From the Editors

Welcome to the third issue of Interfictions: A Journal of Interstitial Arts, an extension of the Interfictions anthology series published in conjunction between the Interstitial Arts Foundation and Small Beer Press. As writers and editors with one foot in the academic world and…

Leftment

Matt Jones

poetry

QuoVadis met the light at seventeen after rolling his truck into a drainage ditch. Shards of teeth and chipped glass scattered around him, all soaking up the same amount of light. The pull of beer through his veins and leak…

What is Lost

Su-Yee Lin

fiction

I.  Heaven Sword and Dragon Sabre The bear stumbles around the clearing, growling and trying to shake off the man clinging to his back. It had all started out as a prank. But he had fallen into the pen, enraged…

Tainted Margins I

Saudamini Deo

poetry

Years ago, a woman stood in front of me and read out Manto. Siyah Hashiye shouldn’t be translated as Black Borders, she said. Tainted Margins. Another woman, years later, looked plainly at me and asked if people still slept on…

Double Business

Sonya Taaffe

poetry

How many of our mirrors are the dead, casting back from the graveside what we practiced on them in life? Guilt gnaws in the ear like henbane, the green ache of a long-knit wound still sullen to the touch as…

Circa

Richard Butner

fiction

An email, from Virginia to Robert: “They’re tearing the house down next Monday.” He closed the file he was working on and called her on the phone. “Hey, Ginny.” “Hey, Bobby. What are you doing this weekend?” “This is Whitemantle…

AI Winter

Sridala Swami

poetry

In these last and terrible days there’s still a kind of perfection in choosing the moment of one’s death. Drona hears your name spoken and detaches himself from his body. From this moment on, he is pure intelligence. You call…

The Etiquette

S. Craig Renfroe Jr.

fiction

There are seventeen parties a year. This is number fifteen. There are two left. There are seventeen parties a year. And there are only two left. You’ve gone to fifteen parties, and no one has talked to you. Except for…

To Hold the Mirror

Kat Howard

fiction

“It seems alive.” These words, uttered in a tone of awe, were the ones most often said when someone saw her work. But the automatist knew that what she did was a counterfeit of life, not a creation of it.…