Chris Figueroa
Bio
Short story writer and hopeful author. I write to make you think, or laugh, or groan, or hate me. Whichever works, as long as you read it. @Figz21K on twitter.
Stories (2)
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Long Walk
“This feels a bit excessive.” I shift the pack slung over my shoulders. My father and I are about to head out on a hike in the middle of winter to Azure Pond. My father is a few feet ahead of me. His pack bouncing up and down on his shoulders as he walks. He had gotten to pack light; I carry everything of value. Both chairs and our sleeping packs managed to make it onto my back instead of his. I am beginning to resent him and this trail. “I can take something if you want, Chico.” His voice akin to a Puerto Rican mafioso cut through my thoughts. I shake my head. “No, thanks. I got this.” Just because I was whining about it didn’t mean I wanted him to take something from me. “I knew you had those big muscles for a reason.” He cracks a smile. His teeth are stained and chipped, but his smile the same one that had captured my mother's heart. I flex and say laughing. “Yeah, gettin' me into the gym when I was younger really paid off in your old age. Now you don’t have to carry nothing.” He laughs.
By Chris Figueroa4 years ago in Fiction
Pieces
She rubs her neck. It’s stiff and tender. She winces and breathes deeply; the smell of blood and smoke overwhelms her nose. Her eyes stare forward into the black night, the SUV speeding down a side street. Bloodshot eyes flick towards the rear-view mirror. They dart back and forth. Paranoia sets in. She focuses on her image in the mirror noting the kinks in her armor. Strands of blonde hair stick to the blood and tears on her face. An egg yolk bruise stretched across one side of her face. One of her eyes is swollen and puffy, red spots are flecked through their normal grey. She doesn’t need to look to know that her nose is broken, too. She feels it every time she takes a breath. Her grip on the steering wheel is tight. She can’t tell if its rattling is the ramshackle road or the nerves and fear building. Tears well up inside her and the question is no longer relevant. Her strength wavers and tears roll down her cheeks. The sobs begin and are uncontrollable. Her fingers fumble on the dash until they find the hazard lights and flick them on. She takes her foot off the gas and drifts to the side of the road. Her tender hands grip the gear shaft. Her nails are destroyed too, the blue polish chipped and cracked. She buries her mangled head in her hands and sobs.
By Chris Figueroa4 years ago in Fiction
