Orna Wellman

I am here with my son, Adin, now seventeen years old. When he was two and a half he choked on a grape, sustaining a severe brain injury as a result of that horrific accident. For twelve years he remained relatively stable, but that all changed two years ...

Winter trees tremble with the last of chilling winds. Twilight hangs like frost tempting frozen relief. Brown aching branches have weathered every storm. Bending beaten arms of black – tired arms of black.<

In the city of Mumbai Jewish bodies die. In the black heart of hate Blood pours like spilt paint.