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INTRO SAMPLE:

As a child I lived on a farm. Paradise in every sense but instead of one serpent we had zillions. In the mango trees, under cars, within the cane fields, everywhere they crept [those things], everywhere they slithered. Unlike most, who got used to crossing paths with one when least expected, every sighting, to me, was as frightful as the last had been. An outdoor shower meant for those returning from the fields to keep man-grit outside of the house and to contain Grandmother's violent action against such evil-doers was a place I avoided. Although I was no more than four, my father, a stern man of the old guard, would not see it that way. Wanting me to be a little man [un hombrecito], he insisted I use that outdoor shower; and once he had set his mind on something, rarely would that change. He made sure I was not afraid of cold showers, the river or anything else for that matter. One day as I showered outside I felt a presence that like a magnet turned my head. My eyes gaped at, of course, a snake on the wall, halfway to the ceiling, peering back at me. I screamed. Not a moment later my father appeared, machete in hand. Sliced the snake to pieces, then after ghoulish laughter said, “A fearful man, is a useless man.” My mother and grandmother had also raced to my aid. Mother hugged me while my grandmother went on and on about what could have happened and what might have happened. In my story, a terrifying snake had stalked me — to eat me. My father’s story was very different. “My son?” He yelled. “Cowering over a little snake? I can't believe this.” If memory serves, it was not the largest serpent that had slithered on to the farm. In truth, it probably lacked the means to devour a four-year-old boy. To that boy, however, it was a monster, flashing its tongue, like the devil my mother had told of, the one in that special book. My father also said that I should have run to the shed, grabbed a machete and killed the snake myself. I argued that machetes were bigger than me. He was disappointed nevertheless.

Most important to my little brain was how two people who had experienced the same thing had recalled different versions of it. Despite my tender age this perplexing event drew me in as it hinted at something deeper about humanity that although I could not quite grasp was too important to dismiss. An urge arose. I needed to understand this tendency for humans to keep things that had happened (things from the past) present in narrations that were directly affected by a natural inability to be consistent. One among the superfluity of imperfections that undermine our mortal predicament. And that, boys and girls, is where I began to see people's narratives as stories.

Aside from narratives were the different assortment of, what I call tricks, that people used on each other. Generally the older ones knew the most tricks. Grandfather, for instance, had so many he needed a bag to carry them all. I once asked him for a quarter to buy some bubble gum. He offered a dollar, told me to keep the change. I told him a piece of gum only cost a quarter. He said “with a dollar you can buy four pieces instead of one,” then laughed with an air of mischief. When I explained I can only chew one piece at a time, the laughing stopped. “Comprendo,” he nodded, “you're sincere.” Pilfering his pockets in haste, seriousness he handed me a quarter along with a gentle pat on the head that was followed by long, unnatural, heavy silence — even bugs stopped chirping. “Grandfather,” I said loud enough to lift the silence. “I love you. You'll never betray me. If I ask you for a dollar I know you'll give it to me. But right now, I just need one quarter.” Nodding more vigorously than before he said, “Go ahead. Be one who speaks truth to a fault. See what happens. Prepare yourself. In this life, a great deal of suffering awaits.” How can there be fault in truth, I wondered. “Are truth and suffering connected? Do you mean,” I looked up at him, “that those who lie the most suffer the least?” His peaceful smile and gaze became lost in the distant cane fields,“not exactly.” He looked down to me, “Do remember this: the Devil knows more due to his experience than merely because he is the Devil [Mas sabe el Diablo por viejo, que por Diablo].”

BOOK SAMPLE:

“It doesn’t bark, it bites," Juan joked and spoke on in a rhythmic gibberish of sorts while his eyes locked on to mine as he urged me to “come in.” I nodded in affirmation and when I grabbed the handle of the white metal gate, coldness coursed up my arm. I saw myself opening the gate and entering the front yard. Leaving no space for the dog to escape as I shut the gate. That coldness stuck to my hand and grew into a worry then a doubt. I must have taken long to maneuver through because Juan stood at the front porch again, over 40 paces away.

My shoes felt glued as I marched against some foreign burden. A thing that made my body sluggish, my mind unclear; some force that had me dragging my steps, scarcely lifting them.  My shoes slowly sanded paint off of that concrete driveway, scraping soles like Frankenstein. The large animal followed closely, breathing about my person. As its snout searched my legs, a sensation that  the dog was going to bite me emerged. I dreaded razor-sharp canines shredding flesh, but they did not. The old man spat more gibberish at my slow advance.  His monolithic presence became more frightening as I closed the distance between us. 

My eyes fixed on the old man. His smile enlarged to reveal fangs resembling those of a snake. The dog growled, pushing hard on my legs nearly knocking me off my feet. I was afraid long enough to realized that this fear was centralized in my lower abdomen, but nothing more.

“Come closer. Understand that fear can bring great strength to you. Here, whatever frightens is to be observed. You must not run away for if you run away — fear will devour you. When you embrace a certain fear, it becomes your ally.” He spoke distorted,
distant. I stopped right then and there. My short walk brought me to the first step of his front door. There were three and there I froze. Try as I may, this transfixion had decided my boundaries. The floor moved as liquid thicker than tar, enough to stand still on without falling through. This state was reminiscent of my LSD experiments of old. My eyes stabbed at the old man. His sinister smile increased in size under pupils black as pitch. This had to be a flashback, I concluded, as it carried a distinct flavor of trauma that I recognized; but I could not recall such images before this night. I am mesmerized, somehow, into some alien reality.

“For what reason have you accepted my offer to come here? Think … tell me why you’ve come. Is it power you seek … yes it must be power,” the old man said. I could only mumble. The wind picked up and the temperature dropped. My right hand felt frozen and my left was no warmer. The full moon above shined bright but offered little more. Wind pushed low clouds at notable speeds and seemed to move them with some subtle purpose. At other instances the earth moved rapidly under a sky of frozen clouds above.

I answered in weeps and mumbles

"Two more steps, boy; take my hand.” His voice was clear in my mind, but I was not moving. Overwhelmed or not I certainly was not stepping backwards. Far too many strange things to perceive soon became a white blur.

“Muchacho!” His yell brought me back. I was outside, facing the white gate with a numbing hand still attached to its cold handle. 

“I've had some kind of vision,” I told him, “where that dog
wanted to bite me.” 

“Nonsense. You've recalled a dream,” he peeped as if through a sniper's scope, “last night's dream that you had forgot until now."

"I what?" 

"Besides, that dog never bit a soul. We've cohabited a long time. I raised him.” Juan spoke with certainty, seriousness the likes of which my usual skepticism could not doubt. 

“He does seem very noble.” I smiled.

“When you come in, do not leave room between yourself and the gate; the dog does escape from time to time.”

As I slipped in the gate, the dog made a futile dive to slip outside. Instantly Juan ordered it to heel by name. It stopped, bowed its head and sprinted to the back of the residency. Juan and I walked into the house. 

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• Update #1 - THANK YOU ALL! Oct. 23, 2018

  Hello there, Vincent here!

  Glowing with euphoria to have so much support on this crowd-publishing campaign for my upcoming book: Movements of Power. 

  Week one …

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