From Here

by Wen Wen Yang

The smoldering joss sticks behind the psychic burned my throat as I sipped on chrysanthemum tea from a juice box.

“Where are your lodestones buried?” The psychic had a round face like my nainai, though she wore her hair in a pixie cut instead of the ubiquitous perm.

“The Bronx,” I croaked out.

The psychic snorted. “What were you doing there?” (Continue Reading…)