Table of Contents | 30 October 2017
Welcome to a special issue celebrating SFF from the Arab League community and diaspora, presented courtesy of donations to our 2017 fund drive. Read more about the issue.
The original Arabic text of “الدارويني | The Darwinist” by Diaa Jubaili.
By: Diaa Jubaili
Podcast read by: Anaea Lay
Translated by: Alexander Hong
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Diaa Jubaili's “The Darwinist | الدارويني”
The original Arabic text of “جو- دو | Judo” by Rasha Abbas.
By: Rasha Abbas
Podcast read by: Anaea Lay
Translated by: Robin Moger
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Rasha Abbas's “Judo | جو- دو”
These novels narrate the sense of an ending while resisting closure; they are not warnings about the future, but rather a narration of the present, offering a critique but stopping short of envisioning an alternative.
By: Rabha Ashry
By: Ziad Gadou
By: Sara Saab
By: Layla Al-Bedawi
Podcast read by: Rabha Ashry
Podcast read by: Sara Saab
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Ciro Faienza presents poetry from the October special issue of Strange Horizons.
By: Diaa Jubaili
Translated by: Alexander Hong
The black birthmark on his right cheek also changed, though it always looked like something that had fallen from a basket of produce. At first, it looked like a carrot, then later a cucumber. Its third form looked like a corn kernel. Finally, at the age of eighteen it settled into the shape of a banana, like one that had been left in the freezer until it blackened.
By: Rasha Abbas
Translated by: Robin Moger
It’s true that when anyone asks me what I’m doing here I get flustered, but given time I can make it all seem most appealing: I scatter flour on the work surface; I shape the dough before sliding it into the oven.
On the village approach road, the hyena who stalked my grandfather has been waiting a long time
You abhor the sunlight and you’ve taught us to avoid it. We sleep as soundless, motionless dolls, hands upon sheets, closed eyelids pointed heavenward, a hundred thousand miles away from you.
In the business of things that don’t earn you much I am a dandelion and you are a symphony
i was born at twilight always looking for the hour when the moon and the sun share the sky
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