Issues | Page 23 | The Common

Three Omens of Federico da Montefeltro

May 2, 2022 Fiction, Issue 23, Issue 23 Fiction

Urbino, 1472

Ottaviano held the staff high and steady as Scipio tugged at the bunches of leaves fixed to its top.

“He remains content?” Ottaviano asked the giraffe’s keeper.

“He does,” the keeper said. “Twice since sunrise he’s moved his bowels.”

Ottaviano watched Scipio chew. With his knobbly horns, his puzzled hide, and his great neck, he had clearly been made for a far different existence in his home beyond the Nile, a home for which even the library’s grandest atlas possessed only the most rudimentary of maps. And yet, snatched from that home, confined to his pen, the animal betrayed neither alarm nor sorrow.

A Letter to Leena

May 2, 2022 Issue 23, Issue 23 Poetry, Poetry

By MARY JO SALTER

I came when you were born,
but soon the flying stopped.
By the time I came again,
we drove in private cars

Who Drew the Curtains?

May 2, 2022 Fiction, Issue 23, Issue 23 Fiction, Translation

By SHEIKHA HUSSEIN HELAWY

Translated by NARIMAN YOUSSEF

The pores of life are clogged in this room. Making it difficult to breathe. There’s a hanging smell of death that’s impossible to miss. Visitors are unnerved by it. Except those visitors whose nerves have been hardened by the tedium of their dutiful weekly visits to the woman at the far end of the room: boredom and emptiness compressed into no more than half an hour.

Oh, My Nana

May 2, 2022 Arabic Fiction, Fiction, Issue 23, Issue 23 Fiction

By SUHEIR ABU OKSA DAOUD

Translated by NASHWA GOWANLOCK

It was raining nonstop, and the flowing stream of rainwater collected anything it met along the dirt track. As if this apocalyptic scene weren’t savage enough for God, the rain brought with it thunderstorms and gales that threatened to uproot the streetlamp and thin cypress trees dotting the neighborhood.

It was freezing cold, and my grandmother crouched in a corner of the house near the dakhoon, which no one had lit, shivering under her black woollen shawl. From time to time, she muttered, “Oh, Mary, mother of Jesus, protect us!”

Well-Lit Garden

May 2, 2022 Arabic Fiction, Fiction, Issue 23, Issue 23 Fiction, Translation

By ZIAD KHADDA SH

Translated by AMIKA FENDI

Well-Lit Garden

I was leaving El Rafidayn supermarket in Ramallah. I had bought coffee, wet wipes, and two cans of tuna. One of the Israeli occupation’s patrols was parked at El Rafidayn roundabout. I was alone in the area, and the hour was approaching midnight. The patrol blew its impudent horn. I ignored it and kept my course due home. But a soldier opened the window and called out, “Come over here, monkey.”

Curses

May 2, 2022 Arabic Fiction, Fiction, Issue 23, Issue 23 Fiction, Translation

By EYAD BARGHUTHY

Translated by NASHWA GOWANLOCK

He stormed out of the house, yelling and cursing. His belly, hemmed in and taunted by high-waisted underpants (which had once been white), flopped over his waistband as if trying to flee from his too-short pants. He cursed those raucous kids; cursed their parents, those bastards; cursed the father who spawned those wretched creatures. As for his other neighbors: in a matter of seconds they were at the black iron railings, gripping onto the bars that surrounded the high windows to stop reckless children from falling yet still allow the adults to enjoy the view over the city. Meanwhile, the Syrian characters of the soap opera were left to discuss amongst themselves the various methods of smuggling weapons and prisoners, and how to free themselves from the yoke of the French colonizer.

Drop Your Coins From The Skyscraper of Love

May 2, 2022 Issue 23, Issue 23 Poetry, Poetry

By MELISSA STUDDARD

And if you have no coins or skyscraper,
then parachute from your mind into blossom,

Questions for the Night I Said I Love You

May 2, 2022 Issue 23, Issue 23 Poetry, Poetry

By ALDO AMPARÁN

Is he a saguaro burning in the desert’s shadow—or a sidewinder’s tracks on sand—

Have I left footprints in the snow of his dreaming—

The Roc Flew Over Shahraban

May 2, 2022 Fiction, Issue 23, Issue 23 Fiction, Translation

By SAMIRA AZZAM

Translated by RANYA ABDELRAHMAN

Slowly, we raised our heads as hellish cries echoed in our ears, and we looked up in awe and fear. The sky was a summery blue with no trace of a cloud, and the sun had spread out, occupying every corner. We lowered our gazes, licking our bluish lips as we exchanged panicked glances. Our cracked feet were rooted to the furrowed mud, as if our slightest movement might stir up the screeching. We chewed over our terror for a few minutes, our parted lips emitting silence. Our mounts were as terrified as we were, and they scattered around the courtyard at the inn, fear spurring them to shake off the torpor of the midday heat.

From Lockdown Garden

May 2, 2022 Issue 23, Issue 23 Poetry, Poetry

By ARVIND KRISHNA MEHROTRA

Left untrained,
the bitter melon’s taken over
the mulberry, dusting it