Novel Treatments / Niño Rojo
On a Neck on a Spit
I could jump off cliffs and fly from planes and see the world from the other side of the universe. I jump out of the Earth and fly down streets to capture a gentle whiff of freedom, but I could never do it on my own. I found him hiding in the back and he’ll tell you that it was he who’d found me hiding, crouching low behind broken book shelves, but I found him all alone and took him with me.
I’d wandered into a place I’d never seen, and timidly avoided the eyes of others who tried equally as hard to avoid mine. A practical cavern of manufactured debris and the occasional foreign toy, it was a haven for everything and nothing and all the things that never belonged in the same place at all. There was a dust ridden ledge coughing from its own filth whispering for me to come take him from its surface. No, I ignored its call at first; I engaged myself in the fidgeting of hopeless gadgets but listened intently to the heaving dust behind me. And my busy fingers flipped and turned and brushed over everything in sight until I finally obliged the screaming mess behind me and picked him up. He was the silver that ate the gold, with his open mouth and lurid eyes and the hint of a day’s old mascara hanging off his face. Three lines like tire tracks ran across his lustrous forehead and I traced my finger tips over them again and again, memorizing their bumps and bruises onto my skin. His metal head was attached to a body of ebony tree bark that blistered to the touch, and he swung from knotted, breaking string back and forth from the ends of my grasp until finding his balance and meeting my eyes with his.
The room was no longer crowded and dirty; it was no longer a closed space with tiny windows and dripping grime but a wide open roof top waiting for the world to land on it. So welcoming and vast, I was no longer a girl wandering through a store she shouldn’t be in and holding a charm she shouldn’t be holding. I no longer felt the sticky gaze of a bored saleswoman on my back. I noticed a tiny piece of burnt paper hanging from the very same string ticking back and forth in my clutch. I moved quickly to flip it over and brush it off, and there it read, “Niño Rojo; May you find strength in the face of a stranger. May you be brave enough to stop the sun.” He looked up at me and dared me to make a move. It wasn’t dark any longer, the palpable omission of a ceiling had allowed for sunlight to sneak its way into the vicinity and tap on my shoulders begging for me to come out and play. I picked up my slouching back and looked the grey saleswoman, who’s previously bitter expression had become a virtual oven of warmth, straight in the eye. And I took him with me, and we walked boldly off the roof into the streets and through the fields without meeting a single barrier we couldn’t surmount.
Yellow House
The lights go on; they sing through darkness, “Out here no one can hear me”. And the days of sin are such that beauty always finds its match in me. He and I can rule the world if we so desire, days of sin are nothing in our rule. Breathtaking, astonishing surroundings can flood the world but we’ve built an arc to watch it from the safest distance and lose it in the sky. It flutters irresponsibly, it never knows when to stop, but I let it wreak its havoc. I’d never try to control this anymore then I already have. I’ve grabbed it in my fist and kept it for myself, I gave it to the one I love who gave it back to me, and we pass this world back and forth forever.
We used the ferry every weekend. The hoary water swayed miserably through that river every night, though, and it was equally as poignant this morning. A broad mist of business wrongs and contemptuous workers breathing heavily as they leapt over cliffs sewed its way in front of us and the heavens were swallowed by its wrath. I couldn’t see mere feet before me but it manifested in my head for every kick and swing I felt; it was every color that never existed in this place. Tip-toeing vines on bricks and their hungry leaves reaching out at me, and the visage was pale and nervous at first glance. It grimaced anxiously as we approached, my Niño Rojo and me. And the people glancing back and forth at our growing figures in the morning muted sun spoke words aloud with minds of screaming refugees in the distance, but we paid no attention to their cries. I was collapsed, side by side with the one I loved, on a formerly blank palette of white plastic, now drenched in the footsteps of a herd of miserable humans. And my Niño Rojo was safe in my pocket, quietly suppressing himself until we found our yellow house to hide in. We used the ferry every single weekend and every weekend went back to that yellow house across the sea and looked. We held each other’s hands, we shivered in the cold morning wind and mist, we clenched each other’s fingers, and we just looked. And Niño Rojo waited.
At that time I was simple. My life had a thumping pulse, in and out, in and out, and it was steady and everything was moving. It was not in fast forward like moments such as this, I could see things straight the way they were meant to be seen. And my eyes. I could close my eyes and open them, and it never hurt. Nothing did. Little fragments of life were constantly a flow within my blood. I pumped that life in and out and felt every rhythm. A heightened sense of reality, a body jumping beat, a steady calm. And a sun so far away still hugging me in and out and touching my eyes. One two, one two, one two, I was a drum beat of being and I was safe. At that time things were simple. Never tried too hard and never fell too short. We were safe like that. And I can still remember every second, every moment of breath that chocked up my throat, every tickle of veracity that the world had to offer, all of them being mine forever. I had a sustained sense of worth; I had the right now and the forever all in one. There was a part of me that always believed in bravery and the idea that it was possible even I comprised of some, somewhere; that it wasn’t Niño Rojo in my pocket that made everything viable. This could not be run away from. It was too daunting an enemy, too striking a friend. I could do nothing but reach for its hand and believe in it like I’d believed in so many other things, and just breathe. And step off the ferry, and look, and know one day by the breaking strings of courage it would be mine.
Rejoicing in the Hands
I have always liked the smell of mint leaves on the windowsill right before the dusty rain hits your nose, a pre-requisite for the beautiful smell that chased it there-after. It sort of bounced up and down in the air before I got a hold of it, too. It was always such a happy smell. The fleeting use of glass and cement couldn’t stop the outside from leaking into my room every night, and I always watched it with such gratitude as it went, pouring, gently, down the cascade of stairs into my home. And my home always welcomed it. The little vine of moments that wrapped itself around the wooden frames of doors with chipped paint unwound into the centers of tiny rooms with only the shadows of a previous owner’s furniture left to the eye. I kept it relatively the same as I found it and those moments never knew another spot in time.
When I saw him I was weaving through market aisles for the little carton of mint leaves you could buy from local gardens. I remember my toes whining to my feet, who always needed be wearing the pointiest of shoes, that they were being crushed. My feet and I ignored them and continued our hunt up down the rows and rows of food. But we came to a halt at the sight of this man. He was an ordinary man, but they’ll tell you he was anything but. He was draped in white linen and he was collapsed to his knees. And the people around him stared, some in utter confusion, disgust, or horror, as he knelt on that cold marble floor. But it wasn’t frightening to me, it was stunning. It was like he was dancing for me, so graceful and poised. He lowered his head back down to the floor and back up again, each move more beautiful and choreographed than the one before. This man danced, he danced for me amidst glares and hatred like arrows from every direction, but he could not stop. It was not the movements of a spiritual ego but the duty of a man and everything that ticked in and out of his head as he pray. I felt a sting of bravery poking at my side and the pinching pain of envy as I watched him. And it couldn’t be mine anymore. I reached for Niño Rojo as I walked around behind the dancing man’s shopping cart. Those around had gone from their obvious stares of contempt to an annoyed cold shoulder in his direction. When I found myself directly behind him I remember being in awe of his beauty, not of skin nor shine, but everything that surrounded him. Every beautiful feeling of a man in the midst of a beautiful prayer, and I quickly dropped all my bravery into his gulf forever, and left the Niño Rojo to the dancing man before me.
And I felt as if it were I in his pocket all along. He was setting me free. He moved his fist of me up into the sun and stared at the ceiling we’d always hated together and whispered to me as his clenched fingers creaked open ever so slightly, afraid to let me go, but he knew it was time. We were no good for each other any more, I was safe now. And flickering lights and drunken insects covered the above as I set my eyes on them at last and I was not connected to the ground anymore than the sky is connected to the Earth, I was free.
This man didn’t need a charm or trick to be the brave soul he already was. I wasn’t afraid for the fragile inside to a torn up outside, either. But I knew Niño Rojo’s true purpose now. He never made me brave at all. He made the safe seem safer as he rested upon my skin, but only for a danger that never existed. That’s the thing about charms; they’re only real if you let them be, and I was safe now.
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”..the sticky gaze of a bored saleswoman..”—love this description.
“And flickering lights and drunken insects… sky is connected to the Earth,”—beautiful, almost galloping rhythm here.
overall, very good read. not at all what i was expecting… and not quite sure if it belongs in the ‘novel’ category… but very well-written. less of a story (in the general sense) than it is a painting with words. lovely.
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I think this would make a great novel and you should keep it up. I think you have a great talent you can develop very far. I am sure it won’t be too long before your work gets published and I will be happy to buy it. I genuinely enjoyed this piece and hop to read more from you in the future. Best of luck.
These three vignettes are well written. Excellent narrative writing that displayed your skills as a writer. Technically, I found no errors to speak of, however, I would have liked to seen dialoge added to your story. Dialogue does more than just tells the reader what the character said, it brings the character to life. Lack of a dialogue could be enough to have this work rejected by an agent or an editor.
I would suggest you do what I learned at a writer’s conference. That is have a friend read your work back to you aloud, without interuption. You will hear your work just as you wrote it.
I liked this very much. I don’t really understand what a Vignette is but… I stress about last sentences and your very last sentence in rejoicing in the hands didn’t leave me wanting to read on…
Before:
That’s the thing about charms; they’re only real if you let them be, and I was safe now.
After:
That’s the thing about charms; they kept me in my comfort zone.
That’s only the way that I would have written, I shouldn’t have typed that actually because that’s rather rude. Anyway whats writ is writ. Good job.
Quite an enjoyable write, it was a good read indeed, I liked it and there were no major spelling, grammar, or syntax errors to really detract from the piece…overall your writing style was pretty entertaining to read and the three pieces ended up mostly interesting me.
Good descriptive lines, and it flows well. I look forward to more of your work.
“Rejoicing In The Hands” was a masterstroke. You know what they say, some of us got it, and some of us don’t. You are in the latter category with a bullet and should continue to write until your arms fall off and your eyes pop out your skull and your neck gets all swelly and gooey.
Change anything? Nah…
Laura
A Neck on A Spit, it’s good, is it the start of everything? And the name Nino Rojo is an extraordinary name. I mean no disrespect, but the context is in another book, actually a few but the story it’s self is yours. So many stories out there of course, they’ll start to sound familiar. I’ll the next vignette.
Yellow House, this vignette makes it yours completely. I like the companionship between the character and Nino Rojo. It speaks volumes about a humans inner soul. The unheard cries of other sentients around you, the trampling you feel when it all overcomes you. Here’s where I feel and see the character casing out their lives and lying to themself. It’s Nino Rojo who is the cause of it but is it really outside them or just an unexplored area of themselves better left alone or will they delude themselves until it becomes too late. I write the last vignette.
Rejoicing in the Hands, It’s beautiful, the charm’s releasing unwillingly, the man in prayer. And the Red little Boy felt alone with his sense of worth lost in those moments. The Character comes to the bravery and courage they knew in themselves yet it took again an outside force to deliver them. Do they speak of freedom really? When to another they become a slave in forgetting their first master. Danger is always real, always there it’s inner soul and strength that deliver. Little Red Boy, Nino Rojo, isn’t to blame or in need of forgiveness, it’s the character’s. Lest that’s my point of view of it. For a novel, more more more depth and detail is needed. I appreciated it though. thank you.
Overall I think that it was good. It could use some work on congruency, maybe that wasn’t the right word to use. But I had some troubles trying to follow along what exactly was going on. I’m not exactly sure. But it was good writing and very descriptive and that counts. I like reading stories like this because they give me my own inspiration for my own descriptive writing.
not sure as to what novel treatments are but whatever.
i got the picture of old attics in the first story
did anyone else?
it also had that strange psycho sexual hispanic overtone to it
using of foreign langs always get me in an odd way
but i liked it.
very rustic
nature all the way
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