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Letter from the Guest Editor: “About the Psyche” by Morgan Parker Fiction Experiential Studies by Tiphanie Yanique The Night Suzy Link Goes Missing by Lisa Ko The Mystery of the Best Friend by Lydia Conklin Poetry Folie a Deux by t’ai freedom ford Donor List: Kidney by Brionne Janae Date Night with Abdelhalim Hafez by Safia Elhillo Phone Call with Abdelhalim Hafez by Safia Elhillo Beer Pong by Camonghne Felix No Shade, Though by Camonghne Felix Erasures by Caitlin Blanchfield From “Nature Poem” by Tommy Pico A Case for the Control of Guns in the Hands of Men by Emily Brandt Rumination on She by Lirael O Clean Slate by Charif Shanahan Risk by Sam Sax The Italian Root of Quarantine Is by Sam Sax Surrender by Danez Smith Private Manning by Kazim Ali O’ to be Young Black & Gifted by Mike Crossley Apologia by Jocelyn Sears Last Night by John Lee Clark Edges of Insomnia by Zubair Ahmed Blueprint by Zubair Ahmed New Map by Marisa Beltramini The Sun of Knowledge by Nadia Anjuman Insane Heart by Nadia Anjuman Nonfiction To Be Young Gifted and Black: A Travelogue of Black Women Artists in France and America by Naomi...

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Mina Zohal, Baaraan-e Digar

Apogee Journal

17 Jun 2015

We are deeply sorry for an error in the printing of Mina Zohal’s essay, “Baaraan-e Digar” in Apogee Issue 05. A paragraph of text was mistakenly added to her piece during production of the issue, which significantly affected the content. For this reason, and with our sincerest apologies, we are reprinting “Baaraan-e Digar” here in its entirety, with the author’s permission. 1 Every time you go home, we get hectic. We go to Walmart, Target, Big Lots, the dollar store, the coat factory, the thrift store, and Ross. We shop for eye drops for Amma jan; ties and socks for your brother, nephews, and cousins; perfumes for their daughters and wives; aspirin; a stuffed animal for Zargoona jan; and a cane for your Sufi kaka. We go over the power of attorney, the bills, the will, the plants, the mail, the keys, the yard, the car. I’m so worried about you. We pack and repack and pack and pack again. I sit on your suitcase and kiss your hands. I don’t tell you this, because I’m sick of those Wahabi pamphlets, but deep down, I still feel like a Muslim. You’re so stressed out at the check-in. In all...

Fiction

FICTION: There Are No Free Lunches, by Kavita Das

Apogee Journal

12 Jun 2015

There Are No Free Lunches Kavita Das On Monday mornings, the final beep would sound over the school intercom at 8:30, signaling that all P.S. 203 students should report to their classrooms. I was in fourth grade with Mrs. Pacman and a video game of the same name was all the rage. Following the final beep, our class, a sea of white, black, brown, and yellow, would stand at our desks and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. We were led by a pledge-leader and a flag bearer, positions that rotated daily. Afterwards commenced the quiet period. We read to ourselves in our seats and Mrs. Pacman took on the weekly task of sorting out lunch and milk money. This involved a roll call. She called out “Regular Lunch” and all the kids who paid the regular price for lunch formed an L-shaped single line that ran along one side of the classroom and continued along the blackboard leading up to her desk. We clutched envelopes with $2.50 in lunch money in front of us, trying to make sure none of the coins slipped out. Sometimes I didn’t have my lunch money in an envelope because my parents would...