The Red Butterfly, Part Eighteen – Te Pareces A Tú Padre
Short Story Those words; He is your father. Was it betrayal? Even now, all of these years later, I cannot say that I felt betrayed. I did not thrash about, scream; throw a fit. Maybe...
Author: Sergio Remon Alvarez
The Red Butterfly, Part Seventeen – There Was Nothing
Short Story There was a loud bang and a sudden blast of cold air. I looked towards the source of the noise. The door to Candela was flung open and on the threshold stood...
Metamorphosis
Poem It is winter when I leave my home in the crepuscular morning. Summer when I return at twilight. Spring occurs somewhere in the in-between though I am not witness to it. Men, women,...
The Red Butterfly, Part Sixteen – Not For Tourists
Short Story She was right; there would be no dancing tonight. This was traditional flamenco. “This song is called Bulerias por Solea,” said Anna, “es muy antigua.” This was the old stuff, what had...
The Red Butterfly, Part Fifteen – Starve or Live on Whiskey
Short Story A man began to sing el Cante Jondo, The Deep Song, his voice like a volcano eruption. How can I properly explain the sound coming from this man‘s face? Once, while stationed...
The Red Butterfly, Part Fourteen – Friend of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion
Short Story On the back of the photograph, written in pencil, were the words Robert J, 1937, Escorial España. I took the photograph and left the study. I went to my room and laid...
The Red Butterfly, Part Thirteen – He Looked Hungry, He Looked Happy
Short Story After the Civil War ended, my mother and I fled to the United States. New York City was the golden jewel, and we arrived there first. But finding that it reminded her...
Slow Travel: Cuba, Before I Go
Travel Stories In February, I received an email from Dave Ambrosio, inviting me to come to Havana with him to study Cuban folkloric music. We would be staying in the home of percussionist Miguel...
The Red Butterfly, Part Twelve – Chip
Short Story The man I knew as my father was an airplane mechanic with Boeing named Charleston-but everyone called him Chip. He was tall and paunchy and bald, with a perfect ring of black...
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...
A Poem About Rejection
Poem Another rejection Letter And soon I will have Enough rejections Slips Piling on the floor that they will form a Mountain For me to climb On the peak I will plant my flag...
The Red Butterfly, Part Eleven – A War Worth Fighting
Short Story The music had begun. Anna kissed the old horse-faced man on both cheeks, then gave him a hug. She must know him, I thought. The Horse-faced man disappeared into the crowd that...
The Red Butterfly, Part Ten – That Is Where He Died
Short Story “I told you that we would meet again,” said Augustín. “You were right.” “I am always right, Americano,” he said as he closed the door behind us. We entered a small space...
The Red Butterfly, Part Nine – Go, Dog!
Short Story We were silent as we walked, the only sounds coming from roving packs of wild dogs who first sniveled and begged at us, then growled when food was not forthcoming. “Vete perro,...
The Red Butterfly, Part Eight – I Danced With Duende
Short Story “I danced for El Cuadillo,” Anna said, bringing me out of my dark thoughts. “I danced for him. And I made a bargain with him.” “When was this?” “A long time ago,” she...
Slow Travel: An Amateur Drinks Wine
Non-Fiction I am no expert on Wine. In a blind taste test, I probably wouldn’t able to distinguish one wine from another, one vintage from another, or one grape from another. Neither would I...
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...
The Red Butterfly, Part Seven – I Hope It Hurts
Short Story “Why did you tell them to go that way?” said Anna. “Why not?” said Carlos. “Because it is the wrong way. Because you have sent them to Plaza de Lavapiés.” “And so?”...
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