by Veronica Montes
Her tears and her spit and all her complicated feelings fly into the air.
She says many things including don’t make it about you, Mom, don’t. I nod and stop talking. I sneak a look at my son, who just flew in from New York. He’s scrolling through his texts. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Esteban Rodríguez
At least inside it was always December, a reliable winter unfurling from the lumps of ice clumped with a history of erupted sodas along the freezer walls. I rested my chin between the broken stacks of ice trays and the Ziploc bags stuffed with frostbitten meat I meant to cook, but never did. I turned and placed my cheek on the freezer bed, so glad to be home, and as that cool darkness began to numb my skin, I almost forgot the rabid sunlight Ana and I endured at la pulga all afternoon. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Ryan White
Within two years, Alice Sellers had lost her cat, Kevin, and her lifelong companion, Ruth. She would’ve given anything to get them back. But no such bargain could be had, so she wanted revenge. And since there was no revenge against hemorrhagic stroke, Alice’s last hope was killing the coyote that’d eaten Kevin five nights previous. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Abbie Doll
She woke up to a mountain range in her mouth.
Such an awe-inspiring sight caught her by surprise, despite the numbing weight of her still-present drowsiness. She stood there gawking at her reflection, bewildered by the distinctly Himalayan scene sprouting from her mandible crust. A series of jagged, panicky exhalations fogged up the glass, while her minty-mist breath worked to sculpt a pleasant-yet-bleak bathroom atmosphere. The air felt thinner somehow, and the landscape of her mind felt just as clouded, just as inaccessible as the sky-piercing peaks she saw there in the mirror. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Anthony Otten
With you and your dad gone, I live in the quiet. Mostly I’m fine with it. When I want my conversation fix I sit in my wicker chair on the porch, like I am today, and wait for the mailman. He’s a young Black guy in a blue cap and shorts. Real polite. I don’t know, maybe I scare him. Old white lady in socks and sandals, feet too sore for shoes. Squinty little glasses I hardly need since Medicare did my cataracts. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 