Conrad Ilesia
Bio
Stories (35/0)
Closers
For Joey: a ghost—as always. I A I am in Sendera, finishing up Dad's estate. I haven't been here in 25 years but I'm out of court before noon and I'm hungry. I drift down Main Street and god damn if I don't find Closers. Or what used to be Closers. Now it's called Downtown Texican Bar and Grill. It looks run down. I consider passing it but I’m not seeing much in the way of alternatives.
By Conrad Ilesia2 years ago in Families
The Long Argument
Robin woke up to a foggy Thursday morning outside her second story bedroom window, disturbed. She did not know exactly why but she knew she wanted to talk about it. She ran through her list of her friends. Her husband Don had dressed, said goodbye on his way out, left her in and out sleep. An hour passed.
By Conrad Ilesia2 years ago in Fiction
Kinder Than the Lightning
“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm.” —Bob Dylan I Coming into the place, Toppers, from a light drizzle, I ran my hand through my damp hair, took a seat next to my friend Cecilia and ordered a Hopadillo from Marianne, behind the bar.
By Conrad Ilesia2 years ago in Families
The Curious Incident of the Man Who Had It All
I Sendera, 10:45 a.m. Yesterday. Almost now. I drag myself into the work building, past my oblivious secretary chatting on her cell, the stale coffee and day old taquitos (“Can we throw those out, Sissy?” “Why? Do you hate my kids?”), into my office, stare at my pile of files, contemplate my next move.
By Conrad Ilesia2 years ago in Fiction
How It All Started
My favorite niece tells tall tales, funny, amusing, uplifting lies. She has a way of spinning ordinary events into engaging yarns, finding fascination and humor in the things adults do, as only a fifteen year old could, poking us in the eye, her long black bangs shielding her questioning blue eyes. The only problem is that when she gets to what feels like the middle of the story, she abruptly stops, smiling, assessing our reaction. Occasionally at these gatherings where she's telling four or five quick stories in a row, someone will ask her, well, what happened next, but more often than not, when the last story is over, we will move on to a different topic. Natalie, I whisper to her, every good story has a beginning, middle and an end. Beginning, middle, end, I'll repeat. Typically she will grin, shrug and engage in another on-going conversation. On other occasions, among muffled laughter, she will make an excuse: that WAS the end, Uncle Sam; you don't KNOW how things end, silly; whatever, Uncle Smartie. But one time she turned sullen and said, "Sometimes you can't tell when things end."
By Conrad Ilesia2 years ago in Families