Then I saw it.

A giant armoire in the back of the attic. I heard scuffles of feet running on the floor below me. It was now or never. With my heart pounding in my throat, I navigated over chests, picture frames, boxes and cable wire. Going over around a stack of boxes that touched the ceiling, I hit a lamp. I watched with horror as it toppled over. The thud it made was unmistakable; clearly something had fallen over in the attic. The scrambling downstairs stopped. I had minutes, maybe seconds. My knees buckled with anxiety and fear. My hands fumbled with door and my shoe scuffed the bottom of the armoire as I climbed inside.

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Season Ticket




The sun is blazing. Heat rises in bubbling waves from the

pavement. Traffic is backed up. It’s at a complete

standstill. Noise blares from open car windows as people

taunt some non-existent breeze. We come to a relatively old

car. Paint is thinning. There’s a big dent in it on the





Two people sitting in the front of the car. One a lumpy man;

bald, pot-belly, round glasses pushed up into wispy blond

hair. The other passenger is a very large woman, bulbous,

rotund, oozing unpleasant pale flesh from under a floral

moo-moo. She is loudly snacking on a big bag of Cheetos.

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. . . Often times, we do not know a good thing when we have it. In freshman year of high school, during Spanish class, we were presented with some of the classics: Jorge Luis Borges, Frederica Garcia Lorca and, of course, Pablo Neruda. But meeting him was like meeting a little boy in kindergarten and all he does is pinch your arms, or kick your chair, or pull your hair.

Continue reading Closer to Blood Than Ink (excerpt)

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