Elizabeth Iannaci is awidely-published, SoCal poet whose work appeared recently in Women in A Golden State, Midwestern Miscellany, Interlitq, etc,Her latest chapbook is The Virgin Turtle Light Show: Spring, 1968 (Latitude 34 Press). Elizabeth is partially sighted, which may account for her preference for paisley over polka dots.
We Survive the Storm: Floods and the People of Assam
by Sreejayaa Rajguru
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions… You have to step right into the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time.” — Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
The people of Assam confront stormy weather every year.
Only this isn’t stormy weather. It’s flooding and often cold, brown, heavy flooding that swallows fields, roads, schools, and homes, creeping in quietly and slowly at first. It rises from the Brahmaputra and its many tributaries, bringing in its wake the weight of abandoned policy and broken promise. Every year floods come. And every year we live.
Not because it’s easy. Because it’s not an option.
The Water as Guest Where I come from (Assam) water isn’t always an enemy. For many parts of the year, water is life. It sustains the rice fields, energizes the ferry, fills the ponds, and children cast-off onto and fishermen rely on. Come June (ish) the very same water refuses to leave. Instead it becomes an unwanted guest, it barges through the door and plops itself down on your couch.
You can’t fight the flood. You can’t negotiate with the flood. You can’t tell the flood to give you a moment.
Instead, we make adjustments. We lift our items, we prep up our boats, we prepare food. People who live in other parts of the country probably look at us and wonder how we survive like this every year, and the answer is pretty simple; we survive it like you survive a long illness, or a bleak marriage or grief. Just a day at a time.
What the Flood Takes The flood is a slow thief. It robs us in daylight and not in the usual darkness of night. It always starts with the road. Then it takes the back yard. Then it takes the courtyard. Then it takes the house. And sometimes it takes more than land.
It takes the crop that we waited all year to harvest. It takes the top of the hill, and the cattle that couldn’t swim. And sometimes it takes people – an old woman who didn’t move fast enough, a child who didn’t know where the ground ended, a breath away from safety. These stories never make the news anymore, they are too ordinary. They are too cruelly commonplace.
This ordinary cruelty is a different sort of violence. When suffering is predictable, it is mundane. But to us, every loss is new. Every time our bodies feel the pain anew.
We Become Builders, Not Victims The flood waters recede, leaving a lot more than mud.
I see how they leave silt–the fine, golden silt that coats our skin and the seeds. They leave behind the skeletons of cows and lost stories. But more than that, they leave behind an invitation: What will you do now?
And so, we build. Not just homes, but faith.
We hammer the weight of our sorrow into the roofs over our heads. We stitch resilience into the mosquito nets we hang around our beds. We plant new seedlings in our gardens not because they will survive but because we will.
Children splash and play in the puddles where graves once rested. The women rebuild the granaries. The men pick up where they left off fishing, not because they want to, but because they must. Life starts not in ceremony but in habit. The world pretends we are victims. We know better. Victims wait. Survivors act.
We are not waiting for the flood to stop. We are learning to dance in it.
“You’ll come out of the storm…”
Haruki Murakami writes, “And when the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.”
The message resonates deeply with many people in Assam.
When the floodwater recedes, the real work begins. Cleaning the mud, repairing the walls, rebuilding the farm, replanting the fields, seeing who returned and who didn’t. The people get quieter, they age in ways that have nothing to do with age. The children grow up quicker. They have seen too much to believe in fairy tales.
Every year leaves its scars. None of us come out of the storm without carrying some damage. We come out carrying the weight of one more thing. Some of us come out weighing less: less land returned to, less money returned to, less stuff to return to. But always we come out, that is the part we don’t forget.
The storm is never over In Murakami’s realm, the storm may leave, but it never really leaves. It continues to affect the person, and follows them around for the rest of their life.
In Assam, the flood waters recede. The water doesn’t always leave but it recedes. There are remnants to remember the storm: on the walls, the land, the eyes of those who have watched everything they have built melt away. In some cases, we look at trauma, and it screams at us. In others, it whispers. It becomes your hesitation at planting again. It is the way a little girl flinches at the rumble of thunder. It is the way an old woman cannot sleep when it rains heavily.
We have learned to live beside the flood, not under it. That’s how we survive.
Of course, perhaps that is Murakami’s point.
“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.”
We are different. But we are still here.
And we are still walking.
Sreejayaa Rajguru is a law student and a writer based in Assam. Her work explores themes of justice, gender, and memory, often drawing on her lived experiences and realities in the Northeast of India. She is currently interning with legal aid organizations and documenting stories from vulnerable communities.
Weather: Water Cycle, Solid States, Stability of, see Unstable, see Apply Force, see Apply Heat, See Be Hella L.A.
By Cynthia Alessandra Briano
Collect rainwater like language—guttural. Let me tell you what my heart can do— refuse the cloud cover, dissipate the morning fog, June pushing into July.
The sun something to prepare for in a city torn apart at daylight. Raids beginning at 6 in the morning and carrying on to midnight. Respite when the poison resets. I look up the word, abduction:
Law. the illegal carrying or enticing away of a person,
especially by interfering with a relationship,
such as the taking of a child from their parent.
Acid rain falling on our gardens.
Walk around the main street as precaution. Stop your car to buy fruit.
I say to my friend: wash mosquito repellent out of your eye
the way you do tear gas. I’ve been reading articles by frontline medics: tilt your head first to the right— wash one eye, let the tears run off your face,
so as not to contaminate your other face. Then wash out your other eye. Cry until you are clean.
Tears are useful. The body needs to be useful
when all you can do is watch and record as they take away—
we will say: carry away by force,
to carry off or lead away (a person) illegally
and in secret or by force, especially to kidnap
our fathers. They are all our fathers. Say: ours.
They are all ours. And we are theirs.
The weather will cooperate. California will contend. Some sunny summer morning the gloom will melt away. It’s a dry heat. We know how
to take a handful of sand from the desert if we are desert, from the ocean, if we are ocean. From the mountain, if we are mountain. We are mountain, limestone, quartz. We are concrete heat. We are metallic lowrider hood. We are piercing gaze.
We are a heart full of earth filtering the poison and coming out clean.
Cynthia Alessandra Briano is the daughter of Mexican immigrants and grew up in Southeast Los Angeles. She is Founder of Love On Demand Global and Director of Rapp Saloon Reading Series First Fridays. She is a College Counselor and teaches English Literature, Creative Writing, and African American Arts & Literature.
Blue heron searches for food on the school’s quiet field Stands over gopher’s dirt mound
We leave our classroom for library time, discover her Hush, becoming quiet, wanting to get closer
Gray feathered and tall, she is walking royalty Our arms grow feathers, we stretch our wings
Straighten our backs, bend our knees up high Walk soundless and slow, becoming dreamers
The lone bird, with only a beak and no hands Snacks on her catch, until
Thundering first graders rush out A flurry of squawking
Great blue heron flies away Pumping graceful wings, becoming sky
How we look into that sky testing new wings How our feet leave the ground
How she was ours for those moments Magnificent and mysterious without words
How we wait, hope, search looking How library day is not the real reason we love Mondays
How, when no one is looking, we walk out of our room Becoming heron
Lori Anaya is a poet and bilingual crosscultural elementary educator with 36 years experience and an M.S. in bilingual Special Education. She’s a Macondista and SCWriP Fellow published in labloga.blogspot.com and several literary journals. She writes across genres. Learn more at https://loribanaya.com/.
A fat sparrow, white crown gleaming Hops from the ground Makes its way deep into the bush Moments later, a squawk— A hawk flushes and takes flight
Which one screamed?
It might have been the raptor, youthful and brown, Eyes yellow like foliage almost done for Grasping its meal like the dying leaves Grip the branches In a futile fight with Mother Nature Whose biological clock steadily ticks Generating next year’s life Also condemned from the beginning
Did the hawk stave off starvation for one more day?
Or maybe it was the songbird Whose tunes come without lyrics Give no reassurance of having God’s eye at all Let alone His intercession
Did the sparrow see one more sunset?
This mammal was relieved It happened so fast I didn’t have time to feel bad About staying out of it None of this is my responsibility
Barbara Ruth Saunders writes poetry, memoir, and criticism and performs at poetry readings and solo performance venues in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her debut poetry collection, Hearing Voices, was released in 2024, and her work has appeared online at Highland Park Poetry and in the anthology Silence is Consent.
Turkey vultures soar and circle high above the house in late summer. A time when the Sacramento heat presses in and the air smells of wildfire. The dark floating figures arrive at twilight against a sherbet sky. They roost every night in the 100-year-old, 70-foot-tall London plane tree out front. They stay here through fall and winter and leave in the spring. They have an intimidating presence.
We live in a quiet suburban neighborhood in a city surrounded on two sides by rivers where the birds scavenge for carrion during the day. By early evening they come home to roost. They are substantial birds with a wingspan of around six feet. They land one by one in the uppermost heights of the tree, weaker branches snap under their weight. It’s a macabre sight twenty or more vultures in one tree, vampires wrapped in black capes settled under the canopy for the night. The sight grows more frightful once the tree drops its leaves and the vultures perch alone on the bare, cold branches in winter.
They have a habit too of regurgitating the blood and bones of the carcasses they devour at the river and defecating en masse. Deposits land on the sidewalk and cars where constant clean-up is required. The vultures are a raw reminder that our tidy lives are secondary to nature’s ruthlessness. We have no control over migratory patterns or the bird’s behavior. Despite the mess and menacing look, they are a wonder to behold. Their appearance brings us into the present moment, stops us as we watch them drift above the treetops in the honeyed light at the end of each day. They make no sound, unlike the steady calls of the crows and jays here, only hover aloft, then quietly land.
I considered this dilemma more earnestly after reading Helen Macdonald’s Vesper Flights. Macdonald’s primary reflection throughout the collection of essays is humanity’s interaction with the natural world and in many cases birds of prey. There are moments of awe, conflict, peculiarity, and in each nature shows us something of who we are.
Discussions with our neighbors to discourage the vultures from roosting here came to mind. Society’s capitalist laws say I own the tree, but what do birds know of law? The tree in our front yard is not owned by me, but rather is part of a complex biological system. I came to see that to evict the birds would be a loss of biodiversity, a tear in the web of interconnectedness between species who call this area home. For a century construction, pest treatments, and yard maintenance have altered, if not harmed, the natural systems at work in this neighborhood. I believed I was an environmentalist, a conservationist, but right in front of me was an opportunity to live my values, and I was missing it.
One of Macdonald’s recurring themes is the ability of birds to erase national borders and make human history seem irrelevant. The migration of birds is unconcerned with law and politics. This is not a dissimilar issue to the increasing restrictions on immigration in the U.S., the determined efforts to stop the free movement of people and their dreams. A bird’s indifference to these rules and regulations is an unsung rebellion.
When my neighborhood was first formed, when the houses were newly built, trees freshly planted that would grow for 100 years, property deeds included racially restrictive covenants, excluding people of color from ownership or occupancy. Our deed carries this exclusion. It’s difficult to accept that I couldn’t have owned my home back then or may not have been welcomed by neighbors, but understanding the past helps us do better in the future. It helps me see the vultures as welcome neighbors, as indigenous to the landscape.
Martina Madani is a nonfiction writer based in Sacramento, CA with a BA in English from UC Berkeley. Her work explores themes of feminism, adventure, family, and environmentalism. She examines the intersections of identity, place, and storytelling through a blend of memoir and cultural inquiry. She is currently working on her debut memoir.
An egret studies the water in Wintersburg Channel scanning for fish, ignoring Taco Bell wrappers, striped drink straws, deflated soccer ball, and flashing blue lights.
Two boys in white tee shirts sit on the curb, hands cuffed behind backs, staring at the street. A blonde in an Acura checks her iPhone reflection and applies blush with a pink handled brush,
Men in uniforms yank the boys to their feet, bump their shaved heads on the frame of the patrol car and shove them into the back seat.
The light turns green. The Acura accelerates. The egret lift his wings, extends slender legs, and glides over the channel towards Saddleback, white feathers disappearing in the sun.
Mary Camarillo is the author of the award-winning novels “Those People Behind Us” and “The Lockhart Women.” Her poems and short fiction have appeared in publications such as Citric Acid, California Writer’s Club Literary Anthology, Inlandia, 166 Palms, Sonora Review, and The Ear. Mary lives in Huntington Beach, California. https://www.MaryCamarillo.com.
From behind the blue C-section curtain, the medical staff whispered: “Unusual,” “Mermaid birth.”
“An intact amniotic sac!” my doctor exclaimed.
A transparent bubble with a baby floating in murky water was gently placed on my chest. She was curled in the fetal position, her head covered by a mop of black hair. When I tried to hold onto her, she slipped away from me. The doctor caught her and tried to pry her out of the amniotic sac.
My baby slid out of the hands that wanted to break her out of her shell. One of the nurses grabbed her and passed her around so the team could see what an en caul birth looked like. She eventually made her way back to me.
I knew I was dreaming.
My first good night’s sleep since the miscarriage.
I wanted to see what she looked like, but the amniotic fluid was cloudy and one of her hands covered part of her face. Everyone in the room crowded around us; she needed to be removed from the caul.
Panic and fear tried to take over. I vowed to protect my baby.
She moved her hand;we made eye contact.
My dream baby Houdinied herself out of her casing.
A warrior’s cry echoed through the operating room.
The deflated caul looked like crumpled parchment paper with the words “Are you, my mother?” inscribed in lavender ink.
As a lucid dreamer, I was in control of my nocturnal escapade. I believe this was also my daughter’s dream. My girl and I were on equal footing. She was there to check me out, would I suffocate her or give her space to be who she needed to be? I had nothing to ask of her, only that she please, choose me.
Lucy Rodriguez-Hanley is a creative nonfiction writer, award winning filmmaker and mother of two. She is the Chapters Director of Women Who Submit and leads the Long Beach, CA chapter. Her website lucyrodriguezhanley.com
Diosa Xochiquetzalcóatl is a multilingual and multidimensional spoken word poetiza and seasoned language arts educator with a B.A. in English and M.Ed. in Cross-Cultural Teaching who has been published online and in print on both sides of the US-Mexico border and Brazil. Diosa X is the author of six poetry collections, with more still to come. Learn more about her at www.diosax.net
Today I looked up and saw a star crying across the sky. How did she know? Did she see me crying, too? When her tail of salted yellow dust and old magnesium green light lit across my eyelid shield for a moment I laughed because I, too, know how to color darkness know what it’s like to burn and yell and laugh through an unspoken language of ash. I wished upon her falling for rest for less from this body yet I remembered to be of this body is to be graceful and grateful for this pure burning can be fruitful and destructive and she must know there is joy after grief, after, after, after, she must know her language of color is real and true because I saw her falling from a separate darkness while looking up and felt her tears of history attempt to cure me in a land not meant for tenderness and silent loving, in dark, in light, in the real, in the way tears can never fall until we can bear no more until we bear it all and we cry for one another, until we cry for one, until we cry, until we cry until we cry
Avery C. Castillo is a Mexican American poet, artist, and editor from South Texas. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. Her work is published in various anthologies and literary journals. Visit www.writingsbyavery.com for more.
