By K. Osorio-Teamer

Papi was the first one to tell me about real duendes. I used to dismiss it as a kids story, a threat to keep them from running in the house or to stay close in a crowd. “The duendes will get you!” A fear that little human-like creatures, dwarves, would take you away if you roll your eyes one more time. But it was my father telling me the story this time. And it wasn’t about some unnamed neighbor in his town. 

This was his story. He had seen them. 

My father wasn’t much for practical jokes and he was too closed minded to get into Harry Potter. “It’s not even real. What’s the point?” This time he was the one bringing the supernatural into the conversation. I sat on a high stool at the bar and Papi stood in the kitchen directly across from me, wiping the beige laminate countertop with a towel. 

“Nuh-uh.” I countered astutely as I fiddled with the doily that rested under the votive candles on the bar. 

“No, no te rias,” Papi warned me not to joke around, his eyes growing wider. The smile that had spread across my face squirmed away. “It happened one night when I was on my way home from a neighbor’s house. I was young. Had to be twenty or almost twenty. I was walking out of the house onto the dirt road towards my horse. That’s when I saw it.”

“What was it doing?” I whispered.  

“It was in the dirt, in a hole.” With his eyes steadily back on that night, Papi continued, “I only saw it for a second, but it looked like a small man. He was going back in the hole and slowly filling it with dirt from the inside.” With the counter clean and my mind blown, Papi attempted to leave the kitchen. 

“Pero, Papi. And then? Did you go after it? Did you ever dig in that spot?” I followed him through the living room as he turned out the lights and checked that the front door was locked for the night. 

“Dig and do what? Go looking for magical duendes that can ruin my life? Your abuelita would’ve killed me if I got myself mixed up with duendes.” He blessed himself, kissed his hand and held it to the sky before saying goodnight and leaving me in the dark living room. 

I ran to my room as quickly as possible and slept with the closet light and TV on. The closet light was to offset the shadows that the TV made. I was thoroughly freaked out that night. I kept replaying the story in my mind and the little man filling up the whole in the dirt like some kind of mole. That quickly led to hours of debunking the story. It probably was a mole and my dad was probably a little tipsy. He was riding drunk! There was always the very slim chance that it was true. That was enough to keep me up watching Happy Days reruns.

The beautiful thing about being a kid is you can feel petrified by something one day but the next, you’ve completely forgotten about it. I was lucky enough to forget about the duendes by the next night and slept soundly. No closet light or TV necessary. 

And I slept soundly for 10 more years. That is, until last night. When I met a duende face to face.  

Tony W.

Life is short and full of surprises, especially when you factor in love. At least that’s true when it’s encountered in books and movies, then all sorts of shenanigans are had in the name of the blessed or cursed who fall under its “spell”. 

Kenneth Branagh’s “Death on the Nile” based on the Agatha Christie novel of the same name is a movie that stands out to me on several levels even above his first Agatha Christie adaption “Murder on the Orient Express”. I grew up watching David Suchet play Hercule Poirot so I thought Branagh had some pretty large shoes to fill. Branagh is a real actor as opposed to one who get parts because he’s popular, has the right looks, and/or connections, or was considered sexy in his last movie. The man has played in several adaptions of Shakespear’s plays. In other words, I wasn’t really worried about his performance and instead looked forward to what he would bring to a beloved character.

Back to “Death on the Nile” which didn’t get great reviews primarily because when it finally came out, two of its actors were in the middle of controversy and the third did some foul shite that I haven’t delved into. Let me also add here that in my opinion these three offered the weakest performances. The two ladies, Gal Gadot and Letitia Wright simply don’t have the acting acumen to stand out in this ensemble cast especially next to performers Emma Machey, Tom Bateman, Russell Brand Ali Fazal, Rose Leslie, and veterans Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders, Sophie Okonedo and Annette Bening. Okonedo and Bening are two powerhouses who even in their small roles tell us so much about their characters through gesture, looks, and body language. Emma Machey who I had to IMDB burned up the screen with her fiery looks that weren’t fully deciphered until near the end of the movie. She is a new actress I will keep an eye out for. 

So here is the real reason for writing about this movie. In the opening scene it’s 1917 and Hercule Poirot is on the battlefield. His captain has just been given orders that will decimate their ranks. Poirot the consummate observer gives them an alternative to the time frame in which to carry out their orders, thus saving their lives. However, their captain sets off a booby trap that kills him and injures Poirot. The next scene shows Poirot in a military hospital, his fiancé explains what true love is, the kind that is accepting and unconditional. Poirot then shows her his injured face. Without ever loosing eye contact she takes in his injury and contemplates her response. Her suggestion is to grow a mustache. Poirot is known for his mustache. 

This scene is important to the rest of the movie where we are given variations on the theme of what people believe to be “love”. It’s also important because the case Poirot is working on is causing him to remember his fiancé who was killed during the war and contemplate the man he has become and whether he wants or should continue on the road he is currently traveling. The thing I like about Poirot is that he knows who he is as a man and human being flaws and all. He is at this crossroads because of a blues singer named Salome Otterbourne who in the movie is played by Sophie Okonedo. Watching Poirot at a loss for words in the face of Otterbourne’s flirtations was amusing. She is a woman of the world with an understanding of human character. She seems to see him for who he is even while acknowledging his prowess as a detective. In the movie Otterbourne plays the music of Sister Rosetta Thorpe which I think says so much about what Branagh is attempting to convey through the music of the movie and the diversity of the cast.

Sidenote: The character Rosalie Otterbourne played by Letitia Wright is referred to as beautiful multiple times and it moves me each time. It is still rare to have a Black woman called beautiful in any media.

The movie is tragic, the end of my first viewing left me feeling bereaved for the characters and their loses as well as what they witnessed over a short amount of time. I went back to the film because of the promise at the end. I wanted to make sure I saw what I thought I saw and so watched it all the way through a third time. The end of the film takes place six months after the events on the Nile. We follow a man as he walks into the closed rehearsal of Salome Otterbourne. The camera moves to Salome singing and then back to the man seated in a chair. The man turns around and it is Hercule without his famous mustache.

OMG! Even on a fourth viewing I’m blown away by this ending and every interaction between Salome and Hercule. The subtlety and nuance that Okonedo and Branagh bring to their roles leaves me speechless. I want someone to make an extended clip of just their scenes together.

That’s enough from me, just watch the film.

By: IO

I have a therapist, a psychiatrist, a psychic

I have self-love workbooks and coping skills,

Box breathing techniques and ice pack compresses

I have medications and multivitamins,

An antidepressant, an antianxiety, a probiotic

I have crystals and cards,

Rose quartz and Rider Waite Smith inspirations

I have tools and I’ve had time and I am healing

Not cured, but coping

And for the first time, in a lifetime,

I do not feel like myself.

Thank fuck