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Magazin za književnost i umjetnost // Journal for literature and arts

Category

Fiction

The Smell of Mothballs

          “He is a little bit late, isn’t he?” asked Emina, opening the door.  With her hair wrapped up in a wet towel she headed back through the narrow hallway. Slightly confused, I stood there for a few seconds trying to figure out who she was talking about but it was scorching outside and all I wanted was to feel the cold tiles under my bare feet. Continue reading “The Smell of Mothballs”

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A Red Crayon

They said it would rain for seven days in Sarajevo, but it still hadn’t; and it was day three since they’d announced it. I couldn’t tear myself away from the fresh air on the balcony and the noise from the next-door apartment, where a turbulent couple lived. I’d got used to the noise because if it weren’t for it, I would hear the noise in my apartment. Continue reading “A Red Crayon”

Foundation

I never played with a Sindy. She was my older cousin’s best friend though. I knew a Barbie once. But we never got along well. I’d see her occasionally. She never saw me though. I neither liked her nor disliked her. With time, she made me feel uneasy. I couldn’t comprehend her hair, her face, her body, the way she’d feel under my fingers, her existence. Continue reading “Foundation”

WEIRDICTION

“I wonder,” you said. “That doesn’t surprise me,” I answered. “How do you do this?” You were in the phase where you constantly had to lend an ear to your uncontrollable urge for searching. And now you were missing. Continue reading “WEIRDICTION”

La Guaira 1989

The Wonder Twins, my dad and Uncle Calixto, pulled one of their quietos. Going behind the backs of the rest of the clan, they bought a watch store called Lil’ Venice in the middle of Caribe boulevard. There were two stages to the heist. Number one, insuring the store for big bucks with the insurance company where my uncle was a broker; and number two, self-robbery. Continue reading “La Guaira 1989”

Unnamed German

She was sent off into the world with one piece of advice from her esteemed sire. He told her: “Don’t let them win you on penalties. If it comes down to it, bow out and walk away.” Her father considered himself to be the Confucius of his age and with such an excess of nose and ear hair, she often thought of him as a relic from some Lancashire-based monastic order. Continue reading “Unnamed German”

The Ice Cream Orchard

When I was growing up in the hilly mahalas of Sarajevo, ice cream was a rare commodity. The tiny shop down the street offered only basic foodstuffs because the greasy owner thought something like ice cream wouldn’t sell. Our mothers would make us cakes from scratch when there was sugar to be bought. But I wanted no homemade cake. I wanted ice cream. Continue reading “The Ice Cream Orchard”

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