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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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Thirty years after I left it, I realized that Beewada deserves to have a syndrome named after it. In my mind, it survives as both a noun and an adjective. The place where I spent a part of my childhood and early youth was a small town aspiring to be a big city. Everything about it was aspirational. The single arterial road that connected us to the highway was as wide as any in the big metropolitan cities of India and hid the reality of its narrow, broken, roads that crisscrossed the interior parts of the town. Traffic always moved above permissible speed limits, and people drove with aggression that bespoke their desire to get ahead in life quickly. Life was a rat race, after all, and the road was their race course. Beewada had gained from the prosperity that accompanied the introduction of new technologies in the villages surrounding…