Passing wounds in different studies of light, scabbed on the vast walls of daughters, the world spins inside itself, as a liquid over the plains, over Holy Lands and sacrificial slabs, over citrus peel and sumac-stained hands, over raised sardine fishing boats built with the nails that crucify father to son.

Excerpt from Ann Quin’s novel Tripticks, introduced by Austin Carder.

It was just like the cartoons: two hands and a boot kicking the man out the door and headlong across the sidewalk into the gutter, where he landed with a sickening thud.

Today I begin in earnest. What does it matter that my thoughts are clouded? A light will shine through in the end.

“Imagine an encounter that goes unreported by language.”

Four prose pieces by Dan Elkind.

In a few words, she is an ideal data collector, and any misgivings the employer may have had about hiring a high school dropout have been put to rest.

Érase una vez un muchacho llamado Jack…

Looking forward to something happening: Apparently not!