Sakeen the housemaid was rarely free to play with us, even at parties. She had to prepare dinner, serve it to the guests, and clean up. Shahnaz, my uncle’s wife, liked to throw big parties to outplay our mothers in a game between them known
Sex. Brutality. Animal faces. Wrathful oceans. Rickety boats. Stupid men who robbed my human rights. Insecure love affairs. Floating corpses’ love affairs. Am I also a floating corpse? What else?
When he got to her she was sitting in the cart with her back to him, holding a quarter between her fingertips and looking at the people on the sidewalk coming toward her.
The newspapers are, sir, blight, disorder of the first order, just like everything that’s printed; but I tread all over it.
Beefeater Bill has no dignity.
Mauro Covacich’s short story, translated by Marino D’Orazio, “The Bride,” appears in Michigan Quarterly Review’s Fall 2019 issue. He motioned for her to climb up and she jumped in. What luck finding someone willing to stop in this weather; usually they spot you at the