Tempo, for instance: one drop every so often, always the exact same so often, like a time trial in a bicycle race.

Eight years and I’m still not over it.

I allowed myself to be very playful and unafraid, and to try everything.

His lips are moist, as though he were stewing on more insults.

Language is more than just a method of communication. It is about the ability to lay down roots, to settle into an identity, to have a place in history, in the present, and in the future. Language is…

It should be patently obvious to anyone but the most resolutely blind that he is not aching with impatience to go to the house of the Lord.

and that which has no use will be discarded

JB was the one to start that fire inside my head.

At eighty-six years old, Éliane had to stand up and confront her own private nightmare.

She tapped the photo and said, “When I am dead, this is the photo of me I want you to keep.”

Pretty much everyone knew Saw Ai’s family had problems.

This year we celebrate Pride Month with seven pieces depicting Queer characters confronting decisive moments.

It's your skin I feel sliding beneath my soapy palms.

The rhythmic flow of Shadow Heights was something she often missed and longed for while she was in Joburg.

My departure had nothing to do with you or your brother.

From that day on, her memories of Danchen were frozen.

Their nayffara is a flutelike instrument heavy with history, deeply immersed in sorrow.

Karen says she’s seen it when the souls begin their perambulations.

When Böddi came back to Iceland a month later, he was engaged.

No doubt a few Galicians will think it in very bad taste to inaugurate this issue with a likeness to their higher profile southern neighbors, but because there may be a great many glad for the comparison,…

i come from a family built on longing.

Even though I hate her, my mother probably wrote me letters that she never sent.

A mother-daughter conversation and a child's search for her origins lead from the grandiose to the dreary in this poem by Luisa Castro.My mother works in a cannery.One day my mother said to me:love…

Driving here, did you know you'd die today?

A nation’s upheaval cannot be understood without women's perspectives.

At that moment, there was another whistling sound, followed by a huge explosion.

She could not have known that the caller at the other end of the phone was about to faint.

It is one of those days when the winter sun is gorgeous, and you don’t want to even think of death.

Is it a boy or a girl?

The old woman refused to wear any clothing she had not sewn herself.

The music played / on Apollo 11, it turned out, was “Georgia / On My Mind,” sung by Ray Charles.

While Arabic publishing has historically focused on literature for adults and young children, recent years have seen an increasing number of titles aimed at a young adult readership.

Who ever heard of a fisherwoman in Gaza, much less a young girl?

“It seems that Noor set fire to another student’s backpack.”

Soothsayers tell the truth even when they’re lying.

I often feel that adults forget what children’s stories are capable of.

“Look, this forklift even has an electric motor.”

What I'm trying to say is that we didn't have a sense of how dangerous it all was.

“That’s what we get for supporting Communism: standing in line for this black loaf.”

I was a woman: young, alone, divorced, left without a guardian or virtue, meaning that in society’s eyes I was an easy target.

How could they, when these women themselves had been through so much pain?

One cannot write about real-life experiences from the place of the “I” without laying claim to a place in the world.

Set me free and I'll make you rich.

The mother sheep would warn her children of the wolf that prowled the town.

She struggled and fought back and tried to save herself but could not overcome the great crocodile that had taken hold of her.

Contrary to the epic, totalizing, and politically engaged narratives of the Latin American Boom, the scope of the stories here is narrow, intimate, more local than ever before.

Days before my dad set the house on fire, there was a sheet drying bit by bit.

I would have ironed my own hands had I not needed them to iron.

It was impossible to talk to a dead man, so I talked to her instead.

The hearth is a fire that’s always being extinguished.

Nobody couldn’t have a belly button.

They were the hands of someone who had never heard of hand cream.

Even after the credits stopped rolling and the blue government warning turned into a blizzard of static, Katsuya kept staring at the screen, a vague grin on his face.

What these authors share, as insiders to the Japanese language, is a firsthand perspective on a culture whose monoethnic self-image often excludes them by default.

My reticence and my incompetence troubled me more than my appearance, but most intolerable was my unluckiness.