It was 6:25 am when 4 year old Brianna tiptoed into our bedroom. Dim morning light bounced off her damp cheeks. “Mommy,” she said, chin quivering, “I . . . don’t . . . feel ‘dood . . .”
Tag: flash fiction
Kwapo can’t remember the words to the song, but it doesn’t matter. These days the show is strictly burlesque . . .
Detective Almodovar, half Polish, half Puerto Rican, sits in the playground at the corner of Borinquen Plaza and Rodney Street.
Today, Ultras threw rocks and policemen fled. Tonight, Ivana is still standing, the breeze tickling her skin.
She had been with him since he was a young ensign on his first leave in Manila . . .
Dr. Stacey Roman watched as Roy, Chief Militia for Apex building, put down the copy of Fire Next Time he had been reading to reluctantly unlock the door for her.
“Don’t like it! Don’t like it!” the tiny human shouted at me.
It must have been a gunshot. I’d know the sound of a .45 anywhere.