I hope you rot, the worm said to the apple. Why? responded the apple. I have not wronged you; I welcomed you in.

Steady your pens...

Feed Palestine.

Once the fire was extinguished, Ali searched the ruins. There was nothing of material value to be found—he knew this—the bomb had torn through his home as if it was made of paper mache.

A tree branch falls. Nobody notices. The wind lifts and drops five dead leaves onto the sidewalk just outside God’s own, moss-covered house.