The Wistful Crossroads
Act I Rosario Talamantes, forty-two years old and holding a debt at the company store that closed last Tuesday, stood in the dust of the village square where the bamboo hills swallowed the sound of the inspector’s car. I did not want to be a medium, a title that stuck to me like wet clay, but the shadows of the recently deceased lingered in the corners of my vision, translucent and cold, and I...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews