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'Rerock' by David Simmons

His earliest memory was of caramel, not of actual caramel, but of an imagined caramel that materialized out of thin air and hovered above his father’s head. The kitchen of their Lexington Terrace tenth floor apartment smelled like rat shit and water damage. A wood-tip Black and Mild smoldered in a coffee mug. The boy flicked the light switch and watched the roaches scatter, some of them big enough for him to hear the sound of their thorax rubbing against the linoleum countertops. “This shit is in your blood.” The boy’s father leaned against the stove. He wore a crisp, white v-neck tucked into burgundy, rayon slacks. Water boiled in a large pot behind him.
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'There Will Be More Sunrises' by Susan L. Leary

My twelve-year-old brother wants to show me three quarters now superglued outside the entranceway to the 7-Eleven, so on a day in June, he walks me through the yard and into a fragrant admixture of honeysuckle and gasoline. As I look to where he points, the silver of the coins gleams in the sun, an automated bell dinging with each swift swing of the door. It’s an experiment, he says. Whose fate is it to crouch to the ground and scrape their fingers against the cement? Whose fate is it to be fooled? Though I do not know if the gesture is more imagined or true, I have seen my brother’s face like this before: awash in sunrise, cleverness brimming inside his cheeks.
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'Mechanophilia' by Cynthia White

It’s summer, and I am not in love with horses Like my best friend, her bedroom a temple, Storybooks and figurines, days pledged To the stables. I ride a Huffy, royal blue. If she’s any kind of animal, she’s kept it secret, The way I don’t tell my mother where I’m going. I pedal toward the river, Hoping for minnows, my small mound Snug in the saddle.
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'A Sunday at Sukh Niwas' by Aliya Haer

Punjab, India 1982 Today is Sunday. Yesterday, I was unaware of it being Saturday. Tomorrow, it won’t matter that it’s Monday. Only today, being Sunday, does it mean anything. Everyday we have breakfast, lunch, teatime, and dinner. Life passes in a series of breakfasts, lunches, teatimes, and dinners; visits and visitors; and the comings and goings of servants and dogs. My elder brother didn’t go to school this morning. I didn’t hear him half-asleep, offering his resistance in wooden movements; nor the sound of my grandmother herding him into the bathroom, and later scolding him to sit still, while she combs the knots out of his long hair, and arranges it in a joorhi on top of his head.
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