Mom didn’t think that your Pobeda watch had any significance except that it didn’t stop when your heart ceased its ticking. Asked what was left, she handed me your cardiogram. She flattened you. You were reduced to a straight line.
Is it proof of the finality of the spirit?
She threw out your glasses and burned your Magadan pictures, except one where you had a full head of red hair.
“Near the Arctic, your father walked hatless. To impress former Gulag convicts? Or reindeer? That’s why he went bald.”
Did it feel ugly to be called “shitface” by her because by immigrating, you, a former mining engineer, became only a lowly janitor? Now she slid into afterlife practicality.
“I put his sneakers into a coffin beside his usual shoes, so he is comfortable where he is!”
Papa, did you know that I was expecting?
Mom didn’t let me tell you, guarding the gates of access to you, promising that she’d tell you herself.
It’s been five months. The memory of you hadn’t left me for a second. I protected what was inside me from cruelty, severing contact with her. But I invited her now.
Did you know that your life wasn’t in vain?
Your first grandson was just placed, clean and dry, into a cot. It is the spitting image of you as a baby.
Mom gasped looking at his red hair.
As though you briefly inhabited him when saying “hi.”
Of course, Papa, you knew.
Margarita Meklina is a bilingual fiction writer and essayist born in St. Petersburg, Russia. She came to the United States in the early 1990s and spent twenty years in San Francisco; now she divides her time between Dublin, Ireland, and the San Francisco Bay Area. She received the 2003 Andrei Bely Prize (Russia’s first independent literary prize, which enjoys a special reputation for honoring dissident and nonconformist writing) for her short story collection Battle at St. Petersburg and the 2009 Russian Prize, awarded by the Yeltsin Center Foundation, for her manuscript My Criminal Connection to Art. In 2013, she was a finalist for the Nonconformism prize for her novella Cervix, and in 2014 she was short-listed for NOS, a prize given by the fund of Mikhail Prokhorov for “new social trends” in literature. Author of 6 books in her native Russian, she also completed a YA novel The Little Gaucho Who Loved Don Quixote in English (Black Wolf Edition & Publishing LTD, 2016) and a collection of short stories A Sauce Stealer (Spuyten Duyvil, 2017). Translated into French and Swedish, two of her novellas are available as chapbooks: Poussière d’étoiles (Etoiles, 2016) and Linea Nigra (Ars Interpres, 2017). In 2018, she was awarded the Mark Aldanov Literary Prize for her novella Ulay in Lithuania. The prize is given by New York’s Novy Zhurnal to Russian writers living outside of Russia.
In this collection of 34 short stories, author Alexis Levitin, travel set in hand, takes the reader on a journey across several continents – and even into space – exploring the joys of chess and its effect on the lives of those who play.
A collection of essays and reviews by Art Beck. “These pieces are selected from a steady series of essays and reviews I found myself publishing in the late aughts of the still early century.”
A collection of early poems by Zabolotsky, translated into English by Dmitri Manin. “Dmitri Manin’s translations retain the freshness of Zabolotsky’s vision.” – Boris Dralyuk
A book of wartime poems by Alexandr Kabanov, one of Ukraine’s major poets, fighting for the independence of his country by means at his disposal – words and rhymes.
In this collection, Andrey Kneller has woven together his own poems with his translations of one of the most recognized and celebrated contemporary Russian poets, Vera Pavlova.