A vital part of Narrative’s mission is to encourage and support young writers and artists. Here are some of the writers under thirty we are proud to have published in the past year.
America, this is your immigrant.
You’re one Indian and a fraud, flying toward Delaware.
They see me as what I am not and have never been.
Here’s a room where every bullet planted blooms.
Andy works up enough courage to make the jump.
I’ve divined the tea leaves, and the cup says: dry.
Too much tenderness can kill those who have forgotten it.
Can Jordan sleep over this weekend, Inshallah?
The Lord should not have made women so beautiful.
Three words. Never spoken.
Once, someone told me I have a small heart.
How ridiculous we looked, this weekly preshow ritual of belonging.
The triumph of money over matter was nearly complete.
To my Ahgong, you were a refuge.
Of course it hurts knowing how this is all so wrong of me.
Gravity bends together this planet and your life.
The details always the same. Salt wind tearing at his jacket.
Good morning. Morro da Providência has awoken and you must too.
We know the lode we’re westing toward.
We listened to rose-brass trombones step through the octaves.
There’s more than one way to bet on a racehorse.
I set coffee cups catching a liquid the color of bone marrow.
I am eleven, and lucky.
Alone, I conduct experiments. I communicate with storms.
As in an Escher print, it’s the geometry that convinces.
She disappears, pretends she’s the one who can fly.
Ocean, don’t be afraid.
That cake batter frappe you drank— it gave you gold lips.
Night wind. Congeries of snow. Wreckery of seachill.
for eight weeks no one heard my voice for eight weeks no one slept