Original poetry by Lora Gray.

It’s easy to forget the reasons for traditions, and unfortunately, just as easy to suffer the consequences.

“Federico” is a unique plant with a strange appetite.

Two women – one old, one young – seated at a table inside a small room, playing a game. Overhead a black drone equipped with two cameras buzzes quietly. The women talk to each other in a friendly way and touch the game pieces tentatively, as though they are still learning the rules. The older one is dressed in all-black; the younger wears white. On each of their necks is a small red mark – perhaps an insect bite, or a wound that’s halfway to healing.

Outside the room the rest of the world watches, seized by terror but unable to look away.

If you never met her, you’d think she was a real nice lady, yeah. Good with kids, never kicked no dog. Never sang a hymn out of tune. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she works down at the shelter, handing out socks and toothbrushes.

I go barefoot in my boots rather than take a single thing from Mona Luna.

The spirit of this psychologist’s trade was never really about talk therapy; it was about helping his patients find contrition for their sins—to help them feel remorse for what they’ve done. And if they can’t find it for themselves, then he will do whatever it takes to make sure they feel it.