Nina Chanel Abney
Courtesy of the artist and Kravets Wehby Gallery, New York, NY
IN THE FIRST introduction I penned for this magazine,
I felt it incumbent to cite Ralph Waldo Emerson. One line
in particular, for the fall of 2016, seems even more
important now than it did in 2010, or in 1848 . . .
Amherst Stories, essays by Jules Chametzky
“Pretty, little Linda M.,” as Jane W., her classmate and
neighbor in North Amherst called her, a little derisively —
though she continually assured me she loved Linda,
even after becoming a successful dean at a university . . .
Immigrant Dreams: Eat Crow, a story by Marilyn Chin
So, they lock you up in a two-and-a-half-mat bamboo
hut that they built with the help of Madame Mao. They
shave off your long black mane and squeeze you into a
cheapy too-tight faux mandarin frock . . .
Marek (1988), a memoir by Jonathan Dollimore
I wander up Oxford Street. Still very warm and humid.
Cruised aggressively by some rough trade: two guys,
together, possibly out to gay-bait. No real risk, given
here’s other people around, so I stop to talk with them . . .
Showing What Cannot Be Said: Total War and the
International Project of Modernist War Writing,
part two of an essay by Nil Santianez
Received with much critical acclaim when it came out in 1930,
Edlef Köppen’s Heeresbericht (Army Communiqué) did not
enjoy the enormous public success that welcomed Le Feu
(Under Fire) and other war novels of the period . . . .
Stories, Scandals, and Censorship: Telling the Story of the
Guantanamo Bay Detainee Library Facilities,
an essay by Muira McCammon
By their location and legal status, prison libraries operate on
principles that differ fundamentally from the workings of
most traditional public and university libraries. . . .
How the Hands, a poem by Farhad Showghi,
translated by Harry Roddy
How the hands move, have things brought. Into experience
and back again. I determine that the silence here is looking
for something. Also the connection to reality that five fingers
can grasp. Finally they stroked the child’s head. . . .
Family Matter, a story by Alex Poppe
I’m pretty sure I could kill someone if I had to. Fico says I’d
pussy out, but he complains about ball-sag and he’s only
fifteen, so what does he know? I’ll check his palms the next
time I see him, which will be in about two minutes. . . .