Even in the dead of night, my eyes do not falter from the nightstand beside of my bed, where my phone lies dormant. Checking it only confirms that it’s still 1:17 A.M. My mind shuns away any hope of sleep.… Continue Reading
Mah shoots. I check to make sure he’s behind the line. He catches me peeking and points to the footprint his damp sock has left behind. It was fair. “Fine,” I say. “Come on bro.” There’s too much emphasis on… Continue Reading
Before I became a giraffe I was a twelve-year-old girl. I had long brown hair, brown eyes, and a burgeoning mustache I shaved weekly with a disposable razor I stole from my dad. I was the type of girl my… Continue Reading
The flasks and beakers looked boring now, even though they had fixed most of mankind’s problems. The glassware and cheap centrifuges looked as unremarkable as they did on the day they arrived by mail. Spencer paced in vague celebration among… Continue Reading
“So… is it true what they say about redheads?” I noticed him when he first walked into the bar. I don’t mean that in a “he walked through the door and my heart skipped a beat” kind of way. He… Continue Reading
Per tradition and necessity, I am untouched by man. “Aurora?” Sofia asks. “What’s a virgin?” I close my eyes. My head aches. It’s the chlorine. The full moon is the only illumination in the shadowed natatorium. The sacred flame of… Continue Reading
“If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it.” I looked into the faded, cornflower blue eyes of my grandfather, as he sat across the table from me. Today they seemed remarkably clear as if… Continue Reading
We are told: these are not children. So we treat them accordingly. We don’t wave to them, or smile or ask them to join in with our games. Of course they don’t ask us to join in with their games… Continue Reading
The characters in my first novel refuse to be written; they think only of themselves, never of me. They keep their distance, and their own counsel. I think it’s unbecoming, really, in fictional characters, to be so standoffish — unless… Continue Reading
Yuly and I trekked down to El Malecon to find Don Manuel. The old man spent his days riding his antique three-wheel bicycle up and down the sidewalk adjacent to Havana’s seawall to hawk the used goods his daughter —… Continue Reading