My nightmares don’t have a pattern, but lately they’ve been about my dead father-in-law. I am walking down an unlit hallway, searching for the light switch. My hand traces the paneling, catching splinters from the knotty pine. A fluorescent light shines on James, like he’s on a stage, but he spoils the moment when he points to my bleeding finger.… more
Writer: Francisco Martínezcuello
