creative prose

“A silence like eternityPrevailed, there was no sound to hear;These marvels all were for the eyeAnd there was nothing for the ear” — “Parisian Dream,” Charles Baudelaire  He was one of the last people I expected to hear from. He gave me a call around 5:30 and asked me...

“Don’t forget to wash your eggs!” my mama warned me through a WhatsApp video call. Despite the lagging pixels, I noticed her eyebrows lift in that familiar concern of a parent whose child lives across the ocean. “They don’t do this here, Ma.” I whisked the eggs,...

Lungs of the World 2, Artem MirolevichKi? Kithe? Saanu ki? What, where, and why does it matter to us? This particular line of inquiry, as interconnected calls for clarification, substance, and location, rejects the abstract promises and pillars of liberal modernity1...

When I was young, I thought I could see well. I could see the bougainvillea planted out front of my childhood home. They thrive in full sun, making the Sonoran Desert I lived in a perfect habitat. I could see the grapefruit and lemon trees in my neighbors’ backyard....