To get to the point: last night an iceberg slid out of my mind and into the room, sheathing first the windows and then the walls with frost.
Crossing the Rio GrandeBy Courtney Angela Brkic
“The Pacific Ocean,” he was telling their children through the rearview mirror, “is greater than the Atlantic. Many creatures are living there.”
PelionBy Mario Alberto Zambrano
I could understand how difficult it must’ve been for two beautiful boys to resist one another, you, and my friend. But what happened next was what I had a hard time wrapping my head around.
BerchtaBy Teresa Milbrodt
The little people eat on the couch while Berchta and I eat at the kitchen table, and she relaxes enough to grouse about how no one appreciates the old gods and goddesses anymore. I assume this is a typical complaint among mythical figures.
The WidowBy Jennifer Acker Shah
The husband did not stop until he reached the ocean. Did not turn to wave at the woman he would widow.
Millions of Americans Are StrangeBy Nicholas Grider
Frank pays John to meet him at a hotel when Frank is in town so John can tie him up and leave him alone like that for eight to ten hours.
Wonder Woman UnderoosBy Scott McClanahan
I crawled out of the bed wearing my PJ top and these little Wonder Woman Underoos.
A Lifetime of FoodBy Naz Riahi
“He wouldn’t let me get a driver’s license. Did I ever tell you that? … I went down to the department and there was a soldier there who said, ‘I’m sorry but your husband has given us orders to turn you away.’”
¡VIEQUES!By Mary Akers
We were Boudreaux and Rothschild, Miller and Stackowski, O’Toole and Greene. We were Dani, Alyx, Rickie, Carlita, Jaz, Sam. We were butch. We were femme. We were bois. We were a tribe.
A Spring CleaningBy Dwyer Murphy
When the previous summer’s blackout revealed that Barrett kept his family on an electric well pump rather than pay the town for water, Patrick had eased his mother’s shame by announcing that nothing pleased him better than a bath in the pond.
The House on Iran StreetBy Hooman Majd
A map showed a tiny airplane, a jagged line trailing it, seemingly hovering over a dot named “Teheran.”
AppetitesBy Maria Mutch
The wolves patrol back and forth and back and forth along the forest periphery and terrify the village children but not the parents—the parents are too busy with their politics and knickknacks to notice much about the wolves.
from A Forest of a Thousand Daemons: A Hunter’s SagaBy D.O. Fagunwa, translated from the Yorùbá by Wole Soyinka
Without a doubt, my friend has told you the tale about my parents, and about the various things that I experienced when I visited the Forest of Irunmale.
The WatchBy Terese Svoboda
Everyone is hoping that the just declared new country will be lucky, that the rioting and murdering will not break out as predicted by the expat at our bar the night before.
Mother, Grandmother, and Aunt EllenBy Dorthe Nors, translated by Martin Aitken
They were full of stories, and right from the beginning they wanted to tell them all, and when they did they would look at him as if to encourage him to learn them by heart
The Sea FloorBy Khalid Ahmad Atif
In a pile, like sea anemones, the boys’ penises were dusted with sand and, in the starlight, bluish.
PoacherBy David Vann
We all waited, I think. I don’t believe anyone rose immediately. And this was because the dead man was capable of anything. If he had fallen, who knew what he might do next?
Jesus Owes Me MoneyBy Magogodi Makhene
What I’m about to tell you Pastor John doesn’t know.
Five ShardsBy Peter Orner
A couple years before I was born my mother took my four year-old brother and ran away, home to Massachusetts and her parents, where they holed up like fugitives.
The Subaltern’s Guide to Time TravelBy Nikesh Shukla
He looks at me, into the core of my soul, and says, “This is my big white willy. I love my big white willy. It’s not a brown willy. It’s a white one.” He repeats this a few more times. My friends don’t quite know what to say.
L’AmourFrom a previously untranslated novel by Marguerite Duras, translated from the French by Kazim Ali and Libby Murphy
The man takes a piece of paper, he writes: S. Thala. S. Thala. S. Thala.
VeilsBy Catriona Wright, winner of the 2013 Dzanc Books/Disquiet International Literary Program Award
“Your father lets you dress like this?” Dinara said.
JubileeBy Kirstin Valdez Quade
She’d forever be checking ethnicity boxes, emphasizing her parents’ work: farm laborer, housekeeping. Trying to prove that she was smart enough, committed enough, pleasant enough to be granted a trial period in their world.
The Law of ProgressBy Cecilia Rodríguez Milanés
My mother’s mother used to say that it took four generations to get the black out.
from “The Hanging Garden”An excerpt from the posthumous novel by Patrick White
Ma Bulpit said, “You’ll find it hard till you know the ropes. Those Lockharts… Australians mean well.”
Nothing Was SaidBy Ror Wolf, translated from the German by Jennifer Marquart
Not a word was uttered by an unknown man as he embraced an unknown twenty-year-old woman from behind on Boppstrasse.
Blak PowerBy NoViolet Bulawayo
They are just everywhere, walking, rushing, running, toyi-toying, fists and machetes and knives and sticks and all sorts of weapons and the flags of the country in the air, Budapest quivering with the sound of their blazing voices: Kill the Boer, the farmer, the khiwa.
The Hunger BrideA novel excerpt by Julie Ries
“Go home and pray to be forgiven,” she cried. “If you don’t pray now, you know what waits for you.”
Savage CoastBy Muriel Rukeyser, from her previously unpublished novel
Europe, the thought of Europe swelled over the horizon, like a giant dirigible, strung with lights in a dream of suspended power, but filled, in the dream, with a gas about to burst into flame.
DeparturesBy Patrick Dacey
My uncle never did a bad thing to anybody, but one day while he was on his front porch eating an ice cream cone, two men came upon him, pushed him inside, tied his hands and feet, robbed his house, and shot him in the head