218 July, 2015
This month, enjoy the creative collaborations of María Aparicio Puentes! In 2008, María earned a degree in Architecture from the University of Chile (Santiago, Chile). In 2011, María received a Master in Urban Design: Art, …

María Aparicio Puentes

pages Micro-Fiction

Sketches from a Life of a Police Sketch Artist

Issue No. 218 ~ July, 2015

While the witness was describing the perp, he thought that surely he’ll get caught, sketch or not. All that’s needed is to put a description on the APB: “male, medium size, face like a arch-villain.”

Momma

Issue No. 218 ~ July, 2015

She was bucktooth and had a face like milk and her hips sang and all the boys wanted to be with Momma, but she didn’t want any of them, and she would run from them and call them lil’ boys, and everybody knew that, but the boys still kept coming.

The Dissidents

Issue No. 218 ~ July, 2015

Why are they sitting with their backs to the window? Don’t they know better? Haven’t they read “The Official CIA Manual of Trickery and Deception”? Or is the notion of martyrdom something they are toying with?

local_library Poetry

map Macro-Fiction

Korean Sojourn

Issue No. 218 ~ July, 2015

His attitude turned to one of amazement when he walked out of the hotel and into the crisp morning. Seoul’s tired streets now looked like Fifth Avenue. Here was a Benetton, nearby a Coach, and a Starbucks on every corner. America, with its potholed roads, crumbling buildings, and panhandlers, was a second-class country in comparison.

Of Mice and Keyboard

Issue No. 218 ~ July, 2015

Whenever the mega millions reached 100 million, a bunch of us in the office would start a pool: Dana in Communications, Angela in Programs, Umang the web guy, Barry in Finance, and me in IT. …

Red Breath, Red Eyes

Issue No. 218 ~ July, 2015

This is the first thing you think as you crawl out of bed, the noonday sun beginning to warm the room. A breeze pulls little eddies of air into circulation, stirred by all the vague pressures like heat and the density of pollution. The smell of depression-sweat and rotten fruit floats around, but you don’t gag like you used to.