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STORY OF THE WEEK
Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl
By Harriet Jacobs
What a disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants, guiltless of offence, should be condemned to live in such incessant fear.
POEM OF THE WEEK
By Holly Mitchell
After the beginning of the gallop, there are counts when the horse is in the air, her legs withdrawn, a diamond shape. This is called suspension.
We’re seeking works from new and emerging poets as well as from established ones. All entries are considered for publication.
Please see the
OPEN TO ALL WRITERS
We’re looking for short stories, essays, memoirs, photo essays, graphic stories, and excerpts from long fiction and nonfiction.
Please see the
By Arthur Miller
In the glass he saw his hound’s eyes, his round, sad face and narrow beard. For the King of Broadway, he thought, you still look like a failure.
By Ocean Vuong
Ocean, don’t be afraid. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. Don’t worry. Your father is only your father until one of you forgets.
Robert Stone and Kate Chopin
Stone’s Adaptation of
We went in search of the missing pages from
Children of Light
and found them in an archive of Stone’s papers.
By Austin Smith
No one in town would take him for a Trappist monk with vows of chastity, just as, in the abbey, no one took him for a lapsed bohemian who played jazz records and danced naked.
Saving Planet Earth
By Bill Barich
Our subscribers tended to be fervent activists, hardcore eco-warriors in the mode of Edward Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang, or delicate souls who ate no meat.
By Hal Crowther
A tough cookie, this warrior-priest, who talked about his eleven-plus years in prisons the way scholars talk about graduate school.
In Defense of Ballin’ on a Budget
By Marcus Wicker
Damn, Will—they’ve got you sounding mighty Uncle Phil in these streets. Like the still calling the Ketel One cheap.
Two Girls Bathing and Other Poems
By Ama Codjoe
Carol points to a spot on my back. I resist the urge to hide my breasts. She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
Praying Naked and Other Poems
By Katie Condon
It wasn’t guilt I felt. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was my own desire to be desired, since, if a man wants me, I know I have at least a little worth left.
The Land of
By Faisal Mohyuddin
In Urdu, the clock tower is called Ghanta Ghar, meaning Hour House, which sounds just like
However, nothing of it is ours.
Ruth Stone Explains the Book of the Dead to Sylvia Plath
By Christian Teresi
I did what I could to hush the knot and rope, the truth of gravity. There are not enough idiomatic expressions to converse flawlessly with the dead.
On Seeing Damien Hirst’s “Kingdom of the Father”
By Laura Wetherington
The butterflies hang grotesque: House paint obscures the edges, black paint licking down their iridescent fur.
Cartoon Art Volume 2017-05
By Various Artists
New art and humor from Curtis Edwards, Rina Piccolo, Julia Suits,
Vey, and Kim Warp.