Milepost SevenThere were no waves, no insects to dimple the surface with their tiny drinks, no blackened seaweed reaching for the sun. There was nothing but a slurry of liquid arsenic, a plague rimmed with leafless trees, their naked fingers all pointing at Peter.
sckhalil
Minnesota fiction writer living in Dubai, UAE
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Selected work (3 publications)
KintsugiWhat people wanted, evidently, as they gazed at the golden scars that crisscrossed my ceramics, wasn’t beauty, but beauty broken down and put back together: a mere shadow of what had come before.
Fiction
The RefugeeThe windows of the sweet shop where we had bought the baklava were dark, showing only the reflection of a young couple walking, one that took me a moment to recognize as the shape of us.