by N.T. Arévalo
I.
The Toncontin International Airport, the actual landing strip, is one of the shortest (most dangerous) on the planet. The pilot descends quickly into a canyon, ducking a mountain, and when the plane hits the tarmac, it must do so at an exacting speed so it brakes before the cliff. That’s right: the cliff. There’s even a traffic light to pause motorists as the plane’s wheels dip a fistful of feet from the highway. Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
by Jarelle Kraus
Buenos Aires, 1992:
It’s a sultry February here below the equator, where Nazis are harbored, where machismo reigns. Where Argentina’s middleweight boxing champion, Carlos Monzón, flung his wife out the window to her death. “My dinner was late for the second night in a row,” Monzón explained.
Filed under Nonfiction
by Noelle Marie Falcis
Recently, I made myself a bowl of eggs, rice, and spam. I had woken up craving it in a way that I had not longed for something in a long time. It was one of those mouth salivating, jaw aching type of wants that don’t disappear until you satiate it. I jumped from bed, stretching first one way and then the other, stepping lightly across my wooden floors. I’m on my own now; I haven’t lived at home since I was a teenager— that’s Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
by Kate Tagai
Here: South Pacific, July 2011
Anna seems to grow from the woven mat spread between her and the dusty ground. Her skirt’s elastic stretched and sagging around her waist from so much wear, like Anna’s own skin. She is eighty, or maybe closer to ninety years old. She doesn’t know, but measures her years in world events and the thirteen children she has raised. Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
by Richard Key
June 4. I’m one hundred days from turning sixty. Seems not so long ago I calculated that I had exactly one thousand days remaining in my fifties, which didn’t bother me so much. That’s almost three years. You could get a law degree in that time. People have biked around the world in less time. Sixty is intimidating. You’re supposed to be grown up by then. I mean completely grown up. Fifty is the youth of old age, according to Victor Hugo, and maybe that’s the rub. Now even the youth of old age is fading fast. My “over the hill” T-shirt has holes in it…and they’re getting bigger by the day.
Filed under Nonfiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 