By Jon Beight

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I came to Juarez last night looking for some tequila and a woman. I found them both, but afterwards I somehow wound up in an all night poker game that didn’t go my way. Credit only goes so far, and then you have to pay the piper.

To settle up, all I had to do was get a “package” over the border and delivered to an El Paso address. Today. That’s all. “Hey, jugador. You fuck this up, we find you, here or across the border! It no matter,” threatened that cigar smoking little shit, Pedro. Pablo. Whatever. He was the number two guy when his boss, the one they call El Mago wasn’t around. He got that nickname because people that crossed him seemed to disappear. Like magic. Pedro’s threat was punctuated by his two simian brained compadres that laid into me for a few go rounds. I suppose I was lucky they didn’t pull their guns, which they weren’t afraid to show off.

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By Jacob Guajardo

Boomer’s roommate, Manny, had broken his arm and couldn’t do the simplest tasks like clipping his toenails. Boomer knew one’s nails were softest straight out of the shower—so Boomer clipped Manny’s nails on the front porch, after his shower. He collected the clippings in a pile beside him and scattered them in the yard when he was finished. “Isn’t it nice to know you’ll be part of a bird’s nest,” Boomer would say to Manny. Sometimes he would lay down the clippers and peel away the free edge with his fingers. He liked this way better.

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By Tina D. Miller

As Joycee moved, her legs rustled the pile of newspaper bedding she had used for several days. Ripped slices of month-old news scattered about her feet. She lifted her head from her makeshift pillow, a worn teddy bear, and peeked out the precipice of the cardboard housing, her glasses cockeyed, her hair tousled. She slithered her body towards the edge of her cardboard box, her temporary home. Her bedding ripped further into two. Her fingerless gloves scraped her skin leaving red skids along her cheeks and forehead as she swiped her hair from her face to peek out into the afternoon city bustle. A shadow approached her, followed by its person.

“Good ‘noon, Joycee.” Papa Albert stepped into the sun’s glow.

“What you want?”

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By Al Rosenberg

It’s hot as hell. Way hotter than I remember it being. With the final box of her refuse jammed into the car, I can feel the line of sweat sliding down my back to pool against my underwear waistband. Jared has already fit his skinny bones into the only space open in the back row of my car, I see him fighting with the seatbelt, trying not to touch the scalding metal buckle.

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By Jaime Balboa

I stand listing on weak, bruised legs with a sick and empty stomach. It hadn’t rained in years, but in November it started and hasn’t yet let up. Today there’s a cold, driving rain. Hallelujah, they’ll say, the great drought is over. I should be grateful but my shoulders are heavy, my heart, numb.

I never thought…

I just…

I still can’t fathom it. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. But I’ve had to stop caring about that. I stopped caring about how things are supposed to be because those chances are lost to me, to all of us.

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By Ben Serna-Grey

The man stood with one finger held to his lips in an unspoken hush. He pulled his other hand from behind his back and opened it in front of the two girls, revealing a tiny green feather that caught whatever small amount of light there was in the darkening sky and fiercely threw it back. The man smiled at the two girls, revealing a set of crooked, heavily yellowed teeth. Then, holding the feather between his thumb and index finger, he handed it over to the youngest of the two girls. She blushed and murmured a thank-you, quickly pressing the feather to her chest and closing her eyes as a strong arm of cold wind pushed past her. When she opened her eyes, the man was gone.

The sisters walked back through the woods toward the wagon, hoping dinner was ready. Once in awhile, they would look at one another. “I think we should hide this from Nana,” said Addie, the youngest. Ena, the oldest, gave a slow nod.

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