The stars have no proof / of life but smolder regardless, maggots / feasting on the sky’s vast corpse, and like them / you were science before you were fiction.
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The stars have no proof / of life but smolder regardless, maggots / feasting on the sky’s vast corpse, and like them / you were science before you were fiction.
by Yoojin Na
Members Only author Sameer Pandya talks with Yoojin Na about the ideal measure of novelistic time, India, layered moments in fiction, and the grace of tennis.
A duck’s disappearance figures in history’s rising action only obliquely. A mass death that only enlivens a larger dramatic structure. It is setting; it is not scene. What pressure does its absence exert on the landscape?
by Hawa Allan
For Piper, race was always a conscious affiliation, not an essentialist identity. […] Throughout all of this, Piper seems to have organically arrived at an understanding of race that aligns with its actual definition—a social construct rather than a biological fact.
by Gracie Bialecki
Biking through a post-virus-apocalypse Paris was surreal. The streets were eerily empty and the Chanel and Gucci ads that had plastered the kiosks and bus stops were replaced by health advisories and public thanks to medical professionals.
by Yoojin Na
Levy, who cries on escalators, doesn’t hate her children. She doesn’t hate her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Rather, she hates that a woman must extend herself to assume a domestic role and become a stranger to the person she once was.
