Every Friday night we feature a short story, essay, personal narrative, poem,
spoken word, or short film for your enjoyment.
Tonight’s flash fiction piece is from Guilliean Pacheco
The Joshua trees are brown now, the color of the grains of sand that rise up to meet their fibrous skeletons. The paint had long ago evaporated from the husk of the car, leaving behind its metal frame in reticent testimony to God. She hauled the memories of that ominous night on her back through the births of her seven children, the last time she saw the ocean for the first time, the death of her favorite pit bull. It’s a Sisyphean task to remember anymore, as she squinted through the burnish of Vegas that slipped through the slant in her eyes. No else is left to remember.
Guilliean Pacheco is a multi-hyphenate member of AWP. She is currently sitting for her MFA in Writing from the University of San Francisco. She lives in Las Vegas normally, if one could call living there normal. http://www.facebook.com/guilliean http://twitter.com/hellogilly http://instagram.com/hellogilly