The author discusses the refugee crisis, US foreign policy, and the problem of ‘narrative scarcity’ for marginalized and minority populations.

The author of Loudermilk reflects on “the weirdest form of history writing” she's ever done.

Bystander, listener. One of the lucky. / I do not seem to grow stronger.

“After you die,” Sadiq says, “the doctors want to study your body. To see how you lived so long.”

The sun was ruthless, impressing a sense of danger with each step I took away from the road. The heat was primordial, baking through my skin, drying my muscle and bones, desiccating everything but my darkest, wettest core.

Those third and fourth nights, I cried and wailed. On the morning of the fifth day, my eyes were so swollen my father took one look at me and said, “Shiori, your face—it looks like the goldfish put a curse on you.”

On a trip to Berlin, the spin of the moon, and the generosity of the artist

Later, when the rest of the girls said they were dipping out to another bar, Fiona stayed behind. “Use a condom!” Tish had whispered in her ear before giving her a slap on the butt, like a coach sending a player out on the field.

In “After the Winter,” the novelist imagines a new relationship with ghosts, literary and otherwise.

Every dream is crowded with faces and bodies— / there are more dreamed people than there are us.