Yesterday we lit candles for the soldier and Mila drew the stars.
     The first time Mila saw the stars, she was scared. We went up to hunt for food and burning stuff. After the rain, there was wind and we could see them twinkling. Mila was the littlest when the fighting started and she thought the stars were fireworks for shooting the planes down. She remembered the big guns that made the loud stars. There were bombs then too, and sometimes balls of fire. Once a piece of airplane fell on the roof of my friend Anya's house and burned it. A dead soldier fell right into the shop on the corner, my Daddy said.

  - Fern Arfin

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The Literary Review: An International Journal of Contemporary Writing has been published quarterly by Fairleigh Dickinson University since 1957. Its many special issues have introduced new fiction, poetry, and essays from many nations, regions, or languages to English readers. Issues focus on such topics as contemporary fiction in Portugese, Iranian exiles, new Irish writing, North African authors, and Philippine fiction and poetry. Works from issues devoted to writing in English have won awards and been reprinted in many collections.