Had he not run out of sugar, Abraham wouldn’t have left his house at all. It’s the sixteenth of the month, and a storm stirs in the air of his small Southern town.
I find myself walking a paved road in the middle of a baraat, a groom’s wedding procession. It resembles a parade that will eventually pour through a small Indian village leading to a clearing where the bride and her family wait.
I came to the city to write. I hoped to find a bustling literary community to feed my spirit and offer me some kind of identity in a dizzying mass of humanity.
James calculated that the farthest he wanted to go was four hours by car. Eight hours of driving roundtrip. After his parents left for their fall conferences, he could hit the road.