We See a Different Frontier: A Postcolonial Speculative Fiction Anthology Read Online Free

suggested.
    “Yes! All the beauties of Hollywood will be ours! Or we’ll vaporize the town!” Holguín gestured like he was firing the death rays.
    I knew these men well. Not much younger than me, but young. Still boys in a lot of ways. A bit smarter than General Villa’s ground troops, but with the same basic spirit. They never had much—show them something desirable, offer a possibility, and they will want it.
    I put my hand on the device at my belt. It, plus the Cucaracha and its death rays, was better than an entire army. We could take on the world, or at least Hollywood
    And now Cháirez and Holguín wanted it.
    They probably thought it was their idea.
    They didn’t need to know that it was my idea, what I wanted.
    Being a leader is so easy.
    And why did I want to take Hollywood?
    Simple. Natural. Hollywood had taken something that belonged to me, and I wanted it back.
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    It was just a few years ago. The Revolution was going well and was very popular. Even the Americans liked it, donated money, came down to look at it, take pictures of it, maybe even fire a few gunshots or throw a bomb or two. Americans love a revolution—as long as it doesn’t cost them too much.
    That was when intellectuals from all over the world came to Mexico, thinking that the Revolution would allow them to take their crazy ideas and make a new world.
    I didn’t really care about making a new world. I would settle for something I could call my own.
    That was also when the scientists and inventors came, eager to impress General Villa. Santos-Dumont came from Brazil to help with the airships—and was killed in an unfortunate accident. Tesla arrived with his electricity, and talk of the death ray.
    How General Villa’s eyes lit up at that talk!
    Even people from Hollywood came. Why not? The Revolution was full of action—the stuff of motion pictures!
    And they weren’t just movie people, but men in uniforms with guns. They said they were from the Studio Corps.
    So they were here with their big shiny cars and fancy American suits, setting up their cameras everywhere. Even in Cuauhtémoc, my home village.
    The loved it all. The mountains, the desert, our clothes, our music… our women.
    How they loved Xiomara!
    I can’t really blame them. She’s beautiful. Her eyes. Her smile. Her laugh. And the way she sang and danced!
    She could look at you, and make you want to do whatever she wanted. There were many times I nearly killed someone because of the look in those eyes.
    “Even your name is wonderful,” said Raoul, a director. “Zee-o-mara!” he mispronounced it. “You won’t need a last name! You won’t just be stuck with playing señoritas, you could be an Indian maid, or an Oriental siren. We got some technical boys working on a way to make movies that talk—and sing—and you’ll be a natural.” Movies that talk? Ridiculous. I knew what he really wanted. The way he would touch her. And she would smile, laugh.
    Xiomara was smarter than most women—or men. She was so good at dealing with people. She could speak English, and even French. Some people in Cuauhtémoc called her La Bruja.
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    “If that pig ever touches you again, I’ll kill him!” I later told her.
    She laughed, then kissed me. “Alejandro, you know that you are the one I love.”
    Her smile. That look in her eyes. I believed her.
    We lived in Cuauhtémoc all our lives. We were going to be married. We couldn’t let the fact that the world was being turned upside down get in our way.
    But I could see that Xiomara had desires bigger than our town. I would have to fight—even kill—to keep her.
    And I would. That was my big desire.
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    I shouldn’t have been surprised when they took her. A big American car, gringo thugs with masks and guns burst into her parents’ house. They drove off into the night.
    Her family was devastated. I promised her parents that I would bring her back.
    But at first all I could do was drink. All the time, I kept my eyes