Category Archives: Published Fiction

The Last Mountain, Published in Weather or Not

An old man watches as the last of “those purple mountain majesties” crumples to coal dust.

Published in Weather or Not, January 2014

Weather or Not was published by BACK TO PRINT, a publishing apartment of storytellers broadening ther world of bookmaking with an offline community of creatives where stories can be crafted, published and told. Learn more via GETBACKTOPRINT@GMAIL.COM

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Excerpt from “The Last Mountain”

All the rest are gone. They are as flat a politician’s promise. I sit on my porch in the swing my grand-daddy built and look out at a lunar landscape. Under the gray sky there are deep craters of dirt and gravel where once stood those purple mountains majesty you sing about in school. Now all but one of them are ghosts in the corners of my eyes in the glimmer of dusty sunlight. I blink my eyes trying to reckon the sight in front of me and my memories. It used to be rolling hills and tree covered cliff tops, tall as the clouds with peaks in every direction.

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Get your copy of Weather or Not from these fine independent book sellers:

Quimbys – 1854 West North Avenue, Chicago, IL 60622

Women and Children First – 5233 North Clark Street  Chicago, IL 60640

Uncharted Books– 2630 N Milwaukee Avenue Chicago, IL 60647

Chicago Comics – 3244 N Clark St, Chicago, IL 60657

G-Mart Comics – 2641 N Kedzie Ave, Chicago, IL 60647

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Ghost Games, Published in Two With Water


Growing up in a haunted house is challenging enough, never mind having to deal her parents’ rocky marriage, but now Lucia’s mom decides 13 is the perfect age to reveal the family curse.

Published in Two With Water, Second Dose, May 2012

Based on my husband’s family folklore, Ghost Games is the story that inspired my novel Corridos of the Copper Coin.


Mami walked toward the kitchen, her green plastic slippers tapping and scuffing on the floor.  One of the candles went out and Abuelita eased out of the rocking chair to relight it.  She pointed down at the tin box, and Ernesto dumped all the dominoes onto the floor at once.  As they tumbled onto the floor, Mami suddenly yelped “Ay!” like someone who hit their thumb with a hammer.

Next thing you know she stomped into the living room holding one of her green slippers in her hand.  “Who was it, who pulled my hair?  Pobren de ustedes si no me dicen!”  She said and we knew that if someone didn’t speak up we’d get a spanking we wouldn’t soon forget.

Ay, m’ija, it wasn’t them,” Abuelita said once again easing back into the rocker, “All of the children were here playing dominoes.  What in God’s name has gotten into you?”  Mami was fuming her face was bright red, and she squeezed the slipper so tightly it started to fold down the middle.  The little ones on the floor scooched backwards toward the sofa with their hands on their bottoms.   I crossed my legs uncomfortably.

“Who pulled my hair!”  Mami said again.

Calmate!” Abuelita said “ I’m telling you it wasn’t them, just tell us what happened, Delores.”

Mami took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the slipper. “I was washing dishes,” she said, “My hands were in the water up to my elbows.  Suddenly I felt my hair grabbed and yanked back so hard I could feel my skin tearing,” She demonstrated for us, holding a chunk of her hair in her hand pulling it out straight.   “My neck aches from the snap.  It must have been one of the children playing a joke!”  She slammed the slipper down to the floor and all the candles flickered out at the same time.

“Pray,” Abuelita said while Mami relit the candles as quickly as possible.  In the dark, shadows that could be ghosts flickered on the walls and ceiling.   Abuelita gathered Risa and Berto onto her lap, and Tito and Lena pulled themselves closer to the rocking chair laying their heads against Abuelita’s legs.  Mami nudged Ernesto to the sofa where she squeezed him and herself in beside me. Whenever things got real scary both Mami and Abuelita said you should stop, take a deep breath and pray to la virgencita to protect you.  So we prayed, those of us old enough to remember the words that is.  The little children got quiet and eventually fell asleep to the gentle sound of Mami’s and Abuelita’s rosary beads softly clicking in their hands.

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Get your copy of Two With Water from these fine independent book sellers:

Quimbys – 1854 West North Avenue, Chicago, IL 60622

The Book Cellar – 4736 North Lincoln Avenue # 1  Chicago, IL 60625

Women and Children First – 5233 North Clark Street  Chicago, IL 60640

Bucket o’ Blood – 2307 North Milwaukee Avenue  Chicago, IL 60647

Uncharted Books– 2630 N Milwaukee Avenue Chicago, IL 60647

Transistor – 3819 North Lincoln Avenue  Chicago, IL 60613

or online at

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Filed under Fiction, Published Fiction, Uncategorized

Newest Publications – CellStories!

CellStories, a very cool lit-mag available only by cell phone, is going to publish two of my stories! Watch for “Vegetarian” this week and a special reprinting of “La Llorona” just in time for Halloween!

Check them out at:

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La Llorona

A story about a young boy who is determined to lasso the ghost of La Llorona and prove she is nothing to be afraid of.

Published in 10,000 Tons of Black Ink in its debut issue:

December 2007

La Llorona

by April Galarza

When Señor Delajolla was a young boy growing up in Mexico, there was a story about why you should never go out past Don Alberto’s south pasture after dark. La Llorona was there and if you saw her face you would never know happiness again.

When Sergio first heard about the weeping woman, La Llorona, he couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious black ribbon flapping in the wind, caught in a splinter of wood on the gate. It was said she was back again wandering the dusty riverbed with her blood-red robozo wrapped around her shoulders and her black braid thick and swinging against her back like a snake hanging from a tree.

As he closed the gate behind him he saw the ribbon and clasped it in his hand, catching it from the wind. The second he held it the pain sharpened in his stomach like someone grabbed a fistful of flesh and was twisting it. It felt like he had been running hard and fast without taking enough breaths. He ran into the house clutching the ribbon in his fist like a moth that might fly away.

When he told his mother how he felt she admonished him for being so foolish. She stood on her tiptoes and pulled a green glass bottle from the plank shelf above the fireplace. She popped the cork of the bottle and held it under Sergio’s nose. It smelled of cilantro and honey and something earthy like moss. As the smell rose through his nose and inhaled into his lungs the pain in his stomach was eased. “Now get that thing out from under this roof before you bring La Llorona to our doorstep,” his mother said.

She sat him down on the bench and reminded him curtly that now that his Papi was gone he was the man and somewhere in the night, outside the shutters and white scrubbed walls of the little house were things no Catholic should ever lay eyes on.

click here to download pdf of complete story.

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Filed under Fiction, Published Fiction

The End of Summer


Published in the Story Week Reader 2006

The ice cream man, paletero, pushes his cart ahead of him. He has dirty white sneakers and hairy legs. His shorts come past his knees. The cotton bunches up around his thin waist. He takes wide steps.

The cart has one wheel that does not turn anymore, so it scrapes on the sidewalk while the others roll. He leans forward as he pushes. His eyes are straight ahead toward the blocks and blocks of neatly cut lawns. He uses one hand to grip the bar and the other to shake a row of bells.

In the old days the children would stop chasing each other under the slide, they would come down from the hot summer stoops and from the playground behind the school. Mamas and tías would watch from the porches with their sleeves rolled up.

The children would have dirty hands, brown knees and red faces. Their breath would catch in their throats. “huh huh huh una fresa por favor, Señor Paletaro.”

The ice cream man would reach elbow deep in the cart. The children would wait patiently with crumpled bills in their sweaty fists. “Un piña, un arroz por favor, yo tambien,” They would say. He would hand them the cool bars wrapped in paper: pineapple, rice, lemon, strawberry and mango. They’d hold them upside down by the sticks. He would close the dented silver top and smile as the children turned away kicking rocks as they walked, tossing the paper into the gutter, pressing their lips into the cold summer treats.

But today is a cold day at the end of the summer. Only a few children huddle under the slide. It’s not cold enough to see their breath but they all wear jackets. The paletero shrugs under his thin sweatshirt. The kid standing under the slide has sharp hair, gelled up. His shoelaces are untied. Turtle-like his small head sticks out of his puffy jacket. As the paletero approaches the playground, the kid swaggers toward the cart.

“Isn’t it kind of late for ice cream, Paletero,” He says smirking, adding to his companion, a younger kid,

“Hey paisano, why don’t you give the ice cream man here some business, probably be his last sale of the season.” The younger kid hurries to join him, dark and small with half his face hidden under a red ball cap. The kid stares perplexed at the selection in the ice.

“Que quieres?” The paletero asks.

“I don’t want to put my hand in the ice, it’s too goddam cold.” The kid wipes snot off his nose with the back of his glove. The older man puts his hand on the outside of his thigh and feels how empty his pocket is.

“Quieres comprar algo, o no?” he asks. Pinche chiquiyos he thinks if I was their papa, I’d…

“Un arroz, hombre,” The kid in the red hat says. The paletero’s hands are cold. He has no gloves. They hurt when he digs through the ice. The kid in the puffy coat rolls his gum out of his mouth and into his hand. He spreads it and shapes it between his thumb and his pointer finger. When the paletero has turned to face the boy handing him the ice cream by the stick, the puffy coated kid spreads the gum across the wood where the row of bells is affixed, exactly where the paletero will place his hand. The kid in the red hat takes his sweet time counting out the dollar, most of which is in pennies. When the older man finishes moving the money to his pocket he closes the lid of the cart and turns to face the handle. His hand touches the gum and as he pulls his hand away from the cart and the gum trails off his middle finger.

“Culeros, no mas me viene a molestar, your padres know how you treat old men?” The kid in the red hat peals the wrapper off slowly letting strips of plastic flutter down on their shoes. “Ya, ya, what ever, stupid viejo,” the kids say. He waves his ice cream in the paletero’s face then the two strut off under the slide and into the field.

The paletero shakes the gum off and places his hands on the handle of his cart and turns to face the blocks and blocks of lawns growing brown from the cold.

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Filed under Fiction, Published Fiction