Fiction

If you had had just a little more time, I might have pulled up my sleeve to show you the bruises.

He’s tired of feeling like a criminal. He’s tired of being in a country that needed him, needed his people, but didn’t want their kind.

The boat stares back with many eyes. Some closed in prayer, others close to fainting. A few people imagine childhood homes or hold photos of a small Italian port. Some cry. Some are confused.

The girl laughed at her mother, a bigger laugh than was necessary and took another brownie. She was high.

Maryn concentrated on the feeling of his touch, the cool sensation that passed over her skin…

There’s always going to be ‘just too much’, if you can’t divorce yourself from your damn job.

The bus, like all buses in Hyderabad, smells like lemons… and people. Landlocked and sweltering, Hyderabadians have developed an affinity for citrus.

I was ten years old when I concluded my grandfather was illiterate. I approached him with one of my books one day…

You stand at edge of the hole that your mother dug for herself — not for you — but still. You peer down, at the stairs planted into the dirt wall…