A new story
by M. Evelina Galang
From the collection in progress, “Strength is the Woman”
At night, curled next to her brothers on a cot just outside the kitchen, Soledad dreamed of aswang creeping out from under the beds of the house, feeding on the blood of Mrs. Mayor. The wife had eyes that glowed Jello-green, she schemed with all the witches, found ways to make Lola E’s life miserable. Soledad hated her. Soledad wished her dead. She opened all the windows wider, she invited the moon to come in and drink all the evil out of the house. She asked the angels to hover over Lola E. “She is old,” Soledad said in her dream. “She can’t fight for herself, and Mrs. Mayor is an aswang.”
A screenplay excerpt
by John Sun Lew
EXT. TOPAZ INTERNMENT CAMP, CENTRAL UTAH – DAY
TITLE CARD: Topaz Internment Camp, Central Utah, September, 1942
A convoy of busses approaches a dusty compound, ten football fields broad, containing a grid of 42 identical blocks of 12 tar-paper barracks. As their bus passes under the main arch, Danny looks through razor wire and guard towers in the fore to the snow-capped Mount Topaz.
EXT. TOPAZ – COMPOUND – DAY
A poem by Lee A. Tonouchi, Hawai’i’s own Pidgin Guérilla.
My Aunty Jane
loves for make
watch Okinawan programs,
and read all kine books about
An essay by Mary Grace Bertulfo
“’One is one’s own refuge, who else could be the refuge?’ said the Buddha.” – Walpola Rahula
Monday night. 6:10 p.m. Alone.
I drove down Lake Street in our worn, twelve-year old mini-van. Hot fury heaved in my chest and shoulders and transformed into a high-pitched scream that poured out of my throat for two whole blocks. I screamed until I had no more energy. I screamed until my voice was hoarse. Had I been a superhero, Wonder Woman say, the scream would have been a siren shattering every van window.
A poem by Mary Anne Mohanraj
His father said: he saw two men kissing
in the street, and it made him angry.
I was eighteen the first time I
spent the night with another girl,
walked back to campus with her
the next morning, wanting to hold
her hand, afraid to.
An essay by Euree Kim
Nurse told me to be stripped naked.
I asked: Do you have my consent? What about my rights?
Nurse replied, I do not need your consent. You do not have rights.
A poem by Lee A. Tonouchi, Hawai’i’s own Pidgin Guerrilla.
My grandma makes it
for carry cloves
in her pants pocket.
In Okinawa, das how
Supposed to be
so you no catch cold.
An essay by Danielle Tanimura
“What are you?”, not “How are you?”. As early as preschool, I thought that this was just how conversations were supposed to start. This is normal. This is fine.
A poem by Paul Yamada
It’s not just the lake and the park
it’s not about residence, no
or physical dwelling, abode
perturbations and back spasms
will follow you like perfume on
the tongue, shirt cuffs and pant legs
if there is nowhere to write here
is there somewhere, anywhere else?
by Co Shi An
I am not white. I have spent 29 years of life believing I was white. Now I’m realizing it. I’m not white. I am not white and I am also not Yellow. I am, however, Chinese, and Irish. Not white, not Yellow. Chinese and Irish.