THERESE GLEASON <br> Half of Emily’s autumnal garden is sunlit at midmorning, but the little apple and pear trees in the orchard down the hill are shrouded in shadow, and I think of my face as…

ALICE MATTISON <br> It may be that you are writing well and, being in depression, can’t tell. It may be that people in depression cannot write well, just as people with sore throats cannot go to the…

AIDAN COOPER <br> Perhaps “Wedding Vows” epitomizes Making the Turn: a falling that becomes, or rather makes itself known as, falling together. It considers surrendering control and finding oneself…

The writing here is lyric and effortless, an evocative rendering of both place and character. It is in moments like this that Mysore so excels as a writer and makes this collection a necessary read…

LIZ DEWOLF <br> Liz DeWolf speaks to Emily Everett about her story “Ex Situ,” which appear in The Common’s spring issue. The story follows an American living in Istanbul, navigating the end of a…

LIZ DEWOLF <br> Liz DeWolf speaks to Emily Everett about her story “Ex Situ,” which appear in The Common’s spring issue. The story follows an American living in Istanbul, navigating the end of a…

Here at The Common, we understand that supporting a diverse exchange of ideas goes hand in hand with making the publishing world more accessible. As such, we’ve compiled a list of information and…

DANIEL KRAUS <br> When sales flagged, I'd simply have to write myself out of author jail. I'd have to write something so good that the publishers would be like, “yeah, we can't *not* give this guy a…

BRIONNE JANAE <br> and on returning what state did you find it in? / as in what state were you in? / were you where you left yourself? / and who was left? / was anyone left?

THERESE GLEASON <br> Half of Emily’s autumnal garden is sunlit at midmorning, but the little apple and pear trees in the orchard down the hill are shrouded in shadow, and I think of my face as…

BRITTA STROMEYER <br> Lambridis offers an incisive commentary on how communities construct collective realities as a defense mechanism against trauma and marginalization, suggesting that our…

ALICE MATTISON <br> It may be that you are writing well and, being in depression, can’t tell. It may be that people in depression cannot write well, just as people with sore throats cannot go to the…

The writing here is lyric and effortless, an evocative rendering of both place and character. It is in moments like this that Mysore so excels as a writer and makes this collection a necessary read…

DANIEL KRAUS <br> When sales flagged, I'd simply have to write myself out of author jail. I'd have to write something so good that the publishers would be like, “yeah, we can't *not* give this guy a…

Here at The Common, we understand that supporting a diverse exchange of ideas goes hand in hand with making the publishing world more accessible. As such, we’ve compiled a list of information and…

AMAYA RANATUNGE <br> Back home, the salt arrives before the sea. It rides on the evening wind, settles in your pores, and clings to the stone walls of the fort.

Even if I could find a ride, there would be the question of what I was doing at a motel an hour from Curtisville, with Gary’s Grand Am parked conspicuously outside.

BRITTA STROMEYER <br> Lambridis offers an incisive commentary on how communities construct collective realities as a defense mechanism against trauma and marginalization, suggesting that our…

Review by BRIANNA BEEHLER <br> When I was a child, I was afraid to go upstairs by myself at my grandparents’ house. At the top of the stairs was a print of Pablo Picasso’s 1937 painting, Weeping…

RODRIGO URQUIOLA FLORES <br> I thought about the possibility of taking refuge, of living within a glorious repeating cycle. Pain and punishment were inevitable – just look at what became of the ants…

Three times in my life I’ve called my sister for help. The first, I was at a motel almost an hour from Curtisville. Any closer, Gary said, and he might be recognized. Minutes earlier he’d left with his fake ID.

AMAYA RANATUNGE <br> Back home, the salt arrives before the sea. It rides on the evening wind, settles in your pores, and clings to the stone walls of the fort.

Review by BRIANNA BEEHLER <br> When I was a child, I was afraid to go upstairs by myself at my grandparents’ house. At the top of the stairs was a print of Pablo Picasso’s 1937 painting, Weeping…

ELLEN HINSEY <br> Do not permit the dismantling of the house of your compassion. Even if its columns are besieged: it is a fortress that stands each day it is affirmed anew.

RODRIGO URQUIOLA FLORES <br> I thought about the possibility of taking refuge, of living within a glorious repeating cycle. Pain and punishment were inevitable – just look at what became of the ants…

LYS GRANIER <br> I threw a handful of road gravel in the tiny stream every time I crossed the bridge.The wood where I pictured my dad reincarnated as a fox. Where we had to wear red and be loud…

KATY SIMPSON SMITH <br> "We adventurers stared out over the red sand beach and over to the far cliffs and up the valley and all the way out across the unknowable sea. I imagined the Neolithic…

ELLEN HINSEY <br> Do not permit the dismantling of the house of your compassion. Even if its columns are besieged: it is a fortress that stands each day it is affirmed anew.

Review by Julia Lichtblau <br> The story is told through several narrative devices, primarily Green’s notebook entries, interspersed with newspaper clippings, which feed the mystery at the center of…

LYS GRANIER <br> I threw a handful of road gravel in the tiny stream every time I crossed the bridge.The wood where I pictured my dad reincarnated as a fox. Where we had to wear red and be loud…

GRACILIANO RAMOS <br> "She couldn’t bite Fabiano: she had been born next to him, in a small bed-chamber, on top of the wooden cot, and had spent her entire existence in submission to him, yapping and…

YU-MEI BALASINGAMCHOW <br> It was interesting to explore the many reasons people leave home, which today's discourse tends to flatten into being an "immigrant" or "migrant," as if it's simply about…

KATY SIMPSON SMITH <br> "We adventurers stared out over the red sand beach and over to the far cliffs and up the valley and all the way out across the unknowable sea. I imagined the Neolithic…

ANA PRUNDARU <br> here is a lesson in grieving the past / a tiny fit of existentialism / say it was converted to a tiny pub / it was the nineties, remember?

Review by Julia Lichtblau <br> The story is told through several narrative devices, primarily Green’s notebook entries, interspersed with newspaper clippings, which feed the mystery at the center of…

GRACILIANO RAMOS <br> "She couldn’t bite Fabiano: she had been born next to him, in a small bed-chamber, on top of the wooden cot, and had spent her entire existence in submission to him, yapping and…

EVE ALEXANDRA <br> I think there’s a reclamation of the queer pastoral through this feeling of belonging. I know this place so well. My body lives here and is part of this land. I can name those…

LAUREN DELAPENHA <br> Lauren Delapenha speaks to Emily Everett about her poems “Supermarketing” and “If You Are Learning English,” which appear in The Common’s spring issue. Lauren also discusses her…

The following is a translated excerpt of the Bengali novel titled Khanandihi, by Shatadal Mitra tells the story of the Bengal village of Khanyadi, through its people, myths, spirits and history, floating, living, murmuring in the endless flow of time.

ANA PRUNDARU <br> here is a lesson in grieving the past / a tiny fit of existentialism / say it was converted to a tiny pub / it was the nineties, remember?

EVE ALEXANDRA <br> I think there’s a reclamation of the queer pastoral through this feeling of belonging. I know this place so well. My body lives here and is part of this land. I can name those…

The following is a translated excerpt of the Bengali novel titled Khanandihi, by Shatadal Mitra tells the story of the Bengal village of Khanyadi, through its people, myths, spirits and history, floating, living, murmuring in the endless flow of time...

AIDAN CAHILL <br> It would seem the Earth is always in flux, whether it be the monthly succumbings of the cabbage white butterflies or the water with its winter sleep, yet for the longest time I had…

KENAN ORHAN<br> In Ivan’s bedroom are forty-seven photographs of beaches, rectangles of sand and sun. I count them every time I visit my friend, and he kisses them like beautiful women each night. He…

Review by BRITTA STROMEYER <br> Divided into eleven chapters named after body parts, the novel’s structure claims the female body as a battleground for cultural and personal struggles, using…