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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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An old isolated signboard has always caught my attention while coming to visit my home at the weekend. The signboard read: ESTD 1890. It was my mom’s school. I’m proud to be a beginner of that primary school. It is like my home. Ever since I stepped foot as a one-year toddler, I stood behind my mom’s chair. She said I used to sit in the class and I completed (Ka and Kha) two classes from mother’s chair as my first teacher too. I have more childhood memories than the years gone by. There was a big hall accompanying all five classes under one roof.  We sat on the floor where desks, fans and lamps were luxury items then. But everything went without a hitch and we screamed with laughter. The two teachers had a tough time controlling the children’s noise. While I looked out through the windshield, the evening…