Fiction
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Since its founding in 2013, Brooklyn-based independent publisher Restless Books has established itself as one of the most cutting-edge publishers of translated literature in the U.S. In the four years... -
Autumn. That and the dry leaves drifting aimlessly through the streets. On the corner there's a McDonald's that looks like an island, its yellow light shining in the distance, in the middle of the rai... -
The light is magnificent, yellow and flickering as if a body. Through the windows it’s pouring, the rain rushes through them with unusual force, it soaks everything; but it too is serene, calm, even.... -
The story was very simple and it played over and over again like a film loop: -
It isn’t a good idea to repeatedly ask yourself why you live in an estuary. Upon doing so, upon asking yourself so many times, moreover if you do so before a mirror, it’s very likely that you’ll end u... -
I answered the ad in the paper at the end of February. Barely two months into the New Year and I already knew that with my forced diet of sunflower seeds, rye bread, and raw vegetables I wouldn’t surv... -
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When you are a pestilent being the world stops being pestilent. Or does it? -
Only an idiot could believe that all Latinas could have the good luck of a J-Lo. -
Her name may be Svieta, 11 years old, but she may look older. One of those typical girl-women of the tropics. From a poor family, a neighborhood on the outskirts, a broiler. Naughty, sure of hersel... -
January. The 2:34pm sun enters the house unimpeded through the back window, barely held up by a clumsy piece of carpentry. The big rusted nails split through the wood. Only a sheet of nylon prevents t... -
She has the face of someone who has just sworn off marriage: part wilted, part revived, neither of the factions ever too transparent. -
The door-slam sounds like a gunshot. With an empty expression and watery eyes, Julia keeps looking at the sheet of plywood shaking from the blow, for long seconds. Later she gets up, and with her hand... -
I went to live in a dead horse. -
There's a dead Nazi under my table. -
And I thought about telling her more and to reveal other secrets and other materials, other ways of doing things and other ways of life. -
Lamento della Ninfa is the first record I put on, barefoot in your strange and beautiful house, half empty, still unfinished and lacking a garden, on a mountain in a wide valley, so wide that t... -
Fifteen years have gone by and I’m still living in that same apartment, surrounded by the same furniture, bar a piece or two, by the same smells and textures that remain despite the coats of paint, du... -
The gorilla, sprawled on a rock, contemplates the mop and bucket forgotten by the zookeeper. Were it earlier, had he a group of children in front of him, the gorilla would cudgel them with the mop. Bu... -
There are two men in the video. They're walking between the cars through the parking garage. The camera is attached to the ceiling, or maybe to one of the concrete pillars, and both are moving away... -
… Holy Virgin of Barajas, I promise you it’s not a tango, I just like whistling, whistling any old thing, I whistle a lot, and that’s why I always make this face when people here in Madrid shout at me...
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