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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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I used to see the older man whenever I went swimming at my neighbourhood Y. Often, he was in the pool before I arrived, in the slow lane near the women’s locker room, on his back, kicking, arms at his side. I’d smile and say hello as I walked from the locker room to the other side of the pool. The etched-in frown on his face was always there, no matter what. Sometimes, he’d nod. Never smiled or offered any verbal acknowledgement. On the day I first met him, a middle-aged man and I were the only ones swimming in the medium lane, so we were able to split it. I swam on the left side and he on the right until the old man arrived. Wearing black trunks and a black swim cap, the old man jumped in and announced, “We’ll have to circle.” We weren’t happy to have…