Summer 2009 • Vol. XXXI No. 3 Fiction |

Seven Captains

From the Farsi.    I had written: You miserable slob, at least you're alive overseas. Just have fun, don't come back … I had written: I don't want to get caught up in this hell. And I had written: Twenty-two years is nothing, even a hundred years won't be enough to simmer down the bad blood and the tribe's rage … don't come back! In the small arrivals hall of the airport, I couldn't find him among the passengers of the beat-up Fokker. When everyone charged toward the pile of suitcases, I saw him. He was standing like a statue next to the entrance. His beautiful hair has turned thin and gray, but like old times he has kept it long. He has aged much more than I imagined … much older … with dark glasses that hide his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was scared, nervous, or just repentant. I said: "Your suitcase … go get it and let's get out of here." He wasn't budging. I was short of breath. He said: "It's a small blue suitcase." "I'm not that kid lac

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece

Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More


Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.


With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.