A Letter to Javier Marias
Short Story Dear Your Royal Highness, The Esteemed Javier Marías, I am writing to submit to you my candidacy for Duke of Redonda. In doing so, I shall list the qualities that here to...
Author: Sergio Remon Alvarez
River of Rats, Part One – Clichy-sous-Bois
Short Story It was early summer when Joanna and I arrived in Paris. The spring rains had just cleared and left behind a reflective sheen on the old cobblestones. Everything had a sort of misty...
The Wind Blew And The Old House Groaned, Part One – The Damp House
The old damp house dripping wet and sagging from the rain loomed ahead on the hill. The two boys stood in front of the gate paralyzed. “Come on, don’t be such a wuss,” said...
The Red Butterfly, Part Six – Love in the Time of War
Short Story We walked through the dark streets of Lavapiés, past shuttered Indian, Chinese, and Arabic shops selling trinkets and mysterious packaged goods. The streets were empty except for young North African men who...
The Red Butterfly, Part One – El Americano
Short Story I stood on the bank of the Manzanares, smoked a cigarette, and pissed into the river. The Manzanares was like a stream of urine on a hot summer sidewalk. I had made...
Carbon Dust
Poem Life is like a burning ember crackling on the edge of an inferno but the flames never arrive instead the slow consumption of the soul when heat rises to the point of combustion...
Slow Travel: Fighting Bulls in Navarre
Essay When you stand in front of a bull and incite it to charge, with nothing more than a flannel cape in hand, the first thing you notice is the animal’s speed… As in, it’s extremely fast. The...
A Place Where I Belong
Poem I almost always find myself at the little pink house on Rue Saint-Vincent on the Butte Montmartre. I go there to see Amala Landré sing Edith Piaf songs and to see them...
To What Destiny of Mine
Poem To what destiny of mine I ask , O conscript fathers, so that I may have this query rejoined. I tour the western rim of the fluvius Tiberis as night pursues the...
The Prophet
Poem If I wandered the streets With feet unshod like Socrates and demanded You answer the question: “What is Justice?” Would You think I was a lunatic? Or just another prophet. more...
