Ahmed falls from the steel deck thick with diesel oil and malice, through a rain unlike anything he’s known, and he glimpses an almost touchable shore, shameless, sharp and cruel, unreal and foreign, rich with waste and electricity, though the air’s not a thing to loiter in.
I’m flying to a distant destination.
Continue reading “Here Come Grandfather’s Goats by Antony Osgood”
They began to line up long before dawn. First in line was a man from Africa.
His name on the small yellowed sheet he had folded in half, then folded again and placed in the right front pocket of his pressed blue shirt was Mohammad Abbasi. The driver’s license in the brown fake leather wallet he’d bought from a man on the street had his name as Martin Fisk. So did the green card he’d paid fifty dollars for, too many years ago to remember.
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