Dear Santa

Seona Smiles

Dear Santa a.k.a. Christmas Father, as we are saying in Fiji

I am Mrs Singh.  As you are probably knowing, we are having Diwali here every year before Christmas.  It is, on a scale of one to ten as the professors are saying, a 9.5 as far as festivals are going.  Lots of pretty lights and plenty sweets, and good curry as well.  Also plenty of fireworks only this year government not allowing bangers and children very disappointed.  They are saying it

The Soldier’s Prayer

Mohit Prasad

He opened the big doors at the entranceway to the great hall and sat on one of the palm wood furniture that dotted the green and red carpet. The high ceilings and beveled beams of the great hall were adorned with flags and wooden shields. In one corner was an armory of old guns and weapons. The thick glass cabinet was a gift from one of their army training schools overseas. He was one of the first graduates from the bright pink and brown

Chemical Warfare

Sybil Johnson

Aunt Kitty’s weapons were great in the battle but could not really win the war of permanent change. After they had done their job of a good press and curl, the hair could quickly revert to its former state. This process of “going back,” as it was called happened at a more rapid pace depending on the texture of the hair involved in the fight. Of course, my hair being “strong” would begin to “go back” as soon as I got out of the

Good Hair

Sybil Johnson

I remember watching my Aunt Kitty, the official family beautician, who had actually trained at the local beauty college when she was young; comb and brush my Cousin Kathy’s naturally straight hair. She had “good hair” I had heard the women of the family say. It was long with deep waves ending in a tangle of soft curls at the end. I wondered why her hair was so different from mine. I wondered why she smiled and talked softly to me while her hair

Strong Hair

Sybil Johnson

As much as I enjoyed the soft warmth of my mothers embrace, and squeezing as close as possible to her to smell her sweet odor and feel her soft skin against mine, and climbing into bed with her when the night was too scary; it was never a pleasant occasion when she called me over to her to “do” my hair. My earliest memories include being held fast between her strong knees, squirming and whining like a like a hurt puppy. I was overwhelmed