Former Open City Fellow Mohamad Saleh answers ten questions about his writing life

By Mohamad Saleh
Essays    Reportage    Marginalia    Interviews    Poetry    Fiction    Videos    Everything   
Fiction

I was alone now, except the mold still had a strong presence I couldn’t ignore.  

Fiction

I wondered if Pia was right, then, if I was seeking something too dangerous to be handled, a bomb that would kill me someday.

Fiction

Where she had rubbed away the grime, her eyes shined intensely.

Fiction

A comic with three different endings

Fiction

Kulu cranks her jaws wide open upon seeing us

Fiction

Maybe you should’ve said something sooner, Robert.

Essays

A notebook on alchemy, memory, and sensation

Fiction

I had vowed to be different, but I wasn’t able to escape servitude, even eight thousand miles away in New York.

Fiction

You’re brought up by blue, Father said.

Fiction

I wonder how the body knows it’s ready to feed another life. Does it even get a choice to be ready?

Fiction

Kay hirap maging mahirap, kung hindi ka pa manginig sa galit ay hindi ka pa iintindihin.
| It’s so hard to be poor. If you don’t tremble with rage, they won’t try to understand you.

Fiction

I pride myself on not having regrets.

Fiction

Astrological insights from twelve of our most recent flash stories

Fiction

Someone up there in charge of making the sky beautiful.

Fiction

Their beautiful skin is the color of perfection, the shade of impeccably cooked lechón.

Fiction

Stars, trees, lasers, lights, everything locking into nothing, everything together yet apart.

Fiction

Because the summer feels more hellfire than hellfire.

Fiction

What if the world was stuck, frozen, and we could go anywhere we wanted, together?

Fiction

A few steps are all that separate us.

Fiction

We—our family—had so little to give each other; maybe we needed to look elsewhere.

Fiction

I was alone now, except the mold still had a strong presence I couldn’t ignore.  

Fiction

Kay hirap maging mahirap, kung hindi ka pa manginig sa galit ay hindi ka pa iintindihin.
| It’s so hard to be poor. If you don’t tremble with rage, they won’t try to understand you.

Fiction

I wondered if Pia was right, then, if I was seeking something too dangerous to be handled, a bomb that would kill me someday.

Fiction

I pride myself on not having regrets.

Fiction

Where she had rubbed away the grime, her eyes shined intensely.

Fiction

Astrological insights from twelve of our most recent flash stories

Fiction

A comic with three different endings

Fiction

Someone up there in charge of making the sky beautiful.

Fiction

Kulu cranks her jaws wide open upon seeing us

Fiction

Their beautiful skin is the color of perfection, the shade of impeccably cooked lechón.

Fiction

Maybe you should’ve said something sooner, Robert.

Fiction

Stars, trees, lasers, lights, everything locking into nothing, everything together yet apart.

Essays

A notebook on alchemy, memory, and sensation

Fiction

Because the summer feels more hellfire than hellfire.

Fiction

I had vowed to be different, but I wasn’t able to escape servitude, even eight thousand miles away in New York.

Fiction

What if the world was stuck, frozen, and we could go anywhere we wanted, together?

Fiction

You’re brought up by blue, Father said.

Fiction

A few steps are all that separate us.

Fiction

I wonder how the body knows it’s ready to feed another life. Does it even get a choice to be ready?

Fiction

We—our family—had so little to give each other; maybe we needed to look elsewhere.