Fall 2008 • Vol. XXX No. 4 Fiction |

Diablo Baby

Which one of you is my father? I know what you, with the twitching lips, and you, and you—with the knotting eyebrows and bulging notebook—will say. The obvious thing. Ask your mother. I have. She speaks to me (and sings to me and dances for me) just as a mother should. And I, Diablo Baby, talk to her. I never gooed and gaaed and gurgled like other mothers' babies. Why pretend to be ordinary when you are not? But when I ask her the big question, all she can do is show me a tattered rag of a sari. It is bleached cotton, so old, frayed and grimy that it could be a strip of dry bark curling at the edges. But the picture on it glistens; white chalk flesh, yellow and red hibiscus of vegetable dye. There is a body in the picture, a body that has trapped the glint of silver in its bulges and ripples and folds. A piece of bloated moon that sits on a carpet of succulent forest flowers, on a sheet of smooth, fiery blood. I have looked at this image many times. In it my refl

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Sandlot

By W. David Hall

Which one of you is my father? I know what you, with the twitching lips, and you, and you—with the knotting eyebrows and bulging notebook—will say. The obvious thing. Ask […]

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