The Disciple

By Wong Chun Ying She was surprised to see that he still smoked the same cigarettes, after all these years. It was what she used to run to get for him, when he started getting jittery and started pacing in the editorial room. Marlboro Black Menthol “without legs,” ng jiu goek.

Two Poems by Jonathan Chan

the misty layer bears no forethought / of sorrow. it hovers over the / clearing and the stream, just as the / yawn of daylight scatters over / vines and fans of leaves.

Our Mother

By Ned Carter Miles This year was my turn to light the fire, and I chose to do it on top of a rough black stone that looked unmistakably like Ernest Borgnine—the same roundness and folds. No one else knew, but earlier that day I’d come to the beach in our mother’s car and caught…


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