Across The Railroad by Dennis ThandyThe Rhythm of the Rails
I remember waiting at a crossing in a small town outside of Jakarta, watching the iron gates lower with a rhythmic, mechanical groan. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and damp earth, the kind of stillness that precedes a tropical…
The Weight of Small Things
I keep a small, dried petal inside the pages of a dictionary, pressed so thin it has become part of the paper itself. It is a fragile, translucent thing, the color of a sunset that has long since faded into gray. When I touch it, I am reminded…
The Quiet Bloom of Presence
There is a particular way a face opens when it is not being asked to perform. It is a slow, unfolding movement, much like the petals of a flower turning toward the first light of dawn. We spend so much of our time guarding the gates of our…