She was a dark-haired girl dressed in a long red skirt and a white blouse and her breath stank of garlic and fermented fruit. At the entrance to his cell, she hesitated, swaying as if caught by a sudden breeze. Then she took a swig from the small green bottle she carried and entered, making the same strange gesture with her hands that the sexless ones did.

She knelt before him and uncapped one of the small flasks she had tied to her waist. Pouring its contents into an open palm, she looked up at him.

“Kneel," she said, and beneath her words, he detected a bit of nervous laughter.

Nevertheless, he knelt and stared at the woman as she in turn stared at him.

“I bet you're a very big man,” she said.

He blinked.

“Please undress,” she said.

“But, señora, I --”

“Don't worry,” she said, averting her eyes. “I have seen men undressed before.”

Slowly and nervously, he divested himself of his clothing, keeping one eye on the woman all the while. Once he was fully naked, he knelt down once more and saw the woman turn to look at him.

“So big,” she said. “So very big.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. It matters not. Come closer. I must anoint you.”

“Very well.”

He moved forward. Now he was almost touching her. The woman reached out with the palmful of oil and began rubbing it upon his chest.

He flinched.

“Haven't you ever been touched by a woman before?” she asked.

“No. That is -- I don't think so.”

The woman smiled. “By tomorrow night, all that will be changed.”

She rubbed harder, rubbing the oil over his arms and shoulders and down toward his back and buttocks. "So very big, she kept saying. It was almost a chant.

When she touched his sex, she almost laughed.

Then she looked at him and smiled

“Quite the little innocent, aren't you?”

“I know not what you mean.”

She smiled. Then she bent down and kissed him upon a most private place.

“Señora!” he cried.

“Hush, my hairy one,” she said. “I am not a señora. I am a señorita.”

She kissed him again in the same location.

“But this -- this is wrong.”

“This is the way it has to be.”

She took another swig from the green bottle by her side.

“Come to me, my darling.”

“But --”

“Kiss me.”

“But I am to be married tomorrow.”

“I know. That's why they sent me. As a test.”

Her breasts were half out of her blouse, shimmering like great white moons. Her skirt had been detached and kicked away. Beneath it, she wore nothing save a patch of short black hair.

So that is what a woman looks like, he thought.

Then she kissed him and her tongue invaded his mouth and her hands grabbed hold of his sex and she engulfed him with her hairy legs until --

He pushed her away.

At first, she stared at him in disbelief.

Then she frowned. “So they left behind a few eunuchs, after all,” she murmured.

She crawled forward again.

“Don't touch me,” he said.

The woman smiled slyly at his warning gestures. “You needn't bother. This was all for your convenience, not mine. Tomorrow on your wedding night, you'll face a similar challenge. I could have helped you with that but ---”

She shrugged. Then she reached for her skirt. Her white buttocks, turned toward him, looked like two giant half-moons.

He reached for them. “So beautiful,” he said.

She looked behind her and smiled. “A boy-lover, huh?” she said.

She pulled away from him. “I thought as much.”

“I know not these words you keep using,” he said.

She smiled again. “You should. I get the feeling that you will be hearing them a lot.”

She stood up and refastened her skirt, leaving the empty green bottle behind on the floor of the cell.

As she readjusted her blouse, he crawled toward her. “Please, don't go,” he said.

He grasped her knees.

She looked down at him. “Let go.”

He did so. And watched silently as she left the cell.

An hour later, the sexless one grinned as it brought him his supper. “Pretty nice, huh?”

He only looked at the black-clad figure, not seeing it, not seeing the tray, not seeing the door or the walls or the bars or anything. Save darkness.

Novela de Mi Id

“In Fear and Trembling”

Chapter Two

“My wife,” he stammered. “But I have no wife.”

“I am the one our elders have chosen for you. Not that you could not have chosen for yourself, but... Anyway, I'm the one who has been chosen for you.”

“I see.”

“No, you don't. You are the heir to a powerful empire. It is your duty to produce an heir as well so that there will be someone to carry on in your place after your death. I am to be the mother of that heir. Do you understand?”

There was something about her crisp, clear enunciation which disturbed him. He felt as if she was talking to a child.

“And you agreed to this?” he asked.

She lowered her gaze. “No, I did not. Not at first.”

She looked at him again.

“Not that you are not attractive in your own way but --”

She looked down again.

“I had always hoped to be able to choose my own lovers. But my father never gave me that privilege.”

She looked upwards again.

“Instead he gave me to you.”

“I see,” he said. “And who is your father?”

She looked downward again.

“You don't want to know.”

Novela de Mi Id

“In Fear and Trembling”

Chapter One

His first memory was of advanced age -- of large, white, wrinkled hands holding and kneading his body like a loaf of dough.

Then there were the faces -- large, pale, moonlike things that peered at him from out of the darkness.

Then came the tutors. Tall, thin, sexless things hidden in black robes who made funny gestures with their hands every time he grew frustrated with them.

For an embarrassingly long time, they gibbered at him in an unknown tongue, communicating all the while with their hands until he was able to echo the syllables which issued from their mouths. After that came reading and writing and sums.

Then came the next step. They took him out of his darkened chamber and took him into a room filled with light. They gave him clothes that were finely woven and helped him put them on.

Then they took him into another golden room where a girl awaited. At least, that is what he thought it was, judging from the pictures in the books they had shown him. The girl was tall and slim and no doubt they considered her beautiful. Having never seen such a being before, he really could not say.

She had long blonde hair and around the crown of her head was a wreath of white flowers. She was clad in a white linen dress and he could not help wondering what lay beneath it. Did she have two legs like him or was she solid from the waist down?

As he observed her, his guardians pushed him forward and he struggled to keep his balance. Then he walked toward her.

The girl's blue eyes opened wider as he approached her. Was she frightened of something? And if so, of what? He looked over his shoulder but saw nothing there that he thought to be especially frightening or even unusual. No doubt, it was one of those feminine mysteries the sexless ones had talked about.

He knelt down to talk to her. The girl drew away. His face contorted in surprise. Surely she was not frightened of him? Was she?

He came closer. She drew back more. She was frightened -- of that, there was no doubt.

He tried to echo the words his tutors had taught him. They came out in a low, guttural tone.

“I will not harm you.”

The girl still trembled but now she seemed more puzzled than scared. Hadn't she ever heard a man speak before?

She looked down at the floor in front of her.

“But you're so big.”

“Big things are not necessarily dangerous,” he said. He stuttered, wanting to say more but not knowing the proper words.

He decided to ask her the obvious question.

“Who are you?”

The girl looked at him again. "Did they not tell you?”

“No,” he said.

Her face had a strange expression. Not quite fright, not quite anger, but something... sad.

“I am your wife.”

Cuento de Mi Id

“The Eyes of a Revolutionary”

Never trust a revolutionary, my father used to say. You have only to look into their eyes to see what they really are. For their eyes aren't normal eyes. And they look right through you as if you weren't really human. Which readily explains the things they say. And the things they do.

I never laughed at my father when he said this. I could tell by the expression in his own eyes that he was serious about this. He would joke about a lot of things but never this subject. He never told me how he knew all this. Did he read from a book somewhere or did he learn it from someone who had lived through the last revolution in his homeland? He never said. But each time he told it to me, he had the air of someone revealing a great truth.

And, of course, he never told me in front of anyone else. Not even my mother.

*************************************************************************************************************

Five years into the War and my mother and I were staying at her mother's house. The news was always on and my mother was tired of always having to work two jobs. We had not seen my father in ages but my mother still jumped when the phone rang. Her mother always scolded us whenever we got home late but my mother ignored her. And tried to ignore the black sedan parked outside across the street...

*************************************************************************************************************

My father used to tell me about the old woman he knew back in his hometown. How contemptuous she had been of the last batch of revolutionaries to ride through that town and how much she liked to compare them to the men in uniform that she had known in her youth.

“The French, you see, now they knew something about uniforms. But today's bunch... They're little more than barbarians. How awful!”

My father was home early because the boss had decided to let him go. He had been working at the office six months -- longer than some of his Anglo co-workers -- but in the end, they let him go.

My mother asked him in whispers what he will do next.

“Don't worry, mi amor,” he said. "I'll find something.”

“But if you don't...”

“If I don't, we'll move.”

“And if you still don't find something...”

“Then we'll move again.”

Five years later, my father took us both aside and said that the two of us were going back to Detroit to live with my mother's mother. My father would follow but not for a long time. In the meantime we were not to mention his name or speculate where he might be. He made us both swear that we would never tell anyone about him.

“If anyone asks about me,” he said, “You don't know. If anyone claims to know something about me, you don't know. As far as you know, I went away one day and did not come back. Believe me, mijo, as much as I would like to pretend otherwise, it's better this way.”

He hugged both of us quite strongly and then left. I have not seen him in the flesh since then.

*************************************************************************************************************

My grandmother was talking about the news again but my mother would not listen. “Shut it off, mother,” she said. “It's almost time to eat.”

“Why do they do it?" my grandmother asked. “Why do they act like such ingrates? Don't those people understand the concept of loyalty?”

My mother seemed on the verge of saying something but instead she cleared her throat and said, “Loyalty is a two-way street, mother.” Then she fell silent as if she had accidentally confessed something.

Outside across the street, a black sedan was still waiting. Every so often, it drove off, only to be replaced almost immediately by a vehicle of a similar color. What the men in the car were waiting for, my mother would not say. As far as she was concerned, the sedan did not even exist.

*************************************************************************************************************

When my father was still living with us, he used to teach me English using flash cards. He would write down English words and sentences and then teach me to say them over and over again until l could say them in my sleep. He was never prouder till the day came when I no longer spoke with an accent.

He used to go to old book stores throughout the city and buy books about the last revolution in his homeland. He often said that he preferred the books that were written by Americans because the books written by people of his homeland tended to be more personality-oriented. Americans were not always as objective about the revolution as my father would like, but at least they tended to focus more on what actually happened as opposed to what so-and-so did or said. “Of course, the way things are going in this country,” he would sometimes joke, “American history books will someday be the same way. But hopefully neither you nor I will be around when that happens.”

*************************************************************************************************************

Last night there was a knock on the door.

A man in a black raincoat said we would have to leave. There had been an incident at the local nuclear plant and the entire neighborhood was being evacuated.

“I just knew they should have dealt with those people while they had the chance,” said my grandmother.

My mother just held her breath and fingered her rosary.

As we packed up to leave, I noticed that the black sedan was no longer across the street. Nor was there any car in its place. I finished packing my suitcase and took it out to my grandparents' car.

My grandmother was looking worriedly toward the north -- in the direction of the fallen power plant.

My mother as always looked in all directions.

Then she got into the back seat beside me and hugged me.

She said something in Spanish but her voice was so low that I could not hear her.

The next day, after we entered the relocation camp, my grandparents bought a newspaper. On the cover was a sketch of a man who looked like my father. But it could not have been my father for my father's eyes were brown and the man in the sketch had black irises. More to the point, the eyes in the newspaper sketch seemed to look right through me. Just like the eyes that my father had once described. The eyes of a revolutionary.

Cuento de Mi Id

“A Specter Is Haunting Gotham”

(I have written only three stories thus far that can be considered fanfic--four if you count this one. This is one of those stories. Of course, it can also be considered alternative history -- in a way.)

It moves through the urban darkness, a figure in white, so swift, so silent that any observer would think it either a hallucination or an illusion. But it is neither. You see, a specter is haunting Gotham.

A sound of movement stirs below. The figure in white pauses, crouching like a skeleton in the darkness. Then it leaps out into the night... out... and down... into the alley where three toughs in black jackets are accosting a young girl.

“Hey, baby, what are you doing out this time of night?” one of them says.

“Please,“ she says. “Please leave me alone. I’ll give you money.”

The thugs smile “Money isn’t what we want...”

“And we have no intention of leaving you alone...”

They do not notice him at first.

They have their minds set upon more important things.

Then...

“Hey, Billy,” one of them cries out. “Over there.”

The young hoods turn. Fingers snap. Three switchblades appear as if by magic.

“I don’t know what you’re doing in this neighborhood, mister, but you’d best scram.”

Beneath its white hood, the figure smiles. But from their point-of-view, it does not appear to hear. The muggers close in, expecting an easy target.

Then the figure moves. And three of Gotham City’s toughest find out what it means to be on the receiving end of a beating for a change.

When it is over, the figure in white walks over to the young woman. She stares at him, looking as terrified of him as she was of her would-be assailants.

“Who are you?” she asks.

If the figure’s features were discernible beneath its hood, one would almost detect a smile. But no reply is made. And the figure vanishes upwards into the darkness, leaving behind three battered corpses which were once men.

At dawn, the figure in white reaches a large mansion on the edge of town. Entering through the usual underground entrance, he is greeted by his faithful butler, Arthur.

“Rough night on the town, sir?” he mutters in a stiff, impeccable British manner.

He does not really expect an answer.

“Passable, Arthur,” says the figure. “Passable.”

He leaves him to enter the changing room where he doffs his nocturnal costume and prepares for the day ahead. As he showers and bathes, removing unwelcome traces of the night’s exertions, he contemplates the past which led him to his present nighttime activity. About his parents, long-dead, slain by unknown parties and how a youthful vow of vengeance against the murderers had led to a lifetime obsession with ridding the world of criminals.

It had been a long time since that night when he had first donned the white costume and gone out in search of evil-doers. And every night he feels older -- as if the cold wind of old age and its subsequent partner, death, were blowing down his spine.

He shivers unconsciously and wishes for the umpteenth time that he could see himself in a shaving mirror...

Cuento de Mi Id

“After the Apocalypse”

(Obviously this is one of the most dated stories I have ever written and there is one image towards the end that makes no sense whatsoever. I do not remember how much of this story might have been based on a dream and how much of it was based on things I saw when I was visiting Michigan back in 1987. I will admit that I wrote the first draft while Ronald Reagan was still in office and I will also admit that the story was obviously meant to have a sequel. However, I have yet to write it. Maybe someday I will.)

Route 75 from Midland to Detroit is almost a straight shot once you get off Highway 10. There being no exits or detour signs to look out for, this route is perhaps the closest thing to a straight road in this twisty, curvy country. You enter Route 75 just north of Saginaw and you can take it all the way into downtown Detroit if you wish. But you best not.

The whole thing started on one of those bright summer days we’re not supposed to have up here in Michigan. The four of us -- Paul, Lee, Billy and myself -- had risen before dawn that morning in order to pack and we were already suppressing yawns by the time we finally got on the road.

Billy, the driver, had an in with the local camp commander who agreed to let us go down to Detroit on a “fact-finding mission” provided we return before dark. As it was summer and the trip normally took about four hours in either direction, we saw no problems.

Nevertheless, the guard at the city gate could not resist the opportunity to reinforce this point.

“Please get back here before sundown,” he said, stroking his gun with a smile. “We don’t want to have to come looking for you.”

The trip went okay until we hit Flint, the last major city on the route before Detroit. The authorities there insisted on taking the car in for inspection and since we were dependent upon them for approval of our travel permits, we really could not put up much of a fuss. Billy said that because of his National Guard background, the inspection was little more than a formality that would take at most an half-hour; he recommended that we all grab a delayed breakfast while we were waiting. I was not so confident -- I had seen troops being driven up and down Route 75 all my life and yet I was still not used to seeing them carry out civilian activities. However, I was content to trust Billy’s judgment.

That, of course, was a mistake.

The authorities shunted us over to the corner of a large reception area designed primarily for refugees awaiting the latest bus consignment. It seemed terribly gauche to put four of us rich kids there with a crowd of people who may never again see their homes or families, but Billy just shrugged when I mentioned this and muttered something about the infallibility of authority.

Paul smiled. Of the four of us, he had brought the smallest meal, a legacy from his anorexic days which had taken place at a time when self-starvation was still an abnormality and not yet a way of life. He ended up sharing part of his meal -- rather involuntarily, I noticed -- with a couple of refugees who had drifted up to our table. One of them was a young black man who kept inquiring about relatives in Saginaw. The other was a white girl interested in our chances of reaching Detroit. She said she had a sister in Taylor from whom she had not heard since the war began and there were rumors that the way to the city had been blocked.

A radio was blaring somewhere during all this and no one seemed to mind that it was on an all-oldies station. That was all that was left nowadays -- even the Top 40 stations had turned oldie due to lack of new material -- yet it seemed funny to be sitting there, listening to Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” just months after we had proved that this country could take the worst the Russians could dish out and still survive. However, when I pointed this out, one of the refugees just muttered something about it’s not being over till it’s over, which sounded suspiciously like a song quote.

It was at this time that an acne-scarred lieutenant came up to our table and asked Billy to come with him. There was no problem, he said. Just a little confusion concerning our travel permits.

Billy just smiled his old boyish smile and stood up. “This place,” he said. “They can’t do a thing without me.”

The lieutenant escorted him off to the main building and the three of us sat there waiting for his return. A WAC came by and asked us if we wanted a little something extra to go with our meal but we just shook our heads. There was no sense in becoming obliged to people when it was unnecessary and besides, it seemed vaguely obscene to offer aid to strangers who obviously needed no aid when so many around us looked as if they had not had a full meal for weeks.

It’s the old banking theory in action, I thought. Look as if you do not really need money and you are sure to get a loan; look as if you do not really need a date and your social life will be nonstop. The same principle apparently applied to emergency aid.

What a pity.

I pictured myself as one of those poor souls queued up for the next bus consignment and then I shuddered. At least we still had our own vehicle. It was not much, but it did permit us independence of travel and that was fast becoming a luxury in the post-war United States.

Another WAC came by our table.

“Staying with us long?” she asked.

“Only ‘til our permits come through,” we answered.

“Oh, you’re thinking of traveling?” she asked. “In what direction?”

“South! Towards Detroit.”

“Oh.” Something in her face died.

“Very well,” she said and then she left, leaving a trio of puzzled stares behind her. At least we were not being solicited to register as citizens, I thought.

I was wrong.

A couple of hours later, Billy finally made it back to our table, grinning and unaccompanied. “They’re rerouting all southbound traffic through Ann Arbor,” he said. “However, they did offer to let us register as citizens if we wish.”

“Billy,” I said. “That’s not our intention. I thought we were going to Detroit.”

“In time. In time. They’re still checking out the car for radiation damage. They should be through in an half-hour.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

“Well, this time they sounded sincere,” he said.

I frowned. There was something just a little too glib about Billy’s expression -- as if there was something he was not telling us. Paul felt it, too. I could tell by the way his shoulders were hunched.

“Very well,” I said, deciding to give Billy the benefit of a doubt. “We’ll wait.”

They came for Lee after lunch.

“Just a slight formality,” they said. “It’s required of all female travelers.”

The fact that they apparently did not consider me female rankled a bit but I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I would be next. An half-hour later, I was not so sure.

“What’s taking Lee so long?” I asked.

“Health inspection,” replied Billy.

“What?”

“All women have to get them. Can’t have the next generation being born with two heads.”

“You sound like a bigot.”

Billy shrugged. “Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t.”

When Lee did not show up an half-hour after that, I began to get worried.

“Perhaps you should go check on her, Billy,” I said.

“Why?” he answered.

“It’s nearly two. We need to leave soon.”

“We can’t leave. The paperwork is still being processed.”

“We have to leave,” I said. “We have to be back in Midland by sundown.”

“That’s okay. They offered us residency here.”

“Here?”

“Sure. Along with free citizenship. No registration fee required.” Billy smiled. “I persuaded them of that.”

“But what about our travel permits?” I asked.

“I told you. They’re not done yet.”

“Why not? They’ve had all morning to work on them.”

Billy gestured at the crowd around us. “Busy place.”

“Busy place...” I started to repeat sarcastically when I caught sight of Paul’s gesture. He was looking at Billy’s face and he was gesturing for me to look at it as well. When I did, I noticed for the first time that although Billy was sitting on the side of the table facing the sun, he was not blinking.

“I think Billy’s right,” Paul said. “I think Lee will be okay.”

“You really think s -- ” I started to say. Then I shifted. “Oh, yeah. Sure. She’s in good hands.”

“I told you,” said Billy. His face seemed oddly smug in the summer sunlight. It reminded me of the way my old tomcat had looked after it had caught a mouse. Or worse, the way it had looked after it had been fixed.

“Right,” I said.

The three of us sat there, waiting for about twenty minutes.

Then I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room and Paul excused himself to go to the men’s room. We met behind one of the portable buildings next to the camps’ temporary apartments.

“Paul,” I said. “I think we need to discuss Billy.”

“Not here,” he answered.

“What?”

“Not here.”

We found an unoccupied apartment. The sign on the door said it had been assigned to us.

“Kismet,” said Paul.

“What?” I asked.

“Never mind.”

As we entered the room, I turned on the radio. I turned it up just loud enough to drown out the sound of our voices to outsiders but not to ourselves.

Paul looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“What if the room’s bugged?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just talk low.”

“Okay. What’s your conclusion?”

“Something happened to Billy. He’s not the same.”

“I know that. What about Lee?”

“I don’t know. I hesitate to think about it.”

“What about our travel permits?”

“I don’t think they’re going to give them to us. They’re planning on keeping us here.”

“Any reason why?”

“To separate us from the car, maybe. I saw no one being banned from the bus consignments. However, if we take that route...”

“Right...”

“There’s no telling where we’d end up.”

“And we’d be right where they want us,” I said.

“Which is where we are now,” Paul answered.

The two of us were silent for a long while.

“Any conclusions on your end?” Paul asked.

“Just two. One: we have to make a break for it before sundown.”

“And risk becoming outlaws?”

“If we don’t make it back to Midland by sundown, we’ll lose our citizenship there.”

“We have no guarantee that things won’t worsen there the same way they did here.”

“No, we don’t,” I said. “But it’s worth a chance.”

“Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t, huh?” Paul said.

My face reddened. “Not exactly. But at least conditions are still slightly better in Midland.”

“For now,” Paul said.

“Let’s not worry about that,” I said. “What about my second conclusion? Two: Something’s happened to Lee.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure but the way Billy talked... I’m not entirely confident she’s in good health.”

“Surely they would not hurt an innocent girl?” Paul asked.

“In the position we’re in right now, they could do anything,” I answered.

“Right.”

“What about your conclusions?” I asked.

“I have only two as well, “ Paul said.

“Let’s hear them.”

“Number one: I don’t think they’re going to let us go voluntarily.”

“Why not?”

“Too much at stake keeping us here.”

“For Chrissakes, we’re not the United Nations.”

“But we are potential contributors to the local community. But that is not the worst part.”

“Which is?”

“My second conclusion,” Paul said.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said involuntarily, then silently cursed myself.

A black woman in a maid’s uniform came in. In her arms was an unconscious figure. She laid the figure on the room’s only bed. It was Lee.

“Lee,” I said after the maid had left.

“She’s unconscious,” said Paul.

“I can see that.”

I checked her pulse. It was still there. Her pupils did not seem to be dilated. They did not use drugs. So why was she unconscious?

“You shouldn’t display your nursing skills too much, Annie,” said Paul. “If they find out your true profession, we may never get out of here.”

“Shut up,” I said. “You just said we may have to break out.”

“True. If we plan to go south. The consignments will be going east, west and north.”

“I thought we already discussed that, Paul. You said yourself that we can’t trust the consignments.”

“Right,” he said. “Especially since the one for Midland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

I glanced up at Paul. “You mean you checked?”

“Only in a casual way. But I have worse news than that.”

“About Billy?”

“No.” Paul turned toward the window. His voice was so low I could barely hear it over the radio.

I asked him to repeat himself. He turned.

“My second conclusion, Annie,” he said. “The reason all travelers are being kept from going south along this road. The Russians bombed Detroit.”

Cuento de Mi Id

“To Taste the Flesh Not Yet Deceased”

(I normally don't comment on the stories I post here because I prefer any comments made about them to come from the people who read this blog. But this story is one of the first ones that I ever showed to other people and I wrote it for a college creative writing course. Hopefully it should be apparent that my writing skills have improved since then -- even if they have not improved by much.)

They say there are no more demons, yet I know better. I sit here with my AK-47 and my batch of silver bullets awaiting the biggest demon of them all. The Trinity protects me; the black-and-yellow symbols of Saints Albert, Robert, and Enrico have been hung at every entrance. Yet I know he’ll get in. He always does.

They have made it unlawful for civilians to possess the only substance that will stop him; they even say it does not exist. However, it does not matter.

My wife looks at me as if I’m crazy.

“John,” she says. “No such thing exists.”

I know better, of course. God help me, I know better.

*************************************************************************************************************

Demons did not always stalk our world. They first came out after the bombs fell. The government did not want to acknowledge this. When a little girl was saved from a food riot, when a notorious black marketer was found bound and gagged by unknown assailants, they blamed it on coincidence. The clerics wished to credit it to divine intervention, but the Old God was not popular anymore since they bombed the Vatican, so they didn’t. A few spoke of making a pilgrimage to Paris, to pay a visit to the shrine of Saint Marie, who still lay unburied in a lead-lined chamber after two centuries. But the government discouraged such visits. Travel was not considered a good idea for anyone not under armed escort, and there were not enough soldiers to go around, so guess who stayed home.

Rumors arose, however. Hades was sighted, thundering across the now empty highways in a black horseless chariot. Hera appeared, too, now attired in a costume apparently fashioned from a flag of the old Republic. Satan finally appeared, as the pessimists among us had guessed he would. There was no doubt he was Satan for he wore a big red “S” on his chest and everyone knew that letter could only stand for “Satan.” He wore a blue suit, a red cape and had the Aryan features of a German warlord. He also had a pearly grin which could only be borne by a man to whom radiation and fallout meant nothing.

My wife and children insisted upon joining the cult of this new-found deity while I still clung to the old faith.

“Father,” my daughter Lois would say, “don’t you realize the Old God doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Of course, He does,” I answered. “There is only one God and I am His Prophet.”

My words were in vain though for my wife and children continued to attend prayer meetings dedicated to the new God and pore over copies of the ancient chronicles of his life and works. I once confiscated one of these sacred scrolls and tossed it upon the fire, only to find another one in its place the next day.

Then one day I looked up in the sky and I saw Him -- Satan -- as big as life. At first, I thought it was an illusion, yet after I had blinked, He was still there.

It was then that I realized that I was in the grip of forces much greater than myself. The citizens of the post-war U.S.S.A. (United Socialist States of America) had hungered for a miracle worker so badly that they had created one out of their own minds. It was too late to fight this creature with mere disbelief; the gestalt forces which had given it life were much too strong now. The only way to deal with it was on its own terms.

So I studied the ancient scrolls and I devised a way to lure it to its doom. I have already set out a sacrificial victim -- a virgin, I hope -- and now I merely await the arrival of the Grand Adversary Himself. I have heard him referred to as the Man of Steel, but the bullets in my gun are Teflon-coated and can pierce three feet of steel. It will be a grand contest I think -- as grand as the one that is said to occur when the Great King Jayefkay rises from his tomb to do battle once more with the Demon-King Kastrow.

My daughter says I’m foolish and I think she hates the ropes, but after all, I’m doing this merely for her sake but for the sake of all humanity.

There is only one God that I worship; one who has risen from the dead and promises eternal life to all His followers.

I speak, of course, of the one true Lord -- Dracula.

Cuento de Mi Id

“Balcony Scene”

It was Saturday night at the local movie theatre and Cinnamon Rivers was dancing across the silver screen with Alfredo Aster while dozens of pure-bread couples looked on in envy.

In the audience, Rubia Keeler looked up at Cinnamon and tried to imagine herself in the same role. Just suppose I was a dancer, she thought. Just suppose I was a movie star and all those people in the audience were staring up at me.

Stop having such silly dreams, her conscience told her. Be grateful that you were lucky enough to get that job at the shop around the corner. Mr. Matuschek may not be the best of bosses but he's sure better than that factory foreman who tried to peer down your dress or that guy at the warehouse who was always trying to get you to climb a ladder just so that he could try to look up your skirt.

But I don’t want to work in that shop, she thought. I get tired of having to be nice to all the angry customers and the lecherous co-workers. And I just know the new salesgirl is dating the owner’s assistant. No wonder she gets so many privileges.

If only I could be a star, she thought. Then I could rise above all that and I wouldn’t have to worry about where to go or what to do or how I was going to pay my rent. At long last I could just be me.

Just then the lights came up. Rubia realized that the movie was over. She took care to sneak out the side door so that no one would see her in the lobby, praying against hope that no one she actually knew would see her.

She had just gotten to the street outside when she heard someone call out, “Hey, Rube!”

She turned. Coming down the street was Marta, one of her cousins from across town. She seemed to be smiling and beneath the radiance of the nearby street lamp, her bronze cheekbones made her look like one of those Mexican movie stars that her late father used to like. She appeared to be in a good mood but you could never really tell with Marta.

“What’s the matter, Rube?” she said. “You too good to sit with us in the balcony tonight?”

“Er, I didn’t realize you’d be going to see this particular movie,” she said. “Besides, I -- er -- just didn’t feel like sitting in the balcony tonight.” She started edging her way down the street.

Marta grinned. “It must be nice to have a choice about that, Rube. I wasn’t aware that it was possible for a girl like you to have a choice. But then I guess that’s why you don’t hang out with me and my sisters like you used to. So you could have a choice.”

“Oh, please, Marta. Not here.”

“Why? You think those people up the street actually care what we say? That our opinions matter to them? What type of booze have you been drinking?”

“I just wanted to sit on the ground floor for a change,” said Rubia. “I get tired of always having to sit in the balcony whenever I go to the movies.”

Marta frowned. “I get tired of sitting up there, too. How come you didn’t think to invite me to sit with you? Or to invite my sisters and my mom to sit with you? Is there something you’re trying to tell us, Rube?”

“Er, you know why,” Rubia said.

“Yes, I do,” said Marta. Her smile was no longer so beautiful and the nearby street lamp no longer seemed so bright. “I know why. I know exactly why.”

Marta walked off into the darkness.

If only I was a star, Rubia thought, that wouldn’t happen to me. I wouldn’t have to worry about what section of the movie section I had to sit in or what restaurant I could go eat at. Even Marta and her snotty sisters would have to look up to me then. If only.

Rubia walked off in a different direction than Marta, hurrying past the signs that said “No Mexicans allowed” and past the department store where her mother had said a young Mexican woman had been once forced to stand in a store window with a sign around her neck that said “Shoplifter.”

That will never be me, she thought as she remembered that. I do not intend to end up that way. I am an honest person.

And she kept telling herself that all the way home.

Cuento de Mi Id

“Mariana: Warrior Film Critic”

(Not to be confused with a certain female blogger whose persona seems to share certain physical attributes with this story's title character. Funny how stuff like that happens.)

It was a red-letter day and she was a red-headed woman, making her way through the snowy streets of Nuevayor in hopes of catching the eight o’clock show for the new art flick Marlowe in Love.

Up ahead she saw a billboard for the new Gaderan Schwein epic. It seemed like the same old militaristic flagboy fantasy film she had been seeing advertised hourly since the start of the Djinnistani War. Maybe not as bad as Yankee Doodle Baby Daddy or My Country, Right! but definitely close to that territory. It was called The Crusader, a take-off, no doubt, on the old Raymond A. Harold character Harridan Bourne. Judging from the billboard, it was all about a religiously motivated vigilante dressed in black who was all eager to fight for truth, justice and the American Way. Though the character was supposed to be a dedicated Christian with a cross around his neck that would be the envy of most Papists, he also managed to sport a hot babe on his arm, lest someone question his heterosexuality.

Don’t ask, don’t tell, she thought.

And then, all of a sudden, she stopped.

Between her and the movie theatre, three shadowy figures were waiting. Even though the street lights were shining fully upon them, she could not see their faces. Nor was she sure that she wanted to.

Draculaters, she thought. Worshippers of the vampiric self-proclaimed deity Vlad Christofor Tepes or as his followers preferred to call him, the Vampire Christ. Normally such people made a point of sparing any Nuevayorer who wore any ornament resembling the letter “T”. But unfortunately, Mariana rarely wore any such ornaments. Indeed, since the end of the Belief Wars of the 1990s, she rarely wore any ornaments at all. Indeed, every summer it was only mere modesty -- and the lack of sufficient sunblock -- that prevented her from violating the local nudity taboos.

The Draculaters were turning in her direction, their dark faces showing their canines as they looked upon her. They had had it in for her ever since she panned the movie Red Dusk which had been produced by a major sponsor of the local Church of the Vampire Christ. Not only had she given the movie a bad review but she questioned the sanity of a so-called religious person who poured millions into the production of a mediocre pot-boiler while doing nothing to help the local homeless. Not that the Draculaters lacked dealings with the poor but there were rarely the type of dealings in which anyone save the most desperate would care to participate.

But wait! They were coming her way.

And her movie started in ten minutes. She looked for an alternative route to the ticket counter but judging from the way the Draculaters were spreading out, there was none. She would have to fight her way through.

She opened up her massive Guess purse and pulled out her mace, her taser and her pepper spray. Just for fun, she also pulled out a jar of garlic powder. After all, she once had been a Girl Scout.

The Draculaters came closer. They started to surround her.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said.

They smiled. The theatre security guard showed no signs of acknowledging their existence and there was no way the local cops would show up in time to prevent anything even if they wanted to.

They closed in.

She smiled. Beckoned them to come closer.

Then hit them with the mace and the pepper spray.

While the Draculaters pawed at their eyes, she spread out the garlic powder on the sidewalk around her. One of the fiends dared to cross it, only to collapse when his garlic allergy kicked in. As his companions hastily checked their pockets to see which of them carried an epi-pen, Mariana boldly walked up to the ticket counter and bought one ticket for Marlowe in Love.

“Isn’t that that movie about the English pervert?” said the ticket seller, smacking her gum so loudly it could be heard halfway across the Rio Hudson.

“No,” said Mariana. “It’s about a great playwright.”

“I heard it was about perverts.”

“Well, you heard wrong,” she said. And ignored the great big silver “T” that the ticket seller wore around her neck.

*************************************************************************************************************

The movie was great. But it was way too short.

By the time she got out, the Draculaters were gone and she had just enough time to hit the subway for a ten-thirty train. With luck, she would get home in time to write a quick review and post it on the web before she had to go rest up for her day job.

She should have brought her laptop but she really did not like bringing it out in this weather. Besides, with the trouble she got into, it was usually a good idea to keep her hands as free as possible.

As she entered the subway, she was still congratulating herself on not having had to use her taser when she noticed the sound of footsteps echoing behind her.

She looked behind her.

A white-clad woman with snowlike skin and coal-black hair was following her. She noticed Mariana looking and smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.

“You saw the new Kit Marlowe movie at the Alhambra, right?” she said in a brisk yet unrecognizable accent.

“Yes.”

“It was a horrible movie, wasn’t it?”

“No,” said Mariana. “Actually I liked it.”

“No, it was horrible. The writers of today -- they just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” said Mariana, trying to edge her way toward the turnstile.

“How hard it is to raise a kid with filth like that being shown.”

“Actually, I found it to be a beautiful movie. And I’m not sure why you’re bringing kids into this. Not every movie has to be made for kids, you know.”

Mariana backed away and went through the turnstile.

She was just about to board her train when she suddenly felt someone grab her in a bear-hug and steer her toward the front of the train.

She tried to fight her way free but whoever was holding her was just too strong. She tried to scream but someone just covered her mouth. And no one was paying attention, anyway.

Save for a trio of Draculaters who were coming closer to her...

“No,” she thought. And with that thought, she kicked the nearest would-be assailant in his generative organs and bit the hand that covered her mouth.

She heard a woman scream from behind her. It sounded like the Woman in White. She felt a strong force drive her off the subway platform and onto the tracks in front of the nearest train. And the train was preparing to depart.

She started to get up. But two Draculaters leaped down to hold her in place. She whipped out her taser and used it on one. The other stumbled out of her way and onto the third rail. Two down, one really down.

She climbed back onto the subway platform as the train started to move. She heard a scream from behind. And a scream from in front as the Woman in White muttered something about the Curse of Lesbos and how all those people stick together.

Mariana did not bother recharging the taser. She was not a short woman and she normally towered over most of her would-be adversaries. But the Woman in White was half a head taller than her and she was holding her clenched fists as if she had been a professional fighter.

A lesser woman would have given up then and reconciled herself to a beating. But then Mariana thought of her cousin Anton who had succumbed to the SIDA demon five years ago and how little help he had received from doctors because of people like the Woman in White. Then she clenched her own fists. The rest was easy.

*************************************************************************************************************

Her roommate Bonita was waiting up for her when she got home.

“I swear, girl,” she said. “It seems like it takes longer and longer for you to see those silly art flicks of yours. Please don’t tell me you were woolgathering again?”

“That’s right,” said Mariana. “I was woolgathering. Silly me.”

And with that, she collapsed upon her bed.