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Joe Garcia


I didn’t know the snowball had a rock in it. Never would’ve imagined such a thing.

It whacked me flush above the left eye. Bitch pain. Blood blinding me within seconds of impact. Tears. Convulsive tears.

The boys ran. Knee-deep in white powder. Laughing. Gloved. Plastic bags rubberbanded around shoes. This was Texas. Snow never comes.

Mom yelled. Cried. Wiped the blood. Drove the Dodge to the Doc.

Needle. Thread. Stitches. Flesh gathered unto other flesh.

Mom marched into their back yard. Saw it from the kitchen window.

Twins firing pellets at their snowman. Briquette eyes crumbling off.

Grabbed one by the ear and the other by the throat. Took them both to the snowy ground. Buried them several inches into the ice. Slapped them silly. Dog choking at its chain.

Sheriff’s deputy slipping and sliding up our icy walk. This was Texas. Snow never comes.

Joe Garcia was born in Mexico and grew up in a small Texas town. He teaches third grade in a Spanish dual-immersion program in the Berkeley public schools.


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