Category: Spring 2018

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
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,
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

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