No. 4 August 2017
Who can really see into the depths of our hidden selves? Who can tell us what resides in the farthest places that make up who we are? Can we discover our hidden nature in a mirror? From our closest friends? From our mothers and fathers?
Our hidden nature might come out when we move to a new town or a new country. It might be seen in a leaf we pick up from the ground, as we pry it apart, wondering why we feel older today. It becomes apparent when a family acts out roles around the dinner table. Or when grandma forgets your name. Or when someone we love leaves this world behind.
As a publisher, it occurred to me that writing is about the transition in the lives of the characters we construct. It’s that hidden nature that comes out at the end of the story. It’s those thought provoking moments when we realize who we really are. That transform us into something new.
We all have a hidden nature inside us. Take a look at yourself. Look at the hidden you. Welcome to your hidden nature.
D. S. White
My mother prances around the house, arms and hands hallelujahed, chanting “Saint Ann, Saint Ann send us a man.” I follow her laughing, grabbing her shirt that ﬂies behind her like a sail.
By Almari Randall
Your fork screeches across the plate, bringing the dinner conversation to an abrupt halt. You feel as if you should apologize but you cannot.
By Sam Claussen
She shuﬄes, not over to the side because that would make sense, but right in the middle of the sidewalk. I try to be patient, squashing the urge to pull her ﬂabby arms and yank her out of the way so people can pass.
By Lisa Walter
The Good Girl
In our village in Northern India, where daughters are a luxury most families cannot or choose not to aﬀord, my grandfather loves my sister Simran and me.
By Adithi Rao
Only the Children Survived
I remember mom saying, “You know child, the trouble with the day you die is that it starts out just like any other day. Death just comes, like a relative you never wanted to see.”
By Karl “Tony” Ginyard
The Red Harmonica
In Sarajevo he had played cello in a chamber orchestra. Of course, he had not managed to bring his cello with him out of the old country, but he had bought himself a harmonica.
By Ann Syréhn Tomasevic
Run, like Lot’s wife, forever cursed you will be if you look back. Run until the air no longer carries the smell of ﬂesh and the sky is blue again. Run until your footprints are no longer the blood of your brothers.
By Ahmad Alhomsi
Fisher of the Dead
Asdisa had seen the souls melt like butter across the jagged edge of ugali before they vanished. He had ﬁshed the same dank hole for so long that he had lost track of time.
By Jonathan DeCoteau
Farewell to the City
Nonﬁction by Pete Johnson
With Jonathan DeCoteau
By Akshat Thakur
Photo Credit: D. S. White, www.thelandofwords.com