Page 47 - WTPVolI Vol.#4

man spoke beneath the glow of the spotlight. Not since Las Serpientes’ final show had I been in a place where a collective silence absorbed one person’s every word. He carried us with him on a series of trips to Erte Ale, a living volcano. We zigzagged across crusts of rock, making our way to the top through sul- furic gusts of wind. We stared into a lava lake that had lived for more than a hundred years. The storyteller left us on the rim of the volcano. Magma poured from the center of the earth with all of its reds and oranges streaked with deep purple as the sun set and we took our last breath.
The blue light brightened and the band began to play “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” as we clapped and caught our breath again. The emcee in a silver dress burst onto stage with enthusiasm, singing one refrain before motioning the band to pause. She broke down the root and meaning of “erupt,” and people shifted. Some went to the bar, others to find friends. After everyone found their place, the emcee gazed out into the audience to make sure they were with her.
“To play again meant I might be
the only one listening. The notes would rise and fall and dissipate until the air was still again.”
“We’ve got a special first timer here. She came several months ago just to listen then disappeared until to- night. Here at Sweets Gallery we look for the best and the bravest. Give it up for Paloma, acordeonista!”
The crowd clapped warmly, some curious, some not wanting to leave the dream the poet had woven around them. I counted my steps as I walked up to the front and told the band, “I’m playing a cumbia. 2/4 beat.”
I sat on the stool. The mic was perfectly positioned. For a moment I was blinded. The silence before me was complete.
I didn’t introduce myself as planned or give a dedica- tion. Instead I went straight into the song. This song was the story of an old woman grown young again and a young woman grown old again. It wasn’t well known and I wasn’t known at all, but my practiced movements took over, the music took over and every- thing fell away but the playing.
Zarazua was awarded her MFA in Creative Writing from the Univer- sity of Nevada, Las Vegas. She has published short stories in The Collagist, Asia Literary Review, The Blotter Magazine, and 805, which nominated her for Best of the Net award 2018. In 2012, she co-found- ed Pochino Press, which publishes works that seek new conceptions of culture and story-making. From 2013–2018, she taught grades four and five at an international school in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Currently, she lives in Oakland, CA.
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