Tag: fiction

The Woman in 4C

No one remembered exactly when Yasmin appeared in the building, which should have been the first warning.

It was a faded, four story complex tucked into a side street of Los Angeles, where ceiling fans clicked through the heat and distant traffic hummed at all hours. Each apartment had a small balcony overlooking the courtyard with its dry grass and rusty park benches. Most of the tenants had been there for years, and certain patterns were like clockwork. Maria in 3B watered her plants at seven each morning. Darla in 1C played the same Coltrane record every evening after dinner. Daniel returned from his nightshift, slamming his door too early in the wee hours. The landlord, Mr. Alvarez, collected rent on the first Monday of the month, never making direct eye contact.

Then one day, without ceremony, apartment 4C was no longer empty. There had been no moving truck and no hauling of furniture up the exterior stairwell. Just a name penciled onto the row of mailboxes.

Yasmin.

The first person to notice her was Maria. Yasmin was standing very still on the exterior staircase, late afternoon sun highlighting her long dark hair. She wore a knee-length charcoal coat despite the heat, and her pale eyes shifted over the courtyard, then the hazy L.A. sky, never settling on one thing for too long.

“Oh,” Maria said, startled into politeness. “You must be new. Did you move in recently?”

When Yasmin turned, she seemed to look through Maria, not just at her.

“I suppose I’m new,” she said, “but I’ve been here long enough.”

Her voice was neither warm nor cold, a bit unnerving.

“Well, let me welcome you,” Maria said. “We’re a close knit group of neighbors.”

“Yes, I know,” said Yasmin.

That answer stayed with Maria long after they parted.

The second person to notice her was Daniel in 3B, though he didn’t realize it until later. A struggling screenwriter by day, he worked swing shifts for UPS, sleeping late and awakening around noon to confront his persistent writer’s block. One day, after a cup of strong coffee, he noticed minute details out of place in his apartment: a book shifted slightly on a shelf, a chair angled a few degrees differently, his notebook open to a page he didn’t recall writing. It wasn’t enough to report a break in; the police would think he was batty.

He told himself he was only tired, but then he read the line in the notebook. It was undeniably his handwriting.

“You keep treating the future like a possibility instead of a memory.”

Daniel stared at the sentence for a long time. Not only was he sure he hadn’t written it; he couldn’t even remember thinking it. And its meaning was so cryptic that he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

That same evening, he came upon Yasmin for the first time. They were in the courtyard near the mailboxes, where Yasmin flipped slowly through a stack of letters. She was still wearing her charcoal coat, and Daniel wondered how someone who had recently arrived could receive so much mail.

“You’re new here?” Daniel asked, trying to sound casual.

Yasmin swung her gaze to him.

“By some definitions of new,” she said.

Daniel frowned a bit. “Right.”

They stood there a beat too long, staring at each other. Daniel was intrigued by Yasmin’s pale eyes.

“You write,” Yasmin said, breaking the silence.

It wasn’t a question.

Daniel blinked as a slight chill ran up his spine. “I try.”

“You doubt yourself,” she said. “That’s the part that always slows you down.”

Daniel felt a flicker of irritation. “Do I know you?”

Yasmin considered that, as if weighing her answer.

“Not yet,” she said.

Then she slipped past him and ascended the exterior stairs, leaving him with a feeling he could only describe as queasy

By the end of the week, everyone in the building had a story. The college student in 4D swore that Yasmin quoted a line from her private journal. A struggling actor on the second floor insisted that Yasmin quietly muttered lines from an audition scene he had only practiced alone. An older woman near the back stairwell said Yasmin asked her whether she planned to visit her son in Sacramento again, even though she’d told no one of their estrangement. Mr. Alvarez insisted he had no record of a lease for 4C, though he remembered collecting rent from someone. One tenant claimed that Yasmin congratulated him on a promotion before he even applied for the position. Another said she passed Yasmin in the hallway and heard her softly humming a song played at her husband’s funeral twenty years earlier. The young couple in 1A had been arguing in the hallway when Yasmin passed them and casually remarked, “You already know which one of you leaves first.”

The stories overlapped in an unsettling way that was clear to all of them. Yasmin seemed to know things she shouldn’t, and she never seemed surprised.

Maria tried to ignore it. She had lived in the building long enough to understand that people were strange in their own ways. But one morning, as she watered her plants, she noticed something that made her pause. Across the courtyard, through the window of 4C, she saw Yasmin sitting at a desk. A pen rested in her hand, and she was working on something. That wasn’t strange by itself. What was unusual was Yasmin’s rhythm. She would jot down a few lines, pause, then look up as if listening to some source Maria couldn’t see. Then she would nod, put down a few more words, and repeat the pattern.

Maria had always been bold to the point of meddling, a trait that had gotten her into trouble over the years. The next morning, she decided to visit Yasmin and get to the bottom of things.

She knocked on the door of 4C and it opened immediately. “Yes?” Yasmin said.

Maria hesitated. “I hope I’m not bothering you. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Of course,” Yasmin said.

Maria glanced past her with no attempt to hide her nosiness. The studio apartment was sparsely furnished with a desk, a chair, and a bed. No unpacked boxes or signs of settling in.

“What do you do?”

Yasmin tilted her head slightly, her lips curling as if she was slightly amused.

“I pay attention,” she said.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It is the only one that matters.”

Maria crossed her arms. “People are saying things about you.”

“I’m not surprised. They usually do.”

“That you know things,” Maria pressed on. “Private things you shouldn’t. Things you would have no way of knowing.”

Yasmin studied her for a few seconds, then stepped aside.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked.

Maria should have said no. Instead, she crossed the threshold. The air in the apartment was still, and on the desk was the open notebook she had seen through the window. Maria’s eyes fixed on it longer than she intended.

“Go ahead and read it,” said Yasmin with her cool, neutral tone.

Maria hesitated. “That feels invasive.”

“It’s only invasive if it’s not already yours,” Yasmin said.

Something about that answer unsettled Maria more than if Yasmin had simply refused. Slowly, she approached the desk. The open page was filled with neat, deliberate handwriting, and as she started to read, her breath caught. The words were about her. Not just vague or general observations, but specific details. The way she counted steps without realizing it. The way she avoided calling her sister because she didn’t want to admit how distant they had become. The way she watered her plants at seven each morning because it gave her a small sense of control. The way she sometimes replayed old conversations in the shower, changing what she should have said years earlier.

Maria stepped back, feeling a mix of curiosity and anger.

“How do you know this?” she demanded.

Yasmin didn’t move.

“You told me,” she said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Not in words.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” Yasmin said gently, “if you have the right way of observing.”

Maria shook her head. “This isn’t normal.”

“No,” Yasmin agreed. “Unfortunately, it isn’t.”

Maria shook her head, growing angrier by the second. “But why are you writing about us?”

Yasmin looked at the notebook for a long moment before answering.

“Because people reveal themselves long before they understand what they’re doing,” she said quietly. “Because they rarely notice the full spectrum, just like they can’t see the full spectrum of light.”

Maria frowned with anger “What the hell does that mean?”

Yasmin’s eyes bore into hers.

“It means most people only register one surface of things.”

“And you’re somehow able to recognize all this?”

Yasmin sighed as if she was burdened.

“I’m just catching up,” she said.

___

Maria was the primary gossip in the building, so she quickly told the other residents what had happened in Yasmin’s apartment. That was the exact moment that fear began to take root. It spread quietly at first. A shared glance in the hallway, a conversation cut short when Yasmin came near, and doors that closed more quickly.

Other things happened as well.

Daniel started writing again, feeling a compulsion he hadn’t known for years. The sentences came faster, sharper, and more precise, flowing as if an internal dam had busted. One night, he wrote a line that made his hands go still on his keyboard.

“She sees people the way we usually see memories and unfinished thoughts.”

Daniel stared at the words.

Then he heard slow and measured footsteps outside his door. He got up and cautiously opened it to find Yasmin standing there. He wasn’t surprised.

“You’re getting closer,” she said.

“To what?”

Her expression was almost sympathetic. “To the part where your plot lines stop feeling like coincidence.”

Daniel swallowed. “Who are you, really? Or should I ask, what are you?”

Yasmin considered the question. “Someone who stopped pretending moments arrive one at a time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one that will make sense later.”

Like Maria, Daniel felt a surge of frustration and anger. “Later when?”

Yasmin met his eyes.

“Soon,” she said, then walked away.

___

People had trouble sleeping. The building seemed claustrophobic, as if the walls had shifted slightly inward. Maria lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the words she had read in Yasmin’s notebook. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had already been decided and that she was moving through moments that had been written long before she ever reached them.

In his apartment, Daniel sat at his desk, staring at a blank screen. He knew what he was supposed to write. He didn’t want to, but his hands moved across the keyboard anyway to form a short sentence.

“She never seemed surprised.”

At that instant, sounds erupted through the building: doors, footsteps, and echoing voices. One by one, all the tenants felt the need to exit their apartments and gather in the courtyard, compelled by a something they couldn’t name. Daniel got up for the same reason and joined them.

They looked at each other in the wan light, uncertain what was happening. Then they looked up. The sliding glass door to the balcony of 4C was open, its drapes blowing even though there was no wind.

 Daniel glanced around the circle of onlookers. “What the fuck? Maria and I will go up and check to see if Yasmin’s okay. We’ll be right back.”

Maria needed no further prodding. She and Daniel quickly ascended the exterior stairwell, entered the hallway on the fourth floor, and proceed to 4C. The door was open so they stepped inside.

“Yasmin!” called Daniel. No answer. The apartment was empty, but the desk was still there with Yasmin’s open notebook on top.

Daniel approached it hesitantly, then he looked down and read the words aloud.

“The moment you realize you were never standing outside it is the moment you begin writing the story that matters most.”

Maria stepped closer. “What the hell does that mean?”

Daniel turned the page as his face went pale.

“What?” Maria asked. “Tell me.”

He swallowed. “There’s no more. Just blank pages.”

A faint breeze moved through the room through the open sliding glass door.

___

The next day, apartment 4C was empty again. No name on the mailbox. No record with Mr. Alvarez. Not a trace.

The tenants tried to move on, acting as if the whole interlude with Yasmin had been some kind of collective hallucination. The routines of the building resumed. Maria watered her plants at seven. Darla bopped to Coltrane after dinner. The actor rehearsed in front of his mirror. Mr. Alvarez collected rent with his usual stiff silence.

But the familiar patterns no longer felt unconscious.

People hesitated before speaking, as if listening for words before choosing them. Several tenants began anticipating knocks on their doors before they occurred. Others found themselves thinking of people they hadn’t spoken to in years, only for the phone to ring hours later. A woman on the third floor burst into tears; she had smelled her late mother’s perfume in the laundry room just moments before she learned that her childhood home had been sold. The actor began having strange intuitions during conversations where he already knew the next sentence the other person was about to say, along with the exact expression that would cross their face. A young mother on the first floor began setting an extra plate at dinner without understanding why, only to receive unexpected visits from relatives later that evening.

Daniel kept writing, a story about an apartment building filled with a diverse cast of characters and a stranger that came into their midst. He changed the names and altered circumstances, but it was all there. His writing continued to flow freely, unnervingly precise, and he told himself that Yasmin had merely shaken something loose creatively.

One evening he froze after typing a particular sentence that seemed to come from nowhere. “Maria stood at her kitchen sink for almost ten minutes, rehearsing her first sentence before she finally called her sister at 9:14 p.m.”

Daniel stared at the screen.

That night, shortly after 9:00 p.m., he quietly watched Maria’s apartment through a gap in his curtains. Her shades were open, so he could see her clearly. At 9:04 p.m., she stood at her kitchen counter, and ten minutes later she slowly lifted her phone.

Daniel backed away from the window as though burned.

___

No one spoke openly about Yasmin anymore. That was the strangest part. It was as though they had a silent pact to never name what had happened.

Weeks later, Daniel felt the urge to return to 4C. It was still vacant, so he asked Mr. Alvarez for permission, using the subterfuge that he wanted to take pictures for a friend who needed new lodging. Mr. Alvarez shrugged and gave him the key.

Inside, dust had coated the bare floor and the air smelled musty. The room was silent except for that distant traffic hum that seemed to penetrate the entire building. He stood there for a long time before noticing something propped against the sliding glass door on the balcony outside.

A notebook. His stomach tightened because it wasn’t Yasmin’s, it was his.

He opened the door and picked it up. Inside, once again, was a sentence in his handwriting that he had never seen before.

“She was never staying here. She was just teaching you how to see.”

He flipped through the rest of the notebook. It was blank except for a final line waiting on the very last page. It read: “You were noticing long before you understood what you were seeing.”

Daniel slowly lowered the notebook. Across the courtyard, lights glowed behind apartment windows, and for one strange instant the entire building felt conscious of itself.

Then, somewhere in the courtyard four floors beneath him, he heard a woman’s voice drift upwards.

“You must be new here.”

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The Only Law West of the Pecos

On February 21st, 1896, Judge Roy Bean made national headlines by promoting a unique boxing match. Robert James Fitzsimmons was to fight James J. Corbett, the heavyweight champion, but the Texas Legislature had outlawed boxing. While promoters sought a new location for the match, Corbett retired, handing the title to Irishman Peter Maher, who soon agreed to fight Fitzsimmons. Bean arranged for spectators and the press to travel by train from El Paso to Langtry, where he held the fight on a sandbar on Mexico’s side of the Rio Grande. Texas lawmen had no authority there and Mexico had no law enforcement on hand. 

The desert along the Rio Grande looked especially ancient that morning. Canyon walls towered above the sparkling coil of the river. A cool winter breeze blew across the sandbar, carrying the smell of mud and horse sweat. The sun climbed quickly, illuminating a throng of spectators gathered around a makeshift boxing ring. They had travelled by train from El Paso to Langtry, and they were eagerly awaiting the contest.

John Walsh worked the crowd.

He moved easily among them, a lean man of twenty-five with dirty blonde hair, dust on his boots, and a practiced smile. He had learned at a young age that confidence was mostly a matter of posture and timing. Just short of a swagger, he told himself, because no likes a poser. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, and beneath his coat, pressing against his ribs, hung the leather satchel that held coins, bills, promissory slips, and the occasional gold watch. Anything that could be wagered. John’s hands were quick, his voice calm, and his gaze scanned for new prospects.

“Maher pays as long as a dry summer,” he told potential bettors. “Fitz is the favorite for sure, but Maher could surprise the world.”

He said it casually, like something he might not believe. That was the trick. Men trusted doubt more than certainty. Some of them laughed, shaking their heads. Others leaned in closer, smelling opportunity the way vultures smell death. Walsh gave Maher odds so generous that they bordered on insult, and the crowd responded exactly as he knew they would. Money flowed toward the underdog like water downhill, pooling fast and deep.

That was the plan, and Judge Roy Bean had calculated it perfectly.

Walsh had quickly learned about the judge’s shrewdness when he had drifted into Langtry at age nineteen, half-starved, riding a stolen mule whose ribs showed through its hide. Abandoned in Detroit at 12 years old, he had lived by his wits in the poor Irish neighborhood of Corktown. He sold matches and newspapers to survive, sleeping in whatever empty building or alcove he could find. Finally, with no prospects, he jumped a freight train heading west. He drifted between towns and jobs, often getting into trouble for theft. When he reached Langtry, he was at his lowest point, desperate for a new beginning.

He remembered the way the town first appeared to him, a cluster of buildings crouched in the desert along the Southern Pacific tracks, miles away from any other settlement. The Jersey Lilly Saloon stood at its center, leaning slightly. It was there that the legendary Roy Bean held court with his reputation as a “hanging judge.” He had famously called himself “the Only Law West of the Pecos,” a phrase the newspapers picked up and spread.

Bean had been sitting on the porch of the saloon that afternoon. He had a grizzled gray beard and a worn black Stetson perched on his head. There was a law book open on his lap, but even then, Walsh suspected it was more for show than reference. The judge watched the boy approach with the lazy interest of a man who had seen everything twice.

“You hungry, boy?” the judge had asked.

Walsh had nodded, too tired to lie, too proud to beg.

Bean fed him, then put him to work with the horses. He made it clear from the start: steal from me and I’ll hang you, steal for me and I’ll protect you. It wasn’t said cruelly or kindly. It was simply the truth, a verdict already reached.

Walsh mucked stalls until his arms ached and his back screamed. He hauled water under a Texas sun that seemed to burn him to the bone. He learned the smells of the stable and the moods of the horses. He also learned the rhythm of Langtry’s rough justice, listening from the doorway as Bean held court, watching men argue for their lives or their money under a mounted bear skin and a framed photograph of the famous English actress, Lillie Langtry.

Walsh never understood the judge’s infatuation with the British woman. He’d probably never meet her, and she certainly didn’t care about him. He claimed he had seen a photo of her in a magazine, and she embodied all his ideals of femininity and culture. Then again, since the town was named after George Langtry, an engineer who supervised Chinese labor for the railroad, maybe the judge just linked the last names in his mind. Either way, Walsh figured it was part of Bean’s calculated mystique, along with the “hanging judge” label even though he’d never executed a man.

Over time, Bean sent him on small errands, then longer ones with packages carried by horse to Del Rio, Uvalde, even San Antonio 200 miles away. Walsh knew that the bags could be sent by rail, and that Bean was simply testing him. A courier had to be trusted. He had to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut. Walsh learned which roads to avoid, which men to ride past without slowing, which questions not to ask.

He learned that reputation traveled faster than a horse, and that his was tied forever to Bean’s. People knew not to trouble John Walsh. If they did, they would answer to the Only Law West of the Pecos.

Now, standing amidst the spectators at the prizefight, the weight of the money satchel pulled at his shoulder, a physical reminder of how much trust rested on him, and how easily it could tip one way or another.

The crowd thickened as the hour approached. Sportswriters in stiff collars jotted notes, already shaping tomorrow’s headlines. Gamblers argued odds until their voices grew raw. Somewhere upriver, Texas Rangers fumed, unable to touch what happened on Mexican sand. Bean had chosen the place perfectly. It was just across the border and out of reach. He knew that Mexican authorities, if they even cared to come, would be delayed by distance in this remote stretch of the desert.

Walsh finished a final transaction with a cattleman from El Paso, then stepped aside to count. The sum dwarfed anything he’d ever carried. Enough to disappear, to buy land and anonymity.

That very thought had been creeping into his mind for weeks. Roy Bean treated him well, but Walsh knew the truth. He was a useful thing. Trusted, yes. Protected, yes. But loved? Maybe, in Bean’s rough way, but Walsh knew he would always be subservient, an extension of another man’s will. It had been grating on him.

Suddenly, the fighters entered the ring to a roar that echoed off the canyon walls. Fitzsimmons looked calm, coiled like wire, his eyes steady. Maher, broader and heavier, was already soaked in sweat, perhaps aware that he carried the hopes of every longshot gambler in the crowd. Walsh felt a flicker of sympathy for the fellow Irishman.

The bell rang and people began shouting encouragement to their favored fighters.

95 seconds later it was over.

Fitzsimmons’ rock-hard punch landed clean under Maher’s jaw, collapsing him like a toppled statue, his head hitting the packed sand with a finality that quieted the crowd for an instant. Fitzsimmons stepped back, his arms raised in triumph, while Maher remained motionless on the ground.

Then chaos erupted. “This fight was rigged!” yelled the gamblers who’d believed in miracles. Others jeered, some cursed, and some stared as if they’d just awoken from a dream.

Walsh stood still, watching a medic kneel beside Maher. Even though Bean had just hit the jackpot, disappointment washed through him. After all the maneuvering, bribing, and scheming to organize the fight, it had ended as suddenly as a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind. That was the world in a nutshell, Walsh thought.

By late afternoon, he’d finished collecting all the wagers, invoking Bean’s name to men who were reluctant to pay. The satchel was almost obscene with its weight. Bean would be richer than ever. Langtry would buzz for years on this event alone. The judge’s legend would grow, fed by exaggeration and envy, while Walsh would remain a footnote.

He mounted his horse as the sun dipped west. But instead of riding north towards Langtry, he headed south. No one stopped him. Why would they? He was Judge Bean’s man.

He rode along the river, keeping to the low ground where tracks were more concealed. The farther he went, the more the satchel spoke to him. Not with words but with possibility. Each mile put distance between the life he’d been given and the one he had decided to claim for himself.

By nightfall he reached Boquillas del Carmen, a small village clinging to the banks on the Mexican side. He paid cash for a room without giving his name. Its walls were bare, its bed narrow, and it smelled heavily of dust. Walsh barred the door with his saddle, then sat on the mattress and untied the satchel, spreading out its contents. It was more money than he’d expected. With this, he could vanish into Mexico and be nobody’s man but his own.

He lay down with the bag under his head, one arm looped through the strap, telling himself he would sleep lightly and awaken at the slightest sound. But he was restless, surprised at how much his conscience bothered him. He told himself that what he’d done was no different than what Bean had done all his life. He was just seizing his chance when it came. Then he recalled a quote from Mark Twain he’d heard a man once tell him: “A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory.”

He tossed and turned until sleep descended harder than he expected.

He dreamed of the Rio Grande rising without warning and washing everything away. All the money and players, the boxing ring, even the border itself. Then he dreamed of Judge Bean sitting in his chair without a face, the law book open to blank pages.

He was torn from sleep as the door to his room burst inward. Rough hands seized him. He reached for the satchel by instinct, even as someone twisted his arm behind him.

“Don’t,” one of them said quietly. “Ain’t no call for that.”

Walsh recognized all three men as Bean’s employees. He had worked alongside them and ridden with them. They didn’t strike him or curse at him. They simply moved with the quiet efficiency of men following orders.

They rode north under a full moon. Walsh watched the silvery river slide past and thought about how close he’d come. Another hour, another day, another hundred miles south, and he might have outrun his old life. The men didn’t speak to him, giving no explanations. They didn’t have to. Langtry pulled at them like gravity. Judge Bean always knew where his people were. That was the real law, a presence that followed you even when you tried to cross a border.

Langtry seemed smaller in the early light of dawn. The Jersey Lilly leaned the same way it always had, like it might collapse any minute. Bean sat inside at his massive mahogany desk, his law book closed, his reading glasses low on his nose. The men brought Walsh to stand before him, then laid the satchel open on the desk, its riches spilling out as if it were a cornucopia.

For a moment, Walsh considered speaking up for himself. He would lay out the justification he’d rehearsed on the ride back. A man only gets so many chances; he must seize them when he can. Surely the wily old man would understand that brand of conniving. But as he looked at the judge, it all drained away. This was the man who’d fed him, trusted him, and pulled him up from rock bottom.

“I’m sorry,” Walsh said quietly. “I have no real excuse. I just fell prey to some grand dreams I’ve never had before. I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit. Even hanging. I deserve it.”

He waited for the sentence. He waited for the rope.

Bean studied him for a long time. The room was silent except for the distant nickering of horses.

Finally, the judge spoke.

“Go muck the stalls.”

Walsh blinked.

“You heard me,” Bean said. “You’re starting over. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust you again. Just get your ass back to work.”

That was it. No lecture. No sentence. No gallows.

Walsh felt weak with relief. Shame burned hot in his chest, but beneath it ran something else. A gratitude that was both fierce and painful. He turned and walked out toward the stables, the sun rising behind him, the desert still ancient and indifferent.

The stable door creaked as he pushed it open. The familiar smell embraced him, a mixture of manure, hay, and warm animal breath. Horses shifted in their stalls, their ears flicking, their eyes rolling toward him with the dim patience of creatures who understood work and routine but not ambition.

He took up a shovel and began his toil, sweat gathering quickly. As he worked, he felt something settle inside him, a kind of grounding. This was how he had begun, by doing what was set before him and doing it well. No matter how long it took, he vowed to return to a place of respect, if not in Bean’s eyes, at least in his own.

Outside, Langtry continued to awaken. A door opened. A voice called out. Somewhere up the hill, Judge Roy Bean took his morning coffee and sat on the porch of his saloon, the world lining up before him as it always did.

Walsh kept shoveling until any thoughts of what lay ahead disappeared. The future could wait. Right now, there was only the task before him. Right now, there was still breath in his lungs.

Simply being here and working was a grace he hadn’t earned.

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Victor Benavides and the Power of Words

Welcome back to our series of interviews with authors in the Story Sanctum family. As I said in the first installment—a conversation with Soter Lucio—it’s a privilege to connect with these writers and learn the backstories to their artistry. This is especially true since they come from vastly different countries and experiences.

This time, meet Victor Benavides, a Texas-based author whose debut short story Carrier the Fisherman appeared on our site on July 1, 2025. It’s a piece dedicated to his grandfather that evokes vivid scenes of war, a brawl in New Orleans, and life along the southern coast of Texas. At the center of it all is Carrier, a larger-than-life presence with an unexpected fate. Take a few moments to read it!

KVT: First, Victor, thank you for taking the time to share with us. I see that you grew up in the Lower Rio Grande Valley (RGV). As a fellow Texan, I’ve spent a lot of time on both sides of the American/Mexican border. Does your family have historic roots in that area?

VB: My father moved here in 1943 when he was fourteen years old. I remember him sharing a story about his first day here—how his brother gave him a pair of canvas shoes that he cherished. He began his career as a radio personality and DJ in the Valley, and later became a writer, producer, director, and actor in several hit films shot locally, such as Treinta Segundos Para Morir and La Banda del Carro Rojo. My mother was born at Mercy Hospital in Brownsville, Texas, and grew up in Port Isabel. She met my father in 1979.

KVT: Your father sounds like a creative character. Do you remember any specific advice he gave you?

VB (chuckling): My dad gave me advice about everything and anything. When it came to writing, he said to write about something that I find truly inspiring. If I get excited with my own words and feel a sense of wonderment and connection, then I have something worthwhile to share with the world. He also told me that whenever I write fiction, add a bit of truth because it will then become greater. Lastly, he told me to write while in the moment. If I feel inspired in the moment and write something down, even if it’s incomplete, I know that one day I will revisit that piece of writing and finish it when inspiration strikes again. 

KVT: Your bio also says that after earning a master’s degree in business administration from the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, you are now working on a master’s in English. What prompted this shift?

VB: I’m an English teacher here in the RGV, and I decided to pursue a master’s in English Studies to strengthen my skills and broaden my knowledge of the field. I felt that deepening my understanding of rhetoric, literacy, and composition would make me a more effective and impactful teacher for my students.

KVT: I love this quote from you: “I have always been fascinated with the power of words and how they can stir emotions and help a reader transcend into different literary worlds.” Do you have some favorite authors who influenced you?

VB: Authors who have influenced me deeply include Américo Paredes, María Amparo Ruiz de Burton, John Berger, Rudolfo Anaya, Margarita Longoria, Sandra Cisneros, and many others. I’m also drawn to science fiction and admire writers like George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and others for their ability to expand the imagination and reflect on society.

KVT: Can you share any anecdotes from your teaching when you saw students whose emotions were stirred by the power of words?

VB: There’s a famous story I read to my students called The Appointment in Samarra. It’s about a wealthy merchant who sends his servant to get provisions in the bustling marketplace of Baghdad. The servant returns full of fear. When the merchant asks him why, he says that he saw Death in the image of a cloaked woman and she seemed to make a threatening gesture. The servant asks to borrow the merchant’s horse, then gallops to the faraway city of Samarra to hide and escape from her. Later, the merchant goes down to the marketplace and sees the same cloaked figure “Why did you make a threatening gesture towards my servant?” he asks her. “That was not a threatening gesture,” she says. “I was simply startled to see him in Baghdad, because I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.” After reading this, I get a lot of wide-eyed epiphany-induced looks from my students. They realize that the story elicits an emotional response from them because they can identify with the servant’s feelings. No young student really takes into account their own mortality. At that age, they feel invincible. However, the story helps them realize that death is inevitable and that time is a precious resource. Although it’s a bleak story, it helps students appreciate the power of words.

KVT: What are some of your plans for using your writing and your new degree?

VB: I’ve always seen education as a lifelong journey; we’re constantly learning and growing. With my writing, I hope to create literary works that forge emotional connections with readers. I also want to offer more diverse “mirrors” in my work—stories and characters that allow readers from all backgrounds to see themselves reflected and to connect personally with what they read.

KVT: Well, I look forward to reading your work in the future, and I thank you for taking the time to speak with us.

VB: You’re very welcome!

You can find Victor Benavides on Facebook here.

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Meet Soter Lucio: Grandmother, Ironer, Horror Fiction Writer

Stories are a communal currency of humanity. – Tahir Shah

As Fiction Editor at Story Sanctum Publishing, I have the privilege of reading submissions from around the world. We have featured stories by writers from India, Indonesia, Scotland, Taiwan, and England among others. Through my email correspondence with them, as well as deep dives into their work online, I have broadened my appreciation for Story Sanctum’s diverse family of authors.

Recently, I interviewed Soter Lucio from the Island nation of Trinidad and Tobago. We published her short story The Contract on June 1 of this year. Soter’s background, her chosen genre, and her path to discovering her gift fascinate me.

KVT: Soter, tell me something about your family, past and present.

SL: I have always lived in Trinidad, and my family and ancestors have aways been gardeners. We plant and sell in the market on Fridays and Saturdays. We plant chive, thyme, parsley, and short crops like sweet peppers, tomatoes, cabbage, and ochres. I have four children and six grandchildren, all of whom live on Trinidad.

KVT: The main character of The Contract is a woman who washes clothes along the river. I understand that laundering is a part of your past as well.

SL: I worked as a maid until my girls completed Form 5 so that I could be home in the morning before they left for school and home in the afternoons when they returned. Then I started ironing because we needed more money for university and ironing paid better. That was in 1997. I put advertisements in the newspapers and got enough clients to fill my days. So I ironed from 6.30 am to 8.30 pm, Monday through Saturday, and Sunday between 7 am and 1 pm. I did this from 1997 to 2023. I still iron, but not as much anymore.

KVT: How did you first get interested in writing?

SL: Someone read an essay I’d written in primary school and said, “You know, you could be a writer.” I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know one could even be a writer. Then I read an advertisement in our newspaper about an aptitude test from The Writing School of London. It was a challenge to compose a story based on a photo they supplied. I did. I sent it, passed it, and took their correspondence course. I followed that up with their diploma in writing in 1983. By then I had four children, so writing had to take a backseat until my youngest got her degree in Pharmacy. Then she bought me a laptop and said “Mother go write!”

KVT: Why have you chosen the horror genre?

SL: I think horror chose me. We are from a superstitious community, immersed in a way of life that I now understand to be horror. I grew up with no electricity or indoor plumbing.  I washed and bathed by the river, and I toted water from a spring for all our household duties. Stories about soucouyant, lougaroo, La Diablesse, Papa Bois, and douen were part of our daily fare. Soucouyant are females who suck the blood of women and roll on men in their sleep. Lougaroo shape shift into animals, carrying chains and running about the country scaring people. La Diablesse is a woman who made a deal with the Devil in exchange for eternal beauty. She lures young boys to follow her until they are lost, then she beats them with her razor-sharp hair until they die. Papa Bois protects the animals in the forest. Douen are the babies who die before getting baptized. Stories and characters like these are the root of my horror orientation.

KVT: Wow, those are some scary images to introduce to children. Do you remember an incident from your youth where one of the superstitions seemed to take on a life of its own?

SL: As a child I was told that only devils are in the city. Then, at eleven years old, I passed the Common Entrance Exam for an Intermediate Girl school in Port-of-Spain. I moved there and was scared every day. I was sure my parents hated me because they sent me among the “devils.” I spent my days looking for horns and tails. Where were they hiding them? I never found the answer. I was also told that only devils go to the cinema. When I was about 21 years old, some friends invited me to see a movie. When I got home that night, I actually tried washing away the sin. That shows you how long those superstitions lasted.

KVT: When did you publish your first story? What are some of your writing credits since then?

SL: My first story was published in 2015 by Dark Chapter Press. Then I had others that appeared in Sirens Call Publications, Weird Mask, Wicked Shadow Press, Story Sanctum, and Migla Press.

KVT: If you look back on your work, what is your favorite piece you’ve written?

SL: My favorite is The Last Request of Gladimus McCarran for the simple reason that it was imagined, written, and submitted within a few hours after a long day of ironing.  For me that was quite an accomplishment.  It was published by the now defunct Sirens Call.  A reprint of that story along with others can be found at Metastellar.

KVT: What upcoming projects do you have in the works?

SL: At present, I’m writing a 30,000-word horror novella for Dark Holme Publishing and a short story for Wicked Shadow Press. I’m also attempting a full-length novel that will be based on my life but is not autobiographical.

KVT: Well, I certainly think your fascinating life is worthy of a book. Thanks so much for taking the time to spend with us.

SL: You’re very welcome!

In addition to the links above, you can find Soter on Facebook here.

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Under the Bell Jar with Sylvia

But I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again? – from “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath

Throughout my career, I walked with the wounded. I communed with those suffering grief, addiction, disease, and mental illness. I’m certain that my personal struggles, so close to the surface, helped me become what Henri Nouwen called a “wounded healer.” It was a privilege to share sacramental moments with fellow human beings.

There’s an incident seared in my memory. Bob, a member of a church I served, had reached the end of what he could tolerate. He took a pistol, walked out to his driveway around midnight, and shot himself. I lived two blocks away, where I was awoken by my phone jangling. It was a police officer. An ambulance was on its way, he said, but Bob, somehow still conscious, was asking for Pastor Krin to come to his side. I got there quickly, where I kneeled next to him, his head haloed by blood. Under the bell jar, our eyes met. I assured him that both his Creator and I loved him, and that nothing could separate him from that reality. I believed it then; I still do.

Miraculously, he survived without brain damage and went on to heal the underlying depression that drew him into the abyss.

My empathy for those who suffer has never subsided. Recently it extended to Esther Greenwood, the main character of Sylvia Plath’s only novel, The Bell Jar, published just before she committed suicide. Set during a single summer, it’s the story of a young woman’s descent into depression. Beginning with a writer’s internship in New York, she plummets through a series of mental asylums, enduring primitive shock treatments along the way.

The novel had been on my radar for years, one of those “must reads” for students of serious literature. I knew about Sylvia’s tumultuous relationship with poet Ted Hughes. I had read some of her poems which really didn’t speak to me, but this novel was both lyrical and terrifying. I will never forget it.

The bell jar becomes a metaphor, a symbol of the pressures Esther faces to conform to societal norms. The conventional paths of marriage and motherhood, held up as ultimate goals for women, feel like chains to her, stifling her ambitions and suffocating her spirit. She yearns for freedom, for the ability to define her own life, yet every attempt to assert control pushes her further into despair.

Esther speaks of this inner turmoil. “I was supposed to be the author of my own life.” “I wanted to be intelligent and popular.” “I wanted to be a perfect person.” “I always believed that if I did or said the right thing, then everything would turn out all right.” “What is the point of this life if we are not living it to the fullest?”

Increasingly, depression dictates her thoughts. “It was as if I were always wearing a mask.” “I felt like I was drowning.” “The world was a big, dark ball, and I was all alone.” “The only thing I could do was stay quiet and let the shadows take me.” “I wanted to disappear.”

Seen through the bell jar’s distortion, Esther’s urge to vanish means ending her life. She contemplates multiple methods. Jumping off a roof. Drowning in the ocean. Then, in her most dedicated effort, taking an overdose of pills.

That final attempt still chills me. Esther makes her way to the family cellar, then to a dugout tucked in its furthest recess. She crawls inside, pulls some firewood against the entrance, and takes every pill in her bottle.

It’s hard to describe how that affected me. I was right there, sitting next to her in the damp darkness, powerless to banish her despair, bearing witness to a life that mattered as preciously as any of ours.

My colleagues and I call it the “ministry of presence.” Simply being with another person during their trials. Refraining from trite platitudes. Offering only love and grace. Over the years, it led me to sit beneath the bell jar with so many people, enduring their pressures with them, believing that the necessary remedies would emerge but that love and empathy come first.

Admittedly, I took this further than many. I remember being at the bedside of an elderly woman in her final days. She had no family left, and her failing heart would soon stop beating. I had been walking with her through all of this like a surrogate son.

She looked up at me, and in a weak voice said, “Pastor Krin, will you lie down next to me?”

Frankly, I didn’t care what the hospital staff felt. There was enough space next to her frail body, so I stretched out alongside her. She turned, laid her head against my shoulder, and softly fell asleep.

As I looked up at the ceiling of the hospital room, listening to her shallow breathing and the echo of voices in the hallway, something transcendent happened. The distortions of the bell jar completely cleared. There was only the present, the connection of two lives, and the omnipresent love that embraces all of us if we let it.

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