🙊 Secret Lost Chapter of STARCHILD 1 (⚠️ Spoilers ⚠️)

While sitting in my Analytics class, I drew this concept art from STARCHILD book 2. (Don't tell the profe.) More news about book 2 coming soon. I'm getting super excited about it.



Now, here's the kicker: I recently wrote this EPILOGUE to STARCHILD book 1.

DON'T READ IT unless you've already finished reading book 1. It contains major spoilers. Major!

Okay, you've been warned.

🙊

Is this new novel better than Star Wars?

When I was a kid, I adored Star Wars. 

I knew all the characters' names, including Ponda Baba. What kind of a geek knows that? Me. By age 7. I even had his action figure. He's the punk who loses his arm in the cantina.

I was in deep.

And for good reason. Star Wars transformed a generation. It deserves its legendary status. Its archetypes come from a story that belongs to all of us. I love the heart of it--the mythical aspects, the heroism, and the epic struggle between light and darkness.

SONG OF LOCKE Official Soundtrack (OST)

I listen to dozens of soundtracks as I’m writing. 

I’m not a huge gamer, but many of these are from videogame soundtracks. I often like them more than movie soundtracks because they’re not written for specific scenes—they’re more stand-alone. That makes them feel smoother to me—fewer jagged edges.

I’ve hand-picked these tracks for the SONG OF LOCKE Soundtrack. And if you imagine yourself back in Elfland while you listen, you’re really going to feel the music. I promise. But whether or not you’re thinking about Picke and Locke, these melodies are seriously inspiring. They’ll make you want to go on an adventure.

Now here’s something cool you may not have noticed: The chapters in SONG OF LOCKE were named as if they were tracks from a movie score. Yep. Go back and look at the table of contents. Also, most of the tracks I’ve selected here match specific chapters. But I’ll let you decide which goes with which. (Email me your thoughts!)

Without further ado, here it is.

The SONG OF LOCKE Official Soundtrack
(a YouTube playlist)

SONG OF LOCKE: Chapters 1-3

Here’s the prelude again, followed by the first 3 chapters of the book. Yes, the chapters are short, like a thriller. And, honestly, it's still scary releasing them for scrutiny—it's always scary, even this far in. Hope you enjoy them! (Oh, and, P.S., the book's divided into four scrolls, so this is the start of the first scroll.)

PRELUDE

I don’t breathe.

It’s ironic, I know.

Unless you count this melody, etched as words into a scroll.

Some would call that breathing. And if it is, then this song is my first breath.

But this isn’t breathing. It isn’t like what you’re doing now. Yes, you. Right now. No, don’t stop, I love it. Breathing is enviable. Magnificent. I am drawn to life, as all sylphes are. And life is drawn to us.

But life takes more than just breath. It also takes flesh. And blood. And light.

I have breath.

I am breath.

But I do not breathe. Not like an elphe does. Not with lungs. We sylphes breathe in a sylphe sort of way. Our own sort of way. A purer way. Not like elphes or hyumans, not like animals or other kynde. And not like you.

You breathe because you are life—all four parts. And because you do, you know the panic that strikes when you can’t breathe. It seizes all mortals at one time or another. This emotion. This sensation. I’ve felt it.

And I felt it that night.

But I was not experiencing it through someone else, as I usually do. I felt it all by myself. And that made it all the worse. The horror gripped me. A feeling that something was wrong. Not nearby. Something inside me was wrong. Something in all the sylphes around me was wrong. Something in the wide world was wrong. Something very wrong.

It felt like I couldn’t breathe.

SCROLL ONE

THE HERO

“Locke?”

He didn’t answer.

“Locke, wake up!”

He still didn’t answer.

A Story Holy and Haunting (Nonfiction)

Last night was my first dream within a dream. At least the first on record. I’ve been wanting to have one for a few years now. (Inception was released July 2010.)

* * *

I witnessed the most fantastic and wonderful story.

The sort of tale that transforms the onlooker—any onlooker.

This story, I knew, if written down, would have the power to change a reader into the sort of hero he was reading about. This story—this treasure—played out before my eyes. The story of stories. With mighty heroes and merciless villainy, with landscapes broad as the clouds of heaven and deep as the chasms of hell.

A story holy and haunting, savage and sacred.

But my guide, with burning wings, told me I could not take the story with me in my return to wakefulness. And when he said it, I was stricken not with grief, but with panic, gripping to the story, this treasure, as tightly as I could.

I suddenly woke.

And found the book was no longer in my hands.

But I had a memory of the book, particularly its cover, a worn leather with frayed edges, and a specific symbol imprinted into the center. This image of the book, still gripped by my mind, was the story’s container, like a chest full of gold, the thing which, if turned open, would reveal the wonder and magic that I had left behind.

I grabbed a pen and scribbled as quickly as I could, as the image of the cover decayed from mind, me desperately trying to recreate the magic before it vanished. And as I did, a thought struck me, one I knew to be true: If I could create an accurate likeness of the book, one I could heft in my hands, then I could open that mockery and find at least the echoes of the wonder I had seen in my dream. I would have the power to open it and read. So I drew more furiously, penning the details as they floated away.

I could only conjecture about the forgotten story’s magnificence. I no longer recalled the glory of the thing I now wanted—the thing I longed for. But I wanted it badly, that lost knowledge, whatever it was—wanted it more than anything.

And that, my friend, was when I woke up again.

And I could no longer remember even the symbol etched into that mystical leather cover.

* * *

Click here to back the SONG OF LOCKE Kickstarter.

SONG OF LOCKE: Prelude (sample chapter)

SONG OF LOCKE will launch on Kickstarter very soon. [UPDATE: The Kickstarter is live!] In anticipation, I’m sharing a sample of the book with you. Unfortunately, the first chapter needs some key issues fixed. So I’m only sharing “Prelude” with you, which comes before the first chapter, and which introduces the narrator, Picke. Enjoy. : )


PRELUDE

To Be a Fly on the Wall at a Wedding Reception

The guests had started to arrive. We watched them meander on in. They shook hands with the groom and gave the bride a hug. Then they made a beeline to the refreshments, which we hadn’t touched yet. Surprising, I know. Well, none of the four of us had. Not yet. Doug though, as usual, had gone for a brownie and a couple lemon bars, hoping for a quick bite and maybe to inhale a little powdered sugar, but one of the aunts shooed him away.

But, like I said, the four of us, we hadn’t touched a thing. That’s why it surprised us so much.

See we were just standing there, away from the hubbub, not causing any trouble, shooting the breeze, talking about how Doug had gained a lot of weight since high school and how Marty’s ADD had gotten so bad he moved from place to place every two seconds. Nothing important. Just chit chat, you know. And we never saw it coming.

Read ECKSDOT Chapter 1

Today’s my first day of real revision. And this is a brand-new Chapter 1 for ECKSDOT. We’ll see if it sticks... And feel free to leave comments—even if they’re constructive criticism (*he said through gritted teeth*). You’re also invited to sign up as a beta reader. 

Ecksdot used to be imaginary. Just make believe. He was something inside my mind. Just in my mind and that’s all.
But not anymore.
Now he’s in your mind too.

Chapter 1: I Crash and Burn
I came falling out of the sky—a million miles an hour. So friggin fast. Dad tells me not to use that word. But I don’t see the problem. It’s a lot better than the real F-word.

The Apocalypse Man (fiction)

Here’s my piece that won 2nd in the Mayhew for speculative fiction. It’s 4300 words. It’s sci-fi. It’s weird. And it’s darker and grittier than what I usually write. Ye be warned. 

THE APOCALYPSE MAN

A Triptych

零


A huge gash stretched across the old man’s forehead. He squinted as he touched it and brought his hand down in front of his eyes. There was no blood on his fingers, but he stared as if he could see what they had touched.

He was sitting on a concrete ledge rocking back and forth. “Where is my home?” He looked down the busy sweet with the cars floating by. “Where is my home?” Then he looked up. Gray wispy clouds hung overhead—too thin to be real clouds. “Where is it?”

He looked down the street again, at the rush of pedestrians, and suddenly his eyes lit up. A man in a business suit was clacking down the sidewalk toward him. The old man peered with a wild look in his eye—a look that may have been recognition.

The old man stood, stretched out his finger, and stepped in the man’s path. “You’re the one. You’re the one. You’re the one.”

“Out of the way.” The man in the suit grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him back against the concrete ledge.

“But you’re the one. I recognize your face.”

Without breaking stride, the man in the suit glanced over his shoulder and frowned. But he didn’t respond.

“Hey, what planet is this?” the old man asked in a throaty shout.

The man in the suit, face forward, disappeared into the crowd.

Prophetic Dream

(Don’t know whether to call this fiction or nonfiction. It really happened. In my dream. Could be the pills.)

* * *

A ruined structure sat above ground, nestled in a green gully with gray clouds overhead. Somehow, though, I knew the sun would break through when the moment came. I bashed away some crust and debris till it became clear the ruin was the shape of a broken cylinder, tilted so you could see up and out to the sky, like some creature raising a hand to encircle the sun. The crowds that stood on the cobbled walkways gasped, panicking as they recognized the structure. My camera clicked, aimed at the scurrying mob and the crescent stones.

The sun was almost aligned, casting one golden ray through charcoal clouds down through the circlet. I rushed between people and below ground to take more pictures before it was too late—I guessed we had less than ten minutes.

The prophet was down there, wearing khakis and a knitted purple top. The brown skin of his elderly face was scarred with pockmarks. The stomping and screams from above dropped tiny floating specks from the ceiling, but he stood calm as ever. He embodied The Warrior’s Way—a mind that overturned all other methods of war. His hands leaned against the wall as he studied.

The room was vast, wider than it was tall, lit by a few torches and a small fire. I crouched to take a picture, then moved in front of the partially excavated temple buried beneath so many feet of ground. It had a high, two-story front with large pillars hoisting gnarled gargoyles above the facade. But I couldn’t get the entire structure in the viewfinder.

Boom!

The wall shook behind me, and not because of the panick above. It came from behind the walls.

The prophet’s voice, still, cut through the dank air: “The time is come.”

Boom!

The walls shook. We had to escape somehow, but he just stood—still. I looked toward the entrance where I had come in. Dust wafted down—the creatures would soon flood the entry—the ones we had feared. The ones I had feared.

Boom: the smashing of stone, and on the wall behind me appeared a pattern of cracks in a circle. They were coming through. And they had war hammers.

Boom!

A second circular fracture appeared. Then many more.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The wall to my right began splitting as well. Then the wall across the room by the temple structure caved in, and in they flooded—scaled gray warriors with lizard eyes, white bones cutting out through their skin, and hammers in their giant fists. They were the smaller breed, but their curved spines still reached nearly twice my height. I looked at the dark doorway that led further underground—deeper into their realm, but it was our last choice.

The prophet looked at me: Remember what I taught you.

I took a long, deep breath. He looked at the creatures, not defying, not cowering. Simply at peace.

I was not.

As the beasts rushed forward, I held my hands in front of me in an instinctive defense, but quickly dropped them again, ashamed of what it had shown.

They slowed for just a moment in the presence of that one man. Then a hammer sliced through the air, and the prophet ducked, just quickly enough for the weapon to smash into the gray behind him. I saw a silver glint in the air in front of me, and I dropped to the dust too. When the weapon hit the wall behind me, debris showered down on my neck. My hands were caked in the powder of the floor.

I looked at him again—we had to move, we had to run. But he stood passively, boldly. And still. Embracing his ideals as tight as ever. They would soon flood in through the entrance too. I glanced at the dark door leading downward. We had to run.

Another silver weapon spiked cross the room in front of me, this one quicker, straighter. It smashed into him, and his tranquility buckled, cracking, and sliding backward through dirt till he thudded into the wall. The dust wafted down onto his streaming blood, which glinted in the light of the flames, turning almost as purple as the knit he wore. For the first time since I had met him, the first time I had known, his ideals had failed him.

I looked up at the monsters in front of me and lifted my chin.




Want more? Here’s another dream. 

How to Structure a Novel’s Plot

This is the video version of the text below, a 14:35 minute YouTube screencast:


And here’s the text version (which includes the clip from The Prestige):

If you like it, reshare. And subscribe to get future posts : )


Plot

A couple semesters back I was taking a fiction class from Doug Thayer. A real likable old hooligan. He was 82. And we were his last class ever.

To help you get the date on this specimen, at the start of the semester he filmed us all with a huge VHS video camera, then had us say our names and smile, so he could watch it in his office and memorize our names. He’d always laugh at his own sarcastic jokes. And we’d chuckle out of respect. Like the time he said, “[Throw him to the lions]—it’s a good thing to do to a Christian now and then. It builds faith.” He was a Mormon boy through and through. And part of his final advice on the last day was, “Oh and stay in the church, by the way.”

His feedback was always excellent. I was trying to write a novel (called Walk Alone) to outdo Catcher in the Rye. One day we were all seated around a long table for peer workshops, and, when it got to my turn, Professor Thayer stood up, picked up a black marker, and drew a straight line across the whiteboard:

He turned back around with that dark line behind him. Then looking at me he said, “Your characters are great. There’s a lot of personality in the voice, and that makes it interesting to read. You’ve got a good sense of pacing. And the prose is tight—good descriptions, great dialog. But the plot... The plot...” He lifted his eyebrows and scrunched his nose. Then he just kind of shook his head.

Of course, he was suggesting the metaphor that we writers all know: the dramatic line that rises and falls, but generally climbs, until it hits the climax—the line that represents a story. My story didn’t have one of those. It was flat. Flat, flat, flat. I wasn’t denying it either. He was dead on. In fact, I knew the problem when I turned it in. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

So I started to study. Not that I hadn’t studied plot before. But I’d never needed to know till now.

Before we go too far, let’s define the term. Mostly, plot is what you already know it as—it’s a narrative that starts with “guess what I saw today” and ends with “a real-live elephant on a downtown shopping spree.” Plot is a promise made and fulfilled. Plot is a character with a need. Plot is choices and actions. Plot is drama—drama that can be turned up by the author’s genius.

As I studied, I came across a variety of ways to think of plot: the three act play, the climactic mountain, try-fail cycles, the hero’s round, and even the Hollywood formula. I ended up with my own understanding of a basic story structure—one you can follow in just about any plotline.

Counterargument

Now, some of you are starting to cringe already, and I’ve barely started. You’re thinking—I don’t want a formula. I want something that grows organically. I want something that’s true creativity—something that’s genuinely unique.

Hear, hear.

Take a look at this man. Now look at me. Now look at this man. Now back to me.

We look the same, don’t we? We both have eyes. Both have a nose and mouth. Two ears. Hair. We’re the same. Right?

Wrong.

There’s a certain structure to a face. Generally speaking, all faces have that structure. And yet, we’re all unique too. Just because you want to be “beautiful in our your own way,” you don’t cut off your nose. Everyone knows this.

It’s the same with story structure. (And I’ll prove it to you in a bit if you’ll lend me some credence.)

There’s a longstanding debate between the writers who like to wing it and writers who like to outline before they start. (FYI: I’m on the fence. I generally outline JUST A LITTLE.) But no matter what method you chose, eventually you’ll need to sculpt it to fit the mold of a face before it’s finalized (unless you’re not sculpting a face—i.e., not writing a novel/screenplay).  In short, if you’re worried this will ruin your organic writing, DON’T. For you, this is a lesson on the revision process, not on destroying the organic writing process.

The Structure

I’ve compiled my own structure based on several models. This was largely influenced by this excellent book: Story Engineering by Larry Brooks. But this new version is definitely my own. I’ve named the parts after an idea from the movie The Prestige (spoiler alert).


Act 1: The Pledge

We all know what comes first—the very first scene. It’s the hook. It must be designed to draw a reader in. It doesn’t have to tell much. It just has to hook them. In Jurassic Park (the movie), this is when the velociraptor kills a worker, and all we ever see is her reptile eye. This is probably the least debatable piece. (Everyone agrees a person should have a nose.)

The meat of Act 1 (in green) introduces the main characters and their personalities, it tells some backstory, and it shows us who the antagonist is. Basically, it shows us what life was like before—it shows the audience how great things were, so they know exactly what’s at stake.

Act 1 ends with a specific incident—the inciting incident—the first plot point. This is the moment when everything changes. The hero’s life can never be the same as it was before. This is the most crucial part of the story—it’s the promise to the reader—it’s the problem the story’s going to resolve (or die trying). Mr. Cutter (in The Prestige) calls it The Pledge. Once this event happens, we move on to Act 2.

(NOTE: Some say that Act 1 should be about 25% of the total story. If you’re having trouble with pacing, consider moving your inciting incident to this position.)

Act 2: The Turn

Act 2 is where the hero’s try/fail cycles take place—he makes an attempt to beat the antagonist and fails, or he has a limited success. He doesn’t win in Act 2.

This act is often divided into two halves: the character’s passive response and active reaction. The incident that divides these two is called The Turn. Some call this the midpoint shift. Remember how the inciting incident changed everything? Well, this changes everything again. Sometimes this is less of an event and more of a revelation (that’s why it’s represented by a light bulb). The hero’s perspective or understanding changes, which changes his attack stance.

After the perspective changes, the hero starts to solve his problems—or attempts to. This is when he really starts to get proactive—he acts instead of just reacting.

So if Act 2 has two halves, each of those include an important moment dead center: The Pinchpoints. These are scenes where the villain shows his face again—scenes that remind the reader (and the hero) that the antagonist is dangerous (hence the dagger icon).

If the first pinchpoint is mezzo forte, the second should be forte, maybe even fortissimo—this second pinchpoint puts the hero in a place that seems nearly impossible to get out of.

Act 3: The Prestige

Act 3, The Prestige, begins with an important incident too: The Finalizing Incident. This is the last time anything new is revealed to the audience. All the cards get overturned and the story plays out to its end.
Remember the term deus ex machina? It means “god out of the machine.” It’s when a story pulls something out of nowhere to finish the story. It’s a cheap trick too. To avoid this, just make sure that the Finalizing Incident is the last time you reveal new information.

Then the rest of Act 3 is pieces all running their courses. The hero and villain battle it out, and one comes out on top. This is the part that needs the least explaining—it’s the natural result of everything that has come before. It fulfills the promise that was made in the beginning. Mr. Cutter calls this The Prestige.

The Prestige ends with two important pieces. First is the climax. This is the dramatic highpoint in the story. It’s where the dynamite finally explodes. As an audience, you notice when this is passed, because all the tension goes away and you can finally relax. The promise that was made in The Pledge has been fulfilled.

After that, there’s the falling action or resolution. All the loose ends get wrapped up, people go home, and/or the future awaits. This is often as short as the hook. And a few stories leave it off entirely.

The Lab

It’s all well and good, you say, if you’re writing a quest story, but that’s not my angle. It’s true, this works very well for the quest story.

Well, I conducted an experiment, and I tested this structure as I read seven novels:

Surprisingly—even to me—each of them fit pretty well with this structure. And some of them were unusual too. The Lovely Bones had a whole family as the protagonist. But it still fit. Slaughterhouse 5 wasn’t linear at all. But it still fit. And Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance isn’t fiction at all—it’s fact. But it fit too.

Ironically, the two that I thought would fit it the best—Prey and Ender’s Shadow—actually were the ones that failed. As I was reading Prey, I noticed there seemed to be something wrong with the plot—there were almost two climaxes, and I noticed I became less engaged as a reader because I was confused as to what promise the story was fulfilling. Ender’s Shadow had a similar problem. In the story, Bean defeats Achilles, but the book continues on to Command School. And it leaves you feeling a little bored and hoping it will just be over.

If you want to see my breakdown for each of these, here it is, with each piece identified and labeled in an all-too-scientific fashion. So if you get queasy seeing guts, don’t read on.

For all other intents and purposes, this is the end. Good luck plotting. And I would love to hear your feedback, even if you strong disagree.

How to write a short story

I've gotten a lot of rejection letters this semester. But I guess that's a good thing. It means I'm trying.

I think this comic is from this site: http://www.casualoptimist.com/2011/08/23/q-a-with-tom-gauld/short-story/

My novel: Kings of Persia (teaser)

I'm taking BYU's Creative Writing 318 (speculative fiction) from bestselling fantasy author Brandon Sanderson. (He was selected to finish the Wheel of Time after Robert Jordan passed away without having wrapped up the series at book 12. Brandon is writing three new novels to tie up all the loose ends.) By the way, he's critiquing my work for the first time tonight, and it's kind of intimidating.

In case you haven't seen it yet, this (above) is the "teaser cover" for my novel Kings of Persia. I'm writing it for Brandon's class, and I'm currently 30,000 words into it (about 37% of my 80,000 word goal).

The idea started in 2010 when I saw Prince of Persia and was so horribly let down by the cheesy, unbelievability of the whole thing. I saw huge potential in it, but none of it was realized. (At least for me. And sorry to anyone who loves that movie—and I know there are lots of you. But Hollywood's never made a decent video-game movie, so this shouldn't be a surprise.)

After watching the movie, I wrote this in my story-ideas journal:

Prince of Persia. Man, that story was so intriguing to me. I love the little I know about the game plots. And the idea of a thief/parkour man—ah, I love it. But, man, the movie sucked. Sucky, sucky plot. I would like to pull in all the romantic Persian ideas from my imagination and write my own story.

Last year I had the goal of reading the entire Old Testament, which I'd never done before. When I came across the part where Judah and Persia collided (Persia was taking over the world), I jotted down one more paragraph (yes, I know it's incoherent):

18 Mar 2011 - I got this idea back when I watched the movie Prince of Persia, that I wanted to rewrite it. On this date, I decided it would be cool to cross it over with the OT. it’s about a young man who’s the son of a jew, but whose mother was persian. that’s bad for him. the jews are in bondage to the kings of persia. jewish father, persian wife, unwanted son. building temple. artaxerxes. hanani. susa chief city. nehemiah 1. i was the king's cupbearer.

That's my character's name in there too: Hanani. But that's really all I had to go on. It's taken quite a leap from that point. (Here's a little behind-the-scenes for you: Shadrach—the one who was cast with his brothers into the fiery furnace—was a Jew. His Persian name was Shadrach. His Jewish name was Hananiah.)

I've tried to do a lot more research than they did in the games or movies. (The culture, I'm finding out, is so rich. Much deeper than leather vests and plastic daggers. I just wish I had a whole year to devote to research instead of a few minutes here and there.) I'm trying to bring in some tenets of their religion, Zoroastrianism, as well as some of their mythology and epic poetry.

Right now Hanani is stuck in a very dark and depressing place, and I can't seem to get him out. (Man, I love writing.)

If you could customize this novel to your own tastes, what would you put in it?

Also, if you loved the Prince of Persia movie, what did you love about it? 

Thanks for you input!

— J

UPDATE: Okay. My story needs A LOT of work. And this: 

"I love the idea of doing an ancient Persian fantasy. It's well worth doing." —Brandon Sanderson

Dog Food (fiction)

I leaned my left shoulder down, reaching my hand below the tablecloth, and little la Lulú nibbled the meat from my fingers, her tiny canines suggesting how small her body must be under all that fluffy white fur.

“Oye, Santiago, mi’jo. No lo hagas, porfa.” [Son, please, don’t do that...]

“Disculpe.” [I’m sorry.] That was one of the first phrases I’d learned.

My mamá made a hissing sound with her teeth--“ssssst, Lulú!” And the little white dog ran from under the table cloth and up the stairs, her collar tinkling as she went. She perched herself at the top of the stairs and looked down at me, licking her chops to thank me for the human food.

[This meat is called vacuno], my mamá said, [which means it’s from a cow. Do you like it, Santiago?]

“Si, muy. Es muy bien.” And I nodded my head--more certain with gestures than with words. It tasted pretty much like beef from home. 

Two days later we were sitting on the porch. I played musical chairs against myself, first to get out of the sun, and then to get out of the barbecue smoke--both times trying to avoid becoming the smelly gringo, as gringo was already bad enough. My mamá was talking with her husband, Señor Burns. La Lulú walked over, and I reached down and scratched her under the ears.

[Come over here, Santiago. Come get some food.] I walked over and held out my glass plate--they didn’t use paper like in the states. Señor Burns forked a large chunk of meat off the grill onto my plate. He glanced at me with his blue eyes and gave a sympathetic half smile, but he didn’t say anything. He never really talked to me. Of course, he never really talked to his wife either. “E’te se llama chancho,” she continued. [This one’s called chancho. It means it’s the meat of a pig.]

I wanted to say--have you seen Nacho Libre? But I didn’t. I just nodded and repeated, “Chancho. Si.” And I quietly ate my chancho.

I got home from class the next day, threw my backpack on my bed, and came down for dinner--I mean la cena. Señor Burns was gone. And that would mean just me and mamá. I lifted the table cloth, but la Lulú wasn’t around either.

Trying to make conversation last a whole dinner made me wish I didn’t have to eat dinner at all. I pulled a pot toward me that was filled with a white gravy and poured a ladle-full onto my rice and saw a small piece of white meat. I fished around till I got a few more chunks. As I chewed, the meat was tough, tougher than most chicken I’d had. But maybe it was turkey. Or maybe it had gone bad in that tiny hotel refrigerator of theirs.

Mamá was just eating vegetables. I thought maybe she was watching her weight. Which was a good idea. 

We sat there in silence. I glanced up and saw her watching me eat, and then looked down at my plate as I chewed. I swallowed quickly, wanting to get the awkwardness and rancid taste over as quick as I could. But it wasn’t fast enough. There had to be something I could say.

“Y, uh, que carne?” [What meat?] I asked.

“Si. Como te gu’ta la carne?” [How do you like the meat?]

“Me gusta la carne. Es muy bien.”

Then it was quiet again. I kept choking it down.

“Es pollo?” I asked. [Is chicken?]

[No. No it’s not chicken,] she replied.

I scooped the last bite into my mouth.

“La carne es...? Uh...” I didn’t know the word for turkey. “La carne es...” [Something?]

I glanced down the hallway for la Lulú. But she wasn’t on her perch at the top of the stairs.

“Si. Carne, no mas,” she said with a fake smile. [It’s just meat.]