The South Wind [Short Story]

The luminosity that came through the window, barely touched few objects, it almost produced no shadows. I knew well the pitfalls of that rebellious house that revenged the years of misuse by clicking worn floor planks, echoing secrets by thin partitions newly installed, watering rain by the holes of the chandeliers, for long opaque of dust and loneliness.

Strike Not [Short Story]

Las esperanzas engordan pero no maintienen. Hope fattens, but it doesn't keep you alive.

It turned noon as David Alvarez raised the roof of the Crusher. With short little explosive sounds, the Rambler lying in the Crusher’s bed released tension from its new shape, as if it tried to pop its bones back into its joints. The compressor topped up its pressure, and when the gauge showed right for a fast restart, David turned off the diesel.

He removed his earmuffs and hardhat, and the sound in the air flipped from deadness to singing quiet. At that moment, in the time between the crush and the removal of the metal block that had been a car, things felt preternaturally frozen. Then a woman cried out.

The Purloined Guarneri [Short Story]

 Today was a harrowing day.  Dozens of wounded came in every hour from fighting around Londonderry.   Ciara often assisted her father Chief Surgeon Eion Ó Conchobhair during amputations.  When a separated limb lay next to its owner on the operating table, she placed it down on the blood-soaked sawdust floor and quickly returned for the closure and bandaging. Three oversized zinc pails were always filled with amputated limbs; consigned later for burning.  The orderlies responsible for destroying them and scouring the buckets from surgeries after the grueling day’s work, were either too busy elsewhere or laying about too drunk to care.