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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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Beyond exhaustion, I rested against the wall of the carriage and pressed my face to the window. I quickly reached that helpless stage where I blinked open my eyes, puzzled for a moment that I wasn’t at home in my own bed, awakening to another day of grind and guilt. I’d fallen asleep. My briefcase. My right hand jerked sideways with my eyes. The touch of the soft leather and the qualification in my vision of the battered Tuscan black briefcase did little to temper the steely-cold fingertips scampering down my back. As nonchalantly I as imagined I didn’t appear to be, I undid the two hidden side buckles and checked inside the flap pocket. There they were, the photos of two beautiful boys, a year between them – seven and eight. I held one in my hand and ran my thumb around its white-bordered frame. I then returned it…