On the island of El Hierro, José Fonseca types the last of his letter—his personal manifesto that no one will see—before finally clicking “send.” Five hours of deleting and tinkering with complex words with little comprehension. He sips his
Category: Spring 2018
Regan was the type of pretty that wins pageants, but she didn’t know that. It’s hard to guess the things Regan knew for certain. Maybe she knew how many times a butterfly could flap its wings in a day.
The waiter was the last man to leave the restaurant. He was an unattractive man. Tall, slim, and vastly angular in his black and white uniform, he lived alone in an apartment now that his father had died. It
Successive proposals, one arched eyebrow, two arched eyebrows, slight catch on one side of his upper lip. Then it was gone. The brick remained, a brick wall, bits of hair embroidered over the top. That man at the next
The greased-back, blond strands hung like melting icicles dangling from an evergreen over almond colored eyes; this is what he looked like before they lowered him into the grave. His wife invited all the bill collectors to the funeral.
She may shed persimmon feather boas, but there is no rebirth here. Under the damning spotlight she is diasporic lipstick from the pouting and wailing, Dubonnet siphoning into developing wrinkles, aged Jessica Rabbit incarnate, red nails and sagging contours,
I found a fox elder standing under a box elder. He wore a dapple suit with a pipe in his mouth then tilted his hat to greet me. He leaned against the trunk of the tree or the tree
Long after bedtime and long before the birds and the dawn when I could hear the furnace tick click-tick-tick from the basement, and Dad’s sleeping-sounds stumble from under the bedroom door and not even a car on the road
Sandra’s ember-specked face fixed itself on the diminishing fire. She twitched every time a coal would crack, but still moved her lawn chair closer to the waning flames. Her husband wobbled, unsteady from excessive whiskey, out from the shed’s