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“There aren’t any seats left and standing people have already taken up a lot of the wall space. I stand in front of a table pushed against the corner.”
“Empty, she wrote, even though it wasn’t an improvement, because sometimes she just wrote what she saw.”
She ran from this loneliness all the way to Italy, hoping it wouldn’t find her there.
In 15 minutes a dead man would walk through the door and have a seat at the booth.
It’s my job to try to figure out what would feel like justice to her and the victim’s loved ones.
Sometimes what I thought was the end was only a pause.
He turns into the hallway, walks its length, then grabs the gold knob on the storage room door. Locked. He walks back to the men’s restroom. Also locked. He knocks.
The day was beautiful. Perhaps it was a good day to die for the right reasons.
A son re-imagines his fate after his father’s funeral.
A story of the saapin.
A man processes unconscious trauma in a unique and unusual way
A man’s shame is doubled when he hides what he witnessed.
A reflection on identity and time in the context of immigration
A single mother begins to understand that her old best friend can recharge her life in a way that no else could
Old photographs of a married couple fade away on a living room mantel.
The Vietnamese guy at the nail salon asks me how my day’s going. I sit down and smile politely answering proudly in flawless German “alles gut, und dir?”