Authors

Poetry

Remember that innocence is risky, memory inconclusive.

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Poem of the Week

She fell out of her own composition, fell and landed flat on her face.

Poem of the Week

When I was born I saw death devour the birth of something.

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Fall Contest Winners

It was good they were Africans, she thought. It meant less danger.

Fiction

There were classes where you became a family. It was a kind of love affair.

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First & Second Looks

Then they pulled out their swords, and like two bulls they lashed.

Poetry

My daughter swallows arrows of sunlight on her way to the grave.

Poetry

The grass is always greener in the cemetery, was a joke I made to Jed.

Spring Contest Winners

We chose to stay in the brutality of that night, even as the girls walked away.

Story of the Week

Oh, how fascinating it was, watching it all! It was exactly like a play.

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Poetry

I feel them slice me open and tug, then I smell my own innards burning.

Story of the Week

On that still, snowy day, Mick’s neck popped like a flaming log.

Story of the Week

The preacher looked me in the eye. He laid his hand on my chest.

Poem of the Week

Do you really want to live in this filth? And me answering, Well, yes.

Poetry

To enter the dust of their bedroom, to stand invisible on the plush carpet.

Fiction

Kenny Wade makes do with short-term schemes and part-time work.

Photography & Art

Twister Marquiss

Photography & Art

A new Wyoming photography portfolio from Twister Marquiss

Photography & Art

A new Wyoming photography portfolio from Twister Marquiss

iStories

He’s got it out. And I say Who’s there right now? Just your ex-wife.

Spring Contest Winners

Sonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?

Story of the Week

The world seemed newly made and filled with a frightening silence.

Fiction

Part of me wished I’d never tried heroin. The rest wanted to be high.

Fiction

Our grandmothers were bakers and nurses, spies and traitors.

Narrative Outloud

Sonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?

Narrative Outloud

Narrative Prize and Pushcart winner Anthony Marra reads “Chechnya.”

Nonfiction

The Warsaw Pact invaded in 1968
and soon banned Hrabal’s work.

Story of the Week

The interrogator was both man and deity, prophet and god.

Features

Our lives are often shaped by small, seemingly trivial choices.

Interviews

Lori & Garry Marshall

Poem of the Week

Sometimes in sunlight the scar shines, skin smooth and tight.

iPoems

Oklahoma, a state shaped like a pot, probably some gruel inside.

Graphic Stories

Since I am in my seventies, it is now or never, and I know it.

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Poem of the Week

I pass my hands over my eyes, mired by the miti-
gation of routine.

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Poetry

Diane Kirsten Martin

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Poetry

A car curved left, leapt the curb, and came at us like the line of a bullet.

N30B Winners

Welcome to my bed. I have these two beers, do you want them?

Poem of the Week

Sundays, your wife at Mass, we locked ourselves in my room.

Graphic Stories

People assume married cartoonists are laughing all the time.

Poem of the Week

That’s how a lifetime passes, closing the wound, a million stitches.

Story of the Week

Pale dust clung to their skin like the lime he had thrown on the dead.

Story of the Week

She transfigured into a swallow in flight, or a hippo in the rainy season.

Story of the Week

We left our lives behind us as fast as the Beemer’s zero to sixty.

Story of the Week

Shit happens, you still have to pay up or lose it all, even if it ain’t your fault.

Poem of the Week

I wonder why I feel bound to the gray-dry skin of you, the barrenness of feet.

Story of the Week

Frank Avery came into the kitchen. In his left hand he carried a .22 pistol.

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First & Second Looks

I thought it was beauty alone that gave significance to life.

Story of the Week

His eyes rested on the trees. By George, it’s like the garden of Eden.

Story of the Week

I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London.

Poem of the Week

Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.

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Story of the Week

Lebanon’s sky was full of stars. The sky here doesn’t have any stars.

Readers' Narratives

We crossed the length of Iran to reach a lake so big they called it a sea.

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Short Shorts

The linebacker grins, but the lines around his eyes tighten.

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Narrative By Hand

Ed McClanahan

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Fiction

Their leader is a badly wounded boy in need of wounding others.

Story of the Week

Their mother was the real beauty of the family, or so everyone said.

Classics

His hands stiffened so that the fingers curled inward like gray claws.

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Poem of the Week

I wanted to ask what her secret was but I was too busy knitting socks.

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Story of the Week

The features of the girl in the bathing suit suggest a mixed-race origin.

Poetry

Michael McGriff

Poem of the Week

A voice like my mother’s nail polish and my father’s lottery tickets.

iPoems

The light from dead stars only exists in the minds of the living.

iPoems

The dead man’s suit coat
 is a good fit through the shoulders.

Poetry

I have placed my thoughts for you in a nest of copper shavings.

Poem of the Week

If you are water my left hand is a horse thief my right hand is alder smoke.

iPoems

The grass is defiant, wild, and reluctant to take any shape.

Poem of the Week

Now he’s grazing my books. The Bible is his favorite so far. He is a goat.

Poetry

A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.

Poem of the Week

Get all of it. Set up the shots. Get beautiful stuff and get the ugliness.

Poem of the Week

Old wives, I wish I could be one of you. Instead I am the born old maid.

Poem of the Week

These things once-living drift toward the stone more movingly.

Story of the Week

A widow is sort of a holy figure, while a divorcée is a tawdry one.

Story of the Week

They all pivoted to face us, tan mannequins on a conveyor belt.

First & Second Looks

The thing that illuminated him might have been guilt or outright lust.

Classics

“As your brother, I ask you, how did you get that scar on your face?”

iPoems

Sitting on the edge, I leaned back and fell, wrist-deep, into the body of a deer.

Poem of the Week

My hands only knew. The painkillers in our mothers’ cabinets.

Story of the Week

My father would have ended my clandestine career on the spot.

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Poetry Contest Winners

Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.

Poetry

We spread. Kneel. We’ll come out missing parts. This we know.

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Readers' Narratives

In the school smock, I looked like an angel in search of her crèche.

Story of the Week

Sarah let herself be guided by her desire, inescapable and true.

Story of the Week

When you turn fifty, you have to prove to yourself you’ve got something left.

Fiction

Sue Mell

Story of the Week

She imagines his clothes on the floor, his arms wrapped around her waist.

Fiction

Whatever was wrong with his brain, he could still smell her skin.

Story of the Week

She pictures her suitcase covered in blood, wishing for anything to happen.

Story of the Week

Maybe she’s gay. I wonder if she masturbates when I’m out of the room.

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Poetry

I let you pull my hair, throw me to the rocks, disarrange me.

Poem of the Week

The pumpkins are looking up my skirt, making orange a kind of festive.

Story of the Week

Like a ghost, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.

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Features

The main thing a poet tries to do, above all things, is to write a poem.

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Story of the Week

You and me is as good as anybody else, and maybe a damn sight better.

Poetry

I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.

Story of the Week

Your intelligence and charisma would serve you well in life.

Story of the Week

The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.

Poem of the Week

We are going south where I know that my father is going to die.

iPoems

I woke in surprise to your breath warm as your skin on my neck.

Poem of the Week

Another light is growing out of their shadows. You can hear it.

Masterpieces

I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.

Poem of the Week

we are saying thank you in doorways and in the backs of cars

Poem of the Week

The dove calls from far away in itself to the hush of the morning

Poem of the Week

forget how to count starting with your own age starting with even numbers

Poem of the Week

What consequence is a body/a body nonetheless. If the light in me is gone.

Poetry Contest Winners

I slipped one sparrow black and shivering into my mouth.

iPoems

Always I obliged the urban tree, any speechless unblessed nature.

iPoems

My brother, only his son by the way he fixes his tie, blind-fingered.

iPoems

Draw me a map of your agonies, all the missing rivers you dried.

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Fiction

He was staring at his car like you might a stare at a dog.

Story of the Week

The person was seeing his printed face superimposed over his real one.

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Poem of the Week

Through Joan’s window, my childhood. I want this view.

Poetry

Finger tracing the terrain, you hold me through autumn’s loss of color.

Poetry

On the anniversary of your death, a memory sharpens, as if illuminated.

Poetry

Fidel narrates the home video: See the women on the beach? Beauty.

Poetry

I realized you were my fourth love, and the system was always doomed.

Poem of the Week

All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.

Poem of the Week

insomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives

Poem of the Week

One makes one’s peace with words in a poem and space in a dream.

Poem of the Week

The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.

Photography & Art

The pickup trucks in this portfolio were photographed in June 2015.

Poetry

cannibal chowder and a kiss by the splashing voices of a pool

Poem of the Week

Bees may not be bought. Our children may never know apples.

Poem of the Week

In every pair, one shoe smells of exodus, the other of the body’s sweat.

Poetry

Now the mulch has come between us seven turns, I’ve grown dramatic.

Poem of the Week

I wound through the Gothic castle buildings in the university.

Story of the Week

I should never have the notebook and the pencil in the right pockets.

Story of the Week

The presents you receive will not have been chosen with such care.

Story of the Week

We drove, talking fast, fast, fast. He was always going for my zipper.

Fiction

Your life is your own and then suddenly it belongs to someone else.

Fiction

Riding back from her studio, Ivy thought, I’ll just stop for a minute.

Poem of the Week

The horse is in the air, her legs withdrawn, a diamond shape.

Story of the Week

The stories of terror continued well after the tsunami had passed.

Poem of the Week

It comes as no surprise that everything is flying toward one point.

Poetry

My mother’s city and I were both named after an assassinated king.

Poetry

Sometimes they revert to trickery, apple their venom with a smile.

Fiction

Spanish men. They whispered and whistled. It made her jumpy.

Poetry

The poem I can’t yet write saves itself for when it can’t be avoided.

iPoems

To fulminate, to go on a tear, because what’s wanted is forbidden.

Poetry

What excuse did I use to pick a fight with that arrogant poet?

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Short Shorts

Arnold’s daily life was a race between money and death.

Readers' Narratives

I never prayed before. Since this happened I’ve been praying every night.

Story of the Week

Paul King was shiftless and drunken; ugly tales were told of him.

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Story of the Week

Our neighbors the Bells are watching, watching us when we play outside.

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Story of the Week

Ask your mother about babies. Ask her about the baby that died.

Interviews

What can go heartbreakingly wrong, and what would you do?

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Story of the Week

It was just what it was. Sex with someone who was not her husband.

Poetry

Premonitions return to me like a carrier pigeon, disaster strapped to its leg.

Poetry Contest Winners

Tongue, eye, nose—which has the shortest route to the brain, heart?

Poetry

This must be what it’s like to be seen by God as we inch toward the infinite.

Poem of the Week

He tossed her over his head like a ballerina, one rough hand on each hip.

Poetry

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

Poem of the Week

History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.

Poem of the Week

There is still the same reaching of the tongue for that pink ridge.

Poetry

The beasts and fowl and all manner of slithery thing can love like us.

Poetry

I’d wager a cicada is fond of a high note on a synthesizer.

Fiction

He grabbed me, groped for my hips, kissing me, smelling my hair.

Fiction

There in the trees, swinging from branch to branch, they saw Pete.

Fiction

Pete gazes into his mother’s soul and finds a piece of smoldering coal.

Story of the Week

The dog glares back at Roger, his eyes on fire, but he doesn’t let her go.

Fiction

She often feels something kinetic between herself and younger men.

Story of the Week

I am visited daily by unrelenting spirits evoking my accumulated flaws.

Poetry

At the core, a daughter is a self-reckoning emptiness.

Poem of the Week

We couldn’t tell which of us was a girl or a boy we gorged on dirt.

Poem of the Week

If you are going to be my teacher, you will have to become a tiger.

Poetry

There’s nowhere he can kiss where she hasn’t been kissed by the sun.

Poem of the Week

A suitcase of the body slapped with stickers of scars from every location.

Poetry

I know you want your mother’s dial tone like you want a KFC box.

Poetry Contest Winners

Exhausted, androgynous, delirious, I delight in my many parts.

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Narrative Taste

Diane cupped my cheek in her hand, studying me, memorizing me.

Six-Word Stories

An ironic story about skepticism and education, in just six words.

Story of the Week

Our hopes swirled around the act of swallowing a teaspoon of yogurt.

Fiction

Writing to you is like putting a note in a bottle, hoping it will reach Japan.

Story of the Week

My head was muffled in velvet, my body exposed in an old slip.

Story of the Week

He was so frail, how could your heart not break when you saw him?

Poetry

Carte blanche is bodily as chalk on dark asphalt, so enliven these eyes.