Jon Ureña's Blog, page 25
November 20, 2023
On writing: Testing concept potential of story seed #1
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
Once you have ensured that the story seed you came up with connects with you enough, you should probably test its concept potential. The following are the notes on the subject I gathered years ago from many books on writing.
-Is the idea big enough for a fully dimensional story, or is it merely an anecdote?
-Does your idea only provide a unique way of starting the story, and then all the uniqueness would disappear once the plot starts going?
-A story without a concept leads to a story without dramatic tension, which leads to a character who has nothing interesting to do or achieve.
-A great concept serves as a catalyst for the story elements of character, theme, and structure. Without this power, the story goes nowhere because it has nowhere to go. The concept creates the journey because it creates conflict in your story.
-What is the notion, proposition, situation, story world, setting, or fresh take that creates a framework or arena or landscape for your story, one that could hatch any number of stories, and one that doesn’t require us to meet your hero or know your plot to make us say, “Yes! Write a story based on that, please”?
-State your concept in the form of a “What if?” question. It usually doesn’t involve specific characters, just drama and tension. For example, “What if scientists figured out how to revive dinosaurs, and someone built a theme park to show them off?”
-Try to come up with a “What if?” strong enough that a plot could manifest spontaneously.
-Does this “What if?” situation ask dramatic questions that promise compelling, interesting, and rewarding answers?
-If you can add “hijinks ensue” to the end of your concept, you may be on to something good. If the hijinks themselves lend a conceptual essence to the idea, then include them in your statement of concept.
-Would your concept elicit that sought-after response: “wow, I’ve never seen that before, at least treated in that way. I really want to read the story that deals with these things”?
-What is the kicker that twists and ordinary idea into something unique, original, and compelling? Try to explain in one clear sentence.
-Judge your concept against these benchmarks: What does your concept imply, promise, or otherwise begin to define in terms of an unfolding story driven by dramatic tension? What might a hero want within this concept, and why, and what opposes that desire? The right concept will lead you to this.
-How does this concept identify a need? A quest? A problem to solve? And/or darkness to avoid? How does it have stakes hanging in the balance, in the presence of an antagonistic force?
-How does the concept lend itself to a dramatic premise and a thematic stage upon which your characters will show themselves?
-Could the “arena” of the story offer a conceptual appeal, as much or more as the characters themselves?
-Could you get, through this concept, to inhabit a glamorous (or fascinatingly gruesome) world you would otherwise never get to visit?
-Could the story have a conceptual hero? A story built around a protagonist leveraging her conceptual nature. Is there a proposition for a character that renders the character unique and appealingly different? Would that difference scream for a story to be told?
Once you have ensured that the story seed you came up with connects with you enough, you should probably test its concept potential. The following are the notes on the subject I gathered years ago from many books on writing.
-Is the idea big enough for a fully dimensional story, or is it merely an anecdote?
-Does your idea only provide a unique way of starting the story, and then all the uniqueness would disappear once the plot starts going?
-A story without a concept leads to a story without dramatic tension, which leads to a character who has nothing interesting to do or achieve.
-A great concept serves as a catalyst for the story elements of character, theme, and structure. Without this power, the story goes nowhere because it has nowhere to go. The concept creates the journey because it creates conflict in your story.
-What is the notion, proposition, situation, story world, setting, or fresh take that creates a framework or arena or landscape for your story, one that could hatch any number of stories, and one that doesn’t require us to meet your hero or know your plot to make us say, “Yes! Write a story based on that, please”?
-State your concept in the form of a “What if?” question. It usually doesn’t involve specific characters, just drama and tension. For example, “What if scientists figured out how to revive dinosaurs, and someone built a theme park to show them off?”
-Try to come up with a “What if?” strong enough that a plot could manifest spontaneously.
-Does this “What if?” situation ask dramatic questions that promise compelling, interesting, and rewarding answers?
-If you can add “hijinks ensue” to the end of your concept, you may be on to something good. If the hijinks themselves lend a conceptual essence to the idea, then include them in your statement of concept.
-Would your concept elicit that sought-after response: “wow, I’ve never seen that before, at least treated in that way. I really want to read the story that deals with these things”?
-What is the kicker that twists and ordinary idea into something unique, original, and compelling? Try to explain in one clear sentence.
-Judge your concept against these benchmarks: What does your concept imply, promise, or otherwise begin to define in terms of an unfolding story driven by dramatic tension? What might a hero want within this concept, and why, and what opposes that desire? The right concept will lead you to this.
-How does this concept identify a need? A quest? A problem to solve? And/or darkness to avoid? How does it have stakes hanging in the balance, in the presence of an antagonistic force?
-How does the concept lend itself to a dramatic premise and a thematic stage upon which your characters will show themselves?
-Could the “arena” of the story offer a conceptual appeal, as much or more as the characters themselves?
-Could you get, through this concept, to inhabit a glamorous (or fascinatingly gruesome) world you would otherwise never get to visit?
-Could the story have a conceptual hero? A story built around a protagonist leveraging her conceptual nature. Is there a proposition for a character that renders the character unique and appealingly different? Would that difference scream for a story to be told?
November 19, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 119 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Still wobbly, my insides buzzing and fizzling from the time jump, I drag myself up the stairs of the tower. In front, Jacqueline ascends with graceful steps, propelled by her designed muscles. Her raven-black hair cascades to the middle of her back in a curtain of silky locks. Even Nairu, her chestnut hair bobbing with each bounce, is bounding ahead of me.
Whatever entity charges to access the tower also turned its insides into a heritage museum. We pass by a fireplace poker, a cooking pot, an old-fashioned lantern. Nestled in a recess of the stone wall stands a contraption crafted from metal and wood. A sturdy base flares out into an ergonomic seat worn smooth. The chair is attached to a mechanism involving a wheel, a crank handle, and unidentifiable fittings, tailored for some task that became obsolete a century ago. The grain of the wood, rich and dark, speaks of decades of service, and the luster of the metal components suggests the touch of many workers' hands, or the same one, repeated over time.
Hung on the rough walls of the stairwell, black-and-white pictures show street scenes, along with architecture from the late 19th or early 20th century. One photo captured a group of people seated in an open-top vintage automobile. I'm about to glance away from the pictures when I spot the word "Irún" in a caption. My hometown, before it degenerated into a post-apocalyptic Babel.
I stop in front of the photograph even though Jacqueline and Nairu continue ahead. A gash of sunlight, streaming in through an opposite window, is shining on the framed picture, so I shift my head around to study the details. It depicts in monochrome a streetscape featuring benches, a tree that provides shade, and tramlines laid on the road. The building façades, unfamiliar and distant, stand behind the frozen silhouettes of strangers from an unreachable past. How many ancestors of Irún's modern inhabitants walked these streets before the buildings were demolished and replaced?
My breath hitches in my throat. What's this upsurge of feeling? Do I miss the city of my childhood, although I yearned to flee from it and from everyone I knew? It shouldn't matter any longer; living with Jacqueline, I can almost believe that my past belongs to someone else.
While I force myself to stagger up the staircase, I pass by more pictures that pull my attention as if imbued with their own gravity. In a sepia-toned photograph, women with woolen bathing costumes stand in beach waters as they smile at the camera. One woman's face, beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, is swallowed by shadow. Another photo has gathered about twenty working-class people around a kid on a bicycle. In the next shot, the members of a motorcycle club pose in caps and duster coats, their vehicles polished and gleaming. In yet another frame, a row of men are standing on Ondarreta beach, wearing tank tops and shorts, maybe after a track-and-field competition.
Those people, their lives and stories, have slipped away. As if they had kept observing the world that moved on to decay and ruin, I feel them accusing me: "Why did you allow this to happen?"
What could I have done to stop it? I was surrounded by humans whose motivations and intentions seemed incomprehensible. Each time I thought others shared my perspective, their words reminded me that I was alone, a mass of flesh and bone that couldn't budge this planet one centimeter.
I clutch the iron handrail. My eyes have moistened, my throat clenched, my facial muscles twisted into a grimace.
"Oh, the photos caught your attention, did they?" Jacqueline says, her voice echoing in the stairwell.
Instinctively, I turn toward the pictures beside me to hide the onset of tears.
"It's just that... the further I climb, the more my thighs burn. But I'd catch up eventually."
"Seems like these stairs are telling us to spice up our days with a bit more physical fervor."
A heavy sigh escapes me.
"The moment I uttered those words, I feared I'd hear such a thing. You, with your chameleon body, can become as athletic as needed, and our Paleolithic daughter remains mostly unpoisoned by the additives and toxins of modern civilization, but me? I'm an arthritic, hunchbacked relic weighed down by a lifetime of regret."
Jacqueline giggles.
"Fresh air awaits you a couple of landings away, my dear. And I promise that the view is worth every step. You can see all the way to France."
Once we reach the final landing and climb a confined, spiral staircase, an archaic doorway transitions us onto the tower's crenellated battlements. Sunlight splashes across me, bathing my skin with its warmth. I close my eyes, tilt my face skyward, and inhale a lungful of the fresh, crisp air. I expected it to carry a hint of brine, but it smells clean; I guess we're too high up.
When I open my eyes, my vision is filled from end to end by a watercolor of pale blue brushed with wisps of cirrus clouds. Somewhere out there beyond the blue, across light-years of cosmic space, a conquering alien species must be planting eggs in the carcasses of their mutilated enemies. Here on Mount Igueldo, though, the autumnal breeze has revived me, clearing the fuzz from my brain.
Foosteps tap-tap-tap in a hurried rhythm; Nairu scampers up to the robust parapet punctuated with sandstone teeth. As she grips the stone for balance, she cranes her neck to peer through an embrasure. She emits a sound that starts as an "oooh" infused with the wonder of a child, but when she contemplates the steep drop that leads to a splattering death far below, the tail end of her vocalization quivers. Once Jacqueline and I join her at the parapet, Nairu reaches for my hand to clutch it tight.
The Cantabrian Sea, rippled in a sluggish motion by the winds, resembles a slab of turquoise marred by dense, underwater patches of green like submerged clouds. A yacht stands still amid the rolling swells, anchored deep below. Near the whale-shaped island at the bay's mouth, garlands of foam stretch into the sea. The distance reduces a flock of seagulls to a swarm of white flies. To the east, beyond the verdant hump of Mount Urgull, a hilly landmass shrouded in haze melds with the horizon.
The cool breeze licks at my face, lifting strands of my hair. High-pitched squeals of joy rise from the amusement park, accompanied by the mechanical noise of the rollercoaster.
Jacqueline proffers the remaining three churros. After time-traveling to the dawn of civilization and back, I deserve a sugar hit. I pull one of the churros out of the paper cone and slide its lukewarm length into my mouth, coating my lips and tongue with a dusting of cinnamon sugar.
Yapping in a North American accent announces the arrival of a family of tourists, that whoa their way to our side. They seem the kind who would ask a stranger to take photos of them. The three of us shift away to a corner turret that overlooks the crescent-shaped bay, an amphitheater of water. Where the sun hits the foaming breakers, white sparkles ride the crests of the waves, coalescing into a silver shimmer. For a moment I wish to do nothing but munch on my churro and stare at those flashing lights.
Past the lace edge of waves against golden sand, the beachfront promenade teems with people milling about like mobile sundials: solid upper halves, angled shadows as lower halves. From the beachfront, the sprawl of Donostia, a clustering of buildings, spreads in a gridlike pattern, nestled within the green backdrop of hills.
Beside me, Nairu's chestnut hair glimmers in the morning sun like a halo. She's gazing upon the city with the silent, contemplative demeanor of an artist, or of a Paleolithic child who can hardly believe that any of it exists.
A cold, hissing gust buffets my face, flaps my corduroy jacket, whips the tail of my scarf about my shoulder. Nairu, her hair fluttering wildly, clutches the sketchbook to her chest as if guarding a precious heirloom. I huddle in my jacket and tuck my chin under the scarf. Its warm fleece tickles my nose.
Jacqueline wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me closer to her statuesque form.
"I brought you to a reasonably magical place, didn't I?"
As the wind whistles around us, her tresses undulate like the waves of a glossy, black sea, exposing her earlobe and ivory-white neck. I could sink into the crystalline blue of those irises. Her full lips, always tempting, curve upward as if my mere presence pleases her.
"We should buy a castle," I say.
"We should, though that quiet apartment of ours was quite the investment."
"If you ever buy a castle, I'll lounge on a throne atop the tower, too high up for any trouble to reach me."
"I know what you mean, my darling. From such a lofty vantage, overseeing everything, it's like we're protecting the city, right?"
"We'd need a moat to keep away intruders, and a portcullis. Maybe a few portcullises. Oh, and don't forget the drawbridge. Wouldn't want to be unprepared in case of a siege."
Jacqueline gazes at the mountainous horizon. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.
"I don't want to give any of this up."
My stomach knots with a sudden surge of fear.
"Wh-why would you need to?"
"Because the world expects me to resume my role as a secretary. But I refuse."
"Oh?"
"I stayed put at the office, despite better options, out of a sense of obligation to our boss. After this break to nurture our home and Nairu, I've realized that my heart never lingered on the hours I spent working, and if I returned to my desk, I would wish to be elsewhere. So that's it: I quit. I'll ring him up when I muster the patience for that conversation."
"Bold move, one I suspect you've been considering for a while. I always thought that working as a secretary was beneath you, even back when I was sure you wouldn't... want me. From now on we'll have to manage without your income, but I'll do my best to provide for us three with the meager wages of a website programmer."
Jacqueline laughs as if my statement tickled her. I feel like a child hearing the ringing of an ice-cream truck on a summer day. When the outburst dies down, her grin lingers warmly, showing off her pearly teeth and making the corners of her cobalt-blues crease.
"Ah, you're sweet, but I didn't expect you to shoulder the responsibilities alone. I'm returning to camming, where I truly shine. Now you understand what it means, right? As many sources of revenue as gorgeous ladies I can transform into, thanks to horny internet people."
"That's... an overwhelming number of sources, then."
"Indeed, mon petit oiseau. That will more than cover the bills while still spoiling our little one with churros and amusement park trips. And don't you worry, I gave the goverment my pound of flesh, not that I appreciate how they spend it. We won't get in trouble."
Jacqueline's fingers press into my side through the corduroy jacket. With her eyelids drooping halfway, her gaze fixed on mine, she breaks into a smirk that sends my blood rushing downward.
"You know," she continues, dropping her voice to a lower, huskier tone, "a partner could spice up my repertoire. Such a woman might prefer to preserve her anonymity, but a masquerade mask would do the job, wouldn't it?"
Although her suggestion caresses my spine with electric fingers, I'm already flashing a dismissive wave.
"Oh, there's no way that anybody wants to see my pussy."
Jacqueline leans in close, her warm breath teasing the shell of my ear as her moist lips brush against it.
"They would kill for a taste, they just don't know it yet. Besides, camming would be my side gig after the most important role of all: raising our child, as well as whoever follows. What a lucky woman I am to care for a girl who loves to create, who recognizes the beauty of the world. She won't endure the fate of children whose curiosity and wonder are crushed in their youth, leaving them broken, forever distrustful of human beings. We'll make sure that as Nairu ages, her childhood memories will become a beloved song, one she'll long to return to and sing again."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "The Last Living Rose" by PJ Harvey, "Ask Me No Questions" by Bridget St. John, and "Such Great Heights" by Iron & Wine.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-six videos. Check them out.
Do you want to listen to this chapter instead of having to spend your eyesight? Check out the audiochapter.
---
Still wobbly, my insides buzzing and fizzling from the time jump, I drag myself up the stairs of the tower. In front, Jacqueline ascends with graceful steps, propelled by her designed muscles. Her raven-black hair cascades to the middle of her back in a curtain of silky locks. Even Nairu, her chestnut hair bobbing with each bounce, is bounding ahead of me.
Whatever entity charges to access the tower also turned its insides into a heritage museum. We pass by a fireplace poker, a cooking pot, an old-fashioned lantern. Nestled in a recess of the stone wall stands a contraption crafted from metal and wood. A sturdy base flares out into an ergonomic seat worn smooth. The chair is attached to a mechanism involving a wheel, a crank handle, and unidentifiable fittings, tailored for some task that became obsolete a century ago. The grain of the wood, rich and dark, speaks of decades of service, and the luster of the metal components suggests the touch of many workers' hands, or the same one, repeated over time.
Hung on the rough walls of the stairwell, black-and-white pictures show street scenes, along with architecture from the late 19th or early 20th century. One photo captured a group of people seated in an open-top vintage automobile. I'm about to glance away from the pictures when I spot the word "Irún" in a caption. My hometown, before it degenerated into a post-apocalyptic Babel.
I stop in front of the photograph even though Jacqueline and Nairu continue ahead. A gash of sunlight, streaming in through an opposite window, is shining on the framed picture, so I shift my head around to study the details. It depicts in monochrome a streetscape featuring benches, a tree that provides shade, and tramlines laid on the road. The building façades, unfamiliar and distant, stand behind the frozen silhouettes of strangers from an unreachable past. How many ancestors of Irún's modern inhabitants walked these streets before the buildings were demolished and replaced?
My breath hitches in my throat. What's this upsurge of feeling? Do I miss the city of my childhood, although I yearned to flee from it and from everyone I knew? It shouldn't matter any longer; living with Jacqueline, I can almost believe that my past belongs to someone else.
While I force myself to stagger up the staircase, I pass by more pictures that pull my attention as if imbued with their own gravity. In a sepia-toned photograph, women with woolen bathing costumes stand in beach waters as they smile at the camera. One woman's face, beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, is swallowed by shadow. Another photo has gathered about twenty working-class people around a kid on a bicycle. In the next shot, the members of a motorcycle club pose in caps and duster coats, their vehicles polished and gleaming. In yet another frame, a row of men are standing on Ondarreta beach, wearing tank tops and shorts, maybe after a track-and-field competition.
Those people, their lives and stories, have slipped away. As if they had kept observing the world that moved on to decay and ruin, I feel them accusing me: "Why did you allow this to happen?"
What could I have done to stop it? I was surrounded by humans whose motivations and intentions seemed incomprehensible. Each time I thought others shared my perspective, their words reminded me that I was alone, a mass of flesh and bone that couldn't budge this planet one centimeter.
I clutch the iron handrail. My eyes have moistened, my throat clenched, my facial muscles twisted into a grimace.
"Oh, the photos caught your attention, did they?" Jacqueline says, her voice echoing in the stairwell.
Instinctively, I turn toward the pictures beside me to hide the onset of tears.
"It's just that... the further I climb, the more my thighs burn. But I'd catch up eventually."
"Seems like these stairs are telling us to spice up our days with a bit more physical fervor."
A heavy sigh escapes me.
"The moment I uttered those words, I feared I'd hear such a thing. You, with your chameleon body, can become as athletic as needed, and our Paleolithic daughter remains mostly unpoisoned by the additives and toxins of modern civilization, but me? I'm an arthritic, hunchbacked relic weighed down by a lifetime of regret."
Jacqueline giggles.
"Fresh air awaits you a couple of landings away, my dear. And I promise that the view is worth every step. You can see all the way to France."
Once we reach the final landing and climb a confined, spiral staircase, an archaic doorway transitions us onto the tower's crenellated battlements. Sunlight splashes across me, bathing my skin with its warmth. I close my eyes, tilt my face skyward, and inhale a lungful of the fresh, crisp air. I expected it to carry a hint of brine, but it smells clean; I guess we're too high up.
When I open my eyes, my vision is filled from end to end by a watercolor of pale blue brushed with wisps of cirrus clouds. Somewhere out there beyond the blue, across light-years of cosmic space, a conquering alien species must be planting eggs in the carcasses of their mutilated enemies. Here on Mount Igueldo, though, the autumnal breeze has revived me, clearing the fuzz from my brain.
Foosteps tap-tap-tap in a hurried rhythm; Nairu scampers up to the robust parapet punctuated with sandstone teeth. As she grips the stone for balance, she cranes her neck to peer through an embrasure. She emits a sound that starts as an "oooh" infused with the wonder of a child, but when she contemplates the steep drop that leads to a splattering death far below, the tail end of her vocalization quivers. Once Jacqueline and I join her at the parapet, Nairu reaches for my hand to clutch it tight.
The Cantabrian Sea, rippled in a sluggish motion by the winds, resembles a slab of turquoise marred by dense, underwater patches of green like submerged clouds. A yacht stands still amid the rolling swells, anchored deep below. Near the whale-shaped island at the bay's mouth, garlands of foam stretch into the sea. The distance reduces a flock of seagulls to a swarm of white flies. To the east, beyond the verdant hump of Mount Urgull, a hilly landmass shrouded in haze melds with the horizon.
The cool breeze licks at my face, lifting strands of my hair. High-pitched squeals of joy rise from the amusement park, accompanied by the mechanical noise of the rollercoaster.
Jacqueline proffers the remaining three churros. After time-traveling to the dawn of civilization and back, I deserve a sugar hit. I pull one of the churros out of the paper cone and slide its lukewarm length into my mouth, coating my lips and tongue with a dusting of cinnamon sugar.
Yapping in a North American accent announces the arrival of a family of tourists, that whoa their way to our side. They seem the kind who would ask a stranger to take photos of them. The three of us shift away to a corner turret that overlooks the crescent-shaped bay, an amphitheater of water. Where the sun hits the foaming breakers, white sparkles ride the crests of the waves, coalescing into a silver shimmer. For a moment I wish to do nothing but munch on my churro and stare at those flashing lights.
Past the lace edge of waves against golden sand, the beachfront promenade teems with people milling about like mobile sundials: solid upper halves, angled shadows as lower halves. From the beachfront, the sprawl of Donostia, a clustering of buildings, spreads in a gridlike pattern, nestled within the green backdrop of hills.
Beside me, Nairu's chestnut hair glimmers in the morning sun like a halo. She's gazing upon the city with the silent, contemplative demeanor of an artist, or of a Paleolithic child who can hardly believe that any of it exists.
A cold, hissing gust buffets my face, flaps my corduroy jacket, whips the tail of my scarf about my shoulder. Nairu, her hair fluttering wildly, clutches the sketchbook to her chest as if guarding a precious heirloom. I huddle in my jacket and tuck my chin under the scarf. Its warm fleece tickles my nose.
Jacqueline wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me closer to her statuesque form.
"I brought you to a reasonably magical place, didn't I?"
As the wind whistles around us, her tresses undulate like the waves of a glossy, black sea, exposing her earlobe and ivory-white neck. I could sink into the crystalline blue of those irises. Her full lips, always tempting, curve upward as if my mere presence pleases her.
"We should buy a castle," I say.
"We should, though that quiet apartment of ours was quite the investment."
"If you ever buy a castle, I'll lounge on a throne atop the tower, too high up for any trouble to reach me."
"I know what you mean, my darling. From such a lofty vantage, overseeing everything, it's like we're protecting the city, right?"
"We'd need a moat to keep away intruders, and a portcullis. Maybe a few portcullises. Oh, and don't forget the drawbridge. Wouldn't want to be unprepared in case of a siege."
Jacqueline gazes at the mountainous horizon. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.
"I don't want to give any of this up."
My stomach knots with a sudden surge of fear.
"Wh-why would you need to?"
"Because the world expects me to resume my role as a secretary. But I refuse."
"Oh?"
"I stayed put at the office, despite better options, out of a sense of obligation to our boss. After this break to nurture our home and Nairu, I've realized that my heart never lingered on the hours I spent working, and if I returned to my desk, I would wish to be elsewhere. So that's it: I quit. I'll ring him up when I muster the patience for that conversation."
"Bold move, one I suspect you've been considering for a while. I always thought that working as a secretary was beneath you, even back when I was sure you wouldn't... want me. From now on we'll have to manage without your income, but I'll do my best to provide for us three with the meager wages of a website programmer."
Jacqueline laughs as if my statement tickled her. I feel like a child hearing the ringing of an ice-cream truck on a summer day. When the outburst dies down, her grin lingers warmly, showing off her pearly teeth and making the corners of her cobalt-blues crease.
"Ah, you're sweet, but I didn't expect you to shoulder the responsibilities alone. I'm returning to camming, where I truly shine. Now you understand what it means, right? As many sources of revenue as gorgeous ladies I can transform into, thanks to horny internet people."
"That's... an overwhelming number of sources, then."
"Indeed, mon petit oiseau. That will more than cover the bills while still spoiling our little one with churros and amusement park trips. And don't you worry, I gave the goverment my pound of flesh, not that I appreciate how they spend it. We won't get in trouble."
Jacqueline's fingers press into my side through the corduroy jacket. With her eyelids drooping halfway, her gaze fixed on mine, she breaks into a smirk that sends my blood rushing downward.
"You know," she continues, dropping her voice to a lower, huskier tone, "a partner could spice up my repertoire. Such a woman might prefer to preserve her anonymity, but a masquerade mask would do the job, wouldn't it?"
Although her suggestion caresses my spine with electric fingers, I'm already flashing a dismissive wave.
"Oh, there's no way that anybody wants to see my pussy."
Jacqueline leans in close, her warm breath teasing the shell of my ear as her moist lips brush against it.
"They would kill for a taste, they just don't know it yet. Besides, camming would be my side gig after the most important role of all: raising our child, as well as whoever follows. What a lucky woman I am to care for a girl who loves to create, who recognizes the beauty of the world. She won't endure the fate of children whose curiosity and wonder are crushed in their youth, leaving them broken, forever distrustful of human beings. We'll make sure that as Nairu ages, her childhood memories will become a beloved song, one she'll long to return to and sing again."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "The Last Living Rose" by PJ Harvey, "Ask Me No Questions" by Bridget St. John, and "Such Great Heights" by Iron & Wine.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety-six videos. Check them out.
Do you want to listen to this chapter instead of having to spend your eyesight? Check out the audiochapter.
November 16, 2023
On writing: Testing your personal link to a story seed
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
---
Once you identify a story seed, you better ensure that it excites you enough; you don’t want to end up writing dozens of thousands of words only to realize that you’d rather work on something else. The following are the notes on the subject I gathered years ago from many books on writing.
-Freewrite about what seems important about the idea.
-What is the point of the story?
-Is the story really worth it?
-What could be the staying power of this story idea?
-Why would any of it matter?
-Does your imagination fill with possibilities? Do the preliminary scribbles get you excited about writing more?
-How is this story personal and unique to you?
-If you hope to write a book of either fiction or nonfiction, you will have to live with the characters or topic for a long time. Do you think you can do that?
-What quality, characteristic or concern surrounding your idea grabbed you?
-Why do you want to write this? What is it about your life at this moment in time that attracts you to this idea?
-Do you bring a long-standing, or at least overwhelming, desire to have lived the story?
-Why must you tell THIS story? Why is it important to you to spend the energy? Why are you willing to take time away from another area of your life to develop this story? What is it you want to say and why? And how? Where is it coming from inside of you?
-What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of?
-Is this something that by writing it might change your life? Is the story idea that important to you?
-Will it fill you, does it check something off your bucket list, will it give you focus and joy and challenge? Is the idea worth a year of your life? Do you want to be remembered for this story?
-Imagine you are dying. If you had a terminal disease, would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys that self is what’s wrong with the book. So change it.
---
Once you identify a story seed, you better ensure that it excites you enough; you don’t want to end up writing dozens of thousands of words only to realize that you’d rather work on something else. The following are the notes on the subject I gathered years ago from many books on writing.
-Freewrite about what seems important about the idea.
-What is the point of the story?
-Is the story really worth it?
-What could be the staying power of this story idea?
-Why would any of it matter?
-Does your imagination fill with possibilities? Do the preliminary scribbles get you excited about writing more?
-How is this story personal and unique to you?
-If you hope to write a book of either fiction or nonfiction, you will have to live with the characters or topic for a long time. Do you think you can do that?
-What quality, characteristic or concern surrounding your idea grabbed you?
-Why do you want to write this? What is it about your life at this moment in time that attracts you to this idea?
-Do you bring a long-standing, or at least overwhelming, desire to have lived the story?
-Why must you tell THIS story? Why is it important to you to spend the energy? Why are you willing to take time away from another area of your life to develop this story? What is it you want to say and why? And how? Where is it coming from inside of you?
-What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of?
-Is this something that by writing it might change your life? Is the story idea that important to you?
-Will it fill you, does it check something off your bucket list, will it give you focus and joy and challenge? Is the idea worth a year of your life? Do you want to be remembered for this story?
-Imagine you are dying. If you had a terminal disease, would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys that self is what’s wrong with the book. So change it.
On writing: Story seed generation #3
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
---
Here are my few remaining notes about generating story seeds, taken years ago from books on writing.
-What would arouse a sense of wonder?
-Freewrite about settings you find deeply intriguing, loaded with curiosities and mysteries.
-What situations, problems, conflicts and emotions you want to be more adept at understanding, coping and resolving?
-Think of two incompatible, compelling moral decisions. Dilemmas work best when the stakes are both high and personal. When one choice is morally right, it will win out unless it is offset by a different choice that is equally compelling in personal terms.
-What’s the worst thing that could happen?
-Make a list of ten times in your life when you felt the most scared or worried.
-What subject close to your heart would embarass you, were you to open up about it? In such limits is often where great stories are found.
-Start imagining great scenes. See them in your mind and justify them later. Who are these people? Why are they doing what they are doing? What’s happening beneath the surface?
---
Here are my few remaining notes about generating story seeds, taken years ago from books on writing.
-What would arouse a sense of wonder?
-Freewrite about settings you find deeply intriguing, loaded with curiosities and mysteries.
-What situations, problems, conflicts and emotions you want to be more adept at understanding, coping and resolving?
-Think of two incompatible, compelling moral decisions. Dilemmas work best when the stakes are both high and personal. When one choice is morally right, it will win out unless it is offset by a different choice that is equally compelling in personal terms.
-What’s the worst thing that could happen?
-Make a list of ten times in your life when you felt the most scared or worried.
-What subject close to your heart would embarass you, were you to open up about it? In such limits is often where great stories are found.
-Start imagining great scenes. See them in your mind and justify them later. Who are these people? Why are they doing what they are doing? What’s happening beneath the surface?
November 15, 2023
On writing: Story seed generation #2
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
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Here are some more notes about generating story seeds, taken years ago from books on writing.
-When an image really grabs you, stop and write about it for five minutes.
-What people do you find interesting?
-Think of a character with a flaw, a knot that is hurting him and will do him more harm in the future, and what new way he could pursue. Think of a story that would show off or amplify this.
-Create a character with an obsession, then follow.
-Who are your personal heroes? What makes these people a hero to you? What is his or her greatest heroic quality?
-What sort of protagonist could serve as a vessel for you to work through your own problems?
-Think of something you wouldn’t tell anyone: not your spouse, maybe not even your therapist. See if there is a way to make that a story.
-Brainstorm over the following points: things you hate. Things you love. Worst things you’ve ever done. Best things you’ve ever done. People you’ve loved. People you’ve hated. Bucket list. Hobbies. Things you know. What you’d like to know. Areas of expertise.
-Write about the emotions you fear the most.
-How would you live your life differently if you could start over? What would you do, who would you be, where would you go?
-Consider hatching an idea from your passion, and then develop a concept that allows you to stage it and explore it.
-Write about the burning core of your being, the things which are most painful to you.
-Has your own life ever reached a turning point? Have you ever had to face up to your mistakes, admit failure, and find a way to go on? Have you ever been wrecked by the knowledge that you are inadequate, that you cannot fix things, or that your limitations are plain for all to see? Was there a moment when you knew you might die in the next few seconds? Has there been a point of do or die, now or never, it’s up to me?
-What is the truth that you most wish the rest of us would see?
-How do you see our human condition? What have you experienced that your neighbors must understand? What makes you angry? What wisdom have you gleaned? Are there questions we’re not asking?
-Is there a particular theme about which you feel strongly?
-What is the most important question? What puzzle has no answer? What is dangerous in this world? What causes pain?
-Look in your own life: Is there a loss or fear you’d like to finally grapple with, or an ideal or extreme you’d like to imagine?
-Think of some value that you believe in. Through what kind of story would you be able to debate that truth, try to prove it wrong, test it to its limits?
-The whole point of a story is to translate the general into an specific, so we can see what it really means, just in case we ever come face to face with it in a dark alley.
---
Here are some more notes about generating story seeds, taken years ago from books on writing.
-When an image really grabs you, stop and write about it for five minutes.
-What people do you find interesting?
-Think of a character with a flaw, a knot that is hurting him and will do him more harm in the future, and what new way he could pursue. Think of a story that would show off or amplify this.
-Create a character with an obsession, then follow.
-Who are your personal heroes? What makes these people a hero to you? What is his or her greatest heroic quality?
-What sort of protagonist could serve as a vessel for you to work through your own problems?
-Think of something you wouldn’t tell anyone: not your spouse, maybe not even your therapist. See if there is a way to make that a story.
-Brainstorm over the following points: things you hate. Things you love. Worst things you’ve ever done. Best things you’ve ever done. People you’ve loved. People you’ve hated. Bucket list. Hobbies. Things you know. What you’d like to know. Areas of expertise.
-Write about the emotions you fear the most.
-How would you live your life differently if you could start over? What would you do, who would you be, where would you go?
-Consider hatching an idea from your passion, and then develop a concept that allows you to stage it and explore it.
-Write about the burning core of your being, the things which are most painful to you.
-Has your own life ever reached a turning point? Have you ever had to face up to your mistakes, admit failure, and find a way to go on? Have you ever been wrecked by the knowledge that you are inadequate, that you cannot fix things, or that your limitations are plain for all to see? Was there a moment when you knew you might die in the next few seconds? Has there been a point of do or die, now or never, it’s up to me?
-What is the truth that you most wish the rest of us would see?
-How do you see our human condition? What have you experienced that your neighbors must understand? What makes you angry? What wisdom have you gleaned? Are there questions we’re not asking?
-Is there a particular theme about which you feel strongly?
-What is the most important question? What puzzle has no answer? What is dangerous in this world? What causes pain?
-Look in your own life: Is there a loss or fear you’d like to finally grapple with, or an ideal or extreme you’d like to imagine?
-Think of some value that you believe in. Through what kind of story would you be able to debate that truth, try to prove it wrong, test it to its limits?
-The whole point of a story is to translate the general into an specific, so we can see what it really means, just in case we ever come face to face with it in a dark alley.
November 14, 2023
On writing: Story seed generation #1
Back in the day, when I believed that writing stories could be systematized like a computer program (I’m a programmer by trade, after all), I was obsessed with books on writing. I own two double-row shelves of them, and that’s just the physical ones. You would think such an obsession would translate into sales, but it does not.
A couple of days ago I figured that in my spare time at work, when I’m not editing my current chapter, I could sieve through the hundreds, if not thousands, of notes I took, and post them on my site. I didn’t go as far as writing down to what book each of the notes belongs, or if I rewrote them in any way, so I hope I won’t get in trouble for this.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
A couple of days ago I figured that in my spare time at work, when I’m not editing my current chapter, I could sieve through the hundreds, if not thousands, of notes I took, and post them on my site. I didn’t go as far as writing down to what book each of the notes belongs, or if I rewrote them in any way, so I hope I won’t get in trouble for this.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
November 10, 2023
About chapter 118 and Göbekli Tepe
I’ve just posted chapter 118 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked. Those of you who are fans of prehistory may have caught on to the fact that Leire stepped into one of the enclosures at Göbekli Tepe (technically, a mix of Göbekli Tepe and its sister site Karahan Tepe). I get the feeling that most people remain unaware of this ancient culture that was building fascinating stuff at the end of the Ice Age, and possibly during.
Göbekli Tepe is located in Anatolia, modern day eastern Turkey, and was unearthed in the nineties, but its significance wasn’t understood until later. They were able to carbon date the enclosures: they had been buried for ten thousand years, and therefore uncontaminated. The complex, only five percent of which has been unearthed (we know through ground-penetrating radar that the rest exists), had been in use for about a thousand five hundred years. 11,500 years ago points to the end of the Younger Dryas, the extremely anomalous climatic period that ended the Ice Age. It’s also, incidentally, the date that Plato set for the sinking of Atlantis, based on what Egyptian priests told to a Greek lawmaker and ancestor of Plato’s.
The Younger Dryas, that lasted from 12,800 years ago to 11,600, if I remember correctly, was the most deadly period of extinctions in the last six million years; about 65 percent of all animal species bigger than a goat went extinct. The global sea levels also rose about 120 meters.
An at least 11,500-year-old man-made complex, as it’s the case of Göbekli Tepe, was particularly troublesome because it looks like this:
[Check out the rest of this article on my personal page, where it looks better]
Göbekli Tepe is located in Anatolia, modern day eastern Turkey, and was unearthed in the nineties, but its significance wasn’t understood until later. They were able to carbon date the enclosures: they had been buried for ten thousand years, and therefore uncontaminated. The complex, only five percent of which has been unearthed (we know through ground-penetrating radar that the rest exists), had been in use for about a thousand five hundred years. 11,500 years ago points to the end of the Younger Dryas, the extremely anomalous climatic period that ended the Ice Age. It’s also, incidentally, the date that Plato set for the sinking of Atlantis, based on what Egyptian priests told to a Greek lawmaker and ancestor of Plato’s.
The Younger Dryas, that lasted from 12,800 years ago to 11,600, if I remember correctly, was the most deadly period of extinctions in the last six million years; about 65 percent of all animal species bigger than a goat went extinct. The global sea levels also rose about 120 meters.
An at least 11,500-year-old man-made complex, as it’s the case of Göbekli Tepe, was particularly troublesome because it looks like this:
[Check out the rest of this article on my personal page, where it looks better]
We're Fucked, Pt. 118 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
A South American man with toffee-colored skin, whose hair is shaved on the sides in zigzag lines that resemble the heartbeat on a monitor, is tending to the fryer, a contraption of polished steel. Using a pair of tongs, he plucks churros out of the bubbling oil and drops them into a paper cone, then he seizes a shaker of cinnamon sugar and sprinkles a dusting over the piping-hot, golden-brown pastries. The fry cook flashes a broad, white-toothed smile as he offers Jacqueline the bouquet of churros, but she's busy rummaging through her purse for bills.
"Ma chérie, please grab it for me, will you?"
I stand on my tiptoes to receive the oil-stained cone, whose heat begins to seep into my palm and fingers. As I step back from the counter, the plume of steam that rises from the churros fills my nostrils with the aroma of fried, cinnamon-coated dough.
Jacqueline slips folded-up currency into the main snackman's hand. Her fingers must have grazed his palm, because I sense him vibrate on an atomic level. Jacqueline, in turn, remains unfazed, as if accustomed to brushing up against filth.
The snack booth lord slides coins across the counter.
"Your change, miss. Thank you for gracing my stand with your beauty."
My eyelids twitch. I'm tempted to slap the snackman in his stubbled face, but a criminal like that might pummel me back, so I focus on the cone of churros that burns in my grasp. I grab one of the cinnamon-dusted wands and bite off its end. As I chew on the crunchy crust, the soft interior melts on my tongue in a gush of sugary sweetness. Other than sex, such treats are the closest I will get to nirvana on this mortal plane.
From behind, an arm snakes around my waist and steers me toward the corner of the snack booth where Nairu, our Paleolithic child, is kneeling on the pavement in front of the bear-shaped garbage bin. The tip of her tongue protrudes from between her lips as she sketches in her sketchbook. When she notices us, she scrambles to her feet, flashes a triumphant grin, and holds out her drawing for us to behold.
Nairu's fingers have smudged the black crayon across the page in rugged and earnest strokes, leaving rough-hewn edges and hasty shading, as if she had grappled with the concept of a bear-bin, trying to pin it down before it vanished forever. But unlike the resigned garbage bear, the eyes of her creation reflect wonder at the amusement park around it, and its mouth gapes in a frozen, silent laugh.
"Oh, that's the loveliest garbage bin I've ever seen," Jacqueline says.
"You have a keen eye, miss Paleolithic," I say. "Each time you look at the drawing, the bear comes alive."
Jacqueline's fingers, tipped with almond-shaped nails, pinch the end of a churro. As she draws it out of the paper cone that I'm clutching, a miniature cascade of cinnamon sugar showers down.
"Here's to our girl who sees art in every corner."
Nairu's eyes widen and her lips part at the sight of the approaching fried pastry. She exchanges the black crayon for the churro, then sinks her tiny teeth into the crust. As she chews, the pearly band of a smile spreads across her rosy cheeks. Given how we're habituating her to pastries, in the future we may have trouble preventing her from rolling downhill.
We walk away from the snack booth, though my instinct urges me to hurry away like from a crime scene. The tattooed, ex-con concessionaire must be salivating at the masterpiece of Jacqueline's derrière, because his voice follows us.
"Do come again."
I throw a glance over my shoulder, ready to scowl at the snack-vending con-man. I'm searching for a sharper retort than "Not any time soon" when I realize that the stallman has ducked behind the counter, out of sight, as if struck by the weight of his sins.
We pass in front of a booth where two girls are leaning over to chase bobbing rubber ducks with hooked rods. On the interior walls, glossy plastic trinkets and plushies clamor for attention, forming a dense collage.
Jacqueline's shoulder nudges mine.
"Our friend back there was quite taken with me," she says in a teasing lilt. "The perils of making oneself devastatingly attractive."
I want to scoff at the notion that such a lowlife, who probably served time for assault and robbery, could have become a friend of ours, but instead I gulp down the last of my churro, then suck the sugar clinging to my fingers.
"I can't help feeling fear whenever someone flirts with my polymorphous girlfriend."
Jacqueline lifts a hand to stroke the underside of my chin.
"If you could read my mind, love, you wouldn't be insecure about it."
Flushed with emotion, I fiddle with a button of my corduroy jacket.
"I don't know if I would enjoy the attention from random, shady men."
"It makes life much easier, that I can assure you."
Clusters of fairgoers navigate the midway between carnival games and children's rides: couples shepherding pre-teens, exchange students carrying backpacks and smartphones. The November sunshine glints off the screen at the end of a selfie stick. To the throng belongs the chatter, the click of shoes, the childish shouts and giggles of those who have grown accustomed to, and even thrive within, our shambling zombie of a civilization. In front of a bar, around a row of barrels used as standing tables, the patrons are brushing elbows, unaware of the looming apocalypse about to swallow their world. Who would listen if I were to explain, or scream, that the stars will fizzle out, that space-time will collapse on itself, that everything they know and love will be erased unless I stop it?
Some of the human beings present in this amusement park, let alone those I've come across since I was born, could be bosses who stress and overwork their employees; kids who torment other children out of boredom, or to exert dominance; parents who created life only to neglect it or even abuse it; modern marauders who stalk the streets to rob, rape, and kill; those who betray and destroy their own kind for power and profit. This world is filled with monsters, yet I must save them all.
How did Alberto, my former co-worker turned colossal blob of black sludge studded with eyeballs, put our problem? That I would come across the reality-altering machine, and I would recognize it. Those were his actual words, right? Damn it, why didn't I write them down?! Surely I realized that to prevent the end of the universe, every word of the warning from that swamp-born bastard mattered. He did say, I'm almost certain, that I would recognize the machine as capable of tearing apart reality, so that excludes cars, computers, coffee machines, and whatnot. Ever since Alberto nauseated me with his presence, I've gone out of my way to suspect any device that may harbor gears or microchips, but the universe remains unsaved.
Let's recap what I know: the professor, whom I've dubbed Dr. Weasel for all this rabbit-brained fuckery, must have constructed a labyrinthine construct where organic life is enmeshed with gears and cogs. Branching pipes terminate in leaves or in flasks bubbling with effervescent chemicals, while at the core of the contraption-organism rumbles a spider-legged mechanism wrought from neon-colored gems and spinning axles.
My chest constricts, a band of anxiety tightening around my ribs. I loosen my jaw, and find myself reaching for the comfort of a churro, but I grasp air. Did I drop the paper cone? Wait, where are mommy and my antediluvian daughter?
I'm standing close to a postcard rack that belongs to the souvenir stand. Up ahead, between the hotel and the stairs that lead to the rollercoaster, I spot Jacqueline's figure, wearing a camel-colored suede blazer along with dark denim jeans that accentuate her curves. She's nibbling on a churro while her other hand holds the remaining bunch. Beside her, Nairu, the sketchbook tucked under one arm, is mouthing words as she points up toward the tower.
When I take a step forward, a current crackles up my limbs, igniting every nerve. The cacophony of the amusement park stops, making my ears ring with sudden quiet. The brightness of a clear morning has switched to night as if cosmic spider legs had plucked the sun out of the sky.
I'm standing at the back of a sunken, circular enclosure about twenty meters in diameter, whose walls are made out of stacked, rough slabs of stone. In the center, between a pair of towering, T-shaped pillars, an old man's white hair and beard catch the sway of torchlight. He's addressing the group before him as he gestures toward the night sky, a canvas sprawled with a myriad stars, in which the full moon casts a silvery glow. The men are garbed in animal hides and furs, and as necklaces, they're wearing threaded beads and fangs.
Closer to me, sitting cross-legged by a crackling campfire, a wiry young man is scraping a hide with a flint knife. Kneeling on the other side of the fire, among strewn bones, a man wrestles with the heat and bulk of a huge bull's innards. He's scooping out glistening clumps of viscera and dropping them onto a steaming pile. The butcher groans, pushes himself upright, and takes a gulp from a swollen waterskin while thick blood and fat dribble down his arms. Above, perched upon the earthen rim of the enclosure, a male silhouette outlined in silver, etched against the splash of stars, leans on his spear, surveying the horizon.
The cold air carries the thick smells of burning logs, animal hides, sweat, damp earth, fresh rain on stone, nearby flora, and blood.
Rising five meters high at the center of the enclosure, the pair of T-shaped pillars are painted malachite green, their surfaces carved in relief with humanlike features: from the upper portion of the broad sides, deep-red arms reach down to rest their hands on the narrow side, above a belt adorned with black and white patterns that cinch the stone's girth. Flickering torchlight pools shadows in the grooves of the reliefs, making the humanlike features pulse in a chiaroscuro effect.
The silhouettes of smaller pillars stand as sentinels around the perimeter of the enclosure, and on those bathed in torchlight, a menagerie of animals emerges: jet-black bulls, rust-red foxes, burnt-orange felines, alongside snakes, gazelles, vultures, scorpions.
I notice a statue to my right, tall as a basketball center, close as if it had sneaked up to me in the darkness. The eyes of that bearded face stare blindly from their sunken sockets. In its emaciated torso, the artist has sculpted each rib of the protruding ribcage. The statue's hands are clutching its erect penis.
My insides explode with a surge of adrenaline and dread.
"Fuck no," I blurt out.
The old man falls silent, and breath steams from his agape mouth. The group before him scrambles about, colliding with one another. Their torches send across the enclosure waves of light that elongate and warp human shadows into grotesque shapes. Pairs of eyes reflect the flames before fading into the darkness as their owners turn their heads in shared bewilderment. The silhouetted guard on the earthen rim brandishes his spear, whose point glints in the moonlight. The wiry man, frozen mid-scrape, stares up at me with wide-eyed awe. The butcher, his face a grimy mask of ash, tries to back away but slips on coils of intestine, crashing onto the carcass of the bull in a spray of gore.
"I ain't doing this shit again," I say. "Later, you guys. Good luck with civilization."
I step back, and static electricity zaps through my body. The amusement park engulfs me in a burst of colors and noise.
I squeeze my eyes shut to shield them from the morning sunlight. My face has gone cold, my arms tingle with pent-up energy.
"There you are, mon amour," Jacqueline says, her voice tinged with relief. "We lost you for a moment."
When I open my eyes, I see Nairu with her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk's. Sugar-glaze clings to the corners of her mouth. I struggle to speak; my throat is tight and my face stiff. While Nairu chews the churro into a manageable bolus, she arches an eyebrow at my stunned expression.
"You look like a fish," she says through the mush. "Were you swimming in your head?"
Jacqueline's fingers trace the contour of my cheek, bringing a warmth that seeps beneath my skin.
"Leire, what's the matter?"
Her motherly tone calms the pounding in my chest, but I avoid facing her concern. As I blink away the glare of sunlight, behind the row of carnival games, the rattling rollercoaster crests a ridge. During its zooming descent, the children shriek with joy, some passengers' hair streams in the wind. If I were to look into Jacqueline's cobalt-blues, I may confess that the universe and the human race are fucked unless I locate a reality-collapsing machine and tear it out by the roots.
"Ah, you know," I utter in a strained voice, "just an intrusive daydream regarding one of my many traumas."
"Ma pauvre chérie..."
I shake my head.
"No, no pity today. We have the right to enjoy a carnival of treats on a sunny November morning without the looming threat of an apocalypse."
"Right you are. Our girl has expressed an interest in the tower, so how about we check out the most enchanting view of Donostia?"
I follow her pointing finger. Perched atop Mount Igueldo against an expanse of azure, the tower stretches upward, its sand-colored stones and arched windows washed in the sunlight, its crowning battlements and crenellations speaking of the days of yore.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "Sycamore" by Bill Callahan, and "Nantes" by Beirut.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel. A total of a hundred and ninety-three songs so far. Check them out.
How about you listen to this chapter instead of reading it? Check out the audiochapter.
I went out of my way to write an essay regarding Leire's trip to the past. Read it, will you?
---
A South American man with toffee-colored skin, whose hair is shaved on the sides in zigzag lines that resemble the heartbeat on a monitor, is tending to the fryer, a contraption of polished steel. Using a pair of tongs, he plucks churros out of the bubbling oil and drops them into a paper cone, then he seizes a shaker of cinnamon sugar and sprinkles a dusting over the piping-hot, golden-brown pastries. The fry cook flashes a broad, white-toothed smile as he offers Jacqueline the bouquet of churros, but she's busy rummaging through her purse for bills.
"Ma chérie, please grab it for me, will you?"
I stand on my tiptoes to receive the oil-stained cone, whose heat begins to seep into my palm and fingers. As I step back from the counter, the plume of steam that rises from the churros fills my nostrils with the aroma of fried, cinnamon-coated dough.
Jacqueline slips folded-up currency into the main snackman's hand. Her fingers must have grazed his palm, because I sense him vibrate on an atomic level. Jacqueline, in turn, remains unfazed, as if accustomed to brushing up against filth.
The snack booth lord slides coins across the counter.
"Your change, miss. Thank you for gracing my stand with your beauty."
My eyelids twitch. I'm tempted to slap the snackman in his stubbled face, but a criminal like that might pummel me back, so I focus on the cone of churros that burns in my grasp. I grab one of the cinnamon-dusted wands and bite off its end. As I chew on the crunchy crust, the soft interior melts on my tongue in a gush of sugary sweetness. Other than sex, such treats are the closest I will get to nirvana on this mortal plane.
From behind, an arm snakes around my waist and steers me toward the corner of the snack booth where Nairu, our Paleolithic child, is kneeling on the pavement in front of the bear-shaped garbage bin. The tip of her tongue protrudes from between her lips as she sketches in her sketchbook. When she notices us, she scrambles to her feet, flashes a triumphant grin, and holds out her drawing for us to behold.
Nairu's fingers have smudged the black crayon across the page in rugged and earnest strokes, leaving rough-hewn edges and hasty shading, as if she had grappled with the concept of a bear-bin, trying to pin it down before it vanished forever. But unlike the resigned garbage bear, the eyes of her creation reflect wonder at the amusement park around it, and its mouth gapes in a frozen, silent laugh.
"Oh, that's the loveliest garbage bin I've ever seen," Jacqueline says.
"You have a keen eye, miss Paleolithic," I say. "Each time you look at the drawing, the bear comes alive."
Jacqueline's fingers, tipped with almond-shaped nails, pinch the end of a churro. As she draws it out of the paper cone that I'm clutching, a miniature cascade of cinnamon sugar showers down.
"Here's to our girl who sees art in every corner."
Nairu's eyes widen and her lips part at the sight of the approaching fried pastry. She exchanges the black crayon for the churro, then sinks her tiny teeth into the crust. As she chews, the pearly band of a smile spreads across her rosy cheeks. Given how we're habituating her to pastries, in the future we may have trouble preventing her from rolling downhill.
We walk away from the snack booth, though my instinct urges me to hurry away like from a crime scene. The tattooed, ex-con concessionaire must be salivating at the masterpiece of Jacqueline's derrière, because his voice follows us.
"Do come again."
I throw a glance over my shoulder, ready to scowl at the snack-vending con-man. I'm searching for a sharper retort than "Not any time soon" when I realize that the stallman has ducked behind the counter, out of sight, as if struck by the weight of his sins.
We pass in front of a booth where two girls are leaning over to chase bobbing rubber ducks with hooked rods. On the interior walls, glossy plastic trinkets and plushies clamor for attention, forming a dense collage.
Jacqueline's shoulder nudges mine.
"Our friend back there was quite taken with me," she says in a teasing lilt. "The perils of making oneself devastatingly attractive."
I want to scoff at the notion that such a lowlife, who probably served time for assault and robbery, could have become a friend of ours, but instead I gulp down the last of my churro, then suck the sugar clinging to my fingers.
"I can't help feeling fear whenever someone flirts with my polymorphous girlfriend."
Jacqueline lifts a hand to stroke the underside of my chin.
"If you could read my mind, love, you wouldn't be insecure about it."
Flushed with emotion, I fiddle with a button of my corduroy jacket.
"I don't know if I would enjoy the attention from random, shady men."
"It makes life much easier, that I can assure you."
Clusters of fairgoers navigate the midway between carnival games and children's rides: couples shepherding pre-teens, exchange students carrying backpacks and smartphones. The November sunshine glints off the screen at the end of a selfie stick. To the throng belongs the chatter, the click of shoes, the childish shouts and giggles of those who have grown accustomed to, and even thrive within, our shambling zombie of a civilization. In front of a bar, around a row of barrels used as standing tables, the patrons are brushing elbows, unaware of the looming apocalypse about to swallow their world. Who would listen if I were to explain, or scream, that the stars will fizzle out, that space-time will collapse on itself, that everything they know and love will be erased unless I stop it?
Some of the human beings present in this amusement park, let alone those I've come across since I was born, could be bosses who stress and overwork their employees; kids who torment other children out of boredom, or to exert dominance; parents who created life only to neglect it or even abuse it; modern marauders who stalk the streets to rob, rape, and kill; those who betray and destroy their own kind for power and profit. This world is filled with monsters, yet I must save them all.
How did Alberto, my former co-worker turned colossal blob of black sludge studded with eyeballs, put our problem? That I would come across the reality-altering machine, and I would recognize it. Those were his actual words, right? Damn it, why didn't I write them down?! Surely I realized that to prevent the end of the universe, every word of the warning from that swamp-born bastard mattered. He did say, I'm almost certain, that I would recognize the machine as capable of tearing apart reality, so that excludes cars, computers, coffee machines, and whatnot. Ever since Alberto nauseated me with his presence, I've gone out of my way to suspect any device that may harbor gears or microchips, but the universe remains unsaved.
Let's recap what I know: the professor, whom I've dubbed Dr. Weasel for all this rabbit-brained fuckery, must have constructed a labyrinthine construct where organic life is enmeshed with gears and cogs. Branching pipes terminate in leaves or in flasks bubbling with effervescent chemicals, while at the core of the contraption-organism rumbles a spider-legged mechanism wrought from neon-colored gems and spinning axles.
My chest constricts, a band of anxiety tightening around my ribs. I loosen my jaw, and find myself reaching for the comfort of a churro, but I grasp air. Did I drop the paper cone? Wait, where are mommy and my antediluvian daughter?
I'm standing close to a postcard rack that belongs to the souvenir stand. Up ahead, between the hotel and the stairs that lead to the rollercoaster, I spot Jacqueline's figure, wearing a camel-colored suede blazer along with dark denim jeans that accentuate her curves. She's nibbling on a churro while her other hand holds the remaining bunch. Beside her, Nairu, the sketchbook tucked under one arm, is mouthing words as she points up toward the tower.
When I take a step forward, a current crackles up my limbs, igniting every nerve. The cacophony of the amusement park stops, making my ears ring with sudden quiet. The brightness of a clear morning has switched to night as if cosmic spider legs had plucked the sun out of the sky.
I'm standing at the back of a sunken, circular enclosure about twenty meters in diameter, whose walls are made out of stacked, rough slabs of stone. In the center, between a pair of towering, T-shaped pillars, an old man's white hair and beard catch the sway of torchlight. He's addressing the group before him as he gestures toward the night sky, a canvas sprawled with a myriad stars, in which the full moon casts a silvery glow. The men are garbed in animal hides and furs, and as necklaces, they're wearing threaded beads and fangs.
Closer to me, sitting cross-legged by a crackling campfire, a wiry young man is scraping a hide with a flint knife. Kneeling on the other side of the fire, among strewn bones, a man wrestles with the heat and bulk of a huge bull's innards. He's scooping out glistening clumps of viscera and dropping them onto a steaming pile. The butcher groans, pushes himself upright, and takes a gulp from a swollen waterskin while thick blood and fat dribble down his arms. Above, perched upon the earthen rim of the enclosure, a male silhouette outlined in silver, etched against the splash of stars, leans on his spear, surveying the horizon.
The cold air carries the thick smells of burning logs, animal hides, sweat, damp earth, fresh rain on stone, nearby flora, and blood.
Rising five meters high at the center of the enclosure, the pair of T-shaped pillars are painted malachite green, their surfaces carved in relief with humanlike features: from the upper portion of the broad sides, deep-red arms reach down to rest their hands on the narrow side, above a belt adorned with black and white patterns that cinch the stone's girth. Flickering torchlight pools shadows in the grooves of the reliefs, making the humanlike features pulse in a chiaroscuro effect.
The silhouettes of smaller pillars stand as sentinels around the perimeter of the enclosure, and on those bathed in torchlight, a menagerie of animals emerges: jet-black bulls, rust-red foxes, burnt-orange felines, alongside snakes, gazelles, vultures, scorpions.
I notice a statue to my right, tall as a basketball center, close as if it had sneaked up to me in the darkness. The eyes of that bearded face stare blindly from their sunken sockets. In its emaciated torso, the artist has sculpted each rib of the protruding ribcage. The statue's hands are clutching its erect penis.
My insides explode with a surge of adrenaline and dread.
"Fuck no," I blurt out.
The old man falls silent, and breath steams from his agape mouth. The group before him scrambles about, colliding with one another. Their torches send across the enclosure waves of light that elongate and warp human shadows into grotesque shapes. Pairs of eyes reflect the flames before fading into the darkness as their owners turn their heads in shared bewilderment. The silhouetted guard on the earthen rim brandishes his spear, whose point glints in the moonlight. The wiry man, frozen mid-scrape, stares up at me with wide-eyed awe. The butcher, his face a grimy mask of ash, tries to back away but slips on coils of intestine, crashing onto the carcass of the bull in a spray of gore.
"I ain't doing this shit again," I say. "Later, you guys. Good luck with civilization."
I step back, and static electricity zaps through my body. The amusement park engulfs me in a burst of colors and noise.
I squeeze my eyes shut to shield them from the morning sunlight. My face has gone cold, my arms tingle with pent-up energy.
"There you are, mon amour," Jacqueline says, her voice tinged with relief. "We lost you for a moment."
When I open my eyes, I see Nairu with her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk's. Sugar-glaze clings to the corners of her mouth. I struggle to speak; my throat is tight and my face stiff. While Nairu chews the churro into a manageable bolus, she arches an eyebrow at my stunned expression.
"You look like a fish," she says through the mush. "Were you swimming in your head?"
Jacqueline's fingers trace the contour of my cheek, bringing a warmth that seeps beneath my skin.
"Leire, what's the matter?"
Her motherly tone calms the pounding in my chest, but I avoid facing her concern. As I blink away the glare of sunlight, behind the row of carnival games, the rattling rollercoaster crests a ridge. During its zooming descent, the children shriek with joy, some passengers' hair streams in the wind. If I were to look into Jacqueline's cobalt-blues, I may confess that the universe and the human race are fucked unless I locate a reality-collapsing machine and tear it out by the roots.
"Ah, you know," I utter in a strained voice, "just an intrusive daydream regarding one of my many traumas."
"Ma pauvre chérie..."
I shake my head.
"No, no pity today. We have the right to enjoy a carnival of treats on a sunny November morning without the looming threat of an apocalypse."
"Right you are. Our girl has expressed an interest in the tower, so how about we check out the most enchanting view of Donostia?"
I follow her pointing finger. Perched atop Mount Igueldo against an expanse of azure, the tower stretches upward, its sand-colored stones and arched windows washed in the sunlight, its crowning battlements and crenellations speaking of the days of yore.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "Sycamore" by Bill Callahan, and "Nantes" by Beirut.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel. A total of a hundred and ninety-three songs so far. Check them out.
How about you listen to this chapter instead of reading it? Check out the audiochapter.
I went out of my way to write an essay regarding Leire's trip to the past. Read it, will you?
October 29, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 117 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
The crown of the carousel dazzles with old-world charm thanks to its miniature spires and ornate curlicues in a pastel mix of golds, greens, and blues. As the ride revolves, trembling, creaking, and squeaking rhythmically like a mechanical cricket, the carriages pass one after another: a steampunk-esque submarine, complete with riveted plates, portholes, and a periscope; a hot-air balloon that features an intricate imitation of a wicker basket; a cherry-red car modeled after early 20th-century automobiles, whose varnished surfaces glimmer in the November sunshine; a tram-like carriage reminiscent of traditional streetcars, a green-and-white cabin inside of which stands Nairu, our émigré from the Ice Age, wearing a quilted, burgundy jacket. While clutching the brass railing, she's goggling around at the other carriages, at the gilded ceiling of the ride, and at us, her adoptive mothers, in mesmerized confusion.
Next to me, Jacqueline chuckles. Then she presses the tips of her fingers against the curve of her smile, trying to contain her outburst. Mommy's gaze, anchored on Nairu amidst the whimsical carriages from L'Ère des Visionnaires, brims with warmth as if absorbing our daughter's antediluvian wonder.
"She doesn't have a clue about what's going on, the poor thing."
"To be fair," I say, "neither do I. But I hope she has realized that she's supposed to stay inside her carriage."
The carousel lurches, creaks, and grinds to a halt. Nairu, already beaming at Jacqueline and me, pushes the swing door of her carriage open. She hops off the round platform. As she bounds towards us, her eyes twinkle, and her chestnut-brown hair bounces with each joyful step. I'm tempted to warn her about running in those baggy jeans; she could trip over a loose hem and smash her face on the pavement. But how do you communicate such concerns to a child who grew up among ground sloths?
Nairu flings herself at me like a bear cub. She hugs my waist, pressing her face against my corduroy jacket. I pat the soft hair on the back of her head.
Whenever this child clings to me, a soothing warmth bubbles up from deep within. I want to mirror her smiles and laughs. Above all, I desire to protect her from the ravages of the world. With Nairu in my arms, I am no longer a freakish, masturbating mess, but the guardian of a vulnerable, Paleolithic orphan.
Jacqueline wraps an arm around my shoulders, resting her hand on the strap of my backpack.
"What a lovely day it turned out to be with my two girls by my side. Anyone else's stomach singing for some grub or is it just me?"
"Oh, you know I'm a bottomless pit."
She rubs my earlobe between her thumb and index finger.
"Of course I do, ma poulette gourmande. Allons-y."
We stroll down the expanse of paved flooring. On one side, a row of children's rides stands silent and still. On the opposite side, a sturdy railing guards against a steep plunge, beyond which the spiky tops of pine trees stretch towards a cerulean sky. The crisp fall breeze rustles the needles, causing them to bristle and sway.
Nairu has hurried ahead, skipping and spinning around to take in the 360-degree spectacle.
The bumper car ride is playing a jaunty tune that features trumpets and an accordion. Under a translucent roof supported by a rusted frame, a father in his thirties and his pre-teen daughter, lacking any opponents, are steering their bubblegum-pink car in a figure eight. From the rear of the vehicle, a metallic rod juts up; as its brush grazes the electrified grid overhead, sporadic sparks burst like tiny fireworks.
A gust of wind sweeps over the amusement park, ruffling Jacqueline's raven-black tresses. I fasten my woolen scarf, pulling it snug against my skin. The hickey with which mommy branded me has faded from a mottled purple to a faint brownish-yellow, and no longer feels tender.
Jacqueline leads us to a snack booth, its counters cluttered with donuts, waffles, slices of pizza, and serrano ham sandwiches. The smell of fried dough wafts up my nostrils, complemented by the buttery scent of waffles. As we draw closer, the tangy smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese blends with the aroma of cured meats. My taste buds awaken in anticipation of the textures and flavors: the fluffiness of a powdered donut, the crunch of a toasted waffle, and the salty richness of serrano ham. I wish I could decimate the snack landscape, stuffing myself until my stomach expanded into a basketball, or even a beach ball.
We line up behind a redhead who's holding a toddler. The concessionaire's face is stubble-crusted, his arms sleeved with tattoos; maybe a former convict turned snack vendor.
To my left, Nairu emits a lilting sound, a cross between a gasp and a hum. With her back to me, she squats to be at eye level with a garbage bin. She tilts her head first to one side, then to the other, as if scrutinizing an unknown creature. I sidestep until I catch sight of her quarry. The garbage bin is molded from sturdy plastic to resemble a deep-brown, plump bear sitting on its haunches, whose oval eyes avoid Nairu's gaze as if ashamed; its gaping mouth has been reduced to an entryway for trash.
A yellow-and-black insect, a wasp, hovers near the bear-bin's open maw while another wasp scurries over the lower lip. As Nairu reaches to touch the bear's ebony-black snout, her motion jolts the wasps. They flit into the air, then zigzag drunkenly.
I bend down to gently pull Nairu away from the bear-bin.
"What are you up to, my little adventurer? You wanna get stung by wasps?" I pantomime a jab on my own hand. "Better leave the bear to its shameful fate."
Nairu straightens and half-smiles, revealing a glint of teeth. Her eyebrows have arched as if saying, "Bitch, I grew up having tea parties with sabertooth tigers."
"What can I get you, gorgeous?" the concessionaire says in an Andalusian accent tinged with awe.
The former convict turned snack vendor has pulled his shoulders back. He's making a show of wiping his hands on a paper towel, trying to present a more respectable version of his tattooed, stubble-crusted self, but his eyes, locked on Jacqueline, remain widened as if his brain needed a reboot. This stallman must have been working on autopilot, fantasizing about his next score or prison sentence, when the hottest bombshell alive materialized before his counter, and now he's considering if he should abandon his snack booth empire to shrink to the size of an ant and crawl inside her pussy.
"Ten churros," Jacqueline says, "s'il vous plaît."
My nostrils have flared. In my mind, this guy flashes a lecherous smile and utters, "It's a privilege to serve you, goddess on Earth." I'm about to shoot a warning squint at the ex-con when a child's hand tugs at the sleeve of my corduroy jacket, jolting me out of my murderous haze.
Nairu is gazing up at me with her pair of monolid, almond-shaped eyes, that brim with the wonder of a naturalist who has discovered a new species.
"Eide, Eide."
"Close enough."
She scribbles in the air with an invisible pencil, then jabs a finger at the bear-bin.
"Crayon!"
A surge of warmth floods my chest.
"When you look at me, of all people, with kindness in your eyes, you know I must oblige. Want to transform that garbage bear into art? Be my guest, child of the Ice Age."
I kneel to rummage through my backpack. I pull out Nairu's sketchbook and hand it over. I take out the pack of Crayola crayons and fold up the cardboard flap, revealing a rainbow of waxy peaks. Nairu's fingers hesitate above the red, green, and blue, before snatching the black crayon.
As she grasps the sketchbook and crayon, her arms go slack. She turns her head to fixate on the bear-bin. Her flawless, peach-orange skin reflects the November sunbeams, but her eyebrows are furrowed as if her thoughts have drifted millennia away. Windswept and wild, her chestnut-brown locks dance and shimmer.
The ambient sounds of children's laughter and mechanized rides fade into a muted hum as the universe holds its breath.
"I was wondering, Leire," Nairu says, "what could be the meaning of that creature."
"It's called a garbage bin. We use them to dispose of the detritus of modern civilization. In summer, when the weather's hot, flies and gnats swarm around to lay eggs in the trash."
"It doesn't look like any garbage bin that I've encountered in all my wanderings through this bewildering age. Is it a type of animal punished for some sinful transgression? Is it perhaps a deity who presides over the discarded remnants of humanity, collecting them until the day of reckoning?"
"No, it's a human-made object, designed to save us from drowning in our own filth and disease."
"But why does it have a funny shape and face?"
"Because humans like to turn mundane objects into something amusing or unusual."
"What a strange people you are, to take an inanimate object and make it into a creature, thus defacing the very fabric of nature."
"We are strange, indeed."
"You create a million diversions and amusements to distract yourselves from the void."
"We don't always give our creations a fair shake. But we do our best to make sense of the world and our place in it."
"Well then, I will document this garbage bear's existence before it vanishes like a footprint in sand. However... should we draw anything at all? Don't our efforts only add to the muck of human creation?"
As the bear-bin stands in the periphery of our minds like a dark monolith, Nairu's gaze drifts to the pavement, and her lips curl downward as if a sudden pain had stabbed her through.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Nairu, my adopted Paleolithic child, who roamed a glacier-encrusted world of ground sloths and woolly rhinoceri until her family vanished in the flood of time.
"Do you miss the Ice Age and your dad?" I ask.
"Every day. Sometimes I imagine I hear the crunching of their footprints in the snow. I imagine I hear my father calling me through the trees, and I want to run towards him."
"I wish you didn't have to leave everything you knew behind. I wish the ice and the animals returned."
"What if the universe ends before I get to experience good things?"
"I promise, I won't let the universe end."
"But you can't, can you? It's all so massive, and you are a speck of dust."
"Even so."
"Still, I don't belong anywhere. No one wants me, no one needs me. I am alone."
My chest clenches as if my ribs were caving in. I lay my hands on Nairu's shoulders, sinking my fingers into the padding of her jacket.
"I understand you. Even though having to travel five days a week to that soulless office, where I program websites for a piggish boss, made me want to hang myself, I used to work overtime into the evening because I dreaded returning to my empty apartment in Irún, where no one had ever said my name or hugged me. Did I matter? Was I real? For all my masturbation and my angst and my demons, I have never grown up, and my struggles to paint a pretty picture in this ugly world were doomed from the start. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, because the emptiness in my chest feels like a bottomless hole sucking me down, down, down. Why don't you let me help you? Why don't you let anyone help you? Maybe because you're not used to asking for help, because nobody ever offered you any. Maybe you're scared of what happens when you open yourself up to another human being. You're on your own, fending off the world and its terrors, and the pain in your heart just builds and builds. It's hard to let go of control, to let someone else in. You wish you could float away into the vacuum of space, where you would die silently, and be forgotten forever. But I have found that life isn't as scary as I imagined. Neither are people. There's beauty in this world that we can't grasp with words, and we need to embrace it and let it guide us. Do you believe me? I'm here, Nairu. We're here. You will never lack for a home. We'll protect you with our lives. I will give you the world and everything that shines in the universe."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "Now It's On" by Grandaddy, "Summertime Clothes" by Animal Collective, and "Flightless Bird, American Mouth" by Iron & Wine.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety songs. Check them out.
Do you want to hear Nairu’s tomboyish voice saying Nairu things? Check out the audiochapter.
---
The crown of the carousel dazzles with old-world charm thanks to its miniature spires and ornate curlicues in a pastel mix of golds, greens, and blues. As the ride revolves, trembling, creaking, and squeaking rhythmically like a mechanical cricket, the carriages pass one after another: a steampunk-esque submarine, complete with riveted plates, portholes, and a periscope; a hot-air balloon that features an intricate imitation of a wicker basket; a cherry-red car modeled after early 20th-century automobiles, whose varnished surfaces glimmer in the November sunshine; a tram-like carriage reminiscent of traditional streetcars, a green-and-white cabin inside of which stands Nairu, our émigré from the Ice Age, wearing a quilted, burgundy jacket. While clutching the brass railing, she's goggling around at the other carriages, at the gilded ceiling of the ride, and at us, her adoptive mothers, in mesmerized confusion.
Next to me, Jacqueline chuckles. Then she presses the tips of her fingers against the curve of her smile, trying to contain her outburst. Mommy's gaze, anchored on Nairu amidst the whimsical carriages from L'Ère des Visionnaires, brims with warmth as if absorbing our daughter's antediluvian wonder.
"She doesn't have a clue about what's going on, the poor thing."
"To be fair," I say, "neither do I. But I hope she has realized that she's supposed to stay inside her carriage."
The carousel lurches, creaks, and grinds to a halt. Nairu, already beaming at Jacqueline and me, pushes the swing door of her carriage open. She hops off the round platform. As she bounds towards us, her eyes twinkle, and her chestnut-brown hair bounces with each joyful step. I'm tempted to warn her about running in those baggy jeans; she could trip over a loose hem and smash her face on the pavement. But how do you communicate such concerns to a child who grew up among ground sloths?
Nairu flings herself at me like a bear cub. She hugs my waist, pressing her face against my corduroy jacket. I pat the soft hair on the back of her head.
Whenever this child clings to me, a soothing warmth bubbles up from deep within. I want to mirror her smiles and laughs. Above all, I desire to protect her from the ravages of the world. With Nairu in my arms, I am no longer a freakish, masturbating mess, but the guardian of a vulnerable, Paleolithic orphan.
Jacqueline wraps an arm around my shoulders, resting her hand on the strap of my backpack.
"What a lovely day it turned out to be with my two girls by my side. Anyone else's stomach singing for some grub or is it just me?"
"Oh, you know I'm a bottomless pit."
She rubs my earlobe between her thumb and index finger.
"Of course I do, ma poulette gourmande. Allons-y."
We stroll down the expanse of paved flooring. On one side, a row of children's rides stands silent and still. On the opposite side, a sturdy railing guards against a steep plunge, beyond which the spiky tops of pine trees stretch towards a cerulean sky. The crisp fall breeze rustles the needles, causing them to bristle and sway.
Nairu has hurried ahead, skipping and spinning around to take in the 360-degree spectacle.
The bumper car ride is playing a jaunty tune that features trumpets and an accordion. Under a translucent roof supported by a rusted frame, a father in his thirties and his pre-teen daughter, lacking any opponents, are steering their bubblegum-pink car in a figure eight. From the rear of the vehicle, a metallic rod juts up; as its brush grazes the electrified grid overhead, sporadic sparks burst like tiny fireworks.
A gust of wind sweeps over the amusement park, ruffling Jacqueline's raven-black tresses. I fasten my woolen scarf, pulling it snug against my skin. The hickey with which mommy branded me has faded from a mottled purple to a faint brownish-yellow, and no longer feels tender.
Jacqueline leads us to a snack booth, its counters cluttered with donuts, waffles, slices of pizza, and serrano ham sandwiches. The smell of fried dough wafts up my nostrils, complemented by the buttery scent of waffles. As we draw closer, the tangy smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese blends with the aroma of cured meats. My taste buds awaken in anticipation of the textures and flavors: the fluffiness of a powdered donut, the crunch of a toasted waffle, and the salty richness of serrano ham. I wish I could decimate the snack landscape, stuffing myself until my stomach expanded into a basketball, or even a beach ball.
We line up behind a redhead who's holding a toddler. The concessionaire's face is stubble-crusted, his arms sleeved with tattoos; maybe a former convict turned snack vendor.
To my left, Nairu emits a lilting sound, a cross between a gasp and a hum. With her back to me, she squats to be at eye level with a garbage bin. She tilts her head first to one side, then to the other, as if scrutinizing an unknown creature. I sidestep until I catch sight of her quarry. The garbage bin is molded from sturdy plastic to resemble a deep-brown, plump bear sitting on its haunches, whose oval eyes avoid Nairu's gaze as if ashamed; its gaping mouth has been reduced to an entryway for trash.
A yellow-and-black insect, a wasp, hovers near the bear-bin's open maw while another wasp scurries over the lower lip. As Nairu reaches to touch the bear's ebony-black snout, her motion jolts the wasps. They flit into the air, then zigzag drunkenly.
I bend down to gently pull Nairu away from the bear-bin.
"What are you up to, my little adventurer? You wanna get stung by wasps?" I pantomime a jab on my own hand. "Better leave the bear to its shameful fate."
Nairu straightens and half-smiles, revealing a glint of teeth. Her eyebrows have arched as if saying, "Bitch, I grew up having tea parties with sabertooth tigers."
"What can I get you, gorgeous?" the concessionaire says in an Andalusian accent tinged with awe.
The former convict turned snack vendor has pulled his shoulders back. He's making a show of wiping his hands on a paper towel, trying to present a more respectable version of his tattooed, stubble-crusted self, but his eyes, locked on Jacqueline, remain widened as if his brain needed a reboot. This stallman must have been working on autopilot, fantasizing about his next score or prison sentence, when the hottest bombshell alive materialized before his counter, and now he's considering if he should abandon his snack booth empire to shrink to the size of an ant and crawl inside her pussy.
"Ten churros," Jacqueline says, "s'il vous plaît."
My nostrils have flared. In my mind, this guy flashes a lecherous smile and utters, "It's a privilege to serve you, goddess on Earth." I'm about to shoot a warning squint at the ex-con when a child's hand tugs at the sleeve of my corduroy jacket, jolting me out of my murderous haze.
Nairu is gazing up at me with her pair of monolid, almond-shaped eyes, that brim with the wonder of a naturalist who has discovered a new species.
"Eide, Eide."
"Close enough."
She scribbles in the air with an invisible pencil, then jabs a finger at the bear-bin.
"Crayon!"
A surge of warmth floods my chest.
"When you look at me, of all people, with kindness in your eyes, you know I must oblige. Want to transform that garbage bear into art? Be my guest, child of the Ice Age."
I kneel to rummage through my backpack. I pull out Nairu's sketchbook and hand it over. I take out the pack of Crayola crayons and fold up the cardboard flap, revealing a rainbow of waxy peaks. Nairu's fingers hesitate above the red, green, and blue, before snatching the black crayon.
As she grasps the sketchbook and crayon, her arms go slack. She turns her head to fixate on the bear-bin. Her flawless, peach-orange skin reflects the November sunbeams, but her eyebrows are furrowed as if her thoughts have drifted millennia away. Windswept and wild, her chestnut-brown locks dance and shimmer.
The ambient sounds of children's laughter and mechanized rides fade into a muted hum as the universe holds its breath.
"I was wondering, Leire," Nairu says, "what could be the meaning of that creature."
"It's called a garbage bin. We use them to dispose of the detritus of modern civilization. In summer, when the weather's hot, flies and gnats swarm around to lay eggs in the trash."
"It doesn't look like any garbage bin that I've encountered in all my wanderings through this bewildering age. Is it a type of animal punished for some sinful transgression? Is it perhaps a deity who presides over the discarded remnants of humanity, collecting them until the day of reckoning?"
"No, it's a human-made object, designed to save us from drowning in our own filth and disease."
"But why does it have a funny shape and face?"
"Because humans like to turn mundane objects into something amusing or unusual."
"What a strange people you are, to take an inanimate object and make it into a creature, thus defacing the very fabric of nature."
"We are strange, indeed."
"You create a million diversions and amusements to distract yourselves from the void."
"We don't always give our creations a fair shake. But we do our best to make sense of the world and our place in it."
"Well then, I will document this garbage bear's existence before it vanishes like a footprint in sand. However... should we draw anything at all? Don't our efforts only add to the muck of human creation?"
As the bear-bin stands in the periphery of our minds like a dark monolith, Nairu's gaze drifts to the pavement, and her lips curl downward as if a sudden pain had stabbed her through.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Nairu, my adopted Paleolithic child, who roamed a glacier-encrusted world of ground sloths and woolly rhinoceri until her family vanished in the flood of time.
"Do you miss the Ice Age and your dad?" I ask.
"Every day. Sometimes I imagine I hear the crunching of their footprints in the snow. I imagine I hear my father calling me through the trees, and I want to run towards him."
"I wish you didn't have to leave everything you knew behind. I wish the ice and the animals returned."
"What if the universe ends before I get to experience good things?"
"I promise, I won't let the universe end."
"But you can't, can you? It's all so massive, and you are a speck of dust."
"Even so."
"Still, I don't belong anywhere. No one wants me, no one needs me. I am alone."
My chest clenches as if my ribs were caving in. I lay my hands on Nairu's shoulders, sinking my fingers into the padding of her jacket.
"I understand you. Even though having to travel five days a week to that soulless office, where I program websites for a piggish boss, made me want to hang myself, I used to work overtime into the evening because I dreaded returning to my empty apartment in Irún, where no one had ever said my name or hugged me. Did I matter? Was I real? For all my masturbation and my angst and my demons, I have never grown up, and my struggles to paint a pretty picture in this ugly world were doomed from the start. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, because the emptiness in my chest feels like a bottomless hole sucking me down, down, down. Why don't you let me help you? Why don't you let anyone help you? Maybe because you're not used to asking for help, because nobody ever offered you any. Maybe you're scared of what happens when you open yourself up to another human being. You're on your own, fending off the world and its terrors, and the pain in your heart just builds and builds. It's hard to let go of control, to let someone else in. You wish you could float away into the vacuum of space, where you would die silently, and be forgotten forever. But I have found that life isn't as scary as I imagined. Neither are people. There's beauty in this world that we can't grasp with words, and we need to embrace it and let it guide us. Do you believe me? I'm here, Nairu. We're here. You will never lack for a home. We'll protect you with our lives. I will give you the world and everything that shines in the universe."
---
Author's note: today's songs are "Now It's On" by Grandaddy, "Summertime Clothes" by Animal Collective, and "Flightless Bird, American Mouth" by Iron & Wine.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of a hundred and ninety songs. Check them out.
Do you want to hear Nairu’s tomboyish voice saying Nairu things? Check out the audiochapter.
October 21, 2023
Life update (10/21/2023)
The next chapter of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked will take place in a real location that hasn’t been featured in the story yet. In such cases, if I can be arsed, I visit the place, get a feel of the area, take some photos, and write down in a notebook any impression that seems meaningful. I admit that sometimes, usually when I feel too burdened by my job, I have cheated by relying solely on Google Maps and whatever pictures I could find of the location. That always makes me feel guilty, though, because I miss the more meaningful impressions I would have gotten if I had dragged my lazy ass where my characters are supposed to be hanging out.
Leire and her deranged little family will take a leisure trip to the amusement park at Mount Igueldo, Donostia. I had already organized the notes, and I was supposed to start synthesizing them this morning, but I was fine with delaying them until Monday so I could visit the place. However, the weather forecasts for next week promise an unending deluge. I almost gave up on the trip. When this morning I spontaneously woke up at six, I made sure that it wasn’t going to rain, and left for Donostia.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page; it contains lots of photos]
Leire and her deranged little family will take a leisure trip to the amusement park at Mount Igueldo, Donostia. I had already organized the notes, and I was supposed to start synthesizing them this morning, but I was fine with delaying them until Monday so I could visit the place. However, the weather forecasts for next week promise an unending deluge. I almost gave up on the trip. When this morning I spontaneously woke up at six, I made sure that it wasn’t going to rain, and left for Donostia.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page; it contains lots of photos]
