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Spring Contest Winners

My mother was dead. Almost a month she was dead, killed by me.

Fiction

I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.

Features

To see—and to see properly—is the writer’s central responsibility.

Narrative Outloud

I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.

Nonfiction

I understood that life could end without warning, even young lives.

Nonfiction

Why do girls want to cheerlead? Don’t they know it objectifies women?

Nonfiction

I think you’re carrying on to get your brothers in trouble.

Story of the Week

This Lee was a woman, and she was a painter, and she was good.

Nonfiction

In the seventies a skier’s mettle was measured by the length of his skis.

Story of the Week

She says, It’s so difficult to find a good guy. My lips form a half smile.