I Hunt for Stars Alone: A Novel by Ricardo Quintana-Vallejo
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I felt close to the characters in this story and like any great book, I’ll miss a few of them. They felt real to me like I could give them a call and pick up where the book left off. This is the skill of a gifted writer and Ricardo Quintana-Vallejo does not let down in his first novel, I Hunt For Stars Alone.
Aside from the wonderful character dynamics between our protagonist and all the people who color his world, the book is beautifully written and thoughtfully layered with real emotions. Each piece of verse, which constitutes a chapter, packs a punch. Every word paints the inner world of our hero in his youth and as an adult narrator.
The story centers on a teenage boy from Mexico and his immigration to the U.S. The narrator (the protagonist as an adult) illustrates our hero navigating his new world in the Midwest America in the early 2000s. As the story progresses, he must figure out how to deal with bigotry, a new stepfather, and a dissolving relationship with his brother. To overcome these challenges, he turns to music, books, movies, and a few good friends. Still, he’s faced with obstacle after obstacle, wins and loses, tiny victories and big mistakes.
For someone such as myself, who has considered himself a lifelong artist and social outsider, I felt a sense of validation. Our hero is just not like everyone else who wants to score touchdowns, and party hard. He just wants to figure out his world while trying to figure out himself. And although my demographic background does not completely match our protagonist’s background, I felt what any one of my favorite authors have made me feel–like I’m not alone in this world and in this universe, and the stars still burn bright no matter how much our lives have let us down. It’s up to us to keep looking. I highly recommend I Hunt For Stars Alone by Ricardo Quintana-Vallejo.
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Untitled Night Club Poem
by Marc Alexander Valle
The multicolored lights. Bodies grinding and a few fist fights. Anything but actual dancing on the dance floor.
Groups of girls huddled in corners. I see young men walk over. They’re dressed in the style of ‘loose and baggy’ or ‘bad boy I don’t care what any thinks’.
The endless beat and bass. I vibe to the music just in case. They might see that I’m not like them.
The problem with the nightclub was that it was just like my head. Stimulation, movement, nonstop noise and chatter.
The problem was that I believed that these people were somehow more advanced than me. They could socialize and talk better than me.
The problem was with Beethoven. When we were in high school, these people were moving through the bases of dating. When we were in high school, I listened to the 9th for the 9th time, wondering if I would ever create something so sublime in my lifetime.
The problem was with movies. The problem was with filmmaking. The problem was with following your dreams. Which means the problem was with me.
If I could find a time machine and talk to a younger me I’d tell myself, “You have no interest in making art that slow and working as a team. Find another medium.”
The problem is that the world is incentivized to see reality in black and white, and as much as I tried to fight I could only see reality as an explosion of light.
So after one more visit to the nightclub, I decided that time would be more well spent behind a word processor. Written words always had a habit of flowing my way even when they came in cluttered.
Clubbing was no way to find myself. Clubbing was no way to find my niche. Trying to find your place with everyone in a place where everyone is trying to forget is the perfect way to lose your mind and maybe even your convictions.
Beethoven wrote that. Right after he wrote the 9th.
My Drawings from an Unfinished Illustrated Short Story
The Dream Ebbs and Flows
I remember asking the Ritter Elementary School librarian for a book on Spielberg in the 1988-1989 school year. I waited two weeks for it. Every other day, I’d bother her about the book, but the date of arrival never changed.
At age 8, I wanted to be Steven Spielberg. He made daydreams come to life. He turned regular people into giants. A rainbow always shined in the end, and evil always lost. My world was my family, my home, and a movie theater, and I could see no other calling.
At age 42, I just want to live well and write well and maybe have a wider audience. I try and sometimes succeed at the first one every day. I feel better about the second. Maybe I’ll have the third eventually, but I think I’ll be okay if it never happens. Until then, I finally own that Spielberg book.
Happy 548 Birthday!
One-and-a-half trips around The Sun today, Emile. There will be no party, but I celebrate all the same.
You are here. You are healthy and strong and absorbing new words faster than I ever could. You were meant to be here and will inherit the world in ways that I could not.
There was a time when my head was a carnival of light, my son. Thoughts, ideas, and emotions all intertwined in a kaleidoscopic feast, and I believed that if I just put it out there, put it on paper or film or on stage, people would understand me. I was convinced I was here to save the world and show them things hidden under the blanket of their fixed views and idealogy.
But no one seemed to care, and I engaged in a protracted and misanthropic self-conversation that robbed me of joy and gratification with even the most delectable of occasions.
It doesn’t matter what they think of me anymore, at least not like it used to. I see the psychedelic-Kodachrome cavalcade in your smile and I am reborn. It makes its way down the abandoned roads of my soul, and some days I think I can see barren fields filled with life again. I ask myself, “How could I ever have allowed others such power over me? How could anyone torture themselves as I did?”
I will be your audience, my son. I will be your witness. I know that if I can do anything it will be to see you in your most noble and extraordinary wardrobe, a tapestry of confidence and sweetness patched together with no visible seams. I will be your champion. The world doesn’t know what they’re in for like I do.
Happy 18 months old, Emile. We’ve come so far in such a short time, and we have miles and miles to go. Sometimes I wonder what I would do for a few miles more.
A Twilight-Hour Note (from a first-time father to his newborn son) by Marc Alexander Valle
Your Daddy writes to be heard. Your Daddy writes to let the world know that he’s here. Your Daddy writes because he feels that he has something to say, a message that needs to be delivered and pulled out of his gut like some-type of science fiction movie. Your Daddy writes to not be interrupted when he speaks. Your Daddy writes to be loved. Your Daddy hopes to be understood, but at this point feels that most people will never understand him. Your Daddy writes because he cannot say what he means on the top of his head without the other person giving him time to think or respond. If Daddy were to try to verbally express what you’re reading now, he would sound like the under-educated, working class kid that he was. Your Daddy writes because he’s an artist. Your Daddy is an artist, someone that sees things so…
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The Homework Theif by Marc Alexander Valle
A mini-story from my mini-book, So You Say You Want An 80s Childhood?
The Homework Thief
Brian Ross was my friend.
“Are you friends with Brian?” Anna said to me, sitting on the floor in gym class. “I think he puts mayonnaise in his hair.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I said.
“Yeah,” Frieda said. “He smells like my lunch bag.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Brian Ross was my friend, even if he were to put peanut butter on his head. Brian liked what I liked on TV, and we could play the same characters every recess without my having to tell him about them. He was the only other kid that laughed at my cartoon jokes and references. Brian Ross was my friend. Then Brian Ross stole my homework.
It was there in the bin. I told Mrs. Cain that I swore I did my homework and put it there when I arrived at 8am. So she looked through all of last night’s assignments and pulled it out. I could see my name erased and Brian’s name now on top of it.
“That’s it,” I said. “I know because I wrote my name nice and big.”
Mrs. Cain turned to the class. “Alright, let’s go to lunch. Marc and Brian I want you to stay behind.”
At recess, my classmates surrounded me, trying to piece together what happened.
“He tried to make it look like it was his homework?”
“Did he ask to take it?”
“Is he getting in trouble?
I answered the questions as fast as they were given, and I assured them that I didn’t give him the assignment. I liked this feeling, this attention. It felt good. All eyes were on me for the first time in a very long time. The boys even stopped playing kickball to question me, and the hopscotch girls left their beanbags unguarded. This was nice.
Within two minutes, they’d gotten all the information they needed, and I ran out of things to tell them. They began to talk amongst each other about Brian.
“Yeah, he smells like ham sandwich.”
“He took my pencil.”
“Why’s he always dirty?”
They kept going on about different circumstances involving Brian. I laughed at a joke without even hearing the punchline.
“Mrs. Lee looked mad,” I said.
They kept talking.
“He got upset.”
They kept talking.
“I think he’s scared.”
They kept talking.
“He picks his nose too.”
They looked at me.
“I know. I saw it,” Lucy said. “He does it all the time.”
I continued, “He used to be my friend, but he acts stupid sometimes.”
“He thinks he’s funny,” Elvin said.
Their circle opened up, enough for me to fit in. It was as though they made the perfect spot for me with my name on it. I walked forward. The circle closed again. I was in. I was there. I was one with the rest.
Brian walked out of the building and onto the playground pavement. His head was pointed down to the ground as he zipped up his thin red jacket. The kids turned towards him. I backed away just a bit.
He stopped and scanned the playground, then turned and looked at me. I looked away. A kid in the group said something that made the other kids laugh. I chuckled at the joke without even hearing the punchline.
by Marc Alexander Valle
©2022
The Ride by Marc Alexander Valle
“You guys want to stay here and watch Transformers,” my dad said. “Or do you want to go on a ride?”
My older brother voted to stay at the department store to finish the episode on a big screen color TV.
I voted for the ride.
“Well, you guys have to figure this out,” my dad said.
I turned to my brother, “I want to go on a ride.”
“I want to watch Transformers,” my brother said.
“I want to go for a ride!”
“I never saw this on a big TV.”
“What’s the ride?” I said to my dad.
“Well, you’re not going to see until you get on?”
“I want to go on a ride,” I said to my brother.
“I don’t want to go,” he said.
“But you’ve seen this one,” my dad said.
“Yeah, we saw it!” I said.
“No.”
“Come on!”
“No.”
“I want to go!”
“No!”
I want to gooooooooo!
He looked over, “No.”
I turned to my dad: “I want to go for a ride.”
“Well,” he said. “Since you guys can’t decide, you can watch this at home.”
“But it’s gonna be over then,” my brother said.
“It’ll come on again.”
We went on the ride. It was a five-story, downward spiral car ramp. The one we were always going to ride if we wanted to leave the parking lot.
Delicacy: A Flash Fiction
Delicacy
by Marc Alexander Valle
The boy looked down at the worm, squirming on the backwoods trail. A ray of light illuminated its pinkish hue and a warm breeze hit his face.
“Eat it,” she said. “I’ll kiss you.”
“No,” he said.
“Then no,” she said.
But he had wanted to kiss her all summer, floating in the deep in the pool, bumping her hand at the movie theater as he reached for soda, lying on the grassy field with the late morning sun warming him enough to feel bliss.
He looked back down. Then kept squirming and picking up dirt.
“It tastes like nothing,” she said. “Go ‘head.”
He thought of candy then reached down and picked it up.
He could feel its life force as it wiggled and expanded on his palm. Candy would be pointless, he thought, “It’s too fleshy.” Then he imagined roast chicken instead.
“I’ve done it,” she said, “You won’t get sick.”
He popped it in his mouth and could feel it slither then contract, the dirt turning to grim on his tongue. He swallowed it and closed his eye. It slide down his throat quickly and he could feel it move. And like everything else he ate, the feeling disappeared just before reaching the stomach.
He opened his eyes and looked to her.
“Yuck,” she said.
He stepped forward and closed his eyes again.
His lips touched hers.
But he felt nothing in return. He held the kiss and waited for her to reciprocate. But he felt nothing in return. He stepped forward and moved his face closer to her. But he felt nothing in return. He could feel nothing but the dead lips, hear nothing but the cicadas and crickets chirping. Just the dead lips and live bugs and the hope of something in return.
She pulled away and jabbed his stomach.
“Gross,” she said, “I’m not kissing bugs.”
As he held onto his gut crunched over he could see her walk away down the path and out of sight. The pain spread across his abdomen and he wasn’t sure if he needed to go to the bathroom.
He could hear the bird chirping and an animal moving in the brush. He had to go home now. If he was late for dinner one more time, he’d be grounded for two days.
Rays of light disappeared as a cloud rolled in. A cooler breeze hit his face. He wondered what boy he’d get to tell first.
Bully: A Video Poem by Mavthewriter
Any feedback on the video or poem will help. Written, filmed and performed by mavthewriter.
New Bike: A Flash Fiction Video
My newest flash fiction video. Written, performed, and filmed by mavthewriter.
My First Real Book
I never wanted to be a writer first. I wanted to be Steven Spielberg. At age 8, I asked the school librarian if she had a book on Spielberg.
She said, “No, but he’s a very interesting person. I think I’ll look for one and order it.”
I kept going back to the librarian nearly every day to see if she found the book and she eventually ordered it.
“It’ll take two weeks to get here,” she said. Once again, I went to the library every day and asked to see if the book arrived. I thought that maybe asking for it would speed up the process and ever time she told me that it takes two weeks to get to the school.
So as I waited, I tried to imagine what the book would look like and what it would say about Spielberg. I wanted to know about every movie that he made and what it would take to be a movie director. All I knew was that this was the man behind all of my daydream fantasies, and he got paid big houses and cars to make them. Movies allowed me to explore a more courageous side of myself that was not manifested in my interpersonal social life. I could be anyone I wanted after the credits started to roll, and I believed that I had a few characters of my own to share.
When the book arrived it was thinner than I thought, but I opened it and took in the new book smell. I could hear the glue of the bindings and the hard cover crackle. The pictures were in color, and I sat down to take them in.
I can’t remember exactly what was said about him in the book. Over the years I would take in more information about him and all the information seems to conflate to that book. But I do remember that this was the first time that I read a book that was purely informational. Until this day, I’m good at absorbing trivial information and consider myself an info junkie. I have so much data in my head that it fuels my imagination and serves as points of references in my mind. This book started it all.
The book didn’t help me become a filmmaker, but it helped me see the world more critically as non-fiction has allowed me to do. It helped me become a better writer and artist, who work deals with the critical analysis of reality and its nature.
Rest Stop: A Flash Fiction Video by Marc Alexander Valle
A video that I wrote, edited and performed. All photos from pixabay.com First published in The Drabble (https://thedrabble.wordpress.com/)
My First List of Banned/Challenged Books
This is my former professor’s posting. It’s hard to imagine the Harry Potter series being banned when it got so many children to read. I honestly believe that if it weren’t for those books, the YA market would not be where it is today.
The ULS: The Underground Library Society
As the creator of the ULS, The Underground Library Society, and at the request of several followers, I have decided to put up lists of books that have been banned or challenged. If a book is challenged, that usually means there were people who wanted it removed from a school or library. Both are forms of book censorship. It is important to note that I am not focusing only on books banned or challenged in the United States of America; unfortunately, censorship is a world wide action.
Here is my initial list of banned and challenged books:
The entire Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling;
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee;
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain;
Beloved by Toni Morrison;
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie;
The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger;
The Grapes of…
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Post-Meditation Journal Entry # 4 and # 5
5/12/17, 5:00pm-ish, duration unknown
Today’s sit went by fast, but was hard. I want badly to catch the previous experiences, that deep experience. You feel like you’ve touched something. Today, I just didn’t touch anything.
I’m blocked as a writer, so I tried to start a screenplay today. I’ve completed screenplays in the past in between ages 14 and 21. I was bad at it but you couldn’t tell me otherwise back them. I thought that maybe since I completed screenplays in the past, I could finish one now and at least have a piece of work in my hand.
I had an interesting idea. But I couldn’t see the world of the story nor the protagonist. The elements that would compose the word of this story seemed flat and uncertain of itself. It was grey, cold and ashy. I reasoned that it was because I picked the wrong protagonist, so everything else fell apart. Story just might be too boring for me anymore. Not enough time to indulge in another writer’s stories, not sure where my story is going.
5/13/17, 10:00pm-10:20pm
The last thing I saw was Moby Dick. Also, I could see the sea vessel on choppy water.
Sometimes meditation is like dreaming. When you wake those thoughts and images slip away. But with meditation they just fade out like a candle and all you have is the smoke.
Post-Meditation Journal Entry #2
5/7/17, 8:20pm – 9:00pm
More messages this time. They’re almost dream-like and too hard to translate. I’m grateful for them. I feel as though I’ve benefited from this sit. I saw betrayal, that’s the word that comes to mind. It usually comes in the form of the image of a woman. So what comes to my conscious mind when I think of betrayal?
Mom’s 1990’s ABC soap operas and Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.
My interaction with betrayal has been minimal. I don’t set myself up for it. Betrayal requires that you let your guard down and assume loyalty from another. I’ve never felt loyalty, always the loyalty-bearer. I’ve been careful in this life to not act on any oath-breaking impulses with friends and colleagues, it’s not who I am and I don’t want the problems.
So why would betrayal popped up from the subconscious? Is it what the universe wants me to do, to be more vulnerable to those impulses, to take advantage of imbalanced relationships and live a little and stop being so nice?
The Penmen ©2017 by Marc Alexander Valle
This piece has been published on philosophicalidiot.com
The girl wrote on the lined paper:
I will not cheat in class.
I will not cheat in class.
I will not–
She peaked outside the cubical. Everyone, including Mr. Lee, was gone from the classroom.
She spit in his coffee, then stirred with her finger. She turned to her left.
“I saw!” the boy said, standing in the doorway.
She froze, studying his face, “Go head,” she said. “You next.”
“Why?” he said.
“Cause. It’s fun.”
“But he’ll know.”
“No,” she said, then gestured to the mug, “The spit’ll sink.”
He approached the coffee and looked to the door, then spit in the mug and stirred.
They sat back down.
The boy took his pencil out of his pocket and continued to write on lined paper:
I will not steal cafeteria food.
I will not steal cafeteria food.
I spit in your coffee though. So did she. I like her. But you’re cool. Just don’t tell her I said.
I will not steal cafeteria food.
I will not steal cafeteria food.
What is meditation teaching me?
A great post that expands on what I’ve felt and have been thinking.
Meditation – why are you in my life? I asked you to join me and help me, to improve me, to take me and bring me to a better place.
Meditation – why are you in my life? I asked you to teach me, to build me, to journey with me to a better life.
Meditation has joined with me and helps me, though a slow process for me, it is improving me. Meditation is taking me to a quieter mind and bringing me back to be in the moment, at this time at this place; a better place. Meditation is teaching me, though a slow process for me, to have additional patience, improved concentration and to have calmness during times of interruptions.
It is early morning and the exercising is over and now I meditate. The room is dark and the windows with the blinds open; pass through faint…
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On Ignorance
Sometimes, you have to let people be as ignorant as you believe they are. Even if it means that you’re allowing them to say stupid things. In your eyes, you see these people encircled by “unenlightened” views. You feel offended by them, because you believe that it staggers the progress of human kind. But keep in mind that there are many of these people that have one foot creeping out of that circle.If you draw a line and present an absolute, what side do you think they’re going to choose if they aren’t ready?
Mavthewriter 