BAP Quarterly

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by: Patty Somlo

Alejandro knew he was dead but that didn’t stop him from wanting to come to America.  His body lay on the dry dirt exactly where he’d fallen, the muscles rapidly losing their ability to stretch out and contract.  His mouth was fixed, oddly enough, in a permanent grin.

He had a terrible urge to speak to someone, really anyone would have been fine.  A young man of twenty-four, Alejandro hadn’t been the least bit prepared for death and wanted to make sure his assessment of the condition in which he had unexpectedly found himself was correct. more



by: Robert Wexelblatt


She had not gone to bed with him, consoled or inquired after him, eaten with him, reproached, upbraided or mocked him in seventeen days. Before their last time together there had been a hiatus of a week and a half. And he knew she was free too, free over the three-day weekend, on Wednesday afternoons when they were both off as usual, and last Thursday night when her husband, fifteen years too old for her, had been out of town; and so when he asked why and there was a viscous silence he’d broken it by blurting I’ve had enough and that it was obviously over and in that moment their whole romance or affair or whatever it was had turned into a downhill slide, a shift of semantic stress from “Nothing is better than this” to “Nothing is better than this.”  She hadn’t even bothered to remark on how long it had taken him to catch on.  more

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