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 …