A Pocketful of Change

I am not asleep, but I pretend I am. Clenching my face, eyes tightly shut and breathing loudly, as a 4-year-old this is my best impression of being asleep. It isn’t a terrible performance, but it is unlikely that I am fooling him. I hear him shuffling in his pocket, the coins weighing it down heavily. The pockets are as deep as his generosity.

My Sad Dead by Mariana Enriquez

Mariana Enriquez has done something remarkable in this story, totally in line with the fabulist tradition in Latin American literature. She has created a second-order community of ghosts for this poor, benighted region. The social despair of the place manifests itself in ectoplasm.


“You’ve got to see this,” Sullivan tells me as he unwraps the newsprint from his latest treasure, an unremarkable dessert plate he picked up at the thrift store this afternoon.