By Selma Carvalho
The Friday they leave for a weekend in Belgium, Anju discovers Freddo is cheating on her. She doesn’t share her knowledge with him. What she should have said was, ‘Freddo, I’m tired of this shit. This time, I’m leaving.’
Her heart feels like it is going to stop breathing all on its own, distinct from the rest of her. The pain is so intense, she realises it is possible for the rest of her body to survive the carnage, while her heart, expelled from her being like a refugee, would simply die.
By Gail Pinto
Squatting beneath the tea-shop’s overhang, the Boatman watched the two men before him talk.
“Not in this weather,” said the ferry-conductor, the taller of the two. “With the rains, it will swell like a leech, and will make everything more dangerous.”
The shorter man, who owned the tea-shop, shrugged. “Do what you have to, I will be closing. On the radio, they are talking about cyclonic winds. Shee, baba.”
By Selma Carvalho
The Friday they leave for a weekend in Belgium, Anju discovers Freddo is cheating on her. She doesn’t share her knowledge with him. What she should have said was, ‘Freddo, I’m tired of this shit. This time, I’m leaving.’
Her heart feels like it is going to stop breathing all on its own, distinct from the rest of her. The pain is so intense, she realises it is possible for the rest of her body to survive the carnage, while her heart, expelled from her being like a refugee, would simply die.
By Riddhima Basiya
Issue no 25
I decided to travel solo this time, yearning to get acquainted with the character of a place and its people rather than instant gratification in a grandiose resort stuffed with superficial objects, but lacking in soul. The web advertisement for mansão de Babolim or Babolim Mansion could not have appeared at a better time. Showing impressive pictures of the mansion’s facades surrounded by lush trees and trimmed hedges, the advert described the place as a ‘heritage homestay with complimentary breakfast and free wi-fi’.
By Epitacio Pais
Translated by Paul Melo e Castro
Issue no 24
Conceição had been happy once, but nothing in this world could bring that feeling back. What did return were her memories, of João’s savage kisses, his strange way of loving, animal-like but gentle, harsh but tender, veering between the platonism of words and the basest passion, his magic touch that brought either pain or maddening ecstasy, she was never quite sure which. His velvety words and jealous Cyclopean rages. His blazing eyes and tears of feeble subservience.
By Antara Mukherjee
Issue no 24
A soft, square loaf succumbing to the steely edge of a knife plumped back when Jonny got a call saying that his mother was dying. He kept the phone down and stood staring at the swirl of lemon and orange rinds in the crystal jar that had caught the sun in that upscale London deli. All around him tables were abuzz, with spoons and knives clinking on ceramic plates as waitresses swivelled around pouring coffee with their lipstick smiles. It was Wednesday, a week away from Christmas. He threw his black monogrammed apron and ran his staff through the orders and promotions for the week…
By Edith Melo Furtado
Issue no 24
Mali had a dual personality. No, not the kind that psychology and psychiatry classify as dual, split or whatever. She was perfectly healthy but with an underlying sadness and an overt cheerfulness that could laugh irrepressibly and loved humour. A slender little girl, her sharp features stood out in her thin face. The whiteness of her skin, almost unhealthy, despite the scorching sun over us, made me wonder if she was a descendente (descending from the Portuguese) or a mestiça of mixed parentage.
By Damodar Mauzo
Issue no 24
While reading a book, I came across a thought. Quite a profound one. That nudging thing would not let me sleep. No matter how hard I tried, it didn’t give up, so I simply decided to sleep with it. When I woke up in the morning, I found that the thought had sprouted, so I rushed with it to my front yard, in order to plant it. However, I knew that the soil in my own yard was not quite productive while my neighbor’s land was very fertile. Besides, he liked gardening. So, I crossed over the fence and carefully planted the tiny sprout there.
By Mrinalini Harchandrai
Issue no 24
On his way to the Apostolic Palace for the ecumenical council meeting, Cardinal Roberto Cacciavillan stopped at the chapel to stand in front of Jesus. A sumptuous summer of colour burst forth in holy ecstasy from the surrounding walls and ceiling, but it was the tableau in front of him that never failed to emboss his soul. Unlike most of the other imagery in the Sistine Chapel, in this particular fresco at the altar, the Saviour looked powerful.
By Pantaleao Fernandes
Issue no 24
“Last Sunday’s collection was rupees…,” announced the parish priest from the lectern, just before the final blessing of the Sunday Mass. The small group of teenagers listened eagerly, awaiting the announcement of the crib competition…the category, and, of course, the prize. “This year we are deviating from the traditional crib contest in your homes. We have decided to have a live crib competition which will be held on our stage here.
By Sahib Nazari
Issue no 20
An APWT publication
‘We’re vampires,’ said the young barman when I asked if he had a day job, ‘we work after dark and sleep before sunrise. My wife work day time.’ He brushed his black whiskers as thin as his eyelashes. ‘I work night time.’ His slim eyes enveloped dreams and hope, said he had three children, and his parents share their tiny shack with them.
By Dean Kerrison
Issue no 20
An APWT publication
If I could find the proper words to make sense of history and be on the right side, I’d assemble them in a neat package, use them as bricks to build a structure in which to sit and live, because that’s what we do, build armies, empires and arguments, in essays and on Facebook and Twitter threads, crushing the enemy with swords and guns and ad hominem rhetoric, then instead of following Ghenghis Khan’s horse to chew Eurasia…
By Isabelle Li
Issue no 20
An APWT publication
When I hear the sound of approaching traffic, I often think of my father. He's deaf in one ear and has lost most of his hearing in the other. I’m worried how he might cross the road, relying solely on his macula-degenerated eyes, hands clutched behind his back, holding a shabby grocery bag, on his way to the market.
By Tim Tomlinson
Issue no 20
An APWT publication
They’d met at Warp and Weft: Re-weaving Indigenous Cultures into the Fabric of the Philippines, a conference hosted by his department. She was from the Cordillera. She had Bontoc blood. When she presented, she wore a traditional costume, the skirt ablaze with orange, red, and black stripes. The poetry was fierce, eloquent, blunt. No white colonialist dick will ever get inside this brown pussy, she read, and a tremor shook the room.
By Felicio Cardoso
Translated by Augusto Pinto
Issue no 18
It was raining in torrents. It wasn’t all that late in the night but outside, it was pitch dark. At most it must have been about 8 o’clock and the frogs and the crickets had already begun singing their songs. As usual, Caetano, Lawrence, Squinty Jose, and Ram were sitting with a bottle of feni at Pedro’s place chatting away.
By Maria da Rocha
Translated by Paul Melo de Crasto
Issue no 17
Powdery moonlight drifted down on both sides of the Sandalcalo. On its back of ramshackle crenels and collapsed turrets the Old Fort received its due of the moon’s warm caress. Yet it could muster no smile. It could but sigh for the revels of past times, for blackly beaded men toying in the dark with the gossamer-thin clothes of gorgeous banianas… Ena!
By Steve R. E. Pereira
Issue no. 17
‘You have to find a cock, a big, black cock. It has to be black. A very big, black cock. Unaelewa?’ Mai looked fierce as she wagged her finger vigorously in Annie’s face.
‘Naelewa,’ Annie said, trying, not successfully, to hide a smirk as she wrapped her kitenge around her house-dress.
