Birth by Fatma AlQadfan

They live in a small house just like every other small house on their narrow street that looked like every other narrow street on the southern outskirts of San Pedro. High walls and iron bars protect these houses. Not like there is any thing precious in house number 97, anyway.  No TV, no fancy computer, not even inherited china from a grandmother. And even if they had a brand new stereo – like Ester down the street who played American music loud enough for the whole world to hear that her husband made enough money to buy electronics – even if, couldn’t some mischievous boys jump over the bars and get into the house if they tried? The walls and the bars are useless. If you want to keep something safe in San Pedro, you carry it with you at all times. Continue reading

Birth by Dee

All my life there was only one thing I ever really wanted from my mother. I wanted her to sit me down and tell me how sorry she was for bringing me into this world. I don’t think there’s anything you can do to someone that’s worse than giving them life. What a horrible thing to do, taking a soul out of the peace of nonexistence and pushing them into misery, the both of you kicking and screaming all the while. For what? Survival of species and family lines. Social and emotional validation. Giving birth should be a crime.