The Misunderstanding of Jake Sinder
A city snowed under. A trite white cliché of a setting. That's where Jake Sinder was when I found him. Drunk. Making snow angels and pissing on wings. An hour earlier he'd sent a text: "In Central Park—find me". I'd thought: "Why not?" Sinder was always worth a laugh. A year later to the day. The funeral was somber. The family probably hadn't spoken to him in a decade. I winced every time the minister said "Angel."
CP
Joseph A. W. Quintela writes poetry on Twitter. His stories and poems have appeared here and there, and he edits Short, Fast, and Deadly, though he is none of these things.
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