Camp City, a basti made of tarpaulin tents, was meant to be a temporary address. The government issued your grandparents refugee cards and they believed better days were about to come. Look how that turned out. Even poles of the boundary fence began to rot. Barbed wires sagged from the weight of drying clothes.
Snow Legs
Every morning, we stood beside the frosty appendages, gripping our mugs of coffee, searching for changes. Even when the temperatures fluctuated, the legs didn’t morph or shrink.
What is There Time For
All joking aside, time travel, like breaking up, is something we do to ourselves. It’s effectual. It’s our fault and only our goddamn fault.
Every Room
I try to be your daughter. I try to make you my mother.
A Gallery of Limbs
These images kept breaking in, things about Aubrey he fought so hard not to remember.
Life on the Water
The morning wind swirled down cool and soft from the mountains, shaking the tops of the short pines on the foothills, stirring the dust at Ignacio’s feet and raising his hopes. He leaned back against the car, black and sleek, borrowed from his brother, and fingered the coins in his pocket.
Homestead
Harvest day is the most important day of the week.
Versos de mi Alma
I am sitting in my mother’s red Bonneville station wagon. Mamá’s hair is still black and long and flows over the back of the seat.
Coral Street
"Something moved across the street. Between the rows of the first and second floor windows something dark and sinewy slipped from one hidden place to another."
Cues
This is your stage manager. If you haven’t already, please sign in. My attention flips between the pages of a nearly failed history midterm and the unopened prompt book, today’s bible. I open the binder, and my fingers glide over the script—sound and lighting cues, lists, drawings, and contact sheets. The booth is dim and … Continue reading Cues
BERKELEY FICTION REVIEW 