'One Nation'

As all of the days before it was a hot, sunny and endless morning. He was standing in the porch of and old shack located in the western hemisphere, above in the union of central and North America, above the Mexican territory, below the American border. He waited upon his fellow comrades to arrive with the rest of the platoon and cargo, for the long and exhausting journey he was about to embark on, in search of something he always longed for, freedom. It was more than once that he was deprived of such things but he hesitated for what he thought was right. He sat on the old hollow chili box with a red and tan poncho rested on his shoulder and a small leather sac with a thick yellow wool string to fasten to his right shoulder. Inside it, he contained a goat skin canteen, a small woven blanket for the cold and harsh nights he planned to endure in the dry deserts to be encountered. And a small package in which he quickly revealed two handfuls of dry smoked meat, he took a small bite of one piece and a sip of his water as he sat in the shade of the shack provided away from the direct rays he so disgusted to withstand. His rugged mustache aside from his upper lip resembled to him his only treasured memory he was to keep for the sake of his nation he had to once again rid from his heart to survive in the harsh world he stood to fight. His plans were not of those already portrayed and lost due to the lack of knowledge he once thought he had, he was not to render himself as easy to the ‘güeritos’ and güeritas’ the Northern nation had to ensure he was not once again in the sacred free land. He had an open mind for any obstacle that was to come his way and thought very thoroughly on many occasions on how to deal with them comparing to what he dealt with in the past years, this was his time, his chance for the taking of the ultimate prize.
They arrived riding through the dusty road, the opaque red pickup wagon, full of hope and ambition. And on he went into the shine of the sun, to satisfy his inner spirit for the accolade he so dearly desired.

'Měi Tiān' (Every Day)

The sun clearing through the smog, lights shifting off, fires and steamers igniting, aromas arise; a breeze brushing through the trees, curtains flaming into the warm room; the sun kissing her forehead gently, eyes tweaking open, the sounds of mā mā in the kitchen, rice in the fryer, fish defrosting. She wakes to the bliss of the morning, legs across, arms within the sheets, alarm goes off. The day begins, tea is sipped, clothes are worn, school is attended, walk is walked, and studies are done. Night falls, supper is eaten, bath is taken, and rest … rest is... assured.

'Little Soul'

~ But a scribble with some doubt,
he may wither but not shout

little tears start to drop,
little bones start to pop

dripping down goes the blood,
dark and messy is the flood

the aching pain has gone away,
the uneasy mind has gone to stray

the age of wonder
has yet to plunder

the freedon cost
a holocaust,

and yet a taste of water
is nothing but a bother

then again comes the slay
leaving restless on the hay
nothing other than to say,
my little soul has gone away.~

'The LandLady'

.."No my dear", she said. "Only you".
He gently arose form his seat and proceeded with ginger steps towards the stairs, still holding the tea in one hand and a cookie in the other. With every step he took he heard a wheeze, as he reached the fourth floor, he faintly heard what sounded like whispers, but as he drew closer to the door he recognized the sound as Beethoven's Fifth. As he reached for the door handle, she lightly cried out, "Why my dear, what exactly do you expect to find there? He slowly took a step back taking a glimpse at her warm smile, but to only find a grim and cold frown as she stood by the railings, head up straight, shoulders far apart, he braced his tea with a bare horror as he took a sight of her hands, milliseconds elapsed like ages, he dropped the tea and cookie, crumbs rolling about, led his eyes to the door, took the cold handle and as it part of him opening, his chest rising in temperature, stepping forward into the room. The light exhorting from one point, a small table with a deck of Spanish playing cards before it, and behold, those that seemed more than friends, just sitting along the table, his breath slowly inhaling, hitting the warm and fuzzy floor with his damp forehead, his eyes cast over a small table with faces starring at him with cold dead eyes, as manikins at a dresser, two words he heard, as gentle as honey tea on a winter afternoon, "Mister Weaver.."