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September 2022

From Il Libro dei mostri (The Book of Monsters) by J. Rodolfo Wilcock Translated from the Italian by Nicholas A. B. Kahn Translator's Note: The following pieces are two sketches from a book, Il Libro dei mostri (1978) written in Italian by J. Rodolfo Wilcock (1919-1978), a 20th century Argentine writer, poet, and translator. In each of this book's original 62 sketches, a different character is described. The characters are presented as "monstrous" in a way that satirizes some aspect of 20th century life. While some of these characters have some sort of physical monstrosity, most are bizarre on a deeper level. These

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prose, Translations
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From The Autobiography of the Other Lady Gaga by Stefani J. Alvarez Translated from the Filipino by Alton Melvar M. Dapanas Translator's Note: Transplanting the Báyot, Translating the Dagli Growing up in the northernmost region of the southern Philippines, Stefani J. Alvarez's native tongue is Cebuano Binisayâ, not the Tagalog-based Filipino she writes in. As such, she is entangled with motifs outside mainstream sociolinguistic concerns: Her use of the I-persona as a báyot which historically refers to  a "male cross-dresser,"(( Bonnie G. Smith, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Women in World History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008.)) a migrant Filipino worker, a son and

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prose, Translations
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"El Hay" by Sarah Richani I don't know the man it belongs to, my dad does. The house has seven floors. Ground: Here is the entrance hall that is overseen by the caretaker. He locks the main door by night and opens it in the early morning hours. Floor 1: The kind family that tries to invite me to gatherings Floor 2: The young man with a motorcycle. His dad yells at him and tells him to find a job. Floor 3: A family, I only know their car. It is of a sleek shade of dark grey. Floor 4: My family and my dad, the

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Fiction
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I pick up the telephone to dial Carol's landline number. All day, the fan has been switched on, but the apartment is still suffocating. Underneath my white chemise and black trousers, I am sticky and impatient. No answer. Soon after I put the phone down and mentally prepare myself to get a glass of cold water, the phone rings, startling me into a gasp.  "Carol?" I ask, breathing slowly. My body feels stiff, too stiff even for these sixty-six-year- old limbs. "And what if it weren't me?" "No one else calls." "You love to victimize yourself, ya Salma." I can hear my sister's exasperated sigh,

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Fiction
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The world has been dreaming. It dreams about undead things. It dreams about money. Do you want to know about its dreams? Let me tell you. Listen. It is dark. We have lost the path. We have tumbled into the night of the world. It is the night of a babel choir. There we meet the people, dolorous. There we meet the empousa. She greets us with spirits. She greets us with metals. She tempts us. She looks to be tempered. The empousa offers many gifts, takes many shapes. She lives underground. Some say it is where she hides. Do you

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Non-Fiction
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About Us
Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal was founded in the English Department of the American University of Beirut in 2012 with the intention of creating a space for both emerging and established writers who have a connection to Lebanon.
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Letter from the Editor | كلمة المحرّرة

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