From The Editors

Welcome to the Fall 2015 issue of Interfictions! For this issue, guest fiction editors Carmen Maria Machado and Sam J. Miller worked with arts editor Henry Lien and nonfiction and poetry co-editors Alex Dally MacFarlane and Sofia Samatar to bring…

glass womb

Lisa Bradley


i. In the jar the twins float, each the other’s anchor to a world they’ll never see. From one angle: a comforting embrace, heads curled to one another’s necks. From another: an assault, eyes screwed shut, gums hungry. ii. My…


Indrapramit Das


I look up at the godhead. The sand is white around my bare feet, a damp seal. There is no horizon. Where the sea should fall away into the distance, it curves up instead. A towering tidal wave so high…

Modern Spin|Ancient Celebration

theatre dybbuk


In this piece, Los Angeles-based company theatre dybbuk (, in collaboration with the Center for Jewish Culture, Leichtag Foundation, and the New School of Architecture and Design, creates a unique theatre/dance/architecture work, which aligns with the Festival of Sukkot and…

Kingdom by the Sea

Amy Parker


I’m having a time. Love. Dolly Her Christian name being Dolores, her infant tongue could make nothing more explicit than Dodo. Dodo, she called herself, and then later, Dolly, and later still, there were other names. At home she was…

War Bond

Matthew Jakubowski


An experimental review of War, So Much War by Mercè Rodoreda Translated from the Catalan by Maruxa Relaño and Martha Tennent Open Letter Books, November 2015   The critic’s father had been dead a little more than four years. As…

Old Ghosts

Nneoma Ike-Njoku


Old ghosts, who do not mock songs of rot-shod Sokoto droughts, long softly, lost, to lock moss on cold rock, on cold bogs to fox-trot, to toss hollow sobs on robots tomorrow, to hot-hop, to drown shock-floods of Opobo ‘’hotdogs’’,…

Perhaps, perhaps

Saudamini Deo


Tonight, suddenly, Saul Leiter. Then, you. I remembered the night when in my dream, I misspelt Saul as Seul. Lonely, alone. Single. Only. In another vertical dream, a man walked into my bedroom with a pink umbrella but he had…

I Just Think It Will Happen, Soon

Rebecca Campbell


Nela’s Dad started the thought. “So they’re calling you Twens? I read an article in The Atlantic about how you’re a generation without a future—” “—No, they can’t conceive the future, linguistically, that was the point—” her mother, correcting. “—okay,…