Refugees in a Banana Republic
Literary

Refugees in a Banana Republic

Early dawn, when fog hung…

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A Day with Breanne Mc Ivor
Interview

A Day with Breanne Mc Ivor

Meet Breanne Mc Ivor. She…

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Nocturnal Conductions
Humor

Nocturnal Conductions

The first time it happened,…

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The Lady of the Water
Fiction

The Lady of the Water

I’d thought Central America would…

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Never Will I Leave Home
Literary

Never Will I Leave Home

You have not seen our…

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Two Blind Men
Flash Fiction

Two Blind Men

They knew well I was…

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An Interview with Ernest Brawley
Interview

An Interview with Ernest Brawley

Ernest Brawley, a native Californian,…

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He looked hurt. Yes, definitely got punched. His jaw was distorted, cheeks swollen and a thin red streak ran between his lips, slowly draining towards the corner of his mouth. I motioned him to the dental chair reserved for emergency trauma. He shuffled towards it, looked around and headed for the sink. “Hey, where are you going?” No answer. He opened the tap, leaned over, and the contents of his mouth splashed into the sink, exploding in violent crimson. Bits of green and brown floated around I rushed to his help, only to be met with a disarming smile of red, paan-stained teeth: “Sir, I have come only for teeth cleaning.” He is a typical, garden-variety example of what I, as a long-suffering dentist, call a ‘mouth marauder’: A member of the gutkha-munching, cigarette-smoking, paan-chewing, pik-spitting breed whose sole mission in life is to paint the town red, literally! He is everywhere, the…