Home wasn’t something that made me feel better or the solution to my problems. Being home was more akin to a CW premiere rather than the fun reunion episode of that lovely sitcom you watch in the family room. Driving through the downtown strip looking up at dozens of new developments, it seems like the…
Category: Prose
Where I Come from We Eat Sitting Down
I don’t usually talk to taxi drivers. The man whose taxi I got in this morning surprised me with a conversation I would never forget. It’s not a superiority thing or anything of that nature, but growing up in an immigrant family in the US, if you couldn’t do something that you could’ve done on…
Morning Coffee
My father rises before the sun. My mother rises before them both. He stumbles into the bathroom, and she marches into the kitchen. A large bowl of oatmeal and black coffee greet him at the kitchen table. He asks for brown sugar. She refuses. Sugar levels were too high last week. Peach skin flakes fall…
TO PREVENT ARTHRITIS
by Carlin L. Zia The clay behind the potting shed in my grandparents’ backyard would be soft and red in April. While our grandmother tended about in her cloth gloves and faded sunhat, my brother and I would salt the slugs we plucked from the compost urns, or dig furrows in the clay. Sometimes we…
“The Colored Doll”
by Marina Tinone “The Colored Doll” I presented these dolls to them and… [t]he conclusion which I was forced to reach was that these children [in Clarendon County], like other human beings who are subjected to an obviously inferior status in the society in which they live, have been definitely harmed in the development of…