Tag: joaquin emiliano
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we lasted through winter.
i was sideways, asleep, or thought i was, between them, worried what if i would never feel this way again. morning just starting to peak. wouldn’t make its way through those blinds for a good bit, no use for the future. just an indication seeping in through kitchen windows. catastrophic gold. in love, two times…
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sometimes they listen.
The evening played out in timestamps. Front lawn embedded with individual flat rocks, leading up to closed eyes, her fingers tensing, slick with grease, firm grip worried that if she didn’t dig in with her thumbnail, the present might pass. She thought about the kitchen, husband rolling his eyes and telling her that thyme was…
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corrective. elective. ruby.
Before she left me for the Champs-Élysées, Helena had clocked in a good six months at an upper-east side dive colloquially known as Red Rum. Long after it was over between us, I’d find myself stopping by. The food was bad, the beer rank. On more than one occasion, some poor sod got his face…
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my friend.
i was sitting on a stranger’s futon, counting sheep, when one happened to wander from the fence. came on over and bummed a smoke. helped itself to some wine. bright white and so very cloudy. after an hour or so, i felt that talking to a sheep couldn’t be any more crazy than watching one…
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goblin.
When we made it back from the woods, doors locked, triple bolted behind us, gray afternoon streaming in through the cracks, Milo handed me every implement, instructing what to do with each one. It was IMPORTANT, he said, and made it clear I needed to remember ALL OF THEM. But a single fleck of blood…
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final night.
Once they were certain the security guard was well into his skinny mag, the dolls came to life, met in the middle of the warehouse. Stood in a semicircle under a pool of tar-stained light. Various dresses, shapes, sizes, finger lengths, eye colors, even skin colors, because there had been changes over the past few…
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broad daylight.
At first, I didn’t know what I was seeing. Second glance solidifying the fact that, yes, there was a man crawling into the sewer. By the time I had rounded the corner where St. Patrick meets Palmyra, his head was already in the drain. So just a torso, legs, arms spread out across the pavement.…
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i am a lefty.
So I remember that certain sixth grade school in Santiago, where it was dictated that all children complete their written assignments strictly in fountain pen. Insert cartridge. Tap the tip long enough to make it wet. Get to work. Always what was assigned, rote. Always what was demanded, always cursive. And my born, raised and…
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Sable.
Her footprints led to the ocean’s edge. She stood where the waves wouldn’t touch, naked toes just out of reach from the sea foam. Wasn’t sure of much anymore, but she sensed that any premature contact, when the moment arrived, would drag her away. Then down into the depths. The wind whipped at her…
notes from a never-was. 