Most writers I know say they wanted to create stories since before they could hold a pencil properly. That wasn’t me. I’ve always known I was witchy, loved to read, and enjoyed improvising tales, but writing actual stories never crossed my mind. I was in my late twenties before I drafted a bit of fiction with the intention of sharing it with anyone other than my aloof betta fish.
However, AlmaMia Cienfuegos, a girl I’ve seen grow into a woman, has lived in my head for as long as I can remember. I know she loves her grandmother and can spend hours climbing trees and eating mangoes. She is afraid of nightmares because in them things bleed and rot. Her older sister and her mother also frighten AlmaMia, but for different reasons.
When I first met her, AlmaMia was seven-years-old, but she told me about older memories. Things that happened when she was four, and perhaps younger, but the latter were confusing confessions. We’ve walked the world together for so long that I would never confuse her scent, her giggles or her screams.
Two years ago, I realized that one day I would have to tell AlmaMia’s story. I knew there would be no way around it. But I thought that when that day came, my face would be smartened with happy wrinkles and framed with white curls.
This week, AlmaMia began to pace… she didn’t push—she’s not that type of friend—she just stared at me, the hint of a wicked smile curving the corners of her lips, and said, “I’m ready, Witch.” She didn’t ask anything, not aloud, but her dark brown eyes screamed her question straight to my heart. And I answered, “Yes, AlmaMia, I’m ready, too.”
Then I began to write… and I will continue adding words until she’s done sharing her story… even if every now and then, I desperately want to stop… for there are times, when AlmaMia’s sister and mother spook as much as they did the little girl.
Stop by my fiction site and glimpse into the life of AlmaMia Cienfuegos.
|Thinking about AlmaMia’s Cienfuego’s Tale|