A visual counter-memory from the Alliance of South Asians Taking Action

By Sunaina Maira, Madihah Akhter, Sabiha Basrai
Essays    Reportage    Marginalia    Interviews    Poetry    Fiction    Videos    Everything   
Fiction

“It’s started. It’s changing me. It’s happening. Now.”

Fiction

I should have studied their faces as they said goodbye, the way they smelled, the lines on their hands.

Fiction

I turned around to check whether the llama was still there. There he was, as fluffy and clueless as before, lashes waving as he sat on a tattered red mat thrown on the aisle.

Fiction

Without my hands, I have no soul.

Fiction

Not just her former hands, but the whole scaffolding of the skeleton in front of her had become a Jenga tower whose crucial block had been pulled away from the bottom

Fiction

“Meth was Trainspotting and Dust of Angels. Taiwanese education had worked like a charm, and he had taken a step back from the idea. What else was out there for him to try?”

Fiction

When they talk, the five sisters, their words strangle each other, pulling and plucking at the threads of truth.

Fiction

Astrological insights from our twelve flash stories

Fiction

The sea’s sunlit hues, the model-like beach goers that crowd the snack bar, the fruit from the south that tastes of the earth—they are totally unremarkable to her.

Fiction

Years later, to my own surprise, I would recognize a strange person within myself. Had I known then how strange I was, what would I have done?

Fiction

She remembers the rituals she had imbued with her own significance: how her ex used to bring her a single flower after every exam, and how she’d watch it wilt on her desk as she studied for the next.

Fiction

What kind of exhibit on revolutionaries would it be without a living Palestinian? The rub of course is there are so few of you.

Fiction

When she opened her door the lived-in smell burst out like gases from a can: fish sauce and charred meat, mildew and a stronger concentration of the musk he had noticed when he got close enough to her body.

Fiction

“What’s more difficult? Gay marriage or ghost marriage?”

Fiction

Looking far away, there was only the sign of the Doraemon Tea Shop. Like a borderless white pocket in a fourth-dimensional world, it could be as small or big as you wanted it to be, emitting endless bright light.

Fiction

As I looked in the mirror, Master flexed His fingers against my skin, as naturally as a handler would lovingly caress their pet puppy.

Fiction

When the epiphyllum buds reached peak bloom, petals everywhere began to fall. They began to fall like rain.

Fiction

I feel satisfied, triumphant, knowing I have loved the original donut well, though maybe it was only its glaze that I recognized.

Fiction

I don’t know what to tell you except that children are cruel and her emails were hilarious.

Fiction

She selected a single star on which to direct her attention. We are one light, she told herself.

Fiction

“It’s started. It’s changing me. It’s happening. Now.”

Fiction

She remembers the rituals she had imbued with her own significance: how her ex used to bring her a single flower after every exam, and how she’d watch it wilt on her desk as she studied for the next.

Fiction

I should have studied their faces as they said goodbye, the way they smelled, the lines on their hands.

Fiction

What kind of exhibit on revolutionaries would it be without a living Palestinian? The rub of course is there are so few of you.

Fiction

I turned around to check whether the llama was still there. There he was, as fluffy and clueless as before, lashes waving as he sat on a tattered red mat thrown on the aisle.

Fiction

When she opened her door the lived-in smell burst out like gases from a can: fish sauce and charred meat, mildew and a stronger concentration of the musk he had noticed when he got close enough to her body.

Fiction

Without my hands, I have no soul.

Fiction

“What’s more difficult? Gay marriage or ghost marriage?”

Fiction

Not just her former hands, but the whole scaffolding of the skeleton in front of her had become a Jenga tower whose crucial block had been pulled away from the bottom

Fiction

Looking far away, there was only the sign of the Doraemon Tea Shop. Like a borderless white pocket in a fourth-dimensional world, it could be as small or big as you wanted it to be, emitting endless bright light.

Fiction

“Meth was Trainspotting and Dust of Angels. Taiwanese education had worked like a charm, and he had taken a step back from the idea. What else was out there for him to try?”

Fiction

As I looked in the mirror, Master flexed His fingers against my skin, as naturally as a handler would lovingly caress their pet puppy.

Fiction

When they talk, the five sisters, their words strangle each other, pulling and plucking at the threads of truth.

Fiction

When the epiphyllum buds reached peak bloom, petals everywhere began to fall. They began to fall like rain.

Fiction

Astrological insights from our twelve flash stories

Fiction

I feel satisfied, triumphant, knowing I have loved the original donut well, though maybe it was only its glaze that I recognized.

Fiction

The sea’s sunlit hues, the model-like beach goers that crowd the snack bar, the fruit from the south that tastes of the earth—they are totally unremarkable to her.

Fiction

I don’t know what to tell you except that children are cruel and her emails were hilarious.

Fiction

Years later, to my own surprise, I would recognize a strange person within myself. Had I known then how strange I was, what would I have done?

Fiction

She selected a single star on which to direct her attention. We are one light, she told herself.