SUSAN TACENT
Maria Terrone’s grandparents were among the estimated nine million people who emigrated from Italy between 1881 and 1927. While her parents were born in the United States, her connection to Italy is deep, informing her identity and experiences as much as being a lifelong New Yorker has.

ANTONIO ROMANI
I pressed my bike’s pedal, and immediately focused on navigating safely through the motorized fleet. In my new city, bicycles are merely tolerated, like dual citizens by the U.S. government. Drivers often don’t “see” them, and when they do, they mistrust them.

MOJGAN GHAZIRAD
As we entered the city, the scorching sun crested the eastern horizon. The aroma of rosewater wafted around us in the quiet early morning streets. Niasar is famous for its rose gardens, and the best rosewater distillates are produced in this patch of land in Iran. The entrance to the cave was in a rose garden up in the hills that cradle the city.

Curated by: SARAH WHELAN Thank you to everyone who bought Issue 16, subscribed to receive a copy, or attended a launch event! To celebrate, this month we have three more contributors are here to give us peak at their bookshelves. Whether you’re in the mood for a classic novel, a contemporary essay collection, or an

ADRIANNE KALFOPOULOU
I am on the island of Patmos for Easter. Though I haven’t come for the holiday specifically. It so happens I’m off from work because it’s Easter, arguably the most important event in the Greek holiday calendar; Christ’s birth the less celebrated event as compared to his death…

ANA MARÍA FUSTER LAVÍN
When the girl stood, she heard the mirror murmur, Stay with me, always. “I hunger.” A blue bridge she hoped to cross one morning, to go on a walk, holding her mother’s hand. To play with the girl in the mirror in the park, to get on the swing set, legs dancing toward clouds.

TERE DÁVILA
Something had caught their attention as they searched for pebbles and twigs. They crouched amid the soggy storm debris, then sprang up, kittenlike, uncombed curls against the gray sky, chattering and unaware of my presence.

RALPH SNEEDEN
We thought it was just going to be a tour of the defunct coal mine’s aboveground facility, which was already troubling enough. The winding wheels and framework for the conveyor system at the “pit head” were like the superstructure of an abandoned carnival.

SEAN GILL
You can sympathize with this feeling, this desire to hobble the murderers and their powerful symbols. It is unlikely that, in this moment, they were thinking of The Great Dictator.

LIZ ARNOLD
In less than five minutes I’d ordered the autopsy report and the photos—five dollars each for six police photographs. I slid a forefinger into that one-inch window and cautiously lifted the envelope away from the contents. On the first letter-size page was the edge of an image: green grass.