We were packed into the back of a crowded minibus somewhere on the outskirts of Addis Ababa, heading in the direction of Lake Kuriftu and the city of Debre Zeyit, which hugs its shoreline.
Issue 115: Fiction, Poetry, Nonfiction, Art
The Bird-in-Hand Farmer’s Market is busiest on Saturdays, Anna Lapp’s day to help her mother at Lapp’s Canned Goods. Their stall is in the far right corner, one of about forty surrounding the perimeter of the former warehouse.
Mrs. Dalloway said that she would walk to the office herself.
For she knew the way; and the secretary already had his work cut out for him, without having to escort her.
The American had a heart attack in French class: that’s what they wrote on his chart at the hospital in Carcassonne when they rushed him in. His teacher went along because she knew he could barely speak the language, and right then he couldn’t speak at all.
An hour before dawn on the day after they shot his friend Tomas Ziniewicz, Jakow Trachtenberg saw through the greasy dormitory window a pigeon tumble to the ground, imperfectly refracted, near the spot where the guard had spilled the day’s soup a month before.
I appreciate the risks of the postcard, the lovely,
There is nothing that I cannot show you,
The last card was marked. Only the loser cared.
The Lessons of Connaught Place: Rarely does a work of architecture represent something so different from what was intended.
Issue 114: Fiction, Poetry, Nonfiction, Art, Drama
I was alone, on my knees, in my closet-sized bedroom, dutifully running through the rosary, when my prayers were disrupted by that most sensual of pleasures—the aroma of a well-cooked dinner.