It was midnight. The moon was half-full, lighting the narrow cobblestoned avenues of Santiago as if with a ghostly searchlight. Humberto Cotzal quietly pushed his front door open and peered outside. There was no one to be seen in the street, but there were shadows everywhere, the overhanging roofs of corrugated plastic lamina creating small pools of darkness, perfect spots for mercenaries from La Empresa to lurk in wait for curfew breakers. Read more
Unbelievable. So he finds this amazing artifact, and then just turns around and sells it the next day?
That’s right. Can you imagine? A piece of history, of his own history… Read more
The Almost Child
The Corvus Review
She was on the floor. A metal towel rack in her hand, scraping across the tile as she moved her arms in small broken circles. There was blood. Bright red blood coming from her, pooled beneath her waist and smeared down her legs where she lay on the floor.
Ten Days in the Submerged City
After arrival in SC and going through requisite pressure stations, walked around a little. Can’t say I enjoyed it much. Too heavy in the suit. Six months of training in that can and my mind is still as weak as the first day. Thank god the rooms are pressurized, oxygenated, odorized, catheterized, etc. Read more
Robert and the Maximón
Valparaiso Fiction Review
They walked through the gates of the cemetery. Magdalena trotted ahead down a cobblestone avenue as wide as a city street, passing row upon row of the small houses for the dead. Some were freshly painted, bright pink and green and teal, while others had fallen into disrepair… Read more
My Own Damn Life
I took my mother’s hand and she squeezed it, and that was the one moment in my life that proved to me that people can communicate without speaking, that there is something more to this life than what we can know with reason.
My landlord is in love with me. Since moving into this pink casita of his off Canyon Road he’s called me every day, at first to see how I was doing, but then, more and more, just to talk… Read more
The Cat Raven
A little later that day I saw you getting out of bed in your long blue Disney nightshirt, and I couldn’t read the word on your shirt. Don’t think me forgetful, my dear—I know the shirt says Enchanted, I’ve read it many times—but what I mean is, I couldn’t see the word. I put my birding binoculars down and tried the high-powered ones, but I still couldn’t read the word on your shirt.
Read more or buy the issue of Milkfist where this story first appeared.
But sitting there now, watching the still windows of the killer’s house, there was no rage left. Just an old sense of duty. A strong feeling in him, stronger even than that other side that took over when he was angry. Because that was just about rage, about pushing back against the helplessness of being a person, an unconscious and animal thing, but duty—that was about how he saw himself, and how he wanted the world to see him. Read more
Revealed in Splendor
Bellevue Literary Review
He stood regally in the air, bigger than the clouds, than the sun, his hands clasped calmly in the folds of his garment. Something groped about his middle. A trunk-a gray elephant’s trunk was coiled around him. Read more or buy the BLR issue where the story first appeared.
After lights out I waited in the dark for what seemed like a long time. An owl hooted in the woods. I could hear the other kids breathing steadily in their bunks and I wondered if maybe the whole thing was off—if maybe the joke was on us for thinking something was going to happen. Read more
Ernesto and the Mule
The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature
…It’s like a nightmare walking uphill in the heat with the weight of his brother in his arms, his heart pounding out accusations. You killed, Your brother, You killed, Your brother.