They enter the dance studio in an energetic buzz—tiny humans in pink leotards with bulging little bellies.
They enter the dance studio in an energetic buzz—tiny humans in pink leotards with bulging little bellies.
My grandfather taught me, leaning over his pool table, cigar stuck in his teeth as he squinted at the ball.
While the others switch partners, we stay together, working on our steps, fumbling and laughing.
You can’t tell from the photo, but I was completely undone.
Friday, 2 a.m. I’m walking home through darkness, sobering fast, from the dive bar I am barely old enough to work at.
I sit at our tall dining room table, home from college.
“Do you think you’ll remarry?”
“Aren't you coming for the protest?” asked my hostel roommate while combing his silky hair.
The hike had lasted four hours already. Complaints reached an all-time high.
The first time the Gulf waters rise to lick my unsuspecting son’s ankles, he loses his balance.
“Whatchu you in for?” she asked. “They said I need a break,” I replied.
We waited for our flight out of my home country. Those few minutes seemed to last forever.
My grandmother chain-smoked Virginia Slims, the long, white, pleasingly perfect cylinders a permanent fixture in the corner of her mouth.
A gust of frigid wind startles me as the scraggly-bearded stranger opens the passenger door and demands we drive him home.
Two of my cousins are profusely talking about their holiday to Japan.
Bzzz—the sound of the drone flies over the Beirut skies.
The principal’s eyes bulged behind square glasses.
My four-year-old daughter flits around the bedroom, darting, and I’m panicked she will collide with a sharp corner.
The older kids are playing a word-guessing game with our mothers.
Here comes another familiar face. Dang, he's looking this way!