Samodiva

By Radoslav Radushev-Radus & George Petkov-Mareto

Posted on

Samodiva: A Bulgarian folktale¹

Once upon a time there lived a young beauty, whose name was Samodiva. She was a princess in a small kingdom, tucked away among the enchanted hills of mountain Emos. Her father was king Charismat. The king was wise and was much loved by the people, who had long lived in peace and prosperity under his rule. The mother of the princess, queen Delikacia, was as beautiful as the fertile valleys in the kingdom in spring. Delikacia was a woman kind and delicate and she died giving birth to her daughter. Charismat’s heart was full of sorrow but he poured out all his remaining love and kindness on the little princess.

When she grew up, stories of her incredible beauty travelled beyond the borders of her kingdom.…

...continue reading

Everything Else Is Memoirs

By Janie Borisov

Posted on

I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
                                                                                                                       Van Gogh

The Caribbean did a voodoo on me. Until I finally broke the spell, it held me in an iron grip – I had to include a trip to this part of the world in my repertoire at least once a year. My excuse to myself for spending so much money and time on going somewhere familiar while so much of the world lay unexplored was the plethora of different islands I could visit. But in reality, I was simply addicted to it.

I believe that every trip we make – even short and seemingly inconsequential ones – changes who we are, but the Caribbean can give anyone an acute existential crisis. My advice: don’t go there with your loved one.…

...continue reading

tonight

By Gretchen Troxell

Posted on

tonight all the versions of myself lay together on my twin size bed. one is vomiting over the metal railing, a snap of a girlfriend kissing someone else playing on repeat in their palm. one listens to our dad’s hand-curated phoebe bridgers playlist. one can’t stop eating, and one can’t eat at all, and one is somewhere in-between. one calls a friend about social studies. one calls a friend about ap history. one calls a friend and asks if they should switch their major to creative writing and five minutes later ends the call. one texts their brother. one hates their brother. one decides they don’t really mind their brother all that much. one hates their brother and curses him to hell. one is shopping on etsy for birthday gifts for their brother.…

...continue reading

Tell the Truth

By Margaret E. Gillio

Posted on

The door slammed shut and woke Mere. The sun was already setting. She’d slept for over an hour. Sleeping for two, she thought as she rubbed her eyes.

Patricio threw his coat across the couch. He rubbed his hands. “Cold out there. Low 40s and not even Turkey Day yet.” He reached under her blankets. “Warm in here.” He touched her neck.

Mere yiped and sat up. “Oh my God, Patricio. Knock it off.”

“Touchy.” He collapsed on to the couch.

Mere pulled her legs up to her chest, so he wouldn’t sit on her.

“Long day at work.” Patricio rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Ten-hour shift. A car accident. A heart attack. Quiet down at the casinos.” He reached for Mere’s hand. “What’d you do all day?”…

...continue reading

Mountains

By Jonathan Brown

Posted on

The four boys stood on the concrete former pontoon outlined by the mountains or hills on the horizon. I couldn’t tell you which they were from my position on the beach. Surrounding them, sat at their feet, were other young men and women. But the four boys who stood tall above the rest seemed to be in a group of their own. While the others occasionally jumped into the sea that was garishly sprinkled with diamonds of the type you’d find decorating the cheap bags on Avenue Guy de Maupassant, the boys fought.

Though mainly just shadows and outlines in the heat of the midday sun, I could see a tall one, a fat one, a shorter one and a fourth of normal size for a 13 or 14 year old.…

...continue reading

Falling Down

By Patrick Swaney

Posted on

“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” the very, very old man said as he sat down across from me on the mid-day bus. “I remain balanced,” he said, “by wearing an equal number of rings on each hand.” He paused to let this information sink in. Then unsheathed his hands from his jacket pockets and, leaning in, rested them on my knees. I could only assume there were fingers underneath the mass of jewelry. “Go ahead and count them,” he said, “exactly the same number on each hand.” He was uncomfortably close to me, but his breath smelled like cough drops, which was somehow reassuring. “Go ahead.” He nodded at his hands that stayed heavy on my knees. The bus rattled on, over potholes around fast corners, and the very, very old man sat perfectly still.…

...continue reading

Wrists

By Michael Karpati

Posted on

I met a man fresh out of prison once.  I was in a bar downtown round midnight.  He walked in and ordered a scotch, then another.  I didn’t say anything, but I could tell he wanted to talk.  You don’t walk into a bar alone to avoid people. 

He got to reminiscing before too long.  At first he wasn’t talking to anybody in particular, then he started looking at me, then before too long I was the only one he saw. 

He told me he’d been in prison five years, but not to worry because he was innocent.  Most people inside are innocent, he said – except, of course, the ones that aren’t. 

Most of what he said, though, had to do with wrists.  He told me people never rub their wrists when the cuffs come off, when they’re thrown in the cells or leaving the system. …

...continue reading