Smoke Screens
The week the pandemic hits, I break my lease in Little Haiti and drive fifteen hours up the I-95 to be with my parents.
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ReadThose People
In 1996, the year my mother died of a heroin overdose, Purdue Pharma started to sell OxyContin in the United States. -
ReadAn Essay on Processing
TSW Art Director, Meg Sykes, on creating the featured image for Issue 13: Rebellious Joy -
ReadRest Begets Rest: An Essay
TSW Artist in Residence, Bianca Ng, writes a meditative inquiry into rest -
ReadIf I Had Known Then That Casey and Rhian Were Both Terrible Pieces of Shit, Puberty Would Have Been Way More Fun
We’re all on the grassy patch of land east of Christ the King, our school, with our uniform plaid skirts hiked, wearing way too much lip-gloss and not enough deodorant. -
ReadFamily House
When Mom called to tell me the news that Memito had died, I went to go fish out that old photo from what could barely be called a closet. -
ReadLittle House in the Big Pandemic
At night, when Laura lay awake on her memory foam mattress, she listened and could not hear anything at all. -
ReadAn Origin Story
I could talk your ear off about the current state of Mexican-American literature. -
ReadTo My Father, on the One-Year Anniversary of His Death
I am standing at the ironing board, running a hot iron over a folded and stitched-together strip of quilting cotton to make bias tape. -
ReadBeyond the Distance
What makes a country great? Surely the answer doesn’t lie in vast tracts of forest land that have been converted into concrete megastructures -
ReadI Keep Counting Up
Four weeks. Four weeks and still the virus. Things that were once normal now seem absurd. -
ReadBury Me Next to Your Name
“I need you to do something for me,” you said as you sat across from me in the locker room.
