by Jamin Stortz
It had been three weeks since my brother left before I entered his room. I couldn’t bear it, preferring to leave the door closed and, with it, the possibility that he was still behind it, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall listening to music with his eyes closed like he always did. It was good that he was gone, I would tell myself, repeatedly, despite the sickness in my stomach that told me otherwise. Mom said he was better off, though she couldn’t look me in the eye when she said it. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 