Fiction: “Aftermath”

The dust had settled long ago on the main street when she begins to crawl. Ma would be ashamed to see the grit and drool on her lips and chin, but Ma lies dead next to her, and it is an effort to crawl, such an effort. She doesn’t want to crawl, but she can hear the robbers preparing to leave, and she doesn’t want them to see the gun.

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Finding Peace in a Different Language

I do not speak as well as I write. (Who does?) My inability to speak in a clear and eloquent manner is largely derived from my social anxiety. My blunders are spurred on by intense fear to say something, anything, if only to take the weight of social responsibility off my shoulders. In friendships, in work settings, in college, I have failed the spoken English language.

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