Elena Vasquez

The thing that crawled out of the crater did not walk like a man. It unfolded. Joints bending wrong, limbs too long, shadow clinging to it like wet cloth. The face was Mamá’s: her cheekbones, her mouth, but the eyes were red glass, glowing with the same pulse that now throbbed behind my ribs. It stood in the heart-shaped scar, ash swirling around its ankles, and tilted its head as if listening to a song only it could hear.

I took one involuntary step forward. The hook in my ...