ANNELL LÓPEZ
Last year, when she joined the dojo on Niagara Street, an older kid referred to her as Blackie Chan. Our mother refused to explain to her what it meant and instead allowed Junie to believe Blackie Chan was not only real, but so strong he could karate-chop cinder blocks in half.

Review by MATT W. MILLER
Sneeden, whether talking waves or poetry, is never pedantic, never flexing knowledge about water or literature. He’s just excited to make connections between ideas, fully and puckishly aware of his geeky literariness, acknowledging that “Nothing, I am told, is more boring than when I do start talking about the waves.”

TONY HAO
They erased the city’s impoverished past but in no way offered an extravagant present available to everyone. I decided that even if I couldn’t find Shenyang’s past, at least I’d like to see a reverse donkey.

ANNIE TRINH
He removed the soil from the newborn babies, took them into the kitchen, and placed them in the sink. Monoecious plants, one boy and one girl. Her father cleared all the dirt from their bodies. With a fresh towel, he cleaned their tiny hands, wiggling feet, faces.

TERESA ELGUÉZABAL 
A moaning by the labor camp dump caught my attention. Inside a junked car with no doors, our neighbor, Diana, was hugging and kissing a big boy not quite a man. I never knew his name, so I call him Novio—boyfriend. In the tangle of arms and hands, her ruffled dress slid off.

ANDERS CARLSON-WEE in conversation with JOY BAGLIO
I live the way I live in order to have time to create art. The culture doesn’t want me to do that; it wants me convinced that I need things, and in order to have these things I need to trade away my time. A long time ago I said no to all that.

NEWS AND EVENTS
Migration is an increasingly common feature of modern life. Whether for personal or for political or environmental reasons, when people cross the many thresholds of our world—traversing landscapes, languages, traditions, and border lines—they do so often at great personal risk.

EMINE SEVGI ÖZDAMAR
The man started talking in Turkish, ‘Mari doesn’t live in Paris anymore.’ ‘Oh, oh!’ ‘She met someone two months ago and left for Canada with him. I live here now.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘she was my best friend in Istanbul. Oh, dear, have I come too late, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh?’ Then I went silent.

LOUIS-PHILIPPE DALEMBERT 
Every time I visit Cayenne, as soon as night falls, my feet always take me, almost against my will, back to la Crique. This notorious neighborhood of the Guianese capital was once known as the “Chinese Quarter,” but there’s nothing Asian about it anymore, or very little.

JEFFREY HARRISON
I often thought of Teeny and Aggie during this project. Though I never attended a séance to make contact with them, I did have a dream in which I found a letter Teeny had written to Marcel after his death, but I couldn’t remember what it said when I woke up.