“Why, oh, why Negro niece, do you sit there on the steps and cry?”
“Oh, woe is upon me and ruthlessly rides me because my father, your brother, my mother’s husband, has died. And our weeping is without end.”
“Ah, but your father was 80 and 10. It was about time for the old Negro’s story to end.”
“True, true, but he will be gone, his voice and presence will be missed, his words will be longed for, and his absence will leave a great emptiness.”
Continue reading “Immortality By Frederick K Foote”
Palms slick with sweat, Daji paced around her penthouse waiting for Goddess Nüwa’s arrival. She hiccupped and noticed writhing shadows behind her. She drew in her eight fox tails that had kept slipping from her human figure since she summoned Nüwa about an hour ago. Today marked the hundredth anniversary of the creation of Project Nüwa. She sipped from a glass of a thousand-year-old baijiu and cast her gaze over Beijing’s city lights, a dense kaleidoscope of blue and white LEDs juxtaposed against flashing neon billboards. The World Trade Center, a sleek curtain of glass walls reaching upward, stood as a commanding presence against the city’s skyline. Rain splattered against the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the urban sprawl below into an impressionist painting.
Continue reading “Project Nüwa by Wanying Zhang”
The world was so much simpler when Forever 21 was just a shitty clothing store. Nowadays, it’s nothing more than a bar off 42nd street, with a comically-large hourglass by the door filled with sand that never falls. I used to consider it nothing more than a cheap gimmick; another one of the city’s countless tourist traps. The truth is the bar was never what attracted people. All those stupid, far-from-subtle decorations aren’t what people come to stare at; we are.
Continue reading “A Little Time by Dylan Martin”
Carlos López Andrade sat at a rickety red table, bathing in the sea of glowing colors that was Times Square. The luminous ads and billboards high into the night sky – ads of phones that ensured happiness and apps that promised love – trickled down white and blue and red colors that danced across his dusty brown skin. It was the texture of a ripe avocado, his skin, and the lights highlighted every ridge and crevice, every memory held within the rind. Even the ones that he didn’t want illuminated. He sighed.
Continue reading “Photogenic Memory by Santiago Márquez Ramos”
Lucas stopped because of the compliment. It came from a PR girl, who was canvassing Oxford Street’s dense lunchtime crowd.
“Yes,” she muttered, catching his eye. “Definitely.”
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