Slick gray flesh. Slippery yellow flesh. Powdery white flesh. Three generations, one shrimp.

My mom slaps down some more dough in front of me. To eat, you must create.

"Green, they'd be green, just how my own grandpa used to have 'em," he sighs.

My dad and I have come to the mutual realisation that he can't force me to help him out in the garden. 

Their shells pricked my fingers, the spikes digging tauntingly into my skin. 

There's a sort of spell that falls over the dinner table as we wait for the athan to sound.

I grew up eating an excessive amount of eggs. Actually, that’s a little misleading.

I grew up eating an excessive amount of eggs. Actually, that’s a little misleading.

“Black people don’t eat sushi.” He said it while I was in the middle of filling a bowl with grits . .

You always liked to watch the trains as they passed by, one after another, right on schedule. You liked the whooshing sound of the breaks as the train slowed into the station, and the whirring of the engine as it started up again.