Category Archives: Fiction
Original short stories.
You shouldn’t smoke this other blunt, and you know it too. But your drunken ass just can’t say no to Sonia, licking the Dutchie with her raspberry mouth, because you don’t see a blunt at all, but imagine something else between her lips, and instead of saying no, you hand her a lighter.
Sonia is a professional at rolling pencil-straight blunts. You imaging she must be professional at other things too, because that’s how your perverse mind thinks. It doesn’t matter that she can’t cook rice and beans like Abuelita does, or that she leaves dirty panties in the tub, or thinks Uruguay is an exotic Malaysian dish. Read the rest of this entry
Bill has been on the block since Vietnam, and has seen it go from White to Brown. He grew up across town, in a one-bedroom with his mother, when Bergenline was still Italian. He saw the first wave of Cubans come in the late 60’s, and felt right away this meant trouble. He watched as the Marielitas turned the town Brown in the 80’s, while the Italian exodus moved west to the burbs along route 3, where it was still White. But Bill refused to leave. He was a Veteran and the only thing he knew how to do was to stay and fight for what was his. At least that’s what he likes to tell people. Read the rest of this entry
The sun rises over the drought stricken hills hovering Los Pinos Del Eden, a small farming town borne from the shadows of La Descubierta, Dominican Republic, where Refugio, climbing out his mosquito net, has just wakened from reminiscent dreams of New York City, fantasizing about the corner of 8th Ave and 6th, eating two Papaya hotdogs with sweet onions, ketchup and a piña colada. It’s a bustling New York Saturday night. Fast motorcycles line the Avenue. Women in tight shorts and fat asses walk to Club Bad. The incense man across the street peddles fragrances and who knows what else. Old vinyl records spread across the sidewalk are looking for a home. Refugio is walking tall in tight leather pants, motorcycle jacket, dark shades, five o’clock shadow and mohawk. His Harley is pulled up beside five pimp’d out street bikes. He climbs on his hog, revs the throttle, and shoots north up 6Th Ave toward Washington Heights.
It’s about 6:15 in the morning. You’re drunk and you’re high. And you’re in Chicago. You’ve just stumbled out of some club. Somewhere. You can’t really remember. And you wobble on down to the corner, scanning the streets around you.
You reach out your slumbering arm to hail the first cab you see. He pretends not to see you. But you don’t think anything of it. Again, you reach out. Again, another cab passes and again and again and again.
And you know your neon red jacket is glowing majestic sparkles off the rising sun, so it’s impossible for them not to have noticed you standing there all shiny and shit; your shades silvery cool like mirrors reflecting Jim Morrison before he became fat and sloppy. Read the rest of this entry