Mexican Word Of The Day Novels & Stories

Vida Sangre Luna Vida Sangre LUNA Vida SANGRE LUNA VIDA SANGRE LUNA VIDA SANGRE LUNA! The chanting grew louder as the slaughtering progressed. The three Americans, particularly Damian, grew increasingly curious about what was being said. “What is he saying?” Damian asked one of the native girls standing close by, his tone full of intrigue. “Vida Sangre Luna, meaning life, blood, and moon,” she explained, sensing his genuine curiosity. But Eric still looked puzzled, prompting her to elaborate further. “He is praying for the moon god to accept the life and blood of the animals in exchange for a fruitful harvest.”

Lucian chuckled, “vivir mi vida means live my life and vive tu vida means live your life.” “Oh,” she nodded in understanding. Hearing a chuckle beside her, she glared at Lucian, “you don’t have to make fun of me you know, its understandable if I don’t know the difference.” “Yes, it’s very understandable but it would be great if you don’t attempt to correct Antonio, he is a Mexican, this is his home and he has been speaking Spanish all his life.” “I wasn’t correcting him, I was just stating because of Mac Anthony’s song, that’s all, it’s not like I know the meaning,” she rolled her eyes, “anyway, was that a piña-colada he was drinking?”

Gina said, bending slightly, “I’m Auntie Gina.” “I don’t know you so I can't call you Auntie,” Michael said, perfectly polite. “But welcome.” Mex stuck out a hand at grown up height. “I’m Mex,” he said. “Short for… Mex.” He smiled. “This is my brother, Michael. Short for Michael.” Gina blinked, then laughed, “You’re adorable,” she said. Michael looked at me. “We can’t control that,” he said gravely. “It’s genetic.”

The papers are calling it an unprecedented occurrence. “Oh my word,” she chuckled. “Perhaps the Ambassador is a blessed hotel after all.” Finishing with the pins holding her hair, she joined him at their breakfast table. “What does El Cordonazo mean?” She struggled to pronounce the unfamiliar word. She wondered suddenly if Mr. or Mrs. Valenzuela could help her learn the language. “I believe it’s a name for the particular winds that support such storms coming out of Mexico. The storm is also mentioned here as the ‘Lash of St. Francis’.”

As she begins her umpteenth trip from one side of the room to the other, I pull on my magic and fan my fingers out causing her feet to get stuck to the marble floor of the hallway. “¡No mames!” She exclaims nearly toppling forward and assessing her feet. She looks up at me and narrows her eyes then proceeds to throw some very colourful Mexican swear words at me, some I can’t even translate. Something about a donkey? I’ll have to get a translation on that later.

Bryan finally muttered. “What?” Bryan turned his head to the side. “It’s Daniella.” “And please don’t ask. I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.” James held up both hands in surrender and zipped his lips dramatically, mouthing, Lips sealed. ********** Mexico It was Día de los Muertos, and the streets of Puebla were alive with celebration. Captain Smith walked alone, his gaze caught by a hauntingly beautiful artwork on display behind a shop. The painted skull bore a sorrowful expression, one that oddly mirrored the heaviness he’d been carrying since morning.

“Your papa give dinero. Lucky you. He pay today and we send you home. Comprende?” Jon just nodded. His throat was parched and raw. He was afraid speaking would hurt. “You should say thank you to us for treetin’ you so good, sí?” A trickle of blood slid out of the talking Mexican’s nose. The others laughed arrogantly at his words, once they had been translated. Blood then started to run out of another’s nose, then another, then another, till they were all bleeding.

He nods and taps a chair, “ chair, Silla.” I repeat again and he smiles, “Cafe.” I blink, “Coffee?” “Exactly.” “ I thought café meant café.” A dramatic sigh escapes me. “This language is trying to kill me.” “No.” “It definitely is.” He points towards the window, “Puerta.” “Puerta.” The ceiling, “Techo.” For the first time since arriving in Mexico, learning feels normal, not terrifying, not impossible, just normal and slow. Word by word. Step by step.

“Welcome to his family. Dios mío, next he’ll want grandkids.” Dragon almost chokes on his coffee, “¡Mamá! We’re not even—” Marisol cuts him off, waving a spatula, “Callate (Shut up). Creole bikers, Mexican mechanics—we're a mixed soup now." Yelling in my direction, “¡Oye (Hey), Daniel! Since you’re familia, you get Sunday pozole (soup). But no boots on my table!" Grumbling from the grill, "I don’t need corn in my soup!"

“Ladies, Gents, fangs, fairies and furries, today, our little trio of bar owners had a bit of a bet. It wasn’t that someone lost but the severity of the punishment.” I smiled as he continued. “The bet will remain a secret, however, the punishment was having to take shots of this.” He held up the bottle of tequila. “This is Monte Alban Mezcal or better known as the worm tequila. We have to take shots based on our…performance.”