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Hot shit splattered on Mayor Correa’s shoulder, as Professor Márquez escorted him to a waiting black Volkswagen. It incensed the mayor enough to threaten the professor with the loss of his post should he not resolve the town’s pigeon overpopulation.

I’m Here Now but Hiding my Face

“It’s getting darker earlier,” says Nora, dragging on a dying cigarette. It’s five in the afternoon. Stillness and smoke fill the room I’ve slept in for 15 years. Nora and I are both sitting on the edge of my former bed.

Modern Bodies

It happens that you’ve decided to walk around like a woman. You think this will be fun, but what exactly do you mean? It’s crazy, but already you feel like a fraud.

Translating Oneself

I know already what your response to this letter will be: that my time is too valuable to be spent speculating about the exact type of irony that is evident in my undertaking this latest translation project.

The Golem

We wanted to spend the night. We were displaced. The city was blinking and winking. In restaurants, in the street, illuminated bodies carried unseen heads. The house suited our needs: it was free, the rooms were large—a red kitchen, down the hall rooms, rooms we went exploring until.

from Kid Coole

Boxing was a game of inches. That’s what Billy Farts said. He heard it from Whitey Bimstein, the legendary trainer. A fighter only had to move an inch to slip a punch. Step one inch to the right, and you are not where the other guy expects you to be.

Tragic Strip

T. Motley is a core contributor to Cartozia Tales, a fantasy mapjam comic for all ages.


The Brooklyn Rail

MAR 2016

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