“I was sentenced to 99 lashes just for shaking hands with the opposite sex. … In another instance, when I sent my book to get permission to be published, they censored some of my words. As a woman, if I imagine or write about a romantic connection between two people, it’s censored.”
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by Joseph Szalinski
Wing nights attract like tree stars; barstools and booths become bonafide Bedrocks; boasts of the best are shared like rumors and maps to Skull Island. Roars of napkin-muffled belches and a show-and-tell of aromas greet festive company ready to make flavorful discoveries buried in meat instead of layers of crumbly history. Saucy archaeologists whose only tested faith is in their own ability to devour dozens of drums and flats. Dig-Dugs of dry rubs, rattling off crazy culinary nomenclature as difficult as Latin terminology.
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“So by the end of the day, you are just their mirrors, and what you do is just a reflection of who they are. And in fact, it is also a reflection of who you are.”
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The way in which Bryan Fogel portrays the complex constellations of power — from the press corps to the Saudi crown to the White House — reveals a clear story of how murky the issues of free speech and dissent can be. Though the events surrounding Khashoggi’s death are complicated, Fogel makes one thing definite: more must be done.
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Patrice Nganang describes his reading diet: “I read and stop, this book, that book, without distinction. Sometimes I read all the books of an author, and then move to other writers. I just finished reading the books by Cameroonian writer Max Lobe, and now it is Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor I am reading, after this I am reading Imbolo Mbue.”
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Ethiopian novelist and poet Bewketu Seyoum discusses his writing process, how he remains connected to Ethiopia, and how the pandemic has inspired his writing.
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“I was sentenced to 99 lashes just for shaking hands with the opposite sex. … In another instance, when I sent my book to get permission to be published, they censored some of my words. As a woman, if I imagine or write about a romantic connection between two people, it’s censored.”
Read more...
by Joseph Szalinski
Wing nights attract like tree stars; barstools and booths become bonafide Bedrocks; boasts of the best are shared like rumors and maps to Skull Island. Roars of napkin-muffled belches and a show-and-tell of aromas greet festive company ready to make flavorful discoveries buried in meat instead of layers of crumbly history. Saucy archaeologists whose only tested faith is in their own ability to devour dozens of drums and flats. Dig-Dugs of dry rubs, rattling off crazy culinary nomenclature as difficult as Latin terminology.
Read more...
by M. Christine Benner Dixon
“how many tiny bees/ have gotten that far/ and starved by the journey/ eaten shadow pollen/ never to return/ through her bright horn”
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by “I Medina” Jackson
How do I prepare you for apocalypse?/ How do I prepare you for the inconspicuous, loud, cyclical doom of White/ supremacy’s tentacles”
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By Bryan Conway
paunch extended
shirtless, seated
sippin’ on some beer
yoga-panted
vim and velcro
suddenly appears
“So by the end of the day, you are just their mirrors, and what you do is just a reflection of who they are. And in fact, it is also a reflection of who you are.”
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by Alexandra Gipson
“I grew up in Plum, a funny name for a funny town/ whose gaudy purple trash cans display the words/
“One Great Big Small Boro”/ with pride, as if this town has something to be proud of.”
