I Hear You’re Asking All Around

Catching up on my 52 week writing challenge. This story inspired by the prompt “a tragedy that ends in romance.” Enjoy!

WARNING: Profanity ahead! Proceed with caution.

It’s one of those dumb moments we have as kids. Well, not kids, but not adults yet either. Almost though. Old enough to know better, but still young enough to not care.

Donny and I had played a few rounds of beer pong over at the Castillo twins’ house. Just a typical Saturday night out in the middle of nowhere USA. Shooting the shit with friends we’d known since we were in diapers. Downing cans of the cheap shit with chips and salsa. Nothing we hadn’t done before.

At close to two in the morning Donny and I stumbled over to his jeep, giggling like idiots, because we were. Even in the dark I could tell the ground was spinning for me. “Donny, you sure you’re good to drive?” I hiccupped.

“Ah, no worries babe. I’m barely buzzed. Besides, it’s late. Won’t anyone be on the roads. There never is.” He waved a nonchalant hand and beckoned me into the passengers’ seat.

I nodded and jumped in the jeep. He turned the keys in the ignition and leaned in to kiss me. He had the goofiest smile and his breath smelled like beer, but he was my Donny. I grinned and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “C’mon, pendejo. Get me home. I gotta work in the morning.”

He bit his lower lip and leaned in further, his breath on my neck. “You sure you’re ready to go home.”

I pushed him back, laughing. “Yes, Romeo. Time to go home.”

He made a show of sighing and rolling his eyes. I turned the radio up and sang along, off key as always.

The cold night air soothed my feverish, drunk skin. The crunch of dirt road under the jeep’s tires lulled me into dozing off. It was just another stupid, peaceful night, heading home after a bout of nothing special with people we’d seen all the time. Another night taken for granted.

My neck jerked forward and my eyes flew open. I heard Donny yelling, “Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck…”

My body jostled side to side. I planted my feet, trying desperately to gain control over my body as Donny’s hands struggled back and forth with the steering wheel.

“Donny, what—” The jeep dove over the edge of something and my head banged the dashboard.

I don’t know how long I was out. Maybe only a minute. Maybe longer. Didn’t matter. The feel of cold and wet seeping over my legs woke me. It was dark, but I realized it was water, which meant we’d crashed into a canal.

Groggy at first, but made alert by the rising liquid, I scrambled with my seat belt, struggling to undo it and get out. The clip was stuck and I couldn’t wriggle out of the strap.

I looked over at Donny and found his head leaning against the wheel, blood dripping down his forehead, eyes open and unblinking. Bile rose in my throat but I shut it down.

I reached out a tentative arm, already knowing I’d find no response. “Donny? Donny?” I shook more vigorously then, hoping the motion would shock him back to life. It was useless though.

The water was at my waist now. Everything seemed to spin at warped speed as I shook and kicked and wriggled and screamed. I banged my hands against the dashboard and choked down a sob. Donny was dead and soon I’d be dead too.

Somehow, out there, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, someone heard me and found me. The bright headlights of another car shined into my eyes and I had to raise a hand to block it. “Help!” I managed to squeak out the word.

I couldn’t see who had come into the water for me, but he had strong arms and a Swiss army knife. He cut the stubborn seatbelt and pulled me out so that my legs floated in the water as he dragged me to dry land.

My chest heaved and my whole body convulsed. I barely heard the stranger talking to me, and I mumbled something about my boyfriend. And my name. “Thalia.” My voice came out as a croak. Then I felt my head loll to the side and my eyes closed.

***

When I woke up next, I was in a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and an IV and beeping machines. My nostrils and throat ached. So did my lower back muscles and legs. Everything hurt. I blinked away the bright light of the sun shining through a window.

My mouth felt like I hadn’t had water in…water. That was the last thing I remembered. Rising water. Then someone pulled me out. And Donny…he was gone. Did they pull him out? Did they revive him somehow? I tried not to cry.

“Hey sleepy head.” My mom’s voice, soft and full of worry. I knew that voice. That was the you’re in so much trouble but I’m so glad you’re alive voice. She was all sweetness now, but I’d have it later once I got home and felt up to it.

“Mami, what happened?” I started coughing immediately after speaking. It must’ve been a few days since I’d talked.

“You were in an accident, mija.”

“Donny,” I whispered.

She looked down and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, baby.” I saw tears fall from her eyes. My mother shedding tears over Donny. Never thought I’d see the day.

I couldn’t stop it now. I let it all out. I cried until I couldn’t breathe and began dry heaving. My mother had to call a nurse to help calm me down.

It went by in a haze. Explaining how they found us. How Donny had died on impact. How I got pulled out and passed out from exhaustion and trauma. How I’d slept for three days in an induced coma. How lucky I was to come out with barely a scratch. How I’d need to do some mild therapy for a couple of months for slipped discs, but other than that, I was fine. How it was okay if I wanted to join the grief group therapy sessions they offered.

I only had one question though. “Who saved me?”

“Oh, it was a local boy. Uriah,” the nurse answered.

I snorted. I didn’t know how I could find anything funny in that moment. The nurse smiled though. “Yes, his mother didn’t do him any favors with that name.”

“But how—” I couldn’t finish the question because another round of coughs started but the nurse supplied the answer anyway.

“He happened to be driving down that way after a late shift working here. He’s doing his clinicals with Dr. Vega.”

I shook my head. Unbelievably lucky.

Knowing that my savior worked in this very hospital I resided in, I spent the next week asking for him at every turn. I wanted to properly thank him. As luck would have it, no one ever quite knew where to find him when I was awake or walking out and about.

I’d just about given up on the notion when on my last day, as I pulled on my sweater and prepared to leave my hospital bed behind for the last time, a light knock on the open door startled me. Before me stood a tall, broad young man with a shy smile. “Uh…hi. I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

I sat there, mouth agape. The moment had finally arrived to show my guardian angel my utmost gratitude, and I had nothing to say.

“You are, Thalia, right?” He looked around and over his shoulder as if expecting someone to steer him away any moment.

I finally unfroze. “Yeah, yes. That’s me. I’m Thalia.” I stammered and then laughed. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting to see you. Uriah, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, It’s just me.

I managed to get up from the bed, a little wobbly at first, but able to take a step forward. “I just. I wanted to say—actually, I’m not sure what I want to say. How do I say thank you for saving my life?”

“Well, I guess you just kinda did.” He chuckled.

“It doesn’t seem like enough.” My voice was barely audible.

He shrugged again. “It’s okay. I mean, it was just dumb luck. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, but I mean. I’m alive because of you. No one would have—could have found me, but you did.” We stared at each other in silence for a minute. “I’m sorry, it’s still hard to wrap my head around it all. I’ve been looking for you for a week just to say thank you and now I’m just sounding like an idiot.”

We both laughed. I took another step forward and reached out a hand. “How about a proper introduction. Hi, I’m Thalia.”

He took my hand and shook it. “I’m Uriah. It’s a pleasure.”

“Listen, hospital food sucks, so if you’ve got time, can I at least buy you lunch.” I felt my cheeks go warm, but I didn’t care if it seemed forward. I just wanted to know this guy that had saved me.

He looked down with his hands in his pockets now. “I’m actually off all day. I just came by to find you before you left. So yeah, I could go for lunch.”

I grinned a mile wide. “Good, because I’m starving for some real food and I’ve been dying for some ropa vieja.”

He tilted his head. “Ro—what?”

I let roar a big laugh. “Ropa vieja. It means old clothes in Spanish.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s an odd thing to crave.”

I shook my head. “That’s the literal translation. It’s really just shredded beef. Delicious. C’mon, I’ll buy you your first plate.”

He smiled and held out an arm. “Lead the way.”

I bought Uriah his first taste of good Cuban food that day. I hadn’t forgotten Donny. I never could. Donny was gone though, and in time, it would be okay for me to move on. This lunch with the guy that saved my life, it was a start at going forward and learning from my mistakes.

Stepped Out of the Line

Here’s another piece for the 52 week writing challenge I’ve been working on. This prompt was “a romance that ends in tragedy.” I was (unfortunately) inspired by current events and other pieces of fiction that all too well mirror our reality.

Summer break was always my favorite. I’d get to come home from college and spend my days working part-time and nights with my girl. She loved horror movies, so every Friday was our Fright Night. From Paranormal Activity to classics like The Shining.

I’d fill a bucket with buttered popcorn (extra salt for her), and a box of malted milk balls for me. Cuddled down on the couch in our fuzzy blanket, the lights all off and nothing but the glow of the screen, it was heaven.

More often than not I’d end up asleep within half an hour and jolted awake by her jumping or gasping or straight up screaming. She’d grab my hand under the blanket and I’d kiss the top of her head, assuring her she was safe from the creepy children.

We’d fall asleep together on that couch, letting the TV glow behind our eyelids. The warmth of her skin touching mine felt safe and like home. Nothing could be better.

Then, our lives turned into a horror movie, and suddenly, they weren’t so fun anymore. It started small at first. The news story about kids being denied the right to use a bathroom because of their gender (or rather, because of their chosen gender that went against everything teachers and parents knew). Then there was the reversal of equal marriage rights.

After I graduated from college, I came back home to live with my girlfriend. We laid on the couch and watched the evening news. Safe, under our blanket, but no popcorn and malted milk balls. Only tissues and a cell phone at hand. She’d squeeze my hand under the blanket and I’d kiss the top of her head to let her know we were still there, together.

It happened fast and slow at the same time when they came for us. They burst into our living room while we had the TV going, screaming inaudible things behind thick, plastic masks and big shiny guns. My girlfriend trembled in my arms as they shouted at us to separate. I held on tighter.

My seemingly innocent action, performed out of terror, antagonized them, and they grabbed my girlfriend by her hair, dragging her down off the couch and across the floor. She screamed and I screamed, but the butt of a gun came down on my head and then all was black.

I woke up on the cold, hard wet floor of a jail cell, with only a single flickering light over the toilet in the corner. Silence all around me as I licked my parched lips. My girlfriend nowhere in sight. Where had they taken her? Who had taken her? But I knew who they were already.

The media called them extremists. Mostly men, but some women too, who hunted for “abominations” as they called us, dragged us out of our homes onto our front lawns and beat and torture us brutally while neighbors watched behind safe curtains.

One day, those extremists were not only wearing the faces of our bosses, friends and family, but of those sworn to protect and serve. The extremists began wearing the faces of government officials, community leaders and influential citizens. All to keep us in line. To keep us safe. To save us from ourselves.

Day in and day out, for God knows how long, I spent in this jail cell, never seeing sunlight or another face. A face behind a mask reached a gloved hand through an opening in the cell door to put a glass of water and crust of bread daily on my floor. I grew gaunt and weak, but still longed for my girlfriend, so I never stopped asking where they’d taken her. If she was still alive.

Eventually, someone opened the cell door and grabbed my arm. I barely had energy, but I resisted as much as I could. It seemed to annoy them enough to get a growled, “You wanted to see her, didn’t you?”

I stopped. They were taking me to my girlfriend. She still lived.

A few feet down the hall, a left through another door and three doors between that, we stopped and I was thrown into a bright, white room filled with light. I cringed at the rays from the light bulbs. I hadn’t seen light in so long.

It was empty at first, but soon, another door from the other side opened, and in stepped Stephanie. She looked clean, put together and unharmed. Her face was somber though.

I asked her how she was. Where she’d been this whole time. How she managed to escape the torture. What deal did she make. When she didn’t answer right away, I reached my hands toward hers and she jerked away. Then she said the three words that shattered my world. “Just give up.”

Tears threatened to spill over my eyes, but I held back. I didn’t understand. Give up what? Give up why? Give up how?

She finally brought her gaze to mine. “Let me go. Let us go. It’s the only way to be safe.”

But I love you, was all I could think, and I could see her reading my mind.

She shook her head slightly, warning me not to say it out loud. “I don’t love you like that, Mariah. I never did. I was wrong. We were wrong. Now it’s time to make things right.”

Now the tears did spill. They’d scared her so bad she lost all her fight. All her love. They terrified her into forgetting nights spent on the couch screaming at scary movies, munching on popcorn and hands squeezing under a blanket.

I shook my head at her now. “No, no you don’t mean that.”

The guards shifted in their corners. She glared at me. “Step in line, Mariah.”

I set my face to stone and breathed in deep. “Never.”

At this, the guards walked past her and grabbed me by both arms. She didn’t look up once, so I didn’t bother looking back.

They took her love. They took my love. They’d now take the rest of me, to mold and change me into an upstanding citizen. They’d try to put me back in line. I never could walk straight though.

Hitchin’ A Ride

I’ve been doing this 52 week writing challenge all year long, and I fell behind for a bit, so here’s my short piece of fiction for the category “a story with only one character.” Enjoy!

I don’t know how long I’ve been out here. The sun’s brutal and beating down on my bare back. Had to take my ragged and torn shirt off. It just wasn’t working anymore. My mouth is as dry as my aunt’s meat loaf on Thanksgiving. A little rain right now wouldn’t go unappreciated.

No cars have passed through here yet. It’s hard to believe I’m the only soul out here. I’m not sure where here is exactly because I woke up in the woods and stumbled my way to the highway somehow. I’m not sure how I knew which way I was going, but I did. Now whether I’m going somewhere or away from something is a totally unknown variable.

The air is still, but more than that, the world is still. There’s not even a single bird in sight or chirping cricket. It’s dead of day, but that doesn’t mean it should be dead. I’m bent over now, heaving and throwing up nothing. Around me not even a light breeze stirs to calm my sweat and chills.

My arms shake as I grip my knees, trying to keep steady. I don’t know how long I’d been passed out without food or water, and the heat only added to the misery. The back of my throat burns for a minute, but I manage to get over this bout of dehydration. My head spins a bit and my vision starts to double, but I’m still standing.

As I zombie walk along the side of the road, even though I haven’t seen a single car, I put my hand out with a thumbs up. A delirious laugh bubbles up out of my mouth and I descend into a mad cackle. No one’s around to hear me go insane, and it almost feels freeing. Almost.

The laughing turns to coughing and I’m bent over dry heaving again. The back of my neck stings with its raw sunburn. My knees quake and I feel like I’m about to pass out when I finally hear something. It’s distant at first, but it’s rough and it’s there. Like a chugging machine pushing down the hot asphalt.

I look back but only see a shimmering horizon. I turn, squint and see the same thing ahead of me. I must be imaging the noise. I’m so desperate to hitch a ride out of here I think there’s a car coming for me, somewhere on this eternal stretch of road.

Somehow, I keep walking in whatever direction I was going. My feet feel like lead and my head feels like it’s full of helium, but I keep walking. My chest rises, slow, then goes back down, as I try to keep oxygen pumping through my lungs.

It’s been at least two hours since I started walking, and it doesn’t look like the sun’s moved from its original position in the sky. If time has been passing, it should be at a different angle by now. I stop, look around, and try to call out, but my throat is too dry. I start coughing again.

Faint and distant, I hear the thrum of a machine again. I hold my breath, trying to keep the coughs down so I can listen for the car. If it’s not on the road, it must be coming from the woods. But it should have caught up to me by now. Maybe it’s not a car. Maybe it’s a machine on a farm somewhere.

For some reason though, I turn and turn and turn but can’t find my way back to the woods. I keep seeing the trees from my peripherals, but every time I try to look at them head on, they disappear and all I see is road.

I tilt my head and stand with my hands on my hips. I blink rapidly and take a deep breath, thinking it must be the heat stroke and dehydration not allowing me to orient myself. I swallow hard, trying to find any kind of moisture to relieve my dry, stuck throat. Fighting off the wave of nausea that threatens to knock me out, I turn back to the road.

It’s all like a mirage, just shimmering air and a black path that doesn’t appear to come to an end. And a sun that doesn’t move. And trees that keep evading me. A wrack of coughs overcomes me and I can’t stop it. Blood eventually streams from my mouth and the panic rises. The taste of copper is strong on my tongue and it brings back a memory of white hot searing pain in my stomach. That’s when I remember…

I’d been in the woods running from a man who was trying to kill me and ran straight into his partner, into his knife. Then I woke up again in the woods that I can’t find my way back to, because I didn’t wake up at all. This is death. This is purgatory. This the highway to hell.

One Book At A Time

I am drowning in a sea of things to read. My double stacked book shelves taunt me with their tomes. My Goodreads TBR list laughs at my folly. And my kindle glares at me as I time and time again pass it over for a physical text.

When did it get to be so hard to read? As a kid, I breezed through the Harry Potter series, finishing an entire book in 2 nights (would’ve been 1 if mom hadn’t insisted I sleep). It wasn’t just Harry Potter. Anne of Green Gables was my go to for a while, and I stopped counting how many times I’d read it after reaching 10. Goosebumps was devoured book by book within a day.

drowning-in-books
My latest haul from Second Edition Book Shop

So, what happened? Well, I’m an adult now. I have a job that takes up 8 hours of my day. I like to exercise and dedicate some down time to catching up on television after work. Then there’s dinner. Then I need to set aside time for writing. What’s left for reading? A half hour before bed and weekends (when I’m not doing things).

Even when I have free weekends with 20-hour days to fill with reading, I don’t. I just can’t anymore. I used to sit in my bedroom for hours on end just reading, my eyes roving over the page like a typewriter set on high speed. Now, I read for an hour, maybe two tops, and I’ve gotta get up and do something else. There’s blogs to follow (thanks, Book Riot). More television to catch up on (listen I watch a lot of shows don’t judge me). And then, oh yeah, just getting out of the house and seeing sunlight while I can.

I haven’t even mentioned the distraction of social media. Between cat videos on Instagram, Twitter rants and a constantly refreshing Facebook feed, it’s enough to drive someone insane. When did our lives become so cluttered? It’s great to have all this connection, but at the same time, it’s so overwhelming I eventually feel disconnected.

And that’s when I return to reading. I try not to let my shelves and TBR list daunt me. I remind myself, “One book at a time.” Just take it one read at a time. Sure, I can’t possibly read every book in the world (challenge accepted!), but I can certainly try. What are we if we don’t have dreams?

Release day!

Looks like something I’ll have to check out

The BiaLog

Good morning everyone!

Today is the day. The Sword and the Flame: The Rebirth is live and available at a discounted price for the next week on amazon. Check out the blurb and cover below, and grab your copy here.

If you haven’t read any of the Sword and the Flame books, then grab the first book, The Forging, here for FREE.

Enjoy everyone. 🙂

Blurb: In a time of strife, it’s up to an unlikely hero to help the world of Pyrain heal.

Reh Venata’s journey continues as she seeks her destiny and justice with the help of a warbound king, an honorbound Centaur, and a God willing to risk everything to save the world.

The table is set and the players are moving into position. All that’s left is the Rebirth of Hope.

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Canary Trash

The return of Arrow last week stirred in me feelings from the previous season and opened old wounds (#foreversalt), so I thought I’d share an old post I wrote for my personal blog here.

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVEN’T CAUGHT UP ON THE SHOW

Also, profanity up ahead. Proceed with caution.

I stayed up late last night thinking about how I haven’t watched the Arrow season 4 finale yet (yeah I know way behind), but truthfully, I’ve been avoiding it because I’m still salty about the death of Black Canary.  Oh shit sorry, SPOILERS GUYS!

Obviously writing a show is hard.  There’s pressure to write an entirely self-contained 45-minute story from week to week and film it and get it out.  But, on the other hand, it’s not like they start the writing process the week before the season starts and go balls out with production.  I know there’s a story boarding room and details get hammered out for a cohesive plot line.  So, with that in mind, why did they feel the need to kill Black Canary?

I get that the situations these characters are in are high stakes, and that means, people can die.  Fine.  It happens.  I suppose I can’t think of an alternative high stakes consequence for Team Arrow to suffer other than the loss of a team member.  But does losing a team member necessarily mean they have to die? (See Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD as an example of an emotional exit without death).

And that’s exactly the thing, isn’t it?  Of course, if everyone always ends up coming out alright in the end, there’s no really impactful consequence and things can get boring.  However, it is my opinion that lately TV creators and many TV critics are under the impression that the only way to have an impact is to kill a character.  I’ve seen it in several reviews when people say things like, “If no one ever dies, what are the stakes?  What’s the point?  Why should these characters matter if they always make it out alive?”

So, in response, perhaps the writers of TV shows feel they need to shock the audience, and what bigger shock than killing off a beloved character (like Abby in Sleepy Hollow?!  Excuse me?!).  They’re not wrong, it is shocking, but is shocking the only way to get a visceral, emotional reaction from the audience?  If that’s what you think, then clearly you don’t understand the spectrum of human emotion (might I recommend watching Inside Out to get a pretty damn good representation about the complexity of emotions and how they intermingle?)

The way I see it, if death is the only valuable consequence, that kind of invalidates the point of living and fighting.  Loss, grief and pain are feelings that can be achieved through other high stakes consequences (again, see Agents of SHIELD regarding season 1 finale with the revelation of Grant Ward’s betrayal to the team).

Okay, fine, so I can’t come up with an alternative solution to killing off Black Canary.  We’ll accept it and embrace that she is dead and gone.  RIP Laurel Lance.

But here’s where I got really peeved, with the way she died.  She goes down in a fight against Damien Darhk, fighting as the Black Canary, doing what she believes is right, opposing a force of evil who is threatening her beloved city, and the last words the audience hears her say are, “Oliver, I may not have been the love of your life, but you were the love of mine.”

I’m having Teen Wolf flashbacks of the death of Allison, but let’s not go there right now.  So, I know she says something else to Oliver before she dies, but we don’t know what it is.  What we do know, is after all the shit she’s gone through and growth and progress she’s made to become a hero in her own right, she dies reminding the audience, “Remember I’m Ollie’s ex-girlfriend!” even though their romantic relationship felt complete and resolved pretty much by the end of season 2 or 3 (I can’t remember which).  Regardless, this whole season and probably for most of season 3 if I recall correctly, Laurel and Oliver are at a point in their relationship where they have a solid friendship that has moved past their romantic history.

So where in fuck’s name did that line come from?!  Also, side note, it was a little hurtful I think to have her say Oliver was the love of her life because, I don’t know, she seemed to have a pretty good thing going with Tommy.  Yeah, remember him?  The guy that literally died crushed under a building’s debris so he could save Laurel from getting killed?  I’m sure that line wasn’t meant to throw away Tommy and Laurel’s relationship, but it sure felt like he’d been momentarily forgotten.

Anyway, back to my salt.  Look, I’m not saying Laurel’s love for Oliver (or Tommy!) is invalid.  Of course it matters and it’s a huge part of her identity and history and in certain ways that love has propelled her to where she ended up.  But let’s be honest, if Laurel Lance had a true epic love of her life, it wasn’t any man; it was justice.  She was dedicated to fighting for those without power and standing up for the city and the people that she loved, and that was shown from the beginning when the show started with her as a low paid lawyer working in a dinky law firm that serves the underprivileged.

And sure, she may have lost her way at one point, giving in to anger and fear that led her down the path of addiction and then to become the Black Canary for the maybe not so right reasons, but at the end of the day, she found her way back to righteousness and continued fighting as the Black Canary so that she could protect and serve.  Laurel was married to justice and doing the right thing for the sake of doing the right thing from the beginning, even if she weaved in and out of that lane a bit at times.

So fine, she died because I guess “that’s where the story took them [the writers],” but did she have to die as Ollie’s ex-girlfriend after having gone down in battle as superheroine Black Canary?  After the roller coaster story line she’d been given to live and fight and survive through, she deserved more than that in her death.

War, What Is It Good For?

I recently took on a reading challenge this past year, and in that time, I’ve read Anthony Swofford’s Jarhead, and now I’m currently in the middle of reading James Bradley’s Flags of Our Fathers.  The categories I chose these books for are “a book based on a true story” and “a book with a blue cover,” respectively.

The weird thing is, I’ve never been interested in books, movies, or TV shows about war.  So, why these books and why now?  Well, the simple answer is, Jarhead was on my bookshelf because I’d bought it after meeting the author at the Florida Writers’ Conference, and Bradley’s book had been sitting on my shelf after I’d picked it up on a whim at a secondhand bookstore.

What had interested me in Swofford’s book in the first place was that I remembered watching the movie when I was a kid, and I knew it was one of my dad’s favorites.  So, naturally, I had to get a copy and have him sign it and give it to my dad.  Bradley’s book had sounded vaguely familiar as one of those books I should probably read.

I’ve never quite cared about war stories.  Not for lack of compassion, but as a kid, I didn’t understand why people would fight brutally with one another, and now as an adult, well, I still don’t understand it.

My dad, though, he understands that life.  See, my dad was an army guy.  Not here in the U.S., but in Ecuador, and from the stories I’ve heard him tell and the way he nods his head and says, “Yep,” every time he watches Jarhead, it seems the culture’s pretty similar.  My dad seems to have an endless repertoire of army stories, and some of his stories I’ve heard several times over.

I thought at first my picking up two war books for my reading challenge was coincidence based off what’s on my bookshelf, but I think subconsciously what drew me to them is the kid who heard my dad’s stories about intense training, Draconian drill sergeants and cruel punishments for what civilians would consider minor infractions, and the grownup in me wanted to better understand that.

It’s so weird for me to read these books, knowing they’re based off real life, and seeing pieces of my dad in them.  I’ve heard these stories before, in Spanish, but they’re the same stories.  I feel my heart strings tugged seeing how harsh the life of a warrior is, and all the time in the back of my mind I’m screaming, Oh my god that’s my dad!

Or rather, that was my dad.  He’s a civilian now, an American citizen, working for the FDOT and continuously making a life for my brother and me.  But that same guy, the one that taught me how to do math in my head was once doing the math in his head of what his chances of surviving war were.  The same hands that playfully squeeze my shoulders as he greets me when he comes home from work are the same that once squeezed a trigger on a rifle as he learned how to take an enemy out.

So, why these books, and why now?  Maybe because now that I’m older, even if I still don’t get war, I can understand my father a little bit better.

(Note: This was originally published on my personal Tumblr blog here.)