On a sunny September day in the early 1990s, a German couple taking a shortcut through the rock spires on the Austrian-Italian border spotted the head and back of a man jutting from a patch of half-melted ice. The couple, thinking they’d stumbled across the corpse of a mountaineer, told the owner of the inn they were staying at. He, in turn, contacted the authorities, who sent a forensic investigator.
Category: world
Where Have All the People Gone? Lessons from Russia’s Longest War – Roman Cherevko
Introduction February 2014. Just as Russia was invading and annexing Crimea, the world was watching another case of Putin showing off, also in the Black Sea region: the Winter Olympics in Sochi. So far the most expensive Games on the record, they were meant to demonstrate Russia’s opulence and grandeur, and, of course, to highlight…
FLASH FICTION — Hibah Shabkhez
They do not know that the sun terrifies me.
TWO POEMS – Patrick Landy
the slow inflections of the wind
where rivers run like scars.
The moon hangs quietly
in the blackened air, halved and emptied, decaying since dusk
ONE POEM – Ava Patel
Here lie abandoned gyro crusts and Bundt cake crumbs.
Your fingers shine with olive oil grease
TWO POEMS – DS Maolalai
waking
at midnight
to piss
on the sand dunes
and the sky overhead
like a badly
scratched frying pan.
ONE POEM – Mary Chydiriotis
a chant begins
a loud doleful wail
smear my body in holy oil
adorn my head with your crown of thorns
ONE POEM – Ryan Clark
Below the wall the soil
leeches contaminants
from an artificial hill rising
out of the field like a wart.
ONE POEM – Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana
Hamamatsu: home of unagi pie –– a biscuit made of eel.
Iwakuni: bridge of Samurai –– beer with strangers under blossom.
ONE POEM – Sarah Degner Riveros
Mama hugs
her son. Can we get
horchata? No. Not today.
It’s Tuesday. Treinta tacos?
De asada? Para llevar.
The wait’s worth it.
PHOTOGRAPHY: Tales of a City VII – Seigar
Nobody knows, but I sometimes fantasise about what my partner’s childhood and teen years were like… I feel a great tenderness when I explore this town
ONE POEM – M.E. Muir
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past
Porridge 