By: Adnan Adnan

What does any of this have to do with my father travelling to India at fourteen and Hemingway?

By the time his mother, Aklima Khatun, discovered Rabiul was gone, he had already crossed the border from Bangladesh into India. The year was 1973, and Bangladesh was still struggling to find herself after the war of independence in 1971. Like his country, there was
uncertainty and restlessness in Rabiul’s heart too.

By: Kimberly Shaw

When our son was born, Adam and I were both thirty. Age does not equate to maturity. The night our son turned a month old, Adam was at my cousin’s house at a cookout. I was pacing from the front door to our bedroom window with our son tucked in my left arm and my right hand parting the white mini – blinds every time I imagined the sound of Adam’s bald ass tires crunching the sticks and sand and gravel in the driveway. When I called, he consistently
told me he was “on his way home.” He forgot to add the adverb eventually. I imagined him sitting on his orange Igloo ice chest drinking Keystone Light, smoking Marlboro Reds, and laughing at me.

By: Adnan Adnan

She was blind and I did not know her name.

We were watching the film, The Old Man and The Sea, on TV. It was a late afternoon summer on a Friday, in the late 1980’s, in Jessore, Bangladesh. Our drawing room was dark, crowded with the furniture and other decorative pieces. The old ceiling fan did its best to keep us cool. Still it was too hot to put on a shirt. I was in my shorts. She sat on the sofa in her green Saree. I felt even hotter just by looking at her. I had no idea how she could bear that heat. I was seven. We had been waiting for this film for over three months ever since I read about it on the TV-Guide.

By: Patrick Johnston

When he was fifteen years old, Atticus Johnson discovered that his brain was capable of making mistakes in ways he had not yet imagined. His mind had made lots of mistakes, both minor and more serious, up until that point, but it was when he was fifteen that Atticus Johnson became aware that his brain, as opposed to his mind, was capable of making mistakes.

By: Patrick Johnston

At some point, nearing the advent of his 56th year, Atticus Johnson became aware of a small god that inhabited a cave in the back of his mind. Although he had not been previously aware of the small god’s existence, it nevertheless seemed to him that the small god must always have been there, for the cave was ancient and seemed to have been inhabited for a long time.

When Atticus Johnson became aware that the small god was dwelling in a cave somewhere at the back left of his mind, he also had the sense that the cave was situated slightly to the left, which he found slightly odd, since whilst it seemed obvious to refer to parts of his brain in such simple spatial terms, it had never previously occurred to him that his mind might share a similar geography.

By: J.B Polk

“Immigration is an act of great courage, facing unfamiliar lands with the resilience to build anew.” – Isabel Allende.

This year’s trip was different. Not better or worse. Not more gloomy or joyful. Just different. Introspective, for the want of a better word. Throughout the trip, it felt as if that particular aroma of lime trees blooming at the end of July reached deep into your lungs and squeezed—squeezed tightly. As if that peachy pink-and-cornflower blue, with strands of violet woven into the clouds, descended on your retinas and scraped—scraped hard, leaving wispy trails when you were about to return.