Congratulations Quijote and Ardrilla!

They were married last Saturday in Juarez, surrounded by friends and family. God bless you both in your new life together!

It was interesting to visit the El Paso/Juarez area, primarily because I had never been south of the border. Seeing the mountains that Cormac McCarthy imagined to be on fire when he got the idea to write The Road was pretty sweet... especially since it was followed by a discussion of The Road with Quijote and the dirty hippie.

The food was great, the hospitality was warm, the wedding was lovely, though I had to have Fernando explain some of the traditions to me. Such as the lasso. That was a new one to me, but was apparently a tradition older than using wedding rings. Basically, they had the couple kneel and they lashed them together with a lasso. When I first heard about it, I was hoping some cowboy would burst into the church and toss a lasso around both of them from the aisle while they struggled to get away, but that didn't happen.

Also, I loved the fact that they said each other's vows to one another in the native language of the other person. Behold, the foundations of a bilingual household.

Now, there is the subject of the reception. It was insane. I'm not going to sugar coat it. Three words: Surprise Mariachi Band. I think that pretty much sums it up.

In all, I wish both of you the best.

Now, Quijote, you just need to convince her to let you have a Corgi, and you'll be all set. Just remember the mantra: Cutest. Dog. EVER. ;)

Silence fills the empty tomb...

...but questions linger on.

Bones rattle. Dried, calcified fingers scrape the stonework. Ulna and radius rattle, shifting weight from arm to arm. Tattered graveclothes rasp and tear as dust falls from the limbs. With great force, the corpse pushes itself up, craning its neck, lifting its head towards the light. Empty eye sockets scrape the air, hungry for the sun. The dessicated mandible drops open, the memory of lungs clawing for air.

And yet, a breath escapes the maw of the skull, kicking up dust into the darkness. Impossible. No lungs expell it. No vocal chords give it vibration. No lips part to let it pass. Yet the husk exhales, then draws breath back in to empty ribs.

It rises upon frail femur and trembling tibia. Rags cling to the husk. Scraping across a dusty floor, it shambles with force far beyond what it's frail frame ought to facilitate. Phalanges old and dry grip the stone that seals the tomb and push. The air shifts and hisses as freshness and light pierce the crypt.

Out across the graveyard and down through the field, the ghoul staggers steadily. Down the road and to the sea, across the pier and past the docks, its empty eyes trace the outline of an old ship, long broken apart for firewood. It climbs aboard the vessel's memory and staggers to the stern. There, its claws grip the wheel.

The hanging jaw hisses a command. The sails drop. The anchor lifts. A wind, unfelt, fills the sails. The wheel spins, and the ship obeys.

Empty eyes, lidless and invisible, lock upon the open sea. Bones long dead remember the salty breeze. The trappings of life long left behind, with all its cares and worries and lies and politics, the dead man's heart begins to warm.

One thought echoes in the empty skull.

I live again.

The memory of lips peel back into a smile as the spectral hull crashes against the waves.

Never before has the dead man felt so alive.