Writing Contest

We didn’t meet often, and when we did, it was always in the dark. From the outset, I could have described the warm baritone voice, the music, and the well-worn jokes, but it was probably ...

A clatter against the window of my second-story room in Golden Hill awoke me. Then, shouts. What the hell? “Eh, Miguel.” “Miguelito.” “Barba de Chivo, levántate, cabrón.” Only Rodolfo called me Barba del Chivo, followed ...

The smell of blood and fear and death hangs in the air like the toxic smoke of a chemical fire. The sound of alarms ring in my ears, drowning out the voices of my teammates. ...

I’ve heard about these turning points in people’s lives, little moments when someone could maybe stop their future from happening. I like the idea of those moments, I’ve missed a few myself. I always wonder ...