mspigman

[mspigman]

OK yall so this is part of the VERY rough draft of me first web comic script I'm still trying to learn the format and figure out how much I can do in a single panel and what not and I was looking over it and wondering if it would be better to cut out the beginning narration and panels? like cut the panels with her and her husband at the ball and just start when at the panel where she is at his study?

Bc i feel like that could do better at the showing and not telling

[mspigman]

my story exceprt

     The first time Meztli entered the wing enshrined for La Gran Dama, she was startled awake from a nightmare about a large bear. She dreamt that she encountered the large black beast in the middle of a forest. She did not know the woods or how she had gotten there, and before she had sufficient time to adapt to her surroundings, the bear locked eyes with her. The animal began moving towards her and Meztil knew she had to run. To her horror, she found that her feet would not lift from the ground. She felt frozen in place, paralyzed even as the bear continued to stalk toward her, its yellow eyes never off of her. 

     The closer the bear got the more desperate she was to get herself to move. But it was in vain, as the bear eventually stood in front of her, extending itself to its full height. All the while her legs did not - would not - move. The giant beast began to swing its large paws and Meztli started to think it would maul her face when the bear suddenly threw its head back and let out a deep, agonizing roar. 

     Meztli had never heard such a harrowing sound before. It was a loud, resonant moan that chilled her to her very spine.  The bear sounded like it was in excruciating pain, which became more evident as it began to huff and grunt in distress. The black bear paced in agony, letting out harsh, guttural moans that made it almost sound human, and all the while it continued to stare at Meztli. It would pant and yelp, and Meztli couldn’t help but feel a profound sympathy for the creature, watching as it stared at her in anguish. The bear, which once stared at her to attack, now looked at her in utter helplessness. Its yellow eyes were begging her for help, pleading with her to end its suffering. And Meztli wished she could give the animal what it wanted but she could not. She tried reaching out to the suffering animal, but she was still stuck in place. Her legs were stubborn and they wished not to cooperate. The bear, frustrated by its pain and perhaps mistaking Meztli’s paralyzation for indifference to its torment, became aggressive with her. It swung its paws at her again, slowly, and methodically. Its giant, sharp claws just inches from her face. This time, Meztli did not fear the animal. Somehow she knew that in its agony it could not harm her. Suddenly the bear threw its head back again and let out a loud, painful, tortuous, roar.

     It was then that Meztli was startled awake. She panted heavily as her eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness of her small room. Her neck was sticky with sweat, and her heart and body still felt erratic because of the dream. Breathing heavily, she tried closing her eyes in an attempt to settle down back to sleep, when she heard a deep scream coming from one of the rooms. Her eyes shot open and she lifted her head, waiting to see if she had truly heard the sound of someone screaming. The screaming quieted, but they were followed by the sounds of painful grunts and moans, so she lept out of bed, realizing that she must have been hearing these sounds in her dreams as she slept and there was someone in this wing of the manor in pain.

     She put a coat over her nightgown and when she opened her bedroom door everything became quiet again. Still, she waited at the threshold, not fully convinced that all was settling. 

     “Dios.. Santo!” She heard someone cry out angrily, followed by ragged, shallow gasps of breath.

     She hurried down the hall, guided by the sounds of moaning and grunting the poor soul in distress was making. It did not take long for her to reach the outside of Don Rafael’s room. She hesitated at the door, unsure of whether she should knock first or barge in, but that hesitation only lasted a moment before she heard him let out a guttural groan and she entered without another delay.

     When she entered she immediately turned on the lights. She found Don Rafael in his bed, hair disheveled, blankets strewn over the floor, clutching his knee.

     He turned to her and his eyes grew wild, “What are you doing here?” He asked in Spanish through gritted teeth.

     “Nōcōcohuitlī,” she replied in Nahuatl, affirming his state of pain.

     “It’s nothing,” he said bitterly, “It’s my knee. It - it acts up sometimes.”

     Don Rafael winced in pain and Meztli knew she had to do something, “Yo te ayudo,” she said, mustering up the courage to offer her help in Spanish, “Just tell me what you need. I’ll help you.” 

     “No, I don’t want help. Not yours,” He gulped down the next spasm of pain before turning to her, “Lárgate!” He ordered her to get out.

     Meztli stood for a moment, debating on whether she should listen to him or not when he suddenly threw his head back and screamed in pain. In his anguish, he looked at her, his eyes pleading with her to help. His brown eyes had the same look as the black bear from her dream and she felt that he was indeed the animal desperately trying to reach out to her through her dreams.

     Meztli marched to his wash table, filled the basin with water, and wet his washcloth. She took the damp cloth and went over to his bedside, wiping his forehead that was riddled with sweat.

     “I’ll help you,” she told repeated more firmly in Spanish, “Just tell me what to do. I will help you.”

     Don Rafael moaned, “Why you? Why did it have to be you? Why hasn’t anyone else woken up yet?” Meztli tried not to be offended at the implications of his words as she continued cleaning his face, her eyes fixed on the rag, trying to ignore the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped as she moved the rag from behind his ear to his neck. “Alright,” he said eventually, “Alright. There’s… there’s a wheelchair in my closet. Bring it here.”

     Meztli nodded, put the cloth in her coat pocket, and brought out the chair. She placed it alongside his bed and Don Rafael gingerly got out of bed and into the chair. When he sat down he let out a few labored breaths, clutching onto his knee again.

     “Medico?” Meztli asked him.

     He shook his head vehemently, “No, no. Take - take me to the east wing.”

     The east wing. La Gran Dama’s wing. The place she had once been told she couldn’t enter. She couldn’t possibly understand what would be in that part of the manor that would aid him, but she obliged nonetheless.  

     Meztli thrust open the large double doors of La Gran Dama’s wing and wheeled Don Rafael inside. It was a large bedroom. There was a large four-poster canopy bed, a beautiful cream-colored Frech-style vanity, and a large, artisan writing desk. 

     Don Rafael suddenly cried out in pain, “The desk,” he mumbled out, “Take me to the desk. Quick!”  Meztli did as she was told, sitting him alongside the desk. “Look in that drawer. There’s a box. Bring it to me.” He motioned to the wide drawer in the center of the desk.

     Meztli nodded, opened the drawer, and found a redwood burl box. She handed the box to Don Rafael. She watched as he took out a brown tourniquet with shaky hands. He hurried to roll up the sleeve of his nightshirt. As he did Meztli noticed small, purple bruises on his forearm. He tightened the tourniquet above the bruises he nodded to the box, “You’re… you’re going to have to inject me.”

     Meztli grabbed the box and saw there was a tiny glass bottle that was nearly empty of a clear liquid, a needle and syringe. She took out the tiny bottle, “Sir,” she said hesitantly.

     “Hurry,” Don Rafael pleaded, “Just do it.”

     “But, sir,” Meztli tried again.

     “It’s - it’s alright. It’s for the pain. That’s all it is. It’s for the pain.” Though he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as Meztli.

     “But, sir -”

     “What,” Don Rafael interjected loudly, his patience worn, “You said you would help me. Hurry and fill the syringe. It’s an order.”

     “Sir. The bottle. It’s practically empty.” 

     “What?” Don Rafael barked, snatching the box from her hands. He looked inside and his eyes grew wide in anger, “Puta madre!” He cursed through his teeth, smashing the box on the floor. His anger seemed to exacerbate his pain, as he threw his head back, groaned, and took deep, long breaths to steady himself. He undid the tourniquet and tossed it on the floor.

     Don Rafael closed his eyes then, continuing the slow, deep breaths, and Meztli started to think he was falling asleep, when suddenly he gulped, “Alright,” he said in a hoarse voice, “Go wake up Juan. Send him to get Dr. Castillo. Do it quickly. I need… I need the medicine. Fast.”

     Meztli nodded and rushed back to main wing of the manor. She was quick to wake Juan up and send him. In that time Francisca had also woken up. Upon learning the situation from Meztli, she went to the kitchen to make tea. It struck Meztli that neither her nor Juan had had a real sense of urgency about what was going on.

     “Where is that damn doctor?!” Don Rafael yelled out, pulling Meztli from her thoughts. She rushed back to the east wing and informed him that the doctor had been sent for, and Francisca would be up with tea soon.

     “Always tea,” he said bitterly, “As if that’ll help the pain. Could at least bring a man a - a stiff drink.” 

     He sighed and leaned his head back against the chair. He gulped and took deep, shaky breaths. Meztli was at a loss of what to do, or how to help him, so she did the only thing she felt she could do.  She took out his washcloth from her pocket and quietly started wiping his face again.

     “Don’t,” he said hoarsely, not opening his eyes, “You shouldn’t be here anymore. Go back to your room. Try to sleep.”

     Without thinking and without care for propriety she grabbed his hand, “I’m staying,” she told him resolutely.

     Only then did he open his eyes, and they had the same pleading expression in them of the black bear from her dream, “Don’t. Don’t touch me. Please.”

     The double doors of the east wing were opened and Meztli immediately dropped her hand. 

     “Tea,” Francisca said, putting down a silver tray with a kettle and tea cup.

     “Leave it on the table, Paquita.”

     She did as she was told and informed Don Rafael that she had heard Dr. Castillo’s vehicle a moment ago, and that she would go down to meet it. 

     When the older woman left Meztli poured Don Rafael a cup of tea. He tried grabbing it but his hands were shaky. Meztli lifted the cup to his lips, staring at each other as she did so.

     Juan, Dr. Castillo, and Francisca then entered the room.

     “Well,” Dr. Castillo said, “Rafa, seems you found a good nurse. You certainly look like you’re in good hands.” He bellowed out a laugh. 

     Dr. Castillo was about the same age as the Don with brown curly hair and a clean shaven face. From the way they spoke causally to each other it appeared to Meztli that they had been friends for a very long time.

     “Eugenio,” Don Rafael said, “At last. It’s - it’s my knee. I need - I need the medicine.”

     Dr. Castillo’s face suddenly turned grim, “Your knee, huh? Seems to me you’re knee’s been giving you lots of trouble recently, Rafa. And more frequently, too.”

     “I didn’t call you out here to hear a lecture, Eugenio. I just - I just need a dose. One dose. And then we all be on our way.”

     Dr. Castillo let out a deep, exasperated sigh but nodded. 

     The doctor moved toward him when Don Rafael looked to Meztli and put his hand up, “Wait,” he said, “Juan take - take Soledad back to her room.”

     Juan put his hands gently on Meztli’s shoulder’s to lead her away when Don Rafael suddenly called to him.

     “Yes, Sir?”

     Don Rafael motioned with his fingers for Juan to approach him, and Meztli pretended not to hear him whisper to Juan, “Make sure she never enters this wing again. Do you understand? I almost - I almost made her inject me herself. I don’t - I don’t want her to see me like this again.”

     “Understood, Don Rafa,” Juan gently led her away, “Come along, Maria Soledad.” 

     Meztli glanced at Don Rafael and saw the familiar tightening of his lips whenever someone used her “proper” name. She said nothing but she turned around as she left the room and the last thing she saw before Juan closed the doors to the east wing was Dr. Castillo wrapping a tourniquet around Don Rafael’s arm.

     “How much longer?” Dr. Castillo asked after Meztli was gone. “How much longer are you going to keep this up?”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Don Rafael replied coldly.

     The doctor only scoffed, “That may work on that new servant girl because she doesn’t know anything yet. But you’re not fooling anyone else. Least of all me, Rafa. How much longer are you going to go on like this? Look at this arm. Look at these marks. You’ve even got a case for this stuff.” He motioned toward the floor, where the shattered box was alongside the discarded tourniquet, empty bottle, and the needle and syringe. 

     “And what of it!” Don Rafael yelled. “It’s - it’s the only thing that helps the pain!”

     “Don’t give me that. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on here. Look at yourself. In this room that you built for her. In this house built for her. Abusing a drug that was intended to help you. You are using this old injury and your knee as a crutch. What exactly is your goal here, Rafa? What do you want? What are you trying to do? Because if you don’t stop this I can tell you exactly where you’ll be going.”

     “So what,” Don Rafael sneered.

     The doctor sighed, “So when are you going to join the living?”

     Don Rafael looked up at the doctor, his eyes enlarged and wild, like an animal that was beginning to feel cornered, “Living? Do you think I care about that? Do you think that I’m not aware of what I’m doing? Didn’t you wonder exactly why I was taking the drug here, in this room, in her room? Because this medicine is the only way I can be close to her again. I feel her ghost and spirit in every corner of this house. She haunts me day and night, but I can’t get to her. She’s everywhere I look, she’s in my dreams, but I can never reach her. She tortures me. When I’m here in this room, finally, she becomes alive again. She lives here. And that’s all that matters to me. ‘Join the living,’” he scoffed, “Let me tell you something, my life only existed when she was around. I was born the moment I laid eyes on her, and everything I am and everything I was is buried in the dirt next to her. So I don’t really care where I’ll be going, because there’s no place I can go where I’ll be with her again… except for this. So just give me the drug and leave. It’s late and I got to plan a trip to the United States soon.”

     Dr. Castillo stared at him in confusion, “The United States?” Suddenly it dawned on him, “Rafa -”

     Don Rafael interrupted, “Say one more word and I’m throwing you out for good. You’ll never be allowed to step foot inside this house again. Do you understand? Say just one more word and you won’t hear from me again until I’m finally dead and you read the obituary.”

     The two men stared menacingly at each other for a long while, each daring the other person to back down, but neither did. Eventually, Dr. Castillo sighed and took out a small bottle with a clear liquid, a needle, and a syringe. He filled the syringe with the liquid and injected it into Don Rafael’s forearm. 

     Don Rafael did not come out of La Gran Dama’s wing for three days. The servants were not perturbed by this.  Everyone would merely take turns peeking through the doors to check on him. True to his word, though, after the third day, Don Rafael informed the servants that he would be going on a trip and would be leaving later that day. Meztli was confused by this, given the pain he had been in, and judging by the dark circles around his eyes she was certain he had not slept much since that night. She had heard Dr. Castillo leave after administering the medicine and she wanted to see how he was faring. At first, she went over to Don Rafael’s bedroom, assuming he had been brought back by the doctor or Juan. But she found his bedroom door still open and empty. She crept back to the east wing and stood in front of the doors. She thought she could hear a low voice coming from inside. She peeked inside and saw Don Rafael sitting on the cream and gold chair of the desk. The wheelchair lay abandoned on the side, he had a drink in his hand and his legs were stretched out, his head leaned back against the top rail. His eyes were closed, and Meztli thought he was finally going to sleep.

     She crept away to return to her room when his voice called out, “You’re here.” Don Rafael’s voice sounded thick and heavy as if he was fighting the urge to sleep.

     “Do you need anything, sir?” She asked him in Spanish as she entered the room.

     He was quiet for a moment before he turned to her, “Come here. Why are you so far away?”

     Meztli approached him. He looked up at her and she was shocked to see how small his dark pupils had gotten. She took the drink out of his hand and placed it on the table. 

     “Shall I assist you to your room?”

     “No,” Don Rafael said, “No. Stay with me. Why must you always try to leave me?”

     Meztli stared at him in confusion, “Sir?”

     “I want you to be with me. Please. I’m begging. Stay.”

     “Sir,” Meztli said hesitantly, “Perhaps it might be better if I get someone to help you.”

     “No,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her into him, “Don’t you see? I want you. Only you. Why can’t you see that?” His eyes were searching her face and Meztli did not understand what he was trying to find there. She was beginning to wonder if he was even seeing her at all. Suddenly he reached up and caressed her face, “God. You’re so beautiful.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

     Meztli was stunned. She was certain now that Don Rafael was not in his senses. “Sir,” she said gently, “Let me go. I’ll get someone -”

     “No,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and clinging to her, “Don’t go. Please. Don’t go. Not when I finally have you. Promise me. Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me.”

     Meztli looked down at him. He was resting his head against her stomach gazing up at her as if he were a small, frightened child. She knew she shouldn’t indulge him. She knew that he was not in his right mind and knew not what he was doing. Still, she could not refuse him, not when he appeared so small and helpless.

     “Alright,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen in his eyes, his pupils still tiny. 

     He seemed comforted by this and he nestled back into her stomach, arms still wrapped around her waist, “My darling,” he said, and Meztli could feel his warm breath on her belly button, “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. Maria Elena.”

     And there it was. The answer to all her questions. And the confirmation that he was not really speaking to her at all. It was the first time she had heard La Gran Dama’s name. None of the servants had ever spoken it before. Even Don Rafael seemed averse to using it, only referring to La Gran Dama as Her. Now she knew why. It was sacred. The way he had said her name was as if calling her brought him closer to God. Delicate. Beautiful. Meztli felt ashamed he had accidentally wasted it on her. She left him soon afterward, when he suddenly slumped in the seat and his hands dropped from her body. She knew he was not sleeping because she could see the tiny dots his pupils had become, but she also knew that his mind would continue to be far off, and the only thing he was conscious of now was the visions of the ghost of a love long since dead. 

     She wondered that morning as he prepared to leave if he would recall what had happened or if she was in trouble for returning to the east wing. She even worried that maybe her job was in jeopardy. However, he did not mention anything. He barely even looked at her as he ate breakfast and packed his bags. Even his health seemed normal. His black eyes regained their normal size and he barely needed the assistance of his cane to walk. The only time he looked at her that day was as he was getting into his car after instructing everyone on what to do around the hacienda in his absence. He glanced around at everyone and their eyes met, he held her gaze briefly before getting inside his automobile.

     When his vehicle left the servants went back to their usual tasks. Ever so often she would hear the servants talking about it in Spanish. He went back to the United States, they would say, and exchange knowing looks. Meztli could not help but be curious about what Don Rafael had to do in the United States. She wondered if he would recount stories of his business there to Juan or Francisca on his return so that they would tell her. Somehow, given the treatment he had given her on his departure, she was sure she could not ask him herself.

     It was several days, nearly a couple of weeks before Don Rafael returned. Meztli was shocked by the stark contrast of his appearance. His clothes were dirty and stained with sweat. Hair was unkempt. He had dark stubble around his face, and dark circles around his eyes that made it evident he hadn’t slept much, if at all, in all the time. 

     He did not say a word to anyone as he entered the manor. He simply walked past everyone and headed straight for the east wing. His manners and appearance did not phase anyone. 

     “Well,” Francisca said with a sigh, “At least he’s in better shape this time.”

     “His pupils are still the normal size.” Juan agreed. “Which means he might only be drunk.”

     Francisca nodded, “I’ll bring him some coffee to be sure.”

     Francisca brought up the coffee and Meztli tried going about her work as usual. However, when she would pass by La Gran Dama’s wing, she could hear him inside. Sometimes he sounded as if he was speaking to someone, sometimes he sounded as if he was pacing back and forth through the room. She could envision him in there like the black bear of her dream; anxious, stressed, and aggravated. This lasted for days, until suddenly it stopped and the room fell dead silent. The abruptness of the silence concerned Meztli and she wondered if Don Rafael was alright. 

     She attempted to creep into the room, creaking open the doors and saw through the slit Don Rafael laying on the floor face down. 

     “Don Rafael!” She could not help but cry out.

     She was moments from rushing to him, when suddenly Juan pulled her away and closed the door.

     “Leave him, Soledad,” he said in Nahuatl with a gentle smile, “It’s alright. He’s just sleeping.”

     “But he’s on the floor,” she replied in their language.

      “He’s just resting it off. Don’t worry. The worst is over. Come.” He gently pulled her away.

     It took a few days for Don Rafael to wake up from that slumber. Those days were harrowing to Meztli, and she preferred the sound of his pacing like a caged animal to the silence they had to endure. During his sleep, the rest of the servants accommodated him by being as quiet as possible during their work. Even the dogs he kept in a separate wing of the hacienda knew to be quiet when they were outside near the east wing. It was as if he were forcing the entire house itself to join him in a type of sleepwalking.

[mspigman]

NEW VALLE LOZANO

AND I'M BACK WITH A NEW STORYYYY VALLE LOZANO!! This story will be kinda different as I'm gonna break it into two parts. HOPE U ENJOY @musicrunsthroughmysoul

A Broken Clock… 

     On the very edge of Valle Lozano’s Main Street, just before the corner to head towards the residential area of town, there is a bar. It is a bar that is not really a bar but more like a small eatery that serves alcohol. It was the only place outside of the convenience store that did and was open past 8 pm. Santiago was sitting at the counter now, silently chewing on his burger and fries while musing over the newspaper clipping of Fernando. It was strange to him, this visible proof of a family member. He had stared at it until Erica was forced to close the library. He had observed it and found his face. He even detected the same mole on the very corner of his forehead, almost hidden from view behind a strand of curl. It was not hidden from Santiago because he had known where to find it, almost instinctively, as if he had always known that he looked exactly like his forefather. As if he had been told countless times how identical he was to Fernando and was already intricately familiar with the photo. He saw his face and yet he could not see himself. His whole life, Santiago had not known what it was like to come from somewhere. To recognize that a line of people had come before him, and his existence was merely a cumulation of that line. Now he had found proof of that extension, an image of where he had come from and he could not comprehend it. 

     In a way, Santiago had felt connected to Valle Lozano: two things that seemed to be dependent on the past that left them in a paralyzed state unable to move towards the future. And whose past was so blurred and riddled with holes that it was impossible to make sense of it all. Santiago had felt from the moment he arrived in Valle Lozano. He sometimes wondered if it meant that he should stay here. Perhaps that way he could make the image of the past more focused, and in that way he could come to understand it and understand himself. 

     This thought made him feel guilty. He thought of the Escarras, his adopted parents he had barely been in contact with since he arrived. How long had it been? A week? A month? Had years already passed? Santiago realized then that he hadn’t kept track. The days and nights seemed to bleed in together. Munching on his burger, he realized he couldn’t even remember if this was the first meal he had eaten that day or the last time he had gone to his sublet to sleep, or do anything else besides pour over newspapers in the library or walk about town. Santiago was suddenly hit with the bizarre sensation that he did not even know what time it was now and that he barely even looked at a clock since he came to town. He tried to remember if he had even seen one. He reasoned that he still had his phone, and there must be a clock somewhere in the library, but he could not remember having made the effort to look at it. In fact, the last time he had seen a clock at all was probably when he went to see the old Octavio house but the old, redwood grandfather clock had been broken and the face had been shattered. Santiago remembered there was a tall church tower just across from the library with a clock, but it only had markings to indicate the hours, no hands at all to actually tell the time. The tower also had bells that he had assumed chimed on the hour, but he could not recall ever having heard them.

     Santiago took a drink of his beer and looked around the eatery for the time. No clock. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. It didn’t take long for him to discover it was dead. When that happened or when the battery began to go low he could not remember. Santiago sighed and looked around for someone to ask, but he was one of two patrons still inside. There was a man whose age he could not exactly pinpoint sitting at the far end of the counter. His head was bent down and he hardly made a sound. If it had not been for the fact that he occasionally moved his arms to pick up his food and the movements of his jaw when he chewed, Santiago might have thought the man asleep. He also had not seen a waiter or cashier since he ordered. He decided it would be best for him to finish eating quickly and go back to the sublet to charge it. Perhaps then his sense of time would return.

     He quickly finshed the remainder of his meal and left money by his plate. He walked outside and found a payphone illuminated underneath a streetlight. Curious, Santiago walked over and picked up the receiver to see if it was still working. He heard the operator and dug into his pocket for change to make a much needed phone call.

     He dialed the number and smiled when he heard the familiar voice on the other line, “Hi, Mama,” Santiago greeted softly. 

     Tears welled up in his eyes as his mother excitedly greeted him back. She gently chastised him for not telling anyone of his departure and waiting so long to contact her.

     “I know, Ma. I’m sorry. I just… I had to do this, you know? I just… wanted to learn a little about myself. But… I don’t know… it feels like the more I learn, the farther I get from actually understanding anything. Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll - I’ll tell you everything once I get back. This is a strange town, though. This place… it’s got an odd way of pulling you in. No, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Why? Well, because… because I feel like I’m not done here, is all.”

     Santiago quickly changed the subject after that. He asked about his father and asked how she was. They kept up a brief conversation for a few minutes before hanging up. He put up the phone and the instant he did he heard the bells of the church tower chime. He counted them as they rang out twelve times.

     “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered aloud to himself when they stopped.

     “Don’t get your hopes up,” he heard a female voice say, “That old clock’s broken. It’s already half past midnight.” 

     Santiago was surprised to see a woman standing under the streetlight. He had not noticed her approaching and she seemed to be keenly looking at him. She was a pretty woman with large curly hair in a high bun. Santiago couldn’t help but feel she seemed familiar.

     “Sorry,” he said to her, “Did you need the phone?”

     She shook her head, “You’re Santiago, right? I’ve been hoping to see you.”

     “Me?”

     “That’s right. You’re not from here, are you?”

     “No, I’m not. But how did you know about -”

     “This is a small town,” she finished for him, “Everyone knows everything that goes on here. So you’re part of the Octavio family, huh?”

     “How did you know that?”

     “I already told you, sweetheart. There are no such things as secrets here.”

     “Well,” Santiago said, rubbing the back of his neck, “Since you’re a local, is there anything you can tell me about them? What do you know about them?”

     The woman chuckled, “Easy there now. Yeah, I know all about the Octavio’s, but there isn’t much more I can tell you. Not much more than I’ve already helped you with, anyway.”

     Santiago scrunched up his face in confusion, “I’m sorry?”

     The woman smiled, “Let’s just say… I’ve seen you in the library from time to time. I was there when you found the newspaper. Sort of gave it to you, actually.”

     He blinked at her, “Right… well… thanks for that.”

     They stood together in awkward silence, at least for Santiago, with her eyes still fixed straight on him. It took a moment before she said, “You really do look just like him. Fernando. Your old grandfather, I mean.”

     “I’m sorry, but… who are you? What exactly is it that you wanted to see me for? How do you know I look just like Fernando?”

     “Nothing much. I just wanted to give you some advice. I think it’s time you be leaving Valle Lozano. Soon.”

     “And why should I?”

     “Because this town isn’t good for you. It’s not good for anyone. You noticed, haven’t you? That being here… it’s easy to lose track of time. That’s because this place does nothing but tie you to the past. It’s like the dead soil out in the farmlands. Nothing to plant and nothing comes out of it. Or that stupid clock. Sweetheart, don’t tether yourself here. You’re not meant for that. You’re not meant for this town. You’re the future. So, finish up here and go back. And take Erica with you. She’s someone… a lot like you. She’s one of the few things meant to get out of Valle Lozano.” With that, she started to walk away. She took a few steps before she turned back to look at him, “By the way. About that broken clock. Remember that it only rings twice. Once at 12:30 am. That’s about the same time the blizzard of ‘23 started… and when your grandpa Martin kicked Ines out. And another at about 6 am, just before dawn.”

     “Why at 6 am? And how do you know that’s the time Ines left town?”

     “Honey, who do you think broke that damn clock?” The woman said as she continued walking away.

     Santiago watched as she left. He made a mental note to ask Erica who the woman could have possibly been. Santiago would come to find he did not need to ask. Because when he reached his sublet and started to charge his phone, he remembered a sudden vivid detail of when he went to the old Octavio house. He remembered when he passed by the broken mirror of Yolanda’s room he had looked down at one of the shards hanging on the frame and thought he had seen a woman out of the corner of his eye. He had ended up not seeing anyone but when he continued to look through the house he came to a room and stumbled across a locket with a miniature picture inside sitting on a nightstand. He had put it in his pocket and did not tell a soul, not even Erica, that he had taken it. When he had returned to his room that night he put the locket in his bedside drawer.

     He took it out now and opened it. There she was: the same woman he had just finished talking to. He stared at the picture long and hard. He realized she had looked familiar because she looked like a younger version of her mother. Santiago remembered thinking the same thing when he had seen her in the living room of the Octavio house with her parents, sitting for a large family portrait. At the time, Santiago had guessed they had gotten it done just before her relationship had come out, as she looked no older than eighteen. There they were, the father Martin, the mother Yolanda, and their daughter. The woman he would later find in the locket. Santiago ran his thumb across the inscription written inside. It said simply: Ines Octavio.

[mspigman]

Diamonds and Rust came on my Spotify and it led me to think of Joan Baez's cover of House of the Rising Sun and I was reminded of this idea I had about a large manor house in a fictional city inspired by New Orleans and a woman trying to escape her memories of that house. Especially when her younger sister appears to be following her footsteps. I wanted it to incorporate elements of magical realism into it and I had contemplated adding ghosts to it but I feel I've been writing too much about ghosts atp lol.

[mspigman]

VERY EXCITED FOR THIS NEXT INSTALLMENT SO I'M POSTING AN EXCERPT

A Broken Clock… 

     On the very edge of Valle Lozano’s Main Street, just before the corner to head towards the residential area of town, there is a bar. It is a bar that is not really a bar but more like a small eatery that serves alcohol. It was the only place outside of the convenience store that did and was open past 8 pm. Santiago was sitting at the counter now, silently chewing on his burger and fries while musing over the newspaper clipping of Fernando. It was strange to him, this visible proof of a family member. He had stared at it until Erica was forced to close the library. He had observed it and found his face. He even detected the same mole on the very corner of his forehead, almost hidden from view behind a strand of curl. It was not hidden from Santiago because he had known where to find it, almost instinctively, as if he had always known that he looked exactly like his forefather. As if he had been told countless times how identical he was to Fernando and was already intricately familiar with the photo. He saw his face and yet he could not see himself. His whole life, Santiago had not known what it was like to come from somewhere. To recognize that a line of people had come before him, and his existence was merely a cumulation of that line. Now he had found proof of that extension, an image of where he had come from and he could not comprehend it. 

     In a way, Santiago had felt connected to Valle Lozano: two things that seemed to be dependent on the past that left them in a paralyzed state unable to move towards the future. And whose past was so blurred and riddled with holes that it was impossible to make sense of it all. Santiago had felt from the moment he arrived in Valle Lozano. He sometimes wondered if it meant that he should stay here. Perhaps that way he could make the image of the past more focused, and in that way he could come to understand it and understand himself. 

     This thought made him feel guilty. He thought of the Escarras, his adopted parents he had barely been in contact with since he arrived. How long had it been? A week? A month? Had years already passed? Santiago realized then that he hadn’t kept track, the days and nights seemed to bleed in together. Munching on his burger, he realized he couldn’t even remember if this was the first meal he had eaten that day or the last time he had gone to his sublet to sleep, or do anything else besides pour over newspapers in the library or walk about town. It was then Santiago was hit with the bizarre sensation that he did not even know what time it was now, and that he barely even looked at a clock since he came to town. He tried to remember if he had even seen one. He reasoned that he still had his phone, and there must be a clock somewhere in the library, but he could not remember having made the effort to look at it. In fact, the last time he had seen a clock at all was probably when he went to see the old Octavio house but the old, redwood grandfather clock had been broken and the face had been shattered. Santiago remembered there was a tall church tower just across from the library with a clock, but it only had markings to indicate the hours, no hands at all to actually tell the time. The tower also had bells that he had assumed chimed on the hour, but he could not recall ever having heard them.

[mspigman]

Valle Lozano - Farmlands

Finally getting around to making a new Lozano story!! Might expand on the ending and change up the tone of it a bit but this was fun! @musicrunsthroughmysoul thank you for being a loyal reader lol hope u enjoy

     If you turn the corner on Main Street you will pass by the forgotten houses of those long since departed. And if you take the time to look at them it will be as if you could see the history of Valle Lozano itself etched on their faces. Crestfallen mansard roofs with broken and missing shingles and empty Dutch colonials with shattered windows and wooden planks for doors standing alongside the patches of discolored old ranch houses. The French and Dutch architecture the only shred of evidence of the town’s former prosperity, and they the stand among the residencies of Valle Lozano almost ashamed, like an old woman too conscious of her lost youth, or a man clinging to his final torn and moss-eaten suit - the last remainder of his spent wealth.  

     If you can stomach the pitiful state of these houses and continue along the neighborhood it will not be long before you reach the old farmlands of Valle Lozano. Here is where the real history of the town has stayed to live. A person brave enough to venture this far past Main Street to stand over the infertile soil will see nothing but cracked brown dirt lasting for acres. If one is truly courageous, one can walk the lands to see past the old Octavio woods. There they will see the weak and brittle trunks of trees that used to supply the town’s lumber, and their own eyes will see that Valle Lozano has desolation paved inside its roots and soil. It is a feeling so powerful it is enough to make that person weep with pity.

     Santiago Escarra was on the old farmlands now, having a difficult time envisioning that these lands were once the main source of economy for Valle Lozano and that his forefathers were once at the helm of it all. After discovering the newspaper in which he learned that he was Fernando Guerrero’s spitting image, he decided it was time to visit the place where all of the town’s suffering began. It was on these lands that Fernando fell in love with Ines Octavio at first sight. It was these lands that cost the town their livelihood after they were ruined in the blizzard of 1923. And it was these lands that Martin let go to waste once and for all when he lost his daughter.

     “You know,” Erica said, standing beside him, “Legend has it Martin Octavio ruined theses farms himself after Ines died.”

     “How so?”

     “Well, everyone wants to blame the blizzard, and just sheer rotten luck, but the truth is your family, that is the Octavio’s, they owned the entire town. It wouldn’t have been difficult for them to nurture the soil back. And I heard that after Ines died, he kind of, well, he was inconsolable. Went mad and just blamed the entire town for losing his daughter. So one day he just took bleach to each and every acre of farmland around. And the soil hasn’t been worth a damn thing since.”

     “That can’t be possible,” Santiago said, albeit unconvincingly, “I mean, these lands are huge. Easily over ten acres -”

     “It’s actually twenty,” Erica interjected with a nod.

     “Twenty acres. It would have taken a lot of time… and a whole hell of a lot of bleach to ruin it all. Wouldn’t the town have… stopped him?”

     “Now, I’m not saying he really did do it. I don’t know if he did. But to be honest, I don’t think anyone could have. Martin owned everything. He owned every square inch of these twenty acres. The people who grew things on this land only borrowed it from him. They would pay him to be able to grow their crops here. And for quite a pretty penny, too. Your grandfather sure knew how to collect a nice dollar. I imagine he could have gathered the entire town to watch him pour bleach over everything and it would have been tough shit for everyone.”

     Santiago let his head fall in frustration, “You know, the more I learn of him the more I’m surprised that the town didn’t, uh, go after him with torches and ptichforks.”

     Erica laughed, “Who knows, I’m sure they were tempted. But, I don’t know, maybe Martin wasn’t all bad. He was just… a man with a lot of power. For a hick ass town anyway. You know? And this place isn’t completely innocent. Tons of people treated the Octavio’s like a monarchy. In a way, it’s a shame he didn’t accept Ines’ relationship with Fernando. He was a farmer. It might have been a good thing for the family. Someone… normal. Could have made them more down to earth.”

     “Whatever happened to Fernando?”

     “You mean you haven’t heard? I guess that’s my fault. I should have told you once David mentioned him. He died probably the winter or so after Martin banished him.”

     “Banished him? Like, an actual king throwing out a peasant?”

     “Actually, yes. He was furious. Kicked his daughter out and took back the farm Fernando had been working on his whole life. He’d been working on it on his own since his dad died when he was eighteen. Which is about when he and Ines started.”

     “Martin certainly was a charming man,” Santiago said flatly.

     Erica nodded sheepishly in agreement, pausing to look at him. She stared at him long and hard, until he eventually noticed, Santiago gave her a strange look, then rubbed the back of his neck as he started to grown a bit self-concious.

     “Sorry,” Erica said as she realized what she was doing, “It’s just that I’m so surprised I didn’t notice the resemblance between you and Fernando before. I mean, to be honest, I guess I did. I thought you looked familiar when I first saw you, but now I don’t know how I ever missed it. It’s scary in a way. I grew up knowing the whole story of your family and now it’s like standing next to one of those folktales. Or like standing right next to a ghost.”

     “Do I really look that much like him?”

     “A clone. It’s funny, isn’t it? Like…. You coming here is him coming back to Valle Lozano again after all these years. Like if he wasn’t done with this town even after he died.”

     “How did anyone ever hear about what happened to him if he was banished and all?”

     “Well, that’s the kicker of it all: he died here in town. Right in that little room, in fact.” Erica said, motioning her head toward a tiny cabin that Santiago hadn’t noticed before. 

     “This one,” Santiago asked, pointing at it as he walked towards it.

     “That very one. It’s one of the few things still standing on these old acres from all those years ago.”

     “Who’s been keeping it up?”

     “No one. As far as I know.”

     “But someone has to be maintaining it. I mean, it looks pretty decent still. It even looks better than some of the houses we passed by after Main Street.”

     Erica shrugged, “What can I tell you? Welcome to Valle Lozano, kid. Some things here we can’t explain.”

     They stood together by the door of the room and halted. They stared at each other for a moment before Santiago smiled at her, “On the count of three?”

     “On three.”

     They counted and on three they opened the door together. It would be accurate to say that when they entered the cabin, Santiago couldn’t hep but feel a tinge of disappointment. It was a small but eerily clean room. Nothing in it but a bare cot. The only thing that surprised Santiago was how pristine it was. He couldn’t imagine no one took the time to care for it, especially since it was over half a century old, given by his calculations. 

     “What,” Erica asked with a bemused expression on her face, “Where you expecting to see his rotten corpse here? Or like, some decrepit Gothic room in shambles?”

     “Kinda? If I’m being honest.”

     “Well, sorry to disappoint you. But Fernando only came here to die. As pleasant as that sounds.”

     “Tell me the story.”

     “Well,” Erica breathed out as she began, “There really isn’t much of one. Martin tried hard to find his daughter, that you know, but he also tried to find Fernando. Guess he had a guilty conscious after everything. But when he found him he was already close to dying. So they made this room so he could be back on the farmlands. People think he died somewhere far away, but he didn’t. Doesn’t surprise me. You can’t ever escape this godforsaken town. Not even when you leave it, you saw that with David. You don’t even leave this place after you die.”

     “Cheerful.”

     “Sorry. Growing up here will do that to you.”

     “Do you hate this town that much?”

     “I don’t hate it,” Erica said defensively, “It’s just… it’s like this room. Small. Insignificant. Full of nothing but ghost stories. Surrounded by muddy dirt.”

     Santiago nodded, not knowing what to say or if he should agree or disagree with her. He decided to change the topic by asking about the one thing on his mind, “How is it so… clean? If no one maintains it. It looks almost new.”

     “Who knows. Maybe it’s Fernando taking care of it. Since the Haunted Gardens aren’t far off.”

     “Haunted Gardens?”

     “Another of the town’s legends. At the very end of Valle Lozano there’s a lake. It’s about the only thing still living in this whole town, and I’m including the residents. It’s surrounded by willow trees. It’s been around since before your grandpa Martin’s time. It even survived the blizzard of 1923. We like to say it’s home to fairies. The story goes that when they would met in secret Ines planted white roses to symbolize their love. And after they died their spirts would meet there. Legend says you can see them dancing together on the water on full moons along with the fairies. They say even Martin and Gemma haunt there because there’s always two monarch butterflies flying around the roses. Personally, I think it’s a bunch of bullshit. And totally unfair to your grandma Yolanda. I mean, she haunts the old family house all alone, but her cheating husband get’s to float around with his misstress for eternity?”

      “Well, when you put it that way,” Santiago said with a laugh.

     “Anyway, we should go. I’m sure Fernando’s ghost is just waiting for us to get out of here so he can clean.”

     They were crossing the threshold of the cabin, Santiago was asking her about other articles he could read about the church tower bells, with his hand on the door to close it, when they heard a small thump. They looked behind them and saw a tiny farmer’s cap on the floor.

     “No fucking way,” Erica muttered under her breath.

     “What?” Santiago asked picking up the cap.

     “That’s Fernando’s.”

     “Very funny.”

     “I’m serious. That’s his. He used to wear it on the fields. And when he would go to the Octavio’s to pay Martin. I think… he’s even wearing it in the photo from the newspaper.”

     “And it’s been here all this time?”

     “That’s the thing. It comes and goes all around these twenty acres. Sometimes here. Sometimes on a random tree trunk. I’ve never seen it before, but my dad told me he found it one time out in the fields.”

     “Maybe he’s trying to tell me something,” Santiago joked. He inspected the cap for a moment before putting it on. He watched Erica, who’s eyes gew wide as she covered her mouth in shock.

     “It’s the photo! It’s the photo from the newspaper. Oh, my god! Seriously you could pass for his twin!”

     “Here, take a picture and I’ll compare later. I’ll even pose the same way.”

     He handed Erica his phone and readied himself. He straighted his posture and looked at the camera with a serious expression on his face.

     She quickly took the photo and covered her mouth again, “It’s like hanging out with a ghost.”

     “Maybe when we go to the lake we really will.”

     Santiago was grinning, looking over the photo when a giant monarch butterfly flew in and anded on his chest. Erica and he stared at each other as the butterfly walked over his chest and settled on his shoulders. It stayed there for a moment before flying off. Santiago and Erica were quick to follow it outside and watch it fly in the direction of the old woods.

     “I wonder where it’s going.”

     “It’s going towards the lake.”

     “Erica, how far away is this lake?”

     “It’s at the very end of the property, past the old woods, so about 20 minutes. Why?”

     “Because something tells me I have to pay a visit there.”

[mspigman]

PANEL 

RORI grabs the chair and places it on the opposite end of the desk so that she is facing the portrait of KING APOLLO instead of it being behind her. She pours herself a large drink and holds it with both hands. Her elbows are propped up on the desk so her glass is covering her face except her eyes. They are glaring at the portrait. 

PANEL 

CU of the portrait.

PANEL

RORI takes a drink before leaning forward in her seat to address the portrait. 

RORI: What more do you want from me? You won. Isn't that enough? No, for you enough is never enough. 

She takes a drink. 

PANEL

SHE leans back in the chair. 

RORI: Still, you must feel pretty satisfied. You gambled away all our money, had countless affairs, and nearly everyone knew. Except me! And if that isn't the icing on the cake, you're not even here to face the consequences!

RORI throws her head back in bitter laughter.

RORI: You left me here to clean up your mess! I mean… bravo! Well played!

She claps her hands sarcastically.

PANEL

She takes a drink.

Rori: So let me ask you… what was your end goal? What was all this for?

She gestures vaguely across the room.

PANEL

RORI: Was it all just for your own amusement? Did you ever once… think of me? Was anything, anything at all… real? Did you ever once really love me?

Her eyes are brimming with tears that she wipes away. She gets up from the chair and stands in front of the fire. 

PANEL

RORI: Don’t worry, I know you won’t tell me. I’m realizing that you were a man of… many secrets. 

She looks toward the portrait.

PANEL

RORI: I just thought that in this room… this room that is so much… like you. Your space. Where you and I shared so much… I might find the real you. But maybe that doesn’t exist. 

PANEL

RORI: But since we’re here… let me confide something in you…

(INDICATE A LOW WHISPER) I. Hate. You.

PANEL

RORI: I HATE YOU! I hate you for what you’ve done, for how you betrayed our people, and I hate… I hate that you left me. Because as much as I hate you, and as mad as I am at you - and believe me I am FURIOUS at you - I hate myself most of all. Because I still love you.

PANEL  

RORI wipes away her tears and groans 

RORI: That’s right. I still love you. And I wish you were here. Isn’t that funny? You humiliated me, deceived me, have broken my heart in every conceivable way… and I’m still stupid enough to love you. 

PANEL

And… since we’re on the topic of secrets… I’m going to share one with you now. I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told anyone… Something I can barely even admit to myself.

RORI walks up to the portrait and runs her hands along it.

PANEL

RORI: (INDICATE WHISPER) I wish I had been the one to die that night. I wish it had been me and not you who that poison was meant for.

PANEL

How would that have made you feel, my love? Would you have mourned me like I’m mourning you? Would you have blamed yourself, and felt guilty about everything you hid from me?

PANEL

RORI scoffs and goes back to the table to drink from her glass.

RORI: No, knowing what I know now, you wouldn’t have cared at all. You might have even been relieved. With me dead, you wouldn’t have had to hide anything anymore. And I could have died… thinking that you loved me as much as I loved you.

PANEL

RORI: Oh, God! She falls to the floor, holding onto the edge of the desk and dropping her glass.

RORI: I can’t. I can’t. I can’t go on anymore. I can’t fix what you’ve broken. And I don’t want to. All I want is to disappear. To leave everything behind. It was easy for you, wasn’t it. WASN’T IT! 

PANEL

CU of the portrait. She stares at it with wild, bulging eyes and begins to get up slowly from the ground.

RORI(whisper): I could do it. 

RORI: Here, in this room. I know this room like the back of my hand. I know where you kept your weapons. Where you kept your gun. 

Panel

RORI(through gritted teeth): I could blow my brains out right here and now. I could splatter my blood all over this… vulgar picture. 

RORI: Would you be watching while I do it, I wonder. Would you be there… waiting for me on the other side?

PANEL

RORI: Then you don’t deserve something quick. If you really will be watching, if you’re who I’m going to meet on the way to hell, you deserve to watch me suffer. You deserve something slow, all the more to torture you with, so that when I see you again, you’ll be on your knees begging for my forgiveness. 

PANEL

RORI (TO HERSELF): ONLY HOW? HOW?!

She begins to search frantically through his desk and discovers a bottle labeled LAUDANUM.

RORI: What’s this? You’re really making this easy for me, aren’t you? I shouldn’t be surprised you have this. You were always prone to headaches in the morning. I suppose it was all those… drunken nights. Now I now how you cured them.

PANEL

RORI opens the bottle and puts it to her lips before turning back to the portrait.

CU of the portrait

PANEL

RORI: Well, then, guess I’ll be seeing you in hell.

She toasts the portrait before beginning to drink from the bottle.

END OF PAGE

[mspigman]

A Valle Lozano exceprt

Writing this short little excerpt for my next VL story bc I will be taking a TINY break from writing them. (To teach myself webcomic format and to work on other stuff!) But when I come back I will be working on the last remaining pieces - it will be this one and I BELIEVE the final story or two more at most. Hope u enjoy this little excerpt!

Stephanie Octavio's life began when she disappeared. By the age of 21, she had moved from place to place, family to family, aged out of the foster system, fallen in love, and gotten her heart broken, and still, she felt she had not begun to live until the day she stepped out of the hospital alone. She had just given birth and placed her newborn into foster care. She left a letter with him, expressing her sorrow for having to leave him behind. But she did not know if he would ever know of its existence, much less read it.

It was true she felt a great sorrow for not being able to raise him. She knew all too well what the system was like and even better still what it was to grow up without family. But she could not say she regretted it. She had no idea how to be someone's mother. When he had been born she looked down at his red, crying face, his thick brown hair that was already springing in curls, and could not think of how she could keep him alive.

She was single, having just broken up with Cameron, her long-time boyfriend. It was not an amicable parting. He had been her first love - had believed him to be her only love - but they had fought. And in that fight they both said the cruelest, most vindictive things they've ever said to each other that it took the wind out of them both. It had shocked Stephanie to her core and shifted her perception on time and love. Only a few hours before she thought they would have grown old and died together. Only the day before she would have sworn she would have died for him if he had needed it. And within such a short span of time later they had been at each other's throats and so unrelentingly cruel to one another it made her head spin to think about it.

Stephanie asked herself later on, as she walked out of the small apartment they shared if they had actually loved each other at all. Could two people who loved each other really be so cruel to each other? Is that what love was? An illusion? Something so fragile and easily tainted? Stephanie decided that if that was what love was if love could grow fangs and turn to something so vicious and murderous in a second then she would never love again.

[mspigman]

Valle Lozano - Butterfly

Took over an hour but IT'S HEREEEEEEE

Butterfly 

Gemma Solis was characterized by the number one. It was a reliable number. Her family business contained one grocery store. She had lived the entirety of her life in one single town. She couldn’t remember if she had ever stepped foot outside of Valle Lozano. It was even harder to recall if she ever even had the desire to do so. And throughout her life, she had loved only one man. She was a solitary woman, with a preference for singular things.

 She was the personification of the number one herself. Before she had passed away and the legend of her ghost came to be, one might have believed that becoming a ghost was what she was destined for. Some of the more cruel people in town said that she was like the living dead even in her youth. She just had that certain essence. Even as a young woman, in the supposed prime of her life, it was said that she did not walk through life - she glided through it, passing through like a phantom. The townspeople of Valle Lozano would joke that she could pass through walls. Some went so far as to say she had a touch of the fairy about her. Her own parents, when they were frustrated with her, would tell her she was not their child, but a child of the fairies that lived in the famous willow trees at the edge of town.

None of this affected Gemma at all. Or if it did she did not mention it. In her youth, she expressed nothing; not joy, anger, or sadness. It was as if sentiments floated through her, never fully reaching her, just like she passed through everything else, gliding as if her feet barely even touched the floor. She was someone the town could not understand and it seemed that she had no interest in if anyone did or not.

That was until she fell in love. The first time she met Martin Octavio their fathers had united in business. Her father made him partners in his grocery store and in return, the Solis family had the honor and privilege of working with the Octavio’s and connecting with Valle Lozano’s other lucrative families. Really, it was difficult to know which family got the better deal: receiving a small percentage of the profits from the store sales, or the ability to show off you were personal friends of the Octaivos during the town’s social season. Indeed, Mr. Solis truly lucked out that fine morning when Mr. Geraldo Octavio walked into his store.

Gemma and Martin were mere children then. Gemma had been standing by her father. She had been joining him at the store since she was old enough to walk and set jars on the bottom shelves. Being a solitary child, she held on to her father’s hand and dared not avert her eyes away from him. So she was unaware that Martin, who was also standing by his father, was watching her most intently. At the end of their negotiations, the fathers decided they wanted the opportunity to celebrate man to man. They ordered the children to play amongst themselves. Martin was keen on this idea. Gemma, however, was not. When her father let go of her hand, she turned her attention to Martin for the first time, and without a word went outside. As she walked out of the store Martin watched her leave and saw the unusual way she glided. It did not remind him of a ghost, or even of a beautiful fairy, but of a butterfly. 

Martin decided to follow her. He stood at the entrance of the store watching as she lazily paced back and forth on the sidewalk. He looked at her and believed that she was beautiful. He was enraptured by her movements; the slow, delicate, methodical way she carried herself. The way she looked as if at any second her small legs and arms would turn to wings and carry her to the sky. She was staring at the ground, eyes on her feet, and it seemed to Martin that she was gliding over the sidewalk to prepare for flight. He thought that she belonged up there with the birds. She seemed so dissatisfied here on the Earth. As he continued to spy on her all he could envision in his mind was butterflies and birds floating around her. It was at that moment that Martin fell in love. 

Gemma was not so quick to reciprocate his feelings. In fact, it took a while for her to even acknowledge his existence. She was so lost in her own mind, lived so often in her own world, that she was hardly able to notice anything else. It was not until one winter - on the solstice in fact - when they were teenagers that she eventually noticed him. It had been a calm, mild start to winter and the infamous blizzard of ‘23 was still over two decades away. She had been taking care of the store alone and did not hear the bell of the door chime. Martin also did not announce his entrance. Instead, he watched as she meticulously stocked the shelves. It had been many a year, since they first met as children, that he enjoyed watching her from the sidelines. It amused him. Being an Octavio, he was oft the front and center of attention. And in Valle Lozano, there was not a store that his family did not have something or other to do with. Even as a teenager, Martin could admit it was expected and that he even quite reveled in the attention. It was only when he was in the presence of Gemma that he enjoyed taking a step back and observing. Even after so many years, he found himself enthralled by her movements. He was all too aware of what was said about her. She was an oddity, she was as quiet and ghost-like, and she probably went to sleep with the fairies every evening. Martin had tried desperately to reject his feelings for her. She was the town eccentric, and a grocer’s daughter at that. His family - his father, especially - would never approve. And yet he could not tear himself aware from the sight of her. She was a short, tiny thing - another trait the townspeople used to tease her about, saying it was proof she was one of the fays - and Martin watched as she stared up at the shelves she could not reach and paused. He smiled to himself as he heard her let out a soft, barely audible, yet all too obvious, sigh of frustration. He was about to help her stock the shelves, when she slowly bent down, grabbed a can, and ever so gradually, stood on her tiptoes and reached. 

This small act took Martin’s breath away. It looked to him like a lovely, delicate, and graceful dance. It also vexed him. It seemed like every movement she made reminded him of beauty. He could not stand it. He could not stand that a mere grocer’s daughter could have such an effect on him. In his mind, he coldly thought that she wasn’t one of the fairies at all but a witch. A cruel vindictive witch who didn’t even deign to notice him after she had cast her spell. He made up his mind then that he would walk out of the store and will himself to forget her, to never linger and gaze upon her ever again. Perhaps in time this spell - or curse, as he felt it was - would fade. And yet, despite his resolution, he was powerless to avert his stare from her. He watched, begrudgingly, as she again bent down, picked up a can, and reached on her tiptoes. Martin suddenly felt as if time had stopped. Had she used her magic to stop it, or was he just that enraptured with her that he failed to perceive anything else around him?  He did not want to know. All he was sure of was that staring at her now she was the most divine thing he’d ever beheld. She made him think of butterflies again, standing there on the tip of her feet as if about to take flight. It made him curious. He wondered if she was as swift as a butterfly. If he approached her, would she dash away? If he dared to reach out a finger, could he touch her? Or would she ascend to the sky in fright?

Without thinking Martin moved to stand behind her. She still was unaware that he was there. How he did not know but he was glad. He wanted to have this moment - wanted to have her - all to himself. She had finished stocking a shelf and was moving to the very top one. This time she could not reach by extending herself. She stood there, her hand beginning to tremble from the excursion, when Martin decided to dare and touch his butterfly. He took the can from her hand and placed it easily on the shelf. It was then that Gemma turned around and faced him. Martin looked down at her and felt as if his heart would burst. She did not fly away, did not try to escape him. Instead she looked up at him,with the most dazzling pair of hazel eyes he’d ever seen, her small but plump mouth slightly open in surprise.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I did not see you. Have you been standing there long?”

“Long enough,” Martin replied, still staring at her eyes and mouth.

“What can I help you with?” Gemma said, trying to ignore the way he was looking at her. 

No one had ever stared at her so intently before. In fact, no one ever seemed to look at her at all. In this town, she was like the wind. People only acknowledged her as she moved past them and nothing more. It had never bothered her before. She liked being like the wind. She liked going unnoticed and left to her own whims. She knew what was said about her and she didn’t care. It gave her the freedom to do anything she wanted. After all, she was already strange, how much stranger could she be? But this boy, whose black eyes seemed to be eyeing into her very core, made her feel something she never had before. She felt alive. She felt as if by staring at her he had awakened her spirit. It was as if he had allowed her to step out of the wind, and into an actual being. And as strange the feeling of his eyes on her was, she was secretly thrilled by it. 

“Oh, I’m in no need of assistance. I just… wanted to see you, butterfly.”

She stared at him confused, “Butterfly? My name is Gemma.”

“I know, but would it be alright to call you that?”

“Strange but I suppose. But you said you… wanted to see me? Why?”

“Because I like looking at you.”

It was a simple but honest confession. Gemma said nothing else. She simply continued with her tasks around the store. Martin stayed nearly the entire day, just standing aside and watching her. Gemma felt his attention on her and could not bring herself to admit that she enjoyed it. Soon enough, she found herself staring at him, too. She would watch him whenever their paths met, in school, when he came with his father to talk to her father. And after some time she was even watching him in her dreams. She found he was always in close proximity and she found that she counted on it. She counted on his gaze to breathe life into her. Much like the flower that relies on the butterfly to carry their pollen, they relied on each other. She found herself dependent on his dark eyes to watch over her. And he was dependent on her very existence. He was the flower, which nourishes the butterfly but is moreso reliant on the butterfly for its survival. He knew this. He knew that he loved Gemma more than she could possibly love him but this did not bother him. 

Their relationship did not extend past these lorn, stolen glances. Gemma did not even realize she was in love with him until one fateful day in their young adulthood when she heard her father talking with his father about plans for his son’s marriage. The news shattered her heart. She had never thought of marriage before but hearing that he was to be wed made her see that she had wanted to be his bride. It was a foolish thought. As aloof and as detached from reality as she seemed she knew the way the world worked. His father would never accept her. She had no right to want to be Martin’s bride. But it had been a long time now since she spent nights away dreaming of him and longing for him beside her. He was so ingrained in her that she did not know how she could live apart from him. She could not imagine another woman beside him that wasn’t herself. Gemma realized that this was what was meant by being in love. And she felt that after he married she would never feel this way again.

Gemma avoided Martin after this for quite some time. It was months, just a short time before his wedding when he was able to catch her alone at the store.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Butterfly?’ He said to her.

She did not respond.

“What’s wrong, Butterfly? I know you’ve been avoiding me. Please. Look at me. At least that. At least look at me.”

She did as she was asked and as she stared into his black eyes she could not help but begin to cry. 

Martin walked up to her and began lightly kissing her cheek, “Oh, Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly,” he murmured in her ear.

“Please. Stop. Gemma. Call me Gemma.”

“But I’ve always called you -”

“I know. But that was before. Before you - before you got engaged.”

He looked as if he had struck her. “You know.”

“Of course I know. The whole town knows. And it’s… fine, of course. I have no right to keep you from marrying. But please. No more. No more… staring at me the way you do. No more calling me Butterfly. I cannot do it anymore.”

“Can’t do what?’

“I can’t love you anymore. Not when you will never be mine.”

“You love me, Butterfly?”

“Gemma.”

“Gemma. You love me?”

She nodded.

“Then don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. I need you.”

“I do, too. But how can we stay together when -”

“Marrying is father’s decision. Believe me if I had a choice the person I would meet at the aisle would be you. And I’m not engaged yet.”

“But you will be. And don’t you think that - that you’ll fall in love with her?”

“I’ll be… fond of her. But I won’t know her. Not in the way that I do you.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Butterfly. I know you very well. I know how beautiful you are. How every move you make is graceful and delicate. I know that you’re about the strangest woman I’ve ever met. But you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about it. I know you’re flighty and free. God, how I envy you for it. I wish I could be half as free as you. But I know how lonely you are. I see it in your eyes when you look at me. It’s like you’re pleading with me to be your friend. Who knows, maybe I only recognize it because I need a friend, too. You’re my friend Gemma. The only friend I’ve ever had. And I’m not letting you go. Not now not ever.”

“What do we do?”

“Write to me.”

And so it began. Their letters that documented the details of their affair. Letters that had remained a tight secret even decades after their respective deaths until Martin’s great-grandson Sebastian discovered them. In the year proceeding Martin’s marriage Gemma also married. Like Martin, it was decided by her father. She supposed that he desired to follow after the grand Octavio’s. She did not protest. Her relationship with Martin remained unchanged. Stolen glances, stolen moments, marked only by the scent of cinnamon and jasmine that she planted on each letter she sent him. Contrary to what Yolanda had believed when she found them, Gemma was not a striking or confident woman. She was not bold or daring. She was merely a woman in love who wanted her lover to have something to remember her by. In truth she could not even remember where or why she chose the fragrance she had. It was quite unlike her real personality.

Gemma and Martin carried on their secret affair the rest of their lives, even after Gemma gave birth to a daughter - one of David’s ancestral grandmothers. 

For years, Gemma believed that this was their destiny. To spend their lives living solely off tender, unspoken devotion. Martin had never told her he loved her - not in words, and not until his very last letter just before his death. Still, she always had faith in it. He loved her. He had breathed life into her and she would love him in the shadows forever and long after that.

The morning that Martin died Gemma woke up with an unspeakable pain in her heart. She had dreamt the night before in pitch darkness and when she woke up she felt an immense grief weighing on her. She could not understand why. Then she looked out the window and saw a beautiful monarch butterfly on her windowsill. Somehow she knew. She began to sob violently. It was as if her own life had been extinguished as well. However, she reasoned that she was not surprised by it. The loss of his daughter had taken a toll on him, and every day and every letter he seemed more closer to death. 

The day he died was the first time she felt ashamed of their relationship. She knew she could not attend the funeral. It would be too disrespectful to Yolanda. Her own husband would not allow it, either. They both knew. Gemma stared at herself in the mirror and felt like a fool, an utter fool. She had loved Martin almost her entire life. So why did she not fight for him? Why did she not convince him to leave the town with her so they could go to a place where they could be together? Why were they so okay with keeping their love in the dark? Martin had written that he was a coward. Gemma saw that they both were. And now she would not even have the privilege of being there to send the only man she’d ever given her heart a final goodbye.

It did not take long after that for Gemma to take her own life. The rumors about her ghost haunting the store were quick to follow, although the town had always said she was like a phantom anyway. She was just serving her purpose. But what the town didn’t know was that on the edge of Valle Lozano, where the small, green lake resided and where the fairies were said to live, there was a secret among the white roses that grew there. Martin’s daughter Ines had planted them in her youth as a symbol of her love for Fernando. No one knows how they still bloomed even so long after she was forced out of town by her father. But on warm spring days you can see them rustling in the breeze. You can hear the soft ripples of water that almost sound like the fairies playing music. And if one watches closely, they can find a pair of large monarch butterflies, who make their way from the respective graves of Gemma and Martin to the white flowers and fly together around the waters.

[mspigman]

Valle Lozano - Ghost on the Ceiling

I'm finally back with a new Valle Lozano story!

Ghost on the Ceiling

David Hughes could not believe he found himself outside the bounds of Valle Lozano. He always believed that it was impossible to escape. You were born there and you died there. His entire family going back generations had resided there, even after that goddamned insufferable blizzard that the town blamed everything on. It was one hundred years ago, why couldn’t anyone move on? It never made any sense to him. David lived his entire life with just one goal: getting the hell out. He hated Valle Lozano. Hated the run down stores, the withered, stranded houses, and he hated the little, insignificant people that walked through life as little more than the walking undead. There wasn’t a person in that town who wasn’t born with a sunken, wrinkled appearance etched onto their faces giving the illusion they had already given up on themselves.

Most of all, David hated the ghosts. When he was a young boy the stories of Valle Lozano’s ghosts terrified him. He felt he couldn’t pass any house without seeing the apparition of one of the town’s folklores. It didn’t help that every fall part of the season festivities was to go around with other local boys his age and sneak into the abandoned places and scare each other by pretending they were ghosts of the town’s past. As he got older, he ceased believing in the folklore or the spirits that were said to reside in Valle Lozano. As far as he was concerned, it was just another way the townspeople kept themselves miserable. That is until he saw one for himself - the apparition of his own ancestor.

He had been in high school, working at his family’s convenience store, counting down the time until he could go home. Time, he felt, that always seemed to move infinitely more slowly in this town. Sometimes, he even believed that in Valle Lozano time wasn’t just lethargic, but stopped altogether, until it even ended up going backward. When he finally was able to begin closing for the night he was struck by a peculiar notion that he was being watched. He looked up from the register, thinking that perhaps there was a last-minute customer. But he was all alone. He tried ignoring the feeling that someone was staring at him, but he recognized that his body was ready to bolt through the door. The air seemed to get significantly cooler, but he attributed that to his heightened anxiety and nervousness. When he finished counting the till, he closed it with a firm push. He realized then that while he was finishing up he never allowed himself to look up from his work. He had never been so engrossed in it before. 

With no other alternative, he looked up, and in the dim light, he saw a figure-like shadow on the ceiling. It seemed to be swinging from the high wood beams, almost like a dance - swaying back and forth, back and forth. He knew immediately what it was. It was the ghost of one of his generational grandmothers, Gemma Solaris. He had heard the story of her death, and how she had ended her life at a mature age right here in the store. He also knew of the rumors of her affair with the richest man in town, Martin Octavio, despite the fact they were both married. 

David remembered being frozen in place, almost hypnotized by the way the figure moved. It somehow reminded him of a metronome keeping rhythm. David would later swear on his life that as he stared, he began to hear clicking as it moved, paced like the beating of a heart, or the deliberate, sedate hands of a clock. But as quickly as it appeared it vanished. David’s heart rate slowly steadied, the clicking ended, and he left the store.

As he went home, he found that he did not feel fear, but dread. It was strange to him, but seeing the ghost of Gemma only affirmed one thing: He would leave this town forever. He did not want to end up like her. He did not want to live and end his life in that store, never leaving its walls even after so many generations had passed. Seeing her shadow felt as if she was telling him he was in the midst of a curse. Doomed to sway just like her across the ceiling, rocking back and forth, and hearing that clicking of the tempo until the end of time. 

From that moment on David never again set foot in that convenience store. He found other odd jobs in town without forming attachments to nothing and to no one. Except for Erica. When he met her it was the first time in his life that he felt a spark. It was as if he had finally discovered what it meant to be alive. And for three years, he believed he was happy and in love. But then on that late afternoon, as she was sitting beside him with a glass of wine, he looked over at her and was reminded of the Gemma’s ghost. And he heard it again. The metronome. Click. Click. Click. 

He realized then that in the time they had been together, he had become complacent. He continued to stare at her and realized that the time had come to leave for good. Or he’d spend his life in the same spot on the sofa, with the infernal clicking ringing in his ears.  

He broke up with her then and there and drove. He had no idea what else to do. He wanted to drive to the ends of the earth. Until he found a place where time didn’t loiter to the point that it seemed to go backward, everything frozen in the past, but where time ceased to exist altogether. Somewhere where he wouldn’t need to worry about hearing any sound ever again. But he knew that was an impossible task. Still, he continued driving. He did not know how long or how far he drove. Finally, one morning at dawn, he abruptly decided to pull over. He sat in his car and realized the farther he drove the more the sound in his mind increased. He looked out of the window and saw that the sun was beginning to set. David felt as if time, in order to catch up with him, had rushed towards him all at once, and now it was bursting through in an overwhelmingly fast pace.

 Not knowing what else to do, and with nowhere else to go, he drove and found himself back on Main Street. It was still early sunset, though if it was the same sunset or the beginning sunset of another day, he did not know. But it comforted him all the same. He was back in the place where time stood still. He knew how it worked here. It was strange, all he had ever wanted was to get away, but he never realized that life outside would bombard his senses. The noise dulled. It was then that David realized that it never fully ceased and what he was hearing was not like the clicking of a metronome at all but the anxious beating of his own heart. It dawned on him that this meant he would never escape the sound. And that what he believed when he the shadow dance across the ceiling was true: he was in the midst of a curse. 

With this revelation he walked into the library. He did not know what had led him to the place where Erica worked, except for that he felt he wanted to see her. He saw she was not at her desk. He believed that to be odd but it did not take long to spot her. She was at the newspaper archives, intently browsing various collections. David noticed that for the first time in a long time, his heart was still. It took him aback, as he remembered the clicking that occurred the afternoon he broke up with her. He wondered why everything was so quiet now. Perhaps it had never been her fault to begin with. He started walking over to her, but saw she was showing someone a collection. It was a tall, almost lanky man with dark curly hair. David thought he looked familiar but he had no idea why. The man looked up from the newspaper and caught his eye. And that’s when it struck David. 

Throughout his life, because of the affair Gemma Solis had had with Martin Octavio, he was aware of Octavio's past. He knew of their secret love letters, that Martin’s daughter fell in love with a farmer’s son. The whole story. There wasn’t a person in town in these one hundred years who wasn’t intimately aware of the details. But no family quite as intimately intertwined with the goings on as his. What people didn’t know was that aside from letters, they sent each other artifacts of their lives. She would send him sweets,  penny candy, he would send pressed flowers and cards. And during the time that he began searching for his daughter Ines he would send Gemma photographs. Heaven knows why he did. David had sometimes heard it was Martin being driven mad by guilt. He wanted to spread his daughter’s image any way he could. But the only person he had was Gemma. At a certain pont, he also began looking for her lover. His name was Fernando. 

David stared at the tall man, who stared back, and felt as if he was staring into one of those yellow photographs tucked away in his childhood home’s basement. He was the spitting image of Fernando. David could not help but feel incredibly bitter. The sounds were beginning to rise up again. It was like coming face to face with another ghost. Only this time, it was more than just an appariation on the ceiling. It was a moving entity. David was beginning to feel like no matter how hard he tried he would never escape the grating clicks of his nervous heart. Nor would he ever cease to see ghosts roaming about - whether their living or dead.

[mspigman]

Writing Tip: Clues in Crime Fiction

Traps to Avoid When Managing your Clues

Having all your clues arrive at once.

Having your detective solve them all at once.

Not disguising your clues sufficiently.

Hinging a clue on specialist knowledge that your reader does not share.

Relying on clues that are too unlikely or too complex to be credible.

Planting suspicious things in Chapter 1 and then forgetting them.

The trap of using modern electronic clues.

The trap of getting your ‘real-world’ facts awry.

Check through your list of potential clues.

Apply this list to them.

Do any of them fall into these traps? If so, what modifications could you make?

Make sure that you get your real-world information right, especially if you’re going to base a clue on it.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Detective Story ⚜ Crime Fiction Narrative Pattern

[mspigman]

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[mspigman]

Valle Lozano - Perfume

Hey guys! Long time no update! Sorry bout that, I hadn't expected to take so much time off, but I had finished a semester of school, the holidays came around, and honestly I needed a writing break because i had been writing virtually every day for a year! But it feels good to be back with another segment of Lozano. It's a bit of a long one at around 2k words. Hope yall enjoy and happy new year!

Yolanda Barrios had lived her whole life docily. She was born the only daughter to Alfred and Hildagarde Barrios, another family of key founders of Valle Lozano. She had grown up having never really witnessed a loving marriage. Her mother and father spoke to each other more like colleagues than like husband and wife. It was a marriage of convenience, to elevate social status and increase the family wealth. She knew that that was what was expected of her. And she fulfilled that obligation dutifully. She married Martin Octavio the year she turned eighteen, and it seemed to her that she was simply fulfilling the role she was born to do.

There was no real romance between her and her betrothed. They had known each other their entire lives, knew the same people, ran in the same circle, and as they got older it was apparent that they would unite in matrimony, as per the wishes of both families. The fathers wanted to unite their positions in town, and what better way to do it than through their children? 

The engagement was a brief one, just long enough to get the word around and for the fathers to shake hands and agree to the terms of the marriage. It felt to Yolanda as if her life was nothing but another business deal. Her father would gain a bit of land, the Octavio’s would gain a hefty dowry, and the newlyweds would live in a splendid manor. All were satisfied.

Yolanda, however, was not. She did not want a grand home. She despised large mansions with cold and empty rooms. To her surprise, her new husband felt the same. Land, he told her, was more important than space. So they built a tiny comfortable home on a large property and she learned to garden. This kept her occupied for a time, but she was still not satisfied. She wondered what it would be like to be in love. She thought, in the early days, that she might learn to love her husband. She recognized that he was a handsome man; he had a medium build, straight dark hair, and a commanding personality, and she felt that perhaps he could love her. She knew that she was known to be a town beauty, with a plump but slender figure, light eyes, and soft lips. At the beginning of their marriage, she made small attempts to court her husband. She would timidly bring him a vase of the flowers she gardened into his office whenever he was in it and place it on his desk, hoping they would bring her the joy that they brought her. She would spray perfume in her hair to try and rouse him, but it was all in vain. She would find the vases she would put in his office somewhere else around the house, usually the kitchen or parlor, and he never so much as affirmed if he liked or disliked the scent she wore. She wondered if he even noticed it. 

She gave up when one afternoon, bored and aggravated at his lack of reciprocation, she snuck into his office while he was out on business. She wanted to see if she could find some way of turning his head, some way of finding what caught his eye. She considered perhaps he liked a certain kind of woman, and she was determined that she would become it. 

Her determination evaporated when she found the key to his desk drawer and found the letters tucked inside. Everything made sense when she perused the contents. He was in love with another woman. Gemma Solaris was the daughter of a shopkeeper, a shop which the Octavio’s had money invested in and visited frequently. Their letters went back years, even from before their marriage or engagement. As she flipped through the letters, she could not help but notice a distinct smell. Perfume. Much different from the kind Yolanda herself wore. 

The smell was daring and bold, of alluring spices and florals. It was a major contrast to the light, fresh scent she preferred. Yolanda imagined Gemma’s perfume was a reflection of her personality, in which case they were complete opposites, and she would never be able to win over her husband. If she was right, Gemma was fierce, striking, and confident. Yolanda was none of that. She was timid, soft, and docile. She would never be the type of woman Gemma was, and she made up her mind then and there that she could not and would not compete with such a woman. She had made a fool of herself for Martin long enough. She would not risk pushing him forever into the arms of his mistress by her feeble attempts. So, with a decided motion, she put the letters back in their place and pretended to forget all about them. From that moment on she and Martin lived a tranquil, complacent life. They were on civil terms, and as long as he fulfilled his role of husband she ignored the letters that arrived that always brought the smell of cinnamon and jasmine lingering throughout the house. 

When their daughter was born, she felt a relief wash over her. She finally had something to pour her energy into. She would raise their child, and devote herself to bringing it up, and in that way, she could heal the lonely fractures of her heart that had formed when she learned of her husband’s infidelity but had never dared to examine closely beforehand. Now, with a new baby, it was like being given a precious gift. A living, breathing, creature, almost doll-like, that she could spoil, pamper, love, that would be the companion her soul longed for. 

For years, everything went according to plan. Ines and her mother were as close as Yolanda could have expected. Ines lived a solitary life, and Yolanda was gratified that she seemed to want no closer friend than her mother. They did nearly everything together; they would rise and have all their meals together, read, and take walks. Yolanda passed down her love of gardening and flowers to her daughter, and they seemed to agree on all their opinions and tastes. Yolanda was secure in her position in her daughter's life and felt that no one could ever disrupt their bond. That was until Ines fell in love. 

The utter shock and the crushing blow of betrayal were impalpable to Yolanda once her daughter's torrid relationship was discovered.  She had never once suspected that Ines harbored feelings for anyone, but to know that she had this illicit affair with someone so far beneath her behind her own back was something she could not bear. To Yolanda, it was an even greater deceit than finding her husband’s mistress. Ines was her daughter, she had committed her life to her, and in return, Ines had hidden and omitted her deepest truths. It was something Yolanda could not forgive.

The relationship enraged both of her parents and when Martin resolved to send their daughter away that very night, Yolanda did not protest. Ines pleaded with her to let her stay but Yolanda only gave her an icy stare. Ines understood. Her mother would not help her. She only glared at her mother, but without a word, quietly and bravely gathered her things and left the home forever.

It was only years later that Yolanda regretted her passivity. She had looked in the mirror one morning and stared for a while at her face. It was familiar, the way it had looked the night before. She was accustomed to the changes that had transpired over the years. She had a few more wrinkles along her eyes, the skin was not as firm, and her hair had some white in the long strands. But she did not mind any of it. She was still an attractive woman in excellent health. However, as she continued looking at her reflection, she no longer saw her face, but her daughter's. Ines’ young, beautiful, glowing face, just as fresh as she looked on the day she left home, jumped out and startled her. She had to glance over both shoulders to verify if she was alone. But she was. She turned back to the mirror, and upon seeing it was only herself in the mirror, began to sob. 

She had never before given up her ire against her daughter through these years, not even when she and her husband received letters from her trying to reconcile. As far as they were concerned, she deserved to be shunned. It was when the letters suddenly stopped that they believed something was amiss. But even that vague feeling of misfortune was not enough for either of them to relent. They considered it to be her pride, her unmerited pride. They felt it was her duty as their daughter to beg for their forgiveness. She was the one who had deceived them. Had hid from them. However, when Yolanda saw her daughter’s face in the looking glass, she felt in the bottom of her soul that it was a bad omen. 

She convinced Martin to locate their daughter but to no avail. They tried contacting the school where they had left her, but it had been years since she had resided there. They had no information on where she went to or where she could be. What transpired after was months of intense investigation. Martin, overcome with guilt over his missing daughter, put nearly every cent into trying to locate her. It was all for naught. After a few months of searching they discovered that their only child had died. She had died the morning Yolanda imagined to have seen her looking back at her in the mirror.

To say that the Octavios were devastated would not give justice to their ruin. Racked with recrimination for each other, their once cordial, civil relationship wilted away. Martin blamed his wife for not raising his daughter properly, if she had Ines would have never fallen in love with a common farmer’s son. In turn, Yolanda blamed his callousness. What right had he to said her only companion away? Neither of them would yield to the other, and locked in that tiny house, they felt that they were each other’s punishment for their sins.

This went on for the rest of their lives. Martin passed first and when he did Yolanda refused to vacate the house. After the funeral she sat alone in their room, wondering how much longer she would have to suffer in her solitude. A few months later, the night before she died, she went to his office, lurking inside the old mahogany desk she did not bring herself to get rid of. Curious, she found the key to the drawer and perused the contents. She found the cruel, mocking, spiteful letters jeering at her. The letters were made all the more humiliating and callous when, as she read the letters, discovered that they were as recent as a few days prior to Martin’s death. Yolanda read them, and the familiar scent of jasmine and cinnamon stung her eyes. She wondered why her husband had even married her. What had he wanted of her? What had she wanted of him?

She thought of Ines then. At least she had been brave. She had chosen love. It was more than her mother and father could say. She thrust the letters back in the drawer, hating Martin as she never had before. She hated herself too, because she realized her fatal mistake. Her biggest mistake was staying in this wretched house all this time. She realized she should have left the moment she smelled the jasmine and cinnamon emitting off the cream paper. She laid in bed that night knowing she would not live to see the morning. She also knew that her punishment, for being so cowardly, so unwise, and so weak was to live forever in that house. It was all she knew. It had been her world, her sanctuary, and for her crimes it would be her prision even after death.

[mspigman]

Valle Lozano Story 3

Disturbance

Ever since the afternoon that Sebastian Octavio walked into her library, Erica Porter’s life had become disturbed. She had gotten a flat tire on the way home that night. The next morning she ended up being ten minutes late for work because bird shit landed on her shoulder and she had to go back home to change. And to make matters worse, later that evening, as she was relaxing on her sofa with her boyfriend and a glass of wine, thinking that these strange coincidences were over, David decided to break up with her. 

He was leaving town he said, and didn’t want to be tied down by anything at home. He never wanted to be in Valle Lozano again even if that meant he wouldn’t be with her any longer. When Erica asked if she could go with him he refused. They would just remind each other too much of this place. It took her a few hours, long after he had picked up all his stuff and left the apartment, to realize that he didn’t just want to leave the town behind. He wanted to leave her behind, too. How silly of her to have missed that. Three years of her life, and now he just wanted to get away from her. That night as she lay in bed she thought of the man with thick curly hair who walked into the library the day before and scowled. Unlike most of the townspeople, Erica fully laid the blame for Valle Lozano’s destitution on Martin Octavio. It was always so ridiculous to her that they allowed one man from one family to control the economy at the time. It seemed to her another Octavio had come back to town just to cause a disturbance. 

Well, Erica thought, perhaps it wasn’t fair of her to blame him for her breakup. She had to admit that it did not surprise or shock her. Her relationship with David had been faltering for a long time. She couldn’t remember the last time she looked at him, or he at her, with a spark of interest. She couldn’t even remember the last time they did anything fun or romantic. It had been a long time since their relationship felt like anything deeper than a close acquaintanceship. He was becoming more and more like a friendly stranger. His place in her life had been vanishing slowly like one of the apparitions the town was known for. 

The next morning before work she went to the town’s coffee shop. She felt light, the brief sting of David dumping her already passed. She entered the shop, giving a friendly thank you to whoever opened the door for her without noticing them, and got in line. 

“Hi, Lidia,” she chirped to the young girl at the register.  Lidia took her order and as she went to pay she noticed a very important detail, “I… forgot my purse at home.” She said aloud to herself in horror. The vision of her packed purse with her cards and phone left behind carelessly on her coffee table elicited a rush of color to her cheeks in embarrassment. 

Before the order could be canceled a voice behind her said, “I’ll pay for her.”

She turned, wondering who her good samaritan was, and came face to face with Sebastian Octavio.

Her mood dropped, “Thank you,” she said flatly, “But you don’t have to -”

“Please,” he smiled at her, “Let me. It’s the least I could do. You’ve been so helpful to me getting information.”

Before she could refute him again, he strolled up to the register, added his own order, and paid. She sighed and walked to the bar to wait for her drink. She felt absurd. She didn’t know this man, yet from the day he walked into her library she felt out of whack. She felt peculiar, disarrayed, and like she was being sent of her equilibrium. It was quite a contrast to what she usually felt, which, in a town where day in and day out was the same, was a highly bizarre sensation.

 She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she was being too harsh on him. She knew he couldn’t be doing this on purpose, and yet she also could not help but link her sudden misfortunes to him. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Well, to be honest, nothing had ever happened to her. She hated to admit it, but Sebastian Octavio was the most exciting thing to happen to her or this town in years. 

When their drinks were ready she muttered a quick thank you to him as they grabbed their coffee. 

“Excuse me,” he called out to her, “May I have a moment?”

She considered for a moment before nodding, “Sure.”

“I just… needed a local’s opinion on something, and you’re really the only person I know,” he added with a chuckle.

“An opinion on what?”

“Well,” he said, taking a sip, “I was at my grandfather’s old house and -”

“You went to the old Octavio place,” Erica asked bewildered.

“Yes,” he said with a bemused smile, “Was I not supposed to? Is no one allowed there?”

Erica sighed, “Did you… did you see anything?”

“Just old letters. That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

“Letters?”

“Letters one of my great grandfathers sent to some woman.”

“Gemma,” Erica said knowingly.

“You know her?”

“Everyone does. Their affair was an open secret. Even their spouses knew.”

“Oof.”

“It’s what happened in those days,” Erica said with a shrug.

“Whatever happened to her? Or my grandfather Martin?”

“Well,” she sighed, “Legend has it your great grandmother Ines died in childbirth, and the Octavio’s didn’t live long either after they got word. I guess it didn’t help that at that point they were pretty much destitute. Martin had used all of the family money and the town’s money trying to find her.”

“Oh,” Sebastian said apologetically, “Sorry.”

“But the story goes that he and Gemma never stopped seeing each other, even after he had lost all his money. A lot of people thought she was with him for his fortune, she was a shopkeeper’s daughter so she never had much, but it doesn’t seem that way. And after he died she… she took her own life. She’s one of our famous ghosts.”

“One of them? You mean there’s more than one?”

“We have a few. Rumor has it your grandmother Yolanda, Martin’s wife, is one of them. They say she still lives in your old family home. You didn’t see her?”

“I’m afraid not. But I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Well,” she breathed out, “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll see you in the library later.”

She nodded and walked away with a frown. She was not looking forward to it. 

True to his word, he came about half an hour later. He nodded at her in a familiar way, then went to his usual place searching through the town newspapers. Erica watched him curiously, seeing his eyes skim the old papers. She was curious about why he was so interested. Could he be doing some sort of genealogy report? She didn’t have the nerve to ask him. All she hoped was that he would leave town soon, and then her life would go back to normal.

Suddenly, near the end of the day, he went up to her desk and put a newspaper down in front of her. It was a clipping of the old Octavio house, with a blurry picture of Yolanda’s ghost near the window.

“So,” he said, putting his elbows on her desk and resting his chin on his palms, leaning in close to her, “Tell me about these ghosts.”

She stared at him, and they stood there blinking at each other. A distinct rush went through Erica as he stood there looking at her. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt it, could it have been in the early days of being with David? No, he had always felt familiar, as familiar as all the streets of Valle Lozano. But what she felt now was different. Something she hadn’t experienced before. A new type of disturbance.

[mspigman]

Valle Lozano Story 2

The Secret of the Patriarch 

In order to truly understand the curse that the town of Valle Lozano was suspected of being under, you would need to look to Martin Octavio, the last important Octavio the town had - and one of Sebastian Octavio’s great-grandfathers. Martin had lived his whole life believing that he was a type of prince. His forefathers had created this town and spent years obtaining farmland to leave behind a legacy. In short, Martin Octavio was at the helm of his own personal empire. And he ran it just like any other emperor would. From his office in the Yellow House, the house that had been the Octavio home for generations - which unfortunately his future grandson Santiago never got to witness in its splendor - he oversaw all of the negotiations the family was a part of. He managed the farmlands that he rented out for a generous portion of profits and kept a close on the numerous shops and trades that the family funded. There was not anything in the town he was directly linked with. And he ran it all, from his large mahogany desk, sitting on his expensive wooden chair, that was as good to him as any throne.

Martin had many faults; he was calculating, unforgiving of those who owed him money, and worse of all he was arrogant. He believed what the old kings of past centuries believed, that he had been ordained by a higher power to be a leader among men. He believed that this was the reason his family and his family alone owned nearly everything in the town. It was because Ocativo’s were unique, one-of-a-kind people meant to have it all. 

In spite of all his shortcomings, Martin had one saving virtue; he was a devoted family man. He was a doting father and a dutiful husband. The birth of his daughter Ines validated everything he did and everything he believed in. If he was shrewd and stingy with money, it was to ensure that his daughter was given what was owed to her as the future leader of the Octavio fortune. He took his first look at her and was certain once again, that such a divine creature could only come from their lineage.

It was fortunate for Marin and his wife Yolanda that they had Ines. He was a faithful husband, it was what his wife was entitled to, but they both knew that it was obligation alone that kept them together. They both understood, in fact, that obligation was the only reason they became betrothed in the first place. Martin may have never had an affair on his wife but he also certainly never loved her. It was a well-established fact between the both of them that they married each other because that was what was expected of them. Martin’s father had told him it was time to get married, and so he set out to find a suitable wife. He began courting the young ladies of the town’s high society where he met his wife. Yolanda’s father had told her she needed to connect with the Octavio’s and so she became the suitable wife he was looking for. It was a perfectly acceptable situation for everyone.

That is until it wasn’t. When Ines was eighteen she fell in love with Fernando, a farmer’s young son. For years they kept their love a secret, with only the moon and the cold grass on the outskirts of town as the only witnesses. The people of Valle Lozano like to believe that the great blizzard of 1923. In reality what led to the deviation of the town really began on the night that Martin discovered the relationship between his daughter and a common, unworthy farmer. 

What happened that night is no mystery to anyone, the story has been passed down through the generations, even one hundred years later. Martin Octavio kicked his daughter out of the home and sent her away. She was never to be heard from again, and Martin died having spent all of the family fortune trying to find her without any success.

Again the town has been well aware of this, and why they are more quick to blame the blizzard that happened a few years before she was exiled, instead of blaming the one man who sunk Valle Lozano’s entire economy, it cannot be said. Perhaps because it was the blizzard was the cause of Ines and Fernando’s relationship. It was the catalyst for their beginning, and much of the town is in agreement that it would have been better for everyone had they never begun their affair. Even today, decades after her death, they wish Ines and Fernando would leave them alone. The townspeople were tired of seeing their ghosts wandering the outskirts of town where they used to meet.

No one understood why Mr. Octavio did what he did. How was he so quick to banish his once cherished daughter? He was angry no doubt, that she chose someone so beneath her. But there was a deeper explanation underneath the surface that took his future grandson to uncover. Sebastian Octavio, upon learning the history that befell his poor great, great grandmother, went to visit the old home. By some miracle, it was still standing. The dingy yellow house looked like something out of a horror picture, with its ripped cream curtains, broken windows, and decaying wood. He searched every room and soon came upon Martin Octavio’s study. The room still had the furniture of its last residents, only they were riddled with dust and cobwebs. The ceiling was moldy, and a draft swept through the room.

Sebastian did not believe he would find anything left over from his ancestor’s time but inspected the study closely nonetheless. He was in the closet of the room, on his tiptoes, reaching for a stake of books that was on the shelf. He was able to grab them and saw they were simply ordinary novels. However, when he flipped through the end of one thick green book, he saw that a section of pages had been carved out. A small key was hidden in the carving. 

Sebastian grabbed the key and went over to the large mahogany desk. The desk had a locked drawer and when Sebastian unlocked it he was surprised to see yellow, fading papers inside. He read them and discovered they were letters. Martin Octavio had written them all to one woman. Her name was Gemma Solaris. The last letter Martin had written to her shocked Sebastian. He wrote that he had indeed found his daughter Ines, and she was with child, only she had heard of her lover Fernando’s death, and refused to come back to her father’s home. She wanted nothing to do with him ever again.It’s my own fault, my darling, he wrote Gemma, and now I’ve lost it all. I failed as a leader of this town and as the patriarch of my family. I let my bitter jealousy of my daughter get the better of me. I should have been brave like she was. She was willing to leave everything behind in the name of love. I should have done that. Perhaps now we’d all be the better for it. Yolanda and I hardly speak anymore, anyway. Not that I fault her. The three of us have always been well aware of what this marriage really is. I’m sorry, Gemma, that our relationship has always had to be like this. For years it’s never amounted to much else besides heartfelt letters. But heartfelt they have been. True they have been. I love you, Gemma. I’ve always loved you. You’ve always known that. I’ve just never allowed myself to say it. You must be wondering why now, after all these years, I’m telling you. It’s because losing my daughter, one of the only lights of my life has made me realize what a fool I’ve been. My whole life has been nothing. Nothing but a chase. A chase for money and to fulfill my family name. Well, to hell with the name. To hell with everything. My daughter was the only one of us that had any sense. I guess I always saw that. And now that she’s gone I’ll stop at nothing to bring her back. I’ll find her somehow and bring her and her baby back. I’ll spare no expense. I couldn’t care less about the fortune anymore. I hope you don’t hate me for waiting so long. But I promise, once Ines is back, you and I will finally have our moment. We’ll be together. We’ll leave this town and start over. I always used to think I was destined for great things. To lead this town to greatness. Now I wish this town nothing but destruction. Valle Lozano has ruined my life. But I’ll make sure to do the same before I’m dead and buried. I hope, my love, that when that time comes, when I’m nothing but dust, you’ll find me in the next life. And we can spend eternity dancing together. Do I even deserve that?

[mspigman]

Anyone want to read over my novel excerpt?

It's just under 6k words and I would love some feedback on it. To hear if anything could be cut or edited or if something could be expanded on that sort of thing

[mspigman]

My first story in the Valle Lozano cycle

A Name

The town of Valle Lozano was a place where time stood still. It was a place where dreams went to die. Or so, that’s what its townspeople said. They believed it all started with the name of the town itself. The founders, upon seeing the wide pastures and robust grasslands, knew it would be the perfect place for farming, and gave it a Spanish name meaning Lush Valley. It was as if they had placed all their ambitions on that single name, and the residents believed that from the moment the first sign dictating its name was forged into the ground, the town's fate was sealed. Of course, there had been a time when the place lived up to its name. It was lush. It was a growing community, with rising shops and businesses, and the farmers and the working people prospered. No one could have seen the imminent downfall that now characterized Valle Lozano. 

If the townspeople had to pinpoint a certain event that marked the beginning of the end, it would have been the winter of 1923. An unexpected blizzard had fallen, making it the harshest winter on record, killing livestock, and people, and had sickened the soil in a way that it had not cured one hundred years later. 

If one had to describe Valle Lozano now, it need no more effort than by using the colors yellow and brown. Yellow, brittle stems of dead wheat, brown, cracked dirt. The only semblance of life and color came from the lake at the far edge of town, which may or may not have been home to certain ghosts and spirits. But that wasn’t what brought Santiago Escarra to Lozano, and it certainly wasn’t what had made him find an apartment in the town nearby. 

His decision to come to Lozano had actually been made the night before his eighteenth birthday. Santiago had grown up in foster care, never knowing his parents, or understanding why it was that they never wanted him. When he was twelve years old, despite his age, he was fortunate enough to get adopted. The Escarra’s were a loving, older couple in their late 40s who had never before been bothered about being childless. That was until one morning, they looked at their spare bedroom, the extra space at their kitchen table, and their wide living room and longed to hear the scamperings of an energetic child. They intended to adopt a younger child, perhaps a toddler, as most adopting couples do. But when they set eyes on the young boy and looked into his deep, sad, chocolate eyes, and ruffled his wild, spirally, thick head of light brown curls, they knew he was for them. 

Sebastian had been shy when they first brought him home and overly polite but over time the kindness and affection of the Escarra’s had warmed him and put him at ease. He became the energetic, rambunctious child they had envisioned for their home. Sebastian and the Escarra’s felt that they finally had the families they longed for. Sebastian loved his parents, and though he always wondered about his biological ones, the longing for him that he had been so apt to as a child waned away. As far as he was concerned they were ghosts of his imagination.

Miriam and Robert Escarra watched the boy grow up into a young man with pride in their eyes, and a secret tucked inside their attic. Unbeknownst to Sebastian, when he was put into the system there was also a letter. It was given to his parents, and what the contents of the letter were neither of them dared to know. They assumed it was from his biological parents, perhaps they wanted to keep in touch with him, perhaps they wanted him to know where they were. The thought that Sebastian would discover their whereabouts and choose to want to be with them was an idea that neither husband nor wife could bear. So, for nearly six years they kept the letter hidden deep in a corner of their attic, and in the farthest recesses of their minds. 

But when Sebastian was set to graduate high school, they knew it was wrong to keep it from him for much longer. He would soon be an adult, and he deserved to know the truth of where he came from. Even if it meant that he would distance himself from them. So the night before his birthday, they sat him down and showed him the letter. It was the first time he had heard of Valle Lozano, and the first time he learned his mother’s name. Stephanie. Stephanie Octavio. In the letter, she wrote her deepest regret for leaving him. She had him too young she said, and had broken up with his father, Cameron. She confessed to Sebastian that she never knew her parents either, and was sure she’d have made a rotten mother. She wrote down the only thing she did know of her family, that they came from a small, unknown town. Valle Lozano. 

After he read the letter, Sebastian assured his parents that he was not angry with them for keeping it from him. After all, it had only confirmed what he had secretly always suspected: he had not wanted. He also assured them that this changed nothing, they were now and would always be his parents and his only family. Relieved, they went on as usual. Sebastian continued to grow up. He went off to college and got a degree in journalism. But what Sebastian did not tell his parents was that he decided to keep his mother’s letter. He snuck it into his pockets and kept it nearby, all through his young adult life. And on his 31st birthday, on the 100th anniversary of the blizzard that ruined Valle Lozano, Sebastian packed up his car and drove to the town he was certain contained the pieces of his past. 

The entire ride to Lozano, Sebastian pictured what the town might look like. He created an image in his mind of a quaint, friendly town. He envisioned small colonial houses, romantic Spanish-style buildings, and a pleasant community of people who would greet each other as they passed by one another in the street. He also, in a quiet voice in his mind, wondered if he still had any family there. He couldn’t help but muse over meeting a cousin, or aunt, or a grandparent. He contemplated what they would be like. Would they like him, had they looked for him, did they know where his mother or father were? 

These ideas kept him so occupied, Sebastian wasn’t even sure how he got to town without getting lost or getting into an accident. But sure enough, just before sundown, he saw the small, fading, wooden sign that read: WELCOME TO VALLE LONZANO painted in white cursive. He drove further, inspecting the town, and what he saw shattered his illusions. He saw nothing but emptiness. Large vacant fields with splotches of brown grass, colored with antiquity. Small ranch houses with broken porches and windows that gave the home a clear appearance of abandonment. They looked old, worn out, and hardened, as if resentful of being left alone for so long. 

Sebastian continued to drive and saw nothing much different, except for a few convenience stores that looked as if they hadn’t changed since the turn of the century, their windows holding up posters and signs that had been faded by the sun. He began to feel disheartened. What if he came all this way just to hit a dead end? It did not even appear as if there were any residents left in town, and he wondered if he’d see another soul or even an animal. 

He was considering turning around and returning home when he spotted a sign that read MAIN STREET. The street showed him his first signs of human life in the town, and he saw on the block more modern-looking shops like a bank, a restaurant, a grocery store, and even a library. Sebastian’s mood considerably lighted and he parked in the library.

He walked inside and saw a few people browsing. He went up to the librarian station and smiled at the young woman at the desk.

“Hello,” she greeted him, “If you’re looking for the highway, just keep going down this road and turn left at the church.”

“What,” he chuckled, “No, I’m not looking for the highway.”

The woman eyed him, “Oh, I’m sorry. I just haven’t seen you around here before. No one who doesn’t live here comes in unless they’re lost and looking for the highway. What can I help you with?”

“Well, I am lost,” he admitted, “I’m just not trying to find the highway. I’m actually looking for a family here. If you can help with that.”

“A family here? Well, what’s the name?”

“Octavio.”

She blinked at him silently at him for a long moment, “Octavio,” she repeated finally, “Goodness. I had always thought that was an urban legend.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There’s no family here by that name. At least not anymore.”

“There isn’t?”

She nodded, “The last Octavio was said to have left here… about 80 years ago.”

“That’s not possible. What about my mother? Stephanie? Stephanie Octavio?”

“I don’t think anyone lived here by that name.”

Sebastian let out a long sigh, “Great,” he said defeatedly, “I guess that does it.”

“If you want, you could search through our old newspapers. We have them going back all the way from the town’s beginning. You might find something there. I heard the Octovio’s were important people here.”

“Really,” Sebastian asked, his interest piqued.

The librarian nodded, “Oh, but I’m afraid if you want to do that you’ll have to come back tomorrow. It’s almost closing time.”

“Oh, right. Well, in that case, is there a motel around here that I could check in at?”

“I’m afraid not. People don’t really… they don’t really stay here, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah. I noticed that. Before I got here, I was beginning to be afraid this was a ghost town.”

“Oh, don’t think it’s not,” the librarian said.

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

The librarian sighed, “Well, it’s just this town… it’s very odd. We have a lot of superstitions here. Folk tales. Stories of ghosts and spirits that have always been around.”

“And is that something people around here really believe in?”

“Not really,” she shrugged, “It just makes us feel better.”

“About what?”

“About being here. It’s kind of a town joke that this place is cursed.”

“Why’s that?”

“Let’s just say this town has… quite a history. But you’ll discover it soon enough if you stick around some.”

“I think I might just do that,” Sebastian smiled politely.

He left the library soon after asking for directions to the closest town with accommodations. It turned out that not even the next town over had a motel, just a few sublet apartments. So Sebastian rented one. On his way out of town, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the name. Valle Lozano. Quite the ironic name for a town that looked like it was clinging to its last legs. But he couldn’t help but feel a certain kinship with the town. It wasn’t either of their faults that they had been abandoned. Was it the town’s fault that no one stuck around to water the fields or nurture the soil? Was it his fault that his mother and father couldn’t work out? He was reminded of what the librarian said. This place is cursed. If being left behind was a curse, then maybe he was cursed, too. 

Sebastian did come back the next day. He was met by the same librarian from the day before, and she led him to the newspaper archives. 

“You know something,” she told him suddenly as she watched him peruse the clippings, “The more I see you, the more familiar you look.”

He turned to her with a strange expression, “You don’t say.”

“Yeah, I can’t put my finger on why, though.” 

“Could be an old family resemblance,” he half-joked.

She shrugged and went back to her desk. He chuckled to himself and read the newspapers he came across. He wondered how long it would take for him to find out anything about his family. The Octovios. Were they as important as he had been told? He would have to see. He was also curious to learn more about the town. The town with the ironic name, he thought to himself. He wanted to discover what exactly the curse was, and he wanted to see how much truth there was to it. If the town - and he - really truly cursed.