Supernatural Fiction posted March 7, 2019 |
Continuation of a story where there is hell to pay.
The Letter
by poetwatch
April 12, 1953
Pancho Villa rode the edge of the border with his raiders, and I saw him kill a gringo as a young boy. That was a long time ago when the river raged through the streets in every town from El Paso to Brownsville, Texas. There was nothing to hold it back but the reeds and the water lilies. Then some smart son in Washington decided that Mexicans should live on their side of the Rio Bravo. They came to the Rio Grande and bought out, traded with, bribed, as well as killed the Mexican land owners on the American side. Pretty soon, large tracts of land were made available to these carpetbaggers that lived off other people's sweat. Before long, wagons full of immigrants from the northern states flooded the banks of the river and began living in houses already in existence. Cattle wandered freely upon the range with many a strange brand, and many without any--these were claimed by those settlers with the most power. The Mexicans living on this side, in the United States, became third-world citizens, a little bit higher than black people. Most of them worked for a white patron.
I was a young man when I came to Brownsville, Texas, in 1916, from my native land of Nuevo Leon, Mexico. I was running away from the hands of a witch whose heart I had conquered. I, Beliz Alaniz, who had lived on a hacienda, found hunger in the streets and racial rebuke in every stare. To survive, I lived caring for the dead. Yellow fever still plagued the city, and Mexicans, with a few poor white and black friends, cleaned and buried the dead. It broke my heart when I covered children with a white blanket. Many people died, and when we ran out of blankets, we just threw them in a hole. A doctor from Fort Brown could be seen everywhere trying to save those he could, but death was the victor. After what seemed an eternity in hell, even death got tired of our toil and went away.
I became a cook with the Army stationed at the fort. Most of the soldiers I worked with were from different parts of the country. I toiled from sun-up to sun-down with these men, cleaning pots and pans, and could tell you how many eyes each potato had, for I saw them looking at me.
One day, traveling over the country, I met a senorita and fell in love. By the border, with the river raging wild, she became my wife and we started a family. We were happy. Our children grew like reeds on the west side of town, for the river would cut through the land, fertilizing the soil. A muddy place that no one wanted, but it was home for those that wanted life. It was called, the "Colonia Mexican." Here we could leave our home open, and no one would steal from us. Then again, we did not have much to steal. One day, as our children played, I started to hear voices. At first, I thought nothing of it, but then those voices yelled so loud that I couldn't sleep. With those voices came the nightmares that have haunted me. I would wake up fighting, swinging left and right. It became so serious that my wife would not sleep with me. My children ran away from me. I didn't know what to do. I went to the doctors after a hurricane in 1933, when the winds howled like a banshee's laugh, and... they put me in jail.
"You're a Mexican, and you're crazy," they said. "You have no money for proper treatment."
After months of bread and water, and being tied to the bed, the soldiers from the fort came to see me. They said they'd take me with them as their preferred potato peeler if I didn't cause any trouble. I said that I would try not to, and they set me free. I worked for them during the day and fought my unknown foes at night. In 1948, the fort was deactivated, and I lost my job but not my nightmares. I didn't eat or sleep much. Then a compadre of mine brought in a brujo from the barrio to see if he could cure me. This is what that brujo told me:
Beliz, the egg has turned all black, and the yoke has disappeared. It's a strong sign of witchcraft. Someone you have angered has put a hex on you. The spell is potent. I can't break it, for it is old, old black magic. Who hates you, Beliz?
I looked at my compadre and at the brujo. Then, I smelled the sulfur as my sin assailed my nose. I remembered a night of pleasures and the laughter of a forgotten one. I knew who laughed. As I looked at the mirror, I saw a shadow slither from the corner of my eye. An evil spirit from my past had come to haunt me.
Time has passed. It is now 1953. I fight for my life and those that I love every day, for my family has grown. I bounce my grandchildren on my knees and see the wonder in their eyes as they hear me speaking to no one. My children still think that I'm crazy. They don't see what I see or hear what I hear. I hear the laughter of that witch sail across the rushing river and wrestle me as I sleep. At 3:30 every morning, I hear dead men roll down the roof and see the faces of those that have died, yelling at me to awaken. I wake up like a light, ready to fight my foe.
As I sit on my bed, waiting to see what appears, my angels stand with me. I have the strength of a lion standing on my right, and on my left, a tiger prowls the floor; by my feet lays a panther, green eyes and sleek as the night. These are my angels. They've guarded me since the day I saw that dark spirit. Every morning, we fight the intruders as they enter my room. When they try to break through the walls, we don't let them. Yet, I'm weakening. I know I'll not last forever. Who'll guard my children from this vengeful spirit when I am gone?
Belizario Z. Alaniz
In 1995, I, Miguel Angel Alaniz, tired of fighting, traveled to Nuevo Leon, Mexico, searching for the source of the problem. After an intense search, I walked an ancient path, overgrown with twisted tree trunks and roots, to an old hut upon a hill. I knocked on the door and it opened. Inside sat a very old lady, stirring a blackened pot. She looked at me and for a moment, I saw a gleam in her eyes. As she turned her head away, she spoke to me in the language of my ancestors.
--Te vez como el. Que es lo que quieres?-- (You look like him. What do you want?)
--Abuelita, busco piedad. Quiero dormir en las noches.-- (Grandmother, I look for mercy. I want to sleep at night.)
She looked at me once more, and I saw flames erupt from her eyes.
--Todos murieran y despues dormiran, pero--En el infierno!-- (All of you will die and then you will sleep--in hell!)
I started walking towards the door as shadows rose and reached for me, clawing at my skin. I was trapped! Suddenly, the air around me began to glitter, and my guardians appeared. They stood with me and we held our ground, destroying wave after wave of nightmares, clearing a way to the door. As I pull-open the door, I almost walked into the claws of a buzzard! Then from above me I heard a screech and saw the golden eagle swoop down and slay it. Once I was outside, my guardians disappeared, and I ran. In the darkness, I could feel the roots trying to grab me. Finally, I was out of that frightening forest. I looked at my watch; it was 3:33 a. m.
It's now the year 2019, and I have aged. How long will this curse stay haunting my days? How long will this witch last? Many of my family have succumbed, and several are scattered in mental institutions all over the country. A few are like me. We've fought off the witch. Yet, as we get older, we tend to keep to ourselves. We must unite and destroy the witch's curse because if we can't, who'll take our place?
Story/Prose Poem contest entry
April 12, 1953
Pancho Villa rode the edge of the border with his raiders, and I saw him kill a gringo as a young boy. That was a long time ago when the river raged through the streets in every town from El Paso to Brownsville, Texas. There was nothing to hold it back but the reeds and the water lilies. Then some smart son in Washington decided that Mexicans should live on their side of the Rio Bravo. They came to the Rio Grande and bought out, traded with, bribed, as well as killed the Mexican land owners on the American side. Pretty soon, large tracts of land were made available to these carpetbaggers that lived off other people's sweat. Before long, wagons full of immigrants from the northern states flooded the banks of the river and began living in houses already in existence. Cattle wandered freely upon the range with many a strange brand, and many without any--these were claimed by those settlers with the most power. The Mexicans living on this side, in the United States, became third-world citizens, a little bit higher than black people. Most of them worked for a white patron.
I was a young man when I came to Brownsville, Texas, in 1916, from my native land of Nuevo Leon, Mexico. I was running away from the hands of a witch whose heart I had conquered. I, Beliz Alaniz, who had lived on a hacienda, found hunger in the streets and racial rebuke in every stare. To survive, I lived caring for the dead. Yellow fever still plagued the city, and Mexicans, with a few poor white and black friends, cleaned and buried the dead. It broke my heart when I covered children with a white blanket. Many people died, and when we ran out of blankets, we just threw them in a hole. A doctor from Fort Brown could be seen everywhere trying to save those he could, but death was the victor. After what seemed an eternity in hell, even death got tired of our toil and went away.
I became a cook with the Army stationed at the fort. Most of the soldiers I worked with were from different parts of the country. I toiled from sun-up to sun-down with these men, cleaning pots and pans, and could tell you how many eyes each potato had, for I saw them looking at me.
One day, traveling over the country, I met a senorita and fell in love. By the border, with the river raging wild, she became my wife and we started a family. We were happy. Our children grew like reeds on the west side of town, for the river would cut through the land, fertilizing the soil. A muddy place that no one wanted, but it was home for those that wanted life. It was called, the "Colonia Mexican." Here we could leave our home open, and no one would steal from us. Then again, we did not have much to steal. One day, as our children played, I started to hear voices. At first, I thought nothing of it, but then those voices yelled so loud that I couldn't sleep. With those voices came the nightmares that have haunted me. I would wake up fighting, swinging left and right. It became so serious that my wife would not sleep with me. My children ran away from me. I didn't know what to do. I went to the doctors after a hurricane in 1933, when the winds howled like a banshee's laugh, and... they put me in jail.
"You're a Mexican, and you're crazy," they said. "You have no money for proper treatment."
After months of bread and water, and being tied to the bed, the soldiers from the fort came to see me. They said they'd take me with them as their preferred potato peeler if I didn't cause any trouble. I said that I would try not to, and they set me free. I worked for them during the day and fought my unknown foes at night. In 1948, the fort was deactivated, and I lost my job but not my nightmares. I didn't eat or sleep much. Then a compadre of mine brought in a brujo from the barrio to see if he could cure me. This is what that brujo told me:
Beliz, the egg has turned all black, and the yoke has disappeared. It's a strong sign of witchcraft. Someone you have angered has put a hex on you. The spell is potent. I can't break it, for it is old, old black magic. Who hates you, Beliz?
I looked at my compadre and at the brujo. Then, I smelled the sulfur as my sin assailed my nose. I remembered a night of pleasures and the laughter of a forgotten one. I knew who laughed. As I looked at the mirror, I saw a shadow slither from the corner of my eye. An evil spirit from my past had come to haunt me.
Time has passed. It is now 1953. I fight for my life and those that I love every day, for my family has grown. I bounce my grandchildren on my knees and see the wonder in their eyes as they hear me speaking to no one. My children still think that I'm crazy. They don't see what I see or hear what I hear. I hear the laughter of that witch sail across the rushing river and wrestle me as I sleep. At 3:30 every morning, I hear dead men roll down the roof and see the faces of those that have died, yelling at me to awaken. I wake up like a light, ready to fight my foe.
As I sit on my bed, waiting to see what appears, my angels stand with me. I have the strength of a lion standing on my right, and on my left, a tiger prowls the floor; by my feet lays a panther, green eyes and sleek as the night. These are my angels. They've guarded me since the day I saw that dark spirit. Every morning, we fight the intruders as they enter my room. When they try to break through the walls, we don't let them. Yet, I'm weakening. I know I'll not last forever. Who'll guard my children from this vengeful spirit when I am gone?
Belizario Z. Alaniz
In 1995, I, Miguel Angel Alaniz, tired of fighting, traveled to Nuevo Leon, Mexico, searching for the source of the problem. After an intense search, I walked an ancient path, overgrown with twisted tree trunks and roots, to an old hut upon a hill. I knocked on the door and it opened. Inside sat a very old lady, stirring a blackened pot. She looked at me and for a moment, I saw a gleam in her eyes. As she turned her head away, she spoke to me in the language of my ancestors.
--Te vez como el. Que es lo que quieres?-- (You look like him. What do you want?)
--Abuelita, busco piedad. Quiero dormir en las noches.-- (Grandmother, I look for mercy. I want to sleep at night.)
She looked at me once more, and I saw flames erupt from her eyes.
--Todos murieran y despues dormiran, pero--En el infierno!-- (All of you will die and then you will sleep--in hell!)
I started walking towards the door as shadows rose and reached for me, clawing at my skin. I was trapped! Suddenly, the air around me began to glitter, and my guardians appeared. They stood with me and we held our ground, destroying wave after wave of nightmares, clearing a way to the door. As I pull-open the door, I almost walked into the claws of a buzzard! Then from above me I heard a screech and saw the golden eagle swoop down and slay it. Once I was outside, my guardians disappeared, and I ran. In the darkness, I could feel the roots trying to grab me. Finally, I was out of that frightening forest. I looked at my watch; it was 3:33 a. m.
It's now the year 2019, and I have aged. How long will this curse stay haunting my days? How long will this witch last? Many of my family have succumbed, and several are scattered in mental institutions all over the country. A few are like me. We've fought off the witch. Yet, as we get older, we tend to keep to ourselves. We must unite and destroy the witch's curse because if we can't, who'll take our place?
Pancho Villa rode the edge of the border with his raiders, and I saw him kill a gringo as a young boy. That was a long time ago when the river raged through the streets in every town from El Paso to Brownsville, Texas. There was nothing to hold it back but the reeds and the water lilies. Then some smart son in Washington decided that Mexicans should live on their side of the Rio Bravo. They came to the Rio Grande and bought out, traded with, bribed, as well as killed the Mexican land owners on the American side. Pretty soon, large tracts of land were made available to these carpetbaggers that lived off other people's sweat. Before long, wagons full of immigrants from the northern states flooded the banks of the river and began living in houses already in existence. Cattle wandered freely upon the range with many a strange brand, and many without any--these were claimed by those settlers with the most power. The Mexicans living on this side, in the United States, became third-world citizens, a little bit higher than black people. Most of them worked for a white patron.
I was a young man when I came to Brownsville, Texas, in 1916, from my native land of Nuevo Leon, Mexico. I was running away from the hands of a witch whose heart I had conquered. I, Beliz Alaniz, who had lived on a hacienda, found hunger in the streets and racial rebuke in every stare. To survive, I lived caring for the dead. Yellow fever still plagued the city, and Mexicans, with a few poor white and black friends, cleaned and buried the dead. It broke my heart when I covered children with a white blanket. Many people died, and when we ran out of blankets, we just threw them in a hole. A doctor from Fort Brown could be seen everywhere trying to save those he could, but death was the victor. After what seemed an eternity in hell, even death got tired of our toil and went away.
I became a cook with the Army stationed at the fort. Most of the soldiers I worked with were from different parts of the country. I toiled from sun-up to sun-down with these men, cleaning pots and pans, and could tell you how many eyes each potato had, for I saw them looking at me.
One day, traveling over the country, I met a senorita and fell in love. By the border, with the river raging wild, she became my wife and we started a family. We were happy. Our children grew like reeds on the west side of town, for the river would cut through the land, fertilizing the soil. A muddy place that no one wanted, but it was home for those that wanted life. It was called, the "Colonia Mexican." Here we could leave our home open, and no one would steal from us. Then again, we did not have much to steal. One day, as our children played, I started to hear voices. At first, I thought nothing of it, but then those voices yelled so loud that I couldn't sleep. With those voices came the nightmares that have haunted me. I would wake up fighting, swinging left and right. It became so serious that my wife would not sleep with me. My children ran away from me. I didn't know what to do. I went to the doctors after a hurricane in 1933, when the winds howled like a banshee's laugh, and... they put me in jail.
"You're a Mexican, and you're crazy," they said. "You have no money for proper treatment."
After months of bread and water, and being tied to the bed, the soldiers from the fort came to see me. They said they'd take me with them as their preferred potato peeler if I didn't cause any trouble. I said that I would try not to, and they set me free. I worked for them during the day and fought my unknown foes at night. In 1948, the fort was deactivated, and I lost my job but not my nightmares. I didn't eat or sleep much. Then a compadre of mine brought in a brujo from the barrio to see if he could cure me. This is what that brujo told me:
Beliz, the egg has turned all black, and the yoke has disappeared. It's a strong sign of witchcraft. Someone you have angered has put a hex on you. The spell is potent. I can't break it, for it is old, old black magic. Who hates you, Beliz?
I looked at my compadre and at the brujo. Then, I smelled the sulfur as my sin assailed my nose. I remembered a night of pleasures and the laughter of a forgotten one. I knew who laughed. As I looked at the mirror, I saw a shadow slither from the corner of my eye. An evil spirit from my past had come to haunt me.
Time has passed. It is now 1953. I fight for my life and those that I love every day, for my family has grown. I bounce my grandchildren on my knees and see the wonder in their eyes as they hear me speaking to no one. My children still think that I'm crazy. They don't see what I see or hear what I hear. I hear the laughter of that witch sail across the rushing river and wrestle me as I sleep. At 3:30 every morning, I hear dead men roll down the roof and see the faces of those that have died, yelling at me to awaken. I wake up like a light, ready to fight my foe.
As I sit on my bed, waiting to see what appears, my angels stand with me. I have the strength of a lion standing on my right, and on my left, a tiger prowls the floor; by my feet lays a panther, green eyes and sleek as the night. These are my angels. They've guarded me since the day I saw that dark spirit. Every morning, we fight the intruders as they enter my room. When they try to break through the walls, we don't let them. Yet, I'm weakening. I know I'll not last forever. Who'll guard my children from this vengeful spirit when I am gone?
Belizario Z. Alaniz
In 1995, I, Miguel Angel Alaniz, tired of fighting, traveled to Nuevo Leon, Mexico, searching for the source of the problem. After an intense search, I walked an ancient path, overgrown with twisted tree trunks and roots, to an old hut upon a hill. I knocked on the door and it opened. Inside sat a very old lady, stirring a blackened pot. She looked at me and for a moment, I saw a gleam in her eyes. As she turned her head away, she spoke to me in the language of my ancestors.
--Te vez como el. Que es lo que quieres?-- (You look like him. What do you want?)
--Abuelita, busco piedad. Quiero dormir en las noches.-- (Grandmother, I look for mercy. I want to sleep at night.)
She looked at me once more, and I saw flames erupt from her eyes.
--Todos murieran y despues dormiran, pero--En el infierno!-- (All of you will die and then you will sleep--in hell!)
I started walking towards the door as shadows rose and reached for me, clawing at my skin. I was trapped! Suddenly, the air around me began to glitter, and my guardians appeared. They stood with me and we held our ground, destroying wave after wave of nightmares, clearing a way to the door. As I pull-open the door, I almost walked into the claws of a buzzard! Then from above me I heard a screech and saw the golden eagle swoop down and slay it. Once I was outside, my guardians disappeared, and I ran. In the darkness, I could feel the roots trying to grab me. Finally, I was out of that frightening forest. I looked at my watch; it was 3:33 a. m.
It's now the year 2019, and I have aged. How long will this curse stay haunting my days? How long will this witch last? Many of my family have succumbed, and several are scattered in mental institutions all over the country. A few are like me. We've fought off the witch. Yet, as we get older, we tend to keep to ourselves. We must unite and destroy the witch's curse because if we can't, who'll take our place?
This is part true and part fiction. A little history in a story. I still make mistakes. :)
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