“Agony in the Valley”: A Short Lecture for the University in Huancayo, Peru

“Agony in the Valley”: A Short Lecture (in Huancay0, Peru)) at the University))

Introduction: Hello Ladies, Gentlemen, University Staff, Professors, and Adelmo Huamani (Senior Member of the Journalists College), Rector…?

I’m very happy to be here, in Huancayo, the Mantaro Valley, which I fell in love with, right after I was brought here by my wife (five years ago). I’m a retired licensed Psycholgo… and have written a number of books on the Mantaro Valley, and in the area of Alcoholism, and drugs. I had worked in the area of dual disorders for many years, hospitals, clinics, prisons, etc. When I say dual, I mean clients with depression or some other disorder, mixed with drugs or alcohol. But my love has always been Poetry, which in a way is a psychological tranquilizer or pill, it calms me, like water from a river.

Body of Lecture: I have recently given to some officials, a report I did on the awareness of abuse of Alcoholism and Drugs in the Mantaro Valley, along with translating my first of three books on the same subject into Spanish, hopefully, I can find someone to publish it, which I’d give the rights to any royalties away, should it help those in alcoholic clinics; the English Version was published in the US, in 2002, and was number 8, at Amazon.com for Alcohol and Drug Abuse.

But the brief point I want to make, now is what I wrote in the Report, I named, “Agony in the Valley.” It is just an awareness report, nothing else. (or so it was meant to be)

But here are some main points I want to make in the report (which says it better):

1) There is a problem of Alcoholism, and abuse in the valley, as well as drug abuse. We all know this, so it is nothing new. And it will not go away simply by wishful thinking.
2) Alcohol is a depressant, again nothing new (among other things)) and depression often leads into suicide)), we can see that in the usage of it with the old folks, the youth, at the many fiestas, the many accidents, deaths, it’s all in the report, and it’s all true—alcoholism is deadly. It does not make for a pretty life. It numbs us after a few drinks, it changes our attitude, moods, and we do things we would normally never think of doing soberly. It wrecks families, causes divorces.
3) Some people have told me, professionals, “It’s a custom around here to drink,” that may be so, or it simply may be an excuse to continue with abuse (for that is what I’m really implying—abuse vs. proper usage of the substance). Sometimes we forget our children mimic us, and many get caught in the everlasting cycle of addiction. Some folks in the valley are poor examples for their children, and neighbors. If we cannot show by example, then who will? I do not drink, smoke or gamble, and there is a good reason for it, it cost a lot of money, you die young and you waste a lot of time. This is what I am trying to say in the report…we are dealing with a dangerous substance.
4) Often times many users end up robbing to support their habits, thus it becomes a social problem, like it or not. It also robs from the family funds, and taxes the tax payer: with court charges, and jail time, and free food, hospitalization, and so forth.

Note: in the report, I supply some Statistics and Data; therefore I need not go over them again, the main point being—there is a problem in Huancayo, and the Mantaro Valley, and we all know this. I give at the end of the report some ideas on how perhaps an interested group or individual might go about finding ways to help these people with such problems. Prevention and Education being the two main areas, that is, trying to stop a situation before it becomes a problem.
In conclusion: I want to thank you all for coming to this event, taking your time out to do so, and although I could talk all day on the subject, the main points have been expressed. And so I leave you with a thank you, and God be with you.

A Remembrance at the Asylum of Huancayo, Peru

A Remembrance at the Asylum of Huancayo, Peru


It is worth saying, if anything is worth saying, or mentioning, my visit to the Huancayo Asylum (here in Peru); that is to say, it was worth my trip. There I met the warm and charming Director Nelly Ninamango who showed me around. Most of the residents (or clients) were out on a walk, the adults, and teenagers, etcetera. In a section in back of the asylum, one can overlook a beautiful meadow, and landscape panorama view; here you are on a long dock type area (perhaps better put, patio that shifts into the living and sleeping quarters of a dozen or so residents. There in two rows are their wooden beds neatly made, with warm looking blankets and bedspreads over them, and a picture of themselves above their heads. You get to this area by going through a corridor to a main area, either the dinning or theater type area, with nicely waxed wooden floors you can almost look into and shave they shine so well; when you are upon this section of the residential long term care center you are close to this patio area.
The center or asylum is a maze of sorts, but everything seems clean and with a touch of quietness, stillness, and tranquility. (Nothing is perfect, and I do not know, nor did I look for the imperfect, it is so easy to point fingers especially when you are simply a visitor for a half hour or so, but surely no one had time to fix this or that prior to my arrival, they never knew I was coming, nor did I until the last minute, when I had to cancel a trip to the prisons because of some trouble)
In any case, that was not what I was there for, that is, to spy on them, but to hand out books, free books on the customs and culture of their beautiful Valley. But had I seen something out of what I would call the ordinary, I would have said so, but again, the main thing I noticed was everyone seemed to care for these care needing folks. I call them: helpers and that is what they were doing, with what they had at the time.
The older folks, or so it seemed, along with the more chronic and clinically care needed folks, gathered in this patio sort of section, which is easy to access (which I have previously mentioned), for all they need to do is have a nurse unlock their back door, which leads to the patio, and there they are, with their beautiful vista of the meadows. Here they baste in the sun, in the afternoons, resting, knitting, and so forth. Most seem to have a hard time reading, but appreciated the booklet I gave to them on the customs and traditions of the Mantaro Valley, their old home. They had the nurses, and even Nelly started to read to one of the residents out of the book, and it brought tearful memories to her face on the poem, “The Huancayo Sunday Fair.”
As I walked around this section of the center, her assistant wake up a few of the older folks to receive the book, they all thanked me, smiled. Most cannot read for one reason or another, perhaps eyesight, or illiteracy, but as I had pointed out, it doesn’t or didn’t really matter, the nurses, their children, could, and did (in the cases of the nurses) read for them.
It is hard to see these old bodies decaying, some almost motionless, but at least they are dying with some dignity, warmth and care. They all seemed content, in a simple way.
As my wife and I left, with the Assistant, an old woman came running up, she evidently had not received her book, she was, wherever she was at the time, she had missed the boat (figure of speech), and stopped us, and so I gave her a book, and we both smiled, and I gave her a farewell kiss on the cheek, and she started to cry.
I’ve found out in life, in such cases of tears of sadness, it has nothing to do with depression (which is a disorder, not sadness, there is a difference, and many people get confused when trying to separated these two emotions); as in her case, those sad tears were tears of remembrance of far off happy days, coming back to hang around and let her know, she seen it all, that is perhaps, all that was worth seeing, and sometimes we want to go for round two, but sadly enough, there is only one round here on earth, for all of us.


Dedicated to Nelly Ninamango—Presidenta de la Sociedad de Beneficencia de Huancayo (for her tour of the Asylum and allowing me to meet the clients)


Note: visited 6-27-2007, written 6-28-227

The Account of: Guadalupe and Little Coyote (A True Story on Crossing the American Boarder)

The Account of: Guadalupe and Little Coyote
(A True Story on Cross the American Boarder)

(Written 6-24-2007)

Advance: No one noticed her in particular disembark the airplane in Tijuana, Mexico, in the unanimous night, no one saw her sister either, to speak of, they simply sunk into the multitude of people, but in a few hours, days and months, things would be different. She, I should say they, came from the south, that is, South America, Peru, from Huancayo, a small city in the Andes, to Lima Peru, and now as you know, they are in Tijuana. This is a true story, the names of the real persons involved are not going to be mentioned here but the names they chose to use on this drama adventure, I will share, Guadalupe, was the name she picked out, and her sister, Rosario.


(The Story:) Here they both lived for two months (in the house of the Little Coyote), their objective, and the premise of this short story is simple, both wanted the benefits the United States had to offer them: two women from Peru, seeking a new life in America, and their struggles to get from Huancayo, Peru to Portland, Oregon (let no one thing, it was easy).
The year is 1998. Normally the fees involved to fix an escort from South to America can range from $3000 dollars a piece (per individual), to $30,000-dollars depending on what part of South America you are coming from, and your connections, trying to get into America illegally. Mexicans of course do not wish to pay these horrendous fees, but do not mind collecting them to bring their neighbors across, and in the process many things can happen, rape, robbery, even murder, and this story you are about to read involves all three of them.

She, Guadalupe knew this city was the place required for her invincible intent, the place where she had to succeed, yet two months went by. Her obligation was to insure the folks on the way would get paid; this was done by phone, via, Portland, Oregon, to Mexico, and San Diego, California. The money was guaranteed, if indeed these two women were delivered to their family members.
Once in Tijuana, she was introduced to Little Coyote, her Mexican representative. She was given a new Passport, and Little Coyote was to be her husband, Guadalupe was twenty-eight years old at the time, had two children in Peru, a husband (or future husband, mother of her two children, for she is married now) who tried to make it to the United States, but was captured and turned back at the Mexican boarder. Thus, it was her turn to try.
And so in a car, and through the gate, Guadalupe and Little Coyote drove, Guadalupe a foot taller than her pretend husband, it felt odd for her, so she told me, but it was as it was, her new protector, respectfully, and once they got to where they were suppose to be going, and handed over to relatives, it would cost $3000 per person, $6000 total.
She felt a chill of fear, as they drove through the gates of Mexico to the country of opportunity; now in an unfamiliar city as she was and dependent on the good will, and consciousness of Little Coyote. She waited in San Diego for her sister, they were previously separated, as planned and now would be reunited; thus, once across the boarder, she found out it was not impossible to cross the supernatural boundary lines between the land of less and the land of plenty.
And accordingly, she felt this was halfway to her destination, unhindered thus far, and reunited with her sister, as I have just mentioned. It suited her quite well, and in the process (with twenty other migrates) Little Coyote offered them, or provided I should say, some frugal needs, food in particular. She noticed the Mexicans were eating out of their hands, and she asked for a fork (not the thing to do), and they looked at her as if she was asking for the moon, and consequently she passively accepted their style of eating, and ate out of her hands likewise.
The former group, and she and her sister, were brought to a house in San Diego, a new Coyote’s house, as Little Coyote had to leave and return to Mexico, for his next group. Here six of them had to fit into a compartment or platform underneath the car, where she had to push her nose close to a hole for air, and a fat Mexican next to her, was intoxicating with her smelly armpits. Nonetheless, she survived, as I would not be able to write this account, had she not.

As she arrived to the second location in San Diego, a house with two Coyotes waiting for the six individuals, she dismissed the vast illusory bodies that cramped and kept here like a sardine in the compartment of the car. She was happy to get out of there, although it was necessary, for there were immigration officials along the road they had to pass over to get to the second location in the city. Here things would change drastically.
In this new location, they were told they’d have to stay a while, perhaps four days, because no one came to pick them up. Matter of fact, their family members were in Portland, and to the understanding of the two Coyotes, they didn’t know were Portland was, but once finding out, they put the two girls into an isolated room, with bared windows, as a result, there would be no escape. Nonetheless, a catastrophe was building up, in that, throughout the day, the Evil Coyote, fought with the so called Good Coyote, over the two girls, he wanted to rape one, if not both. All day long this intolerable lucidity of insomnia fell upon the two girls, who found out there, was no escape from the room, and that their family members in Portland were reluctant to come to their rescue, in San Diego, lest they be captured for being illegal immigrant’s themselves, and a crazy Mexican outside their doors.
Guadalupe could hear them swear, that is curse at one another, and as night had fallen into early morning, it being 2: 00 AM things would change again.
Prior to this, the Evil Coyote was pounding on the door of the girls, trying to get in. And then the harsh pounding stopped, at which time the girl’s hearts started throbbing for the unknown was bleak at best, then a silenced came about. Next, another knock on the girls door sounded, a softer knock this time, it was the Good Coyote, “Come, come quick…!” he said to the two girls, carrying a sack outside to his car. He was exhausted, and as the two girls got into the car, they noticed a body lying by the sidewalk; it looked like the Evil Coyote.
“We are going to Las Vegas,” said the Good Coyote, there you can take a bus to Portland. And so they drove all that night.
Once in Las Vegas, the Good Coyote, he deliberately gave his black bag (sack) to Guadalupe to carry (as he went to clean up, after buying himself some cloths, and some shoes and cloths for the girls); then she, Guadalupe put her hand into the black bag, as he was changing she discovered it was a gun, and she quickly dropped it back down into the sack, aghast at what she had discovered; alas, she had left her fingerprints on the gun.

Guadalupe made a phone call to Portland, telling her folks, the Good Coyote had paid their fair on the Greyhound bus, to Portland, and they’d be there shortly. Prior to this, the Good Coyote had asked them if they had any money, Guadalupe did, she had $200-dollars, but said “No, we are broke…!” Well, that is the Peruvian way is it not. Anyhow, the Good Coyote (Mexican by Birth) perhaps was not as good as we’d like him to be, he took the $60,000 dollars that he and his partner had collected in San Diego, for the twenty or so clients they had taken across the boarder. So he was of course far from being broke himself.

(The innumerable variables Guadalupe had to endure were not over yet, a most difficult task still resided in the future over this drama, and unwinding of events.)

Once in Portland, neither of the girls could find a job for three months, and so that was not a good start, but her family provided, as often Peruvian families do. And in due time, they both did find a job.
It was shortly after she got her job, the mysteries of the murder that took place in San Diego, made it to the steps of the house, the house Guadalupe and her sister was living in. The police, Federal Agents knocked on their door, and gradually, the door was opened. It was to her surprise, the agents knew her full name, real name, and almost everything she knew about herself, they knew. What they really wanted though (the Agents) was cooperation, and so both Rosario and Guadalupe gave them as much as they could, and wanted, lest they be facing murder charges, thus, the Good Coyote was not as good as he tried to pretend.
After a certain amount of time, and movies on the two girl’s testimony on what took place in San Diego, the Good Coyote was picked up, and put into prison. And the Girls got a nice letter from the Federal Government, and a work permit.

In conclusion, this short sage of Guadalupe is but one story of many who come over the boarders of America to find a better life. I do not support the Mexicans phantom approach that they should be given rights to the American Dream, or as I refer to them as abnormal privileges, simply because they escaped from their country to ours, and in many cases, these adventures end up in rudeness, if not death along the way, but of course, not without a certain forewarning.

The Crow (a poem of hope, and revitalization)

The Crow


“In 1996, I got MS, and I could not hold anything, it fell from my hands, I could not remember what happened five minutes after the fact, and I had to go to the bathroom 16-times a night, my legs wobbled, and 85% of my body was numb (and I was always tired, sleeping between 10 and 14 hours a day, plus naps, and falling to sleep wherever), to mention a few of my systems. Yang Yang, a Chinese Artist, whom was a professor of art in the Midwest for many years at a local college, moved from Iowa, to St. Paul, Minnesota, and we met perhaps around 1993. I liked his art, but it was expensive, he was well known in China, and becoming well known in the Midwest, New Orleans, and Florida areas, and in other parts of the country as well. He painted a picture of craw, in oils, that seemed to be in a standing trance, focused on something, what, was the question. This was most inspiring to me; I suggested he should do a series of them. I thought about buying the painting, it was small in comparisons to his other ones, some he sold for $25,000, and up; and he had of course the cheaper ones. He wanted at that time, in 1996, $1400-dollars, for the small painting, but gave it to me for $750. It was really a good deal and I cherished it. My MS at this time had even made me pale, and I had to grip items as I walked through the mall to his art shop. And then he showed me one day, three other pictures of crows he did, each one was, or seemingly was (he would never comment on his paintings to the point of explaining them fully, he felt you should see in them what you see), anyhow, he showed them to me, and each one showed the crow in a revitalization process, until one, the last of the four was looking towards the sun, ready to take flight and bombard it (that was me). Perhaps one or two years later, he asked me for the forth time if I wanted to buy the other three, I did but I didn’t have the amount of money it would take to buy them, I was investing at the time, in fear I would need money incase my MS put me into a wheelchair, thus, he sold each one to me for $250, a very low fee. And I have them to this day.”

The poem, “The Crow,” was found after eight-years, with the picture of the original crow (1999)) never before published, or seen by the public)) at the time I wrote it I did not feel like I wanted to publish it, and it is dedicated to Yang Yang:


The Poem:

Heavy he leans his feathered head
Gazing at the blood red mist
Tired, -- his face shows time has past
And on his tarnished-gray wings—
The world rests…

Has God forsaken you—?
To grief and pain:
To love the sparrow instead?

Are you not the largest of the perching birds?
Crowned with a grayish hood—;
Or are you just a crow…the farmers hate
(or should)…?

Your breath has left you
My feathered friend…
Too week to lift your head again?

What separates you from man?
Is it the sky and land?
Or the road each must go?
Each unto his own…!

It seems to me,
Life’s a test for you as well?
But man must ponder on,
And Reason.

What is the question you ask?
I see, within the stare
Of your silent dark eyes:

“Who are these masters who rule the land—?
Give back to me the sky!”

However,--will you fly again?
Touch the heavens?
Light your wings on fire
From the scorching sun?
Glide with the wind until dawn?

You are the mystery that cries
Within…but then, you are not made in His Image,
My Friend…!

A Devil's Fate (A short Story)

A Devil’s Fate


People don’t choose their fears—
Their jealousies, envies and hates, they do. dlsiluk


Part I

Island of Semyaz



Semyaz is intimately related to the so-called ‘Old One’s,’ the ones who vanished before the dawn of man’s contemporary civilization. He vanished before man’s written history of course, yet he did survive the surprised attack of Ura’el the holy angel sent by God to bind, hand and feet of Semvaza and Azaz’el, the two angelic leaders, and bury them in a hole in the desert, and put unmovable rocks on top of them. And so this was done, for their sins were great in the eyes of God: they had both defiled themselves with the daughters of the earth, lay together with them, as they gave birth to giants sons who brought blood and oppression among the earth, thus, they were killed as well, in good time (the Giants).
Semyaz liked power as well as Azaz’el, and was given such power over his companions now, the ones Semvaza and Azaz’el commanded, yet this angelic beast, with the group of two hundred renegade angels was discontent.
As I was about to say, Ura’el when he came down from the heavens and chained Azaz’el under rocks and earth, Semyaz was vanished to a far off island in the Pacific; vanished to an island that now bared his name, vanished because he was discontent and perused like Azaz’el the flesh of the earth, thereafter; yet, Semyaz along with his accomplice who both taught incantations and the cutting of roots in addition to other sins, unto earth’s early inhabitants, he ruled with a club in hand, now only a lonely island was his domain. And so we are back on earth.
—Semyaz was given an island of his own to live on for the rest of human history, until the ‘End of Day’s’. But there was a problem, an irritating one at best, the island sunk into the deep of the sea during the day light, and at night it would rise to face the moon, and its surrounding constellations. A most tired some ongoing event, for the prisoner.
“Understand,” said Semyaz, with a harsh vile to his voice, as he spoke to the emptiness of the night, “Understand!” he shouted to the heavens with his hands thrust into, and up-to the heavens:
“Understand, whom ever enters my island they will be subject to me, I will destroy them,” he shouted at God these very words, and as he shouted he chanted the name: ‘Ura’el;’ yes, O yes, bellowing to God as if he was daring Him for a challenge, one that would be on an equal footing. Theretofore, he went about administrating to his unholy ground in solitude, his four-archer spot in the Galapagos.

Each evening Semyaz, as the island surfaced from several fathoms below the water, akin to a sunken ship, he could be seen [if one was looking] sitting on his throne, a huge rock shaped into one anyway, facing the moon. There was an abundance of time to think, and so he’d face the foliage around him, the creatures that crawled here and there, and the movement of the sky and talk, command as if someone was listening, as if he had an audience. He thought about the abyss, his old comrades were in, ‘… nasty fate…’ he’d say. But it was getting old, that is, hashing over the same issues, complaints; looking century after century in the sky as if it was God’s eye; looking at the same constellations; the humdrum of life was upon his mind and shoulders. ‘Could things get worse…’ he’d say, with doubt in his mind—perhaps.
Semyaz, new life would never return to him, in which he knew, that is to say, life as it once was before; life in the Pre-Satanic era, when Lucifer was the welcomed ruler of earth, before the cursed rebellion, before man came to populate the world. Even before the Moirommalit’s were heard of.
For the most part, Semyaz was a tall and hard muscled fallen angelic being, at one time a handsome looking brut for an angel, or so many had commented; now he was far removed from it; he was the reverse, tall and thin, and watered down looking, like a sponge, wrinkled by a thousand-years of being dunked in and out of the water, now an old man very old looking man; thin haired, and webbed feet, greenish skin, and large bug eyes. He had become part of his landscape you might say. He even had gills, all the ingredients to live in the sea, and a mammal touch to live on land amongst the earth creatures. And still there were slight orbs within his being that gave out a convinced current-wave—if you will, that he was once a supernatural living thing: all wrapped-up in a twisted package now.
It was seldom if ever, humanoids came upon his island, and when they did, it was during the day, and as the island sank, they’d be gone, making his revengeful heart even more infectious to those around him, meaning he could not displace his anger as willed; being a demonic plant-life creature now. Annoyed and disturbed as I was saying, he was, no matter what eventuation took place; no matter how comforted he was, no matter how much he wanted to leave the island for boredom sake, he never left the island in fear he’d defile himself again, and be cast into utter darkness. Even pleasures that once obsessed his mind, now diminished to a small dribble of water, sprinkled his mind; nothing in comparisons to how it used to be (and how it used to be is nondescript). Yet he pitied himself horridly—with his stricken face, his constant defensive rigid body posture. ‘Oh yes,’ he told himself, he had a right for pleasure, just as much as anyone should have, but he took too many liberties before, when he was not being restrained, and was paying the price now.



Part II

The Visitation

Semyaz looked up from his throne, cursed heaven again, as he had done almost daily for a number of millenniums, did his sound incantations, shouting spells into the night’s air as if to call on the Greek god’s of old, which he was one of them at one time, as a result, he was worshiping himself in essence.
The inky dark night was especially haughty this evening, even for him, as he felt his skin quiver (it was twilight), caused by a premonition possibly, one of the so called ‘Old Ones,’ ghostly haughty was approaching; ‘…if not…?’ he told himself, something was different, something in the makings [demonic-peculiarity he called it). The shadows in the face of the sky seemed to have scars, tares; and these faces seemed to be making faces back at him as he looked up, demonic faces; drifting faces, so he noticed as he checked out one detail to another. It was drifting from downward by another island beyond his; from the big island some ways off, so far he could only see it as a shadowy mist; it was coming to his tiny inundated island.
‘What is it?’ he mumbled, while, squinting his eyes at the dark blisters lit faces within the hollow of the night clouds; reflections, moonlight reflections, showed the faces becoming thicker. Who were these faces of, they all looked familiar. Odd he thought, very anomalous. The longer he stared the more he could see the face of Azaz’el, his old angelic friend, and possible Buer and Gusoyn, the hermits of the big island beyond his, demonic creatures. They were at one time Agaliarept’s henchmen of the underworld; they both turned into demons after the Pre-Satanic era came to an end (prior to the time of Adam). They were at one time shopkeepers, and builders of cities, sadly, now deformed; one was handsome with blond hair, the other like a stuffed penguin—his belly overlapping to where he could not see his feet. He farted so much he could have played the flute.
They had vulgar features—in person and in the configurations in the night’s emotional sky. ‘But Azaz’el is…’ he wanted to say dead, but it would have been the wrong word, such creatures like he and Azaz’el do not die, ‘…buried alive,’ yes, that flooded his cerebellum for the moment, but not dead. Then approximating, Buer manifested himself by his side.
‘A surprised visit,’ said Semyaz to Buer, adding, ‘How come I can see Azaz’el’ in the ghostly arrangement in the smoke-like clouds?’
‘Alas,’ said Buer, ‘I think he may have escaped from his incarcerated environment… (a long pause took place as Semyaz stared at Buer] and, and….”
‘And what Buer?’ said [freakishly] to Semyaz.
‘Well, I hate to tell you but I will he is doing what he does best, cohabitating with one of his natives on the big island.’
There was a long, very long silence in the dialogue. It was an unbelievable statement, yet, possible thought Semyaz: or so he told himself, trying to convince him it was possible, but how, he was buried by an archangel?
[Mental deliberation] Yes, possible, but not likely, he tossed inside his brain a second time, yet reasonable, but not practical. Yet, it would be like him, he told himself, like him, if he was free from his shackles; very much like him he repeated within his thoughts, should he had gained his freedom, he would surely be testing his liberties with human flesh again—that goes with out saying; the very thing that got him in trouble in the first place; actually, that was the very thing that got both of them into this mess.
After an hour of quiet pondering inside his skull, he told Buer, ‘Yes, inevitable, it would be inevitable; anything for pleasures sake, that is exactly him, right to the core, yes, O yes.’ The more he paced back and forth from the rock which was his throne to the ocean front, then back to the foliage of the jungle where Buer was standing [a flat affect of his face], he was becoming more frustrated: ‘…how could this be…’ he pondered, ‘why does he get to escape and have pleasures as he pleases, and ‘I am stuck here,’ unfair was shifting back between his mind and his stomach, down to the center of emotions in his bowels.
‘I assure you my friend, Semyaz, he was there a moment ago, with Innina-Anu, princess of the island, and most beautiful, he was laying with her, laying naked, flesh and blood to his monstrous body,’ said Buer with an antagonizing and jeering voice.
‘Brother Buer,’ said Semyaz with a slight exhausted stare, ‘where is Gusoyn, your companion of sorts?’ For some odd reason, it just occurred to Semyaz to ask, for it seemed they both were always together, like two peas in a pod.
‘Oh! (he said with a jerk to his throat, trying to clear it) he is watching them make love.’ This aroused Semyaz even more: with desire, hate, envy and jealously all twisted in knots inside his guts now, to no bounds. It was all too hard to digest, his eyes started to turn burning red like a great apes; horror belled out of his nostrils, red with envy: anger nesting in his every thought. His viper tongue now slid out, over and down his jaw—shuddering like a snake with forty eyes wondering whom to attack; he looked like a vampire in heat, bloodthirsty, and wanted revenge; and anyone, and I mean anyone would do, would do right this minute. As hungry as he was for pleasure, or revenge, it was envy that got him; he wanted what his old friend had, which was his friend’s mate, envy yes, but envy with having the same rights he had, for they both committed the same sin, the same crime. Ah yes! When it is our turn for justice, we want it fair and square; but when we give it, we could careless—injustice prevails. He was acting like a mongoose after a snake: shaking his head almost in a 360-degress angle, and pounding his feet on the ground like a mad bull. Buer got a little fearful, him being on Semyaz’s island, and he having all the power there, he was just about to leave when Semyaz grabbed him: ‘Take me to them…!’ he commanded. For he had heard that the beauty of the princess’ flesh, was like polished glowing gold, fresh with a perfect scent —and her curves were precision made; breasts that filled everyman’s desires, and her sweet, sweet thighs, were like a crimson toned rainbow, tantalizing just to look at.
He now was telling himself he’d take her, and boy would he take her—and drain her until she was completely his, crush her body if she resisted; yes, he would take her away from Azaz’el, whom was the fallen leader and had so many times before [with him] raped and tore children away from their parents and used them as parts to his love machine, whomever he wanted he took, be it daughter, wife, mother or child. His mind now was working overtime, he had come to the conclusion, he would take her away from this so called ex-colleague of his, who put his curse on him, or better put, he was the cause he was cursed in the first place, or so he told himself; thus he would do as he would do, what he had planned now in his head, if Azaz’el could escape, why couldn’t he. Maybe God had forgotten his spell he put on him and Azaz’el. This would be a protest, should he need to have one after the fact—‘Yes, yes,’ he thought, a protest to God Himself: after he had his pleasure and revenge. Plus, Azaz’el was simply trying to intimidate him with his shadowy face in the night sky—kind of a show off thing, knowing he was stranded on this dreadful pathetic, lonely island in the Pacific, but he’d show him soon.




Part III


The Surprise

With the lust of a madman, and the hateful furry of a bull he grabbed Buer tighter and swifter than a shark, they were leaping over solid ground and water in spite of their dimensions, and were on the big island within a few minutes.
Bellowed Semyaz with a smug face: ‘I will make him share her!’
Buer looked at him hesitantly, added, ‘He wasn’t there when I left, but it is possible, he did return, if so than what? (It had been a few hours now since Buer had left the big island.)
‘Yes, yes, but he’ll be back, and when he comes he will face the consequences.’ Buer smiled.
Quickly, not to anger Semyaz, Buer took him to the Princess’ abode, there in a canopy bed she lay, naked, her breasts covered by her arms, her legs slightly opened, her smooth stomach exposed to his inquisitive eyes and thirsty mind. They both stood in the arc of the doorway drawling as if they were beasts ready for the kill. Semyaz noticed Azaz’el wasn’t there, ‘Aye, yes that is great,’ he whispered under his breath. Then all of a sudden she woke, looked about whispered in a comforting and feministic voice, a luring voice: ‘Is that you, is that you my sweet, my Azaz’el?’
Semyaz, now assured Azaz’el was gone for the moment, stepped out and forward bravely from the archway, as Buer remained standing back, just where he was before, behind Semyaz, and in back of the arch. He stepped slowly to her bed, she looked frightened: her eyes opened wide, ‘Azaz’el, have you changed forms?’ she asked, for she had never seen Semyaz, she concluded; Semyaz wanted to say yes, but he had too much anger inside, and revoltingly said ‘No! I am Semyaz, and you will contain my child, and without hesitation, he jumped on the bed, and entered her by force.
She did not fight, so noticed Semyaz, not as he expected her to anyhow, as he would have expected her to had she been his old friend’s lover, or should someone take from him what was his, he would hope she’d fight, but she didn’t and that was on one hand good, on the other a bit nervy. He pondered this, as he was still inside of her, adding: “…why does she not fight, or say: ‘Azaz’el will revenge me?’ This kept going in his mind, as he remained mounted, and almost broke her spine, on the bed.
Then Semyaz looked behind him, and Buer was gone, he could be heard in the hallway though, talking to someone. ‘Aw,’ moaned Semyaz, ‘it must be my enemy Azaz’el.’ Then as he pulled himself out of her, she covered herself up—jumped out of bed as she sat in a thin wooden chair not far from the canopy-bed, somewhat trying to hide under some covers, as if a fight was about to take place. As if to protect her from what was coming. Then a shock came, a huge figure stood outside the archway, but it wasn’t Azaz’el: mortified, he looked closer, then at the covered princess, whom said with a pathetic tone, ‘Ura’el-lllllllllllllllllllllll-!!!!!!!!!!!!’ He knew now he was to be taken to the pit, the abyss, or possibly to be thrown under rocks and bound like Azaz’el was. As Ura’el stepped in closer, Semyaz knew he could not escape, no one escaped from Ura’el, no one at all, ‘I’ll go without force should you tell me what I want to know?’ knowing he’d have to go anyway, but he was hoping Ura’el would weigh the moment and save his energy for another battle, and tell him what he wanted to know.
And so Ura’el gave him his word he’d tell him, once he was bound and tied with chains, and his word was beyond reproach, not as Semyaz’ was. Then as he cast him down into the upper part of the pit, and just before he was to toss him lower into the abyss’ darkness, he explained: ‘The echoes of Azaz’el’ revenge was heard by Buer, and he made a deal with Buer and Gusoyn, who made a deal with the princess to entice you off your island, to again defile yourself, and thus, end up with the same punishment, the same fate he was now suffering, thus, he knew your weakness, and wanted company.’
Said Semyaz, ‘You mean to tell me, Azaz’el is still buried?’
‘Yes,’ responded Ura’el.
‘And what was the cost of this to Azaz’el?’
The princess would gain the treasure, for demonic beings have no use for them, but she would be their slave sexually. And so you see, your bellowing to the Most High was not only heard by Him, but by your archenemy.


Semyaz Meets Azaz’el in the Pit

And there his sarcophagus drifts
Beneath the towering abyss cliffs
Stretching out of the dark deep
(With all its weight, sealing his fate),
No light, —no day, only binding chains.
Lost, forgotten in the sands density…

Where no travelers have yet been
No roads or skies to befriend
Faceless skeletons, silent voices
They all embrace in this veil of dark
Embrace, by looks: face-to-face
Hungry, to fill the emptiness of space.


[As Semyaz meets Azaz’el]

The Tic TAC Toe Man (a Suspense sketch)

The Tic TAC Toe Man


I once owned a hotel with a big lounge in it, I was kind of a stickling person (or stubborn about who came in, and perhaps annoyed with trivial matters), during this period of time in my life. Having said that, one day a man come in that really got my goat, he was about six foot three inches tall, perhaps 220-pounds, with a balled head. As I stared at the man, now sitting in my lounge chair, legs spread out on the carpet, as if he owned the place, I noticed a drawing on his head, right in the middle of it, it covered the whole top of his head, everyone, could see it, if indeed they were looking his way.
Anyhow, this fellow annoyed me, and if you can’t figure it out, I can’t figure you out; because I believed at the time, he should annoy anyone if not everyone, and so I still feel (yet I learned a lesson here); if it wasn’t my place perhaps I’d feel differently. Now that this happening is history, I get thinking: what if I had just left this alone, you know, not let it bother me, just overlooked it, and said, hell with the trivial matters, let it go, he’ll go away. But you know, that was not me, so although I can say that now, then I couldn’t. And if that joker came back into my new hotel, the one I no longer have, I’d do the same thing, some fifteen years later.
So here we are, I am looking at this deadbeat, and he is looking at me, and on his head was this Tic TAC Toe (or Michi in Spanish) game outline, that had all the X’s and O’s, marked in, except for one, and if he put a zero in it, he’d win, if he put an x in it, not sure what that would mean, but it would not be three zeros in a line, so I assume he’d lose. Well at this point it wasn’t the case. And I said, “Mister, you are not a hotel guest here, so get out of my hotel lobby.” I was not kind, nor did I have a soft voice, and he said, “It’s a public place,” and I said, “No, it is my place, my hotel, and get out of here now.”
I even tried to pull him up, and he almost laughed in my face. It didn’t work. And he wouldn’t leave. So I went to the next level, called the police, and they did there job for once, and kicked him out of my lobby.
It was now evening and he came back, I saw him coming from the parking lot. He came in, this time the “O” was filled in on his head, so I suppose he was feeling good, he perhaps won the game according to the graphic on his skin-skull anyway, he came right up to me, asked me, “Now what are you going to do about it?” He even insulted me. And I killed him with my 38 special…and the police said in court, “He used me, he was looking for someone to do his dirty work: he wanted to commit suicide.”
But I had lots of money, so I didn’t even get a mark on my record; actually I got an accommodation indicating how brave I was under the circumstances, for he had a record as long as his long stretched out legs.

(DM) 6-3-2007

Lifeless? (a short sketch of a story)

Lifeless?

I asked her—“Do you want to go to Peru?” I knew it would be troublesome with her condition, her asthma (as with her allergies, and other symptoms of respiratory; she had smoked cigarettes for 40-years, stopped some 17-years prior) it was getting bad, in any case, she was not walking well either, but I together was years ago, now I had ask her, at 83-years old. The last real vacation we had been on perhaps was back around 1992 or ’93; oh I took her out to the nearby town-let called St. Croix, but that was just a small trip, and to Bayfield, Wisconsin in 1994, about 200-miles from St. Paul, Minnesota (I paid her way to Las Vegas in 1996, but couldn’t go with her, so it wasn’t the same), but this was to her and I not a trip like going to Mexico, or Jamaica, Las Vegas (which we went to several times in the ‘90s). We had fun in Jamaica, in Las Vegas, the last few times she didn’t want to move too much; and Mexico was out of the question, we laughed about our first and last trip there, when the waiter tried to tell us bologna was their style of ham in Mexico, so they could charge us a few more dollars for Ham, and when we ordered the collocate cake in Puerto Vallarta, back in 1985, it was hard as a rock but somehow they convinced us we had to take it, or leave it, but pay for it.
So I felt I had to take her, we had to go, time was of the essence, I’d never get the chance again—I told myself, plus we could I figured out how to do it on the way, take a wheelchair wherever we went perhaps; somehow, someway we could do it. Show her just the city of Lima, no need to go elsewhere, like in the mountains or jungles. Just stay close to our home and show her some museums, and casinos.
“Ok, yes, yes…” she said as if in an exuberant and hasty excitement. It was the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. Then this moment went by, I WAS FRANTIC AND TOLD HER, “Mom I called up an old friend of yours, she wasn’t home, and I got a voice message of yours saying, “…I’ll see you later.” Mom didn’t look at me then, and soon after everything started to fade, like melting ice-cream on a hot summer’s day. Then I opened my eyes, rubbing them, it was a dream, but so real, then it occurred to me, Mom’s been dead going on four years next month.

Note: (DM) 6-3-2007 (a sketch of a story)