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[23 May 2007|04:29pm]

"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 up building of one… There's good money in empire building. But, there's more in empire wrecking."


Eva watches her husband as he leans out of the car and waves at the screaming chorus as they echo “Per-RON, Per-RON” for him over and over again. She leaned back and watched him with that thin, almost disapproving smile she favored him with most times. Little Juancito likes to be loved. He thrives on the idea that the people worship him. That they’d lie down their lives for him, even though she knows that coward would escape way before blood has been spilt.

So, she lets him dream, and never really mentions the gritty details of their life.

Like the money they get from Rodolfo, or Hans that comes not in slick leather brief cases but in little deposit slips.

She thinks about all those men who come to Casa Rosada at night, who tuck away their black and gray uniforms. They fold their red armbands, and tuck their black jackboots in the closet. They pretend they are no longer who they are but Argentinos.

Juan goes mountain climbing with the pilot, and they play tennis although Eva’s sure he lets the President win. She thinks about Eichmann and Mengele and wonder as she stares out into the crowds that wave so passionately for Peron, if their faces peer out and their voices cheer.

She wonders that if they wave, do they see Peron…

Or that man who drove the world into War…that man who killed all those people in camps…

Peron was the first to make abortion laws in America, the first to grant same rights to the homosexuals and the Jews…

These men had put little cloth labels on them, and then marched them to death.

Peron could never do those things he didn’t have the stomach for it, nor the duality of nature to see one man as “Argentine” and other as not.

It was important to understand that Peron was not a monster…

But he had no qualms about taking their money.



Muse: Eva Peron

Real Person Fiction

Word Count: 327

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[05 Apr 2007|02:23am]
172. If you could pick anyone in the world to be your parents, who would it be and why?

Juan Peron was use to fixing things. This alone was not an arrogant statement; nor meant to threaten or force submission from anyone, it was just a simple fact that was taken at face value by most people. Peron was a simple man who believed that every problem had a solution, even injury a redress, every cloud a silver lining and he was use to being able to cut away the misery and emotion to find what could make it better. He had no problem tearing down walls and making messes if it meant clearing the view.
Which made the one great pain of Eva’s the one greatest failure that would haunt him even after her death. He was okay, inasmusch as any man can be fine with his wife dying because he knew that he made her last days painless and worthwhile. He was okay even with the painfully short time he was together with her because he knew that for his part he made her happy.
But what he could not fix: despite giving her the world and every jewel in it, was the knowledge that he could never remedy the only thing she wished he could have fixed.
Giving her a family that wasn’t ashamed of her, giving her a history that was something more then just being a whore’s daughter and the product of a man’s idle diversions.
Her father had been a middle class ranchman, neither profitable nor memorable who died before she was old enough to realize what cruelty he inflicted on her family. In a world that prized family and holiness: she was born the youngest daughter of an adulterer and his mistress.
When he died, her family wasn’t permitted into his funeral, and whatever meager scraps fell from Juan Duarte’s table were stopped.
The man left four children in a world that would hate them for their parents’ sins. Eva never understood why they hated her so much, because she was so easy to love. Juan never understood either, nor did he understand the pain that stayed behind her eyes no matter how many loved and idolized her.
The masses adoration, his own ardor for her could never equal to the one man whose love she could never have.
She would have given up everything she had in this world for her father’s love for the simple reason she could not have it.
And Juan could not understand why, if she could have any one in the world be her parents- to love her as a parent should, would Eva still choose him.

Eva Peron
Real Peron fiction
Word Count: 431
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[24 Mar 2007|03:44am]

Wanna list?

I’m the great whore of Babylon remember? In the countless strings of lovers I’ve had, I’m sure I’ve made tons of mistakes. But you don’t want to hear about them. Of course not, that’s not quaint, or cute or memorable, is it?

You wanna hear about Jaunito. My dear Romeo, my hero, and that melodramatic tripe that makes us fodder for the tabloids and the people’s hearts. He has the stomach for all that mess too.

The strangest thing about Juan is that he can sit and listen to you, too. He can really do it. I don’t have the patience for idle chatter, or inaction but him, even as President of Argentina he can sit down, share coffee with you, look at all your pictures of children, grandchildren, dogs, cats and horses. He’ll be impressed when you tell him your grandkids are walking well at nine months, and be concerned sincerely concerned when you tell him you have a slight ache in your knee- and don’t be surprise when you find a private nurse (courtesy of the State) comes to your house to wait on you beck and call.

Juan listens. How many men can you think of will actually sit with old ladies and listen, as intently as he would in an officer’s briefings. He cares. It’s very distracting.

He loves. So easily, and so freely that sometimes it’s easy to forget that he does. His goodness is his nature, his persona and profession. He doesn’t expect you to return the sentiment, but he does ask that let him.

And it’s easy, especially for someone like me, to take it for granted. I care more about action, results and movement then he does. I want to know what you can do for me. I don’t care about the kids, or pets. He loves me. He’s given me the world. But I tend to forget that sometimes, in my hurry to get more done, to taste all that he’s offered.

And I feel bad, sometimes, thinking I should tell him thanks.

Tell him I love him.


Muse: Eva Peron

Real Person Fiction

Word Count: 349

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Fragile [11 Mar 2007|09:46pm]

            Eva Peron lost so much weight that she had fur coats that were heavier to carry. Her nurses made polite jokes about how far she’d go to achieve the perfect weight. Sometimes when her stomach wasn’t doing handstands she’d smile back at them and tell them that she’d do anything to avoid fat ankles.

            Lana Turner had nothing on her.

            She had begun to secretly despised to machines that were wheeled in and out of her bedroom at various times and the bone white uniforms of the doctors and their aides.  She heard Juan wanted to call in a pinche Gringo from America to come and examine her; but she shot him down. She had no desire to have some strange man examining her body.

            She’d much rather have Peron do it.

            What good was the people’s Colonel anyways if not first and foremost as a husband?

            Eva laughed at her own dirty joke and rolled over in bed. In truth she didn’t like how careful Juan had suddenly become; he rarely smiled around her anymore and when he was there he always stood a foot or so away from her: watching.

            He had a look in his eyes as if he feared touching her would cause her to implode or fade away or something…

            She was suddenly so fragile in his eyes.

            And she wanted to know why…



Muse: Eva Peron

Real Person Fiction

Word Count: 229
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Party! [05 Mar 2007|04:34am]

22 January 1945


            “Marti, PLEASE!”

            “Eva, you don’t know him.” Martinez’s voice was ripe with worry, in a fatherly tone that made Eva furious. She hated when people thought they knew what was best for them. “He doesn’t like surprises.”

            “He hasn’t met me.”

            “And he doesn’t want to!”

            Eva slouched back at the bar, and chewed on her lip. She downright glared at Martinez when the singer said that but knew he was right. Juan Peron’s reputation was renown in her circle: you didn’t approach the king, and you certainly didn’t surprise him. Besides he had a teenage mistress at home he was quite happy with.

            However, he knew what she wanted and one of them was Peron. She had no intentions about seducing the old man, or marrying him. She just wanted to meet him, to feel his hands in hers. She wanted to see if he was the God everyone thought he was.

            From this distance, he just looked like a man getting drunk on the free booze because he half-hoped it would save him from conversation.

            Eva turned to Marti, and put her arms around him. “Marti, if you introduce us, I’ll give you my pink pearls.”

            Martinez’s eyes lit up, and then narrowed. “The ones that Captain from brought back from Milan for you? The ones that look better on me anyways…”

            “The very same…”

            “Come on, girl. I want my pearls…” Marti grabbed her hand, and dragged her through the ballroom. “Ah! Juana! Juana! I’m afraid I’m leaving you…”


Eva Peron

Real Person Fiction

Word Count: 255

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Ghost [23 Feb 2007|05:29pm]


            There’s an English author who is a polite and studious fellow with a queer theory that has birth two novels and one short story about gods, ghosts and myths. He says, in short, that ghosts, like gods and legends before, are born because someone believes in them. We still exist because you want us to. Because you need us, all the ghosts and gods that you have cried for and loved (or yes, hated) mingle around waiting for your sacrifices to keep us going.

            Most of your sacrifices are easy, and plentiful even though you don’t realize your doing it: you envy me. Or hate me. Read about me. You give me time. You idolize me. Or, and this is a recent development I’m still getting use too: you sing about me.

         I should thank Mr. Webber. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be able to move outside of Argentina (not that I need to, they adore me enough to live as real and wholly as I did in life.) as I do.

         And I wouldn’t go England like I never did in life, and I wouldn’t find this little cramp theatre tucked away in London’s West End.

         It’s with a certain amount of vanity that I admit to seeing the show that bears my name. I like the profiles of me that gleam down. I like the chorus cheering my name. The crowds back home never did it with such devotion and never solely for me.
         Evita! Evita! Evita Peron, la Santa Peronista!

         The girl they have playing me is a small little thing. You wonder how that loud voice is kept all locked up in that tiny little ribcage. The guy they have playing Juan is Australian with his hair slicked back like Count Chocula. Cute though, a little too vain and melodramatic to be my man.

         Not to mention, my man wouldn’t be caught dead wearing Argentina’s flag like a bandoleer.

         But enough about the staging, it’s to my favorite song: that wondrous anthem to my…what exactly?

         It won’t be easy, you’ll think it’s strange…when I try to explain how I feel, that I still need your love after all I’ve done…you won’t believe me…


Well, of course they wouldn’t have. My people were not idiots, nor were they foolish to believe for a moment that when I started out- it was for anyone besides me. Peron loved the people. I believed in him. He made us believe. All of us… he let us see his dream and realize it was possible.

         …Yeah right. Whatever.


Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina…the truth is I never left you! Through all my wild days, my mad existence, I kept my promise…don’t keep your distance.


This play is about my ambition. About the coldness and the manipulation I used to get where I was. How I, a ‘whore’ from the gutters bit, lied, cheated and slept my way to the top. It’s all true. Peron knew it. I knew it.

But that’s the thing about being a ghost or a legend…history has a way of polishing us up, decorating us rainbow high- tossing out the bad and, if like in my case, it can’t making it beautiful and believable.

         I was called the people’s savior, Peron’s whore. I am both in this modern incarnation I use to remain with you. I was both.

         Funny how ghosts work, huh?



Muse: Eva Peron

Real Person Fiction

Word Count: 568

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Night [14 Feb 2007|12:57am]

To hell with world peace, affordable meat and universal health care, tonight I’m wearing a poofy dress and going out with my man and not a damn labor union or communist can stop me. I got Jacques Fath covering my body, Dior decorating my face and Chanel on my feet. Lana Turner eat your heart out.

Juan got the best box in the Theater (and why not? He’s President after all.) And I’ve already taken the liberty of throwing out all his uniforms into the mud. He’ll kill me for that later but for tonight he’ll real a tuxedo, gloves and cape. He’ll flash that radiant smile he never uses in uniform, his real smile not that cookie-cutter grin he uses for photo-ops. Tonight he’ll tuck his arm around my race and care not a button for protocol or the camera flashes.
            He’ll only walk slowly because he’s afraid to step on my hem: not to keep time with the security guards- they’ll just have to manage.

Tonight, I’m the Princess, he’s the King and we’re going out.

            Tomorrow morning, he can be President again and the economy can fail or the parities can bicker. Tomorrow morning, I’ll slick my hair back into it’s bun and hand out bread and boons. We’ll stand together, wave and smile our cookie-cutter smiles to the world as the Perons. But tonight, this one night, we’re young and dreaming.

            I get my Knight in shining armor (and if you saw my man in a tux you’d agree he looked handsomer in it then as any stuffy old General.)

He’ll get a Queen.

Not some gutter girl he had to dress up and teach to talk. Not some bastard child from the backwaters. He gets his doll, all polished and perfect on his arm.

Tomorrow, we belong to you my people but give us this one night.


Muse: Eva Duarte de Peron

Real Person Fiction   

Word Count: 312


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Waiting [06 Feb 2007|12:57am]

            They all ask her that question and she would smile if she could; if the pain wasn’t so terrible it blacked out days on end and she allowed herself to be weak enough to answer truthfully. But it is and Eva Duarte de Peron is nothing if not proud. So most days she lingers in the bed, somewhere between life and death (and she is dying, regardless of what they do not say to her she knows) and waits.

            What are you waiting for?

            Raul and Victor of the trade unions came earlier. Everything was done as she asked. The guns hidden from the military, the money allocated to the various accounts, ships chartered. Juan knew nothing. It was important he knew nothing. They swore.

            She didn’t remember them leaving. She must have blacked out.

            Juancito and her mother were here in the evening. Her brother cried. He often did. Delicate child, Eva use to have to be the one who watched him when they were children, not the other way around. Her mother, hard as winter as she was, just sat by the bed. She held Eva’s hand. Neither spoke.

            What do you say? What does a mother say as she watches her daughter fade away? As doctors and nurses come and go around them, dispensing pills and rubbing oils, giving her spirits to dull the pain; and knowing that every time a male voice is heard outside the room your daughter strains painfully at the door.

            What is she waiting for?

            Who’s blessing does she need to die?

            It’s very late when Eva woke up again. Or maybe very early. Maybe it was midday. The time really doesn’t matter to a corpse. Still when Eva awoke, she was very tired and her head was pounding. She wasn’t even certain if she was awake or dreaming.

            She was surprised when she saw Peron standing by her bed. He was in full uniform but it was a colonel’s uniform like when they first met. He was staring at her calmly. Juan had no control over his emotions, when he was happy, he beamed and when he was sad, he seemed to fold into himself and disappear.

            But here he was, as dashing and composed as he had been when they had been golden. Watching her.

            “You came.”

            He almost smiled. “I did.”

            “They said you didn’t want to see me. They said…”

            “I’m here.”

            “Are you going to be okay?” She asked, finally. “…when I’m gone?”

            “No.” Juan smiled now, and shook his head. “But you can go, if it hurts.”

            She thought he stood then and crossed the distance to her bed. She felt him lift her up, and wrap her in his arms. His uniform was as soft as the elderdown feathers of her blankets. He smelled of soap and medicine.

            He cradled her till she drifted away.

            What was she waiting for?



Eva Peron

Real Person Fiction

Word Count: 486
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Would I make you world again? [28 Jan 2007|01:25am]
Hindsight is always 20/20.

It was cold as they lifted her into the car. It rarely snowed in Argentina, and only in the Pampas but if any day seemed suitable for it, it would have been today. It would had made it beautiful too, with Juan in his uniform. For a moment, he looked like he did years ago when they were young, and he smiled at her. He seemed liable to sweep to her at any moment and take her out- ignoring the world for her.
Now, when he stared at her and didn’t see her at all. He looked passed her, to a place and time she didn’t know. He looked older. He was older of course, but the fire in his eyes was distinguished now, and when he looked at her; it was all pity and caution. The man she knew was gone. But then again, the woman he had married had long since disappeared.
He was going to his second inauguration today, and she was so ill, she had to be strapped into a harness so she could stand during the parade. He had asked her not to go, but she refused. She wanted him to remember her being there and when she told him that, Juan’s eyes lit up for a moment and he almost smiled. She was certain he would have if he had remembered how.
It was cold when they locked her into place, and silent as Juan climbed into the car beside her. She remembered suddenly that once before he was elected, he had asked her to run away with him. The destination hadn’t mattered. Just them, nameless spirits nestling somewhere to make a paradise. He wanted a simple home, with dogs running free outside and children underfoot. This was around the time he was being pressured to run for office and the world for “President Peron” would be limitless.
Juan offered a backwater little home, the President gave her Spain, and Italy, and France. Looking back, Eva wondered if they had runaway like children those years ago, would she had been happy. Would he have been?
Would she still be dying?
And even if she was, would she care as much about it as she did now? They would have had family that was only theirs, small and contained? She would only be giving up a corner of the world instead the whole the President had given her?
She loved the President, would she have loved a simple ex-soldier named Juan?
Would she do it all over again, if she could?
As the car turned into the parade route, and she heard the cheers and screams; Eva smiled, forgetting Juan’s distance and her own failing body. If she could have surrendered all this for some paradise, would she have?
Not for a second.

Muse: Eva Peron
Fandom: Real Person Fiction
Word Count: 468
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[25 Jan 2007|03:31am]

“I never thought I’d say this, but…”



Eva had used the words of course, more times then she cared to admit. She had become use to lying about the phrase, using when it best suited her purposes or got the desired result. She had really meant it once too when she was a young girl but it had quickly faded with age and cynicism. Now, at the terrible old age of twenty-four, she had been certain she would never use the words again and mean it. 

And then the people’s colonel came along, and snuck pass all her defensives and found himself a quite comfortable spot next to her in bed. It was hard not to know about Juan Peron and his affection for “young meat,” or his tragic reputation as a childless widower; Juan had been known for all this and more. Eva had been warned about him.

But his reputation hid something. A kindness and insight he possessed that no one, Eva included, understood.

There were little things Juan did that surprised her: asked her to sit in on political meetings so she could learn, went out in public with her, introducing her as his wife. Then, there were things he did for the people (no, as Peron liked to call them when no one was looking, his people) that made them loved him for it.

He was very easy to love too. He had a way of maneuvering pass defensives and preconceived notions about him and his reputation, he could sidle up beside you and smile and most shocking of all, without realizing you were doing it: you let him.

 So it surprised her when Eva decided to use these words to him. She didn’t really mean them at first, of course, but knew that he wouldn’t mind too much and she had faith she could learn. Still, it was odd saying those words with hope she would mean it one day. It always felt odd saying them.  

            “I love you.”


Word Count: 327
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The Morning After [22 Jan 2007|12:58am]

Juanito is a deep sleeper. He gets it from the army where you catch whatever sleep you can and where.  After love, he rolled over and went to bed. He’s still wearing his undershirt and socks. My man. The romantic.

            Perhaps it’s unfair to act so disapproving of him. And regardless of it, I stay quiet when I crawl out of bed, find my robe and walk to the desk. Juan’s messy in a strict, orderly fashion: his work papers are neat and locked away in a briefcase. But page after page of letter and newspaper clippings are sprayed out across his desk as if he needs to be aware of them to know they exist. I smile at little. My man. The romantic.

            A week ago, the police and government burst into our home and robbed him from me. But they didn’t just steal him from me; they took him from the people too, because Juan is no ordinary man.

            He was the Vice President, and Secretary of Labor of Argentina. One of the most prolific, enigmatic and oh yes, as if I could forget, powerful men in the country. At least he was, until the President- scared of his power- had him jailed.

            Farrell was too late. Juan was already too powerful by then and the people screamed for his release. He was the people’s beloved. Farrell had no choice but to obey the unions and release him.

            Juan, my Juan, is the most powerful man in Argentina right now and what does he do next?

            He marries a bastard child half his age from the gutters of Buenos Aries.

            My man. The romantic.


Muse: Evita Peron

Real Person Fiction

Word Count: 276

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