Editor’s Note | Place

Dear Reader,  Often, our encounters with place can be misconstrued simply as background or setting. This issue seeks to redefine place in multitudes. Place, in this issue, is a rich texture of landscapes. As you peruse this issue, you will find yourself in mosques, tea shops, rivers, wild fires, filipino supermarkets, classrooms, garden soil,  homelands,…

Mayn Kaddish

by Judah Greenberg In [the Jewish] view of the world, though,  liking is the first step to losing: if “they” know that you love it, “they’ll” try to take it. – Michael Wex, Born to Kvetch Rabbi Ezra Lewicki was seventy-seven when he died in January of 1935, his fingers dyed black and blue from…

Come to Mama

by Mimi Manyin As a first-generation refugee, Z. had never stayed at a resort before, let alone one filled with ghosts. All she wanted was to experience the grand luxury and comfort enjoyed by well-to-do Americans, dead or alive. She wanted to feel their soft beds, drink their fancy teas, and admire panoramic views of…

Kerosene

by Meghana Mysore The sky in Oregon blazed orange. Lakshmi looked outside, and thought of her mother’s kerosene lamp burning on through the night’s darkness. In India, she kept it on her nightstand, and left it on when Lakshmi’s father was out late at the neighbor’s house, chattering away. Lakshmi could hear the whispers of…

Barbarian

by Chris Campanioni It is getting harder and harder to tell the colonized from the colonizers. Today one wore blue, the other white. Three days earlier the outfits were reversed. Who was it who was it that said revolutions repeat themselves, the same fantasies played out by different characters, on a revolving stage. It’s true,…

Hop Alley Heartland

by Kathryn Hargett-Hsu That the first Chinese immigrant to St. Louis was Alla Lee of Ningbo, arrived 1857; That Alla Lee acquired English while accompanying a missionary as a translator who ministered in Gold Mountain to the Cantonese railroad laborers & weaved his passage east through church & business contacts like a spider trail tracking…

Summer Conjure

by Shakeema Smalls The grave I dug for my mutt. The roses I stake at his head, its petals falling over the red brick, his favorite washcloth strewn across the back rail, covered in pine straw and refuse. Rain seeping between the shingles of the roof, booming humidity, steam rising from it as if one…