The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
‘Jornada del Muerto’ by Alejandro Bastidas.
“Tell Don Castelo I’ll send him the head tomorow,” I told the only errand boy I trusted.
His name was Toribio and his friends called him Toribio el Tibio, which meant Toribio the Lukewarm, and left the boy with significant unwanted anonymity. Nobody looked at him twice. But I did. A couple of golden coins and no bullying earned me his loyalty.
“I can deliver the head for you,” said Toribio. I almost laughed at the vision of Toribio parading the dark alleys of town with a severed head in a basket.
“No,” I said. “It isn’t your burden to carry.”
I had just finished my daily shift of butchering and felt in the mood for a drink. Beheading never rested well on my stomach and conscience, to be honest. It felt too aggressive and personal, requiring too much effort to kill. It almost established a relationship between me and the man Castelo hired me to dispatch into the afterlife. It was as if saying: you mean so much to me that I’ll take the time to sever your head from your body and drench myself in your stinking blood.
I f***ing think not. Only did it ‘cause Castelo paid a little extra. Every coin makes a difference these days, and they go as quick as they come, feeding the bottomless bellies of casinos and debt collector and assassins and abusive food vendors and high-edn jewelers.
Old Rodrigo’s tavern always seemed like home to me. Safe, discreet, free rounds whenever I strolled in. My feet were already taking me there before I’d made up my mind.
“Rum is always good for the soul, Dama,” said Rodrigo, the barkeep, as soon as he saw me. He handed me a drink that was somebody else’s.
“Llegó La Dama!” yelled someone in the crowd
“Dama! Ven, tómate uno. Sit down with us.”
“You can stay in our house tonight!”
I smiled at all the nameless faces forgotten by the world, hurt by those who thought themselves untouchable, tossed around by grief and rage in an endless tornado. They needed something to believe in. Ever since the church’s sex-trafficking scandal got exposed, the people of Miraflores became a little more faithless, but still yeanring to be faithful. In their glimmering eyes I saw how much they expected from me. I was put in a pedestal that I did not deserve.
“A Cuban never forgets when he is helped,” Rodrigo said, as if he’d guessed my thoughts. “You changed their lives, mija. Just know that all the children and grandchildren of this lot of lowlifes will praise you long after you’ve gone.”
“But they’re wrong,” I said. “I might have helped them by getting rid of that rat for Castelo but… somebody saw me, Rodrigo. Do you what that means?”
His eyes went grey for a moment. As if his soul had tried to escape his body before being yanked back inside.
“They’ll be coming here. All of them.”
“And they will start with my mother.”
“You didn’t come here for a drink did you?”
“Not just one, no,” I said and served myself another. “But I need a favor.”
“Anything.”
“You’re not going to like it.”