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Exploring the grey areas between literature and art, and also literature and culture.
You know who doesn’t mind a high desert July? The scorpions.
You are so beautiful it kills me, I said.
I’m not, love, he said. Perhaps on the inside. Don’t insult my eyes, I said.
You started surveying in New York amongst poor Blacks who brought their blues, jazz, and spirituals to the city of rectangular skyscrapers.
In the Americas, your start was bloody. It was based on the dispossession and genocide of the Natives as your men in long pants cackled in English, Portuguese, Spanish, French.
She bowed her head and took a moment before answering, “I am not afraid. I cannot be afraid. Tesfay needs me not to be afraid.”
Bryan Washington’s Houston Inspired Short Story Collection, Lot- Wins the UK’s £30,000 Dylan Thomas Prize
With flashes from the camera phones incessant, the tourists take photo after photo of us, our talents, and the wonders on exhibit.
We ride the trains incessantly, and they in reality go nowhere. They circle the 500 square miles of our city that has few trees but clean air.
Everything is closed. The offices that tower to the sky in the skyscrapers, the schools, churches, restaurants, theaters, public gathering places of all sorts.
There was a very childish man who spent a summer with a woman, fell in love, and said goodbye when she left to teach English in South Korea.