Eduardo Galeano (1940) is a Uruguayan journalist and writer. His most famous work, The Open Veins of America (1971), has been translated into over twenty languages. The following very short story is from his work entitled El libro de los abrazos (The Book of Embraces) (1989), a book of around 200 stories and prose ideas, nearly all of them less than one page.
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German author Herta Mueller has been awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize for Literature

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HE HAD BEGUN TO READ THE NOVEL a few days before. He had put it aside because of some urgent business
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No! it's not like I am craving to be martyred nor do I have an itch to experience the injustice center of Evin prison. No! how can I say it? for example it was the day after Sohrab was martyred when my mom asked us to go to his mom's house to say our condolences
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"He began to talk to me about one of the books I had written, `Song of Solomon,' and how it had meant a lot to him,"
Toni Morrison
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The book takes you by hand to the power, symbolism and beauty of the blade, technically described in all its parts, to the mysterious wind of the great Hindu gods blowing on the hilts, to the sacred word of Islam, to the floral influence of China and, above all, to the magnificent work and skill of the Indonesian and Malay smiths who created this unique enspirited weapon, the Kris, the invincible dagger of the Archipelago.
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The cry of the Costa Rican peasant has always captivated us: Güi pi pía

It’s an expression that involves the joy of a healthy soul when a peasant arrives at a party in the countryside.
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Winner of Iran's 2007 Short Story Competition

The Ants Which Had My Father Eaten

by Ghazvin/ Ali Ghane

Translated by H. Bassiri

It took half an hour till they brought him, to take him down the stairway two cops were holding his shoulders, I was sitting there in my car staring at the whole situation, yet couldn't manage to find out either if he gave them our house number or taken from his file by the officials of the jail.
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In the Mist
A play in three episodes
By: Ezzat Goushegir
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MY ROOM IS EMPTY…THE MAIL BOX IS EMPTY…
NOBODY KNOCKS ON THE DOOR…THE PHONE




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For any Jack Kerouac enthusiast or On the Road fan, the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of Jack Kerouac's profoundly influential novel is a moment of literary history to celebrate. True to style, the San Francisco celebrations were held in the famed district that embodied the spirit of Kerouac's work -- a panel discussion at the All Saints Church in Haight-Ashbury put on by one of San Francisco's favorite independent bookstores the Booksmith was an event not to have missed. The panel gave the audience a better sense of who Kerouac was and a better understanding of the place of On the Road in the pantheon of American literature. And for many it was a treat to hear personal stories about Kerouac's personal attributes, such as how great his oratory skills were -- as friend Michael McClure said "he fully realized the language" when he read out loud.
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The Planter in a City Window

by Morteza Miraftabi

The long and continuous factory whistle echoed throughout the city. A thin muscular man, head up and walking tall, appeared from the end of the street. He passed us by on the street, carrying two green and crimson poinsettias. His hair was neatly combed and he wore a work shirt.
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" In this fictional novel Sayers weaves the many colored threads of Persian society in to a beautiful novel, a caltural carpet to qali "----------
Hossein Ibrahimi

Writer Kurt Vonnegut dies at 84
Vonnegut was a cult figure with students in the 1960s and 1970s
Vonnegut
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LOVE HAS NO LIMITS
by Pirooz Ebrahimi

Finally I had finished high school so I had started to look over the “student guide” to decide what course to choose. What I really, really saw in my mind was the image of a man in a military uniform.
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And Suddenly the Woman Said: “Leopard!”

by Ezzat Goushegir

Standing at the window facing the forest, the woman was singing the lyrics to the Cupid and Psyche opera. Exactly at the point when Psyche, curious and care-ridden, holds the candle up to Cupid’s face to examine her complexion in the dark, as a drop of molten wax drips on Cupid’s body, suddenly a spark, much like lightning emitted from a pair of eyes, penetrated her eyelids; stopping her tongue on the word drop.

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