He sucks on the sugar cube between his molars as he sips his color tea. “Let’s go to Iran by bus through the Turkish border. Who is going to know where we are coming from? People go back and forth, taking vacations in Istanbul all the time.”
The Sun Rose Madder: A Summer in Istanbul by Edwin Rivera
The Call by Pamela Brown-Peterside
The newborn I was looking for was asleep in the arms of her father, an older man, lean with well carved biceps. Worry spills out of the hollow of his eyes. She was barely visible, hidden in the folds of a new kitengye. Her mother wasn’t well enough to begin breastfeeding. On pediatric rounds yesterday, Jennifer provided boxed milk for the baby, whom they have named Nightie.
My Mother, the Whore by Nana Howton
A Bird's Life by Nita Noveno
The first time she showed me the scar, she traced its path with her finger along the soft underside of her knee, like a small winding creek on a map. She was around five or six years old when it happened. Her life back then consisted of farming on the mountains of Luzon with her family and peddling vegetables door to door. One day, a large tuber she lugged on her head slipped and shot down like a cannonball to the back of her leg, splitting open skin on impact. That is how she remembers it.
A Father's Gift by Richard Vargas
Watching him roll his own cigarettes with the pungent tobacco he kept in a shoebox is one of my favorite childhood memories. How he would sprinkle the dried weed into the coarse, yellowed paper, roll it between his fingers, and then with one fluid motion swipe the tip of his tongue along the glued edge.
