Fig Season: A short story

July. The doctor finds a tumor. Sylvia finds the first ripe fig of the season. October. Her father is dead. Sylvia is holding a wicker basket of sweet figs between her thighs, sweating and sitting cross-legged on her tiled kitchen floor. She is smoking with her right hand, plucking figs
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A woman holding a glass of wine and a card that says "love you"

Fatal Reveries: A short story

Content warning: The following short story contains mentions of depression and suicide.  Mae Franklin planned on killing herself today. She was now determined with the idea, though for so long it remained a distant promise — like when she planned on moving to Aruba or pursuing a PhD in literature.
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A person with gold dripping out of their mouth

The Light Bleeder: A short story

Last Tuesday, I met a woman who spills glowing clouds of breath from between her lips with every word she speaks, like she begs me to match her gleam. And if I showed her, “Yes, I glow too” and slid a blade along my finger, let the light drip out
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A line of people walking uphill with a girl carrying a backpack running among them

Home all along: A short story

Dedicated to my mother. Felíz cumpleaños mamí, te amo mucho. Brown paper bag secured under her arm, oversized backpack bouncing on her back and hair in a bun, Claudia made her way up the hill to take the bus to school. Today was the first day of class, but it
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Silhouette of a desert tree in front of sunset as city lights can be seen in the distance.

It Keeps Going: A short story

It had become routine by now. I was hardly shocked when the sound of shattered glass woke me. Through half-open eyes, I made out a figure: Simon, at the foot of my bed. His hand lay wearily on the corner of my shelf where a framed photo of me and
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Portuguese daydreams

Work in Progress

I was sitting in Portuguese 103 one dreary winter day last semester when it occurred to me — and this thought was not in English, but in the Portuguese-Spanish cocktail pseudo-dialect known as “Portunhol” — that I was, in that moment, a visitor to the Portuguese language.
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I read it on the internet

Work in Progress

On my computer, I wrote troves of poetry and metaphorical stories, burdening Microsoft Word documents with lamentations about the depression I had been dealing with since fourth grade, and about my parents divorcing. Alone in my room, symbolic pen in my hand, I began, in earnest, to cement my career as a writer.
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