G. A. Botero
Bio
I have a million bad ideas, until a good one surfaces. Poetry, short stories, essays.
Resist.
Stories (55)
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Winter Frequencies. Runner-Up in Tales of Hearth Challenge.
I knew something was wrong before mami said a word. It wasn't just the scary wind howling outside our mountain cabin, or the light creaking sound from the wood reacting to the cold of the fresh snow. It was the look in her eyes when she came into the main room, phone in hand, screen dark.
By G. A. Boteroabout a year ago in Families
New traditions, a dia de los muertos story
Carolina stood in the middle of her Florida apartment, surrounded by shopping bags from Michael's and Publix. She felt both nervous and excited, wondering if she was doing the right thing and if she would get it right. The late October Doral heat pressed against her windows as the sound of airplanes destined for Miami International airport breezed by. A YouTube tutorial on creating ofrendas played on her phone. The phone, propped on her dining room table by sugar skulls and stacks of old photos she had selected for the occasion. Growing up, her mother had always kept their Colombian traditions alive - masses, novenas, black dress and black coffee and prayers, many prayers. Now, at twenty-eight, she found herself drawn to a different way of remembering. A new way, from a familiar but foreign tradition.
By G. A. Boteroabout a year ago in Families
The Space Between
It was an end to a long but wonderful day for Sarah. She was finally in her first new house and looking forward to a night of rest in her own home after a day of unpacking. Sleeping on fresh sheets, a new pillow and a super comfy brand new down comforter she found at Marshall's for a steal would make her night. "I'm beat" she thought to herself as she turned off the light and slipped under the coziness of the comforter and closed her eyes.
By G. A. Boteroabout a year ago in Horror
Just Breath
Tick tock, tock, toc. Tightness. feel; see. Nerves twitch Eye open. Her eyes opened. It wasn’t dark anymore. 'How long have I been laying here she thought.' She put her hands to her face and with her fingertips examined her skin. Her skin felt dry but relatively the same as she remembered it. I can’t image I’ve aged much -she murmured. She looked down. A gown. 'How strange.'
By G. A. Botero2 years ago in Fiction
