A conversation with Terese Svoboda about her latest book, writing through uncertainty, and using humor to face the unbearable truths that history leaves behind.
FICTION | NONFICTION | POETRY |
TRANSLATION
SUBMIT STORE DONATE OPPORTUNITIES
OUR LATEST ISSUE
INTERVIEWS WRITERS WE PUBLISH
A conversation with Terese Svoboda about her latest book, writing through uncertainty, and using humor to face the unbearable truths that history leaves behind.
Submissions for issue 36 open in three days, and we are delighted to announce that the poetry for this issue will be edited by esteemed poet Camille Rankine. So send us your best!
But something is wrong with these coots. Why are they moving so strangely?
We are having a fall reading on Thursday, October 16th, 8pm at Liz's Book Bar (315 Smith Street, Brooklyn)!
the soft animal of my body is rotating in the 7/11 hot dog display
For Jahangir, a patriotic and pious man, every rule of Allah and law of the state was enforceable and unquestionable. Laws against holding hands. Laws against kissing. Laws against sex. Laws that made living a secret and Ali Reza a sought-after man.
Wait for enough things at the same time, and every action becomes an effect.
Winners of the 2025 Breakout! Writers Prize: Julia Oschwald Tilton in prose, and Alice Liang in poetry
We sent a blast into our social universe asking for the joker to reveal themselves and were met with intrigue but no answers. Superstition says one cannot buy one’s own tarot deck. It must be passed down or bestowed.
I read things and they float away. I would rather stare at my own breasts. “Mind like a steel sieve,” my father would say.
I pass trucks carrying oil, milk, a load of onions (mostly) covered by a tarp. You’re hot, he says.
Obviously, she says, I can’t come to the hill anymore. Don’t make that face! I’m not welcome anymore.
“Writing fiction is like controlled daydreaming, whereas writing nonfiction is more like putting together a complicated three-dimensional puzzle.”
Everybody gets old, Grandma always says. Everybody withers.
“That’s why I quit politics,” a teen says into his cellphone, juuling with his free hand.”
The problem that afternoon was that when the woman seven months pregnant, in the throes of fentanyl addiction, began giving birth on the sidewalk
