We who gathered at the St. Teresa Del Norte Saloon rebelled against the norms of the day, whatever the norms were, it didn’t really matter, by committing small crimes targeting the oppressors of the lower class. We intended to kidnap the editor of the el periódico El Escorpión del Desierto printed weekly in the desert town of Durmiendo Conquistadores located in the Chihuahuan Desert, far north of Durango and home to 1700 people, most of whom were farmers. There were three of us, three because the designated third person could break any tie in decision-making among the other two. That night I was the third person. Who was the third person was always decided by the draw of the lowest card from a deck. That night the saloon was crowded and noisy. Clouds of cigarette smoke, thick as the fog in a Tijuana springtime, hung in the air, making it…
Jon lived with his family in a house on a bank along the Ohio River. His family, a mother and six brothers and sisters,…
Early morning, while dew clung to the blades of grass, Farida opened the gate to the sheep paddock and stood aside as Aamir, barking…
Along the river banks of the Mekong River, cluttered along the edge of the jungle that looks to overtake them at any time, are…
Pa had worn that old gray coat until it was almost nothing but a rag that hung on his big frame. It smelled of…
Prisha arose from a tangle of sheets and placed her bare feet on the straw mat next to the bed. The early morning sunlight…
The Christmas tree still stood in the corner of the living room, its bulbs unlit and hanging from loops of green electrical cord among…
Aika sat beneath the blossoming boughs of a cherry tree catching falling petals in the palms of her outstretched hands. Her lips trembled as…
The gentle waves of the Yellow River tapped against the sides of Wang Wei’s sampan, producing shallow reverberations, like fingers drumming arrhythmically on the…