I drift through the Breakout Rooms like a digital ghost….
Reviewer Carol Haggas writes, “Meno has written a definitive and unnerving account of the myriad risks and meager rewards of seeking asylum.”
Unwrap four bundles of dry vermicelli./Let their white locks dissolve….
The abandoned garden cannot be reclaimed in a day.
In all the discussions I have been a part of over the last month, prisoners are a population that hasn’t been discussed.
The best part is, they never complained.
We’ll sleep on it before we make our final decision.
My boyfriend drank a Corona from the box in the fridge. We had bought two twelve packs back in January because it’s his favorite beer.
I tell my kids not to touch anything or anyone in the office and, immediately, my daughter touches the statue of the children, the fish tank, and is one inch away from a little girl with a mask on.
You notice she doesn’t have her usual mom smell; she smells like orange trees and flower fields.
Reviewer William Demaree writes: “These are not the typical ‘well-made’ short stories; teachers would have a bitch of a time using them to illustrate that old ‘exposition-rising action-climax-denouement’ paradigm.”
I never ever sent my kids to school hungry although they were a bit late sometimes.
I found solace in that security guard’s enthusiasm, solace in Ayón’s work, and in the Chicago Cultural Center’s beauty.
“The process of reading the book took longer than usual for a variety of reasons, least of all a natural disaster and a pandemic,” writes reviewer Loie Rawding. “But I found myself returning each night to read a few pages and sink into a warm, if unsettling, darkness.
Then I saw the effect the forced isolation was having on my wife.
“‘Chicago has nothing to be ashamed of in comparison with New York.'” (1918)
“There is immense value in Ripatrazone’s book regardless of your faith,” writes reviewer S.T. Brant.”
Downstairs, my grandparents argue over the TV’s low volume, their voices rising and falling like a muffled opera aria.
A visual counterpart to our Dispatches from a Pandemic series
To me it was like returning to a burning house to get just one more thing—though I was afraid of what I couldn’t see rather than any blinding smoke.
I loved her. But I never, ever felt close to her. The few times I tried to speak honestly to her as I struggled to understand how I’d come to see the world as I did, she was so hurt that it would have been cruel to persist.
The ground was frozen. Her body became the same.
We panicked all evening, clearing our throats, secretly gargling with hydrogen peroxide.
“I’m doing fine. You just need to worry about me getting arrested for shooting one of these fucking turkeys who are buying up all the toilet paper.”
He went into the kitchen to look for the car keys, found them on the hook where she usually hung them, and put them in his pocket.
Maybe if I’m busy thinking about COVID-19, I won’t have room to think about the living, screaming person that will soon detach itself from my own person.