Gas station glow past 3AM, the glassed look of a man who’s been sitting for too long, hot dogs slumbering behind a screen, their skins plump and pink.
Since the new government promised land reform, the have-nots in your father’s village buckled over with joy, while the landed were bewildered
There was a time, Abu says, before your great-grandmother, when water was blue because it was a bruise, when it could feel our hands like the skin of a fruit.
That spring my wife covered the walls of our living room in newsprint.
Creativity, as it turns out, is especially hard when your brain is in survival mode.
You spoke through the impossible and you teach us once more how a story, through a faithful, stubborn kind of continuation, can be like a collective strength.
He collected the past in amber, often describing war memorials as beautiful. He called himself a gardener.
The hagwon director was the most successful woman we knew at the time… Her short hair was perfectly coiffed, her full lips painted red like a Western woman’s.
In the shelter of our happiness, his shell shone brighter and brighter until one day, it split open and crumbled into dust to reveal a baby, golden skinned and blinking up at me.
She was a prisoner in this home, where death and decay had collected like a fog.
Sometimes she grew so nervous that she had to sit in her room for hours until her hands stopped trembling. She wondered if her daughters ever thought about her.
She should moisturize more often, drink at least three liters of hot water with lemon each day, and wear silicon sheet masks to bed to hide the stigmata of a woman who was everything.
And though I knew it was someone’s son, I unburied the rooster in the dark and kick-started a fire and roasted it on a spit, my fingers lamping with grease.
The sunflowers fall, right along with their mason jar, in the middle of the night. Their heads too gloriously full of early July. How they seem to know everything, except the virus.
“The girl didn’t want a new life; she wanted her old comfortable life, though it was as worn out as her pajamas.”
“What’s the most serious problem? Home lor! Drugs lor! Everyday besides sleeping and playing games you do what? Yes, kill people lor! So the government commercialized the plan lor, scientists spent ten years to research how to store up sleep, so these Juveniles can be useful lor.”
You couldn’t claim that you were lost. The footsteps of your comrades dragged you sharply back into the present, no wavering possible.
“The ecology and economy of the region is under threat. This Transpacific Literary Project folio, Monsoon Notebook is for these essential, vanishing, and unruly waters.”
In the shelter of our happiness, his shell shone brighter and brighter until one day, it split open and crumbled into dust to reveal a baby, golden skinned and blinking up at me.
Since the new government promised land reform, the have-nots in your father’s village buckled over with joy, while the landed were bewildered
She was a prisoner in this home, where death and decay had collected like a fog.
There was a time, Abu says, before your great-grandmother, when water was blue because it was a bruise, when it could feel our hands like the skin of a fruit.
Sometimes she grew so nervous that she had to sit in her room for hours until her hands stopped trembling. She wondered if her daughters ever thought about her.
That spring my wife covered the walls of our living room in newsprint.
She should moisturize more often, drink at least three liters of hot water with lemon each day, and wear silicon sheet masks to bed to hide the stigmata of a woman who was everything.
Creativity, as it turns out, is especially hard when your brain is in survival mode.
And though I knew it was someone’s son, I unburied the rooster in the dark and kick-started a fire and roasted it on a spit, my fingers lamping with grease.
You spoke through the impossible and you teach us once more how a story, through a faithful, stubborn kind of continuation, can be like a collective strength.
The sunflowers fall, right along with their mason jar, in the middle of the night. Their heads too gloriously full of early July. How they seem to know everything, except the virus.
He collected the past in amber, often describing war memorials as beautiful. He called himself a gardener.
“The girl didn’t want a new life; she wanted her old comfortable life, though it was as worn out as her pajamas.”
“What’s the most serious problem? Home lor! Drugs lor! Everyday besides sleeping and playing games you do what? Yes, kill people lor! So the government commercialized the plan lor, scientists spent ten years to research how to store up sleep, so these Juveniles can be useful lor.”
You couldn’t claim that you were lost. The footsteps of your comrades dragged you sharply back into the present, no wavering possible.
The hagwon director was the most successful woman we knew at the time… Her short hair was perfectly coiffed, her full lips painted red like a Western woman’s.
“The ecology and economy of the region is under threat. This Transpacific Literary Project folio, Monsoon Notebook is for these essential, vanishing, and unruly waters.”