The Lawrences were so scared of their father that none of them screamed when he parked their Volvo on the track between Kidlington and Yarnton. He drove like an idiot—everyone knew that. He was so cruel when any of the children dared cry out at a bend taken too fast that they sat stoic and…
I forget, for a moment, that I am not home. The dormitory is still dark, very dark, but I can see small particles of light stealing into the window gauze. It deceives me for a brief moment because that is exactly how Mma’s house is: the windows have tiny-tiny squares, and sometimes in the morning,…
Every summer, we met up in a different city where one of our families lived. San Diego, Minneapolis, Camden, Pittsburgh. Other than a brief excursion to a butterfly garden or beach, every trip was essentially the same—hotel breakfasts with stainless steel coffee dispensers and plastic canisters of Cheerios and Fruit Loops; hours in a dimly-lit…
Two boys sit on a log washed white by the tides and wind. A driftwood fire hisses on the sand. Down the beach, the black waves roar. It’s August 1995, on the west coast of Vancouver Island. One boy, one teenager, is pale. The other is dark. Between them, they pass the bottle of Scotch…
She was from a town you would never pronounce right if you read it from a highway sign. You’d have to spend time there, or know somebody who called it home. Her angled bangs fell to her brow, framing a stare that conjured gemstones and tundras. Laron nearly died when he heard she smoked Newports….
i. I always buy the charcoal pencils separately, instead of the kit, so they know I’m not an artist. Today, one hard 6B. Plus, a cone of ice cream that stinks of stevia and a pack of tampons. The clock’s at five to midnight, cheap light pooling around the space where the cashier should’ve been….
The first place I lived on my own was a studio apartment on 101st between Broadway and Amsterdam, with two windows that overlooked the street. The year was 1980, not long after I had graduated from college. In the late afternoon, when the sun fell slantwise on the buildings across the way, I could imagine…
In Lahore, a season of smog set in with the new year. Mornings became a milky haze, swirled through with a fistful of turmeric. In this haze, my cousins Shams and Qamar crouched on the lawn, transplanting marigolds into beds of dried dung and river loam while my uncle shouted instructions from his wheelchair. I…
“These black eyes, a gift of the night / I use their darkness to seek the light.” —Gu Cheng, “One Generation” Beijing The first time we met, I noticed that your eyes weren’t even close to black. They caught fire in the dim light of the poetry workshop: eight women, including you and me,…
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