by Jason Arment

The more pedestrian posts on larger bases in Iraq were stood by private contractors—mercenaries. The posts requiring fluent English were stood by young men from India, and the posts requiring fighting prowess were manned by Ugandans. Unlike mercenaries from the West, who seemed to take themselves too seriously,

by Brecht De Poortere

On 17 December 2010, a young man, doused in petrol and despair, sets himself on fire in front of the police station of Sidi Bouzid. He had been stripped of his livelihood and karama—his dignity.

by Andy Flaherty

I arrive just in time to be taunted by the sun’s disappearance. A flight of kestrels playfully chitter above the entrance. The building itself, set back into a copse of trees, reminds me of a child’s pinwheel. I enter the nucleus where the nurses gather and from there four wings extend out to provide space for ten large rooms; five on each side of the hallway and spaced for privacy. 

by Mitzi Weems

I wake long before sunrise, rubbing my eyes, feeling like I am more exhausted than I was when I dozed off three hours ago. I’m pretty sure I never made it to REM sleep, the sounds from the baby monitor keeping me always on the edge of anything restful.

by Christina M. Wells

Take the winter tour of Christmas lights past the field where soldiers ran, their feet slipping in the grass with their guns braced against each other. Now there’s a slight snow, and there’s cocoa in the car with the station that plays nothing but holiday music from Thanksgiving to New Year.