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About
Books & Stories
Blog
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Blog Acceptable Use & Copyright Statement
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Stories

Dopey’s Ride

It was weeks after the alien attack before someone even thought about Little Dopey’s car and when it was remembered, of course it was Oso who brought it up.  That vato was always sliding in here and there, getting what he could get, slick-like.  No one knows why they called him Oso, it should have been Rat, because that’s what he was, a rat skulking around the sides of things, watching for an opportunity then dashing in and stealing a choice piece of whatever.  No one really liked him, but he was familia, so they kind of had to have him around.

Smiley in particular couldn’t stand him.  She absolutely hated his bright, beady, almost black eyes that darted around her apartment covetously, then when Ruben wasn’t around, he’d look her up and down too, like he was trying to figure out which bits he wanted and how to get them.  He always made me feel dirty and trucha, like she had to always be on guard with the fool.  Some days she just wanted to stick a knife in his neck.  Today was one of them – when he brought up the car.  ‘Asshole’ she thought.  ‘What a fucking tapado.” Read more

About Gina Ruiz

Teller of tales, writing about East L.A., tech, mobile, and historical fiction. PEN Emerging Voices Fellowship finalist 2013. Author of stories in Ban This! and Lowriting. Published poet. Writes a lot.

Lorca Green

Originally published in the anthology: Lowriting: Shots, Rides & Stories from the Chicano Soul, January 8, 2014
Santino J. Rivera (Editor), Art Meza (Photographer)

In the 1970’s, we lived off of Florence in Southeastern Los Angeles, in an area called Cudahy that was so crappy we called it Crudahy.  There was nothing good in that town.  Nothing.  It was economically depressed. There was nothing but roach-infested, cheap tract housing and even crappier apartments.  There were a few “real” houses but they too, were nothing to write home about and just stood there as hold outs to a time before tract housing for steelworkers.  That end of the L. A. River was nothing like the Los Feliz part of it that had delicately tiptoeing egrets, green rushes and the hills of Griffith Park surrounding it.  No, this side of the river was all concrete, stink, florescent green algae and junk.

Our street was a dead-end.  It wasn’t a gaba neighborhood where such things are called cul-de-sac’s in a tone that implies that somehow made it safe.  No, to us it was just a dead-end street and had nothing to recommend it.  Our street was so bad to the Bell Police Department (yes that City of Bell) that they came four in a car, in full riot gear just to cruise.  Cudahy didn’t even merit its own police station. Read more

About Gina Ruiz

Teller of tales, writing about East L.A., tech, mobile, and historical fiction. PEN Emerging Voices Fellowship finalist 2013. Author of stories in Ban This! and Lowriting. Published poet. Writes a lot.