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A weekly short story contest
Looking for a steady supply of latinx short stories? Every week thousands of writers submit stories to our writing contest.
Coming of Age
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We'll send you 5 prompts each week. Respond with your short story and you could win $250!
If I told you that a few days ago, I was working in my stepmother’s bakery, selling desserts to crazy religious citizens of my hometown, you wouldn’t think twice. Probably laugh and ask me about my stepmother, and how her recipes are so popular. I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me. It’s the same way my ghost friend, arch enemy, and I are now on a pirate ship trapped on the other side of a mirror. Magic...
After the accident, naturally things had to change. Janet said goodbye to Nathan, her husband of 27 years, at Barksdale Funeral Home in Milford. Janet survived but barely and most days she wished she hadn’t. They gave her therapy for her survivor’s guilt and grief as well as her injuries. She longed to return to the home she treasured, so she stopped telling them she wished she hadn’t survived.
Cempasúchil have a particular smell; and it isn’t until you’re dead that you can appreciate how different it is from absolutely everything else. That’s what they say, anyway. I myself spent an absurdly short time in the lower world, so I wouldn’t know what cempasúchil smell like for the living.
But to me, they smell like adventure.
From far off they look like cotton bolls, perfectl...
“I dare you,” my sister told me.
“Isa, I don’t really want to go-”
“I double dare you.”
“But cemeteries are creepy and-”
“I’ll give you all my chocolate candies.”
This made me pause and reconsider. “All of the chocolates? Including the peanut butter cups?”
“Only if you come, Ana,” Isa replied.
“Fine, I’ll do it, but only for the chocolates,” I conceded. ...
Memories. So many. I wish I could erase them all. Then perhaps, I wouldn’t feel so much pain. This is what I think as I hug myself, staring at the starry night sky in front of me, millions of marigold petals creating a path across it, leading back to the mortal world. The bridges are alive, busy with those who are quite the opposite. I push my foot into the red sandstone ground I stand on, laughter echoing around me. It’s...
“You’re wearing the sheet.”
“For the last time, I am not wearing the sheet!” Cassian crossed his arms over his Guns N’ Roses shirt, floating beside the apple tree. His heavy sigh blew a strand of white hair out of his translucent face.
Santi scrabbled up the bark like a squirrel. “C’mon, the ghost in the sheet’s a classic.”
He popped his head through the tree, inch...
By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire.
I sighed. “Alexaaander,” I called in a big-sister tone.
After a few moments, Alex’s face peeped out from behind a maple tree at the edge of the forest. “You always ruin the fun,” he grumbled, loping slowly to me across the leaf-scattered lawn.
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Alex. Put it out. You’ve already burned the house down once; isn’t that eno...
Back then, for Pedro to put food in his wife and son’s mouths would cost him around 600 pesos and would last up to a month. The mechanic business on the banks of the great Parana had been started with the greatest of intentions but with the fall of the economy, the residents of the river either learned to fix the boats themselves or they adopted a paddle. That nasal pressure pressing his eyeballs into the back of his soc...
A long time ago I left my hometown Caracas to live in the countryside and now I have returned. Over forty years passed and, although the city looks the same, many an old building has been demolished and a new one built, others have been just renovated giving them a nicer look.
I was enjoying my recent retirement and since I had nothing better to do but sightsee, I decided to take a long walk from Chacaito
I suppose the third world is ideal for nostalgia. The buildings are the same though they have lost their colour, the energy they emit will never fade, I imagine, so long as the people hold their spirits high. Paco was a bastard child to a man he did not know. His mother did not care to mention his name either. But despite all the hate in her heart, the withered rose pressed between the pages of Pablo Neruda neve...
It is a strange feeling seeing your own grave. I came back to see my family, but they won’t know me. They’ll simply see an old man with a slight Spanish accent. It is only a slight accent because although I am fluent in English, I still held onto my beautiful Spanish language. Language is a key in preserving our culture, but we were told that we must assimilate to be successful.I continue wandering around the memorial park and suddenly I see my family. My heart is overwhelmed with grief and awe. They are having a service rememberin...
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It started out between my fingers.I was down by the brook, swimming naked, because the bruises on my bones sang softer on water than land. I liked to swim. I liked the wet, so I didn’t think much of the moisture under my nails as I tugged on my shift. My toes squished in mud all the way up to the pens, so how was I to know that a thin, tender web of my own skin had sewed them together?There was already a bucket full of milk by the cow’s pen, and an empty milking stool by the cow. I jumped over the fence and untie...
On the porches the Venezuelans played salsa while it rained. Outside it was dark and the air was heavy, and the earth thick with loam and steam, but on the porches illuminated with lanterns and candles and flashlights it was bright and whirling, quick, flexible music floating from each house.Around the backsides of the clapboard houses the jungle was creeping in, trying to grab each house around the waist as if for a dance, intent on consuming the village. But the people beat it bac...
Today is a yellow day. The sunlight sneaks in through the window, writhing on the floor like a snake. Outside, the leafy pecan tree shakes in the wind.
To be honest, I do not write. When I do, it is facts and information. In the city I did not have time for poetry or pretty words. No one wanted pretty words or expected it of me. But now, alone with the cold stone and cold yellow light and snakes made from the sun, I have time.
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