@fabian.otero

The site loads slow on a dead Wednesday morning, nothing else open in any of your tabs, and you almost close it twice before the wheel finishes spinning up its gaudy little animation. You have wanted this since before… read on →

The whistle is what does it. Not a sound — the memory of one, still ringing somewhere behind your borrowed ears, from a practice this body ran eleven hours ago and will never run again. You are standing in Marlon… read on →

You are standing in Craig Bellamy's kitchen — his bald head, his blue eyes, his bare feet on cork flooring that still smells of the darkroom chemicals two rooms over — and you already know this was a mistake. Not a… read on →

Dwayne Colter's kitchen smells like nothing, because Dwayne Colter doesn't cook — Dwayne Colter microwaves, and the body around you right now is soft in a way that has nothing to do with strength, fifty years old and… read on →

Rolando Cepeda's hands smell like formaldehyde even after the third washing, and that is the thing that decides it — not boredom exactly, not greed exactly, just the particular disgust of standing in a basement funeral… read on →