Courtesy of the artist
Baroni: A Journey, a novel excerpt from Sergio Chejfec,
translated by Margaret Carson
FOR INSTANCE, one thing the photos fail to show, but
that I recapture each time I see them, is the incredible
quantity of fallen mangoes on the grounds of Baroni's
house when I visited her. There were at least two or
three trees, you could see the half-rotten and half-buried
mangoes, and also the stones, as they call the pits or seeds,
strewn all over and no doubt lodged in that sea of earth
since the previous season...
Nehru’s Relevance in India Today, an essay by Shashi Tharoor
Four men embodied the vision of free India in the 1940s—
Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, and Ambedkar. Gandhi’s moral
rectitude, allied to Jawaharlal Nehru’s political passion,
fashioned both the strategy and tactics for the
struggle against British rule.
Now that Tomaž and Jim are Gone, a poem by Dean Young
I worry poetry’s out there alone
with a hurt paw. In a paper sack
in a New Jersey rest-stop. Could it hurt
to fall to my knees? To flaunt
my disorderly crawl? I tried to throw
a search-party while it swung above us...
Two Weeks at Most, a story by A. Medvedenko
Lejla’s boss left town suddenly and without notice. No one
knew when to expect him back. In the absence of a stern,
attentive gaze, staff came and went as they pleased, and
increasingly stopped showing up for work...
The Little White Notice, a story by Alexandra Berková,
translated by Corine Tachtiris
First I saw a sign that said CROSS, so I crossed. Then
I kept off the grass, didn't enter the high voltage area,
and protected socialist state property--property that
belongs to every Czechslovak citizen. Then I didn't litter,
I waited for other passengers to get off before boarding,
and kept my head and arms inside the tram...
Love & Hypothermia, a poem by Laura Paul Watson
First, it will feel like surprise. Like the edge of something
unconsidered: a glass let go; an open palm;
how cold a mouth can be and still say love,
still say okay. . .
Postcolonial Resentments, an essay by Tabish Khair
I was a young man and in love when I moved to Denmark.
It was a country I had little prior knowledge of, but there
was no obvious reason for me to resent the place: after all,
moving to Denmark enabled me to live with and, later,
marry my girlfriend of the last two or three years. . .
White Girl, a story by Margaret Wilkerson Sexton
"Say, White Girl,” Liana could hear the brown-skinned girl
behind her whispering in the middle of Pre-algebra. She
knew she was calling for her, even though Liana wasn’t white.
At the old school, everybody knew Liana’s daddy was Creole,
that her mother was light-skinned black...