Time means something different to me now. It used to symbolize hope, an opportunity to try something new and perhaps, waiting for something joyous to begin. But now, it’s just a burden, a reminder that everything under the hands of time and everything within it must die. But waiting to die; that’s something else entirely. The flowers on the kitchen table are wilting now. Their red petals are drooping towards the ground as if they too are crying, only to lap up their tears in the vase in which they dwell. I haven’t paid too much attention to the flowers before now, but here we are, and here I am, having my evening tea, only to be staring at something I never thought of as living.…
For the past few days, I took a lot of time thinking about my legacy. Thinking about what I will leave on this earth, in this city, that will outlive me. For many people they find this in their children, in families, and those they leave behind. As much as I dream of having children, I fear my reality and lifestyle is pushing that dream farther and farther away. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or not, but I am sure of one thing. I do not want the burden of telling my story to fall on the shoulders of my family. For those who have to create the narrative for their dead loved one. To my wife, who would prefer family time over the idea of a legacy, for this to all fall on her lap would be the cruelest gift my death could leave her.…
Valentino Juarez, who works with The Ice Colony, a story based podcast that seeks to support and represent people from all walks of life who struggle with borders both physical and metaphorical. Their missions statement clarifies: “While our primary focus is on the migrant life, this podcast is here to ensure that we tell the stories of people seeking refuge in any form, and inspire humanity, generosity, and knowledge.”
In this episode of ‘Cover to Cover with . . .,’ Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum speaks with Juarez about his altruistic goals, the state of injustice in America, the power of fiction to convey a message, and more!
I am like water. I reflect things as they truly are.
It’s more a state of being than a mantra—something I picked up while meditating, ever since that day some twenty-odd years ago. I’m supposed to close my eyes and measure my breaths. On the inhale, I become the essence of still water, a flat and glossy pane of glass. A pond in the heart of a lush forest, striking enough to captivate a man until he returns to the soil as a flower. I hold my breath there, freezing the landscape in stillness and solitude. Then, the exhale, revealing the truth behind false colors and illusions.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Become the lens through which to see this world.
The City of Hate, the city that titles Timothy S. Miller’s forthcoming novel, is Dallas. It’s a relatively modern version. Dealey Plaza buzzes with tourists come to see the Sixth Floor Museum and relive the events of President Kennedy’s assassination, but this Dallas still has answering machines, printed glossy photographs, and storefront bookstores as (mostly) viable business models. More striking, though, is the emptiness within this busy, thriving city. It’s not the buzzing, numb kind of empty, but an emptiness that writhes and howls and demands to be filled.
We walk the streets of Dallas in the shoes of Hal Scott, a cynical, triggered alcoholic clinging to sobriety by his fingernails. Hal, himself empty, fills up his inner monologue with paranoid speculations of other people’s lives.…
