by atosun

The Maze

August 1, 2019 in Arabic, Fiction by atosun

Original by Ayah Raafat
Translated, from the Arabic, by Essam M. Al-Jassim

Only silence is allowed here. You can cry, shout, and wail, but you do so without uttering a sound.

When I was a little boy, I went with my father to the theme park. He told me to go on the Labyrinth of Fear ride, but I was afraid. I asked him to come with me, but he insisted I go alone. I eventually saw it ‎wasn’t too scary of a maze—only two corridors—but I felt lost inside it. As I made my way through, silent tears rolled down my cheeks. Finally, I found my way and came ‎out, trembling. 

“You’ve become a man now,” my father uttered. “Men don’t cry,” he rebuked in a harsh tone‎.

From that day forward, I knew men never cry. 

The next day after school, my father noticed a bruise on my face. When I told him I didn’t hit the boy back, he was enraged. He beat me and warned never to let someone put their hands on me again. But the boys’ hands didn’t stop reaching my face. My father, in turn, struck me repeatedly. 

I grew up, and when my father died, I never cried or uttered a sound, I remembered him warning me that men don’t cry. I never had a strong personality.  As a child, I was a coward and an anxious young man.     

Eventually, I got married and had a son. When he came home from school one day with the same bruise at the same age I did, I shouted, beat, and reproached him just like my father had done to me. I never wanted my son to be like I was; I wanted him to be as strong and brave as my father had been.

I’ll let no one touch him or make him cry‎, I swore to myself.

“Get dressed. We’re going for a walk,” I told my son and took him to the same theme park my father had taken me to and insisted he go on the Labyrinth of Fear ride alone.


Ayah Raafat is an Egyptian novelist and short story writer. She was born in Mansoura, Dakahlia Governorate and is a graduate of Mansoura University. She obtained her medical degree at Mansoura Faculty of Medicine. She started her successful writing career in 2008. Ayah Raafat published a collection of short stories and two novels. Her novel When The Truth Lies has achieved critical acclaim.


Essam M. Al-Jassim is a Saudi translator. He taught English for many years at Royal Commission schools in Jubail, Saudi Arabia. He ‎received his bachelor’s degree in Foreign Languages and Education from King Faisal University, Hofuf. His translations appear in a variety of print and online literary Arabic and English journals.

by atosun

Lives Hidden

August 1, 2019 in Fiction, Poetry, Spanish by atosun

Original by Andrea Zelaya
Translated, from the Spanish, by the author

We were lying down, at night, looking at the stars, you and I. Only there weren’t any stars that we could look at. We were pretending. We were on top of all those boxes, covering ourselves from the cold with a shared blanket, and the sky was the dark above and around us. We were the last to still have some human in us. The rest were all gone. They had been killed on earth during the war and then during the migration, when the technologicals were trying to stop us from coming in. I was telling you about how you had to hold on because we were the only ones still with some human in us. We were part machine but we were still human, unlike the others. The others were all technologicals. I was telling you all this. I was telling you about how we were the only two children who had survived the cages and the mutilations. All adults were meant to be killed, and some of their children were captured and put in cages to await mutilations, to open us up, to see what made us human, and to take it away. Most died. But we didn’t die, you and I, because of that guard, that guard who was a mixed one. Somebody had helped her survive before and then she helped us too. She tried to help others but then she got caught and killed. She knew how to perform the operations and gave me a technological arm and foot and gave you a technological leg and a half face. She also gave us this blanket. I was telling you all this as we were lying down on all those boxes filled with technological parts she kept hidden inside this broken vessel. But I couldn’t read your expression. I think that you were scared, and tired, and in pain, like I was, but I couldn’t tell anymore. I think you tried to move your lips, but then nothing really happened. So I told you to try to rest. I told you we would figure it out. We would have to live our lives hidden from now on but we would try to keep surviving, day by day. Rest your eyes, I said to you, while I closed your human and your technological eyelids at the same time, and imagine that we’re on a terrace on earth, lying down at night, looking at the stars. 

Vidas escondidas 

Estábamos acostados, en la noche, mirando las estrellas, tú y yo. Sólo que no había ninguna estrella que pudiéramos ver. Estábamos fingiendo. Estábamos arriba de todas esas cajas, cubriéndonos del frío con una cobija que compartíamos, y el cielo era la oscuridad sobre nosotros y alrededor de nosotros. Éramos los últimos que todavía tenían algo humano dentro. Los demás ya no estaban. Habían sido aniquilados en la tierra durante la guerra y luego durante la migración, cuando los tecnologianos estaban tratando de impedirnos llegar aquí. Te estaba diciendo que debías aguantar porque éramos los únicos aún con algo humano dentro de nosotros. Éramos parte máquina pero éramos todavía humanos, a diferencia de los otros. Los otros eran todos tecnologianos. Te estaba diciendo todo esto. Te estaba diciendo sobre cómo éramos los únicos dos niños que habían sobrevivido las jaulas y las mutilaciones. Todos los adultos tenían que ser aniquilados, y algunos de sus niños fueron capturados y puestos en jaulas a esperar la mutilación, para abrirnos, para ver qué nos hacía humanos, para quitárnoslo. La mayoría murió. Pero nosotros no, ni tú ni yo, gracias a esa guarda, esa guarda que era mixta. Alguien la había ayudado a sobrevivir antes y ahora nos ayudaba a nosotros también. Trató de ayudar a otros pero fue descubierta y aniquilada. Ella sabía cómo realizar las operaciones y me dio un brazo y un pie tecnológicos y a ti una pierna y la mitad de la cara. También nos dio esta cobija. Te estaba diciendo todo esto mientras estábamos acostados en esas cajas llenas de piezas tecnológicas que ella mantenía escondidas en esta nave averiada. Pero no podía descifrar tu expresión. Creo que tenías miedo, cansancio, y dolor, como yo, pero no lo podía asegurar más. Creo que intentaste mover tus labios, pero nada sucedió. Entonces te dije que descansaras. Te dije que lo solucionaríamos. Tendríamos que vivir nuestras vidas escondidas desde ahora pero intentaríamos seguir sobreviviendo, día con día. Descansa tu ojos, te dije, mientras cerraba tu párpado humano y tu párpado tecnológico al mismo tiempo, e imagina que estamos en una terraza en la tierra, acostados en la noche, mirando las estrellas. 


Andrea Zelaya is a student in the PhD literature program at UCSD, and has published her short stories and poetry in both English and Spanish. She has also worked as a pro bono translator.

by atosun


August 1, 2019 in Crossgenre, English, Fiction, Poetry by atosun

Original by Siloh Radovsky
Adapted, from the Lasse Hallström film, by the author

Let’s pretend: 

I am the Chocolatier. 

Carrying colonial blood around in wooden vessels; also, the woman who refuses to stay, moving from place to place only to rescue restless souls from Christendom. Her father (my great- grandfather) was the one to collect the secret Cacao rituals with his ethnographic apparati— transcription, transmission, etc. But her professional peddling most closely mimics matrilineal survival strategies. 

Relocating to the tweed town full of broken marriages wrapped in wool jackets, Vianne began to foil the sweets. 

Finding the correct flavor unlocks the stuck blood portal due to chemical traces they crave. Though at the time what comes across is a hint of understanding—lumps of sugar which know the soul. 

She means it truly, wrapping her own self up in her woolen coat and visiting tropical sunshine upon citizens’ calcifications, agitating them out of daily abuse: “This delicious flavor filling your mouth means you deserve better—the best each day.” Hot cocoa for wayward boy-child, pastilles for his secretly diabetic Gran. But the danger lies not in the indulgence itself but the suggestion of pleasurability. 

Culturally, our broken sweet tooth soothed in but one way such that the Gremlin shirks off to its alternate enclaves leaving behind a slime trail of ethical hedonism interspersed with some badly- needed nutrients. 


My grandmother was beholden to the brick & mortar, with all the trappings and covered in fog, castle-like, with some excessively repentant village mayor breathing down her neck about Catholicism. Back then, the 1950’s, the technology was social engineering. Things are different now but the same—the technology is still social engineering—except now I’m beholden to the app, freed and not freed from the constraints of physical place. The app is called Cafe. It says, Take this quiz, this personalized quiz regarding which category to place you in then the advice will algorithmically follow. We chocolatiers have been both aggregated and multiplied so I’ve been teleporting my emotional labor into the privacy of the home while the Developers work on building a market for us. The Developers say, Thanks for believing in the work we do every day! Only they’ve programmed that saying, and everyone gets the same message. Meanwhile, I play the roulette one-on-one, inviting my customers to dig deeper inwards. They take the quiz and I match them with a chocolate box; they receive the box in the mail after they spin the Plate and interpret it all Rorschach-like. 

Once and a while while that digitized relic blurs on-screen someone will say, “I see my employment prospects.” Ah, the hunger for financial security—I recognize and resonate but must uphold my position of transcendence. I tell them that if they master themselves as students of their own desire, they too can occupy this position, refracting their positivity and good taste; it’s a good side-hustle. We were not the first to digitize this highly-structured system of understanding, externalizing the pathways of our diagnostics, but we’ve learned to work within the constraints we were given. My lineage is a lineage of restless wanderers and we’ve always learned to make a place for ourselves in a less-than-ideal circumstance, while earning for ourselves a nominal fee. While clicking the buttons for cayenne pepper recipe (lacking-passion- dominant) and rose cream packet (needing-sweetness-dominant) I try to reconnect to my grandmother and think about how much more efficient our job has been made. She was so dressed up and ready for the show, in that dollhouse for chocolate she spruced up real good (the place was such a cave before) for the pleasure of the townsfolk. But now we can go ahead and wander around as we please, and we are even free to work other kinds of jobs, and develop other aspects of our personhood. Even so, as I assign chocolate boxes for my customers, I try to keep the spirit alive. I send out a little prayer for the renewed manageability of their daily lives, reminding myself that in the faintest personal realignment is the potential for an unquantifiable expansion. “Will it or will it not change the whole lonely city,” I wonder, while peering out the window of my apartment, wondering if I have earned enough that day to take myself to the cafe down the street for a little treat, squeezing my eyes shut to relieve the pressure of digital eyestrain. I think Damn, I sure could use some chocolate. 


Siloh Radovsky is a graduate student at UCSD in the Literature department, pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing. Much of her research and creative work concerns the contemporary landscape of self-care, its connections to the violence of colonization, and the perimeters between science and pseudo-science in medicine and health fadisms. On this adaptation: “I’m probing the ethics of the contemporary self-care trends that the film anticipates, applying its representation of magical commodities to the digitally-mediated context of the present.”
by atosun

Speechless Mountain

August 1, 2019 in Fiction, Odia by atosun

Original by Dr. Kanakalata Hathi
Translated, from the Odia, by Suchona Patnaik

Rumours and gossips abound about Gopa. There are many voices about her, beyond what is true. Talks do die down. Tomorrow tends to forget today. Again some dark shades of whispers engulf Gopa. Some don’t understand why do people love to gossip. Gopa never seems to be wavering by any such stray remarks. Her eyes beckon, her words cast a magical spell and her conduct remains suave. Gopa exudes an aura of sweetness which fascinates people who gravitate towards her. A calm demeanour, an endearing smile and her graceful conduct make Gopa more attractive. Gopa is middle aged and works as a Professor. Not an amazingly beautiful woman, but certainly a charming person. She teaches history. She is generous and open to all. She doesn’t call anybody for company nor does she turn away anyone. She looks unfathomable and inscrutable. She shies away from intruding queries about her family details and points to a young boy of seventeen or eighteen and says, “He is my family, what else you want to know!” People may say things about her, but nobody can conscientiously give away any facts about her. Gopa usually evades questions about her marriage. When asked, she either smiles or falls silent. Her silence is meaningfully deep. 

 It has been quite some time that Gopa has been teaching in the same college. It being a private college, there are no hassles of transfers and relocation. One generally gets emotionally attached after spending few years at a particular place. The rumour mongers are not just the strangers in the town, but her colleagues and acquaintances also speak ill about her. Gopa never confronts anyone; she takes it all in her stride and quite gracefully at that. It isn’t in her nature to quarrel with anyone. A professor of History is not her only identity, there is another as well. Gopa is a poetess too. No one knows for how long she has been writing, though it seems it has been quite a few years. However, she doesn’t write as frequently now as she used to earlier. Once in a while she pens down a poem or two for some magazines. When asked about her poetry, she just smiles that makes her all the more intriguing.

Gopa’s flair for writing brings her in contact with people of similar interests. She used to receive a number of letters in this regard, which raised the suspicion of her colleagues. Some of the letters never reached Gopa. She knows all of this but neither confronted anyone nor complained about it to the authorities. Gopa had many visitors in a day. People used to meet Gopa on the pretext of some work and she knew their pretence. But it made people gossip more about her. Everyone had his own version of story about Gopa and her unmarried status only made it all the worse.

Years passed by but the rumours about Gopa did not seem to die down. Maybe this is what our society thrives on! All of this did hurt Gopa. Many a time, she thinks of relocating to another place, yet she cannot. She realizes a change of place would not guarantee a change of people’s opinion about her. A disquieting maze of whispers seems to follow her all through. Gopa’s visitors are mostly inquisitive acquaintances in the guise of visitors. The visits are an excuse to intrude into her personal life, into the space that Gopa keeps shielded. A minute’s visit would often linger into an hour. They would twist the conversation to find a chance glimpse into her much speculated and maligned privacy. But they would always fail before Gopa’s stoic silence. Her students also often approach her, with their doubts in history. She is affectionate towards her students. While clarifying their doubts, the agonising moments of her loneliness wither away. But her colleagues and peers entertain a different view on this. To them it is her subterfuge to be in the company of boys. What education a teacher of such character could impart to her students!

Gopa isn’t really alone. She does have a family; father, mother and her siblings. Her parents passed away and the siblings set up their own nests. Life went on. Gopa chose to be independent and single. Often she was a mysterious entity to her own family. Gopa liked to write poems and in course of time got to know Sumay. Over a period of time, they came closer towards each other. Gopa’s personality, grace and conduct fascinated Sumay. Their feelings bloomed with a reciprocal longing for each other. It so happened that once Sumay proposed to Gopa for marriage. Gopa was taken aback. 

“Marriage?” she asked, totally bewildered. 

“Why not? What do I lack?” asked Sumay. “I have not thought of marriage,” replied Gopa. 

“If you haven’t, now is the time,” retorted Sumay. 

“I can never marry you, Sumay.” 

Sumay pursued her, trying to convince Gopa, but she held on to her “No” as the final answer. What ensued next in the room remains hazy in Gopa’s memory. However, she does remember some of Sumay’s words, “Your love was a sham, and women with poetic traits are invariably unfaithful.” “Such women can never be happy with one man.” “Deep down, I always believed you are not what people think of you, Gopa. But today I realize it is true indeed!” “What was the need of this farce, Gopa, if you never wanted to marry me?” This decision of Gopa’s also disappointed her family. Gopa stood frozen, to their detestation. As days passed by Gopa felt suffocated in her own home, with her own family. She could no longer take the words of abhorrence. She felt like going away from the cynicism and bitterness around her which had nearly engulfed her. It was then that Gopa decided to take up the teaching job in another city. She relocated and set up a new home, an unfamiliar place. She remained loving and affectionate to people. But again the same gossip followed her and fastened her like a noose.  Gossips clung to her and she was writhing within to get free. Not going anywhere during holidays and vacations, postal correspondence with a few, people visiting her, and, lastly, Gopa remaining unmarried all crystallized into an obnoxious reputation. But all these merge into her silence. For her to live is to struggle incessantly. Life is so endearing and precious that she cannot recede into the abyss of self-annihilation.

Gopa was in Kolkata to attend a conference. On her way back, as she waited for the train to arrive, she felt someone was pulling her saree. She turned around to see a kid, barely four years old, standing behind her. The boy looked scared and his eyes looked puffed and teary. His clothes were soiled but he appeared to be from a decent family. When Gopa inquired, he could only say his name, “Tutu,” neither his parents’ name nor his address. The pitiable look in the child’s eyes did not allow Gopa to leave him behind and return home. She was a woman after all! Being an affectionate loving woman, how could she be so heartless as to leave a weeping child alone? Gopa was now in a dilemma. She couldn’t decide if she should take the child to the police or to her home. So she decided to first feed the child well and then took him along to the police station. She knew that the boy was a lost child. At the police station she came to know about a train accident the previous day which kept everyone busy. She did not want to leave the child to anyone’s care. Gopa left her address and the child’s photograph at the police station, in case someone came looking for the kid. On her way back, Gopa did not forget to buy new set of clothes for the kid. Tutu evoked the maternal instincts in Gopa. She was no longer worried for the kid. Instead she was thankful to God that she met him, otherwise the child might have ended up being a child labourer somewhere. This very thought was disturbing Gopa. She was reassured that she took the right decision. Tutu grows up with Anurag as his certificate name. He is her only child, her anchor today and for times to come. But that day Gopa didn’t bring Tutu home alone. Along with Tutu came a lot more slander. Who would have believed in the truth! Everyone cast aspersions on her and her character. Gopa never explained, as before. The truth got immersed in her silence. Rumours were afloat that Tutu was her illegitimate child, who she had kept hidden in an orphanage and brought home when he was grown up.

Anurag doesn’t remember much of that tender age when Gopa brought him home.  He addressed Gopa as “Maa” and his world revolved around his Maa. Gopa too had brought up Anurag in the best way she could. She put him in a good school and tried to fill in his life with as much happiness as she could. As Anurag grows up, the fearlessness in Gopa is dying down. She starts becoming panicky, restless and worried. Her bond with Anurag is such that she can’t imagine spending a day away from him, though she doesn’t know how the next day will begin! Gopa can apprehend as if Anurag wants to ask her about something but is unable to. At that moment he looks withdrawn, lost in a world of inexplicable emotions. Questions might be falling upon him. Yet how can Gopa unravel the truth! It has been a prolonged period of lingering indecisiveness to confide in Anurag the truth. When will the moment of revelation come!

Gopa feels quite lonely at times. Her youth has withered with time. She sees every morning the ruins of the past. She feels morose. And to spend the day well she takes asylum in the room where deities are enthroned. After the prayers she begins her Yoga practices and meditation. Her day then lapses into the routine chores. 

“Why do you practice Yoga, Maa? Is it really important for good health?”asks Anurag. 

“I do it for my mental strength, because I need it for you. Yoga does help in physical fitness too.”

“But Maa, people say….”And Anurag stops without saying anything further. 

“What do people say, Anurag?”

Is Yoga the way to sublimate her passion? Alas! How could Anurag ask this! He lapses into silence. His words get stifled in his throat. Questions churn his thoughts, his eyes say it all. Gopa could understand but couldn’t say anything. Anurag takes a pause and asks, “Where do you go every year during vacation? You never tell me, I don’t ask you. People say ugly things about you. I can’t bear their sneering talks; they slice into me like a knife. But I don’t have the answers to silence them.” 

“Yes, my child, I am a very lonely person. I am neither anyone’s daughter nor anybody’s aunt. In this big wide world I am alone.” Gopa realises the time has come to reveal the truth to Anurag. She remains reclusive the whole day. The next morning she takes Anurag with her to Kolkata. Though many years had passed by, still Gopa went there every year during vacations to inquire about Anurag’s parents.

Anurag falls at Gopa’s feet when he encounters the truth about his past. All his allegations against his mother flow out of his eyes in deep reverence. He trembles with guilt and says, “I am only your son, Maa. No one can come and snatch me away from you.” Gopa hugs him tightly and they both weep inconsolable. “Why did you not marry, Maa? Because you had to take care of me?” asks Anurag, still weeping. 

“You have given me the joy and pride of motherhood, my child. What else would I have got from a marriage? Everybody needs a child for the obsequies, and I have you. I know you will discharge your duties well.” 

“Stop, Man! Don’t say anything further! How can I ever live without you?”Anurag cries out with folded hands.

A few days later, Gopa met with an accident. Anurag rushed to the hospital on hearing the news. Gopa was unconscious. She had lost a lot of blood. Anurag wailed and requested the doctors to save his mother’s life.  Gopa was an epitome of resilience. She lived her life on her own terms. She had no regrets and no qualms in accepting Anurag as her child. A woman, who put up a strong fight all her life, could not be defeated so easily by death! Gopa regained consciousness, and saw Anurag’s tear-soaked face. She called Anurag near her and gave him Sumay’s address. She asked him to send a telegram to Sumay informing about her. Anurag didn’t understand, but he did as Gopa instructed him. Gopa’s condition was deteriorating. Anurag was distraught. In the meanwhile, Sumay reached out and headed straight to meet Gopa. This is the day that Gopa had waited for all her life! “This is my son, Anurag,” Gopa tells Sumay. “He has lost his parents and I don’t want him to be alone. You have to take care of him, Sumay, after I am gone.” 

Tears roll down Sumay’s eyes. In a trembling voice he assures that he will take care of Sumay. 

“I did not call you here only for this, Sumay, I want to reveal the truth to you.” Anurag wants to leave the room but Gopa gestures him to stay back. “You know why I refused to marry you the day you proposed to me? So that I can see you on a day like this!” Sumay could not comprehend what Gopa intended to say. He looks at Gopa, clueless. “I was told, I am destined to be a widow, losing the man within days of marriage. I never wanted to lose you, Sumay, never in any condition. But this is what the lines on my palms prophesied.” Gopa cries like a child. All her life she wrapped her emotions under a smile only to let it out today. 

Sumay is stunned. “Gopa, you wasted your whole life for a mere superstitious prediction? You lived on silently with the pain of ugly rumours and gossips?” Sumay failed to bear with it. 

Gopa regains her composure. “Had you not come, I couldn’t have shared this with anyone. The untold agony would have receded into silence forever. So much bliss! I feel peace within.”

Gopa became silent! Winter froze on her soft lips. She winged away from the encaged slavery of all rumours and swampy gossips. Anurag stood there, tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to scream aloud and tell the world the last words of his mother. His mother was a speechless mountain, who kept alive a thousand wounds, but never uttered a word to anybody. Anurag wanted to wail, but couldn’t, and was slowly turning into a silent mountain himself!

Dr. Kanakalata Hathi is a renowned writer from Odisha, India. For the last three decades she has been writing stories that show her deep and sensitive brooding over life and society. Her stories are collected in two anthologies, Nirbaka Pahada (Speechless Mountain) and Kuhudi Ghara (The House of Mist). She has also translated regional writers into Odia, a language that has been granted the status of a classical language by the Government of India.

Suchona Patnaik is a doting mother, a caring housewife and a PhD research scholar from India. She is keen on translating Odia stories to English for wider redearship of the rich Odia literature. This translated story is a small attempt in that pursuit.

by atosun


August 1, 2019 in Fiction by atosun

Original by Clara Dawson


It isn’t all that bad I guess. Being a dog. You never have to worry about where your next meal comes from and there’s always someone to pick up your shit. The people I live with are nice enough. My dog house doesn’t leak when it rains. I guess the one bad thing about being a dog is that I wasn’t always a dog. I came into my canine career relatively late in my human one. 42 times around the Sun in a man’s body does little to prepare the one for a life on four legs.

Of course, I didn’t choose this existence. Human or dog. Both are rather miserable in The City. But as a man, I was among my own. People knew me by a human name before all this. Knew my favorite color and favorite Fable stories. However trivial, knowing these things made City life a little less depressing. 

Sometimes I think about everything that has led up to the very second of time I’m currently living- the hundreds of years and thousands of people that have existed in The City before me. Fable has it that there used to be a world unlike anything The City has ever known. Plants used to grow. They weren’t plastic, they were alive. Humans and animals would “breed” and create new beings all on their own. Then of course humans messed it up and polluted the Earth and practically killed everything off. 600 years ago The City was founded right as the old world was going under. People called scientist figured out how to synthesize all the stuff that made up the air and water and food. And promised a self-sufficient world free from pollution problems. Five Revolutions later and The City looks a lot like it does now: synthetic factories run by the Lowers whose products are enjoyed by the Uppers.

Everything comes out of those factories- plants, clothes, food, babies. Before this whole dog business I worked the belt in a factory that produced plastic lawn ornaments. All got shipped over The River of course. The Lowers have no use for plastic lawn ornaments, we’ve never had lawns. No, it’s has been a sea of high rise apartments packed to the brim for as long as anyone can remember. The River is a remainder of the old world. Its waters were polluted beyond repair about 1,000 years ago. Everything defective gets dumped in there (and disintegrates immediately). Personally The River has never bothered me. It’s a comfort really to see its faint green glow at night.

Across The River are the neatly organized neighborhoods of the Uppers. The bridges across the River are tightly guarded by the Policía. They are synthesized to make sure the Lowers don’t cross. They’re constantly trying to quash the Fable from being told but they’re never successful of course. No one knows what language they speak. The Fable says it’s probably something called Span-ish, an old world language. A lot of Lowers think they speak it because it’s easier to kill us. They can’t understand us when we’re begging to be spared.

Anyways- The River. No one, Lower or Upper, goes across that thing. Unless of course, you’re like me. Once man, now dog. Or cat or bird or whatever damn animals the Uppers want to be entertained with. The City doesn’t have any animals. Not in the old world sense. People have been trying to synthesize them for centuries but none of them (or their DNA) survived the ultimate collapse of the old world. People wanted their damn animals though. The earliest Fable story that references transformation uses the date 2212 so some people think it’s about 400 years old. No one knows the process but the Uppers have found a way to turn humans into animals. All the Uppers have to do is put in a request and a Lower is selected for transformation.

Most of the time it’s just a few people a year for house companions. Sometimes they need to “boost Upper morale” and a whole herd of people are rounded up to be in a Circus. Fable stories that are only whispered in the dark tell of periods when Lowers were transformed for Upper consumption. That’s banned now, we think.

I figured things couldn’t get that much worse than my existence as a Lower. Then, a few weeks ago, the Policía yanked me from my cot in the middle of the night. I knew better than to scream. A family had put in a request for a dog, one for their little kid to ride around on. I had been chosen for transformation.



Here’s what I know: someone knocks you out and you wake up with fur. A fat, sweaty man briefly tells you how to act like a “dog”. If you don’t do it, you go into The River. I tried to talk back but a bark came out.

“Good,” he faintly smiled, “you’re catching on already.”

He walked me outside of where I was being held. I was across the River.

We strolled down perfectly gridded streets. Even though I had some idea of how the Uppers lived, the space they had astounded me. The Lower part of The City was crammed. People lived in every nook and cranny they could find. I shared my room with 7 other people. We took turns sleeping on the cot. Here, it was two Uppers to a house. A house! The perfectly square lawns squeaked under the man’s shoes. I forgot I wasn’t wearing shoes, or that I had feet at all. I had paws. I barked in surprise. The man yanked my leash.

“Shut up Lower. Don’t talk unless you’re asked to.”

We walked up to a house with a white door and the man rang the bell. I have no clue how the man knew which house to go to, they all looked the same to me. The houses stretched for miles in every direction as far as I could tell. Another fat sweaty man opened the door.

“Mr. S, nice to see you. Is this the companion we requested?”

“Mr. X, very nice to see you. Yes this is the requested companion. He is already programmed.”

The leash transferred hands and I was pulled inside.



I couldn’t have made that house up if I tried. I’d never seen so much space in my life. So much…shit. The plastic lamps and plastic couch were so clean they shone. Everything looked brand new and fresh out of a factory. The plastic came in colors I didn’t even know existed. It was so unlike the room I slept in I barked again. Mr. X smacked me on the nose

“Rule one, no barking inside. Or outside for that matter.”

A small girl stood at the foot of the bright pink stairs.

“Is that my doggy?” she asked looking at me

Mr. X beamed and handed the leash to her.

“Here you go. It’s yours.”

All I wanted to do was sulk in my dog house and lament the fact that I was a damn dog. But I had this image in my head of a large black shaggy animal tumbling into the green glow of The River. I guess being a dog is better than not being anything at all.

So I did whatever the family wanted me to. It was mostly the girl that requested I do anything at all. Every day we sat down in front of her little plastic doll house- an exact replica of her own home- and she talked to me about the people living in there. I couldn’t respond of course but that didn’t matter.

Mr. X and Mrs. X (who did not acknowledge my existence) left the house every morning and came back mid-afternoon. The girl told me she didn’t know where they went but that it was very important and one day she would do what they do. I was supposed to sit with her every day while she watched her Programming shows. Most of the time I would doze off while she recited lines back to the screen. From what I could glean, the Upper Counsel’s word was like the Fable. Every Upper had to do their part or The City would meet the same fate as the old world blah blah blah. There was never any mention of Lowers or anything across The River.

I figured that living here was going to be better than living as a Lower. I had space and enough to eat. It should’ve been fine. But truthfully the whole existence was fucking boring. Nothing ever happened. No one ever talked to each other. There were no gatherings to tell Fable stories or factory jokes or a closeness that comes with sharing a cot. The family ate together every night then watched Programming and went to bed. Every Sunday Mr. X would use the grill to synthesize food while Mrs. X laid across a plastic lawn chair. The girl would ride me around the yard. Every Sunday we would do this along with every other house in the entire neighborhood.

Then last night I had a dream about my brother. I haven’t seen him in years. He used to steal the little plastic clippings from his factory and bring them back home to build little miniature replicas of The City with. He got transferred to some factory on the very Eastern side of The City and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. But last night, I had this dream about him.

We were back in our room. It was filled knee deep with plastic clippings. The Policía kicked in the door and tore him away from me. His screams turned into a terrible guttural bellow. They had turned him into a cow. I knew he was going across The River. I knew he was going to be slaughtered.

I know I can’t stay here. In this house with these people in The City. I have to escape.



There’s nothing to do but run. It’s night now, after dinner. The X’s have thrown me outside to sleep in the dog house and gone to bed. So has everyone else in the neighborhood. I figure I’ll follow the street I came in on but in the opposite direction, away from The River.

The Policía roam the neighborhood from time to time after dark. Their shiny plastic carrier sometimes squeaks down my street, interrupting fitful dreams. But tonight the streets are silent. Plastic street lights are few and far between- a blessing. There is little cover except the pockets of darkness and occasional hedge. No one goes out after dark. I learned that from watching Programming with the girl.

Ah the girl. I forgot about her. Not that I’d grown particularly fond of her or anything but she’ll miss me no doubt. I felt sorry for her really, cooped up in that shiny house with no one to talk to but a scruffy old dog.

It’s lucky really that I’m a black dog. White fur would have been a little more noticeable. I duck behind a hedge as a carrier creaks by. I can hear them chatter softly from inside. Their language is so strange and unfamiliar. I wonder what they talk about amongst themselves. I wonder what it feels like to kill another person.

The carrier passes and I move on. My paws pad across plastic lawns of identical houses. The story that the crazy old man who lives on the ground floor of my building likes to tell keeps running through my head.

The Wall. Yes, everyone knows The Wall. Encircling The City, keeping out all the pollution from the old world. Outside it is decimation, disease, death. Nothing lives beyond The Wall. But the old man denies this. He says no, we’re wrong. His family founded The City, his family were once scientists! He knows it’s been long enough! The old world! It has been cleaned of all pollution and filth! It is a new world!

Everyone wishes he would just shut up. Some people say he disrespects the Fable with his words, me included. But I’m not me, I’m a dog and the only thing cycling through my head are his words.

“A new world! A new world!”



I have been running all night, dodging the occasional carrier. The houses are becoming larger but there are fewer of them. I am beginning to panic. The sky is becoming lighter and lighter with each block of streets. I know they will find me and I will become a part of The River. I know they will find me and I will become a cow for slaughter and suddenly I have so much hatred for the Uppers

The houses surrounding me have become massive buildings reminiscent of Lower City buildings except shiny and clean and empty. I suspect this is where Mr. and Mrs. X go when they leave the house. I peer through a window and see rows and rows and rows and rows of children. They all look like they’re asleep, suspended upright in tanks of viscous blue fluid. I get the hell out of there.

Suddenly I hit something solid in front of me. It looks as if the buildings keep going on forever but something is definitely blocking my path. I sniff. It smells different here than the air from the last block of buildings. I guess this must be The Wall.

I dig. The plastic lawn shreds easily underneath my paws. I’m surprised at the efficiency of my two front legs. Soon I have a hole big enough to slip under. An alarm sounds. Something in Span-ish is pumped over invisible speakers. The Policía will be here in seconds. I shimmy quickly through the hole and I’m struck by the darkness of the other side. Nighttime again?

I don’t really have time to think because the Policía are right outside the hole, yelling something. The fry of their tasers is almost deafening.

I run.

Not the little trot I was doing through the neighborhood. But for the first time a full out, four legged run. It feels so good.

I can still hear the alarm from inside The City. The bastards are shooting at me! Their guns have a distinct popping that every Lower learns is the sound of death by the time they can walk.

I run and run and run and run for so long I forget what it’s like to walk. My head is pounding and my brother’s screams play over and over again in my head.

My legs give out and I go down. I guess it’s a better end than The River.



Everything is green. It’s brilliant. Blinding. I’m so disoriented but know I need water. I lift my head up and look around.

“He’s awake,” someone murmurs.

My eyes refocus and my senses come back to me. There is a semi-circle of people around me. One of them offers me a cup and I claw for it. But it’s a hand. My hand.

I put the cup to my lips and sip. The cup isn’t plastic and the water is the most delicious thing to ever touch my tongue.

I’m human I think, or close to it. Tufts of thick black fur stick out all over my body. I grab a chunk and it falls off easily into my hand. I notice I’ve shed my claws and they’re scattered around me on the ground.

“The transformation mechanism only works inside The Wall,” explains an elderly woman directly in front of me. She asks what my name is.

“Cy,” I tell her.

“Drink up,” she tells me, “then I’ll answer all your questions”.

I took another sip.

“Where am I?”

“You escaped The City. Well done,” she chuckles.

I blink at her. I sort of assumed I was dead.

“And so you are…”

“I escaped too. 13 years ago. We all did.” She gestures to the 4 other people crouched around me and they nod and murmur in agreement.

Their faces didn’t give away if they are Uppers or Lowers.

“But how? Why? The outside…we shouldn’t be alive.” I sounded like an idiot.

“Ah. Yes, the Fable,” she nodded, “it was true at one time I suppose. But the old world has changed. A rebirth.” 

I considered my surroundings again. The green really was astounding. The color of Upper plastic. But I realize quickly it isn’t plastic… old world plants? Growing plants?

Before me lay a world unimaginable back behind The Wall. Plants of every height, width and color. Overhead stretches plants as tall as my old apartment building. Small tiny little creatures buzz in the air. To my right I notice a river. This one doesn’t glow green. It seems as clear and light as air.

“Come on,” says the woman, “We’ll show you our home.”

A young man with ruddy cheeks and dark hair helps me to my feet and hands me some sort of garment. “Might want to put this on,” he says and winks at me.

I forgot you don’t need clothes when you’re a dog. I’m completely naked.



I walk with the group through the tall plants and up over a hill. Below, in a clearing next to the river, is a group of small brown structures.

On the way down the hill, the woman, named Sima, and Iev, the younger man, explained to me that everyone living in the settlement had escaped The City. There were a mix of Uppers and Lowers, even a member of the Upper Counsel, but that no body went by those terms anymore. Everyone here was the same, driven by the same desire to be free of The City. Free from any type of division or fear.

Sima and Iev introduced me to the rest of the settlement and I recognized him right away. His face surfaced in my dreams time and time again.

Bo. My own brother.

I had convinced myself I was never going to see him again, swallowed up by the factories, The City. But here he was, standing before me, looking slightly older and nothing like a cow.

We embraced and I can’t remember the last time I felt something as solid and real and alive as his body.

I wanted to know everything. Where he was transferred to, what happened after he left, how did he escape?

He recounted the missing years over dinner with the whole settlement. He was working in the factory one day when the Policía took him. He was transformed into a dog just like me. But when he got to the intended house, the Upper that requested him revealed that he was planning to escape The City. He had requested a dog so it could dig underneath The Wall and they could slip out. He told Bo that he had a choice, he could follow him under The Wall or stay within The City. When the time came, Bo went with him.

“He’s just down there at the end of the table,” Bo pointed at a man with furrowed brows deep in conversation with Sima.

After dinner, everyone went to bed. I slept with Bo outside.

“Just like our old cot,” he said and grinned.


As I was dozing off Sima came and woke me up. She said the others all agreed I could stay if I could do my part in keeping the settlement alive. Help with the planting and cooking. Stuff like that. She reminded me the settlement only works because everyone is here willingly and want to use this land. She asked me if I could live this sort of life.

I listened to Bo as he quietly slept beside me and I listened to the river bubbling over stones and rocks and plants and I took in a deep breath of clean, unpolluted air and smiled.

“Yes,” I said, “I’d like to try.”

Clara Dawson is a recent graduate from the University of California San Diego’s Anthropology department. Currently, she’s enjoying her gap year as an intern at the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. Her favorite authors are Ray Bradbury and Patricia Highsmith.


A Symbolic Story

May 15, 2017 in Fiction, Uncategorized by

Author’s note on sigils:

The practice of sigil writing has been prevalent in witchcraft societies for hundreds of years. However, when I first began practicing witchcraft nine years ago, hardly any witch made them. Within the last few years, sigil writing has exploded; you can find thousands of sigils just by googling them.

So what is a sigil? A sigil is a symbol formed from a sentence or phrase. The phrase must include the witches intent: it is what the witch hopes will manifest. A common technique to sigil-making is to cross out any repeating letters, and form a shape out of the remaining lines and curves. Anyone write sigils anytime, anywhere, on anything from paper to pie crusts to lotion on the skin. Common sigils, such as the sigil of Solomon, have become commonly recognized, making sigil writing its own unique language.

The following is a fictional story written entirely of translated sigils. I decided to write it to display the popularity of sigils, as well as a snapshot of modern witchcraft. I hope you enjoy.

A Symbolic Story

The following are a series of sigils: a method of witchcraft in which one writes their intent in a phrase or sentence, removes repeating letters, and forms a symbol manifesting their intent. These sigils were all written by the same person, listed in chronological order, for study. Translations will be provided.

“My friends have friendly conversations.”

“Others’ opinions do not affect me.”

“I can speak painlessly.”

“I am heard.”

“I breathe regularly.”

“No awkwardness with my friends.”

“I am heard,” repeated.

“I hear no accusations.”

“I am accepted.”

“I do not cry.”

“I am invisible.”


Yunan L. Kirkbride is a poet and short-story writer earning her BA in Writing at the University of California, San Diego. Having published since she was eighteen, Kirkbride currently publishes satire as Design Editor for The Muir Quarterly. She also runs an advice blog on modern witchcraft and NeoPaganism. Her work focuses on fantasy realism, horror, and underground cultural societies. In her free time, you can find her watching videos of rabbits or communicating with the dead. She lives in San Diego.


Expensive Nights

May 15, 2017 in Fiction, Spanish by

This Friday night doesn’t look like a party night. It’s almost eleven. After a couple of ineffective calls to my friends it seems that I have to go to bed early. A couple of beers in the bar nearby and I’ll hit the sack. I moved in here a little while back. I live with a friend in an apartment in La Merced, an old neighborhood of English houses, most of them decaying, turned into car dealers, into tidy fronts of insurance companies, into rubble. The La Merced that I walk surrounds the southern side of el Parque Nacional. That park is a route for all types of cruelty that necessity and trends oblige: prostitution, drug-addiction, athletics. Organ trafficking.

The building we just moved into is a beauty. An Italian architect built it in the fifties. Thanks to a stroke of luck, number 410 of this masterwork of space is our new abode. Just a while ago an acquaintance asked me to stop calling it a masterwork of space. I guess I’ll listen to him. But to stop calling it abode, on the other hand, is going to take much more time. Many of the chicks that have been hanging around here have been dazzled. After the courtesy tour ends, they repeat with insistence how fascinating they would find it to live in a place like this. I’m not, of course, part of the plan. Not for now, I quietly comfort myself.

I go out to play my beery part. In the corridor that goes to the elevator I meet Felipe, who’s accompanied by a beauty that I’ve never seen before in my life. Felipe is the friend I moved in with. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. On rigorous alcoholic nights, I observe him, and even though this might sound exaggerated, I remember the little brat that had snacks with me, and who celebrated piñatas and birthdays—the ones with surprises and clowns. He is tall and thick, although I wouldn’t say he’s strong. More than ten years ago, when we were little—and even then he was two heads taller than me—Felipe arranged his fist into my face. I can’t recall the reason—my fault for sure. My right cheek turned slightly red, but I felt no pain. That episode doesn’t prove his weakness; it proves the spirit of his friendship.

Once we know each other’s immediate plans, Felipe and his friend invite me back to the apartment to join them for a bottle of wine. The offer makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why they’re asking, since everything suggests this is a romantic evening. Anyways, I accept.

Both of them sit on the bit of furniture we own while I take charge of the glasses and the bottle opener. Once they are served, I take little part in the conversation. I nod, move my head, offer an occasional opinion here and there; the minimum not to appear rude. I focus on her figure and her gestures. She has mentioned her name. I don’t remember it. Her hair looks like an image out of Ian Fleming. I wait for the right moment and announce my departure to the bar nearby. I do that while getting up, just to give it a sense of urgency, but they seem attracted by the idea and want to join me.

What’s best about this building we moved into recently is the elevator—despite its inutility; nonetheless. We are lucky, because for whatever reason it’s working. Sometimes, when I get in, I feel sad that it is not retired yet—I don’t know, placed somewhere where it can be admired only.

We get off and walk out of the building. Four steps and we’re in the bar. Two acquaintances are in the place—one of them with his girlfriend. What a surprise. The greetings are effusive. I think there are good vibes here.  Though we’ve been in the building already for a couple of days, this is our first visit. The place is called Gabinete, and I would dare say that Felipe and I are very happy about feeling great in a bar so close to home. Compared to a lot of the things that happen in Bogotá’s bars, this closeness could result in a not-insignificant advantage. I try to imagine one of those things and its associated advantage, but the truth is, besides a big fight with a quick exit, I can’t think of any. Perhaps all the things that I think happen in the bars of Bogotá don’t happen. Felipe offers me the first beer. I take him by the arm, say thanks and make that happy-to-see-you face.

We are all set: Felipe and his friend; the two we ran into; and the girlfriend of one of them. The conversation goes back and forth: our arrival to the building, the upcoming presidential elections, a pain in the rib of the acquaintance’s girlfriend, the death of the father of a person they know and whom I barely have heard of. Everyone seems to get mournful at this point. It’s not exactly death. They are afflicted by the memory of the words of the deceased’s son. Very painful ones, they say. The words made everyone laugh during the mass, but they were painful. Something about the comedy that life is, and the way his father had taught them that, and how, then, one shouldn’t respond with something that drifts too far from the aesthetics, too far from the comical.  So the son asked for applause instead of weeping, and everyone clapped vigorously, but they also cried, cried a lot, because his act had ended. I was terrified at the beginning. Then I got distracted.

I start losing interest in being here. I get up and walk around the bar. It’s a big house, full of separated rooms united by the music and décor— predominately wood. I think more than a bar for dancing it’s an elegant place to pass sorrows. There’s another floor. I’ve seen people go up many times and never come down. At least not by the same stairs. More than curiosity, which I don’t have, what drives me up is boredom. It’s not them or their company. They are friends and acquaintances, and their conversation is fine. It’s the night itself, its tepidness, its indecision. Nights without character bother me. What bothers me the most is not being able to give them one. Before I ascend I decide to get another drink to justify the effort of having my shoes on. A move from beer to something stronger will be necessary. Gin, Bretaña, and lemon, please, I say.

My encounter with the upstairs turns out to be up to the gin’s standards: official-sized foosball in a fancy room. An official-sized foosball, close to home, and with reasonably-priced beers? The night is getting better. The neighborhood is opening its arms to me. I feel a tiny bliss: maybe other things will improve too. Maybe it’s not that late for partying. I go downstairs two at a time to tell Felipe about my find. I control the childish agitation that fills me and say: There’s an official-sized foosball in the bar next to our house! Felipe shares my excitement, takes his beer and suggests that we go and try it.

We play for a good while. It’s so big that normally it has to be used in pairs. There’s a certain amount of people and we take turns. I wish they’d go away. Especially the first couple we play against. I don’t think they do anything other than play foosball. They are masters of the technique, which lets them play more because whoever wins stays, like any idle thing in life. We order a couple of gins and I start to plan my training hours. To be sincere, the calculations are not encouraging. Reaching a competitive level could take me up to three months.

About an hour must have passed. Felipe and his friend have returned to the bar table. They got bored, I guess. I too start to feel dizzy and I don’t feel like keeping my eyes on the freaking little ball anymore. Coming back to the table is embracing the end of the night, and the capability for that kind of thing is what I lack. I think about it twice. I come back and it’s like time is being stolen from me. I look one way and fifteen minutes; I look the other, and twenty more. Another drink, and with each more time is stolen. I think I’m getting drunk. I think I’m feeling well. Like when I discovered the foosball. Overthinking gets into me and I’d like to go upstairs and keep playing, but my legs are not obeying anymore. Besides, I’m on my way out. I’ve been on my way out for a while.

What do my eyes see! This Friday night keeps its surprises. Just when I decide to call it quits with this tepidity and go back to throw myself on my mattress, these women with pretty cheeks appear. To see them as women of pretty cheeks is, to this point, an image that could only occur to a drunk or a naïve observer, so I’m ashamed at the glimpse of consciousness that I get from both. The women appear as though they’ve existed for centuries and own the bar. They are Carolina and her two long-time friends: Catalina and Piedad. They sit and say hello. Know that they are the center of attention. Beautiful women, or the ones that put in the work to be, take advantage of that circumstance as though the existence of all living beings within a mile depended on it. That is why, it occurs to me, the perception of beauty is not a question of circumstance, and it is better not to combine one of these circumstances with a glimpse of love. Because when you fall in love like that, like I’m falling in love now (I’m exaggerating, it’s clear), with their elemental gesture, bringing their glasses to their mouths, when you fall in love like that, with that circumstantial beauty, you are lost. Fully and ruthlessly in love. Because you will keep looking for that gesture in her and in every other girl, and you will not understand, until a lot of sorrows have passed, that it wasn’t her or her gesture, but the circumstances, the cruel and unrepeatable circumstances. (Shit, the things one is capable of saying.) I gulp another one, long just to shake the overthinking, and I come back to the table that moves between the greetings and hugs of the new company.

Felipe and I have known Carolina for a long time. We went to the same school. We saw each other grow up. For me, she was always a distant figure, surely more Felipe’s friend. Catalina and Piedad are the closest intimates of her wanderings. I don’t think I can remember a single recent time in which the three of them weren’t together—the type of squad that you keep running into here and there, any day, any party; something like what’s happening tonight: pure sidewalk coincidence.

All sit at the table. Felipe starts to discuss things he knows I’m interested in and on which I could speak the entire night without stopping. He wants me to get into the conversation. He’s giving me space to outshine myself because he sees I’m moved by Catalina’s presence. But I must look more like a plant waiting for water than a normal person, so my tireless friend tries to make me notice how guevón, how idiotic I am. I look at him and I’m grateful—I’m so grateful that I feel like standing up and hugging him. Fortunately I contain myself and avoid a next-morning joke or an immediate one. Catalina realizes Felipe and I are looking at each other and that there’s something going on between us. Catalina discovers, I’m afraid, that I am drunk, that I don’t talk and, moreover, that I have these quiet urges to hug my friend. Hope she doesn’t find out that I’m nervous. Hope she doesn’t think of speaking a word to me because I’d have to leave the table and go to the bathroom.

What’s up, Augusto, how’s everything? Catalina says, like nothing is happening, like we’ve spent an entire life together. And she’s beside me, in the chair that someone suddenly freed without even giving me the chance to speculate about this torture. Those lips move for me. Again she moves them: Augusto, are you okay? Woman of fair cheeks and fleshy lips, how dare you ask me if I’m okay, haven’t you seen my legs cross from side to side seven times in the last fifteen seconds since you arrived? But I compose myself and tell her: Ah? Yeah, fine, I’m fine… and yourself? How’s everything?

From here on things get hairy. Felipe sneakily makes fun. He’s happy for me—for the possibilities he wants to glimpse. He’s happy because he must be tired of having Sunday breakfast with any of his girlfriends and Augusto, the violin, plus his solitude. I think of her face on a morning of drowsiness and nonchalance. Her face on my pillow giving meaning to the act of opening one’s eyes. And those eyes, deep hazel eyes, disturbing, capable of upsetting the quietest men. I talk but actually I focus on her way of talking, on the impetuous ease with which she combines Medem’s poetics, his last movie—which I watched yesterday with my friend Piedad—and my upset stomach, which for some reason I mention and about which she kindly cares: Do you feel better? No, Catalina, I don’t feel better. The fact that soon you will leave fucks me up. I take a lot of water for those kinds of illnesses. Water, of course, you pure organisms fix things with simplicity. Come on, that must be psychosomatic. Here the only psychosomatic thing is you. But yeah, the speech never makes it out of my mouth. If I’ve learned anything when I get drunk, it’s to remain silent.

The bar is about to close. In a movement generated by Felipe, his drunken intonation and his enthusiasm, all of us agreed to come to the apartment to finish the night, to not let it die early. It’s an obligation to start taking advantage of adjacent entrances—an advantage that in my current state I’m thankful for and use with serenity. In the first elevator round, the most euphoric and loud of the two that seem necessary, go Felipe, his gorgeous companion, the two acquaintances from early in the evening (one is called Eduardo, I finally recall), one of their girlfriends, and Carolina. I wait with Catalina, Piedad, and two more characters that are clearly going to our house but whom I’ve never seen in my life. I think they are friends of one of our acquaintances. I can’t remember the moment they appeared. The elevator’s way back feels like an eternity. I don’t feel like saying anything. Those silences in building corridors at two in the morning seem obligatory, and we respect them. Every one of us that is here.

At home things feel nice. They are our first spontaneous guests and we take care of them, showing them the corridors and rooms. We take care of the drinks, of listening to their suggestions on matters of decoration, and answering with the story of what work it was being there, freshly out of the mother pouch, shitting ourselves before the imminence of independence, in the face of the anxiety of running out of Fab.

I look for Catalina. Her armor remains firm. The constant presence of her friends intimidates me. Actually, it doesn’t intimidate me, just decelerates me. I down another drink and then I get closer and offer her a whisky. She’s drinking little because of the innumerable excuses her street minions back up. I, however, get more lost. All I’m thinking of—brain-dead thinking—is the possibility of behaving like an asshole. I don’t want to talk too much, but at the same time I’ve got the guts and feel that it’s now or never. Catalina must know now, not tomorrow, that I could go crazy for her (I’m not exaggerating, that’s clear).

Meanwhile, people go back and forth, screaming and talking and dancing, and it’s Felipe that opens the bathroom door and others that close it. The bathroom becomes the center: we go and come from there when suddenly, zuas, a bad memory comes up: once, I lost something important in the bathroom. I can’t verbalize its name; whatever it was, I want to remember it as stupid and vulgar, although I don’t understand why. My memory and my stomach plot against my less noble organs and it seems they want to throw me on the floor. But just now she takes me by the arm and offers to keep the conversation going. She’s early by seconds, and gets me out of the pain of the memory because she seems to still have some words for me—confusing, encouraging, indifferent words: this is a clear-cut city, her face, her lips, the downtown, she says. The fold of your left brow, I say—she missed that. In silence, staggering, I thank her for taking me by the arm. I listen to her, delighted, not wanting to imagine what’s to come and paying attention, at the same time, to the salsa verse of Ismael Rivera that rumbles in our living room turned now into a dance floor: cuándo yo saldré/ de esta prisión/ que me tortura/ me tortura el corazón/

A couple hours after Rivera’s chorus and with the same poise conserved throughout the night, with the same smile that, I imagine, has burst into tears the several men and women fucked up in her wake, Catalina says her goodbyes, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and disappears along with her friends, through the corridor that goes from the immense white door of my apartment to the elevator. In that moment, a neurotic neighbor, who, I discover, lives in the apartment across, opens his door and starts to yell. Somebody behind me (I’m almost sure it’s Eduardo the Courageous) shouts at him to take a Valium, while I choose to close the door and feel like I was left here, solely, with the problems that this presence has created. Catalina’s presence, not my neighbor’s. I remain dazed and calm, thinking that I will need a plumber to unclog the toilet.

All the people, as though assuming Catalina was the flame that fueled the night, decide to depart as well. Suddenly, the living room becomes a great silence, like a monster that got tired of shooing and lay down to sleep. I raise my head and find Felipe lying in a corner with the appearance of a serene drunk detached from the world. There’s no trace of the chick that he came home with. Probably he told her about the mystery of the zygote reproduction. I move him over and feel the weight of an obelisk. The effort to take him to his bed, and accommodate him in such way that he can throw up without choking, wipes out the little thing Catalina left in me, so I leave his room to look for mine and the mattress that I insist on calling bed. Before lying down, I look through the window and undress. The hills are covered. I could say fog wraps them up, but the truth is they are indifferent to that volatile plumb. Lying down, I let my eyes sink while one of those certainties gets stuck between my chin and my shoulders: Catalina will never be mine. My house’s, maybe; mine, not ever. It’s not that bad. It’s dawn, and everything starts to fall apart.

Juan Álvarez holds an MFA in Bilingual literary creation from the University of Texas at El Paso and PhD from the Department of Latin American and Iberian cultures at Columbia University, New York. In 2010, his essay about the insult and offense as political instruments in the crisis of independence in Colombia obtained the Premio de Ensayo Revista Iberoamericana by the Ibero-American Institute of Berlin. He has published the novel Dead Candidates (Candidatos muertos, Planeta 2016 c2011; Sudaquia NY, 2014). Juan has been part of several anthologies in Colombia, México and Spain. In 2011 he was elected “One of Latin America’s 25 Best-kept Secrets” by the Guadalajara International Book Fair. From 2010 to 2012 he was part of the development team of From 2008 to 2011 he was editor of the literary magazine ‘El perro’. Juan is currently writing his new novel which has been already acquired by Seix Barral Colombia. @_JuanAlvarez_

Valentina Calvache is a bilingual writer concerned with the liminal intersections between fiction, fashion and cultural production. Her work has been published, among others, in Exclama, Don Juan, Revista Antioquia, Bacánika, Antología de cuento Instituto Caro y Cuervo, Idartes. She is currently an MFA candidate in writing at UCSD.

Pensamientos en español

March 14, 2016 in Fiction by mjdelgad

The time is 3:14 AM, and now its 3:15 AM.

Mi Cumpleaños es el quince de marzo: 3/15.

I’m lying awake on my bed, though my eyes are closed by mind wanders and acts more awake than most afternoons. It’s one of those sleepless nights, ones with little movement and little rest. I am used to these by now, irregular nights have become a norm, it’s hard to trust fall into unconsciousness.

Tal vez si me esfuerzo a parar de pensar, si nada más pienso en nada, y mantengo mi mente en negro… My mind goes blank for a few minutes, it is a fake darkness, an attempt to cover sunlight with a thin curtain. As I lose interest, my bed becomes a river, then a rock, then the back of large feathered snake.

Si no paras no podrás dormir.

Pero ¿para qué quiero dormir?

¿Por qué razón te levantes en la mañana y trabajas?

Eso toca el meollo de la situación, la pregunta en cuestión, el estado de mentalidad sin dirigida posición. En mi cabeza tengo un entendimiento, un conocimiento del mundo afuera de mi cuerpo. Hecho y creado por experiencias vividas y acciones recontadas.

I open my eyes, just a little. And I see the white ceiling, to my left soft black curtains, and to my right a brown, wooden nightstand and then another bed with a snoring, sleeping mound of blankets. 

Son las tres y media de la madrugada y todavía no puedo dormir

O mejor dicho, no encuentro la motivación para dormir. 

Si dijera no tener la intención ni la incentiva para trabajar, me llamarán un flojo.

Me dirían vagabundo por vivir sin casa y sin propósito. Y de medida definitiva, lo fuera. Pero el punto de mi argumento y mi desconocimiento es: ¿por qué es tan importante mi trabajo? De no levantarme en la mañana, ponerme la ropa, lavarme los dientes, comer el desayuno (que, por si acaso, es la comida mas importante del día), e ir a una oficina para hacer lo que tenga que hacer, ¿se caería el universo? ¿Se quemarán los edificios y parará de haber comida para toda la gente del mundo? 

No creo que mi esfuerzo es tan importante o que tales cosas pasarían.

The room had become a fabrication and I could no longer distinguish between the corporeal and its reflection. I became aware of the ticking of the clock overlooking the room a top my head. Tick-Tock the Croc became my nemesis too, it was the scathing tether that tied me to reality.

En mi experiencia, cuando una máquina tiene un diente de rueda que es un poco despacio o que se rompe y para de trabajar como debiera, empieza a ser canceroso para el resto de la colección. 

Tomando eso en cuenta, mi falta de esfuerzo sería una infección para la sociedad capitalista. El sueño Norte Americano es del derecho al trabajo, el derecho de conseguir dinero, a desear más. Pero ¿qué pasa si eso ya no es mi sueño? ¿Si ya no es la meta de cual mi vista no se despega?

Earlier that day I had seen a homeless woman asking for money outside the McDonald’s next to my house. She looked into my eyes and asked me if there was anything I could spare. I gave her ten dollars and walked into the restaurant regretting, chastising myself for giving her too much.

That guilt still stayed with me in that bed, it erupted in me a violent fever, an unabated anger towards myself and my stupidity. Pero para que me enojaba? What had I done wrong? Es porque no me quede el dinero ha mi mismo, o porque yo quería ese dinero? Y si eso fue porque, como puedo ser tan egoísta?

Fui educado desde chico para ser egoísta, para proteger lo que es mío y lo que merece ser mío. Aprendí de mis papás, mis maestros, y mis amigos, las lecciones que me formaron al ser quien soy. And in reality perhaps I do enjoy monetary processions, the physical fruit of labor. Reflexionando a mis propios pensamientos y viéndome como objeto con acción y conciencia I’d go as far as to say that I enjoy the suffering of my fellow person. Es un placer oscuro del capitalista, nacido en un mundo capitalista, programado como capitalista, porque me recuerda que mi situación, tan pobre como es, es mejor que el del otro. The other is my rival.

Es un pensamiento cliché y oscuro, lo se. Pero tal son todas las ideas que tratan sobre la injusticia humana. La clase bourgeois ha hecho que estas ideas suenen ridículas, y tal vez solo un muchachx al punto de dormirse le pusiera interés a estas cosas. Pero la realidad es un mundo ineludible. El mundo existe no como proyección de nuestro entendimiento y conocimiento, sino es interpretado y dado sentido por nuestra conciencia. En esa manera nosotros damos definiciones a el universo a nuestro alrededor. Y cuando se ve ese mundo, tuviera uno que sacarse sus ojos o vender el alma para no poder ver el dolor de la gente y la injusticia causado por el progreso.

¿El progreso de que?

¿De un país?

¿De una ideología?

I begin to hear the chirping of birds outside alongside the sound of motors beginning to run. It must be close to five. I am so close to sleep that to open my eyes would be to waste the time I’ve spent.

Como un ejemplo tomemos la aplicación de las ideologías neoliberales, las que han arruinado a México y Latino America. México ha avanzando el nivel de tecnología y GDP inmensamente en las ultimas décadas, y eso es un orgullo tremendo para la gente. Pero lo que no se habla es sobre la pobreza, la rotas promesas, y la insignificancia del dinero a la definición de una persona. Es un nuevo tipo de colonialismo, uno que hasta el propio Cristóbal Colón se enorgullecería. En el que la gente es saciada por lo normal, y su labor es la única comodidad de valor.

Los países del Oeste se roban las materias primas de sus satélites y dejan a la gente con el sentimiento de enriquecimiento. Pero con los pagos de la luz, la renta, y la comida, parece ser que trabajamos nadamas para el derecho a sobrevivir. ¿Para que más existimos sino para darle mas fruto a la clase alta? Para regarles como un dios omnipotente que merecemos el derecho a vivir.

I turn to the left, towards the window. Slim glimmers of morning light begins to flow from the openings in the curtains. Dawn has moved in quickly and soon another sleepless night will have come and gone. The break of day will take its place.

Si tuviera valor cambiara al ingles, y hablaría sobre quemando edificios, obstruyendo carreteras, y protestas masivas que se volvieran alboroto publico e amotinamiento. Pero no soy valiente. Soy solamente un niño, tratando de dormir. Uso el español porque tengo miedo que si el gobierno Estado Unidense sabe leer mentes – que no me parase ser tan loca la idea – mi única protección fuera que tal vez no han encontrado una manera fija de traducir del español.

What was the point of staying up all night? To show to myself my cowardice. No me molestaría ser exiliado de aquí por pensamientos de traición, pero dudo que tal cosa pasara. Afuera del país no fuera muy útil yo para el gobierno capitalista. Siento que primamente me culparan de un crimen que no cometí, en esa menara me quitaran toda validad a mis ideas, pensamientos, y acciones. Fuera definido pero una acción e institución. Y trabajara por gratis para un tiempo muy largo como prisionero. En prisión fuera reeducado, reformado, por la misericordia de los valores monetarios y las reglas de moralidad religiosa – un miedo al dios gringo.

The sounds of birds chirping is unmistakable now, the sound of cars honking is much louder, and the rays of sun pierce into my eyes even as I have the eyelids closed.

What can I say?

I am tired.

I hear a knock at the door and I wait to see if anyone else will open it. But I hear no one moving to get up.

I am slow to sit up, but as I do I begin to realize the full extent of my thoughts. I am no longer in the realm between reflection and awareness. I have no evidence to prove what I have thought, I think while craning my back, giving myself a small time to stretch. All of this has no evidence what’s so over. I can not claim my thoughts as fact, fact is all that holds validity in our world.

I step on the floor. The carpet feels cold, and my head is light. I stand, walk to the door, and move my hand forward towards the door.

Los pensamientos en español se quedaran con migo, serán mi secreto, y los cultivare para un tiempo en que ya no tenga miedo y no suenen ridículo. Pero hasta ese entonces, serán parte de un sueño. I open the door, a flood of light rushes in, I use my hand to cover my eyes as I peer out to the outside.

Luis González I am currently a third year political science (public law) and ethnic studies double major working towards my Bachelor’s Degree at UC San Diego. My hometown is Temecula, in Southern California but I was born in San Jose, Northern California. Both my parents are from Tlacolula de Matamoros, in Oaxaca, Mexico. Even though I was born in the U.S. I spent the early years of my childhood in Mexico under the care of my parents and extended family. As a result I did not learn how to speak English well until my twilight years in US public Elementary School. My mother always made it a strong point that we learn to speak Spanish as perfectly as possible. But even though I spoke Spanish regularly at home, it was a rarity that I found time and opportunity to write or read in Spanish. I have felt firsthand, how the US uses public schools to force Spanish-speaking students to assimilate to US culture through language, making Spanish a matter of the private sphere and making English a ticket to the public sphere of market and upwards mobility. As a result, my linguistic Spanish skills were nurtured far less. Writing this piece was very difficult in that I had to start over many times and in the end decided to challenge myself by writing a piece that was mostly in Spanish. I used this piece as an exercise to prove to myself that I could express my ideas first through an understandable and aesthetic denotative way, and secondly able to compactly and effectively instill in my writing a connotation of greater meaning. In my piece I write about someone who attempts to fall asleep, but in this effort is caught up in search of their own opinion and understanding. It took me several days to try to understand what I wanted to convey and how the best way to convey that would be. Because all that I have ever read in Spanish can be reduced to just a couple bible verses, one or two books, and the occasional news article, my vocabulary was limited. I had to use Google to translate words, and to make sure I spelled words correctly that I had only spoken or heard of but had never seen in print. If I learned one thing from this experience it is how difficult it is to make sentences in Spanish both make sense and sound as cohesive and intelligible as in English. I really hope I get an opportunity to write in Spanish again, I will read and continue to write in both languages so I can improve the large areas of my writing ability that still need to improve.

The lighthouse

March 14, 2016 in Fiction by mjdelgad

Agahlo built the lighthouse in 1924 in an old city outside of a province, which has since

been named too often, really, to withstand another naming here. The force of its impression has less

to do with its now debilitated structure and more with its sheer stint of survival. Aghalo has written

volumes about its construction and reconstruction, there in the library.

By 2024, the man who visits the ruins of the lighthouse does not read the language of this country,

of course. The most integral volumes on the way that its spiral staircase is navigated (a staircase,

more now, like the arthritic hand of an elderly mother swinging the man from one side to the other)

are wasted on him. Still, it would have profited the man, who now stood shovel deep in sand trying

to dig himself out, to have visited the library more than once.

Inside the lighthouse there are the common compartments; the glass lantern atop it and the bedroom

for the caretaker, the kitchen and the store at the bottom floor that never sold a single book. Aghalo

also fancied himself a historian but the language of his country had fled him as a child, and then this

language, which he’d rejected as an adult, was not adequate to describe the landscapes that birthed

him. The manuscripts, instead, became his memories of home, recreated, as it were, from the stories

he was told as they fled. It was no longer clear whether the lighthouse was built before he

chronicled his countries tales, or whether those tales were not simply a misreading of his mother’s

desperate bedtime stories in the years of famine and drought; he wrote as he had always written,

himself into his country and his country into existence. Even his name, Agahlo, one he liked to

pretend was a hand-me-down from centuries of blood, was what his wife called a silly string of

letters, all falling one after the other.

Outside of the lighthouse, there are no identifiable characteristics that separate it from any other. In

fact, if there had been a lighthouse in the near vicinity, there may have been

motivation to give it a peculiar personality, to stripe it with garish red and white. The truth is that

the lighthouse was built after mountains divided the lands and the people that belonged to those

mountains had lost the blue of the ocean over the divides of the canyons. And even before the

people had lost other common links, like the roll of the r and their stomach for spices and their

resolve (so that crossing each other in the street they’d hardly whisper a hello, as if the entire

business of being forgotten was a new import) Aghalo watched from a distance until he could no

longer tell the difference between the deaths that brought them here and their chosen extinction.

Aghalo had built the lighthouse because he believed if they no longer wished to return to the sea,

the lighthouse would call the sea back to them; but being that there is no other in a hundred mile

radius, this particular lighthouse is of no consequence to anyone except the man who built it and the

man who wishes to wake it up a hundred years later.


Rebecca Seaberry



It is difficult, perhaps, to empathize with the man who walked into a lighthouse, a hundred years

after it was built, with no prior experience in waking one up. For a while, Gogo’s

countrymen were touched by the novelty of a lighthouse built in a landlocked country and had been

drawn to the impossible. There were writers and revolutionaries present for the first few months, all

with the common purpose of chronicling the moment that Gogo realized his folly. This was the way

of the people now, just as Aghalo had imagined it would be; they were a localized community of

thieves, stealing the suffering of their own and using it as an emblem of a lost dream.

When interviewed, Gogo would lift his shovel from deep within the ground and tell them that he

knew how to make the lantern turn. The problem, of course, was that no one knew where the heart

of the lighthouse had been buried. It was an old wives tale that brought him there to

begin with, one that revolved around the moons reflection hitting the glass of the lantern in such a

way, in such a precise way, that the ghost of her would rise up and point to the place that she could

be resurrected.

Soon, however, the people, who had long forgotten their own ghosts, grew tired of chasing this one

and left the poor, crazy man to his longings.

And so he dug. He dug that way for ten years. He dug underneath the staircase until it detached

from the floor and lifted up into the ceiling, he dug underneath the filaments, and he dug underneath

the cellar. He climbed the rungs on the sides and pushed and prodded each brick for a secret

entrance. He dug in search of the foundation, and then underneath that in search of the place that he

thought was essential for the structure of the lighthouse to keep standing despite his digging; it

could not be as the journalists had mocked, as it had said in the broken language of the library

books that, once, as a young man, he’d mistaken for fact. It could not be that the lighthouse was just

a brick structure around a spiral staircase on which there were an odd number of steps so that he

was never in the center.

He dug this way until the last day of the ninth year; until he realized he was too tired. He looked up

into the kaleidoscope moonlight, in and out between the iron steps of the staircase. He had not been

digging her heart out but burying his heart in. There was no other way but down. He climbed up the

rungs on the side and sat on the last step, his legs swinging like silly string letters, one after the

other. He had not been digging her heart out but burying his heart in. He looked as far as he could

see into the one man hole he’d buried himself in, with no throbbing heart and no ghostly apparition

to tell him that there was something else underneath the structures that had held him captive,

underneath the ribcage of his animal carcass that had held him captive. There was no way but down.

There was no way but down.

And then the flood came.

At first Gogo thought a well had formed from the years of perspiration. The air began to swell with

a ringing hush and the hair at the nape of his neck stood on end with tiny drops of water beginning

to form at the edges. He licked his top lip and it tasted like the way he imagined his homeland must

taste: the salt of the earth before he was ever a part of it. The water began to fill faster and faster,

white foam began to tide back and forth in time with the swinging staircase. Soon Gogo was a few

feet away from soaking his feet, so that his thoughts became less perplexed than frightened and he

had no choice but to climb. I’ve hit her heart, he thought, and she is bleeding. She is bleeding the

blood of my people and I will drown here with them. And so he began to climb the way any man

who drowns in the reflection of his principles must, even when the journalists and revolutionaries

are not there to see him.

Between the third and fourth step, there were sounds of bubbling behind him, between the eighth

and ninth, the slicing of water like a knife through a pear. He only had enough time to look over his

shoulder before the tide was teaming with fish, an octopus, a shark, a whale— suddenly, the

lighthouse was an anemone between the land he’d left and the land he’d buried himself in. She is

releasing the in-between, he realized, as a stingray lapped around his big toe, brushing the surface

like a paper sailboat that will sink at contact.

Rising to the top of the sixtieth stair, half-swept, half-lost, Gogo gasped for air at the juncture in

between the glass and the last rung. The water subsided patiently at his feet; just below him the

octopus wrapped one tentacle around the rung as if in preparation should the water go back to the

place from which it came. All was still. Gogo looked out through the mirrored glass of the

lighthouse and saw the barren land, a land which had not seen rain in months; and past the miles of

barren land, Gogo saw the outlines of rain clouds. And past the

rain clouds, Gogo could see the chance of rain, and past the rain, Gogo could see the clouds were

the sails of boats coming to take them home.

Gogo saw the boats and Gogo saw the lights of the lantern flicker on. Gogo saw the boats and the

lantern and the light that cast his reflection as a woman in the center of the staircase, from beneath

the water, like a mermaid who’d been hiding in the belly of a shark. The shark unhinged its jaw and

the woman climbed out.

He had not dug out her heart but buried his in.

She had not been sleeping but dreaming his way home.


Gina Alexandra is an amateur human but an expert wolf.
On Autotranslation: When younger, I learned all the curse words first. Upon meeting someone with a different language set, I’d quickly swap the worst of the words I knew in my own for theirs and giggle at the sacrilege. It was a rite of passage, an unloading of cultural expectation that no one but my new friend and I would be privy to. We’d whisper them passing each other in the hallways of our school, new to me, an implant from a private Armenian academy, suddenly aware of an accent I had not known I had. The worst of the words I knew had to do with mothers: I’ll tell you, I’d say conspiratorially, but you better never say it out loud. What I mean was that when in my language you insult someone’s mother, it is like insulting the country itself, all of its mothers, the language rooted down in so many generations and almost lost in so many wars that to hold it on the tongue is to hold something like a ball of mercury, smooth and lovely but burst, deadly, poisonous. I know the weight of every word in Armenian, and that weight transfers into my native language, English. Someone asked recently if I think first in English or Armenian and I told them that it took me twenty minutes to remember the word buckwheat because I had only ever heard it said in Armenian when learning how to make a family recipe. I don’t translate the language but my own experience in that language to write it. The experience of the language will tell me what words hold the most weight, how, when I encounter a small animal, a child, someone who I love dearly, almost certainly Armenian words will stream out subconsciously before I’ve had the time to think them in English. I used to think that knowing the curse words of any language would show you where that culture hid its most sacred things but now I think not. In any language, first learn the terms of endearment.

The Defendants Are Found to Be Highly Intelligent*

March 14, 2016 in Fiction by mjdelgad

“Red Adidas? Now tell me, who wears red Adidas? No wonder he got killed,” says the one with the pigtails. (Who makes pigtails?! Are you in kindergarten or something? She must think it’s cute, Lolita or something.) One girl looks at her condescendingly, one can see the contempt in her eyes. “You think this has anything to do with the red Adidas, you dimwit?” says one girl’s best friend. The best friend is the smartest boy in the Sharon area, if not in the entire state of Israel. And one girl is also very very smart and pretty, too. One cannot disclose all the information about them here, due to discreteness and modesty. Let’s call them one girl and the curly one.

One girl and the curly one are best friends, ordinary human beings can’t even imagine this kind of friendship. It is friendship ordained from above, by blood, by poetry. They have an understanding, as they say, that goes deep. So deep that an ordinary person could drown. But they haven’t drowned, they’re good swimmers ‘cause they were sent to swimming lessons at a young age at the ‘Brawn Swimming pool’, Kfar-Saba’s public swimming pool. One girl was a bit pitiful, everything was handed to her on a silver platter, a silver platter bought at the nice department store. For others this was a privilege, for her it was a hardship, she wanted to end it all already. The curly one also got everything handed to him on a silver platter, but in a different style. He was like a prisoner in jail, they would leave him the silver platter outside his room door, knock and leave, leaving him alone with the silver platter.


Rebecca Seaberry

Every single day one girl and the curly one met at the mall and they loved and destroyed everything. They set their little city on fire, burned houses under heavy mortgages, air-conditioned shops and huge parking lots. They set on fire public gardens, public toilets, curtain shops and candy stores. They felt great hatred for their city, they feared never being able to get out of there, even though they would always see bus number 149 driving back and forth along Weizmann Street, taking passengers to Tel Aviv, the big city. They never took it. They would go from the mall to Ussishkin woods, from the mall to the ‘Defenders Garden’, from the mall to the Kiryat-Sapir neighborhood. The mall was their meeting place. They’d say, Let’s meet at five by the water fountain. They hated the mall.

One day they had enough. They said, Let’s do something, let’s kill, ‘cause we are kings of the world! They walked and walked around the city. The curly one said, “Who shall we kill, my dear?” One girl answered, “Anyone.” They laughed hard. And then, boom, they met someone else. Someone else says hi to the curly one and they start talking. “Have you seen this movie?”

And the curly one says, “Yes.” “Have you read this book?”And the curly one says, “Yes.”

One girl taps the curly one’s shoulder, signals someone else to wait a moment and they move away. She whispers in his ear, “Let’s kill him okay?” The curly one nods in approval but doesn’t make a sound.

One girl asks, “Do you have anything to smoke?” Someone else takes out a bag with a bud, “This weed is the shit, it grows in my parents’ yard, organic fertilizer.” One girl is impressed and the three take off together to the Rabin High School sports facility. 

Darkness falls on the small city of Kfar Saba, only the white light of urban streetlights brightens the sky. The three sit by the running track, there’s no one in sight. Sometimes, fired up soldiers-to-be practice here, with fire in their eyes and fire in their arms, wanting to puff up their muscles, wanting to kill Arabs, grrr grrr grrr, but today there’s not a soul in sight.

Someone else has black dreadlocks, perfect blow-job lips, and red Adidas. One girl can’t stand it, naturally. The curly one doesn’t care, he can’t stand anything, nothing at all. One girl notices a discarded iron rod behind them, one of the sports facilities had fallen apart and no one cleared the trash. One girl taps the curly one’s shoulder, signals someone else to wait a moment, and they move away. She whispers in his ear, “Kill him with this, okay?” She points at the iron rod. The curly one nods affirmatively but doesn’t make a sound.

One girl goes back and sits down by someone else. The curly one is lagging behind them, pretending to be peeing.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“From Hadarim,” someone else points westward.

And then, boom! Crash! What happened? Someone else’s forehead suddenly bled and now he’s dead.

“Run, Run!” One girl shouts and they run, just like that, running off from Rabin High School. Luckily, one girl’s house is really close, just a few hundred meters away. They run, skip, go up the stairs and lock themselves in the bathroom until there’s not a drop of blood left on their bodies and their breathing becomes regular. Now they swear, they swear so much. Now it’s real friendship, there’s no such friendship in the whole world.

Someone else’s body is discovered the next morning.

That night his mom was worried, she said to her husband, “Where’s someone else?” The husband said, “Pfff”, they fell asleep and whatever happened, happened.

*Excerpt from the book Kfar Saba 2000, to be published in Hebrew this year by Penn Publishing, Tel Aviv.

Julia Fermentto is a writer and journalist from Tel Aviv, Israel. Her debut novel, “Safari”, was published in Israel in 2011 and became a Bestseller. Her work has been published in newspapers and anthologies in Israel, Germany, and the United States. Her second novel “Kfar-Saba 2000” will be published in Israel in 2016. She’s a first-year graduate student in the Ph.d program and her main research interest is early 20th century Jewish-American literature.

Julia Fermentto on Autotranslation: Hebrew ceased to be a spoken language somewhere between 200 and 400 CE. Modern Hebrew, my mother-tongue was revived in the late 19th century. Being a Hebrew writer I carry this history whether I like it or not. My mouth speaks an ancient language but my life is post-modern; shopping online, eating skittles, getting bored. This tension is a great source of playfulness in my writing. In English however, this tension doesn’t exist. A new tension arose while translating this short excerpt from Hebrew to English. By undressing the Hebrew speech, my characters can be seen more clearly, which allowed me to understand their feelings much better.