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Recent fiction

By Max Blue

Recent nonfiction

By Isabella Welch

Fiction

Suzana Stojanović

February 2023

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Recent fiction

By Joe Coyle

Photo by Ivan Pergasi

Recent nonfiction

by Jax Connelly

Recent fiction

by Marcelle Thiébaux

Red Toy

The truncated hospital was leaning its roof over the foundation and looked stopped in time. No one was waiting for salvation in it anymore. Weak spotlights bounced off the broken glasses, creating the illusion of ice on a warm, strangely calm, July night. Apart from the sporadic shaking of the ground, nothing disturbed the fatigue we all felt. The core of the sky stretched out its arms towards us, and we knew that it was our only security in the sudden chaos. And as soon as, after a couple of weeks, I was a little away from the horror of the explosion, I was faced with a devastating earthquake and a new unpredictability. I stared into the darkness, unable to hold my breath, which was separating from me. The doctors said that everything would be fine and that the wound had begun to heal. I believed. Did I have a choice? Everything was better than the rubble and cracks that crept up to our beds; even that infusion of faint hope into an almost-rotten bone. The first time I tried to fall asleep under the constellations, I met another world. I found myself on unfamiliar ground along with the trouble and fear that I might get hurt again. I drowned them in uncertain endlessness with thoughts of people who claim that the Earth is a flat plate, of a strict teacher of strong fangs, of a sister who connects life in the tobacco fields in the early morning hours and of her sweat dripping on dry leaves, of a brother who talks to wolves on the way to work and about a city whose long buildings and their lights were gone in less than half a minute. Many have left their lives in those lights. I was not old enough to understand the disappearances, but I felt growing up in myself and some weight descending on my dream. Although I believed that everything would come back again—like our big dog, whose departures and arrivals we were used to—some first suspicion began to suffocate me. The bandages were getting tight, and I missed my mother. She always said that everything should be thrown down the mountain—pain, fear and sadness, and I had to embrace mine with the strength of a nine-year-old child.

Recent fiction

by Wood Reede

Recent fiction

by Johnpaul Simiyu

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