Poetry by Katherine Fallon, flash fiction by Jason Heroux and Dorthe Nors, a novel by Eshkol Nevo, and an illustrated story by Olga Tokarczuk

~
Stone father, I did touch you. First your folded hands, 
which straightened the frothy lace of my childhood 

party dresses . . .  

—From Demoted Planet, a chapbook of poems by Katherine Fallon (Headmistress Press, 2021). This segment is from "Viewing," p. 2. My other favorites from the collection were "Early Adopter" (p. 4, first published in The Shore) and "Otherwise" (p. 21). "Elegy for My Father" (p. 5) first appeared in the Apple Valley Review.

The tour guide showed our group the local sights. He pointed to himself. "I am the tour guide." He pointed overhead. "This is the sky." 
—From "The Tour Guide," published along with "The Snow Removal Truck," two pieces of flash fiction by Jason Heroux, Gone Lawn, Issue 40 (Spring 2021). 

There's a stubble field in front of the rented house. Over by the side of the small wood is the country fairground, trampled and singed. A fox might make its rounds there, but otherwise it's deserted. Her bare feet are stuffed into the clogs she found in the closet.  

—From Wild Swims, a collection of short stories by Dorthe Nors, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2021). Originally published in Danish as Kort Over Canada (Copenhagen, Denmark: Gyldendal, 2018). First published in English by Pushkin Press (2020). This segment is from "The Fairground," pp. 47-53.

What I'm trying to tell you is that underneath the surprise, there was something else that Ayelet and I didn't dare talk about, that in the back of our minds we knew—okay, I knew—that it could happen. The signs were there the whole time but we chose to ignore them. What could be more convenient than next-door neighbors who watch your kids for you? Think about it. 

—From Three Floors Up, a novel by Eshkol Nevo, translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston (Other Press, 2017). Originally published in Hebrew as Shalosh Komot (Tel Aviv, Israel: Kinneret Zmora-Bitan, 2015).

If someone could look down on us from above, they'd see that the world is full of people running about in a hurry, sweating and very tired, and their lost souls . . .  

—From The Lost Soul, an illustrated story by Olga Tokarczuk, translated from the Polish by Antonia Lloyd-Jones and illustrated by Joanna Concejo (Seven Stories Press, 2021). Originally published in Polish as Zgubiona dusza (Wrocław, Poland: Wydawnictwo Format, 2017). 

Novels by Roy Jacobsen and Hye-young Pyun, stories by Dorthe Nors, and a poem by Marjorie Lotfi Gill

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In the wake of the two disasters there followed yet another, this time connected with a widow's pension; you see, my father managed to get hitched again before he fell to his death, and to have another child, a girl, whose name we did not even know, so that now there was another widow somewhere out there, receiving the money that Mother and I should have had, and squandering it on the pools and taxis and perms.
--From Child Wonder, a novel by Roy Jacobsen, translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett with Don Shaw (Maclehose Press/Quercus: London, Great Britain, 2011).  Originally published in Norwegian as Vidunderbarn (Prodigy) (Cappelen Damm: Oslo, Norway, 2009).

Ask me for the measure of rose water
in baklava, how to butter each layer of filo
away from the corner so it holds itself apart
under heat, or the exact crush of pistachio,
fine as rubble, not yet dust.
--From "The Wrong Person to Ask," a poem by Marjorie Lotfi Gill, Rattle (May 15, 2018).

After a while, the nurse came back.  She unplugged a number of cords that connected Oghi to the machines, then double-checked the bed and slowly wheeled him out into the hallway.  
        Oghi lay there and watched as the hospital ceiling and fluorescent lights rushed past.  He had a feeling he would be in that bed for a while.  Not just a few hours but for days to come.  All this talk about the importance of willpower must have meant that, unless he wanted it badly enough, he would have a tough time getting better.  It meant there was absolutely no chance his body would mend on its own, that even repeated treatment would not guarantee recovery.  The doctor's and nurse's reactions told Oghi that he'd taken a long time to wake up.  He'd probably received all sorts of medical care already.  The cables, the respirator, the tubes snaking in and out of him told him that his had not been an easy fight.
--From The Hole, a novel by Hye-young Pyun, translated from the Korean by Sora Kim-Russell (Arcade Publishing, 2017).  Originally published in Korean as Hol (Moonji Publishing: Seoul, South Korea, 2016).

The Bangs work a lot and never shop for groceries themselves.  Everything in the refrigerator is ordered online.  Every Sunday evening they place their order.  Every Monday a box is left outside the door with all their food.  One of these Mondays the box contains a tomato weighing more than four pounds, which the Bangs do not believe they ordered.  The first thing is that they cannot possibly eat a tomato that big.  The other thing is that they are paying by the ounce.  It's too expensive, says Mrs. Bang, so Mr. Bang calls the online grocery store to complain.  At seven that evening, while I am busy in the guest bathroom, the doorbell rings.  
--From "The Big Tomato," a short story by Dorthe Nors, from her collection Karate Chop, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (Graywolf Press, 2014), pp. 23-28.

For smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee with the hairstylist I get my hair done for half price.  Once in a while, a fat lady who lives in our building walks by on the street outside.  She has permission to keep a dog in her apartment, because her dog can't bark.  
--From "Hair Salon," a short story by Dorthe Nors, from her collection Karate Chop, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (Graywolf Press, 2014), pp. 51-54.  "Hair Salon" was first published in Gulf Coast, Issue 24.1 (Winter/Spring 2012).

Fiction by Dorthe Nors, Etgar Keret, and Lydia Davis

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Sonja is sitting in a car, and she's brought her dictionary along.  It's heavy, and sits in the bag on the backseat.  She's halfway through her translation of Gösta Svensson's latest crime novel, and the quality was already dipping with the previous one.  Now's the time I can afford it, she thought, and so she looked for driving schools online and signed up with Folke in Frederiksburg.  The theory classroom was small and blue and reeked of stale smoke and locker rooms, but the theory itself went well.  Besides Folke, there was only one other person Sonja's age in the class, and he was there because of drunk driving, so he kept to himself.  Sonja usually sat there and stuck out among all the kids, and for the first aid unit the instructor used her as a model.  He pointed to the spot on her throat where they were supposed to imagine her breathing had gotten blocked.  He did the Heimlich on her, his fingers up in her face, inside her collar, up and down her arms.  At one point he put her into a stranglehold, but that wasn't the worst of it.  The worst was when they had to do the exercises themselves.  It was humiliating to be placed in the recovery position by a boy of eighteen.  
--From Mirror, Shoulder, Signal, a novel by Dorthe Nors, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2018).  Originally published as Spejl, skulder, blink (Gyldendal: Copenhagen, Denmark, 2016).  First published in English by Pushkin Press, London.

"What did you buy it for?"
"Because I need it," she said.  "A lot of things around here need gluing."
"Nothing around here needs gluing," I said. "I wish I understood why you buy all this stuff."
"For the same reason I married you," she murmured. "To help pass the time."
I didn't want to fight, so I kept quiet, and so did she.
--From "Crazy Glue," a very short story by Etgar Keret, LA Weekly (September 26, 2001).  It was published in his collection The Girl on the Fridge (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), pp. 5-7.  "Crazy Glue" was translated from the Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger.

In the summer of '76, they remodeled our house and added another bathroom.  That was my mother's private bathroom, with green tiles, white curtains, and a kind of small drawing board she could put on her knees to do crossword puzzles on.  The door of this new bathroom had no lock because it was my mother's and no one else was allowed to go in anyway.  We were very happy that summer. 
--From "The Summer of '76," a very short story by Etgar Keret, from his collection The Girl on the Fridge (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), pp. 169-171.  "The Summer of '76" was translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston.

Nearly every morning, a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly.  She cries out, “Emergency, emergency,” and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed.  We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her. 

--From "Fear," one of five very short stories by Lydia Davis, Conjunctions, Issue 24 (Spring 1995).

Minna spends her days in the Royal Library. 
Minna has to work without noise.
Minna's working on a paper sonata.
The paper sonata consists of tonal rows.
Minna writes soundless music.
Minna is a tad avant-garde.
...
It's morning.
Lars has left again.
Lars is always in a hurry to get out of bed.
The bed is a snug nest.
Minna's lying in it, but
Lars is on his bike and gone.
Lars bikes as hard as he can in the direction of City Hall Square.
Lars makes the pigeons rise.
Lars has deadlines.
--From Minna Needs Rehearsal Space, a novella by Dorthe Nors, from her book So Much for That Winter, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2016).  Part of Minna Needs Rehearsal Space (Minna mangler et øvelokale) was published in English and Danish by Asymptote.