Will Write for Food

With a pen in hand, I’m a writer, even if I’m the only one to think I am. With my pen, I’m more powerful than Superman. I can bring the dead back to life and kill all the world’s undesirables. Or I can make my frustrations disappear and tell a thousand lies. I write to please me, but if you like what I write, that will satisfy me even more. I can have my characters act better than Pacino and Brando. I could invite Faulkner, McCarthy, and Garcia Marquez to write a few lines for you and me though they wouldn’t know. I can bring saints and virgins to the page and marry them to monsters and sinners. I can turn superheroes into villains without you turning the page. I can kidnap your young wife, ask you for a million dollars and keep both. Or rob a bank with just a note written with the same pen. I could write, and I could, though I’d be impressed if it was any good. I wrote, I write, and I will write. I can accommodate twenty-six letters any way I choose, like no one’s ever done it. Of course, with a million mistakes in between, most of it wouldn’t make sense, but I can write. I can locate Hitler in a church and have St Francis of Assisi hunting for deer. I can make Gandhi challenge Mandela to a twenty-pace duel. I can turn Anne Frank into a Lolita if I want, though nobody would like it, not even I. How about Mother Teresa and Rigoberta Manchu? They’re better than saints, but in my stories, I bet they can follow Charles Manson too. I can have the USA dominate the entire world. For that, I would only need a little effort. I can judge anyone or anything and hide behind my pen, call it fiction, and be safe. I can be handsome, young, strong, or the opposite. I can be the best with my brain and pen, but only on a page. I can imitate Jeffry Dahmer or Ted Bundy and have them kill everyone in the story, left and right, with just my pen. I can fix the entire world, cure cancer, end wars, and start new ones. I can eradicate poverty and replace dictators. As hard as it seems, with all my mental strength and all the cells in my brain, I can make the world love the USA. I can do all that with the ink in my pen. I can fight terrorism, capitalism, imperialism, atheism, and racism. I can even fill nihilism with positivism. Wikipedia is my friend. I can be good or harmful, but that doesn’t mean I must be mean. I could insult or admire anyone, hide behind my pen, and always consider you more intelligent than me. My arch-rivals and nemesis are sometimes better than my heroes. I can create the worst monster and have him beaten by a child. But the real boss here is ‘writer’s block.’ When it hits, I feel like I’m writing with black ink on a black page in a dark cave. If you want to know, writing is easy. What’s hard is to be a good writer. I just found out anybody can write. Well, time for me to leave, it’s been a pleasure, but I must return to work. I need to feed the chickens now. I was on my break. I don’t know who left this pen here.

The End

Edmundo Barraza
Lancaster, Ca. 09-11-2014

Un Dia en Mi Vida

El peluquero casi había terminado de cortarme el cabello cuando escuché el comienzo de una canción en un pequeño radio. Primero, un golpe al tambor junto con el piano, seguido de la guitarra y luego el órgano vibrante. El primer sonido captó toda mi atención con su hermosa melodía.

No entendía ni una palabra. La cantaban en inglés. Antes de escuchar esta canción, ya había escuchado a los Beatles y los Doors: buena música, pero nada como esto. La canción fue directo a mi corazón. En ese momento, hubiera dado cualquier cosa por poder entender la letra.

Hasta entonces, mi joven mente se había negado a aceptar otros tipos de música. Para mí solo existía el rock. Mi mente bloqueó todo lo demás. Mi incapacidad para entender la letra no fue un inconveniente para que la disfrutara.

Yo tenía quince años, vivía en México en el verano de 1967. En esos días, no tenía un amigo al que le gustara tanto el rock and roll como a mí.

Cuando el peluquero terminó, la canción aún no había terminado. Me quedé allí paralizado. Me miré en el espejo, deseando que la música nunca terminara. Entonces, noté que el peluquero me miraba. Estaba seguro de que estaba pensando. ‘¿Qué le pasa a este estúpido niño?’

Pero tenía razón. Era un niño tonto, porque si corría a mi casa lo suficientemente rápido, podía escuchar el resto de la canción y captar el título. Estaba a tres cuadras de mi casa. Y corrí. No vi las aceras agrietadas, la carretera sin pavimentar, mis amigos jugando fútbol en la calle, la tienda de abarrotes o la carnicería. No escuchaba el canto de los pájaros, los ladridos de los perros, ni ningún ruido. Todavía estaba escuchando la canción más hermosa que jamás había escuchado.

Solíamos vivir en el segundo piso de una casa de dos pisos. Llegué en un instante. Cuando fui a mi habitación, todavía pude escuchar alrededor de un minuto. La voz sutil, con autoridad y rencor. La armónica dulce y triste perforando el centro de mi alma. Y la parte donde el órgano lloraba lleno de alegría o de dolor. Indujo mi primer orgasmo mental.

Dijeron el nombre de la canción y quién la tocaba. Supe en ese mismo instante que tenía que comprar ese disco de inmediato.

Fui a pedir dinero a mis tres hermanas. A la primera, en vano, ella era la tacaña. A la segunda, la piadosa, le pedí dinero para la limosna de la iglesia para el día siguiente, ella me dio algo. Y la tercera, la que más me quería, le dije la verdad, y ella me dió el resto.

Compré el disco. La gente solía llamarlos 45 porque daban cuarenta y cinco revoluciones por minuto (RPM). Lo toqué toda la tarde. Incluso marqué el disco y conté cuántas vueltas daba en un minuto. Tenían razón; cuarenta y cinco veces por minuto, total 270 veces. Toqué esa canción docenas de veces ese día, amándola aún más cada vez que la tocaba. En ese momento me prometí a mí mismo que aprendería inglés antes de morir.

Cualquiera podría aburrirse después de escuchar la misma canción varias veces seguidas, pero yo no, no con esa canción. Esa noche ni siquiera miré la televisión. Cené, luego me bañé y regresé a mi habitación para escuchar “mi canción” unas cuantas veces más antes de quedarme dormido.

Probablemente era pasada la medianoche cuando el sonido de la música me despertó. Me puse de pie y encendí la luz, luego apagué el tocadiscos y me volví a dormir. Pero la música me despertó de nuevo. Esta vez, era el radio, pero estaba tocando la misma canción. Y una vez más, lo apagué.

Lo mismo sucedió una vez más. Molesto y asustado a la vez, desconecté el cable del tomacorriente y del enchufe y la radio. Le quité las baterías y lo puse debajo de la cama. Eso tenía que ser suficiente.

La próxima vez que sucedió, ya estaba asustadísimo. No quería abrir los ojos. Pensé que Satanás me estaba jugando una mala pasada debajo de mi cama. Reuní todo mi coraje y me metí debajo de la cama. Estaba teniendo pensamientos aterradores. Me imaginé a Lucifer agarrándome de los brazos y arrastrándome al infierno. Pero no, lo único que había ahí abajo era mi tocadiscos. Lo agarré y lo tiré al piso de cemento de abajo, donde se rompió en un millón de pedazos.

Por la mañana, mi mamá me picaba las costillas y me decía: “Despierta, hijo, tenemos que ir a la iglesia”.

Abrí los ojos y vi mi tocadiscos en una sola pieza con mi nuevo disco todavía en él, intacto y listo para ser tocado.

Pero primero tenía que ir a la iglesia y rezar.

Y le rogué a Dios que me permitiera volver a disfrutar de la música sin recibir ningún castigo.

The End

© US Copyright Office / Submitted / Pending

“Like A Rolling Stone” de Bob Dylan. Duración: 6:00

2004 Mejor Canción de todos los tiempos. Revista Rolling Stone.

EDMUNDO BARRAZA
Visalia, CA. 04-06-2012

CUCA

Read the short story. And then, watch the short film.

A Biology professor encounters a cockroach on his chalkboard, struggling to get rid of it. Instead, he begins to communicate with the bug. He names the bug Cuca – short for Cucaracha in Spanish. The close alliance seems to improve until someone makes a terrible mistake.

I can still remember the moment I became a pacifist, an animal lover, and a defender of animal rights. From that moment on, I also turned into a better person.

Armed with a flyswatter, playing in the backyard, I squashed a butterfly with it. My big brother witnessed the act, became upset, and gave me a lecture I would never forget.

“That butterfly probably had a family to feed. Everybody loves butterflies. They’re harmless, beautiful creatures. The way they fly and the way they move bring happiness to everyone. All living creatures have a right to live. Even if it’s a cockroach, mosquito, or bee, you should respect their lives as much as possible. Only if an animal attacks you should you defend yourself. And only then, you have a valid excuse to kill an animal.”

My big brother was twelve years old, and I was seven. It remained in my mind forever. It affected me for the rest of my life. Since I received that lecture, I have never knowingly hurt any living animals. I didn’t like violence. I was never involved in a fight in my whole life. I was patient, and I reasoned with measured actions.

That lecture sure had an impact on me. I became a teacher, studied biology and zoology, and became an entomologist. I had many books on animal behavior. And I loved pets and all animals that crossed my path, even after my big brother got killed by a bear on a camping trip in Yosemite National Park.

When I was in sixth grade, it took me a week before I could decide to dissect a frog, I loved science class, but whenever they had to experiment with tiny insects, I couldn’t do it. Only when I went to college I began to overcome that phobia. Visits to the Zoo became more enjoyable the more I learned about animals. I supported PETA and regularly volunteered my time at the local animal shelter.

The first time I saw that cockroach on the blackboard was the first time I’d seen a roach in my house. My reaction wasn’t normal, like calling the exterminating company or running to the store to get a can of Raid or Combat. But I wasn’t too happy about it either. I knew how they propagate if you don’t take the proper steps. My house was clean and organized. I barely cooked at home. The kitchen was impeccably clean most of the time. I lived alone and hardly dated anyone. I was introverted and loved my solitude. I left the bug alone.

In the following weeks, I saw the cockroach a few more times, always on the blackboard. I hoped it was the same one, and the only one. I struggled to decide if I should get rid of it. I thought that if I saw more than one at the same time, I would take action. Not directly myself, but I would call an exterminating company and leave the house for a week.

My blackboard was always full of notes and writings. Every week, I would scribble all the highlights about the next test I’d give to my students. After a few weeks, I noticed that the roach was always at the center of a letter. Having all the time in the world, I decided to check what its favorite letters were.

The first two letters I noticed were h and i. I smiled and said “hi” in return.

The next day, the letters the roach ‘stepped on’ caused the biggest shock in my life, ‘f o o d’. After the surprise faded, I thought it was a coincidence until the next day when the cockroach stepped on the same four letters.

I thought it was so absurd. I needed more proof, much more.
Baffled and still in shock, I put some bread crumbs on the board next to the chalk holder.

All rationality and common sense disappeared after those ‘conversations’ with the cockroach. Curious but still doubtful, I erased all writings on the blackboard and left them clean for a few days.

The cockroach disappeared for the same period.

I knew cockroaches could survive a nuclear war or live without food for about thirty days and water for about a week. I assumed that my house, being so clean, my little friend would starve to death or move out of the house. Both outcomes would have caused great misery in my heart. And, of course, my heart wouldn’t allow the poor bug to die.

I couldn’t bear that guilt, and after a few days, I wrote on the board again. And right away, my little friend showed up, and we resumed our ‘correspondence.’

“Food,” wrote the hungry insect again in a few seconds.

With my eyes and mouth wide open, I ran to the kitchen to get bread crumbs.

After that, I stopped all experiments, and during dinner time, I gladly shared my food with “Cuca,” which was the name I gave to my new friend, which was short for ‘Cucaracha’ or cockroach in Spanish.

I knew cockroaches preferred dark places, so I closed all curtains and blinds in the morning. I started to give small chunks of food to my friend. And I also began to write a journal.

I had never been so happy.

One day, Cuca spelled “ugly” on the board.

“Me?” I asked.

“Yes,” Cuca replied.

Of course, I agreed. Obviously, every animal species thought the rest of the species were ugly. What could a gorilla think about a hyena? Or a chicken about a snake or a peacock about a crocodile? But it was a little different for humans. Many animals were beautiful to humans, like doves, eagles, Blue Jays, deer, and even elephants and whales. And, of course, butterflies too.

“What about pain?” I asked.

“?” Cuca answered.

“Can you feel pain?” I asked again.

“?” replied Cuca.

Okay. Cuca has never felt pain, I concluded. How fortunate.
Then, I had an idea. I went to get my magnifying glass. I thought about meeting Cuca up close and personal. When I returned, I opened the window to let some light in. It was a little after noontime. The sun shone on the board. It was perfectly bright to meet Cuca for the first time, face to face. When I put the magnifying glass near Cuca, smoke emerged from one of its wings. Cuca vanished in a fraction of a second.

“Ah!” I screamed and threw the magnifying glass to the floor.

“Oh no, what did I do?”

Cuca didn’t come back for an entire week. And when it did, it spelled “Pain.”

When I approached the board, Cuca reluctantly stayed. I brought some food, enough for an entire colony. I wished Cuca could get all its family and friends; I didn’t care if they caused the worse infestation ever. I was that sad. It took another week before all things went back to normal.

Cuca healed nicely. It only left a small black mark on its wing.

One afternoon, when I returned from school, I met the cleaning lady as she was exiting my house.

“Good afternoon, professor,” she greeted me. “I must tell you something; I killed a cockroach on your blackboard. You must call the exterminating company before an infestation invades your house.”

The End

*Just because a subject is serious doesn’t mean it doesn’t have plenty of absurdities.

-P. J. O’Rourke

Edmundo Barraza
Lancaster, Ca. Nov-25-2016

A Conversation With God

***If you’re religious, this is not for you. (irreverent)

Introduce yourself, please. 

I am God. I made everything. That’s all you need to know.

Are you perfect?

No, I am not. I make mistakes. The biggest one so far was trying to make you an image of myself. But I failed. I could have erased you and started from scratch again. But in the end, I liked what I saw. You had imperfections, and you had your whole life to work on them.

Are you happy?

Happiness is never permanent, which makes me sad.

Why do you allow so many injustices in the world?

You have to stop blaming me for everything. I gave you life. You live it as you wish, if you’re happy or not. It’s your free will. The choices you make will make you happy or miserable. It’s all up to you. You create your destiny. 

Do you have a mother? 

No, I never had one. I’m not sad because of that. There’s nothing to miss. 

Are you going to help us one day? 

No, you’re on your own. You should help yourselves. You should know that by now. I gave you the world; if you destroy it, it’s your fault.

If you’re our father, who’s our mother?

You can have Eve or Mary or Mother Earth. If you ask me if I have a wife, I don’t. And I’m not looking for one either. 

Do you believe in the Bible?

That’s a funny one. 

Do you?

Nobody should. It’s been edited without my permission a million times. You should consider the Bible to be just a rumor. Somebody said: “News told, rumors heard, truth implied, facts buried.” I can’t say it is better than that. Rumors don’t care what’s true. What you say now it’s going to be changed tomorrow. Always remember this, rumors are carried by haters, spread by fools, and accepted by idiots.

Do you listen to our prayers?

No. Why should I if I’m not going to fix your problems? 

Is there anybody you admire?

Yes, the list is long. And not all I admire are here with me.

Does that mean you can also admire evil people?

I don’t want to set a bad example. The answer is no.

Is the world going to end soon?

I cannot answer that. The world ends when you die. Don’t worry about that. Embrace life. Death is your reward.

Are the Popes helping you?

Not at all. Popes are too old-fashioned, too narrow-minded, and too arrogant. They’re worse than my apostles, disciples, and prophets. Not all of them are here with me. Sorry, I can’t give you the list. 

Tell me a little about Paradise and Hell.

They don’t exist. With your behavior, you can experience both of them here on Earth.

Is your job boring?

If all of you were good, I would have resigned long ago. What makes it interesting is bad people. My job is not boring; I’m watching millions of movies simultaneously. Evil is winning.

Will you ever send another of your sons back to Earth?

No, you people are too mean. Jesus is still traumatized by your actions. 

Can you perform a miracle?

I’m not a magician. When you die, I’ll make you stop breathing. How’s that for a miracle?

Do you have anything to say to Atheists? 

Atheists are fools, and so are Jesus freaks. I feel sorry for them. They should spend their time more wisely.

Do you dislike homosexuals? 

No. People that hate homosexuals are fools too. Your body is yours, do with it as you please. Just don’t mistreat it, and don’t kill yourselves.

Did you write the Ten Commandments? 

Yes, but initially, there were only six. The rest were made up to make you docile and obedient. I don’t want you to be afraid of me. If you don’t worship me, nothing bad will happen to you. Moses must have smoked weed before he climbed that mountain. I’ll give you the list later.

Are you really everywhere?

That’s nonsense. Religions are man-made, and their leaders want to manipulate you with fear. The best way to obtain obedience is to plant fear. I can’t keep an eye on all of you constantly.

Who is the Holy Spirit?

Same thing as mermaids, unicorns, and Bigfoot.

Are you handsome?

Yes.

Can I take a selfie with you?

Don’t be silly.

Are you against divorce and contraceptives?

No. Marriage should not have chains; your body should not have chains. Everybody should always be free. Promiscuity is what’s bad. 

Of all the injustices in the world, the most terrible is seeing children suffer. Can you do something about it?

Children are human; all humans sometimes suffer.

I’m not convinced; you need to do something about it. You have to promise you’ll do something. 

If all of you help me, something can be done.

Do you hate Satan?

I don’t love him, and I don’t hate him. I dislike him. I dislike Hitler too.

Can I have my cake and eat it too?

Yes. But when you die, you won’t be allowed to bring anything here, not even a slice for me.

Do you like Rock? 

It’s okay, but I prefer classical music. 

Rolling Stones or Beatles?

Beatles. When the Stones release “Sympathy for God,” I might reconsider.

Why did you allow the holocaust to happen?

I have no blood on my hands. Humans kill humans, “intervention” is not in my vocabulary. 

Can you disarm the entire world?

Humans kill humans. Humans build arms and weapons.

Will we ever have a new God or Goddess? Can someone else come and challenge you?

Have you heard about Satan? A Goddess might be a good idea.

Some people might say that this interview is fictitious. They might think that I’m answering my questions. 

If they can believe in the Bible and its million tales, they can believe in this too. If not, who cares? 

Can you be my friend?

Yes.

Why are your responses so laconic?

I don’t need to adorn things up. I’m wise.

You’re a bit cold. Do you love me?

I’m sorry. I didn’t want to give that impression. Come here, hug me. 

You mentioned several times that we are on our own and that you don’t want to intervene anymore. Then, what do you do?

Are you saying I’m useless?

No, I’m just implying that you don’t do anything anymore. (same thing)

I’m the judge and the administrator. I’m the doorkeeper too. 

Do you enjoy giving punishment?

You get what you deserve. If the balance turns out to be unfair, it gets even after you die. 

Who made you?

I thought you’d never ask that. I made me myself. 

Are homosexuals a third gender?

Procreation is love and reward. 

Why don’t you show yourself?

I sometimes do, but you ignore or mistreat me as you do with each other. 

Why don’t you make guns and drugs disappear?

If I did, you’d reinvent them the next day. 

Are you better than Superman?

I wish.

Are religions good for humankind?

No. I’m still waiting for humans to invent something good.

Was it all planned this way, including your mistakes? 

No, it’s been deteriorating from the beginning. If you could alter my design, you’re smarter than I thought. 

Can you give us a copy of the original manuscripts of the Bible? 

What for, you’ll change it again. 

Could we have been able to domesticate dinosaurs? 

No, they ate your first generation.

What side are you on, Israel or Palestine?

None, they’re both fools.

If you are omnipotent, why don’t you get rid of Satan? That way, everybody could be good all the time.

Satan is in you, and so am I. You fight good and evil within you. 

I need to take a leak. Do you pee too? Mm, never mind that.

 (Intermission) 

How old are you and when’s your birthday?

Next question.

What’s outside the universe?

More universes.

Why don’t you get rid of mosquitoes?

A mosquito asked me the same question about humans.

Are you going to cry when I die?

The only time I cried was when you crucified my son. 

Are you an extraterrestrial?

Yes, I wasn’t born here.

Are you the only God? Do you have your own God?

I’m the only God on this planet. I believe in myself.

What would you do if Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on your door?

I wouldn’t make any noise until they left. 

Is the human race improving?

Very slowly. 

Do you have a favorite Country? (please, please, say the USA)

You’re funny. Humankind is a single nation, a single planet. There are no countries in my heart.

Then, “God Bless America” is meaningless and useless?

Only American innocence and naivety could believe I exclusively “bless America.” That’s silly.    

Can you give us the original list of the “Ten Commandments”?

1. Obey your Mom and Dad.

2. Do not kill.

3. Be faithful in marriage.

4. Do not steal.

5. Never tell a lie.

6. Don’t envy what others have. 

Somebody added a few more without consulting me. The other four Commandments depicted me as a selfish, controlling God; nobody should consider those. 

Any last thoughts or advice for humankind? 

Be good and love each other. 

The End

Edmundo Barraza

Lancaster, Ca. 09-16-2014

Superficial

Your mother should know.
The things that matter you ignore
Your ego is not your strength nor your asset
Superficiality is your best quality
Your style, never your own
Aversion to sincerity
Your favorite answer is “is complicated” ’cause you have no clue
Your sterile concern, I will not try to discern
Your criticism, keep it concealed
Your advice, keep it confined deep in your mind
Nurture your torture
Nourish your hatred and wrath
Your caring, warmhearted soul conflicts with your perverse desires
Under cover of genuine intentions
You use your virtues to crush humble feelings
You pulverize enthusiasm with indignant anger
And destroy modest goals with sarcastic compliments
That only reflects a sadistic disdain
If I love you, you laugh
If I hate you, you smile
And if I ignore you, you’re dead
Guess what I wish for you?
Your mother should know.

The End

Edmundo Barraza
Lancaster, Ca. Nov-29-2015

The Psychic

Read the short story, and then watch the short film.

Never before did I consider visiting a psychic or a palm reader, even though I’ve seen that place in the corner maybe hundreds of times. But I never had a reason to go. I wasn’t even curious, not even if I got a free consultation.


I know I am rational and mature, but admitting it shows immaturity. Believing in spirits, ghosts, the afterlife, or the hereafter was not my thing. But after that absolute life nightmare, I considered visiting that psychic place. I’ve seen the lady many times before, parking her fancy car in her driveway. Lovely looking lady in a typical businesslike dress, not like your regular gypsy. She never wore long flowery dresses like old hippies. No, she didn’t look like a witch either. And she seemed friendly too, always with a smile on her face.

After the accident, I became a widower and an orphan father. I was left alone and turned into a zombie. I thought there was no reason to continue living. Life was utterly meaningless. Suicide was often on my mind, but life had always been a precious treasure, so I hung on, waiting for, I don’t know what—waiting for them to come back—or waiting to see if I could form another family, maybe? But to consider that would be to betray their memory. No, nothing could fix me. Nothing seemed remotely possible. My happiness was cut short without a reason or an explanation. I need to communicate with my wife, or else I can’t go on living.


I didn’t know what I was expecting when I opened the door to her office.


“Good evening. How can I help you?” she said with a friendly smile.


“I don’t know if you can. I sincerely doubt it. But I need to give it at least a try. I find it hard to imagine ghosts dancing around your desk, and I’m suspicious about your abilities to connect people from different dimensions. In my mind, I always related your profession to frauds, scams, and charlatans. I’m sorry I’m being so blunt, but I needed to get it out. As a non-believer, could I influence your talents? And are you still willing to help me?”


“Wow, at this point, you could be one of my worse clients ever. You almost stepped over the line. You were a little bit disrespectful, not just blunt. You can leave anytime if you’re unsure about what you want to do. I wouldn’t feel offended; instead, I would be pleased. I don’t need to be a psychic to sense your sarcasm. Oh, and more thing, I haven’t seen any ghosts dancing around my desk either, but I’ve seen spirits sitting on the same chair you’re sitting on.” she replied.


“I’m sorry, you’re right. I forgot that I came to ask for a favor for a moment. The words I chose were a little rough. I’m sorry. The main thing is that I wanted to be honest and clear. Can you see spirits or ghosts?”


“I can feel their presence, and I can see them sometimes. I don’t mind if you don’t believe me. That doesn’t change the fact that I can see them sometimes. But let’s change the subject. I don’t need to convince you to believe.” she said.


“Is business good?”

“Yes, lately, spirits have been running rampant and unrestrained. If you trust me, you’ll soon find out what I mean. Why do you ask if business is good?” she responded.

“Well, good psychics should always be busy.”


“Why don’t we get to the point? What brings you here?” she asked.


“I need to communicate with my wife. We were involved in a car crash. My wife and daughter died, and it was my entire fault. I don’t want to be on this earth anymore without them. My guilt is so big it’s eating my soul. You see, I was driving the car, and at the same time, I was trying to give the bottle of milk to my daughter, but I couldn’t reach it, so I removed my seat belt for a second. The vehicle went off the road, and I was ejected and passed out while the car overturned several times. I never saw them alive again. I need to ask my wife for her forgiveness. I also want to join them wherever they are.

“Do you believe in God?” she asked.


“Not really, but I used to be a believer, but things changed, and I became a materialistic cynic. Now I would feel like a hypocrite if I prayed.”


“Some things are easier to believe if you’re spiritual. The nonphysical part of a person sometimes manifests as an apparition after their death. A spirit can survive physical death or separation of body and spirit. Sometimes, when the body ceases to exist, and nothing can hold a person’s soul, character, and emotions, it wanders, seeking a body that doesn’t exist anymore. I think your family is alive and well.” she said.


“Do you mean . . .?”


“Yes, I’m sorry. You can leave now. There’s no need to open the door; you can just cross it.”


And as the man crossed the door, a couple of tears fell from the medium’s eyes.

The End

Edmundo Barraza
Lancaster, Ca. 12-27-2016

Anchor Baby

If Jesus had been born near San Diego and his parents were Mexican.

Jose was an excellent craftsman. He made spinning tops, caps and balls, puppets, and other wooden toys by hand. The quality of the toys didn’t match the low selling price. The toys were a good percentage of his profits, but still, Pancho was an essential part of the business. Pancho was his partner, best friend, and a crucial element of his show. Also, Pancho was an alcoholic. The donkey carried a sign hanging from its neck that said, “Pancho,” and all the tourists at the beach loved to see him drink beer. 

The donkey had been loyal to Jose for years; he carried the merchandise, entertained the crowds, and got paid with beers. Most days, it appeared that Pancho was too willing to go to work, but Jose knew that, in reality, Pancho had a hangover, and all he had in mind was to go to the beach and get drunk again. The happy appearance of Pancho was misleading; Jose knew he was exploiting Pancho even though the donkey had a constant smile on his face, but his addiction provoked the smile.

Jose’s wife was in the last days of her pregnancy, and for the previous two weeks, she couldn’t join him and stayed home. They made a decent living in Tijuana. Their modest house had barely the essentials for a happy living. Jose wasn’t too proud of their way of living or the options and examples he would give to his future child. Jose and his wife had talked seriously about improving their child’s chances for the future. And the decision was final: the child would be born in the United States.

Most people in Mexico blamed the US for their eternal misery. The graffiti on the poorest slums from Tijuana to Central America and beyond proclaimed: “Yankees go home,” in contrast, signs near San Diego showed immigrant parents with a girl in ponytails running and crossing the freeways. Making a racist allusion to illegal aliens crossing the border.

Indeed, the US had been robbing them of all their natural resources, including silver, gold, oil, lumber, and even cheap labor. They were taking all the stuff the country produced and leaving them with increasing debt. 

Mexico had survived centuries of Spanish pillaging and exploitation. Now Spain had been replaced by the US. 

In most cases, the only solution they could find was to flee to the US. The US had nothing to recriminate. All of it was just a vicious circle initiated by a greedy villain. Talking about poetic justice.

Jose and Pancho had been a permanent fixture at the beach, and tourists had taken thousands of pictures and videos of Pancho and his drinking habits for many years at the Mexico-USA border on the beach. They were never bothered by immigration officers while going back and forth the borderline, temporarily invading the US side a few hundred yards. 

But the following day, they had planned to go further into USA territory.

Maria was ready to give birth. She wasn’t too cheerful. Her first baby was going to be an American child. She was proud of her race, brown skin, and Aztec roots. She even imagined that by giving birth in America, her child would be a white boy or a blond girl, just like that automatically by crossing an invisible border, even if the other side used to be part of Mexico. Jose and Maria had decided it was the best for the child. Their child would have access to better education, medical care, job opportunities, and everything else. He could be a professional athlete, an astronaut, or even the President of the United States. Yes, it was the best for the child.

Maria was riding the donkey; it had all kinds of trinkets hanging from its neck, not cheap, but inexpensive wooden toys that mainly appealed to poor kids on the Mexican side. Cheap meant low quality, but these toys were good quality, so they were ‘inexpensive.’ Pancho was having a hard time carrying the extra weight. He was sweating off a hangover from the day before, and he was anxious to have his first beer of the day. But Jose was making fewer stops than usual. They hadn’t walked a mile on the US side when an Immigration Officer stopped them and asked for their papers. Then, another officer showed up and said that it was okay, that Jose and Pancho were allowed to come and go just a couple miles into US territory, and that Pancho had been entertaining tourists from both sides for years. So, they left them alone.

And they continued their trip.

They didn’t plan on giving any shows or trying to sell anything; their only goal was to get to a community hospital in Chula Vista. But along the way, they made a few stops to avoid suspicions. 

The first stop was unplanned. Pancho decided to stop with a group of teenagers. He needed a beer. The kids were drinking beer from red plastic cups because drinking alcohol was not allowed on California beaches. Jose couldn’t understand how Pancho noticed the teens were drinking beer. Pancho came to a standstill in front of them and stubbornly refused to continue. He deserved a break, thought Jose. 

Maria dismounted the thirsty alcoholic donkey. Pancho looked a little pathetic, but soon, with some luck, he would change that look into a smile. The teens couldn’t believe Jose when he told them the truth; the donkey had a terrible hangover. Ultimately, they had a lot of fun with Pancho; they even bought some puppets and spinning tops. Pancho drank five beers, and before they left, Pancho brayed rather noisily. He was happy again. The teens rioted when a naive girl asked Jose if she could kiss his ass. Maria didn’t like that. 

And they continued their journey.

All along the beach were showers, restrooms, and other facilities, including lifeguard posts and free public parking spaces. The ocean water, the wind, and the sunshine were the same, but somehow the American side seemed more serene, pure, and less polluted. How can that be possible? 

Pancho had decided to be in charge of the rest stops and breaks they would take. This time, he took refuge in the shade next to a restroom. And while Maria used the facilities, Jose fed Pancho and gave him some water.

They weren’t dirty or messy but seemed odd and out of place. Maria wore a long dress, a headscarf, and a straw hat. Nobody could deny she was beautiful. Jose was wearing a pair of white loose cotton pants, a white guayabera, and brown sandals. He was handsome too. They neither looked like tourists nor natives. 

Before Maria exited the restroom, a lady blabbered in a fastidious tone, aiming her venom at her waiting husband just outside the door, “I can’t believe it! These Mexicans are invading us. It seems like the borderline is getting closer to San Diego; I can’t even use the restroom without tripping with one of them! Oh, my God, we need to move to Canada!” “Yes!” answered her husband, “And look at this, they’re even bringing their burros!” They kept complaining as they walked away. Maria came out of the restroom sad and confused.

“I don’t know what happened, Jose, I didn’t do anything, but that lady was so offended by my presence. I don’t understand why,” Maria said, exiting the restroom.

“It’s okay Maria, don’t worry, you’re not to blame. Some people are just intolerant of other races. Please, darling, don’t be upset. Just ignore them,” Jose said as he helped her climb up Pancho. 

Jose couldn’t understand it either since all American tourists they encountered in Tijuana were highly polite and gracious; they were always very respectful and well-mannered. They’d never seen such mean people before. 

And they continued their trek.

Maria was still sobbing quietly when a short, skinny guy appeared jogging next to them and suddenly stopped and asked Jose in Spanish if he could ride his donkey for a little bit. Such a request was common to hear from kids, but since Jose couldn’t find a reason to refuse, he agreed. And while Jose and Maria sat on the sand to rest, the little guy went up and down the beach, riding Pancho full of joy. Even Pancho appeared to be having fun. They looked a little comical too.

When they came back, the man sat next to them. And while still laughing, he mentioned that he started riding donkeys when he was five years old, back in a little town in Oaxaca, where he was from. It turned out he was a jockey. He said he would run a race at the Del Mar racetrack the following day. He said he missed Mexico and felt lonely and nostalgic most of the time. Jose told him their story, why they had crossed the border, and their intentions to give the baby a better future. 

After Jose finished their story, the short man offered them three hundred dollars to help with the medical bills, which Jose accepted with sincere modesty. 

Even though Jose had all their life savings, he was worried he didn’t have enough money for the hospital. Now, Jose was glad nobody would call him a freeloader or a leech. Even Pancho disliked burdens.

And they continued their expedition. 

They were near their destination. Maria’s contractions were getting intense and persistent. She told Jose it was time. While she rested next to a lifeguard’s tower, Jose went to get a taxicab. 

To the right, the waves were crashing violently against the rocks. To the left, and as long as you could see, the high tide kept delivering surfers to the beach. One of them saw Maria trying to stretch and relax, but nothing seemed remotely relaxing on the sand, not even a towel. The surfer offered his surfing board for her to lie down on. Other young people brought more surfing boards and built two walls around her. Then the lifeguard brought a stretcher and some sheets. Maria couldn’t wait to be taken to the hospital.

The beach sure looked like paradise. The place where the ocean waters were embracing and caressing this beautiful planet was a perfect place to deliver a baby.

The lifeguard and the surfers were good enough to deliver the baby. The healthy boy didn’t need any doctors or nurses or emergency rooms. Many surfers were offering their arms to hold the smiling baby. 

When Jose returned, as he held the baby and kissed Maria, the crowd went wild with cheers.

And, of course, they named the baby Jesus.

And thirty-three years later, Jesus would have to experience his own journey.

The End

 

U.S. Copyright Office — Submitted / Pending

Edmundo Barraza

 Lancaster, Ca. 02-20-2016  

A Day in My Life

The barber was almost done with my haircut when I heard the beginning of a song on a tiny radio. First, a single beat of a drum along with the piano, followed by the guitar and then the vibrating organ. The first sound grabbed my complete attention with its beautiful melody. 

I couldn’t understand a word. The lyrics were in English. Before I heard this song, I had listened to the Beatles and Elvis: great music, but nothing quite like this. The song went straight to my heart. At that moment, I would’ve given anything to be able to understand the lyrics. 

Until then, my young mind had refused to accept other kinds of music. For me, only rock existed. My mind blocked everything else. My inability to understand the lyrics wasn’t an inconvenience for me to enjoy it.    

I was fourteen years old, living in Mexico in the summer of 1966. In those days, I didn’t have a friend who liked rock and roll as much as I did. 

By the time the barber finished, the song wasn’t over yet. I stood there paralyzed. I looked at myself in the mirror, wishing for the music never to end. Then, I noticed the barber staring at me. I was sure he was thinking. ‘what’s wrong with this stupid kid?’

But he was right. I was a stupid kid because if I could run to my house fast enough, I could listen to the rest of the song and catch the title. I was three blocks away from home. And I ran. I didn’t see the cracked sidewalks, the unpaved roads, my friends playing soccer on the street, the grocery store, or the butcher shop. I didn’t hear the birds singing, the dogs barking, or any noise. I was still listening to the most beautiful song I had ever heard.

We used to live on the second floor of a two-story house. I was up there in a flash. When I went to my room, I could still listen to about a minute of it. The humble authoritative angry voice, the sweet, sad harmonica drilling the core of my soul. And the part where the organ cried full of joy or pain. It induced my first mental orgasm. 

They said the name of the song and who played it. I knew that very instant that I had to buy it immediately.

I went to ask my three sisters for money. The first one, to no avail. She was the stingy one. The second one, the pious one, I asked her for church money for the next day. And the third one, the one that loved me the most, I told her the truth, and she gave me the rest.

I got the record. People used to call them 45s because they used to turn forty-five revolutions per minute (RPM). I played it all afternoon. I even marked the record and counted how many turns it made in a minute. They were right; forty-five times per minute, about 280 times. I played that song dozens of times that day, loving it, even more every time I played it. At that moment, I promised myself I would learn English before I died.

Anybody could get bored after listening to the same song a few times in a row, but not me, not with that song. That night I didn’t even watch TV. I had dinner, then I took a shower and went back to my room to listen to “my song” a few more times before falling asleep. 

It was probably past midnight when the sound of music woke me up. I stood up and turned the light on, then turned the record player off and returned to sleep. But the music woke me up again. This time, it was the radio, but it was playing the same song. And once again, I turned it off.

The same thing happened once again. Pissed off and scared, I disconnected the cable from the plug and the radio. I pulled it from the wall, removed the batteries, and put it under the bed. That should do it. 

The next time it happened, I was out of my mind. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I thought Satan was playing tricks on me under my bed. I gathered all my courage and went under the bed. I was having terrifying thoughts. I imagined Lucifer grabbing my arms and dragging me to hell. But no, the only thing down there was my record player. Still shaking, I threw it to the cement floor downstairs, where it broke into a million pieces.

In the morning, my mom was poking my ribs and saying, “Wake up, son, we have to go to church.”

I opened my eyes and saw my record player in one piece with my new record still on it, unbroken and ready to be played. 

But first, I had to go to church and pray. 

And I begged God to allow me to enjoy music again without receiving any punishment in my dreams.

The End

© US Copyright Office / Submitted / Pending

“Like A Rolling Stone” by Bob Dylan. Duration: 6:31

2004 Best Song of all time. Rolling Stone Magazine.

 EDMUNDO BARRAZA

Visalia, CA. 06-04-2012

Nirvana

The middle is a convenient and easy place to be, where no arguments or controversies exist. The center is a comfortable neutral point where conformity shares space with submission. The middle is a tedious place where no one voluntarily should remain for a long time. Life is meant to be a continuous experiment. The middle is fine, but only temporarily. I must go to the extremes, both extremes. I should never be static. I should never allow myself to fall into docility or mediocrity. I would rather be invisible than mediocre.

If I ever get lost, I should dig deep inside my mind to find myself again and break through to the other side. My inner light, where my subconscious remains amid heaven and hell. Limbo? Then while there, I should visit my storage dump, where all my repressed memories lie, and cleanse myself of regrets, fears, and sins. And reconnect the mind and soul with my mortal spiritual body.

I should also distance myself from all human suffering that obscures my enlightenment by crossing the abstract threshold that leads to the path of my intangible insight that helps me to assimilate the objectives of a meaningless life. I would also liberate the confined beliefs that could help me realize that suffering is never inherent to any situation. My good deeds will eventually guide me to my karma and final encounter with the ecstasy of reaching my Nirvana.

I must find where the past and the present collide to avoid an unmerciful future. I need to push the button to pause all brain activity to counteract severe burnout.

Nihilism will cease to exist. My zenith will rise above my nadir. My reborn optimism will help me obtain the best possible world. Now that I reached the highest happiness, I will create my perfect destiny. The scary part of reaching Nirvana leads to a downward spiral to the depths of hell. Once you get total spiritual bliss and total euphoric ecstasy, you will crash against a wall of confusion.

Damn! I can’t continue. I ran out of weed. That was my last joint. Now what?

The End

EDMUNDO BARRAZA
Visalia, CA Jan-11-2012

Free Flowing

Stream of Consciousness Experiment


Squeeze my lemons
trickle-down social insecurities
third world project
criminal justice injustice
three strikes or a home-run prison system
mutual terror
bucket list priority destroy the world
total absurdities
my mother was a fish
as I lay dying
experiment stream of consciousness
extreme mind fuck
non-required grammar
uncensored thoughts
under subconscious and comatose dreamlike visions
dormant and inert subliminal messages from the dark side
both dumb and smart need not apply
a comma here, a period there
absent and dismissed obsolete comprehension
sent to hell
they’ll laugh from there while others remain in heaven, bored to death
pitiful pride
useless words
inhumane humans
voting against clueless republicans
ignoring democracy
conservative donkeys living in the past way in the past
centuries behind
implanting fear bible in hand
frustrating progress
preventing advance
stampede of fools proclaiming preposterous promises
while the opposition opposes most propositions
cut to a flashback to the future
where non-existing scripts kept unedited in perfect literary freedom
analyzed and approved with uneducated brilliance
free-flowing
upstream rivers containing regrets that will get stuck
by the stubbornness of indifference
deviate back to my naked impure thoughts
where people will always find meanness in the words
offensive and crude
the interior monologue was never meant to be heard
struggles to find the following line
stolen by a ghostwriter
wrestling to avoid a block that impedes his free flow
a conflict of minds trying to invade
and plagiarize universal letters and words without legal ownership
voicing internal feelings
senseless emotions
unobtainable dreams
reserved only for exceptional persons with genuine talent
that cannot be bought or taught
eternal envy of simple minds
abundant in a world of mediocrity
where billions of people swim
unaware of misery or wealth but happier than the rest
conformism attracts health and joy
stream of consciousness
think and write whatever comes to mind
unfiltered and uninterrupted
unafraid of failure
absent of objectives
aimless freedom
oblivious of pleasing results
and disregarding unpleasant goals
arrive without traveling, see all without looking, do all without doing
and never become a pirate
no end in sight
no subject is forbidden
except for nonexistent exceptions
majestic graffiti adorns the walls of a dark tunnel
wasted space
a desert on the ocean floor
as might as well describe my organs too
heart still palpitating
reversal of misfortune
tune for miss American imperialism, capitalism colonialism
domestic love
universal hate
continuous flow
the stream found a dam
unanswered dialogue
voiceless speaker
overheard thoughts
one way conversation
never dull and never clear
I could go on forever until I die
whichever comes first
theories that violate logic
a brilliant mind required
with a bizarre succession of ideas
the hell with a logical sequence
I lost my virginity to a whore
this is inconsequential and irrelevant
but that’s the point
if an acquaintance is reading
I guarantee this is fiction
the rest of you consider it true
you lose your virginity once
did I mention you’ll never find it back?
question marked with a perennial tattoo inserted in the interior walls of my eyelids
one thing leads to another
resume the obsolete task of building a lifetime of useless resumes
describe your failures instead
it’ll be more accurate
nothing makes sense when you write an autobiography that belongs to someone else
young and daring
freedom-loving fearless punk
addicted to excesses
school he flunked
found love early
the free bird also found a cage
never-ending bliss decreased
he then turned to rage
lost is the name of such an accomplished ignorant
no more crying. I heard my daughter downstairs indicating wise advice to kids

The End


Edmundo Barraza

Lancaster, Ca. 05-13-2016