I am thrilled and honored to be a part of the very First Ever Latino Virtual Book Tour! I am even more thrilled with the fact that the author touring is Estevan Vega - not only a talented and new favorite author of mine, but just a really great guy! Estevan is the author of Servant of the Realm, The Sacred Sin, and soon to be released (tentatively titled) Arson.
Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of interviewing Estevan and had tons of fun with that. If you missed it, you can catch it by (clicking here) Also, if you missed my review of The Sacred Sin (click here) to check it out.
Since I did have the chance, previously, to review The Sacred Sin and do an interview with Estevan, I wanted to do something fun and special for readers this time around. I asked Mr. Vega if he would be interested in writing and/or posting a short story of his and he agreed. I want to send a huge thank you to him for taking the time to do so.
Sit back, relax and enjoy The Borrower by Estevan Vega! I also want to mention that as an extra treat, Estevan is giving away a copy of his first published book Servant of the Realm to one lucky winner! To enter:
~simply leave a comment (1 entry)
~ask Estevan any question that your heart desires (2 entries)
~twitter about this post and contest - be sure to put @cafeofdreams so that I know you twittered (3 entries)
*contest ends June 29th
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The Borrower
by: Estevan Vega
*copyright Estevan Vega
Rain and sleet soaked the black world, a stray wind howling in the dark, disturbing the short stubbles on the Borrower’s face. He was wearing a cloak and little more, but the colorless garment hugged tightly to his strong frame, keeping his body warm despite the winter chill. Gasping, he fought to keep a steady pace, taking shorter breaths and longer steps. He would be there soon.
With every footstep, he was taken back to the memories he’d longed to wish away. Dwelling on them, on her, was enough to tear down the walls of Jericho. But he couldn’t help it. Tonight of all nights. They were always there, like living, moving flesh, a picture unable to be turned off. They were burdens fortified by timeless tragedy and loneliness.
His mind drifted to the battles and histories he’d willingly and freely called his own, yet both memory and history seemed like foreigners now on the shores of his weathered soul. He gritted his teeth, finding some kind of sick enjoyment in turning the edges of each incisor into a white powder, only to feel them resurface moments later. So, he clenched his fists, tucked in his head and ran faster.
The hum of the dark city drowned out all the sounds except the lonely melody of his heartbeat. Only moments ago, he was riding along the Mediterranean, hunting a faceless man—if the being could even be called that—in Barcelona. One who might have gotten away or perished, he couldn’t remember. Or could he? Yes, that was the most troubling of all. He could remember. That was his burden, wasn’t it? He could remember everything, with detail. The unquiet morning, the blood and rage. The way the dew stuck to his lips, or how the sand felt beneath his boots. The cries of the ocean returned tonight, as if they were a soft lullaby, soon to be swallowed.
The Borrower closed his eyes, wiping filthy drops of rain from his brow. “Not tonight,” he whispered. “Just forget. That’s what you must do.”
He knew it better than anyone. Though he couldn’t understand it, he knew the riddle of how a moment might turn into forever, leaving all of life as nothing more than a map of uncharted islands in a sea of wanderers and abandoned time. A snap of the fingers. A tide rolling in and rushing out just as quickly. But not for him. For him, life was not just a moment, nor a sum of increments, but a line without a start. Yet God was the blink, contained in everything and every human soul. What power and privilege. How he longed for it, how he needed and pleaded for it. God, a microorganism and a drop of water. A skyscraper and a breath of wind.
“I was God once,” he scoffed.
Alone on the beach again, he listens closely. Perhaps there’s a crow circling above, or is that the present confusing the past? Dark shapes gliding and unfolding the air behind and in front of him, their wretched caw repeating. “Soon. Very soon.”
With a blink the world looks sound and flawless, but inside it’s filled with robbery and murder and unclean men, unclean streets. It was nothing new to see or to experience. The taste of reality had already begun to spoil. To his right, he passed a nursing mother whose stare was polluted by the city smog and haze of the underground subway. The car crash six blocks ago and the bodies burning like lost embers or a smoke signal no one would ever see, flash before him. A groaning heart beat, and then, nothing at all. Life is not the only gift God can give. He knew that now, he was sure.
Another blink brought him to the beach once more. Stuck. “I don’t want to think about it anymore,” he cursed into the night. “Be gone.” But it remained, crawling into his mind and resting there. The pictures flashed. A blood-stained dagger wetting his gritty palm. It seeps into every line and curve. As he looks up into the hungry eyes of his enemy, those cheeks of his stretched back into a moonlit grin, his eyes start to spin. “I don’t want to die,” he remembered himself crying. “I’m not ready to die.” The past had never seemed so clear until this moment.
As his feet hammered against the split asphalt, he felt as though quicksand were dragging him under. A pile of angry mud, greedy and wanting and never satisfied with the dirt or ruin, always longing for more, filthy and without gratitude for the futile life it was.
He swallowed and kept moving, ever-watchful of his surroundings—the night spies. He could hear their feathers unraveling a new language as they cut through the dark air. His feet were never heavy, but tonight, it was like dragging lead.
But at last, he reached the end. He came to a halt in front of a lonely group of buildings. A cramp suddenly twisted up his ribcage, and for a second he wondered what it might feel like to have his lungs collapse, or to suffocate or drown in this vengeful storm. He wondered how Grace felt gasping for her last breath. She seemed so delicate in his hands. It was strange how different someone can look without life in them, without something to fill those shallow pools we call our eyes; without some word or smile to disturb our frosted lips. Grace was gone.
His gaze moved along the brick face of the building. The vines and shingles and flickering lights. Just one of many other connecting frames, contingent upon that which came before it. Weak and powerless on its own. Lightning angrily split the heavens. Coughing, he remained motionless.
Why can’t I move? he thought. Why can’t I walk up those steps and give him what he wants?
Because you know what it will mean if you do.
None of that matters. It is time to pay my debt.
A roll of thunder grumbled in the distance. He wiped his face and opened the small gate. With careful, calculated steps, he walked toward two angelic pillars on either side of the entrance to apartment three-sixteen. The white paint covering the door was faded and came off like clay. A flimsy banister hung down from above the door and shadowed the entryway, which had dead flowers collected in pots of stiff dirt.
He knocked, only seconds before realizing the door was already open. “Come in, Borrower,” a voice invited from within. The voice was thick and coated, somewhat raspy. “I’ve been waiting for you.” A cough ushered in the man. He shut the door behind him, as each crippled flower inside the pots began to climb and spread up out of the rough dirt, coming alive with petals, stems and vibrant colors.
He followed the cough and the near-choking old voice from the other room. The house was dark, lit up only by the moonlight. It took him back to the beach, where he refused to linger long. Back to the grin on the man overshadowing him, the man he wrestled for hours, fought and cut.
“Why don’t you take off your cloak and come into the light?” the old man said, putting on a breathing mask and sitting up in his big chair.
“Hello, John,” the Borrower whispered, revealing his face in the moonlight.
“It’s been a long time, Christopher. But you’ve come back to me at last,” John replied, lifting up his breathing mask with a whine. His eyes glanced out the big, open window to his right, and he focused on the flapping black shapes stirring along the rooftops. “So, you’ve brought company.”
“I realize that perhaps they may be unwelcome, but wherever I go, they must follow.”
“Even into hell?”
“They follow everywhere.”
John leaned up against his knees, and Christopher could hear the crack his bones made with each shift. How he winced and bit his tongue with the slightest amount of pressure. “You kept your word, Christopher. But why? Why did you come back here?”
“You are the last,” Christopher replied.
The old man heeled over in a coughing fit, blood curdling in his lungs before spilling out that wrinkly throat.
“You are stronger than I imagined you might be, John,” the Borrower said softly.
“Well, I’ve had a lifetime to practice being strong. My God, when did I get so old? Do you remember what eighty-seven feels like, Christopher?”
“No.”
“Don’t you remember anything before it happened?”
“It’s not good to dwell on memories,” Christopher said, picturing how the breeze felt against his cheek that day on the beach.
“To hell with it. I don’t want them, anyway. They’re nothin’ but excess baggage. It’ll be better just to forget everything. That way, it won’t hurt, right?”
Christopher nodded slowly, slipping back into the dark.
“What does it feel like?” John asked, leaning in his chair. “Does it hurt?”
“For a moment,” Christopher said, taking off his cloak. “When it’s over, it will feel like a dream, a very long dream.”
“Those creatures are still waiting outside. Good grief, look at them. Skulking little vermin, aren’t they?”
“They like to be watch.”
Christopher took a step toward the old man. He noticed him recoil, feeble and full of fear, even spilling his coffee on the Persian rug.
“Do not be afraid, John.”
“Wait, Christopher. Please, just wait.”
The old man reached for his cane and stood up.
“Do you ever wish you could see Grace again, Christopher? That was her name, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t have time for this. It’s not good to dwell on memories.”
John exploded with laughter. “That’s just it; you have all the time in the world.” He reached into a nearby hutch for a bottle of champagne. “It has been many years since I decided to break this old friend out. Oh, how I’ve missed the taste.”
Christopher watched his eyes glow.
“Now, where did I put that da….?”
“John, I didn’t come here to celebrate and inebriate with you. Your vices are your own, but they are not mine. We have business.”
“We have business,” John mocked. “Is that all you think about, son? Business. Be mindful of your humanity, Christopher. You mustn’t forget you are still flesh and blood.”
Christopher held out his hands and stared down at them, a look of disgust bleaching his face.
John fidgeted with the bottle’s cork, slowly unscrewing it until it popped, champagne sparkling over the glass lip and spilling onto the floor. “Indulge me.”
Another roll of thunder crashed above the city, lightning sailing through the mist and the clouds. Christopher’s eyes flashed white. “One drink.”
“Thata boy.” John poured two glasses and handed one over. “Cheers. To a long and happy life.”
Silently, Christopher clinked glasses and took a long sip.
“What’s on your mind?”
Christopher tilted his head, unsure of what to say. He stood there for a moment, silent as the dead.
“Well?” John urged.
Finally, he broke his silence. “I’ve been living on borrowed time, John. My soul is fatigued, but my body does not feel worn. My heart feels fear, but there is nothing in this world to fill me with horror. Can you imagine being thirsty, but never finding water that can truly quench your dried mouth?” He paused to finish the glass of champagne. “You are certain that this is what you want?”
John put down his glass. “I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life, son. Forgive me for calling you that. I must seem like a small child to you.” A smile split his wrinkled lips. “Tell me about Grace.”
Christopher paused and studied the old man. Frail, hunched over and pale. His frosted lips reminded him of Grace’s. Hesitant, he shifted his shoulders and stared out the window. At long length, he parted his lips and spoke. “She was…all I could ever ask for. Grace was perfect. Every line of her face. Every smile. Innocent and full of life. Even her anger was flawless.”
“Nothing is flawless. I should expect you to know that after all these years. Everything dies, Christopher. Everything ‘cept you.”
A sigh.
“What would you say to her if she were here?”
“Sorry.” A long moment drifted by them both. “Listen to me, John. When it happens, things will be different. You will be different. There is no going back. Your life will change forever.”
“I expect it shall. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now, Christ…” John began to cough and reached for a hand mirror. “Christopher, I’ve been living this way for far too long. Weak and fragile. I’ve missed who I used to be. I miss my youth.”
Christopher drew the blinds. “Looks like it stopped raining, John. The sun should be coming out shortly. Are you ready?”
John set his cane against the oak coffee table beside him. He stared at the picture frame holding a much younger face beside an elegant bride. “I’m not afraid anymore. I made a wish when she died. That’s when you came to me. Do you remember?”
Christopher dipped his head and held the old man.
“Me too. Now, stop stalling. Do what you came here to do.”
Christopher looked straight into his eyes. “Years ago, I wrestled with God on a beach. One of us died that day.” He drew closer, the darkness surrounding both their faces. “I wasn’t totally honest with you, John.” Christopher grabbed the old man’s cheek tightly, and his palm shook the pale, wrinkled flesh beneath it.
“Oh, it’s cold,” he heard him shudder.
“I know,” Christopher said, growing weaker. He struggled to keep his hand up. “Close your eyes. It will be over soon. I will grant you this wish, but one thing must stay with you. What do you hold most dear that you long to forget?”
“Oh, God,” John gasped, looking straight into Christopher’s pale eyes.
Gravity dragged Christopher’s face toward hell, his flesh and skin like loose clothes on a weathered body. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, and quickly looked away. A piece of skin slipped from his jaw, exposing the gray skeleton beneath it. The flesh becoming ash on the rug.
Meanwhile, John’s skin reshaped itself, turning softer, more youthful. Kind eyes replacing cold, calloused mirrors. Ears shrunken behind a well-manicured scalp. Teeth now reformed out from decayed gums. He screamed and cried and changed.
“I got to live forever, but I was left my memories,” Christopher whispered, barely audible with the sound of wind and chaos whirring in their midst. He tried to cradle the youth in his hands with an arthritic grip, but couldn’t hold it up any longer. His power now reversed, energy depleted. His chest caving in, broken. “Everlasting life.”
John’s body dropped with a loud thud, as Christopher lay on tired knees. A ray of sunlight reached in through the darkness and scratched his old, worn-out face. Another flake of skin peeled off onto the rug, stained.
“Christopher? Borrower? Are you all right?”
“You are changed now,” he said with weighted breath. “It’s your burden now, my friend. Forgive me.” His eyes were lost and wandering.
“What do you see?”
Christopher answered slowly, “I see an end. The end of a borrowed life.”
John’s shoulders sank, and he used his palms to lift up a rejuvenated body. “Can you see her? Do you see Grace?”
“No. I see light. I see the end of all things. Finally, I have rest.” Christopher’s head rotated slowly toward the young man standing in front of him. “They are coming, John,” he said, falling over, collapsing into black dust.
Suddenly, all of the windows in the room shattered, and violent caws echoed through the open space. The sound stung at first, causing his ears to bleed and buzz. But the crows did not attack him. Their black feathers and eyes and wings took shape around him. “You are the Borrower, John Chambers.”
“What are you?” he asked, his heart beating slower despite this new fear.
“We are the guardian watchers. We dwell with you always, even until the end. Now take up your cane and walk. There are many to encounter.”
“Many?”
They unfurled their spiny wings and stared with lidless lenses, remaining silent.
“Where must I go?”
“Wherever time takes us,” they stirred.
“But Christopher. What happened to him?”
“You set him free.”
John remained still, counting his heartbeats and waiting for them to disperse. “How old was he?”
“He was the second,” the murder answered, as the violent spread of their wings folded and unfolded air and wind and light. “Four centuries old. Now, be still. Time is ever against us, and we have much to accomplish.”
John nodded, trying to walk. Pain writhed through his waist and right leg. “One thing must stay with you,” he muttered to himself. Slowly, John reached for his cane and shook to keep his balance. He bent over and reached for Christopher’s black cloak. It loosely fit him at first, but then it adjusted to his thinner frame. With a deep breath, the Borrower limped his way outside, wincing at the pain.
He closed the apartment door behind him, and glanced down at the flowers which had come to life since Christopher’s arrival during the night. He watched the murder of crows unhinge in flight and suddenly vanish within the gloves of the city. With a slow blink and a churn in his gut, John covered his young face, hiding it within the cloak. He moved toward the concrete pathway and hesitated at the gate, staring at an old life he knew was at an end.
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A bit about Estevan Vega:
As a young boy, Estevan Vega never really felt interested in the written word. Far more fascinating things like comic book superheroes and sketching fantastical beings caught his eye. But in the fifth grade, writing short essays for a standoffish teacher ignited a fire that is still burning.
Using his imaginative father as a springboard for ideas, Vega set out to write a full manuscript. His dream to become a published author came forth when he was just15 years old, releasing his first literary creation, Servant of the Realm,to the world, a story about a teenager who sees the future deaths of those he loves and tries to change it. "There is something therapeutic and natural about breathing life into the mundane, or finding escape through odd characters and strange concepts," says Vega.
The Sacred Sin, his second book, was published when he was 18, and shows a darker edge and deeper intensity than his first effort. The Sacred Sin bleeds with honesty and emotion, and tells the story of Jude Foster, a cynical self-loathing detective,assigned to bring down a serial killer capable of stealing victim's souls without ever touching them. Stopping this ghost killer, fighting against his demons, his inner darkness, may be the only path toward sanity and a new beginning. With a curiosity for the supernatural, as well as a feeling of discontentment with humanity's complacency, Vega’s story-lines dwell somewhere in between fiction and reality, a place where the world is as blurred and irregular as human choice and consequence.
Vega resides in Connecticut, a small New England state most people forget about. Tate Publishing will release his latest creation ARSON in 2009.
You can visit the author website here: http://www.estevanvega.com/
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Here's a bit of info about The Sacred Sin, to whet your appetite:
There is darkness inside us all.
Everyone has a past. One that is inescapable. Jude Foster, an L.A. homicide detective, is on the brink of mental collapse. A year ago, he was left for dead by Morgan Cross, a once-close friend and partner. Now, although forced to undergo mindless psychoanalytical diatribes in order to be reinstated into the department, the world apathetically spins on. When a dead body is found in West Hollywood, an investigation is set in motion and Jude realizes, with the aid of Rachel Cragin, his annoying new interim partner, that the first victim is only the beginning. The markings on the bodies are trails to a more sadistic pattern of evil, one Jude may or may not recognize. But how does someone stop a killer who’s slaying his victims by stealing their souls, without ever touching them? As the time ticks, the countdown begins. They will have one week to uncover the sacred sin…and the darkness that lies within all men.
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Be sure to check out The Sacred Sin and these other great blogs also sponsoring Estevan Vega and the First Ever Latino Virtual Book Tour!
une 14 BronzeWord Latino Authors
Eljumpingbean http://eljumpingbean.blogspot.com
June 15 Latinitas Magazine http://www.mylatinitas.com
June 16 The Art of Random Willynillyness.com http://theartofrandomwillynillyness.blogspot.com
Carol in Carolina http://caroincarolina.blogspot.com
June 17 Caridad Pineiro http://www.caridad.com/
June 18 Writing to Insanity http://www.locacrazywriter.blogspot.com
June 19 Lara Rios http://juliaamante.blogspot.com/
June 20 Musings http://Nilkibenitez.blogspot.com
June 21 rafaelMarquez.me http://www.rafaelmarquez.me
June 22 Latina Reader http://blogs.qoobole.com/latina-reader
June 23 Café of Deams http://cafeofdreams.blogspot.com/
June 24 Latino Pundit http://www.latinopundit.com
June 25 Queer Latino Musings on Literature http://charlievazquez.wordpress.com/
June 26 Mama Latina Tips http://www.mamalatinatips.com
June 27 Latino Book Examiner http://www.examiner.com/x-6309-Latino-Books-Examiner
Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of interviewing Estevan and had tons of fun with that. If you missed it, you can catch it by (clicking here) Also, if you missed my review of The Sacred Sin (click here) to check it out.
Since I did have the chance, previously, to review The Sacred Sin and do an interview with Estevan, I wanted to do something fun and special for readers this time around. I asked Mr. Vega if he would be interested in writing and/or posting a short story of his and he agreed. I want to send a huge thank you to him for taking the time to do so.
Sit back, relax and enjoy The Borrower by Estevan Vega! I also want to mention that as an extra treat, Estevan is giving away a copy of his first published book Servant of the Realm to one lucky winner! To enter:~simply leave a comment (1 entry)
~ask Estevan any question that your heart desires (2 entries)
~twitter about this post and contest - be sure to put @cafeofdreams so that I know you twittered (3 entries)
*contest ends June 29th
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Borrower
by: Estevan Vega
*copyright Estevan Vega
Rain and sleet soaked the black world, a stray wind howling in the dark, disturbing the short stubbles on the Borrower’s face. He was wearing a cloak and little more, but the colorless garment hugged tightly to his strong frame, keeping his body warm despite the winter chill. Gasping, he fought to keep a steady pace, taking shorter breaths and longer steps. He would be there soon.
With every footstep, he was taken back to the memories he’d longed to wish away. Dwelling on them, on her, was enough to tear down the walls of Jericho. But he couldn’t help it. Tonight of all nights. They were always there, like living, moving flesh, a picture unable to be turned off. They were burdens fortified by timeless tragedy and loneliness.
His mind drifted to the battles and histories he’d willingly and freely called his own, yet both memory and history seemed like foreigners now on the shores of his weathered soul. He gritted his teeth, finding some kind of sick enjoyment in turning the edges of each incisor into a white powder, only to feel them resurface moments later. So, he clenched his fists, tucked in his head and ran faster.
The hum of the dark city drowned out all the sounds except the lonely melody of his heartbeat. Only moments ago, he was riding along the Mediterranean, hunting a faceless man—if the being could even be called that—in Barcelona. One who might have gotten away or perished, he couldn’t remember. Or could he? Yes, that was the most troubling of all. He could remember. That was his burden, wasn’t it? He could remember everything, with detail. The unquiet morning, the blood and rage. The way the dew stuck to his lips, or how the sand felt beneath his boots. The cries of the ocean returned tonight, as if they were a soft lullaby, soon to be swallowed.
The Borrower closed his eyes, wiping filthy drops of rain from his brow. “Not tonight,” he whispered. “Just forget. That’s what you must do.”
He knew it better than anyone. Though he couldn’t understand it, he knew the riddle of how a moment might turn into forever, leaving all of life as nothing more than a map of uncharted islands in a sea of wanderers and abandoned time. A snap of the fingers. A tide rolling in and rushing out just as quickly. But not for him. For him, life was not just a moment, nor a sum of increments, but a line without a start. Yet God was the blink, contained in everything and every human soul. What power and privilege. How he longed for it, how he needed and pleaded for it. God, a microorganism and a drop of water. A skyscraper and a breath of wind.
“I was God once,” he scoffed.
Alone on the beach again, he listens closely. Perhaps there’s a crow circling above, or is that the present confusing the past? Dark shapes gliding and unfolding the air behind and in front of him, their wretched caw repeating. “Soon. Very soon.”
With a blink the world looks sound and flawless, but inside it’s filled with robbery and murder and unclean men, unclean streets. It was nothing new to see or to experience. The taste of reality had already begun to spoil. To his right, he passed a nursing mother whose stare was polluted by the city smog and haze of the underground subway. The car crash six blocks ago and the bodies burning like lost embers or a smoke signal no one would ever see, flash before him. A groaning heart beat, and then, nothing at all. Life is not the only gift God can give. He knew that now, he was sure.
Another blink brought him to the beach once more. Stuck. “I don’t want to think about it anymore,” he cursed into the night. “Be gone.” But it remained, crawling into his mind and resting there. The pictures flashed. A blood-stained dagger wetting his gritty palm. It seeps into every line and curve. As he looks up into the hungry eyes of his enemy, those cheeks of his stretched back into a moonlit grin, his eyes start to spin. “I don’t want to die,” he remembered himself crying. “I’m not ready to die.” The past had never seemed so clear until this moment.
As his feet hammered against the split asphalt, he felt as though quicksand were dragging him under. A pile of angry mud, greedy and wanting and never satisfied with the dirt or ruin, always longing for more, filthy and without gratitude for the futile life it was.
He swallowed and kept moving, ever-watchful of his surroundings—the night spies. He could hear their feathers unraveling a new language as they cut through the dark air. His feet were never heavy, but tonight, it was like dragging lead.
But at last, he reached the end. He came to a halt in front of a lonely group of buildings. A cramp suddenly twisted up his ribcage, and for a second he wondered what it might feel like to have his lungs collapse, or to suffocate or drown in this vengeful storm. He wondered how Grace felt gasping for her last breath. She seemed so delicate in his hands. It was strange how different someone can look without life in them, without something to fill those shallow pools we call our eyes; without some word or smile to disturb our frosted lips. Grace was gone.
His gaze moved along the brick face of the building. The vines and shingles and flickering lights. Just one of many other connecting frames, contingent upon that which came before it. Weak and powerless on its own. Lightning angrily split the heavens. Coughing, he remained motionless.
Why can’t I move? he thought. Why can’t I walk up those steps and give him what he wants?
Because you know what it will mean if you do.
None of that matters. It is time to pay my debt.
A roll of thunder grumbled in the distance. He wiped his face and opened the small gate. With careful, calculated steps, he walked toward two angelic pillars on either side of the entrance to apartment three-sixteen. The white paint covering the door was faded and came off like clay. A flimsy banister hung down from above the door and shadowed the entryway, which had dead flowers collected in pots of stiff dirt.
He knocked, only seconds before realizing the door was already open. “Come in, Borrower,” a voice invited from within. The voice was thick and coated, somewhat raspy. “I’ve been waiting for you.” A cough ushered in the man. He shut the door behind him, as each crippled flower inside the pots began to climb and spread up out of the rough dirt, coming alive with petals, stems and vibrant colors.
He followed the cough and the near-choking old voice from the other room. The house was dark, lit up only by the moonlight. It took him back to the beach, where he refused to linger long. Back to the grin on the man overshadowing him, the man he wrestled for hours, fought and cut.
“Why don’t you take off your cloak and come into the light?” the old man said, putting on a breathing mask and sitting up in his big chair.
“Hello, John,” the Borrower whispered, revealing his face in the moonlight.
“It’s been a long time, Christopher. But you’ve come back to me at last,” John replied, lifting up his breathing mask with a whine. His eyes glanced out the big, open window to his right, and he focused on the flapping black shapes stirring along the rooftops. “So, you’ve brought company.”
“I realize that perhaps they may be unwelcome, but wherever I go, they must follow.”
“Even into hell?”
“They follow everywhere.”
John leaned up against his knees, and Christopher could hear the crack his bones made with each shift. How he winced and bit his tongue with the slightest amount of pressure. “You kept your word, Christopher. But why? Why did you come back here?”
“You are the last,” Christopher replied.
The old man heeled over in a coughing fit, blood curdling in his lungs before spilling out that wrinkly throat.
“You are stronger than I imagined you might be, John,” the Borrower said softly.
“Well, I’ve had a lifetime to practice being strong. My God, when did I get so old? Do you remember what eighty-seven feels like, Christopher?”
“No.”
“Don’t you remember anything before it happened?”
“It’s not good to dwell on memories,” Christopher said, picturing how the breeze felt against his cheek that day on the beach.
“To hell with it. I don’t want them, anyway. They’re nothin’ but excess baggage. It’ll be better just to forget everything. That way, it won’t hurt, right?”
Christopher nodded slowly, slipping back into the dark.
“What does it feel like?” John asked, leaning in his chair. “Does it hurt?”
“For a moment,” Christopher said, taking off his cloak. “When it’s over, it will feel like a dream, a very long dream.”
“Those creatures are still waiting outside. Good grief, look at them. Skulking little vermin, aren’t they?”
“They like to be watch.”
Christopher took a step toward the old man. He noticed him recoil, feeble and full of fear, even spilling his coffee on the Persian rug.
“Do not be afraid, John.”
“Wait, Christopher. Please, just wait.”
The old man reached for his cane and stood up.
“Do you ever wish you could see Grace again, Christopher? That was her name, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t have time for this. It’s not good to dwell on memories.”
John exploded with laughter. “That’s just it; you have all the time in the world.” He reached into a nearby hutch for a bottle of champagne. “It has been many years since I decided to break this old friend out. Oh, how I’ve missed the taste.”
Christopher watched his eyes glow.
“Now, where did I put that da….?”
“John, I didn’t come here to celebrate and inebriate with you. Your vices are your own, but they are not mine. We have business.”
“We have business,” John mocked. “Is that all you think about, son? Business. Be mindful of your humanity, Christopher. You mustn’t forget you are still flesh and blood.”
Christopher held out his hands and stared down at them, a look of disgust bleaching his face.
John fidgeted with the bottle’s cork, slowly unscrewing it until it popped, champagne sparkling over the glass lip and spilling onto the floor. “Indulge me.”
Another roll of thunder crashed above the city, lightning sailing through the mist and the clouds. Christopher’s eyes flashed white. “One drink.”
“Thata boy.” John poured two glasses and handed one over. “Cheers. To a long and happy life.”
Silently, Christopher clinked glasses and took a long sip.
“What’s on your mind?”
Christopher tilted his head, unsure of what to say. He stood there for a moment, silent as the dead.
“Well?” John urged.
Finally, he broke his silence. “I’ve been living on borrowed time, John. My soul is fatigued, but my body does not feel worn. My heart feels fear, but there is nothing in this world to fill me with horror. Can you imagine being thirsty, but never finding water that can truly quench your dried mouth?” He paused to finish the glass of champagne. “You are certain that this is what you want?”
John put down his glass. “I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life, son. Forgive me for calling you that. I must seem like a small child to you.” A smile split his wrinkled lips. “Tell me about Grace.”
Christopher paused and studied the old man. Frail, hunched over and pale. His frosted lips reminded him of Grace’s. Hesitant, he shifted his shoulders and stared out the window. At long length, he parted his lips and spoke. “She was…all I could ever ask for. Grace was perfect. Every line of her face. Every smile. Innocent and full of life. Even her anger was flawless.”
“Nothing is flawless. I should expect you to know that after all these years. Everything dies, Christopher. Everything ‘cept you.”
A sigh.
“What would you say to her if she were here?”
“Sorry.” A long moment drifted by them both. “Listen to me, John. When it happens, things will be different. You will be different. There is no going back. Your life will change forever.”
“I expect it shall. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now, Christ…” John began to cough and reached for a hand mirror. “Christopher, I’ve been living this way for far too long. Weak and fragile. I’ve missed who I used to be. I miss my youth.”
Christopher drew the blinds. “Looks like it stopped raining, John. The sun should be coming out shortly. Are you ready?”
John set his cane against the oak coffee table beside him. He stared at the picture frame holding a much younger face beside an elegant bride. “I’m not afraid anymore. I made a wish when she died. That’s when you came to me. Do you remember?”
Christopher dipped his head and held the old man.
“Me too. Now, stop stalling. Do what you came here to do.”
Christopher looked straight into his eyes. “Years ago, I wrestled with God on a beach. One of us died that day.” He drew closer, the darkness surrounding both their faces. “I wasn’t totally honest with you, John.” Christopher grabbed the old man’s cheek tightly, and his palm shook the pale, wrinkled flesh beneath it.
“Oh, it’s cold,” he heard him shudder.
“I know,” Christopher said, growing weaker. He struggled to keep his hand up. “Close your eyes. It will be over soon. I will grant you this wish, but one thing must stay with you. What do you hold most dear that you long to forget?”
“Oh, God,” John gasped, looking straight into Christopher’s pale eyes.
Gravity dragged Christopher’s face toward hell, his flesh and skin like loose clothes on a weathered body. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, and quickly looked away. A piece of skin slipped from his jaw, exposing the gray skeleton beneath it. The flesh becoming ash on the rug.
Meanwhile, John’s skin reshaped itself, turning softer, more youthful. Kind eyes replacing cold, calloused mirrors. Ears shrunken behind a well-manicured scalp. Teeth now reformed out from decayed gums. He screamed and cried and changed.
“I got to live forever, but I was left my memories,” Christopher whispered, barely audible with the sound of wind and chaos whirring in their midst. He tried to cradle the youth in his hands with an arthritic grip, but couldn’t hold it up any longer. His power now reversed, energy depleted. His chest caving in, broken. “Everlasting life.”
John’s body dropped with a loud thud, as Christopher lay on tired knees. A ray of sunlight reached in through the darkness and scratched his old, worn-out face. Another flake of skin peeled off onto the rug, stained.
“Christopher? Borrower? Are you all right?”
“You are changed now,” he said with weighted breath. “It’s your burden now, my friend. Forgive me.” His eyes were lost and wandering.
“What do you see?”
Christopher answered slowly, “I see an end. The end of a borrowed life.”
John’s shoulders sank, and he used his palms to lift up a rejuvenated body. “Can you see her? Do you see Grace?”
“No. I see light. I see the end of all things. Finally, I have rest.” Christopher’s head rotated slowly toward the young man standing in front of him. “They are coming, John,” he said, falling over, collapsing into black dust.
Suddenly, all of the windows in the room shattered, and violent caws echoed through the open space. The sound stung at first, causing his ears to bleed and buzz. But the crows did not attack him. Their black feathers and eyes and wings took shape around him. “You are the Borrower, John Chambers.”
“What are you?” he asked, his heart beating slower despite this new fear.
“We are the guardian watchers. We dwell with you always, even until the end. Now take up your cane and walk. There are many to encounter.”
“Many?”
They unfurled their spiny wings and stared with lidless lenses, remaining silent.
“Where must I go?”
“Wherever time takes us,” they stirred.
“But Christopher. What happened to him?”
“You set him free.”
John remained still, counting his heartbeats and waiting for them to disperse. “How old was he?”
“He was the second,” the murder answered, as the violent spread of their wings folded and unfolded air and wind and light. “Four centuries old. Now, be still. Time is ever against us, and we have much to accomplish.”
John nodded, trying to walk. Pain writhed through his waist and right leg. “One thing must stay with you,” he muttered to himself. Slowly, John reached for his cane and shook to keep his balance. He bent over and reached for Christopher’s black cloak. It loosely fit him at first, but then it adjusted to his thinner frame. With a deep breath, the Borrower limped his way outside, wincing at the pain.
He closed the apartment door behind him, and glanced down at the flowers which had come to life since Christopher’s arrival during the night. He watched the murder of crows unhinge in flight and suddenly vanish within the gloves of the city. With a slow blink and a churn in his gut, John covered his young face, hiding it within the cloak. He moved toward the concrete pathway and hesitated at the gate, staring at an old life he knew was at an end.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bit about Estevan Vega:As a young boy, Estevan Vega never really felt interested in the written word. Far more fascinating things like comic book superheroes and sketching fantastical beings caught his eye. But in the fifth grade, writing short essays for a standoffish teacher ignited a fire that is still burning.
Using his imaginative father as a springboard for ideas, Vega set out to write a full manuscript. His dream to become a published author came forth when he was just15 years old, releasing his first literary creation, Servant of the Realm,to the world, a story about a teenager who sees the future deaths of those he loves and tries to change it. "There is something therapeutic and natural about breathing life into the mundane, or finding escape through odd characters and strange concepts," says Vega.
The Sacred Sin, his second book, was published when he was 18, and shows a darker edge and deeper intensity than his first effort. The Sacred Sin bleeds with honesty and emotion, and tells the story of Jude Foster, a cynical self-loathing detective,assigned to bring down a serial killer capable of stealing victim's souls without ever touching them. Stopping this ghost killer, fighting against his demons, his inner darkness, may be the only path toward sanity and a new beginning. With a curiosity for the supernatural, as well as a feeling of discontentment with humanity's complacency, Vega’s story-lines dwell somewhere in between fiction and reality, a place where the world is as blurred and irregular as human choice and consequence.
Vega resides in Connecticut, a small New England state most people forget about. Tate Publishing will release his latest creation ARSON in 2009.
You can visit the author website here: http://www.estevanvega.com/
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Here's a bit of info about The Sacred Sin, to whet your appetite:
There is darkness inside us all.
Everyone has a past. One that is inescapable. Jude Foster, an L.A. homicide detective, is on the brink of mental collapse. A year ago, he was left for dead by Morgan Cross, a once-close friend and partner. Now, although forced to undergo mindless psychoanalytical diatribes in order to be reinstated into the department, the world apathetically spins on. When a dead body is found in West Hollywood, an investigation is set in motion and Jude realizes, with the aid of Rachel Cragin, his annoying new interim partner, that the first victim is only the beginning. The markings on the bodies are trails to a more sadistic pattern of evil, one Jude may or may not recognize. But how does someone stop a killer who’s slaying his victims by stealing their souls, without ever touching them? As the time ticks, the countdown begins. They will have one week to uncover the sacred sin…and the darkness that lies within all men.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Be sure to check out The Sacred Sin and these other great blogs also sponsoring Estevan Vega and the First Ever Latino Virtual Book Tour!
une 14 BronzeWord Latino Authors
Eljumpingbean http://eljumpingbean.blogspot.com
June 15 Latinitas Magazine http://www.mylatinitas.com
June 16 The Art of Random Willynillyness.com http://theartofrandomwillynillyness.blogspot.com
Carol in Carolina http://caroincarolina.blogspot.com
June 17 Caridad Pineiro http://www.caridad.com/
June 18 Writing to Insanity http://www.locacrazywriter.blogspot.com
June 19 Lara Rios http://juliaamante.blogspot.com/
June 20 Musings http://Nilkibenitez.blogspot.com
June 21 rafaelMarquez.me http://www.rafaelmarquez.me
June 22 Latina Reader http://blogs.qoobole.com/latina-reader
June 23 Café of Deams http://cafeofdreams.blogspot.com/
June 24 Latino Pundit http://www.latinopundit.com
June 25 Queer Latino Musings on Literature http://charlievazquez.wordpress.com/
June 26 Mama Latina Tips http://www.mamalatinatips.com
June 27 Latino Book Examiner http://www.examiner.com/x-6309-Latino-Books-Examiner
22 comments:
I'm glad I read The Borrower this morning instead of last night!! I loved it. Please count me in.
Estevan, what type of books do you read??
mj.coward[at]gmail.com
Hi MJ! Thanks so much for stopping by! Isn't The Borrower a great story?! Estevan will be stopping by throughout the day to say hi and answer questions!
Hi, MJ.
First let me extend my gratitude for April and Cafe of Dreams for hosting me yet again this year. She's been awesome!
For reading, I generally stay away from Romance, although I have been known to peruse through Nicholas Sparks. And war stuff I generally don't care for (books; movies I like). Not crazy into fantasy, either.
Ummm, I like to read anything creepy, dark or thought-provoking. I liked The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Very simple, yet very emotional. The Great Gatsby, E.A. Poe. Ted Dekker, King, stuff like that. But honestly, if something looks cool, I'll give it a try, even if it's not within my normal taste.
Thanks for stopping by, MJ. Glad you liked the story. Now a question for you: what did you like about the story? Favorite part? Favorite sentence? Anything.
What an interesting young man and author! His short story read like poetry. It flowed as I read it!
His writing seems surreal! Kind of like a Salvador Dali painting!
I would love to be entered in the drawing for this book. Best wishes for a wonderful book tour.
Thanks, Cindi
jchoppes[at]hotmail[dot]com
Is there other career choices Mr. Vega has in mind, other than writing books?
Thanks, Cindi
jchoppes[at]hotmail[dot]com
"Tweet!"
http://twitter.com/cmh512/status/2297782032.
Cindi
jchoppes[at]hotmail[dot]com
Hi, Windy Cindy,
Thanks for checking out the tour and the story. Happy it moved you.
As for careers, not sure. I'm so dedicated to my writing, and it's hard to imagine doing anything else. The way I see it, I'm free to mess with the book industry for at least another two years, until I get outta college, you know, when REAL LIFE kicks me in the teeth.
No need to enter me, babe. I'm dropping in to say thanks for the e-mail. I've got this posted at Win a Book for you.
Hey Estevan! Thanks so much for stopping by and joining in the chat! It is my pleasure to host you!
Hi Cindi!
I agree, the flow of Estevan's story was great and very well done - draws the reader in very quickly. Thanks for the "tweet"!!
Ok, Estevan, here's a question for you. If you could meet any author, dead or alive, who would it be and why?
Thanks, Susan! You are beyond awesome!
April,
Very interesting question. Hmmm. From way back in the day...probably one of the scribes or prophets who put The Bible together. It always fascinated me how crazy their stuff was, inspiring, motivational, condemning. Kinda makes me look like an amateur. But, yeah, just to get inside their head maybe and see what they were thinking about. That'd be cool.
Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe would be pretty cool. Ray Bradbury. Man, you asked too hard a question. Oh...and duh, Stephen freakin King.
Poe, eh? I live in Richmond, Virginia and been to the Poe Museum here. First, love the short story. Two: What scares you? Really scares you?
Hi, Pam,
Appreciate the feedback. Very cool that you've been to the Poe museum. I'd love to check that out.
What scares me? The end. Of everything we know. I know there's hope, but it still scares me...the unknown, the when, the how. The thought that maybe I won't have accomplished all I wanted before it happens.
Estevan,
I loved how you used "murder" for the crows. I had not known that was the singular form for a group, but as soon as I saw it I wondered. It reminded me of Pam Muñoz Ryan's Becoming Naomi Leon because every chapter started with titles like that. Murder of crows was perfect for The Borrower.
I was in a Borders this weekend and wanted to get one of your books, but I was disappointed that they did not have either. I will have to wait until the next time I order something on-line.
My question for you is what is your favorite part of your college writing classes (or any of your previous writing classes)? Or have the interactions with your dad always been the most influential?
I will blog post about the blog tour and contest on my blog: www.enbuscadeequilibrio.blogspot.com
Looks like a good read, please enter me into this drawing.
Thanks for hosting this giveaway.
jake.lsewhere[at]gmail.com
Hello, Mrs. V. You have been fantastic with following this blog tour. Thanks.
Favorite part? Hmmm...I would have to say the finished product, because then it's over, and I can chill. My father is definitely a huge part of my writing, but lately it has tapered off, as I have been able to take the foundation he helped lay, and I can further my writing. Although, he still has input, and I value it.
Hi April and Estevan!
Great short story! I loved it!
I'll be looking your book.
Thanks for sharing The Borrower, it was fantastic!
What is your favorite set of shorts? Do you have an author that you can't put down?
Please enter me!
Dottie :)
gymmom_027@yahoo.com
I posted your contest on my sidebar at http://myblog2point0.blogspot.com/
Thanks for the great giveaway!
Dottie :)
gymmom_027@yahoo.com
Hi, Dottie,
My favorite set of shorts. I usually read more novels than short stories, even though they're great. For favorites, though, I really like the humor of David Sedaris' writing. There was another collection which really caught my attention, but it's escaping me right now. I like Poe...he's the man. Ray Bradbury's "There Will Come Soft Rains" is a really good short story, too. Oh, and there was one I really enjoyed in high school, a story called "By the Waters of Babylon." Check it out.
Thanks for stopping by and adding this giveaway to your blog.
Please include me in your giveaway.
Canadian Contests, Freebies, Coupons, Deals, Games and Chat - join us at CoolCanucks.ca
bluebelle0367(at)hotmail(dot)com
This book sounds reaaly good. I would love to read it. Please enter me. Thanks!
ayancey(at)dishmail(dot)net
I would love to read this!
I would love to read the The Sacred Sin also I have heard great things about this young author...
heidivargas [at] live dot com
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