Santa Ana, El Salvador | Lopez Lopez, Google Maps

It was here we prayed. Rosibel held the infant, while the boy clung to my chest. The older children sat solemn upon the bench.

We’d come so far, but there were miles more to go. Miles of jungle, of desert, of plain. Catching trains when we were able, walking when we couldn’t, and every day facing bottomless hunger, endless thirst, and the banditos that preyed upon the desperate such as we were.

It was still better than what we risked by staying in San Salvador. Ivanito shifted in my lap. He was but three, but he would never know a gang initiation, or to have to murder another man just to stay alive. Our kids would live a good life.

We were hard workers, Rosibel and I. We’d keep them safe. I breathed the scent of Ivanito’s hair and pressed my lips to his head.

Let nothing come between us.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Balbulol Dive Resort, Indonesia | Lera 76, Google Maps

Mr. Vanadel called my papa lazy, and it was true he was no fisher anymore. Instead he sat on our slant porch carving rosewood into asmat. When Mr. Vanadel said he should take them down to shore to sell them to the tourists, Papa just said, “What for?”

It was the same thing with everything. Him, so many times going out to sea, putting gas in the boat, then fourteen-hour days, earning pennies on the pound. He’d come back poorer than when he left. And if the rains fell, or the tides turned swell, or the winds blew in from the south, no man among us could break even. Which to me is why he said it, why I heard it more and more, and why I got to wondering if it made any difference if I finished school. Because the thing I had to ask myself, was: What for?

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

This seemed like such an idyllic place when I picked it, but I didn’t read far before I learned about the wrenching poverty suffered by most of the population. To learn more: Behind the beauty of Indonesia’s Raja Ampat islands lie poverty and neglect

Selma, Alabama | Google Maps

You may choose
To sleep in on a Tuesday
Roll late out of bed when you hear your sister call,
saying what you doing girl—don’t you know what’s on about?
you may never get to say no
you may have yourself a daddy-man
you may be sick, you may be poor
you may have nothing left to give, and still you have to give it all
it ain’t up to you.
Only thing you got, Child
is one day to use your voice
better use it while you can.
Raise your voice.
Catch a ride uptown
or even take the bus
or walk it, if you must,
even barefoot and pregnant, with a child on each arm.
Send them to wait in the vestibule
while you do it.
Then you go inside
sign your name and show your picture
and walk into the voting both where
You. May. Choose.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

As of today’s writing, women in Alabama can still vote.

Chute Sacree Trail | Souvaroff Eric, Google Maps

Dadabe was the wisest man in all of Madagascar. He could scent the wind and know the weather ten days out. He once brewed a tea from a pink-petaled plant that cured Samoely of fever.

He was a farmer all his life, baring the rich soil nourished by rainforest to grow his crops. He stood proud at the riverbank waving as I left for camp.

The camp was Madagasikara Voakajy. I alone was picked from my village to go. At the camp, I met other kids from up and down the highlands.

“Today, we will talk about sustainability,” they said.

We all loved our forest—it was not a thing they needed to teach. What we didn’t know was that the practices taught by our elders were destroying it. With our new wisdom, we could cultivate the land for generations to come.

When I saw Dadabe, I would teach him.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

For generations, Malagasy farmers have relied on a system of slash and burn, using the ash to fertilize their crops. The practice gnaws away at hundreds of acres of precious rain forest every year. Madagascar’s deforestation rate is the highest in the world.

These same people rely on the forest for fresh water and medicine. Madagasikara Voakajy is an environmental organization training Malagasy youth in sustainable farming practices. The kids learn skills like making compost and crop rotation. These techniques enable them to farm the same plot year after year instead of razing more forest. Adults, excited by the high yields, often approach the kids for guidance.

To learn more about Madagasikara Voakajy, see these resources:

• Madagasikara Voakajy
• Biodiversity heroes: The teenagers saving Madagascar’s wildlife
• Lemur Conservation Network

Pittsburgh Perry High School, I think | Google Maps

“Don’t be hanging with no corner boys,” she’d say.

DeAndre could still hear the growl of his grandmother’s voice while he waited backstage for his name to be called.

There would be no one in his family to hear his name called today; no one to see him stride across the stage in the graduation gown, no one to run a finger on the raised text of the valedictorian medal. His grandma passed away last October. His dad was still in Joliet, and his mother—well, who knew where she was. But somehow, he felt his grandma with him.

He would be the first member of his family to go to college, he realized as he walked tall across the stage to collect his diploma. And, as he tossed the cap into the air after the ceremony, he made a wish, a promise, a vow:

He would not be the last.

—

151 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

As college grows ever more out of reach for working families, it has long been inaccessible for those hoping to raise themselves from poverty. Scholarships like The Pittsburgh Promise aim to change that by funding the college education of urban Pittsburgh youth. Even though such scholarships don’t make it easy, they make it a little bit more possible.

“I am a man of honor,” her father said.

“So we have your word?” the officer asked.

Diana waited breathlessly in the back of the squad car. Could it be true? Had the families agreed to let her marry? It had been wrong to try to elope, but there had seemed no way to secure consent between the families. Harsh words were spoken. Threats were made. By the time the police had drafted the agreement to secure Diana’s safety, gunshots had rung out at her beloved’s house.

Her father extended a hand to the policeman. “We have all agreed. The marriage can take place.” At that, his eyes slid to her.

Could she trust him?

It was a hope so sweet it was worth believing. Because if there wasn’t love, there wasn’t hope. And if there wasn’t hope, life wasn’t worth living.

He was a man of honor, after all.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

This story was inspired by a real-life Romeo and Juliet tale out of Lod that is every bit as tragic as Shakespeare’s take on forbidden love:

18-year-old Israeli Arab Woman Shot Dead While Shopping for Her Wedding

The UN estimates that around 5,000 women and girls are murdered each year in so-called “honor killings” by members of their families.

Huayna Picchu | Google Maps

“Oh my god, stop it.”

Josh dropped the chalk and lolled on his back, grinning up at the sun. A stream of drool ran from one corner of his mouth. His chest heaved. The Ayahusaca was a bad idea. Since the tea ceremony, he’d been wallowing over the Incan ruins and blathering about the god-Inca-love-connection that ‘binds us all.’

I walked to where he’d scrawled my name on a granite outcrop downhill from the Incan temple where he’d stripped down to his underwear. The graffiti would probably wash off in the next rainstorm. His sunburn was another matter.

“Honey, you’re getting red. At least put on some sunscreen.”

He jolted up from the slab. “My heart.”

My chest tightened. “You’re not having a heart attack, are you?”

He fumbled for the dropped chalk and turned around to scrawl a heart in the space below my name. “I forgot my heart.”

—

150 words

Sorry Josh, I couldn’t resist.

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Ayahusaca is an hallucinogenic drink used in spiritual ceremonies by indigenous people in Peru. As of late, it has become a bit of a tourist industry. Foreigners pay big money to go on Ayahusaca retreats and experience the enlightenment it promises.