There were no waves, no insects to dimple the surface with their tiny drinks, no blackened seaweed reaching for the sun. There was nothing but a slurry of liquid arsenic, a plague rimmed with leafless trees, their naked fingers all pointing at Peter.

Milepost Seven

The windows of the sweet shop where we had bought the baklava were dark, showing only the reflection of a young couple walking, one that took me a moment to recognize as the shape of us. 

The Refugee

What people wanted, evidently, as they gazed at the golden scars that crisscrossed my ceramics, wasn’t beauty, but beauty broken down and put back together: a mere shadow of what had come before.

sckhalil

Selected work