2022 | Page 15 | The Common

Oh, My Nana

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

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!”

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—

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,

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

Night’s Froth

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

By KHALED AL-JEBOUR

Translated by AMIKA FENDI

Drowsiness weighed down my eyelids, so I stretched myself out on the mattress, swimming in the shadows made by the light of the single candle, lonely in the cold, rugged corner where it stood. My friends had been sleeping for an hour or so. I nodded along to their continuous, flutelike noises, a steady chaos.

Adoption Day

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

By MARK KYUNGSOO BIAS

Even if the sky collapses, there will be a hole in it.
Korean proverb

Our cat died before the towers fell.

Granada

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

By SUHAIL MATAR

Translated by AMIKA FENDI

“Let’s see if he’s working now. Yes, there he is.”

Ayed heard these sentences inside the shawarma shop where he worked on Calle Elvira. As he turned around, he recalled what had been uttered just previously, in the middle of the evening rush: “Assalamu alikun, Ayed!”

“Wa ‘alaykum as-Salam. How are you, Tony?” he answered in Arabic.

Antonio, Ayed’s friend, was an amicable young man who joked quite a lot in a manner that erred on the sexual side. He also was learning Fuṣḥa at one of the many language centers in Granada. Ayed liked him for his good nature and because he was Ayed’s umbilical cord to the happenings in Granada’s nightlife. Often Tony came accompanied by one girl, or several—for the most part, tourists—to say hi to Ayed at his workplace. He would then ask him, before throwing him a knowing wink, to join them after his shift. So, Ayed was puzzled when he saw that Antonio’s escort was a lanky, short guy. The guy’s face was smeared with an obvious awkwardness, camouflaged under a half smile. The young man greeted Ayed with a nod and said, “How’re you doing?”

Ropa Usada

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

By FERNANDO A. FLORES

Cassie knew she could make extra money selling vintage clothing on the internet, so in her first semester out of grad school, she drove to Chulas Fronteras Ropa Usada, down by the border in the maquiladora district. The bouncer at the door weighed Cassie on a scale as a shoplifting precaution, and handed her a ticket, along with a map of the enormous warehouse. She was originally from the border, and so she said “No, thanks” to the map, since she knew her way around well, and walked inside. There were hills of denim, with polyester, wool, and old jeans compacted, forming different roads. Fans as tall as Cassie were blowing everywhere like electric windmills, creating metallic cyclones that howled over the exclamations of people—mostly brown women like her, but many with young children—picking through the used clothing.