I’m essentially a first-generation Mexican American or Chicano, born and raised in El Paso. I later learned that Nana Cuca and her family fled their hacienda during the Mexican revolution when rebels were looting the more affluent families in the area. She was 12 years-old and married very young. My mother was born in Juárez, Mexico in 1917 and immigrated to El Paso with her parents. Much of the knowledge of my Mexican heritage came from Nana Cuca and not from my parents. There was a reluctance on their part to talk about their early lives growing up as immigrants in Texas.
My father had a hard life working as a carpenter and construction worker for most of his life. My sisters and I lived in several rental homes with our parents; they could never afford a home of their own.…
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Clarence realized he couldn’t get up. He lay flat on his back on the hard ground. Slowly, he rolled over on his stomach trying to remember what had happened. His legs had given out. But why? That’s right, I was shot. Damn legs are worthless now.
It was dusk but the heat of the day was still emitting from the ground below his prostrate body. He looked behind him, but in his mind he knew what he would see. Yes, they’re dead. All dead. The bodies of his comrades—all members of Seal Team Six—lay strewn along the ground, motionless and silent.
Clarence surveyed his surroundings. He was next to a large shrub and a plastic green recycle bin which shielded him from view from the small field littered with his fallen comrades’ bodies and a deserted country lane just beyond. …
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and slowly I would rise and dress
fearing the chronic angers of that house
Robert Hayden
Well into adulthood I remember my mother
would walk with me in the pre-dawn
grade school days, bundled against cold,
and with each other, against my father.
We crept like criminals through the house
into sparsely lamplit streets where,
out of earshot, we could talk about him,
alone in bed unbothered in sleep, or
earlier up, off to his own refuge from us:
the work that kept us fed, and him, in habit.
We talked about his drinking years ago—
Betty Ford Clinics before I was born, and
gambling debt; desperate and angry, my mother
hid away from him his pistol, dumped
the crudely stashed bags of mini-bottles,
and went alone to beg the bookies
for time to work it out—we talked about
the time since (if she suspected he was
drinking, she kept it from me): how terrible
he was to be around; how sullen he’d become.…
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Rain was steadily beating against the windshield. Rain — one factor the travelers had not counted on. This was to be a weekend getaway to help Jessie and Scott repair their troubled relationship.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Jessie rolled her eyes at her partner.
“Of course. Besides, I know how to read a map.” Scott smiled.
“This road doesn’t look very well-traveled.”
After a few minutes without conversation, Scott said, “You may be right. Check that page again.”
Jessie reached under the seat, retrieving a worn red notebook: “Campers Guide to the Midwest.” A cardboard bookmark protruded from the book and she flipped to that page.
“Are we looking for ‘Courtney Campground’?”
“That’s the one. Read the directions.”
“Past Woodley, Missouri, on Route 24…”
“Wait a minute.…
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Their first train was streamlined, modern, and fast—an engineering marvel that streaked through the countryside in a blur. The French called it le train à grande vitesse, and when it ran, it was a source of pride, a symbol of innovation. But now, parked and abandoned at night, it appeared fragile, its stainless-steel skin muted by layers of snow. What was once a marvel now lay dormant, its sleek form buried beneath the weight of a winter storm.
The American couple sat inside a small, dimly lit café in the train station, lost in their own uncertainty, the air thick with the murmur of fellow travelers. They had been sipping wine for hours, their eyes glazed from the endless wait for the snow to relent.…
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I. Flicker
A bulb flickers /
a tired eye closing /
and then / nothing.
The walls whisper.
And silence comes next /
not of peace / no /
but of ten people holding breath.
At the edge of a day unravelling /
darkness soaks our fatigue.
We look at each other /
a strange assembly /
struck / by misfortune or luck?
Huddled in a remote valley.
Lightning lashes the roof of the shed.
The children crawl from their beds /
not in fear /
but in intrigue /
as if the night itself
has opened its mouth to speak.…
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Dad drove me down and left when the car was unpacked. He’d been telling me that college would be the best four years of my life. I was put in Williamson, a storied freshman cesspool. Brick, tall, sweaty and germy. I assume Williamson was a good old sport. Very toff, I bet. The carpets were firmer than cement and the furniture, I know you know it. Stiff grainy wood and battered cushioning. And that smell! That smell that will be described, in the court papers for the class action suit, as a sort of gluey smell. An industrially gluey glue smell. An odorous omen of cancer to come! It pervaded and the rooms felt a bit like cells but that was ok I guess.
Billy and Noah were my roommates.…
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