meera huang
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Nana para la Montaña
Cómo se enluta la montaña, Agazapada en el cándido recontar de mi nona, Cómo la pinta de cruda al tornarse cansada la luna, Cómo vacían tus calles, y callan las cunas, y cierran las puertas… al compás de la marcha. Calle que calla, Tumba que tumba, Bota que bota, al son de…
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Once Upon a Time, There Was a Mountain – Part 2: The Persimmons
“In 1966, some children came, a line of red dots ascending the trail. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years old. They called themselves Red Guards. They came up the mountain with crowbars and red armbands, and they smashed the altar and broke the bell and tore the books and cut the persimmon trees.”
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i beg to be built again
“i wonder what it’s like to have a body that doesn’t feel like an afterthought hacked together with whatever spare parts god could find as he ran out of time to get me down to earth.”
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Freud’s Eternal Apartment
A Nass writer wonders how the past and present can coexist in space, applying Freud’s own concept of the Eternal City to Berggasse 19.
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Nass Recommends
We think you should try out interviewing people who love the movie Coherence in Pittsburgh.
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Ache
“Tom walks to the window. He stares out of it for a moment—at the trees, the light, the coffee shop across the street, what Mona must see when she sits and writes. He wonders briefly if she thinks of what she’s looking at, or if her mind is always elsewhere, crafting a story.”
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Letter From The Editor
Dear friends, Once, I took a wheel throwing class. I was there for two hours and in all that time I didn’t make anything. I tried my best to mold the clay on the wheel into something that looked nice or, at the very least, would hold up in the kiln, but I walked…
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YéYe’s Razor Clams
Fujianese people are a people of the ocean. After six decades of political turmoil and unprecedented developments, has that changed?
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Once Upon a Time, There Was a Mountain – Pt 1: The Butterfly
‘“Tell me a story,” the little monk piped up. “Ma always told me a story before bed.” The old monk gave him the simplest one he knew, which was also the only one he knew.’
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A Death in Palermo
“We became a little acquainted over spleen sandwiches and arancini bought from street vendors. We ate on a city bench in the Port of Palermo watching the sun sink below the Mediterranean and speedboats return to the shore. Wasn’t this the life?”
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The Fat Weight of Glory
A Nass writer laments this time of year, a time of trying to be better—or, at the very least, different.

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