By: DC Foster Scar tissue mottled the old man’s hands, the thinner the lighter; it ran like Desert Storm camouflage from his wrists into his fingers toward the jaundiced nails that tipped each of his ten digits. No, nine digits. His…
By: Anna Spencer Hang Borin is a Khmer writer whom I have had the great pleasure of meeting recently. He was born in a refugee camp in Thailand in 1987. His mother had made the perilous journey over…