Under The Power Of Sixteen Electroshocks
Under the stingy shadow of the fruta bomba tree Belkys sat trying to pluck the sun from the sky. She used her thumb and index finger like a forceps but she failed. She failed again, and failed better. She squinted hard, saw that the sun easily fit between her fingers, but try as much as she could the sun remained in the sky.
Then the moon, in its casual and soporific manner, drifted in and made easy work of it. It did the job Belkys could not, and blanketed the sun in its infinite darkness.
Belkys’ father stepped before her causing a secondary eclipse — the eclipse she so often dreaded. But as the sun moved on its ecliptic, free of the smothering moon, her father was momentarily limned in a blinding fire. He was the devilhead in a fire aureole.
As he moved toward Belkys his wife called from the kitchen, “¡Natalio, ven acá coño, necesito tu ayuda!”
Excuse me, dear reader, this seems to be developing in a manner that will not appeal to most, probably including you. You see this all too baroque — and has become bilingual. The author needs to stop and reconsider her style here. For under the power of sixteen electroshocks everything she writes is in a fantastical style, and this… well, while this tale has heretofore failed to manifest in a didactic style, I can surely sense where she will go.
You see, She, the author, is projecting from her own life, but she didn’t wish to write a memoir or creative non-fiction story, and then this poor bastard style is the result. But the author’s own parents, you see, thought she was too unruly for a fifteen year-old, much too precocious with the drugs and men, mostly amphetamines she filched from her perpetually dieting grandmother — and this fixation on thirty year-old men was truly disturbing to them. So she creates a Belkys in this fashion. So just as her father had long given up on her, Belkys’ father gives up on her. And just as the author’s father threw her out of the house, she throws Belkys out of her house, but adds:
after he spied Belkys with another thirty year-old man in flagrante delicto in a new 1963 red Corvair. My goodness, he despised Corvairs — so louche, so unsafe at any speed.
Anyway, dear reader, the father pulled Belkys out of the car and threw her onto the newly seeded lawn, and threatened the man with bodily harm and the police. It was there, on those riotously green seedlings in the front yard, that he gave her two choices: the despoiling streets of Miami or the Convent of the Sisters of Merciful Stigmata.
Belkys was reeling in that disrupted coital bewilderment…
Wait. Stop. I apologize for the previous editorial interloper. I, a second disembodied voice and editorial interloper, have taken control of this story. I stopped the attempted hijacking of the original story. I am an editor of few words and here I must present you with choices so we may create a story by committee, so that it will appeal to all concerned.
Please circle one answer below:
Shall I combine both stories above into one well developed story:
A. Yes B. No C. Maybe D. This is tiresome. I already stopped reading…
“I think we’re creative all day long. We have to have an appointment to have that work out on the page. Because the creative part of us gets tired of waiting, or just gets tired.”
— Mary Oliver