Honesty. The pen doesn’t work. Outside, the rain whispers down onto the road. It murmurs through the gutters in a language I can’t understand: the rain only speaks in truth. I reach for another pen in the pencil case. The latch was open already, from when mom flicked it while examining the room this morning.…
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Harmless, Harmful: A Review of Othello
They had me cornered–two adults sitting on the ground, and my friend in between them. I gave them all a bewildered look and sat heavily on the ribbed metal bench. The man asked the dreaded question. “So, where are you from?” I wanted to run away screaming, certain I would be here for hours. “Well,”…
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