TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover Art: Taylor
Prose Art: Taylor .........................................................................................
Adela's House - Jackie
The Feather Pillow - Jessica
The Girl with the Eyes of Light - Miranda
The Little Prince - Seamus
Loss of a Wife and Mother - Matt
Taipei Food Diary - Andrea
The Surveillance Job - Sydney
Poetry Art: Matt ...................................................................................... 18
Cold - Elliott
The Gaucho Martin Fierro - Ravi
Marina - Rachel
Poem of Grief - Brett
White Bee - Miriam
Prometheus - Tsong
Smile Brush - Taylor
*Content Warning: This story contains some things that could be disturbing or triggering. Some parts of the story talk about suicide and horror film descriptions with detailed deaths.
Adela’s House [excerpt]
By: Mariana EnriquezTranslated from Spanish by:
Jackie Hernandez-GarciaEvery day I think of Adela. And if, during the day, her memory doesn’t appear—the freckles, the yellow teeth, the thinning blonde hair, the nub, the small suede boots—, it returns at night, in dreams. The dreams of Adela are all distinct, but the rain never failed, and my brother and I were always there too. The both of us stood outside the abandoned house, with our yellow planes, looking at the officers in the garden, where our parents spoke in a whisper.
We became friends because she was the suburb princess, spoiled in her enormous English chalet inserted into our neighborhood. Her home was so different that it appeared like a castle in our eyes: its inhabitants were the owners and we were the servants in our square cement houses with messy gardens. We became friends because she had the best imported toys, which her father would bring her from the United States. We were also friends with her because she hosted the best parties every third of January, a little before Kings Day and a little after New Years. She would throw her parties next to the well, with the water under the dwindling sun, looked silver, made from wrapping paper. Additionally, I was friends with her because she had a projector and would use the white walls to watch movies while the rest of the neighborhood still had televisions in black and white.
But, overall, we became friends with her, my brother and I, because Adela only had one arm. Or maybe it would be better to say that she was missing an arm. The left. Pure luck that she wasn’t left-handed. It was missing all the way from her shoulder; she had a small, perturbed piece of skin that moved, with any minor muscle movement, but it served no purpose. Adela’s parents would say that she was born this way, that it was a congenital defect. Most of the other kids were scared of or disgusted by her. They would laugh at her, and call her a monster, emptyheaded, or incomplete; they said that she’d been found in a circus, and that surely her picture was in a book of medicine somewhere.
She didn’t care. She didn’t even care to wear her orthopedic arm. She liked to be observed and never hid her nub. If she saw the revulsion in another's eyes, she could lift her nub up to their faces or sit uncomfortably close to them and would brush up against them with it until they were humiliated, leaving them on the verge of tears.
Our mother said Adela had a unique character, violent and strong. My mother would insist she was a perfect example of sweetness, that she was raised well, would emphasize what good parents she had. But Adela said her parents lied. About her arm. I wasn’t born this way, she would say. We would ask what happened. Then she would tell her version of the story. Her
versions is a better way to put it. Sometimes she would tell us that she was attacked by her dog, a black Doberman named Infierno. The dog had gone crazy, that usually happens to Dobermans, a breed that, according to Adela, had a tiny skull for the size of its brain; that is why their heads always hurt and why they would go crazy over the pain, leaving them with a dismantled brain that became squeezed by the skull. She would say that Infierno had attacked her when she was two years old. She remembered: the pain, the grunts, the sound of its jaw chewing, the blood painted the grass, mixed with his saliva. Her father had killed him with one shot; excellent aim, because the dog, when it took the bullet, still carried baby Adele between his teeth.
About the Author
Mariana Enriquez is an Argentine journalist, novelist, and short story writer. Her short stories combine horror and gothic genres and have been published in international magazines. Her stories answer the question of what horror means to me. Enriquez also uses her writing to empower the women shoved aside by their government and treated as second-class citizens.
About the Translator
Jacqueline Hernandez-Garcia is a University of Iowa student pursuing a psychology degree on the pre-medicine track, along with a minor in translation. She has a keen interest in translating Spanish-written pieces that deal with human experiences. As human experiences are unique for each individual and can be expressed in various ways, she enjoys working with different authors.
The Feather Pillow [excerpt]
By: Horacio QuirogaTranslated from Spanish by:
Jessica HousourHer honeymoon was one long shiver. Blonde, angelic, and shy, her childish dreams about being a bride were frozen by the harsh character of her husband. Yet she loved him greatly. At times, with a slight tremble as they walked home together through the streets at night, she would furtively glance at Jordan’s tall stature, silent for an hour. He, for his part, loved her deeply, though without making it known.
For three months–they had been married in April–they lived in a special kind of joy. Without a doubt Alicia would have wished for less severity in their rigid heaven of love, a more expansive and unwary tenderness, but the impassive countenance of her husband always restrained her.
The house in which they lived had some influence on her shivers. The whiteness of the silent patio–friezes, columns, and marble statues–produced an autumnal impression of an enchanted palace. Inside, the glacial glow of the stucco, without the slightest scratch on the high walls, affirmed that sensation of unpleasant coldness. When crossing from one room to another, footsteps would echo throughout the whole house, as if a long abandonment heightened their resonance.
Alicia spent the whole autumn in this strange nest of love. She had resolved to cast a veil over her old dreams, however, and lived as if asleep in the hostile house, not wanting to think about anything until her husband arrived home.
It was not unusual that she grew thin. She suffered a slight attack of influenza that dragged on insidiously for days and days Alicia never recovered. Finally, one afternoon, she went out into the garden, supported by her husband's arm. She looked around indifferently, from one side to another. Suddenly Jordan, with profound tenderness, ran his hand over her head, and Alicia immediately burst into tears, throwing her arms around his neck. She cried incessantly about all her silent fears, intensifying her weeping at the slightest caress. Then her sobs slowed, and she stood with her face hidden in his neck for a long while, unmoving and silent.
That was the last day that Alicia was able to stand. The following day she awoke feeling faint. Jordan’s doctor examined her with great attention, ordering absolute calm and rest.
“I don’t know,” he told Jordan at the front door, with his voice still low. “She has a great weakness that I cannot explain, and without vomiting, nothing…. If she wakes up in the same condition tomorrow, call me right away.”
The next day Alicia had become worse. There was an examination. It was confirmed that she had severe anemia, completely inexplicable. Alicia had no more fainting spells, but she was visibly moving towards death. All day long the lights were kept on in the profoundly silent bedroom. Hours would pass without the slightest sound. Alicia slept. Jordan lived in the living room, also with all the lights on. He paced ceaselessly across the room, with tireless obstinacy. The carpet drowned out his steps. At times he entered the bedroom and continued his silent movement alongside the bed, looking at his wife every time he changed direction.
Soon Alicia began to have hallucinations, which were at first confusing and floating in the air, then seeming to descend back to the ground. The young woman, with her eyes excessively wide, did nothing but look back and forth, one side to another, at the carpet at the head of her bed. One night she suddenly stared fixedly. After a while she opened her mouth to scream, and her nose and lips beaded with sweat.
About the Author
Horacio Quiroga (1878-1937) was a Uruguayan author. He wrote the short story “El almohadón de las plumas” in 1907. Specializing in the supernatural, macabre, and psychological, Quiroga is often compared to the American writer Edgar Allan Poe.
About the Translator
Jessica Housour is a second-year student double-majoring in English and Spanish, with a minor in Translation. In her translation experience thus far, she enjoys working with poetry and short stories, especially those with unique styles of writing.
“The Girl with the Eyes of Light” [excerpt]By: Jose Guadalupe-Posada
Translated from Spanish by: Miranda Miller
Many years ago, a king who had been married for two days, and who had usurped the throne of his predecessor, was riding through the city in the company of his wife in an elegant carriage drawn by four magnificent Friesian horses. Suddenly, a poor woman approached him, crying. She was in such a hurry that the horses almost trampled her. The king ordered the carriage to stop and asked the woman what she desired.
There, almost drowning in her sobs, she said, “Ay, majesty! I am a widow and I have only a son to provide for me. Tomorrow they are going to hang him, and I swear to your majesty that he is innocent.”
“Well, what did he do?” asked the king.
“They accuse him of being a thief, but the court has judged him with such violence and bias that there has not been time to prove his innocence. Your majesty can make them judge him fairly, and if they find him guilty, I will go with him to be hanged.”
The king saw such truth in the woman’s face that he commanded the accused to be set free. Then the woman said, “I cannot pay back your blessing, but I promise your majesty that your firstborn son will have a wife, and she will have excellent virtues and qualities. Your second child will be a girl of such beauty that you will not find her equal in the kingdom. She will have eyes so beautiful that they will illuminate a dark room as if it were day. But guard her so that no one sees her, because when she is grown, she will attract the notice of a horrible
monster that lives in an enchanted cave in the mountains. If you do not give her to him as his wife, he will ruin your kingdom, and you will lose your daughter.”
By the time their son was born, however, the rulers had forgotten the prophecy of the woman. Two years later, they had a daughter of surprising beauty, with eyes that approached perfection.
One night, the girl was feeling a little ill and started to cry, and she cried so much that she woke the king and queen. They were surprised to see that the bedchamber was full of light, as if the sun’s rays were directly shining in. The light reminded them of the prophecy, and they ordered that the girl never leave her bedchamber.
About the Author
This story was originally written in Spanish and illustrated by Josè Guadalupe Posada (18521913). He was friends and frequent collaborators with the printer, A. Vanegas Arroyo, which allowed him to have more creative control over the images in the text.
About the Translator
Miranda is a senior who loves weirdness, words, and weird words. She's also a band kid, Nanowrimo winner, and avid reader. Because of all this, she's an English and creative writing major who has a tendency to linger in the campus libraries.
The Little Prince, Chapter 1
By: Antoine de Saint-ExupéryTranslated from French by:
Seamus AbelWhen I was six years old, I saw an amazing picture in a book about the primeval rainforest called True Nature Stories. It was of a boa constrictor swallowing a wild animal. Here is the drawing.
The book said, “Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing. After that, they can’t move and they sleep for six months, which is how long it takes to digest.”
After that, I thought deeply over the adventures of the jungle. And using a colored pencil, I succeeded in making my first drawing. Drawing Number One. It looked like this:
I showed my masterpiece to the grown-ups and asked them if the drawing scared them. They answered, “Why would we be scared of a hat?”
My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. But since the grown-ups couldn’t understand it, I made another drawing. I drew the inside of the boa constrictor so the grown-ups could see it clearly. They always need to have things explained. Drawing Number Two looked like this:
This time, the grown-ups’ response was to convince me to stop drawing boa constrictors from the inside or from the outside and instead study geography, history, math, and grammar. That is why, at the age of six, I gave up what would probably have been an amazing career as a painter. I had been disappointed by the failure of Drawing Number One and Drawing Number Two. Grown-ups never understand anything, and it’s boring for children to explain things to them again and again…
So, I chose another profession and became an airplane pilot. I have flown a little over all of the world. And it is true that geography has served me well. I can distinguish China from Arizona instantly. It’s valuable to know that if you get lost at night.
In the course of my life, I have had many encounters with many people who have been concerned with serious matters. I have lived a lot among grown-ups. I have seen them up close. And that hasn’t improved my opinion of them.
When I met one who seemed at all clear-sighted, I tried showing them Drawing Number One, which I have always kept. I would try to find out if this person really could understand everything. But they would always say, “That’s a hat.”
Then I would never talk to that person about boa constrictors, primeval rainforests, or stars. I would bring myself down to their level. I would talk about bridge, golf, politics, and neckties. And the grown-up would be very happy to have met someone just as reasonable…
About the Author
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was born on June 29, 1900, in Lyon, France. In the 1930s, he held the jobs of test pilot and reporter for Paris-Soir. He published his most popular book, The Little Prince, in 1943. He took off from Corsica the next year and mysteriously disappeared over Marseille.
About the Translator
Seamus Abel is a fourth-year German major at the University of Iowa, born on December 4, 1999, in Media, a suburb of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He and his parents moved to Iowa City in June of 2020, shortly before Seamus started college. He is expected to receive his BA in 2025.
Loss of a Wife and Mother [excerpt]
Unknown Author
Translated from Thai by: Matt Swanson
A year later, he received a phone call from the mailman saying that his son had put a thick letter in the mailbox with no address written on it. Now, keep in mind, this was around the New Year; the Post Office did not have any time to mess around with jokes like this. As soon as he heard this, he got in his car and rushed to the Post Office to apologize for his son’s actions. When he got home, he threw the letters at his son.
“Why did you do this?” He yelled.
The son hurried to pick up the letters and started to cry, “these are the letters I wrote to Mama!”
The father sighed heavily. “Why did you try to send so many letters at the same time?”
“I’ve been writing letters since Mama died, but I was always too short to reach the mailbox. But now I’m tall enough to throw the letters in, so I took all the letters I wrote and sent them to her to read all at once.”
When the father heard this, his eyes started to fill with tears. He had no idea what to say to his son, so he just bent down and hugged him.
He took a deep breath. “Your mother is in heaven,” he told his son. “In the future, if you ever want to write a letter to Mama, I can send them for you. We can burn them, and then your letters will go up to heaven for your mother to read. And I promise that she will read them.”
Later that night, after his son went to sleep, he picked up the large package of letters his son tried to send. He started reading one:
Mama, I miss you so much. Today at school we had a presentation. It was about kids and their mothers. I don’t have a mother anymore, so I just left. I didn’t tell Papa, though, because I was afraid that he would feel the pain of missing you. But Papa left from work anyway to find me because I wasn’t at school. I don’t want Papa to know I’m lonely. So, I just went to the playground, even though I knew that Papa was gonna be mad at me.
Mama, I see Papa sitting and hugging your picture every day. I know he misses you a lot. But Mama, I can’t even remember what your voice sounds like. Can you enter my dreams and talk with me a little? I just wanna see your face just one more time. Please let me hear your voice just one more time.
The old man next door told me that if there is someone you miss, before you fall asleep at night, you should hug a picture of that person and you will dream of them. Mama, I promise I hug your picture so tight every night. Why haven’t you come to my dreams yet?
About the Author
The translator at this date has not been able to identify the story's author. The source text was published on a language learning website http://www.thai-language.com/ accompanied by an English translation that prompted the translator to bring the text into a modern light for contemporary English readers.
About the Translator
Matt Swanson is a third year Religious Studies major who is graduating in December 2024. When he's not spending time with friends or playing sports, you can find him reading, cooking, painting, or playing video games. Following his graduation, he will kick off his professional career abroad in Thailand.
Taipei Food Diary [excerpt]
By: Shu GuozhiTranslated from Mandarin by: Andrea (Ming-yu) Chiu
Since my return from the United States to Taiwan in the 1960s, I have not cooked at home even once, and I eat all my meals outside the house. Most of the time, I eat alone. It is not easy to eat in restaurants; I only sit down and eat quickly in small restaurants or shops that serve street food. Over time, I have found that the food produced by these small shops tastes better than that of fancy restaurants. In fact, over the last two or three decades, there has been a trend of decadence in those restaurants. When chatting with friends, they only go to fine dining restaurants when they have guests to impress. This aging phenomenon in Taipei society is noticeable. Street food, which needs only two or three people to function, is easier to control. Therefore, many of these small shops have been open for decades and can still maintain their level of quality.
About the Author
“
臺北小吃札記” is authored by Shu Guozhi, a Taiwanese writer known for his numerous works depicting life in Taipei. His writing style leans towards everyday life narratives, often telling stories of ordinary experiences. He has written several books about food, and Taipei Food Diary is one of them. This book explores various street foods that the author finds delicious, while also expressing the idea that street food often surpasses the quality of fancy restaurant fare.
About the Translator
Andrea is a Junior at the University of Iowa, studying Translation. She enjoys translating novels and diaries about human life. She chose to translate “Taipei Food Diary” because this is her first time translating a book about food. It was challenging but gave her a sense of accomplishment.
There’s No Such Thing as an Easy Job
“The
Surveillance Job”
By: Kikuko TsumuraTranslated from Japanese by: Sydney Benscoter
Both screens showed the same person. The left held footage from 22:00 the previous night, and the right from 20:00 the night before that. In both, the person was wearing the same fleece sweater, so, without the date stamps, there’d be no indication that the images showed two different days. Similarly, on both screens the person, or rather the target of surveillance, was doing pretty much the same thing: sitting in an office chair with his arms crossed, staring at his laptop screen. Just when I would think he’d given up on the idea of ever moving again, he’d suddenly lurch forward and hammer away at the keyboard for about thirty seconds before falling still once again, or consult his dictionary wearily, or open up a new browser and sit scrolling with grim focus for the next hour.
And here I sat, watching. The text editor window was open, but I had yet to write any of my report, just as frozen in place as the man on my screen.
Before starting this job, I rarely had any use for eye drops, but now I found myself using them constantly. Luckily, we were allowed eye drops under the company’s expense of up to $10 a week. We did, however, have to pay for our meals on our own dime. I’d recently started pondering the fact that a bottle of eye drops is actually cheaper than a yakisoba roll.
These are the kinds of things that people with way too much free time think about. But it’s true. Somehow, I’d come to have too much time on my hands. It’s odd, because although I
worked such long hours, I’d basically been doing nothing the whole time. I’d officially decided that there are very few jobs in the world that took up as much time and as little brain power as watching over the life of a novelist who lived alone and worked from home.
About the Author
Kikuko Tsumura is a Japanese writer from Osaka who has won many Japanese writing awards such as the Akutagawa Prize. She specializes in short stories and fiction literature, several of which focus on the workplace in Japanese society. This story was first translated by Polly Barton, but the translator was interested in retranslating it to focus on the subtle horror.
About the Translator
Sydney Benscoter (she/her) is a student at the University of Iowa studying Japanese World Language Education, Linguistics, and Translation. She works towards translating fiction works and has a preference for the dystopian genre.
Cold was created
By: Leonid MartynovTranslated from Russian by: Elliott Croatt
An experiment was made to freeze everything –thrown over everything was a gray streak, to every city I was bound by the cold And every step would be risky And I would have torn every wire, reaching a conclusion the wire would snap and every argument would freeze, and even in a whisper the cold would be in the throat, freezing everything down to the foundation: the dove coos and in a clear sky orcas are chirping…
It was such an experience. During this experience, quite understandably, a murmur was made… and the ice split.
Hunger for body and light embraced the world after all: seas, and land, and the human soul.
About the Author
Leonid Martynov wrote Russian poetry that was brought to public attention in the Soviet Union during the Thaw (post-1953 period). Martynov wrote many poems about Siberia in a shorter epic form.
About the Translator
Elliott Croatt is a student at the University of Iowa and is pursuing a major in Computer Science with an English minor.
Here I begin to sing
To the rhythm of the guitar,
For the man who is troubled
By an extraordinary sorrow
Like a solitary bird Finds solace in singing.
The Gaucho Martín Fierro [excerpt]
By: José HernándezTranslated from Spanish by: Ravi Patel
I ask the Saints of Heaven
To assist my thoughts; I ask of them at this moment
As I am about to sing my story
To refresh my memory
And clear my understanding.
Come, miraculous saints, Come all to my aid, For my tongue is tied
And my vision is blurred; I pray to God to assist me
In such a difficult moment.
I have seen many singers,
With well-earned glory, And after achieving it, They don't want to sustain it. It seems like without putting in effort, They grew tired and left
But another Creole goes by, Martín Fierro must go past; nothing makes him back down nor do shadows scare him, and since everyone sings I want to sing as well.
I will die singing, They will bury me singing, I will reach the feet of God, Singing,
From my mother's womb
I came into this world singing
About the Author
José Hernández (1834-1886) was an Argentine poet, best known for his depiction of the gauchos. He spent most of his life with gauchos so writing about them was only natural.
About the Translator
Ravi Patel is a fourth-year business major graduating in May 2024, with a degree in management from the Tippie College of Business at the University of Iowa. He loves to bowl, go boating, and play golf.
Translated from Italian by:
Rachel ClarkWhat weary waters against the dim shore, what gray billows against the poles. And islands beyond and reefs where an uncertain breathlessness separates from the departing day.
What scattered rains you sail, what lights. Which ones? the thought that if it does not feign it ignores, if it does not remember it denies: there I was alive, here warned by time in another way.
What memories, what images we inherited, what age never lived, what existence outside of joy and of pain struggling against the tide near the moorings or to the open sea that flourishes and says farewell. You return, you protect this shore and in the sky that sets sail, a pine tree shrieks of birds that return home, my heart.
About the Author
Mario Luzi was an Italian poet and literary critic born in the 20th century a part of the Hermetic movement originating in Italy. This poetic movement was characterized by illogical structures and sentences. The poems often used subjective language and were generally inaccessible to the public.
About the Translator
Rachel Clark is an English and Creative Writing major with a Translation Minor at the University of Iowa. She is interested in translating Italian prose and poetry, especially ones that feel like putting puzzle pieces together.
Poem of Grief [excerpt]
By: Nizar QabbaniTranslated from Arabic by: Brett McCartt
Your love taught me to grieve
For ages I have been in need
In need of a woman who makes me grieve
A woman into whose arms I can cry like a dove…
In need of a woman who will gather my pieces
Those little crystalline fragments
Your love, my lady, taught me to grieve
It taught me the worst habits; To read my coffee grounds
To try potions
To visit fortune tellers
It taught me to leave my house and wander the streets
to search for your face in raindrops and in headlights
I search for your image in everything I search everywhere…
Your love taught me
not to worry about my own face
For hours I searched for your hair
That hair envied by all
Searching for a face… a voice
But there are faces and voices everywhere
Your love, my lady, drove me
It drove me into the city of sorrows—
A place I had never been before It taught me things I never knew;
That tears are human
That a man without grief is but a memory
About the Author
Nizar Tawfiq Qabbani (1923-1998) was a Syrian poet and diplomat, and is considered the national poet of Syria. Qabbani’s poetry delves into a wide range of themes such as religion and anti-imperialism. His most popular poetry explores the feelings of love, loss, and longing.
About the Translator
Brett McCartt is a double major in Translation and Political Science with a minor in the Arabic Language. In his translation experience thus far, he has enjoyed working with Arabic poetry that explores many themes.
White Bee
By: Pablo NerudaTranslated from Spanish by:
Miriam Khaetov GallardoWhite bee, you buzz in my soul, drunk with honey, and you twist in slow spirals of smoke.
I am the desperate one, the word without echoes, the one who lost everything, and the one who had everything.
Last mooring, my last anxiety creaks in you. In my deserted land, you are the last rose.
Oh, noiseless one!
Close your deep eyes. There the night flutters. Oh, undress your body of fearful statue.
You have deep eyes where the night veers. Fresh arms of flower and lap of rose.
Your breasts resemble white snails. A shadow butterfly has come to sleep in your belly.
Oh, noiseless one!
Here is the loneliness from which you are absent. It is raining. The sea wind hunts wandering seagulls.
The water walks barefoot through the wet streets.
From that tree, the leaves complain, like the sick.
White bee, absent, you still buzz in my soul.
You revive in time, slender and silent.
Oh, noiseless one!
About the Author
Pablo Neruda was a Chilean poet, diplomat, and politician. He is considered one of the most prominent poets of the 20th century and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1971. His poetry often deals with themes such as love, loss, and politics to capture the spirit of his life and the turbulent political times of his country.
About the Translator
Miriam Khaetov is a senior majoring in Political Science, with minors in International Relations, French, and Translation. Recently, she has begun exploring poetry as part of her translation studies and is thoroughly enjoying the experience.
About the Author
Oren Halfbrain is an emerging Chinese artist and graphic novelist writing in Mandarin. She introduces herself as “The 3rd freest comic artist on the earth” in her blog. Her works are always bold and imaginative with elements from Greek mythology, pop culture, and subculture. Other works of hers include Genesis and TV Girl Cher, which is a serialized comic featuring stories such as “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” and “Vomit.”
About the Translator
Tsong Chang is a fourth-year student majoring in Translation and English and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa. They are enthusiastic about fiction writing, poetry and graphic novel translations, and interdisciplinarity literary practices.
About the Author
Waroo is a Korean artist and online creator that is most known for Smile Brush. They work in both English and Korean. Their works are published with Webtoon (previously SpotToon), and with Naver, a Korean webtoon platform.
About the Translator
Taylor Kennedy is an American artist and translator who has an interest in Japanese. They like translating Fantasy and Graphic Novels as those are the genres they like to read as well. They’ve chosen to do a game of telephone and use the Japanese webtoon fan translation because they think it would be interesting to compare the official English translation to their translation.
Blooper Page:
Title brainstorming:
1. Words in the World
2. Words on the Move
3. World Word Workshop
4. Translation Sharing
5. Language Excerpts
6. Zoomin’ Zine
7. Poems, Prose, and Pictures
8. Thow’s Translators
9. Festival of Languages
10. Discovery of Languages
11. Summit of Languages
12. Revolution of Words
13. World Tour
14. World Translation Tour
15. Globe Tour
16. Fellowship of Words
17. Force of Words
18. The Art of Translation
19. Around the Globe
20. The Globe in Translation
21. Translate the Globe
22. Translating Worlds: Voices Across Borders
23. Echoes Across Languages: A Literary Translation Journey
24. Limitless
This has been the Undergraduate Translation Zine, as the final project of the 2024 Undergraduate Translation Workshop. *mic drop*