They all want to know why. I want to tell them, I swear.
I want to tell them that it was because my heart broke when she left, or how she was never really there—I never really had her at all. Or maybe I want to scream that it was all my father’s fault; it didn’t matter how many good words he said, how he pieced the truths and the lies together. Maybe it was his fault I am the way I am, his fault that I did what I did. After all, if he didn’t rob me of the childhood I was meant to have, if his words of venom hadn’t stained me maybe things could’ve turned out differently. He was wearing a tattered shirt, the gold cross hanging from his neck while he choked my sister to death. I remember them perfectly. “My fault,” he said. It was my fault. She shouldn’t have been sticking up for me. She shouldn’t have walked in at that terrible moment. She shouldn’t have said a word, not with him acting that way. It was the beer talking, the drugs lulling him to sleep so that they could do their worst.
Have you ever really felt it? The way it clothes the bones, or tricks you into thinking it’s something else entirely. I want to tell them how I scraped my knee falling off the bike when I was twelve. It had my favorite superheroes spray-painted on the side. A smile danced across my mouth when it happened. Impossible to imagine, I know. But it’s the truth, I swear it is. It still makes me wonder, though, if I was ever really happy. I can still feel the sting when alcohol sunk its teeth into the wound and leaked into the blood and dirt.
“You’re gonna be okay.”
Those words stuck. Never knew what that meant. Not really. Okay. A four letter word that was supposed to make things better. She said it to me too when she let me go, when she spoke of new love, or a better romance shaped from the tears of once-love. “You’re gonna be okay.” Those words spilled out of his mouth when his fist first kissed my cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “Can you feel that? Do you like that?” Silence and then another break.
I want to tell them how it was their fault. No one is to blame but them, them and that teacher from the eleventh grade. “You can do better,” he said. “You can pass this class if you really wanted to.” But I just can’t get the words out. Better, was that like okay? Did that come when it wanted and leave just as quickly? Were some meant to feel it while others felt distracted and alone…like me? Better. No, I don’t know that word. Bitter. Yes, I’ve dined with her often. Batter, kind of like cake. You see, those words I know. Those words feel right.
I’m there again. The smell of cake reaches my nostrils before the first step onto the porch. It creaks when I press down on my leg, waiting. The house rests in the country behind the blacktop existence nobody really wants. Behind the real world—a curtain left forgotten. Vanilla batter and love mixed in. A mother’s love. If I think back hard enough I can remember it. Well, not well. But I can remember it. I remember the way its breath tickles the back of my neck. How its sweet smell stifles the worst fears. I begin wondering what that vanilla would taste like with blood dripped in.
Perfume sails through the loose air, the thick smell of home and happiness taking it all away. A smiling face licks the spoon with batter stuck to its edges—so delicate and full of life. A thin face outlined by blonde hair with dark roots slipping underneath. Her thin pulse struggling to be noticed. I hate the very instrument of making happiness. The instruments of happiness kept from my household. I slowly walk toward the door of the big house. Sounds of laughter dripping from the windowsills, down the vinyl and paper floorboards where love was made. It’s like a wedding dress made up of tears. I imagine my wife wearing it, white stains on its black skin. A pretty yellow girl dancing inside it. But that is not the way she is, not truly. Instead, this wife dances to some unknown rhythm pouring from some speaker.
I don’t knock. I don’t think. I don’t even move. For five minutes I’m not even alive. I don’t feel anything. What I know and what I believe becomes a mystery. What I hope for and what I dream drops into the sea that drowns everything and everyone. A mouth with no expression. Eyes with no melody. A face etched in stone. With mud-caked boots I drag my foot to the door and break it in. The footsteps of the husband are nowhere. The sound of a sleeping child like the hum of a cemetery. A dark lullaby. There are no devils on my shoulder. No angels that know my name. I think my name has been blotted out. Whom I belong to is as certain as heaven for the damned. What is drawing me into that room?
A shadow drapes over the stillness, quick and lifeless. It wraps itself around her. It isn’t me doing anything, I swear. I just bring it with me.
“Do you have a knife?” I nod no.
“Are you going to kill me?”
I nod.
It doesn’t take long for this happy wife to tremble at my movement. I tell her not to be afraid. But I’m not wondering if her blood thickens. I don’t care if she knows of hope. The name of her son does little to stop me from coming closer. Her dress waves at sinking feet. A breath of dust rushes into the air, clouding my eyes. Closer. Closer.
I’m so close I can feel her heart beating. It’s loud, thick chaos. An old church hymn comes to mind. Something about letting it be a sweet sound. I hummed it whenever he used to hit me. I dreamed of its musical lines when this beautiful wife picked another. I don’t even know her name, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll do.
I read her eyes and they tell me she’s afraid. Her child is sound asleep in the bedroom upstairs, but I imagine he’ll be waking soon. I wonder what he’s dreaming about; if it’s happy, and if so, how long it will last. This young wife doesn’t know that I can see what she plans to do with that spoon in her grip. She thrusts it toward my eye. But I can’t keep the black beast held for much longer. Quickly, he comes to save me. A blink. A crack in the world. The sound of a heart snapping back into place. This is what it takes to fix. To be better. This is okay. I can hear choirs singing of sweeter sounds. I can hear the Devil’s drums resounding in my mind.
The world is broken.
The stars drop.
Hope climbs on darkening clouds.
I feel nothing.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
My mouth feels tighter on my face. The wife is on her back. Still. I’m sure to place her hands gently across her breasts, atop the sweater she wears so softly. The wife’s face glows white. Red stains her eyelids. The spoon holds her sight now. A happiness I scooped out of her. Numbness spreads against my colored hands. A dark purple. She can’t say a word. Can’t defend herself, can’t sing to me. But I can hear her. I’m listening. Running my hands along her quiet dress, I envision her in white, stained by black, and not the other way around. I picture her dancing with me to a song. Our song. It has no name, just a sweet sound.
Let it be a sweet, sweet sound. Let it be….
Holding her up in my arms, I draw my mouth to hers. I think her heart is still beating. I think she knows my name. I think she loves me. I think that’s our child upstairs in the bedroom. He’s awake now, startled and filled with fear no doubt. It’s not fair that he should be alone. It’s not fair for me to leave him. There is no telling when this wife’s husband is to return. A dull glow suddenly thickens my eyes. My breath stops, and I release her.
In seconds, I’m standing at the foot of the stairs. With a slow glance, my vision blurs. Echoes charge my eardrums. My heart remains unflustered. The sound of her son crying travels down the wooden steps. I wipe my face and climb. Short steps. Quick steps. Slow steps.
It’s quiet in the house again. I don’t even have to concentrate on the smell of vanilla and blood. It’s in the air. It dwells here now. Vanilla. The color of human hearts before this world spills red into the batter. White and red together. Vanilla red. That’s what we are. The flavor of cake. The taste of happiness, home. The taste of truth and hope and evil. I think she was mostly vanilla. I think I’m the red.
I remain at the foot of the stairs for a while. Thoughts clutter up my mind. A train with a million thoughts attached to a million more. Attached to nothing. My mother loved me once. My father never knew how, I don’t think. My sister protected me until she couldn’t anymore. My wife is there lying in the kitchen, sightless. Red tears soak her white cheeks. She looks pretty that way. I think I want to pray, but I don’t know if you’ll hear me. I don’t think you’ll like the truth.
I spend the next hour fishing stitching wire through my lips. Chapped, bleeding, red-crusted over and scabbed. It burns. I hum the familiar melody. Something sweet, something true. A sweet, sweet sound. I like the quiet. It’s quiet in this house. When the stitching is complete, I reach for a phone and dial three numbers. Then I hang up.
Everything is as it should be. Quiet. The world is sleeping, peaceful. I don’t have to wait long before the door opens again.
It’s cold in this jail cell. You’re asking me to tell you what happened. You want to know why I did it. Why I became a monster. But little do you know that you’re a monster too. I’m no different; I just let the red slip in. It’s not my father’s fault for filling my arms and legs with scars.
But what about your sister?
I nod no, the scars remaining from when the doctors removed the stitches from my bleeding lips. I don’t speak, not to you, not to them.
I want to tell them everything, I swear. I want to tell them that the world is to blame. That if my father loved me, if she loved me, things would be different. I want to tell them what I’ve just told you. But I don’t think they’ll listen. I don’t think they’ll understand. The truth is that sometimes there is no reason. Sometimes we just do. We wear good like we wear evil. In time, every Vanilla flavor loses its taste.
So, it’s been a while that I haven’t written in awhile. No, I’m not talking about updating this blog ish, but rather writing. I mean, in all fairness, it has been a bit crazy lately. I’ve gone on my first-ever virtual book tour (for those who don’t know, that’s a blog tour), have written some short stories and articles, and have been working out around the house…you know, necessary landscaping and all.
Oh, the weather still hasn’t gotten the memo to get better already, by the way.
But, I just figured I’d write this little post to let all you fine folks know that I have officially begun something new. Yes, I have begun a new book. I’m going to remain tight-lipped, but I wrote the first five or sixe pages today…and I’m pretty happy with it…which means it will probably eventually seem like crap later on. Who knows, right? Anyway, Arson is currently getting reviewed by the copy-editor at Tate Publishing, so I’m excited that the process has finally begun. And that’s why I figured now was a good time to start something new. So, yeah…now you know.
What is with this weather, huh? It does not feel like summer, even for New England, when the weather can change as often as people’s moods. Cool. Rainy. Hot. Dry. Sunny. Rain. Repeat. Make up your mind, will ya?
But anyway, my first-ever blog tour has been going swimmingly. (That’s right, I said it.) And I’ve really enjoyed stopping by these blogs and not only checking out the folks who driop by from time to time, but it’s been great chatting with some of them. Yesterday’s blog got 69 comments,, and I spent most of yesterday morning answering people’s questions.
In addition, I got a very cool pre-pub endorsement from Title Trakk for my new book Arson. Along with the others I have received, this makes 5…and there’s more on the way. God’s been really cool to me lately. I’ve got an internet radio interview next week (from Canada). Authors Audio will be asking me questions on June 23, so check it out!
Needless to say, things have been pretty great lately in the book world for me. I can’t wait to start working with the editor in July for Arson. Get excited, people, get really excited!!!
I decided to break out the Spanish for this one. Although, anyone who knows me knows I don’t speak a lick of it. I understand un poquito, but no hablo muy bien. Anyway, it’s time to let you all in on a secret. I am going on my first book tour. Well, sort of. It’s a virtual book/blog tour, and I can do it all from my computer wherever I am. This is so awesome, and everyone reading this needs/must/has to check it out! It starts this Sunday, and it’s going for two weeks straight.
For anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, I will be touring blogs via the lovely world wide web, stopping by fashionable little joints, dropping a few words, giving some hints at the new book, writing an article here and there, and plenty of fun stuff. Some bloggers will be reviewing my work, others asking me questions, and so on and so forth. Bottom line: it’s going to rock.
I’ve been asked a lot about my age as an author. Getting published for the first time at 15 can do that. It’s a question the media, and the general public, like to ask. What fascinates them, I think, is that I’m a fiction writer who’s written a few books that aren’t half-bad. But deeper than that, I think they realize how difficult it is to write a book in the first place. Chances are that they’ve probably attempted to write a draft, to get an agent and to find that publisher who drools over the manuscript, but they never seemed to pursue the work to publication. So, they see that my passion is for writing, and they take a look at my age. Shock. Then more questions. I like them, though. It helps to let people know that I’m more than just a name on a book cover. For me, my age has been a blessing, allowing me to connect with people who might have otherwise refused to look at my work due to preconceived notions of my being a pompous yuppie or some old guy too removed from current trends to “get it right” with today’s youth.
But why is my getting published a big deal? The truth is that it isn’t. It’s merely something people like to gravitate to. If I were to guess, I’d say people gravitate to aspirations, probably more than they gravitate to other figures, almost like they fall in love with the idea of something. Much like I am fascinated by story concepts, the reading and interviewing public seem fascinated with the ability to pen a good story, even more fascinated by one’s ability to do it at a young age. Why? Because most of society’s youth are getting stoned, pregnant or still trying to find themselves in college. Am I saying I am not one of these people? Of course not. In fact, my child’s due any minute now by my crack-addicted girlfriend. The world needs to hear stories of people actually accomplishing things, of people doing what makes them happy, fulfilling dreams they themselves have always had. This is where the hearts of others lie. We live in the dreams of others when we can’t call these dreams our own. Age becomes a number we judge our accomplishments by, a number that often dooms us to depression and discontentment. What little things haven’t we accomplished? As human beings, our desire to strive for something is great, much like our affinity for failure. For the writer, this is an opportunity to connect with such a networked world, a world that doesn’t even recognize its own reflection half the time, and in doing so, struggle to make an mark.
Although the goals of many is to make it, whatever that means, countless people seem to fall through the cracks. Who gives them a voice? Who lights a path for them? I believe writers do, in our struggle to create names not only for ourselves but for the nameless and for the faceless sea of souls trapped by society, empty hopes and dreams unfulfilled. This is part of the reason people gravitate to movie stars and the idea of celebrity, because we like to live in another world apart from our own. Readers and writers are perhaps the most guilty, even if this compulsion is not necessarily a bad thing. We try to make sense of our own wars and our own fears and failures by peeking into the lives of others: our fictional worlds. In a lot of ways, this is a redemptive voyeurism.
So my journey to becoming a writer begins with this desire to enter another world, and to allow others to do the same through me. It began when I was a young kid, a punk with ideas of grandeur and a fictional life I desired to call my own. I started to write a book. It didn’t matter that I was only in the sixth grade. It didn’t matter that I had never before published anything. It didn’t matter that I might fall flat on my face. I was young, ambitious and naïve. But aren’t we all, during one stage of our lives or another? I think somewhere along the road we lose sight of that; we get so caught up in our busy, ordinary lives that we forget what it’s like to be those characters we sketched out in our minds, the fearless ones, the heroes.
When people ask me about my age, I tell them that it’s a blessing I started to write. It’s a blessing that I found this passion so early in life. One, because it allows me to connect with readers while I’m young and hopefully hold onto them well into my twilight years; and two, I can unload what’s on my mind to anyone willing to read it. People find safety in a story, they let their guards down, if only for a moment, and that’s when they remember what it’s like to be that child, to be that dreamer. There’s a connection which transcends ideas, a connection beyond words on a page. I write because I have to, and my age is just something that seems to get my foot in the door with some people. Maybe it’s time to get in touch with the dreamer again. You never know what might happen.
Author: Estevan Vega Publisher: Creative Book Publishers Author Website: http://www.estevanvega.com/ Available At: Bookstores everywhere Publishing Date: Available Now Genre: Fiction/Christian/Suspense Format: Trade Paper Price: $8.99 ISBN-13:0-9754818-4-3 Reviewer: Joyce Handzo Rating:6 Gargoyles
Esteven Vega is an author to watch. Servant of the Realm is his first work, completed when he was only fifteen years old. The novel has a solid story line and interesting characters. Supernatural elements give readers a dose of suspense, and the last page tosses out a thought-provoking question. If you ignore the lack of editing, you will catch the glimpse of an imaginative writer on his first flight into fiction.
When a high school professor creates a serum for an unsavory client, certain side effects develop. Teenager Luke Phillips steals the vials out of curiosity, but soon finds himself battling images of the future. He begins to see visions of his loved ones dying and wonders if he has the power to stop their fates. He questions whether the serum offers choices for redemption or simply maps out a closed conclusion.
The author starts the book in the present and then switches to the past to give readers a true feeling of the events as they developed. This was a clever literary device and provided the main character with a sense of realism. Yet, the heart of this novel centers on the moral and ethical issues the serum produces. Readers are left to ponder if seeing into the future is merely an exercise in quantum physics or a way to make better decisions.
As a first novel, Servant of the Realm shows promise. But to really find out where this author is going, I’m going to need a dose of this serum or read the next couple books he wrote. I choose the latter option and the reviews will be coming soon.
So, it’s May 1st…and hopefully, you all know what that means. That’s right, Wolverine is finally hitting movie theaters across America. No, I am not part of 20th Century Fox’s street team or marketing team or whatever; I’m just a really obnoxious X-Men fan. Ever since I was a little kid and my mom told me I couldn’t watch X-Men because Wolverine was too violent and crude, I have been in love with the cartoon, comic and films. X2 being the best, in my humble opinion. So, needless to say, I am so uberly-stoked for this release. A couple of weeks ago,when the film hit some online sites, I was slightly tempted to silence my craving and watch it, even though it was in a rough condition, but I held off, and I’m glad I did. I’ve been waiting 3 years to see this glorious masterpiece, and it’s finally here. Ahhh….so go see it. You know you’ll love it. Hugh Jackman running around slashin the crap outta stuff, and finally Gambit…what’s not to love?
On a side note, The Closed Door (this blog you’re reading) has received so much spam comments. I can usually keep up with all of it, but because I kind of went on a hiatus this past fall and winter, I got bombarded with over a thousand spam comments. It’s taken hours of mindless clicking, staring at a bunch of comments that read anything from obesity to getting personal loans. Amoxicillin to taking steroids to get “jacked.” Crazy. I do, however, appreciate it any time an actual reader leaves a comment or someone who is considering being a fan, because I care about what you guys think. So, leave me a comment any time, just no spammage. It’s not fun to read and more un-fun to delete.
It has occurred to me that I haven’t written a blog post in, like, a hundred years. Well, not exactly, but way too long. I can’t say I’ve been completely lazy, though, because I have been busy. Things like college classes, finishing up my latest book ARSON, and life in general have eaten up much of my time. I have been watching a lot of movies, reading some stuff and experiencing some elbow pain. I realize that last part’s fot nothing to do with the price of tea in China, but still.
So, on to the news. As some of you may know, I’ve signed a publishing contract for ARSON. Tate Publishing has decided to pick up the book for publication, hopefully sometime this year. So, get prepared for it, all you awesome readers! It’s going to be sick. Dank. Ballin’. It’s going to rock, bottom line. In other pretty cool news, The Sacred Sin has been getting some decent reviews still, so check those out on the homepage.
I am planning on doing a Virtual Book Tour this summer, so that’s pretty exciting. A wonderful chica has been helping me put that lovely little thing together. Her name is Jo Ann Hernandez, so check her out if you get a sec.
Just wrote a short story this week, not sure if I’m gonna post it here or if I’m gonna save it for the blog tour, so keep checking for updates. Sorry this particular blog has been a bit scattered, kind of like my mind lately. Maybe I’ll blame the fantabulous weather outside. More updates and info coming.
Most people will tell you they are happy. They live happy lives. They have happy friends. But sometimes it seems harder than ever to find that ounce of joviality we swore we once possessed. How easily it slips away from us.
I can recall myself being happy once. OK, maybe twice. After all, happiness is fleeting, momentary. But when you’re a kid, I think we think that slice of heaven will be enough to fill us for a lifetime. It isn’t. The inevitable truth is that life sucks sometimes. People suck. Jobs suck. The world sucks. Allow me to express my sincerest apologies if what I’m saying doesn’t align itself to your definition of life, liberty and whatever else you’re living for, but it is my discontentment which forces me to examine myself more closely, to examine this world. My chaotic therapy. A chance to step back and see the world for what it truly is, for what we truly are. And what are we? We are human. We are fragile. We exist in a broken world, with broken people who live broken lives. We swear we’re happy, mostly because we have collected our fair share of riches or friendship or love, but what do we really have?
What’s wrong with us if that’s not enough to make us happy?
Ever have one of those self-made deadlines, the ones you say you’re gonna keep but you never actually do? Yeah, me too. I made one of those blood pacts with myself about six months ago. I said that A Boy Called Arson, would be complete in January 2008. That was my goal, my overly-ambitious goal. Figuring that my college winter break, which was over a month long, would be plenty of time to finish up the manuscript, I find myself looking back at what a laughing matter I’ve become. It’s mid-May, and I’m still scratching my curly head, waiting for that spark of inspiration, that light which will simply flash on when it feels good and ready and equip me with the ability to finish the last few chapters. I know I’m capable of it; I just need to push myself to do it.
After suffering through writer’s block, conquering the pitch and shop conference, and doing a myriad of other things–from book signings to finishing freshman year, oh and trying to continue my dysfunctional life–I so desperately want to give Arson his due. I’ve been writing his story for over a year, the concept now nearly two years old, and I found myself begging for Divine inspiration, inspiration which will enable me to complete the manuscript that has already been requested by Penguin, and which I feel is my strongest story yet. So, here’s to writer’s block, watching too many movies, and any and all writers who can relate to what I’m going through.
Here’s a new story…
