Tint Journal writers’ locales:

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Issue Fall '26

"The Thing We Buried" by Monika Gustevičiūtė

Short Story

The Thing We Buried

by Ethel Maqeda

Only Tabonga still remembered their bush. Even after all these years, it remained clear to her. But when she tried to remember it with her friends, ...read the full piece 
"Runny Eye" by Anna Kohlweis

Flash Fiction

Everything Finds Its Tin

by Xheni Kapllani

How alike they are: biscuits and threads, needles and butter, loneliness and sugar, boxes and houses. Tights clumped together resemble feelings, ...read the full piece 
"A Known Somewhere" by Mahmoud El Mardi

Short Story

The Love of Cobs

by Zuzana Minstrel

The willow tree loomed over the spot I chose for nesting. I built it, straw by straw, despite having no one to share it with. At least not yet. Maybe ...read the full piece 
"Footsteps" by Petra Fuks

Flash Nonfiction

Barefoot

by Pranjali Kureel

Wandering through the foothills of the Himalayas the other day, I saw you. Not that I was looking for you here out of all the places, but then, there ...read the full piece 
"Going Home" by Sonal Goorha

Flash Nonfiction

The Goldfish and the Boy

by Chun Yu 俞淳

It was July 4th. I was at a party in a California garden overlooking the Pacific. Boys, loud and strong, waved nets, chasing goldfish in a small pond. ...read the full piece 
Skiing: my mother and I, 1963. © N. Lvovich

Essay

The Morozov Mansion

by Natasha Lvovich

Dyrka[1] We lived, all eight of us, together with the grandparents and my aunt Ilia’s family, in the apartment on Podsosensky Street in the former ...read the full piece 
"Stress Lines" by Em Harriett

Poetry

(new year as hunger, as hands, as a house with no doors)

by Thái Nguyễn Đăng Khoa

i. the elephant in the room at dinner, we eat in silence,on plates older than us, as father’s cigarette glowslike embers, its smoke pressing the ...read the full piece 
"Water Droplet" by Yuliia Khovbosha

Poetry

Domestic Scene with Victorian Ruins & a Daughter Listening to Matilda at 2 a.m.

by Paola Lee

Jane Austen, who understood that women could disappear elegantly without ever leaving the room, never wrote mothers like mine. At 2:17 a.m., Harry ...read the full piece