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[22 Jun 2007|12:49am] Tell me a secret               I’d rather be skiing.             Strange, I know, and unexpected but its true. I have Argentina, and the world’s honors at my feet. I have a beautiful wife who loves me (who the cameras love.) I have everything a bastard child from the Pampas could want. But I’d rather be skiing.             I’d rather be with Potota, thin little snowflake. She was so fragile that I was afraid she’d shatter if I looked at her harshly.  We’d have a little girl, who by merciful God would have her mother’s looks. We’d live in Italy, but Italy before the fascists and the war.             When everything was gilded or wrapped in plastic like the baubles in grandmother’s house.             There’d we be: Potota, daughter, and me. All of us little expatriates, in Italy on the slopes, laughing like we should be painted on postcards. We’d look so fake and happy that it would work.             Italy as it should be, not torn up and war-bitten. Peron at peace.      Muse: Juan D. Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 162     4 · post comment

[14 Jun 2007|12:16pm] You've just won an award! What would it be and why?   Ladies and Gentlemen, your newly elected president, Juan Domingo Peron!   Juan looks up from underneath the lids of his eyes and smiles as the crowds scream out his name. He counts to six under his breath before taking over the podium but still does not speak. He lets the people cheer. Eva grabs his hand from behind. He smiles bringing her to the forefront and watching the crowd explode. This. This is what they wanted. Their Juan and Eva, their father and mother of a New Argentina. He promised them a new world. With bread, and schools and wealth. Each and every Argentine that came out today followed the promises. The war across the sea is making people nervous, and eager to snub the British. Stories of British subjects getting no bread, no gasoline and no medicine make everyone nervous. Even the older families, those who Eva calls the oligarchs, are getting nervous. Everyone knows the world could change at any moment and they will pay dearly to make sure it does in a way they decree. People want their own paradise, on their own rules. They made him President because he told them he could deliver it all. And they believed him. Those who didn’t… Well, it isn’t like one or two would be missed, would they?   Muse: Juan Domingo Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 218 1 · post comment

Cost of a Kingdom [23 May 2007|03:43pm] "What most people don't seem to realize is that there is just as much money to be made out of the wreckage of a civilization as from the upbuilding of one… There's good money in empire building. But, there's more in empire wrecking."     They say General Peron regrets nothing. Not his rise to power by silencing the opposition, not his misuse of the unions to become his strongmen or his inability to reconcile the military with treason. He shrugged off reports that he encouraged the use of nepotism or that he made Evita play the villain so he could remain immune. And he keeps silent when they demand to know how under his rule- under the New Argentina- his country went from being the richest Latin American nation to one of the poorest. They want to know how Argentine beef: the envy of the New World suffered so quickly and desperately under his actions. And he doesn’t answer them. Not because he can’t, not because he’s ashamed but because they don’t deserve the answer. He will not say it’s because of the Gringos or the communists, or mismanagement of funds by his own party. He won’t even mention Eva’s shady dealings… All he does is look over the shantytowns that don’t exist anymore because of his building projects. He watches children play in clean roads, on their ways to the new schools, and parks he authorized. He passes the new hospitals, the safe warehouses and football fields. The nation has no money for weapons, but its people are fed and healthy. A fair trade off, the People’s Colonel thinks, and so he’ll tell those jackals nothing and just nod.   Muse: General Juan Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 237 post comment

Who has made you smile [09 May 2007|10:47pm]             Women.             It’s the way they’re just like men and it’s every way they aren’t. The way their skin is smooth and sweet. The way their smiles glitter, and they blush just because you glance at them. It’s the way the stand up straighter when you pass, pinch their cheeks to look ruddy and lick their lips to moisten them, daring you to kiss.             It’s how they scheme. The way they play you like a flute. And pout. They way they narrow their eyes at you when they don’t get their way, and promise you with their eyes that you will never be happy again until you cave. And you will cave because after all, because of the way they look at you.             The way they touch you. In the darkness, and daylight. In passing or passion. In every sense, the very least of which is physical. It’s the way you slide into them and they slide into you. The way they make their soul so tightly interwoven with yours that you wonder how you ever lived without them and how you’ll live when she is gone.             It’s Eva. It was Aurelia before her. It’s every smile that floats my way, every reminder that she’s there.             It is each and every one of God’s best creation. Juan Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 215 post comment

Lovers and friends [23 Apr 2007|12:05am] Who's your best friend, and why?               Eva.             I know its cliché and contrived, and if you had any kind of sense you’d roll your eyes and say I’m being silly but it’s true. She’s my world. The country is my lifeblood and reason for existing but Eva is the realm that I exist in.             We never had a religious ceremony, in which I took her hands in mine and promised to love, honor and obey. But I do. She knows every dirty little secret, and every good thing about me. She knew what I wanted to be when I grew up; who my childhood heroes were and what fears keep me up at night.             She’s there too. She laughs at every good memory, dries every tear, and is there to catch me as I fall. I don’t think I could stand when without her holding me up sometimes.             But it’s easy to be the best friend of the President, right? It’s easy to love me when I can moves worlds for you, make your life a burden or a pleasure. I am not that naïve. I know friends I have now are there because of what I can do for them, or what they can do for me. My relationships follow the same cycle: do this for me, and I’ll do that for you. Except with Eva, I never have to ask her to do anything for me. She just does.             And she never asks for a thing in return.   post comment

Fragile [16 Apr 2007|08:14pm] OOC: My original response to the prompt Fragile that was later deemed to "sensitive" and decided to use a darker side of Peron. Posted here because I love it too much. They dress him in a uniform even though he was dishonorably discharged and he tries to tell them that: to rebuke them and put on a suit but they ignore him and Estella tells me he has to wear it to calm the people. He wants to tell her it wouldn’t be proper for a disgraced soldier to wear such a brand of pride, he wants to explain to her about his own honor and how he has never lied to the people now and he won’t start now by telling them he’s a soldier when he’s not anymore but this thoughts get jumbled up and it’s hard to concentrate when his brain gets all soupy like that, so he lets her dress him in the bone white suit of a General.             They say words over his head: sometimes Estella and sometimes Campora about communists and reelection. They use dark words, and their tones are cruel and his mind clears to rebel angrily at the notion. The words and tactics they use are brutal and he’d stop them if he could, but he feels like his body is giving way under him: like a mountain crumbling to the sea.             Eva use to call him a Condor. If that’s the case, his feathers are molting and his beak has long since lost its sharpness.             The Argentina he has returned to is not the new world he sought to create in the 50’s. The workers still suffer, and the Americans are too powerful. The parties bicker amongst themselves and achieve nothing and because they achieve nothing; they kill one another thinking that will solve the problem.             He knows these things. They think he doesn’t because he’s old and it’s hard to concentrate but he is not a fool. The game of politics is one he invented. These new union workers, even Estella and that half-wit Rega are more concerned with titles then accomplishing anything.             He tries to tell them that too, numerous times. He knows how to fix it. The same way he fixed it back then, stopping caring who got the blame or the glory and work together. Argentina is bleeding, dying. It’s not the time to bicker: bickering will only cause more death…             But he’s tired so often now and it’s hard to remember to tell them these things. post comment

[15 Apr 2007|01:46am] Would you ever kill a human being?               The question comes from a fourth grade boy who only sees the uniform and brilliant saber poised pristinely at his side but it stops the people’s Colonel cold.             Well aware the cameras are poised on him, the reporter’s pens are hungrily resting over their notebooks, and that the child and his classmates (and teachers, principal, parents and onlookers who all came out today to see their hero, hungry for his smile, his words, his promises) wait for the answer; Peron hesitates even though he know he shouldn’t.             He has ambitions; ambitions he’s perfectly able to achieve if he’s careful and continues to make the people smile as he does. He’ll be President one day, caudillo, dictator. He’ll wipe out opposition and unite the people. He’ll save them from themselves. But there’s a problem with Paradise, a hitch; there’s always some left out, even heaven is exclusive. So what happens to them?             The Malcontents? Abortionist? The Communist? Homosexuals? Republicans? Anglophiles? Jews?             He wouldn’t kill them…paradise can’t be purchased by murder. No… But he’s not naïve enough to believe that they won’t just ‘disappear’ under his regime. Somehow they’ll fall to the sidelines behind the New Argentina, with freedom, equality and brotherhood. Somehow they’ll disappear and he won’t know where they went and the people won’t care much because their Paradise is real. The roars of the crowds will drown out the cries of the taken. But would he kill another human being? Peron smiles and he can feel the crowd- as one entity-relax when he does. He tells the boy simply, he is a soldier and leaves before he is pressed further. Still, for what it’s worth, he had wanted to say no.      Muse: Juan Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 282 post comment

Parents [01 Apr 2007|02:57am] If you could pick anyone in the world, alive or dead, to be your parents, who would it be and why?               What’s wrong with the parents I have now, you ask, and in truth they have no fault. Don Tomas and Juana were honest folks who loved their sons and muddled through as best they could to offer us lives they discovered they could not have for themselves. But their flaw lies in the fact that they were human, and I am Peron.             To be Peron is a powerful thing, and because of it my imperfections are glossed over and they become something more. Their basic imprints are still there but are filled in, polished and smoothed over. Bronze is shined till it could almost be gold.             Almost.             And my father becomes honest and idealistic, the fears and stigma he carried his entire life because of my grandfather’s suicide peels away. Instead of simple mestize, he suddenly becomes Anglo: Sardinian with Scottish. He is not a farmer but a Ranchero and our simple ramshackle little mud hut in the middle of the barren Patagonia builds itself up to a hacienda in the Pampas. A survivor becomes a prospector.             My mother- and her Indian blood- becomes Argentine (something no Argentino would ever call her) and her ruthlessness becomes industry. No lands, no names, and possibly some inbreeding all fall to the wayside. Her poverty becomes humble modesty, because my dear companeros even though I work for you, even though I build a new world for you- I cannot be one of you. I am Peron.              And none of their sins ever see the light.             They never abandon me and my brother to relatives who despised us when we were children who did not understand why. My father never tried to kill himself rather then face his problems. My mother never found herself in other men beds, men my age…             And, of course, they were married when they had us. No, my dear faithful companeros, you did not vote an Indio bastard child to your Presidency. You elected Peron. Politics! The Art of the possible…   Muse: Gen. Juan Peron Real Person Fiction post comment

[26 Mar 2007|02:37am] Completely useless but it keeps the real work at bay Myspace Survey...Tell All! --Info-- Name:: Juan Domingo Peron Nicknames:: El Condor, El Lider Birthplace:: Lobos, Argentina Current Location:: Buenos Aires Argentina Hair Color:: Black Eye Color:: Brown Height:: 5’9 Weight:: --- Tatoos?:: No Piercings?:: No Overused Phrase:: Mi companeros --Your-- Bedtime:: Four AM Best Physical Feature:: …Eva says it’s my laughter Most Embarassing Moment:: Falling off a horse, in front of my XO Most Missed Memory:: …Aurelia First Thought When You Wake Up:: Five more minutes Weakness:: Women Best Friends:: …two or three Goal For The Year:: Stay in office Greatest Fears:: Argentina suffering under my presidency --This Or That-- Pepsi or Coke...: Tea McDonalds or Burger King...: I don’t eat Americano cuisine Hot Tea or Ice Tea...: Iced tea Chocolate or Vanilla...: Chocolate Water or Milk...: Water Coffee or Hot Chocolate...: Café Hugs or Kisses...: Kisses Cats or Dogs...: Dogs Summer or Winter...: Summer in the Pampas Scary Movies or Romantic Comedies...: I like comedies actually Love or Money...: Love Green Grapes or Purple Grapes...: Green --Lover-- Perferred Eye Color:: Brown Perferred Hair Color:: Dyed blond Short Hair or Long Hair...: Long Perferred Height:: None Perferred Weight:: Fat ankles *love you eva!* Looks or Personality...: Passion Hot or Cute...: Cute Skinny...Muscular...or Fat...: Muscular --Favs-- Number:: 10/17/45 Food:: …meat and potatos  Type of Music:: Corridos Candy:: Caramels Color:: White Animal:: Horses Drink:: Ice Tea Body Part on the Opposite Sex:: …the waist Movie:: La Prodiga Past Time:: Horseback riding in the Pampas --Have You Ever-- Drank?: Yes Smoked?: Of course Been Beaten Up?: Yes Bullied Someone?: Never Skinny Dipped?: In my youth, perhaps Played Spin The Bottle or 7 Minutes In Heaven?:  Que? Toliet Papered Someones House?: No Played Poker W/ Money?: Yes Gone Swimming In A White T-Shirt?: Yes Been Tickled So Bad That You Cried?: No Been Tickled So Bad That You Couldnt Talk?: No Like Someone And Not Tell Them How You Felt?: Of course Went Camping?: Yes Used The Restroom On A Tree?: Yes Had A Crush On Your Brother/Sister's Friend?: No Had A Crush On Your Friend's Brother/Sister?: No Walked In The Rain W/out An Umbrella?: Yes Danced In The Rain?: Yes Told A Joke And Nobody Thought It was Funny?: Yes Been On Stage?: Oh my yes Worn Clothes Your Mom Didnt Approve Of?: …a uniform Been To A Nude Beach?: Yes Cursed In Church?: No Been Called A Whore/Slut For Kissing Someone?: Yes Burnt Yourself?: Yes Been Dumped?: Yes Dumped Someone?: Yes Been In Love?: Yes Been Hit On By Someone Too Old?: No Wanted To Be A Model?: No Wanted To Be In The Olmpics?: No Bought Lottery Tickets?: No Made Out In A Car?: Yes Cried During A Movie?: No Wanted Something You Couldnt Have?: No, I always get what I want Made Love On The Beach?: Of course Shoplifted?: Never Seen Someone Shoplift?: No Hung Up On Someone?: Yes Yelled At Your Pet?: No Gotten Seasick?: Oh no. Tried To Strip When Drunk?: No Bought A Thong Cuz The Casier Was Hot?: -_- Stalked Someone?: No Had A Stalker?: Yes Played A Prank On Someone And Scared Them?: Yes Been Embarrassed By Someone In Your Family?: Yes Felt Bad About Eating Meat?: No Protested?: Yes Been To An Island?: I was imprisoned on one Ate Cuz You Had Nothing Better To Do?: No Screamed In A Library?: No Made Out W/ A Stranger?: Yes Made Out W/ Someone Who Wasnt Single?: Yes Wished A Part Of You Was Different?: Yes Talked To A Complete Stranger?: Yes Been Sunburned So Bad You Blistered?: Yes Kicked A Guy In The Nuts?: Yes Threw Up In School?: No Recieved A Love Letter That Wasnt Signed?: …yes Wore Something You Hated?: Yes Wore Something To Match Someone?: Eva makes me Been To A Luau?: No Cursed Infront Of Your Parents?: No Been On TV?: Yes Been Outta The Country?: Yes Been Honked At While Walking Down The Sidewalk?: Yes Won A Pool Game?: Yes Went To A Party Where You Were The Only Sober One?: Yes Went To School/ Work Drunk?: No Dieted?: Yes Had An Eating Disorder?: No Cheated On Your Other?: …yes… Been Cheated On?: No Been Paid To Date Someone?: No Dated Someone That Was Paid or Dared To Date You?: Probably Tanned Topless?: Yes Been Strip Searched?: No Been On A Plane?: Yes Been On A Cruise?: Yes Been Pantsed In Public?: …que? Thrown Your Shoe At Someone?: Yes Broke Someone's Heart?: Never on purpose Sung In The Shower?: Yes Bought Something Way To Expensive?: Yes Done Something Stupid And Laughed At Yourself?: Yes Been Walked In On While You Were Dressing?: Yes, Eva LOVES to do this Been Walked In On While Showering?: Again, Eva does this Ran Out Of A Movie Theater Cuz You Got Scared?: No Been Kicked Out Of A Mall/ Store?: No Been Kicked Out Of A GoCart Place Cuz You Wrecked The Go Cart?: No Been In Detention?: No Fell Off A Roof?: Yes Pretended You Were Scared So You Could Cuddle W/ Someone?: Yes Been In A Wreck?: Yes Wrecked So You Wouldnt Hit An Animal?: Yes Made Yourself Puke So You Wouldnt Have To Go To School?: No Threatened Someone W/ A Water Gun?: Yes Been Shot?: Yes Had A Water Gun War?: Yes Been Arrested?: Yes, once --Randoms-- Regret Something You Did In The Past?: Never Country You Wanna Visit:: The United States Way You Wanna Die:: Of old age Like Thunderstorms?: Yes Get Along W/ Your Parents?: Yes R U A Health Freak?: Yes U Think Ur Attractive?: Not particular Do You Believe In Yourself?: Of course, I’m President Wanna Get Married?: Yes Wanna Go To College?: Not really, the army was more useful. Shower Daily?: Every morning Want Kids?: …yes. When Do U Wanna Lose Your Virginity?: No comment Do U Hate Anyone?: No Can You Unwrap A Starburst W/ Your Tongue?: Starburst? Do You Think You Can Sing?: Yes Can You Open You Eyes Underwater?: Yes Eat Whatever And Not Worry?: Yes Can You Whistle?: Yes Can You Walk In High Heels?: ..goodness no Do You Sleep W/ The Light On?: No Do You Like Super Spicy Foods?: Yes Can You Multitask?: Yes Touch Your Nose W/ Your Tongue?: Never tried Can You Fit In Your Locker?: No Do You Spit?: Yes Can You Taste The Difference Between Pepsi And Coke?: Yes If You Could Wish 4 Anything...What Would You Wish?: A cure for cancer What Kind Of Perfume Or Colone Do You Wear?: Whatever Eva makes me wear What Kind Of Soap Do You Use?: Ivory What's Your Favorite Scent?: …leather Would You Choose To Live Forever If You Could?: …I don’t know post comment

[24 Mar 2007|03:42am] I lied to her.             It’s a little thing really, not so much false words as words withheld, movements practiced and polished and so believable that your own wife doesn’t recognize you’re lying to her when you do it. And you’d think that as a politician, nay the King of Lies himself, the president I’d be use to saying things I don’t mean, or to not say things that the people want to hear. You’d think rhetoric would be second nature to me, a skin I could shed like a snake.             But, and think me pathetic for it too, I don’t mind; it kills me every time I lie. Old soldier habit: never shirk from a battle; never falter.  There’s no burden I can’t carry for you, Eva oh my Eva…there’s no monster I won’t destroy for you. But no, I lie to her everyday she slips from me. I tell her it’s over working, and the bad weather. I tell her it’s exhaustion and one day, we’ll take that vacation we’re always talking about. We’re head out to the Pampas, where you can lose yourself in the skyline. I never tell her she’s dying. The pain in her belly is cancer. I never tell her that. Because I can’t stand it. I’m not strong enough to fight that. I can’t bear that burden I can’t fight that battle. I’m a coward. She can never know it, because I wish to God I never did. So instead, I lie and say it’s overworking, not enough food, not enough sleep and tell her about our vacation…   Muse: Juan Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 264 post comment

[19 Mar 2007|03:41am]               His father had gotten tickets through some older gentlemen whose wife had fallen ill on the night of the performance. Tomas took his son, instead of his mother Juana because this was Europe and she was a mestizo. Juan was only vaguely aware of the whole to do. He disliked Spain, and France so far because of the way it made his father nervous and self-aware and how sad it made his mother. He heard his aunt muttering to her husband how Juan’s father was ‘putting on airs’ by going to the Opera Populaire when he had never been to a performance in his entire life.             Juan knew of opera in the way most ten year olds knew of art: through their parents, specifically his father’s gramophone records and the way Tomas tramped around his house making Juana laugh with his falsetto. He’d never been to France before, and was very much put out by having to slick his hair back, wear an uncomfortable white suit and sit very still through the performances.             That was until, one of the Opera Populaire’s most enigmatic divas graced the stage: the Vicomtesse de Chagny.             Christine, Juan’s father had told him as the woman ascended the stage to huge cheers, had been a last minute addition a production of Hannibal long ago, and had starred in one or two more productions before disappearing into her life with the Vicomte. Her early retirement was due to, as Tomas put it, ‘a strange affair with the Phantom of the Opera, never fully explained.’             But Juan had no time for ghost stories. He had fallen in love with the Vicomtesse.             She was much older then him of course, a woman now whose brilliance was beginning to fade into graceful twilight. She had lines caressing her cheeks and eyes that curled into a smile so easily. Her eyes were deep and sad, and took into the whole House and seemed to see right all the guests into a world no one saw. She wore a flowing white dress, crowing her small frame and creating the impression of an Angel.             Kingdoms could be made by such an image…             And when she sang.             His father would tease him, so would his mother, and after them his school chums when he told them the story but Juan Peron paid them no mind. He was in love. He was quite certain that that moment froze time, tucked itself in his heart and remained there. He kept the memory of her standing there: singing and wooing the crowds cemented in his heart.             Such an image: such an icon.             The woman, beautiful and ageless, standing aloft and telling the crowds every sweet nothing they longed to hear. The way she could sing and make you believe that even though you were one of the crowd: she was telling you and only you how she felt.  Making you believe her, making you love her…             He would wait his entire life for a moment like that again: for the woman in white and balcony and all those promises…for that moment.  Such moments were simply timeless.                 Muse: Juan Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 519 2 · post comment

Fragile [11 Mar 2007|01:37am]                 It was no secret that Juan Peron’s personal hero was Benito Mussolini. The man revolutionized Italy and brought the consciousness of “the State” into a world that had never seen it before. He created a cult of personality that made the people worship him, and wasn’t afraid to play the monster if it meant for a moment the State would survive.             That being said, Mussolini was also shot in the back and hung up by meat hooks in a plaza.             There was a fine, fragile line between being a hero and a despot. Between being a people’s savior and their death.             Peron knew what his enemies said about him. He was a caudillo. A dictator. Another Hitler. He hid behind Eva, letting her be cruel and bitter so he wouldn’t have to admit to be a demon.             La Prensa loved to publish such filth. They blamed him for the inflation, and the storms that ruined the crops. Argentines would go hungry next winter (but they would not starve, he’d make damn sure of that.) and it was his fault. The paper continued to publish article after article claiming he and Eva were funneling money from her charity to supposed Swiss accounts and Paraguay gunboats. They said he was arming the trade unions. Readying himself for war.             And what’s worst the people were beginning to listen to it. Eva (oh his Eva…fading like a star) was no longer able to silence such critics. The cancer that was eating her body was sapping her strength and without Eva’s voice to drown out the filth.             They were beginning to believe all those secrets the papers were saying about him.             Juan could feel his control slipping through his fingers. His fragile hold on Argentina endangered because of a few discontented muck-rakers…             To silence them would bring him dangerously close to making the same mistakes that cost Benito far more then his title.             Juan felt like he stood on the cliff, looking down. Being the king and the tyrant were only a sword’s edge apart…             “Shut it down.” He whispered, and his faithful lieutenants scurried out into the dark deeds he sent them on.  How fragile a legacy is…     Muse: Juan Peron Real Life Word: 364 post comment

ooc [10 Mar 2007|01:31pm] *grins* Even memes know they're destined. el_condor_tm's LJ stalker is la_gorriona_tm! la_gorriona_tm is stalking you because they have you confused with someone else whom they love. They are also getting with your significant other! LiveJournal Username: LJ Stalker Finder From Go-Quiz.com post comment

Party! [05 Mar 2007|04:27am] 22 January 1944                 It had been simple and downright shameful if anyone outside the Party knew the truth but the truth was Colonel Juan Peron at this Fundraiser for the Victims of San Juan Earthquake because he had lost the coin toss with the Vice President. He hated parties for such dismal causes but understood the importance of appearances. The Government had to look like they cared.             What would it look like, he thought, if hundreds were left huddling in the dark starving for food and medicine after an act of God while their governments waged wars?              How he hated these parties. He had no stomach for idleness and even less for theater-folk, whose kind dominated the event. He despised actors. They were all the same: flakes, lairs and flatters. He doubted if he could find anyone in this group that had one original thought. He straightened his coat, nursed his drink and tried to ignore the old ladies who wanted to drag him into gossip circles and the young ones who wanted to drag him into their beds. He had Fina at home. The little girl would never forgive him if he came home wearing another woman’s lip color.             When Peron first arrived at the party, he had found Arturo “Marti” Martinez, the foremost Tango singer and attached himself to the man. Marti was easy, entertaining and about as queer as a football bat. Of everyone in the room, Marti was less likely to try to rape him.             And if he did, Juan had his gun.              But now Marti had disappeared, leaving Juan to stew. Angrily.             “Ah! Juana! Juana!” Marti’s voice rang over the laughter. Juan turned to meet a set of grinning eyes. Immediately, Juan reached for his gun. “I’m afraid I’m leaving you, Juana.  Now I must go home, it’s late and I’ll turn into a pumpkin soon. But,” At this time, Marti raised his hand to silence Peron. Juan felt his stomach turn. The grin meant a surprise. He hated surprises. “Before I go, I’ll leave you with a bodyguard…”             “No, that’s not…” Juan rose and stopped as a small brunette suddenly appeared from behind Marti.             The girl was not beautiful. If they had passed on the street, Peron was certain he wouldn’t have seen her. But seeing her as close as they were now, made him stop cold for one reason alone.             When she looked at him, she met him in the eye like no woman outside his mother had ever done, and in those brown eyes of hers was a fire that burned through him.             “Eva Duarte, meet Colonel Peron.”               Muse: Juan Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 436 post comment

Ghosts of Christmas Past [17 Feb 2007|04:12am] [ mood | morose ]   In life, Juan Domingo Peron was a pragmatist. He knew better then to question things simply because he did not understand them. He knew acutely that things invisible could move the course of events and the world.             Had it not been the people’s will- an invisible force without master- that freed him on the 17th of October 1945. Hadn’t it been the people- Argentina herself- that threw him into power? They call themselves Argentina too didn’t they? A New Argentina as if the land cared what the people that inhabited it thought or cared for? The Land was before Argentina, before Peron, and would be long after Peron and Argentina and people had passed…             Still, to ask if he believed in ghosts would be the same in asking if he would believe if told that 32 years after his death, Argentina would riot as they reburied him. Would he believe that three decades after he last graced his people with a smile or a wave (and not even the strong assured movements when he and Eva had been gods but when he had been only a senile, dying man) they still chanted his name, held up banners of him and his second wife and believed with their last breath that Peron- and only Peron- could save them.             Could he believe that 30,000 of his people- his descamisados would be stolen from their homes and murdered by men bearing his name Peronistas.             When he assumed power that night standing on the balcony of the Casa Rosada in 45, could he have known that it would be his words, his actions that would define his country for years after?             Did he know that they (and who is they but Argentina in one form or another) or would use his name as an excuse for murder for almost 30 years…             Did he know that night he arrived back home after 18 years in hiding and saw 13 people die trying to reach him- to touch him, did he know they would only be the beginning…             30,000 sacrificed…             For him. His memory…             Did he know it would be his ghost that destroyed the country he said he’d save, the same country who decades after he was dead and buried still believed he could?             And would he have believed it?     Juan Peron Real Person Fiction Word Count: 385 post comment

[14 Feb 2007|12:43am] Night The budget wasn’t balanced and his accountants were less then enthusiastic about his future options. Trade unions were unimpressed with the latest offers made by the companies and the corporate heads had said on no uncertain terms that they could not make production costs with those demands. The United States demanded his answer on the policies of Cuba and Colombia while Castro wanted his answer on the US President. Oh yes, and then there was the military and the unmarked rifles that were sitting in the docks… Peron hid his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Outside the night was turning pale blue, and from his balcony the rickshaws and street vendors could be heard moving into place. Buenos Aries, the city that never slept made damn sure her President didn’t. Ignoring the coffee that had solidified on his desk and the clock staring at him accusingly from above his head, Juan stood folded his robes tight against his body and walked to the balcony. His back ached from the cold. He was too old for this mess. As a boy, at this point in his life he had always pictured himself retired on beach somewhere with his wife and a daughter. Maybe somewhere in the South of Italy, he had fond memories of those times when he was young the world was impressive. Strange how the night always seemed to bring on this nostalgia in him and stranger still how he always seemed to indulge in it. Eva shifted on the bed behind him, moaning and turning over. If he turned in right now, he could get about two hours, four if he skipped the charity breakfast (but he really should go, those things meant so much to Evita.) Technically, sleep was important and with four hours he’d at least be half-way coherent for when he sat down with the trade unions for another round of arguing. Or he could finish looking over those finance reports and his speech to the charity club. It should be just in time to grab a shower, change and meet his lieutenants for a quick briefing before the meal. Oh right, and then there was that phone call from the US President and his bad Spanish, he’d almost forgot about it. Looking down at the street vendor with his tortillas, Juan Peron narrowed his eyes jealously at the man before returning to his desk. Right. Finance reports… Word Count: 406 post comment

[06 Feb 2007|12:52am] What are you waiting for?                 Josefina likes the parties, and Juan takes her because she has a pretty smile and she rewards him when they get home. His cohorts snicker about his tastes in young women (or as they say playfully ‘his daddy complex’) and he lets them for the most part. He doesn’t plan to marry the girl, after all, and they both know what this is. She loves the glamour of being the Colonel’s mistress (or daughter as they call her at dance parties and dinner) and he has a warm spot next to him in bed. They both win.             Is it love? Don’t be naïve. She’s only sixteen.             He’s a widower. But it’s not right for man to be alone. People were always bothering him about finding a wife, settling down. If for no other reason then the photo ops Farrell liked to joke. He ignored them. You didn’t just replace Potota.             Not that she wasn’t replaceable. She was a schoolteacher, not particular pretty or charming but talented. He got the impression she was a little afraid of him. She never called him Juan, or Peron, always Commander like if he was her superior officer and not her husband. She never rebuked him for leaving his dirty clothing out, coming home late, looking at the young girls.             But oh they could talk for hours on end about anything. Everything. Nothing at all. Sometimes they would sit on the terrace of their little Italian home and just talk over the same bottle of wine till the sun came up and Peron was sure he was going to be punished by his CO when he got into base. The hardest thing Peron ever did in his life was walk away from those mornings. He had never been happier then those moments, and would never feel the same way about a woman like he felt about Aurelia Tizon.             When he married her, his life completed itself. Everything after her was an afterthought, her eulogy. He was born the moment they kissed, and when she died…             People always told him to find a new wife, that it wasn’t right to be so alone.             But how do you replace a woman who means nothing to the world and everything to him?               Word Count: 374 post comment

[28 Jan 2007|12:40am] Hindsight is always 20/20.   There were about twenty things he could have done differently, Juan thought as he sipped his Brandy not caring a button for its bitterness, or caring to wipe the excess that spilled from his cup unto his shirt. He had met his tolerance a bottle ago, and was now functioning on muscle memory. Lift the drink, swallow it down without letting the cheap amber touch his tongue, and repeat till the glass is empty. The real tricky part was pouring the Brandy from the bottle into the glass; he refused to the drink out of the bottle like some commoner.  Repeat until bottle was gone.             There were so many things he should have seen, should have realized; maybe if he had things would have been different.             There was a small voice in his mind that said despite all he could have done, it would have never been enough. The people would praise him for the sun in the morning, and cursed him for the darkness at night. It was the way of the masses.             Still, for a time they loved him and he loved them back. For everything they thought he could be, for everything he wasn’t. He never meant to be their savior. He never wanted to be. He had wanted power. Simple, unfeeling power. He hadn’t wanted love. It just happened. He fell in love with them: those people he secretly loathed and they worshipped him for it.              Now in the twilight of his presidency, as the people (no his mind rebuked him, not the people- the army as if the uniformed made them any different) rushed the Casa Rosada to take his life, Peron could only think of how he failed them.             There were so many things he could have done better. So many things he should have seen. He poured another Brandy, closed his eyes and flinched as he heard the explosions outside. So many people would die because he failed them…             He was so sorry.              post comment

But... [24 Jan 2007|03:08pm] “I never thought I’d say this, but…”               “You can’t do it.”             I sound like a goddamn hypocrite. She’s staring at me with those large brown eyes, with that look of complete despair only women seem to master when they’re pestering their husband for a new dress, or necklace. I’ll tell you another thing too, if it were something simple like that a dress, a necklace, the moon- I’d get it for her in a second.             But this is different, even she knows that, she’s asking for the one thing I can’t give her. It’s not that simple.             Eva’s asking for the Vice Presidency of Argentina. The people love her more then anyone alive. They would sacrifice their lives for her, their children for her; there are some who say she’s more powerful then I am. (Perhaps she is too…) Why does she want it?             For that petty reason all women use when pestering their husbands for a new diversion: because she can’t have it.  She would destroy us. The military would rise up, the Church, and the oligarchs that she hates would retake the power and drive us into the ground until there wasn’t a stain of blood on the ground to mark our passing.             A woman for vice-presidency? No.             My own wife more powerful then me? Never.             She can’t do it. Eva, who can do anything she wants. She could scold the sun for setting and it wouldn’t. She could even dig a hole to hell, if she wanted. I’d grab the shovel and do it for her if she asked me. And why?             Why can’t Eva do whatever she wants? Because she’s Eva. Because her body can’t take the strain of her fire, because I can’t, because Argentina can’t. Eva is a sun all her own. She blazes and we all burn. I can’t allow it.   Word Count: 301 post comment

The Morning After [22 Jan 2007|12:47am] Current Topic: The Morning After.   18 October 1945               The people have spoken.             Eva used those words, in that overdramatic way she does, she walked straight into the little apartment we call home; crossed the living room to throw open the doors of the balcony and yelled at the traffic underneath.             The people have spoken.             Yesterday I was a jailed man. A disgraced officer and living on borrowed time. I had known from the moment I saw the black trench coats and dark car parked on the opposite side of the street that Farrell would have me killed. He, no, we have done far more for far less then what I tried to do.             Allying the trade unions to one another and then to me, ignoring the military for the people, bedding Eva…keeping Eva. It was foolishness. A dream to be something more then what I was, more then what Benito was. It was a dream and a desire to be what she wanted me to be. It was a dream that had been crushed by the reality of the situation.             I was trying to be a savior when I was only a soldier.             I was yesterday, at least.              Today the people- as one entity stormed the Casa Rosada and demanded my release.  They camped out, chanted, sang and screamed for me. Eva’s voice was just one in the ocean of cries. Those unions, and nameless, hungry poor they represented all clamored together in front of Farrell and the world and cried out.             For me.             The people have spoken and I was what they wanted.             But not me, that image they think is me- the image Eva believes in too. The people, the desmicados; those riotous, angry cow-like masses who yell for anyone who can feed them to be their God. Today I am that God. Yesterday, I was a disgraced soldier waiting for a gunshot in the dark. Today, I am Peron.   Muse: General Juan Peron Real Life Fiction Word Count: 317     post comment

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