“UFO Abduction off of Central Avenue Route 66”

“UFO Abduction off of Central Avenue Route 66”

By Scott Garcia

It was 1990 we lived in a nunnery, near the cross streets of Central and Washington in Albuquerque, New Mexico. A very populated place and unusual for a UFO abduction, this sort of thing takes place along some lonesome highway, not in a city, but then again this is New Mexico, land of UFO’s, Scientists, Hot Air Balloons, Military Bases and Little Railroad Towns a perfect setting for strangeness.

I was into meditating, I bring this up because I believe this is the cause of the UFO zeroing in on me, I’m not sure why. Every day and had been proud of the fact that I had kept meditating up for more than three months straight. I had even found time to meditate at a regular times, even though I had a busy keeping schedules of school, work, husband and dad.

I had started reading Buddhist and Wiccan books, I was coming to terms with my catholic upbringing, it had failed my beliefs and I was in the midst of restructuring my beliefs. I had even felt a bit of guilt by picking up other practices, but they all felt familiar, the ritual part of Wicca is like Catholicism, Exactly!

I had an altar in a niche in the wall, it contained a picture of the moon as a yin yang symbol, an athame, a little bottle of holy oil, made of Frankincense and a Goddess Statue of the Venus of Wellendorf and a copy of the Bhagvadgita that I still have to this day. The other items have all been lost in moves from apartments to homes as life demands.

I was asleep, soundly so, when I heard a loud, high pitched beeping. Beep, beep the sound was coming from outside the house, above the roof, as if aimed at me to awaken me. I awoke and jumped to my feet, no concern for foot wear nor clothing. I bolted for the door leading out into the parking area.

Once the door was opened I could see fog, fog as thick as soup. You know when people say I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, well I tried that, I could barely see my hand in front of my face. But I could hear whatever it was that awoke me, it sounded like a hot air balloon with a fan. By that I could hear a whoosh that sounded like a burner of a hot air balloon, I could also hear a fan. I focused on trying to see a burner in the mist, surely it would be seen. Every time I heard the sound of the burner I tried to focus on the sound. I grew up hunting in the mountains, I grew up around balloons, hot air balloons to be specific. I know the sound, I should see the fire. I can’t make out any images, but I hear a machine up, up in the fog, up above the buildings.

What is it? I’m not even afraid. I can hear it moving, I am outside following the sound, before you know it or is it a fake memory. I can hear an echo, I am in the city, this echo is because whatever is up there, is huge. But I feel a longing, like it’s a long lost relative. That’s strange why a longing feeling, when I should be scared out of my wits.

I had thought, for years, that my wife Rose had got up with me and followed me. I even remember talking as if I were talking to her, but I also don’t remember seeing her. She said that she only greeted me as I was coming in. What?

So, I am left with fractured memories, strange longing for whatever was in the ship, I call it a ship because It wasn’t a balloon, what balloon echoes sound? What balloon can fly in the fog? I also think I have false memories, I now think I was on that ship and they dropped me in the parking lot, after taking me from just outside the door. Who knows, unless they return.

“Story about a pig, possibly from a lager story about The last old school cowboy.”

“Story about a pig, possibly from a lager story about The last old school cowboy.”

By Scott Garcia

Oinky wasn’t just a pig, he was my first friend on this planet. This is how I came to kill my first friend along with the confusion and possible trauma it causes.

It was my 5^th birthday. Dad brought a little pink piglet home from the sale barn, it must have been a weekend, as mom was home and so were my half brothers and sisters. I swaddled him up like a baby, had to bottle feed him for a month or so. I think my dad stole him from the back of a truck as he was leaving the sale barn. Not sure but that’s the memory that goes with the story.

I ran with that pig like I did my dogs, my favorite game was chase, run causing pig to give chase, then I would jump up on a fence or an upside down water trough, out of reach of the piglet. He would jump after me acting like it was gonna bite. That soon became a reality, when one day in a game of chase a bigger, faster pig, beat me to the safe zone and boom he bit me on the finger. Cutting me open and a cause for emergency attention and that was enough for dad to get out the Pliers and pull that little pigs tusks right there in the kitchen. Upside down, in my dads lap, full on farm surgery. “There, that damn pig won’t ever bite you again.” my dad said. Sure enough no matter what I did to that pig it wouldn’t bite, I could bite his ear and he would not bite me back.

Actually Oinky took good care of me getting in-between me and danger several times. Keeping me from falling into a boiling pot of water, out in the butcher yard, and keeping me from entering around dangerous horses and other livestock. Including throwing a stranger to the ground. A man came walking into the yard, past the gate, looking for dad, Oinky put himself between me and the man. The man reached towards me and the pig took too him like a dog, before the pig could cause damage to the man, my dad came hollering. “Hey there, pig, stop that!” It did and came straight to me like a trained dog.

When I wasn’t around to be watched over, the pig, on most days ran with the dogs. It was part of the pack, chasing cars on the main road. Basically patrolling the 10 acre farm and all the life that goes with it. But it was that chasing of cars when it got to be 120lbs that would be the cause of that pigs end. Oinky had caused some fright, injury and attention. Somebody came looking for a big pig running down the road and at a perfect size to butcher. Being smarter than the dogs he could get out of his pen and dig under almost any fence. He was never gonna be contained!

It was a cold morning, most likely in October or November. We got our jackets on, it was me, dad and a farm hand, If I remember right, it was Pancho, my uncle. Oinky was already in a single shoot, part of the live stock pen system, but a way to trap an animal in a small chute, between two gates with wooden slide locks.

Oinky was penned up looking worried by all this, and that sent me to worry. I knew what was coming and dad went right to it. “Son, you know the trouble we’ve had with that pig.” “And well we cant really keep him, he’s big now and eats too much to keep.” “Your brothers and sisters like Bacon, Pasole and you love Chicharone’s.” “So, don’t you think we should butcher him?”

Man, that felt like a ton of bricks, but I grew up farm, I know what happens, I know where my food comes from. I just don’t like the idea of my friend, my best friend. I felt so betrayed by my dad, I felt at odds with my love of my family, my love of my pig and his demise, along with the fear of my dad.

I put everything in order real fast. “Ok!” I thought, then spoke. “Let’s butcher him.” Next was the terror, dad put a 22 revolver in my hand and said “you should kill him, he’s yours and you raised him.” I had no idea the honor in this killing at the time, but he was right. When read “Of mice and men.” My reaction was similar to reading the ending of the book, I was sickened, saddened, with the love and, knowing, impermanence a sacredness that you owe to a life you have cared for.

I’ve had to put many animals down out of suffering and I have ate many of my livestock. It is a contributing factor to why I don’t eat meat in the present time.

Oinky looked at me like I betrayed him and I did. I took the gun, shaky, and I know my dad was trying to make me a man, but he did drink too much and I fear this is one of those drunk mistakes, but I shot that pig and I missed. The bullet skinned his head and skipped his neck, slicing his back like a knife, his face and all his skin slumped and he gave out the wickedest squeal. I reeled back in shock of what I’d just done or failed to do. My dad took the gun from me with a curse, “son of a bitch.” then jumped into the chute and shove the barrel of the gun in the pigs snout and fired twice, pop pop. Down went the pig with a relief from everyone with the exception of me.

I’ll spare you the details of dissecting, butchering my best friend. But I will tell, that bacon and Chicharone’s never tasted the same and I prefer to eat vegetables now, along with living the precept, that all living beings deserve peace love and happiness, even bacon.

Fired before the holidays

It's nice to be fired before the holidays. Especially by rich, obsolete minded, jerks with the awareness of a Trump follower.