I was a goblin once.
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When we moved to the big house, Abuela said it was a dangerous place. Peligroso. Mom cut her a sharp glance, and said, “English, Mama.”
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This is what I've been reduced to: an alley between two streets, created by brick buildings only a hundred and fifty years old. The asphalt is worn to a tired gray, bent into ruts where supply trucks and city vehicles have pressed their wheels again and again, squeezing alongside green dumpsters scarred by reckless drivers and decrepit wooden ( Read more... )