Last thing, I watch the night mail go out. The back windows of my house gaze down into the yard of Islington’s main post office—a great block of Edwardian red brick, its façade an uncompromising array of windows, its only architectural flight of fancy the peculiar stunted campanile at each end of the building. A wrought-iron plaque on my garden wall, boundary with the post office yard, reminds me that the wall is the property of the Postmaster General, 1909. At night, the yard and the row of back gardens glow in the light of the post office’s orange sodium lamps—best in rain when the glow turns to gilt, sharply gilded foliage and glittering lakes on the tarmac of the yard.
‘Where his mother had surely hoped for a sweet little mouth, Dengue Boy had misshapen flesh bristling with maxillary palps.’
Fiction by Michel Nieva, translated from the Spanish by Natasha Wimmer.
‘It was the third day that summer when temperatures had soared above fifty degrees Celsius.’
Fiction by Andrea Chapela, translated from the Spanish by Kelsi Vanada.
The Perfect Companion
‘She was so understanding, so interesting, such an intellectual. She was also a wristwatch, but this hardly mattered.’
Fiction by Joanna Kavenna, a Granta Best Young British Novelist in 2013.
No Machine Could Do It
‘In the future we have to be as interesting to the AI as our pets are to us.’
Fiction by Eugene Lim, first published in Granta 145: Ghosts.
‘Disabled people who use tech to live are cyborgs. Our lives are not metaphors.’
An essay by Jillian Weise, soon to be a book published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.