by Ostap Slyvynsky; translated by Taras Malkovych Here is a selection of short stories — anecdotes more like, or memories — recorded by Ostap Slyvynsky, a Ukrainian poet, essayist, translator and lecturer at the University of Lviv. Taras Malkovych translated them into English so we might get a sense, however remote, of what the experience of war is […]
Stories From Ukraine Read More »
by Ostap Slyvynsky; translated by Taras Malkovych FISH, Halyna, Mariupol I have never taken anything that was not mine. And then this man in uniform passes by saying, “They’ve just opened a grocery store. Take something for yourself.” So I did. All I saw inside was out-of-date poultry and people taking it, saying it will be okay
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by Chase La Rosa THE TEAM Nav had a first name, John, but no one would ever call him that. Eng could be Eng, and you could maybe sneak in a Gary over beers. Weps could be Weps or Weps Rose. I’m not actually sure if he had a first name. My second Weps was
Fast Boat Real Boat Thunder Buffalo Read More »
(for Odie, who went for us, and William, who inspired me to tell of it) by Richard O’Quinn Things were already underway by the time I arrived. Word had made it back of the explosion, injuries, and deaths and the place was awhirl with movement. Hushed voices and serious faces hung in every corner. While
Day Breaking In Apple Valley Read More »
by Erik Dane For an American like me – a born-and-bred East Coaster, a headstrong, pensive brand manager, a heartbreak-escaping, late night jogger – you’d think the hardest part of living in Paris would be the language. Until today, I would have agreed with you. Now, at this particular moment, the fact that I can
by Mark de Rond As the dog days of summer elongated, and with school out and everyone who is someone having been moved on, and with nothing to do and nothing whatsoever to look forward to, two teenagers killed a pizza delivery guy and didn’t eat the pizza. They stood in silence for a while
Dead Man Can’t Even Blink Read More »
by Ruth Newman Bert the porter was telling off some tourists for walking on the perfect lawn as Lesley passed through the gates to Goodesford College. The unnerved sightseers were having a hard time understanding Bert’s thick fenland accent, and had to be rescued by their tour guide. Bert turned back to the Porters’ Lodge,
by Markus Hällgren One motherfucker. Grey-man takes his keys from his right pocket and moves them to his left hand. His mind is set on one thing only. Two motherfuckers. The man with grey hair on his temples takes two steps forward. The sound of the world fades. He does not notice the crunch of
by Philip Stiles Everyone’s piling in on me, but it’s not my fault. And if you want to know the truth, I’m the only one who seems to be trying to rectify the situation. I’ve cycled as far as the riverfront, and then back out west to the A10 this morning, big distances, pasting posters
by Mark de Rond As a child and for as long as I can remember there hung above my bed a sign that said ‘Lord, let my prayer come before Thee.’ I have no memory of how I came to have it but still remember how comforting these words were as I made my peace
This Then, the End Read More »