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Am I Speaking to Hyman Roth?

November 1, 2014 Fiction, Issue 08, Issue 08 Fiction

Early that morning his telephone had begun ringing nonstop, and he found himself thanking directors, casting directors, producers, actors, and all the members of the Actors Studio. He’d seen many of his actors receive Oscar nominations, but when he heard his name among the 1974 nominees for The Godfather: Part II, Lee Strasberg was astounded. The callers told him he’d been a master actor on the set; he had blown away his own pupils (“They were wonderful, but nothing compared to you”); he’d been able to humanize and at the same time portray the horror that was Hyman Roth; he must have awed even Francis Ford Coppola.

Caleta Beach

November 1, 2014 Fiction, Issue 08, Issue 08 Fiction

By NANI POWER

Papi say we goin on a real vacation and Milky say Vegas and me, Tippy, I say Disney and then Carlo say Nueva York but no, say Papi, we gots to go to Acapulco. I say you mean Mexico and he say sí, cabrón, like I’m a dumbass. Carlo crackin up.

The Dying of the Deads

November 1, 2014 Fiction, Issue 08, Issue 08 Fiction

By JEFF JACKSON

Part One.

A Map of Everything Swallowed

They start drinking three hours before the funeral. Tequila, mostly. A bottle and a half later, their heads are buzzing on some private wavelength. Hazy shapes slither in front of their eyes. Words sound furry in their ears.

Stewardship

November 1, 2014 Fiction, Issue 08, Issue 08 Fiction, Issues

By EDMUND SANDOVAL

It’s easy to forget you once had control. That you stopped making decisions for yourself. Part of that’s getting older, and I’ve gotten older—not much, but some. It’s what comes with settling down and making some sort of life and having children. And that’s something. We all know that. But then there’s the bad part of it, when you speak up just to realize that you haven’t got any say, that your words stay lodged in your mind, stuck in your throat. That they are altogether gone, like birds migrated for the winter and never come back. Worse than that, you wake up and find out that somebody else was forming your words for you all along. That was me for the longest of times. My best years that I lost when I was silent and tepid and living in the woods. I want to tell of how I got out of that forest. I want to tell about how I came to the clearing whole and intact and feeling good.

Clouds

November 1, 2014 Fiction, Issue 08, Issue 08 Fiction, Translation

By ANTONIO TABUCCHI

Translated by MARTHA COOLEY and ANTONIO ROMANI

— You stay here in the shade all day, said the young girl, don’t you like going in the water?

The man gave a vague nod that could have meant yes or no, but said nothing.

—Can I use tu with you?, asked the girl.

—If I’m not mistaken, you just did, the man said and smiled.

Reichelt’s Parachute

November 1, 2014 Fiction, Issue 08, Issue 08 Fiction, Issues

By IAN BASSINGTHWAIGHTE

His name was Gustave Eiffel, and he built his giant French tower because it was impossible—that is what everyone said—to build something so tall. They said the tower would topple under its own weight. Or the wind would blow, the metal would bend, and the rivets would snap. The tower would plunge into the city.

The Common Statement

November 1, 2014 Essays, Issue 08, Issue 08 Essays

By JENNIFER ACKER

To get anywhere from the borgo—the walled-in cluster of medieval houses and skinny lanes connecting the castle, the church, and a tiny grassy square—one must go steeply downhill and then steeply up. Each morning, I choose a different high point from which to take in the magnetic hills of this corner of Lunigiana in northwest Tuscany, where friends have made a part-time home. Once I saw a handful of seniors out for a stroll, and I often say hello to a man in his eighties whose dog takes him out for jaunts, very slowly due to his heart trouble, but otherwise I encounter no one.

Burial at Shanidar

November 1, 2014 Issue 08, Issue 08 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry

By ELIZABETH HAZEN

Pollen found in one of the Shanidar graves suggests that Neanderthals, too, buried flowers with their dead.

The pollen could be mere coincidence—
traces left by a prehistoric rat
that ate flowers near the grave—but we prefer

The Origamist

November 1, 2014 Issue 08, Issue 08 Poetry, Poetry

By DANIEL TOBIN

The Cat’s Eye Nebula—one could begin
there as a way of showing how being
folds in upon itself, always to form
new configurations. That’s where we’re from,