What's it all about, Lionel?

Hello, and a warm welcome to RhumbaLand. My nickname is citizenjoe, so you can almost guess my actual name. Well, you could if your IQ was anywhere between 5 and up.

Rhumbaland started off as my attempt to write a story. I wanted to use the weblog medium as a means of publishing the story.

It started out as the account of a love story about an unlikely couple. It started out as an unstructured thread of thoughts. It started out as a way to create a free association between thought and words. In many ways I wanted it to be as free form in its creation as the rhumba itself.

Hence the name RhumbaLand.

Unfortunately, I have failed. The story has been overtaken by the characters themsleves. I no longer have control over their destiny. I feel they are driving me to a destination that is inevitable. They have removed my name from the credits. They have taken over the wheel.

I am expecting Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez to come over later tonight. He promised me a visit to "have a chat", he said. I reminded him that he was just a character in a story. My story. That I had created him.

He laughed stupidly. And a little too loudly.

In fact, I hear his foot steps on the front path as I write this sentence. He has forgotten to remove his taps following his dance routine tonight.

The steps stop.

There is no knock at the door. The bell does not ring. I hear no voice.

There is no sound.

Then the steps start again. A quiet whispering of feet intent on not being heard. A quiet breath of night quickly sucking in all the air that is available so that the silence can persist.

Why is he moving toward the back of the house?

There is a quiet tickle at the back door lock. I hear it click open, but don't comprehend the meaning as yet.

The house is dark as it always is when I write. The moon is full tonight and as footsteps slip inside, I see the glint of the moon's light off something shiny, something metallic. My heart beats rapidly.

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez whispers in my ear. I feel his hairy breath brush against my eardrum. I understand not a word he says. I understand only the feel of cold metal under my skin as it bites.

God, I must be in Rhumbaland.