My Fiction

Lil’ change in format. Big stories get their own pages. Because I’ve added to “FIGHT EAT FIGHT!” and also added the “Bate-bola” story, I’ve nested them to make them more readable.

Click here for FIGHT EAT FIGHT! (Added chapter 3 – The General, and Chapter 4 – Dances and Revolutions)

Click here for Bate-Bola (complete)

A minuscule story I wrote for a creative fiction class. It is inspired by the book “Detroit: I do mind dying”, one of the best books I’ve read in my life.

haymarket_crossDETROIT 1978

The crunching, moist sound of a human hand being crushed under heavy machinery brought a hundred beating hearts to a halt. Boiling red rage arose, Black and white masks of discontentment exposing the inner feelings of those sweat and grease covered bodies. “Enough,” he said, and one other person also said “enough.”
The clicking cranks of the machines cracked at a stop. One by one they were turned off. Little flicks of wavering sunlight played on his face as he spoke. The wave of men rose, its strength filling every empty hole in the factory with a drop of little red hope.
Outside, the hooves of horses clacked hard on the pavement, thick dressed black-clad ghosts wavering bats. Boots and hooves marched as one beat of a war drum; they were coming.
Inside, fear, apprehension and hope pushed fiercely against the dry walls of the warehouse.
– “I don’t mind working,” one of the youngsters had said. “But I do mind dying.”
They clasped hands, like gladiators hoping to survive the lions and liars of the circus.
The breeze hit his face with the gentleness of a lover; the warmth of the sunshine engulfed them as they opened the gates. In that sunny afternoon, they would be victorious or they would end up under a boot or a hoof. But they would not go without a fight.

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

This is a re-telling of the Yoruba creation myth. I don’t remember why I did it (I vaguelly recalled trying to incorporate it in some political writing).

Some notes: The Yoruba deities change names, personality, function, mithology, rank and gender acording to different branches of the traditions, like Santería, Voodoo or Candomblé. This-re-telling is based on a Brazilian Candomblé tradition, with Olodun (Olodumare) as the genderless creator of the universe and with Nanã Buruku as female.

A STORY OF PEOPLE

Olorun, the First and Sky Father, Owner of the Rainbow Womb, existed as the whole of everything. But the everything did not yet existed, and Olorun was hollow. From hirs womb then came the sea, and all the creatures of the sea. And all the land, and little creatures crawled out of the sea and ran into the land and plants grew and were eaten by the little creatures, who were eaten by bigger creatures that ran after them from the sea. Seeing the cycle of harmony and strife, and being satisfied, Olorun woke up hir son Oxalá, who had always existed but only after Olorun, and told him:
– “Create me the human.”

Oxalá Orisha-Funfun

Oxalá Orixá-Funfun

Oxalá then set out to accomplish the task delegated to him by his MotherFather. He thought that humans, who would create great wars and fight so much, should be really solid, so he made them out of metal. The humans glistened under the bright sun, and that was all they could do. The metal was too rigid, and they couldn’t move. Oxalá, frustrated, destroyed them and started again.

He then sculpted the humans out of rock, but not only they were still too rigid, now they were also too cold. He then tried wood, but it was still too rigid, and the humans’ movements were awkward and the legs and arms tended to crack.

Oxalá then tried water, but the water was too soft and would not stay in shape. He tried fire, but the creature was then consumed in it own fire. He tried air, and as soon as he was done the creature again became air and disappeared. Stubborn, he tried oil and wine. Still nothing.

Tired and frustrated, Oxalá sat on the riverbank to think and to grumble and to be worried. Nanã Buruku, Goddess of the Rain and the Mistress of Death, emerges from the river to see Oxalá so blue and, having a soft-spot in her heart for him, asks him what is wrong.

– “I cannot create the human, Nanã,” said Oxalá. “Olorun ask me to do it, and I am powerful, I am an Orixá-Funfun, yet this simple task eludes me.”

Nanã smiled a half-smile, a smile directed to the impatient, the smile of the one that lives through ages every instant. She dove into the river and went to the deepest part of it and came back up. She has her hands full of mud, and gives that to Oxalá. She then dives again, and bring him more mud.

Oxalá then molds the human with the mud, and sees that the limbs move, and the eyes open and the mouth can talk, and he is happy. He breathes life into the humans and on they go to create wars and beautiful things and be a long, enormous mystery.

From very, very far, Olorun watches, and, knowing ze is not needed anymore, turns hirs back and just exists.

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