The Oppressor and the Oppressed Within
Days shy of my fortieth birthday, attended a class with master writing teacher Laleh Khadivi: in San Francisco at Christina Garcias’s Las Dos Brujas. A new meaning emerged…
Non-Fiction
The Grey House Didn’t Speak
No people remain to lift their hands in farewell. Home does not speak. It does not call out our names as we move up the steps onto the plane. It does not call out as if to say…
Bread Knife
Mama and Barry mashed lumpy boiled potatoes into furrows with their forks, spread sour cream on top. I hated it. Mama cooked this every night, except the weekends when we had stringy boiled chicken.
Prayer
Lisa worried her way through the second round of in vitro and the resulting pregnancy with Stella and Jackson. Our first in vitro…
The Hard Way, Kid
DEAR OLD WEST TECH, WE’LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU. It’s the opening line of my high school…
I Don’t Speak Icelandic
“Eg tala ekki Islensku,” I say, with a perfect accent: “I don’t speak Icelandic.” It’s the sentence I utter most often in my mother’s language…
Peace, Order and Pretty Good Normal
Hamid told Ava he was standing at the corner of King and James when a goose dropped like a flailing accordion out of the sky.
Desert Spirits
My mom made sure we were in the car by three in the morning, quickly cramming us into a rented tour van. Eleven of us were on the way to Mama Cuca’s house…
Home, Alone
Tucked into the soft cushions of the couch, I look out through the branches of the Christmas tree at the front lawn.