Mariana Rodriguez Salazar thought George Hickenlooper was being foolhardy and perhaps delusional when he told her he had decided to issue a public proclamation the next day in Managua’s central plaza and that he intended to send copies to be posted in the capitals of all the other Central American republics. As he read it to her, Mariana was sure her little dwarf was laying the groundwork for his own death.

“GEORGE HICKENLOOPER THE GREAT FILIBUSTER HEREBY ANNOUNCES THAT HE IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES OF CENTRAL AMERICA, ALSO KNOWN AS THE FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF CENTRAL AMERICA…”

I lose myself in Taiwan. That’s why I hate going there, feeling like a deer in the headlights; perhaps this time the buzzing crowds, alien sounds of chitter-chatter, and layered characters on never-ending menus will feel more like home. It doesn’t.

The photographs are from the series, Metamorphosis. Each painterly creation constructed from dozens of layered photographs is driven by my reaction to nature’s extreme seasonal change.

Sitting in front of the murky Han River, I don’t even see my own reflections. I hear remnants of life here and there: a group of senior joggers, a street saxophonist whose confidence is admirable, and a little girl screaming at something—kids always seem to see another dimension we don’t.

I was upstairs in the bedroom/office having just begun a writing coaching session with my last online student of the day when I heard the doorbell ring. My son’s feet met the floor with a thud and pounded their way from the living room couch to the front door…

I shuffle to my room, shut the door, and curl into the reading chair under my loft bed, surrounded by my books. When I moved in with my aunt and uncle, I didn’t expect to get my own room. This used to be Uncle Nate’s home office. When Mom and I came to visit, my uncle would blow up the air mattress for Mom, while I always shared a room with Cara. I love my cousin, but there have been many times over the last year when I was glad for a private refuge.

La Huasteca, Roots in Nuevo Leon, and Frames

They survived the fin de siècle logging
That claimed the rouge et blanc

Leaving tepees of slash
On the Grayling sand.

And the farmers
Wielding fire to clear land…

In 1925, the seven hundred forty-two citizens of Mañana celebrated the town’s third anniversary as an incorporated city in the San Joaquin Valley. A dream of Alexander Jason “A.J.” Ryan—an emigrant from Ohio—he purchased the North Madera Ranch in 1912, then worked with the Secretary of State’s office in Sacramento to establish a town…

At Union Square the commuter amoeba oozed into the 4 train and she made herself as liquid as possible so that she wouldn’t be left behind. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.” Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Get out of the door so we can leave! Wow, she was cranky.

I could not sleep at all last night. My mind was in an unending hyper-focus mode. It’s like those songs that have the algorithm that deliberately make it so you can’t get them out of your head. Mind worms. Plus, I kept thinking about the blood.

On an island off the Breton coast in the late 18ᵗʰ century, a woman, Marianne, stands behind an easel and canvas. The camera frames Marianne at work. Most of her body is obscured, but her eyes conjure details to enhance her painting. She faces another woman—her subject, Héloïse.

She died in June, just shy of fifteen.
Dust to dust, the preacher told us.
Lizzie refused to look at me, but I knew what she was thinking: our daughter’s death was my fault.
Ashes to ashes, the preacher told us, Lord have mercy.
I wanted to sock the platitudes right out of his fat-lipped mouth—how can there be mercy death? No, Hannah’s death had no mercy.

because I told you
how the homeless woman
preferred over a stranger’s
offer of food, water, money
just a moment of conversation
to confirm that she exists

Kodey picked up speed going down the driveway. He could feel the training wheels touch the concrete as he hit the street. He was allowed to go around three blocks on his own. His mom seemed to be more lenient while dad was away.

I despise “isms” — racism, sexism, anti-Semitism. There are too many to count, unfortunately. I have never understood them, have never understood bigotry. But the one I guess that confuses and confounds me the most is ageism because it is the only one that touches us all — everyone ages.

Crickets sing as I dart down the small, dimly lit road allotted for the restaurant’s deliveries. I stand on the sidewalk across the road with my back to the large building, unsure what to do at this point. Closing my eyes, I take another steadying breath.
Breathe.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
And again.
Deep breaths. You can do this, Winnie. I try to convince myself. Everything is going to be fine –

He takes to his branch each morning, lingers there
Finds his gentle, yet firm grip on the wood with his small claws
Steady, he welcomes the fresh air
The sun on his strong beak
The orange light peaking through the high buildings

He closes his eyes
Takes in the soft breeze on his black feathers

I have been told that I am visually, and stereotypically gay. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I take it without an angry or even aggravated reaction.

When I was quite a bit younger, I accepted that I was unconsciously flamboyant, which I confess, I didn’t like, being a teen student in a judgmental arena.

The temperature had dropped since the nighttime, when I’d almost burned my dress with the iron and my hair curlers had fallen in the toilet. Now in the cold morning, my stomach was aching, but I brewed coffee anyway. The steam billowed into the brittle air like wisps of cotton.

The laughter you hear, deep within the interior of the house,
Where the old couple from Italy, have lived for fifty years.

Or the glimpse of the treasured grandson across the road,
Laughing as his cousin chases him with the garden hose.

Siyanda is alone. It’s a Wednesday night. He is behind his desk. His mother bought it for him. She also bought the swivel chair, the one he is sitting on, and that old, dial black telephone next to his laptop. The telephone doesn’t work.

A sentinel for three seasons,
The fireweed stands unsteady
In the freshening breeze.

A phoenix of the scorched earth,
Its seeds break out in gossamer clouds,
Seeking newly ravaged lands to restore.

“Step aside, rubberneckers!” Four pushed passed a throng of sweaty tourists gawking and taking pictures outside the Bradbury building in the golden mid-morning downtown Los Angele’s sunlight.
A long-haired-blond-Norwegian-sunburned-surfer-looking-guy and a punk-rock-Japanese-lady-with-pigtails-in-her hair…