Nouha loved flowers—she picked them wherever she found them: by the vast grove of olive trees where her brothers worked, along the city streets under the shadow of skyscrapers...

For Sale: American flag...

So, I guess I’m dead….I’m sorry for your loss—is that weird for me to say to you all? I hope not, because I truly am sorry—for so many things really; too many things.

Jalil couldn’t get the scene out of his head—the elderly woman sitting in the middle of the busy sidewalk: she was crying, screaming at the top of her lungs, pulling at her hair.

Ink is like blood, Nazr thought; it spills into the world by means of the same sensation: pain. Write, his family would implore, write! They didn’t know what they asked of him—they didn’t know the dark, perilous recesses of his mind that he’d have to wander through in search of words.