by Neil Weiner

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I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, the names circling like military rotor blades that won’t shut off.

Apache.
Black Hawk.
Kiowa.
Chinook.
Iroquois.
Cayuse.
Sioux.
Shawnee.
Choctaw.
Cheyenne.
Lakota.

Each one lands heavier than the last. They call them machines, but I hear nations. Histories. People who bled, who prayed, who endured. Now their names are stamped onto gunships cutting through the sky.

by Maysam Kandej and Bill Tope

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Maysam was a writer from Iran. For three months, he had dreamed of this trip. He had met an American writer, Mr. Robert Hawley, online. They emailed about books and writing. One day, Mr. Hawley kindly invited Maysam to visit him in America.

Now, Maysam was here. On his second night, he was invited to dinner at the Hawleys’ large, beautiful home in an exclusive gated community known as The Village. He was nervous. As a Muslim, he did not eat pork or drink alcohol, but he did not want to explain his religion. He wanted to be a normal guest.

by Foster Trecost

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It was my first day.

Awkward introductions. Handshakes held a second too long. Then parked in a cubicle. The computer insisted on my attention, but the desk drawers won that battle. I pulled open the top. Empty, except for a few paperclips. Nothing in the next. The bottom bin, larger than the first two, contained only a coiled ethernet cable. I moved to close it, but stopped. Something more. Beneath the cable, a folded note. Hard-pressed pencil. Block letters.