L.L. Madrid

Pretend it isn't Destiny

Ephemeral Girls

In seventeen years, little has changed on Catalina Avenue. The cars that line the narrow, curling street are coated year-round with desert dust. Old pictures reveal that our casita was once a buttery yellow. Now it's sun-bleached to the same color as the bones that we find in the wash behind the neighborhood.

Red Touches Yellow by L.L. Madrid

Though lifeless, the onyx eye of the mourning dove reflects dawn's sunburst. My sister Vera discovered the bird, and she wants to know what I think of it. We sip from mugs of instant Folgers and regard the dove. She lies belly down on the doorstep with her neck bent back as if trying to...

Aiming For God by L.L. Madrid

An alert chimes on my phone. Like one of Pavlov's dogs, I react instantly. It takes only a swift click to read the breaking news. Active shooter. Fifteen to twenty hostages. Eight reported dead. I feel a barb-sharp sting when I recognize the suburb's name.

Bottle Caps

Mara twisted the lid from the old pickle jar, releasing its tangle of vinegar, yeast, and rust. She reached in and plucked out the first bottle cap. Heineken green....

Tiny Stitches

Tiny Stitches Few people in the world find growth charts as interesting as I do. Madeline certainly doesn't. She's my half-sister and my favorite person. Even though I'm seven years younger than her, we're almost the same height. That's because I'm in the 100th percentile in my age group while she's in the 25th percentile for hers....

Music from the B-side by L.L. Madrid | Bartleby Snopes

To occupy my mind, I play the only game I can. Lenses. Pretending my eyes are twin cameras I pan them from my left side peripheral to my right and select my target. Today it's easy. Helen left the album sleeve leaning against the crate. It is a new record in the lineup.

Here Fishing

Here Fishing Every Sunday my grandfather fishes at Ripple Pond. It’s an old habit, one anchored in boyhood. His mother allowed him to forgo church for fishing, as he was more contemplative by the water’s edge.

Wild Bruises and Mechanical Birds in the Blackened Hours by L L Madrid - Reflex Fiction

Every night, the great rock face puts on a show depicting the lifetime of a bruise. First, the sun melts over the cliffs, wounding them with a bright red glow. The hue deepens to a blood orange and as the night conquers, the mountains go lurid with violet.

Nipple Gazing - Lunch Ticket

Nineties Girlhood No one ever praised me for being smart, only for being good. Good meant pretty and quiet, pressed like a flower in the middle of a bell curve. The first time I thought about becoming an adult had nothing to do with ambition but with a yearning to be beautiful.

Fever Wish

Marisol turns eight in the midst of a wildfire summer. The mountains burn, and the valley smells of mesquite and smoke hovers, always in your eyes. Even lifelong desert dwellers complain about the heat. The monsoons are late.

Museum of the Unseen

A gathering of bleary-eyed people waited for the number seven bus. Nods of acknowledgment bobbed from chin to chin. Though Marin stood at the corner every weekday for the past two years, she didn’t know anyone’s name. She was the quiet sort, preferring assumptions to small talk.

Monsoon Season

Gila woodpeckers forged a hollow at the heart of a great saguaro. It was a water witch who first filched the three-eyed coyote skull and secreted it in the hole, nestling the smooth bones against the cactus's spine. Knowledge of...

The Nape

It’s hard to fall asleep. It’s been that way for awhile, but tonight is especially bad. Annalise Yancy showed up to English with her hair cut almost all off. Sitting behind her, I couldn’t help staring. Her hair used to hang straight over her shoulders. Now I see her bare neck, the rest of the hair buzzed into an inverted triangle. It looks soft. The urge to reach forward and run a finger down the center of her nape leaves me short of breath and aching from restraint.

The Rat Girl of Saint Bruno's |

Sister Mary Elizabeth acts cheerful, but she's afraid. My nose crinkles. Underneath the mildew, I can smell her fear. She calls me sweetheart and is careful not to look at me. It's funny; grown-ups try their best not to see, but kids stare, too scared to turn away.

On the House by L.L. Madrid

In the early hours of a not-so-long-ago Christmas Eve, snow blanketed the prairie patchwork and rolled through the wide, empty streets of Buck, South Dakota. In some other place the snow might have conjured up a pastoral quaintness, a season's greetings sort of charm. In Buck it slabbed every available surface like poured concrete.