Sfumato: A Burnt Youth Novel

By G.G Gand

Dark, creepy, thoughtful, spin-chilling, macabre, inventive, humorous, light-hearted, kind, cruel, thin, thick. This novel will encompass what the characters not only see, but what they've experienced, have gone through, envisioned of the future to come, the past they just left, and are coming to grips with. My plots are inventive only to the point of my characters perspectives, feelings, thoughts, challenges, and personal sacrifices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496908032

G.G Gand

Ronald is a native Texan, born and raised in McAllen; just a stones’ throw from Mexico. He attended the University of Texas-Pan American, where he received his bachelor’s degree in anthropology, and his Masters in sociology. He enjoys traveling, cinema, painting, poetry, and archaeology. A junior high english teacher, and currently working on my first novel. He has several years experience in the field of english language arts and have always dreamed of being a full-time writer. he is a resident of McAllen, Texas, also where he was born and raised. He feels deeply connected to my home state and hope to create mant tales taking place in and around Texas. Young, adventurous, easy-gong, intense, focused and always gets the job done.

Book preview

7/18/2012

His mother wanted some water, cold water, iced water. This stifling heat causes people to be mad, she would say, but Larry never listened. His mother was completely insane. Her ice water, which Larry grabbed from the fridge had been sitting in a chilled glass pitcher for some time now, ice cubes swishing around now frozen there, like her mind; no motion left, no wanting to move forward, a stillness, as if… when he firmly held it high and felt his muscles and loose nerves (shaking in fact), he cursed his mom silently. Despite old age and confusing, her hearing was still world-class, the proverbial pin drop was true to fact with this old bag of bones. It must be in Sicilian blood.

When he made a low noise, a murmor amplified by the inner structure of the fridge, he thought of Caitlin. She had some warmth to her, and though faint, her blood still flowed, refusing to give up, her circulation a wimpy kid fighting back against a bigger, stronger bully. Life. It was his habit to keep the fridge door open so he could let the chill air touch his face and tingles would erupt and the old hag would disappear. Larry sometimes wondered if he was brought up in hell, and his mother an agent of satan, endlessly tormenting, bragging about incomplete tasks, years Larry went on with his mother telling neighbors about feats Larry never much started, much less accomplished. Embarrassment he knew all too well growing up, and mixed with mother yelling and people she disagreed with, even father; father, who was large in seemingly in charge, well mother took care of him all right. Funny, the day dad left us Larry could still fell him around, hear his voice his Sicilian growl, his make belief Irish tenor, his drinking. Freshness never lived with them, and sheets damp and dirty, smelling of tobacco, stale vomit-tinged, father was still around, or so Larry hoped. No, his grave confirmed otherwise, told Larry your dad’s dead and gone, an old Irish song sung for him from bars he went to, friends missing him, lovers too. And yet again he thought of Caitlin there, lying on that cold wt damp sheet, frozen like those ice cubes, and a synergy of pain and love was now lost, and Larry knew that deep down inside he was dead too, joining father in that great boiling couldron. He bacthed one up out there, far and isolated, that little country house, a pit with a ladder, yet streams of odor crept in, clues and a tease of supper perhaps. Cailtin must of smelled it, Larry said to himself, she knew of brews, her mother… another though trailed off and Larry shut the fridge door and distanced himself from the appliance: he prepared himself for his mother, he made himslef aware that things could only get better, somehow here, somehow out there, that country house, little and alone. It still stands cold, lonely boards worn paint long ran, fog came and took away over the years. Moisture does that, strips away what we take for strong chemicals. Everything we think last’s forever, but sunshine fades even the pure at heart, a boil exposed to sunlight slowly tears apart something festering, even stronger oils and glands, ripping apart skin, and blood with its thickness kills water and it’s transparency, forever cloaking what is seen to something unseen.

We slowly die and wait for the magician to leave the room.

For some reason the coldness did that, and warmth was for some other kind of memory. The sunlight that came through the window bounced off the glass and produced a ray of light that played on his face. This time no memories came to him, but instead just a tinge of warmth that quickly went cold and a chill ran through his body. He placed the pitcher back in the fridge and closed the door. He quickly went back to his mother’s room and rudely handed the glass to her, and when the coldness made contact with her, she jolted her to where she seemed to jump out of her chair and through the ceiling. This made Larry laugh, Ha ha, mother I’m sorry! (he really wasn’t, but didn’t really care if she knew that). She looked at him dead on with a killer’s eye, and Larry, in what seemed like a long time, was nervous. She saw that and continued staring at him, sweat began coming out of Larry’s face, and he can also feel it in his armpits and through his nostrils. Damn, the old bitch was making him sweat. So, he quickly left the room and the old hag behind. He didn’t bother turning off any of the lights, and if the fridge door was open (it was old, and sometimes tended to not stay shut), too fucking bad. Fuck it, and fuck her! He unlocked the car door, got in and jammed the key in and revved that engine on. He peeled off and shot the house (and of course the old lady) the finger. Fuck that crazy bitch, she’s just really fucking demanding. Really, she’s a pain in the ass, really I do fucking hate her.

He kept running things like that over and over in his head until he found himself back at Apache Gold’s house, where his shanty walls and shanty roof seemed to gleam in the brutal Texas heat. He really despised this place, with its sweaty walls and spongy carpet, stale air and a stink that lingered in your clothes no matter of washes they went through. From time to time he had to remind himself that this was the only place for miles that offered a decent piece of ass, drugs, liquor and gambling till dawn. Larry loved all that shit, especially snatch. And Apache Gold always had some good shit, snatch, weed, whatever. God bless the red man and all his blues. And the white man, with all his problems, fuck him for all the funny hypocrisy he’s brought us all throughout the years!

08/04/12

Apache was on the phone when Larry got back, and he looked strangely out through the window at him, and it made him nervous. Apache always figured Larry to have a wild hair or two up his ass (one, being the fact that several years earlier Larry had badly beaten a man who was known to have connections with various Mexican crime families, even so, he possibly could have been some made man, turns out he wasn’t but still, when Larry did that, everyone, Apache included, ran shit through their pants, all except Larry, he was as cool as a cucumber), and seeing Larry come, no, fly, out of his car was enough to send Apache scared white, despite Apache having a wild streak or two (maybe even three) up his native ass. He told the person on the phone to call back, and he went to meet Larry at the front but saw he had stopped just before ringing the buzzer. Apache looked out the window and signaled him to the back door. He said to himself: how many times have I told that bastard, the front door man, the front door! Hard headed sonofabitch. Apache walked through hall to the back, sunlight somehow coming through creaks in the door, I gotta get that fixed one day, damn house going to shit, my uncle was shit, just like this house. He opened it up: yeah, what do you want? He asked Larry in that angry redman tone, so as Larry could get the point. But how many times has he done that with this guy, for how many years? Too long, Apache decided, too long. He shrugged a Whatever and let the horny white man in. Larry, you might as well live you boy, you just left not too long ago… yah, yah, Larry said, whatever man, I want more, that a prob? Apache couldn’t say anything else, and if he could, what? Ok man, whatever you want, your dick man, her cunt. Larry squinted at him in that I don’t care much for cuss words look, apache, how many times… yah man, I know, no fucking cussing around you, the righteous lawman who’ve come to mow some white girl’s lawn. Hey, that’s funny, lawman, lawnman, Lawnman Larry, I like that. Larry already had that look on his face, that angry red face (sometimes Apache thought Larry was some long lost brother of his, or any other Native, he was redder and meaner than he’s ever seen a white man), and those little bitty eyes of his; that Angry White Man Bitty-Eyed Monster Look, like so many cowboys lawmen and just plain suit-wearing white boys Apache’s seen over the years, always mad at something, hating everybody and anything that isn’t white in their eyes. Maybe all they need was some good ole black brown pussy, something other than their usual lilly-white thin, always nagging always wanting payday, boney flat butts of their wives, hell, even some of their sisters! In Apache’s eyes every white man must’ve done his sis or cousin, or maybe mother maybe once in their life. Apache saw all white people as no good inbreeding bastards who raped the land, took drugs and women everywhere they went, and when they got home, all bitty-eyed and drunk, they raped their wives and daughters, and their babies came out with weird fat faces, bitty-eyed and greedy already; holding on to their bottles just as tight as their even greedier white fathers cling to their greenbacks taken off dead wetbacks and corner-backs, blacks chinks, but get this, begged off a fellow white man. Bullet’s are truly for brothers, charity is for Christians, and great white wet pussy to the highest bidder, that of course being white, green and dirty dollar bills. Girls, women, all whored out by it, wars started and ended, people bleed for it, people do all sorts of things for it; for this paper, wrinkled most of the time and dirty and smelly, the funk of capitalism. Of all the colors, green is truly the meanest around, she takes no prisoners.

08/06/12

Caitlin awoke shivering, the cold concrete floor and hard bricked walls made it like a freezer, and her a meat tangling somehow, thirsty and hungry. She was severely weak from both, and she could hardly even get up a cough or a sneeze. The room was very dusty, it had settled in layers, and Caitlin couldn’t breathe at times. She was yet again at some new height, or should she think, heights. They had taken her there, those birds, vultures I think, she said to herself in her bruise, cloudy mind, one soaked with pain, and ringed out by the pounding down there. Here she was now, on some huge, tall structure, somewhere hot and bright, with alien voices and sounds, both down there with the tiny little specs she must take for people; and up here, up here so high, she couldn’t breathe too well, she gasped… a murmur of voices came through the wall that separated the room Caitlin was in with the other ones, and many times since Caitlin’s been here, she had heard so many other voices, some nervous and loud-sounding; but too many times, those of a cool, calm collected animal. Besides what she took for grownup voices, she also heard sounds more around her age, those same little, squeaky helium voices. This made her scared; and several times she wet herself, her urine soaking through to the sheets, and ultimately enough that a puddle lay rested under the bed. The room began to smell now, and her feces mixing… silence now. It was night time she figured, much quieter now, and the pressure from the sun had subsided now, and her headaches were quite frequent (due to dehydration), and her lips dry and chap, raw and tender at the same time. Her heart would usually beat faster when she was nervous, or scared, but now, she was too weak for anything, and her heart seem to be fleeing her. Now she was alone, no friends, and her cardiovascular loneliness hurt her a lot, and she wondered why, Why? Why me? She kept asking herself that, her little survival mantra, something, anything to get her through this. But would she get out of this? Would she? She honestly didn’t know, but the people who had her did, and many times she just felt like coming out and asking them. Sounds silly, but that’s what she thought to herself, who else would she tell this to? The ones next door? It had been some time now with no sound coming from those other places. It had been a complete silence, a total blackout. Were they still there? Maybe they were asleep, tired perhaps, tired from what, though? Really? They’re not doing anything, just tied on a bed, naked, fed pudding and given stale water. Water so nasty, not the kind that mommy and daddy buy, definitely not the kind Joshua buys, now that he has a good job, one that pays him a lot, so much he always takes us out to dinner. And when he’s not doing that, he’s always taking his girlfriend Mallory out shopping, or to some fancy restaurants (not too many around here, though, so they must tired out easily from going out); and she’s always happy when that happens, and when I’ve gone with them to the mall (very few times though, Joshua said he has to take her somewhere else, somewhere just the two of them are allowed), I’ve always noticed her looking around a lot, especially at other boys, sometimes other men. But never when Joshua’s around, and one time she gave a look to some woman, and this woman gave the same kind of look back. I think when some people want to talk to others, but are too scared, they close one eye and open it very fast. Well, this is what Mallory did to this one woman, and like I said, this woman did it back. It was weird, but funny at the same time.

And I remember one time, christmas shopping with them both, and how Mallory was mad at Joshua for getting his dad’s friend Larry a very expensive perfume. She said that he didn’t really deserve anything too grand, is what she said. Mallory gave the sample strip to me to try out, and Joshua got angry at both of us. He said I had no business trying it out, that it was for men only, that it was stupid of Mallory for giving it to me instead of giving it to him.

This is only for boys, and men, mostly for men! Mallory, why’d you give it to her? Mallory was clearly annoyed, and she told him something back, she always did. She was what I heard mother sometimes say about herself, and sometimes other ladies, That she clearly didn’t take any shit from anyone. Well, I guess Mallory was one of those women, those that didn’t take any shit. For some reason this memory came to her, and it was strange that it would appear not in any particular order, but when a certain sent would come in, or seem to come in. either way, it was strange to her, both the scent and memory. Funny how we work, she said to herself. Caitlin might not know exactly how the brain works but she did know that though, that it was strange. All this thinking was making her sleepy, very sleepy (what, with hardly any food or water, the stench of waste all around her!), and she was finding herself once again drift back into a deep sleep, and with the sleep came even weirder thoughts, also visions, ghosts, familiar faces maybe? Sounds and voices even more familiar, and those, that scent! It would come back and back and back. Now, she was getting tired. She yawned weakly and it was faint and dry, she began to sleep, drift… and again, she saw those buildings, those pyramids (like in the books that her brother Joshua had to read in college, the ones with the pointy tops), already the sun bright and baking all those below it. She also saw the birds gathering about, those pesky birds with their loud shrieks and long wings.

She was lying on a small, cold slab of stone, and she was tied at all all fours: both pairs of feet and hands. She was also dressed in one cloth, white and like a crude dress (she wore something was better than that on her off days!), it was in some very uncomfortable material, which made her writhe up and down, left and right. This only excited the men surrounding her, and she would know better to stop, but she couldn’t help it. Some of the men began touching her, and she wanted to scream, but the man directly behind her had previously placed an object in her mouth that prevented her making any sound. It was a weird thing, some hard as stone, yet soft and skin, and sometimes she she couldn’t breathe, not with all the smoke and people crowding all around her. Why was I so special, so… she tried screaming but the man behind her, Behind Man, told her to keep quiet, that she was special indeed, but she had to go along at times; it was part of the ceremony, part of the play they were doing. You do like to play, right little girl? Caitlin couldn’t answer, tried but couldn’t say anything at all, she just couldn’t. Too many faces making noise, too many bodies around, the sweat and heavy weight. And the pain, pain from the many things going in and out of her, it did hurt a lot, but still, no sound. She just had to go along with it like Behind Man said, Always in the behind, he would say; he seemed like the only one talking, the others were quiet in their speech, but loud in their grunting and yelps, their strong slaps on my behind, my sides, sometimes my face, and always those birds were doing it, those vultures I think? Yes! Vultures, I remember now! From books I’ve seen, and that nature trail we took along time ago. It was hot, and I was sweaty, like now, but back then I could wipe myself dry, and drink more water. I remember mom and dad, how happy they were, and how Joshua was happy too, and how he held my had every time we crossed a bridge over a little stream, even before we got close to one, he would grab my hand. It was like her knew where all of them were, not only the streams, but also every little trail that was off the main one. Sometimes, when my parents were in some little argument, or they stopped for a rest (and dad for a cigarette), or sometimes they would be right ahead of us, too far to run, and Joshua would take me through one of these short cuts he called them, and I would be afraid. He would tell me, Told worry Cait, I’m here with you, don’t be afraid, I know where we’re at, and especially we are going. And it was in one of these short cuts that I saw a vulture. It was in the middle of the walk and was hunched down, head buried in what looked like a dead mouse, or maybe a rabbit (later on Joshua said it was a rabbit, that it was a very famous rabbit from one of my fave cartoons at that time, not anymore though, I’m much older now and don’t have time for that anymore), and that made me sad and I began to cry. After awhile he told me he was only kidding, and I believed him and did stop, and he wiped the tears away from my eyes with his shirt, and I saw his stomach, and his muscles. I also noticed just how skinny my brother was then. I looked slowly toward the bird and saw it still eating, and the meat of the dead animal so red, and the face of the vulture so bloody! I felt sick and told Joshua to take me away from there. He did; he grabbed my hand and began walking fast, as if running from this thing more concerned with its meal, than just a pair of skin and bones.

So now, she was back here, back on this cold slab, and this time the vultures were picking her bones, ripping through her flesh with their strong, murderous beaks; blood was coming out she thought, she could feel droplets all over her body,