Fiction

trans. Portuguese Lisa Sapinkopf That summer we went to the beach at least twice a month. Dad had just bought a bright yellow station-wagon so that we could travel in more comfort, since with my mother, my grandparents, and my little sister Cleonice, there were six of us. Those were happy times. Or at least…

It was merely a house beside a lake which had been rented. It was winterized to extend the period of time it could be let, though it was hard to see who would want its view after summer was over. The view was of places just like it, divided by water. The furnishings consisted of…

Last night Laura called and asked if I could stand in for her at Bloomingdale's. Lancôme was doing a promotion, and Laura was supposed to work at the cosmetics counter making up from three to eight. I always do my own make-up, but one ad I did for BMW, they wanted a make-up artist. That's…

trans. Arabic James Kenneson with Soad Sobhi and Essam Fatouh 9. At home and in the alley, you hear the gossip over and over. A neighbor asks my mother, "Oh, by the way, did you hear the strange news?" My mother begs her to go on. The woman says, "About Tawheeda, daughter of Um Ali…

My family had moved to Hong Kong because Tak-nam, my older brother, was very sick. He had bad heart and lung problems, and we thought that Hong Kong, with its warm climate and ocean air, would help him. We lived in a cottage on top of a small hill overlooking a bay. The water was…

Her journal was stolen. More correctly, her car was stolen and the journal was in the trunk in a tote bag. It happened three weeks ago, the day after she made the long drive from Portsmouth to Pennsylvania to spend Thanksgiving with her mother. She had just broken off a lingering love affair by changing…

His father had died at Auschwitz in July of 1969, quite probably the only Jew to have done so in twenty-four years and unquestionably the only one who'd been flown from there from what seemed like halfway round the world to begin his trip to dust in the quiet earth of Mosstown. Not to mention…

the darkness of love, in whose sweating memory all error is forced. – Amiri Baraka   DAY 1 When Handle woke at ten in the morning, he got up and walked to the far window. Hungover, he half expected the sound of traffic or the fading drone of an airliner as he lifted the window….

trans. Italian Ruth Feldman After an hour spent in the desert, I try to set down in writing everything that I have learned. When walking in the desert you have to keep your gaze on the ground all the time so as to study the position of each step; under your eyes you always have…