Tag Archives for: tale

The Dream of a Thousand Hairs

15 November 2020 by Rey Armenteros

Was supposed to give a lecture, but there I was in a large room that was divided by a partition that started almost at the door, so that when you walked in, you had to decide immediately if you were going to go left or right. I went right, and it was packed. Girls were coming up to me, and I was smiling, wondering what kind of things I had to talk about. The left was a mystery, and it turned out to be a bedroom-full of ladies. And I’m not sure how I knew that since I didn’t take that direction. One woman, who used to be a TV star back when there were these daytime programs called soap operas, had a signed photograph she wanted to give me. She had other images of herself in the nude when she did that men’s magazine photo shoot that (I now vaguely remember) was a very hot thing — back when I was still getting wet dreams when placed in other dream situations with half naked women. Well, there she was half-naked in these pictures, but she carefully, diligently put those pictures away before I could make out the details. I was suddenly made aware that I could be looked at as one of those perverts young ladies set their racy alarms to private for, and this lady was not even young, but a part of the past, yet she still looked real good and even better than most of the girls in this crowd of bedroom hair covering the side walls and back walls. Played it cool. No other way to do it. I kept smiling to the crowd, making my way out of this place that was turning into a giant bed and going over back to the right, where images were on the giant screens in the back, and I was starting to talk about them with the voice of expertise. General things to say. Another ordinary occurrence. When another girl — a young lady this time — asked me to take her picture, just like the older actress had done. The actress was no longer on the left side. We went in there. Noticed the stage. She wanted me up there. I was looking around. The professional photos of the actress were on the giant screens. The actress was reclined with breasts hanging off of smooth, orange tan skin and the prettiest face that any TV screen could buy. The young lady and I were smiling at the bright spotlights, and when the flash came, I looked at the wall, where the resolution was projected and it was just me, no girl. My head. My hair. It was crazy and curly, like back in the day when I let it all hang out, like an explosion of ideas was making their way out from my cranium and curling in every direction because it didn’t know what it wanted.

Leave a comment | Categories: Ancedote, Ludicrousness, ReyA', Tale | Tags: anecdote, literature, tale

Ancient Humors

11 September 2020 by Rey Armenteros

The vampires frequented the cafeteria. Daytime haunts were nigh impossible. It was just the way. When the night was over, they’d get together at the favorite hangout spots throughout the Forbidden City. Yes, the sun could sear the flesh off one of their kind, but it was not so bad if you dressed in enough layers. The cafeterias were actually medicinal cafes. Vampires that went to such hangout spots after a feast were conscious of healthy habits. Most establishments carried an array of potions, and each one was brewed to take care of at least one type of ailment. All four humors had to coexist in the body with a fine balance. Blood came in and out, but so did phlegm, sweat, and bile. This was what vampires were truly made of. Taking medicine after a hunt altered the amounts. An order came with a test beforehand. A technician tested the blood intake afterward, but they also tested the other three humors because vampires sucked in all four according to their appetites during any given night, and biting to suck this stuff out was the way to go, the way to carry on life.

A haunting usually happened once a week. The adventurous crowd did it on the weekends when possibilities abounded, and possibilities also meant unpredictable situations which gave way to possible dangers. Danger was the style that these people followed. And the weary that finished by sunrise were prudent if they visited a medicinal cafe. It was the only way to curb the effects. Humans that were attacked only became a vampire when all four of their humors had been invaded. Some survived multiple attacks, but if it were the same humor, they were almost always okay afterward. Nevertheless certain effects would make themselves known, and this depended on the humor that had gotten the least volume in the body of the human. Most humans that turned were not that long for life because it was usually serious mistakes after their transformation that stamped their ignorance with instant death. There were simply things they would not know from the outset. The thing about sunlight had many misconceptions. And if someone were bitten for sweat or bile, they often assumed they were merely attacked by a psychopath.

Leave a comment | Categories: Ancedote, ReyA', Tale | Tags: anecdote, tale, tiny piece

Slabs Under the Surface

04 September 2020 by Rey Armenteros

My father was in my dreams, and he was alive, but the rest of the family was dying. We were talking about this in his apartment unit. It was a space I had never been to before, but it felt familiar. The walls were bare of things. They were slabs of concrete coming together in corners, everything looking the same. It wasn’t somber, though it should have been. The entry room was the largest, and it had their bed with his wife in it, and she had passed on. My sister was going to die next. It was as if this was the way it was supposed to be. He didn’t feel good about any of this, but we were able to have a pleasant conversation anyway. I wonder now if he were trying to tell me something.

When I came to this morning, it would be back to the opposite way of things, how he was the one that was dead and all the others still alive. This is the first time I remember dreaming of my father in recent years. It might be the first time since his death. I don’t remember a single other thing that happened. I was struck by the layout of the place. That bed in the first room was strange and yet I knew it once, when we were small and getting picked up by him on Sundays to spend our allotted time with him. Diagonal to this first space was another one that was filled out like a dining room. The kitchen was around the corner of the wall, and when you turned that corner, a couple of smaller rooms followed, likely a bathroom and some manner of closet.

So, this is what my sleeping mind identifies as a studio, but it was not my grandmother’s, which is what reason would have told me it was. In my woken mind, I remember the layout of the earliest efficiency, and it was just a room with a place for kitchen appliances next to a tiny bathroom. The second space was after my dad had married his third wife, with whom he would have his second family with. For some reason, I remember the high windows, as if we were halfway underground. It was like a bunker, and he would lay in my grandmother’s cot and watch Mexican wrestling. Getting suddenly inspired, he would start twisting and pinning us to the bed, too rough for a five- and three-year-old. Actually, he hadn’t been remarried yet, but that was coming soon. And this was something that I had mentioned to my daughter the other day, how rough my father was when he was playing around, sending me surges of energy that stayed with me through the nights to finally visit me in this incantation of made-up situations around loved ones. How much charge did it get from memories, and how much is it charging the train of my thoughts for the remainder of the day?

Leave a comment | Categories: Ancedote, Memoir, ReyA', Tale | Tags: anecdote, memoir, tale

A Motorcycle Dream

03 July 2020 by Rey Armenteros

Out from our travels came our time. We ended up in Japan. A new life, a new bike, more times to come. My wife was off with friends. I was studying my new motorcycle, getting a lay of the land from our home. The upstairs room was no larger than a cockpit, but it was cute. I was in it, studying the little keys. They were toy keys, like the type you can bend with three fingers. They were for the motorcycle. You could actually take the handlebar off, I guess for security reasons. I was playing with it outside, wondering how we were going to make life with this motorcycle work. Downstairs, the one lavatory was nothing more than a toilet taking up center space, surrounded by patterned curtains in mostly red. I was getting a phone call. My wife was telling me about her time. But then, two men entered our habitation and went into the bathroom together. My wife was describing the half Japanese singer that sang well, even though he smelled bad, and I was trying to talk to the two guys behind the curtain. They were taking turns defecating, making a virtual party of it. When they were bowing and thanking me as they exited, I noticed all the shit stains covering the toilet bowl. I had hung up, and didn’t know what to do. I felt the motorcycle would be in danger. I went out to try to take it for a spin. It was not easy since I was not a motorcyclist. When I came back, it was evening again, and our residence was now acting like a restaurant. Now I understood why there was only the small space upstairs and the toilet in the center of the communal living space. The owner was giving me a sly look from behind the counter. He was reprimanding me in a jocular fashion because they had quite a job cleaning the bathroom. I was giving him my best facial expression for such an event, almost explaining to him the two homeless guys, but I then started to go through mental math about why we couldn’t live there anymore, and then I woke up.

Leave a comment | Categories: Ancedote, Fragment, ReyA', Tale | Tags: anecdote, tale, tiny piece

The Minja

26 June 2020 by Rey Armenteros

I’m a city inspector for the town of A_____. It’s a small city. I’m the only one.

I liked the guy okay. He had just moved here. He obviously didn’t know what he was getting into. He thought an inspector was going to solve all his problems. I just go through protocol. For the city. Not for him. But he asked me questions. And I understand his concerns. I told him so. I asked him if he had installed that sliding glass door. It had nothing to do with the repiping job, and I think my question threw him off. He was looking at me like I had something more to say. And I did. I said because it wasn’t there when I did the inspection on the roof a year ago. He said that was before he had purchased the property. I knew for a fact it wasn’t inspected. I think that was when it dawned on him how small this operation was.

But I set his mind at ease. I knew he had done nothing wrong. He was a good guy, you could tell. It’s not like I would remember every addition he’d ever done to the house, but I let him know I was not supposed to tell him he didn’t always have to get an inspection from the city. You know what I mean? (Wink, wink.) Technically, I would have to report him if I was driving around the area three months from now and noticed new windows and new AC units without his ever getting an inspection. But I wasn’t like that. Unless I needed to be. And I let him know that, under my breath, as they say — saying without saying.

I guess he must have took it to heart. The City of A_____ was even smaller than some shopping malls, but even so, I hadn’t been around that place for almost a year. It was a cul de sac, and if there was no reason for me to go around there, I wasn’t going to do it. But the place had changed. I checked the roster on TK, and he hadn’t inspected a single thing since the repiping job he had done that time.

I was knocking on his door. He didn’t recognize me at first. He was treating me like a door-to-door jobber. I wasn’t going to take it personally, but it started us on the wrong foot. I nudged him inside and closed the door behind me. This is what you get for being a nice guy: a complete turnaround just one year later.

I could see recognition flipping its switch behind his eyes. But he didn’t say anything. He was waiting for me to do all the talking. And I had a lot to say. I said, “Windows, shutters, AC units,” and I was angling my head to get a better look at the kitchen and continued, “counter top, and patio roof in the back.” I asked him what he had to say about that.

The interview was over as soon as it started. I told him to stop. He was sniveling. It made me uneasy. I took a raincheck on his past behavior and told him I’d be back. Walking out of that little house, I was wondering why they did it. Was it the way I came off? You know, tough guy but a nice guy. I didn’t want it that way. But it was in my nature. No one knew that other side of me, the one that I called the real me.

At night, my baseball cap was back in the dresser, and my blue jeans were no longer the workman variety. I now had on my indigo ones that were tight and made of stretch material. I had my black pullover. I was going out, but not as an inspector. Nobody knew this, but I was a minja. A minja is like a ninja, except we don’t dress in the same garb. We are without a doubt the same thing, but minjas don’t advertise their powers by dressing like some kind of yahoo. We just sport dark clothes and go and prowl around in the night. I wish I had a better definition for it, but I think most people can get the general idea.

My first target was obviously him. I was going to disassemble every exterior piece so that he knew I meant business. I would work on the interior ones when I knew the whole neighborhood was deep in the realm of dreams and nightmares, tackling the obstacles of unreality. The interior job was only for the kitchen counter, but if he had anything else, it would have to go as well. God forbid if he had any form of home defense. The last guy to pull a shotgun on me had it firmly placed up his posterior before I pulled the trigger.

You see, this is how it is. The city would never do this. As I said, it was too small of an operation. Somebody had to look out for them. It was not like I was defending freedom or anything like that, but I did kind of feel like a superhero — kind of, but not exactly. It’s like if I was Peter Parker, I’d be Spiderman lending my talents to the Daily Bugle (without benefit of the costume), and they would have me under contract, like a bounty hunter making sure the interests of the newspaper were met against the random costumed clown, until the day the contract no longer followed the rules of my moral sensibilities.

Leave a comment | Categories: ReyA', Tale | Tags: literature, tale