Embedded Files
Juanito Moving to the US – Original Instrumental Jazz Score by Arman Ayva
Juanito Moving to the US – Original Instrumental Jazz Score by Arman Ayva
“Juanito Moving to the US” is an emotionally rich multimedia project underscored by an original instrumental jazz composition by Arman Ayva. Blending Latin influences with modern jazz textures, this score captures the bittersweet journey of Juanito—a young dreamer navigating family, identity, and the border between two worlds.
This piece is a perfect example of music for video and music for TV that tells a story beyond dialogue. The jazz-infused melodies add subtle humor, warmth, and emotional depth to the visuals, making it ideal for narrative-driven productions. If you're looking for original music for documentaries, short films, or TV series, this score offers a compelling blend of traditional and contemporary sounds.
With careful instrumentation and expressive improvisation, Arman Ayva’s work fits seamlessly into the realm of cinematic jazz, background music for emotional scenes, and soundtracks for multicultural storytelling.
Dull Life
Dull Life
Life in Oaxaca had always been a mix of the extraordinary and the mundane for Juanito. By day, he studied hard, tinkered with gadgets, and dreamed of a future beyond his family’s tiny, creaky house. By night, he shuffled alongside his parents and little sister, joining their ritual moonlit zombie walks through the cornfields.
But in between? That was the dull part.
Mornings smelled of burnt coffee and slightly decomposed flesh (his mom sometimes forgot to “shake off” her undead form before making breakfast). School was routine—math, literature, avoiding the urge to bite his least favorite teacher. The mercado bustled with life, but Juanito couldn’t help noticing the way vendors eyed his family, always wary, as if expecting them to lunge at a fresh batch of tamales.
“I swear, we act normal,” he told Lupita one afternoon, watching their mom casually pop an eyeball back into its socket while bargaining over avocados.
Lupita giggled. “Normal’s boring.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe blending in wasn’t their style. But Juanito still yearned for something bigger. Something beyond the same dusty streets, the same suspicious glances, the same endless cycle of homework and hunger.
Westbridge College wasn’t just a ticket to an education—it was an escape. A way to prove that even a boy from a cursed, zombie-prone family could build a future.
He just had to survive the journey.
Family Discussion
Family Discussion
That night, the Sánchez clan gathered in their creaky kitchen, the air thick with the scent of mole and rotting flesh (a side effect of their last transformation). Rosa, Juanito’s mother, gnawed on a raw chicken leg—her zombie appetite flaring—while Miguel, his father, scratched at a peeling patch of skin on his arm. Lupita, his little sister, practiced her undead shuffle around the table, giggling.
“An American college! Brains and books, Juanito!” Rosa growled, her voice raspy from her last zombie stint. “But the border… tensions are high. What if they shoot first and ask questions later when they see us?”
Miguel’s eyes glowed faintly green as he nodded. “They’re scared of immigrants, mijo. Imagine if they catch us mid-transformation—'Mexican zombies invade!'—headlines for days.”
“I’ll keep it human, Papá,” Juanito said, grinning. “No munching on professors, I swear. This is our shot—I’ll study engineering, build us a zombie-proof mansion.”
Lupita lurched forward, arms outstretched. “Will you send me American brains?”
The family cackled, their laughter echoing like a horror movie soundtrack. Rosa handed Juanito a jar of pickled pig’s feet. “For the road. Keeps the cravings down.”
Moving Boxes
Moving Boxes
A week later, the Sánchez house was a chaos of packing and groaning. Juanito folded his clothes into a suitcase, pausing to sniff a shirt—yep, still human-scented. Lupita taped up boxes marked "Juanito’s Loot," tossing in a jar of "emergency brains" (really just pork rinds). She held up a soccer ball, her jaw dropping in a mock zombie moan. “Taking this?”
“Keep it,” Juanito said, dodging her playful lunge. “Kick some undead goals.”
Rosa shuffled in, her skin briefly graying before she shook it off. She pressed a wooden cross necklace into his hand. “Blessed by Padre Gomez. Keeps the zombie in check—and the border guards off your back.”
The boxes piled up—books, a zombie survival manual, a blanket stitched with skulls. Juanito sighed, already missing the family’s late-night shambling sessions
Waiting Room
Waiting Room
In a cramped Mexico City office, Juanito sat waiting for his visa, his leg twitching like a zombie mid-hunt. The room reeked of sweat and bureaucracy, the TV blaring about “border threats.” He clutched his papers, resisting the urge to growl at a kid staring at him too long.
When his number flashed, he approached the counter. The clerk, a stern woman with a unibrow, flipped through his documents—acceptance letter, grades, scholarship proof. “Westbridge, huh?” she muttered. “Lucky. They’re turning back anyone who looks… off.” She eyed his slightly pale complexion but stamped his visa anyway. Juanito exhaled, careful not to let his fangs slip.
Crossing Borders
Crossing Borders
At the Tijuana border, Juanito stood in line, suitcase in hand, the sun baking his skin. The crowd shuffled forward—some human, some suspiciously twitchy (or was that just him?). U.S. agents barked orders, their dogs sniffing for contraband… or maybe undead. Juanito’s stomach growled, but he popped a pickled pig’s foot in his mouth to stay human.
“Papers,” the agent snapped, his sunglasses reflecting Juanito’s nervous face. Juanito handed over his passport and visa, holding his breath—literally, to avoid zombie breath. The man scanned them, then squinted. “Reason for entry?”
“College, sir. Westbridge,” Juanito said, praying his eyes didn’t glow.
The agent grunted, stamped the passport, and waved him through. “Next!”
Juanito stepped into the U.S., glancing back at Mexico with a smirk. He could almost hear Lupita’s zombie moan cheering him on. Tensions or not, borders or not, he’d made it—no brains required.
Yet.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse