Authors

Graphic Stories

Death pointed the gun in his socket and blew off some of his skull.

Story of the Week

“You are a strange one,” she says. “Do you want to see my new tattoo?”

Spring Contest Winners

Our ambition was a clawing, grasping thing. It got us out of bed.

Poem of the Week

I waited and waited, rethinking first sentences in my sleep.

Poetry

Everything is mine on loan: the leaves I’ve combed out of my hands.

Poem of the Week

I’d make a tub of mud to keep live crabs. I’d refill it daily.

N30B Winners

For eight weeks no one heard my voice for eight weeks no one slept.

Narrative Outloud

Do the work. Every day. Take a step back and see if you love it.

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Fiction

No one answered. I turned to his parents. My stomach felt on fire.

Poem of the Week

I’m a slave to the question what kind of music would ever dare leave you.

Poem of the Week

One door teaches to read for meaning and pleasure. Another shuts.

Poetry

In the many pages of the book of love this is only one story.

Poem of the Week

Noelle, somewhere symphony number two listens to you breathing.

Poetry

Condemned to an easy life balanced on the suffering in another land.

Poem of the Week

A man sits in the Institute of National Memory examining files.

Poetry

O Fatima if only you would lean my way my heart would quiver.

iPoems

Our fathers sit in their gear looking as mean as we knew them to be.

Poem of the Week

The one who sold me a smuggled gun sold me smuggled bullets.

Poetry

I wish to see the land release my heart from the corpse of longing.

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Fiction

The first murder had been a half dozen years ago in a warmer city.

Story of the Week

It was a Tuesday, so they made love. She thought it was a fair compromise.

Story of the Week

A plus B; a child in peril, plus love, dissolution of, equals a story.

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Narrative Outloud

We are teachers so maybe we can help something change, tap into something.

Interviews

When I walked in, the kids applauded. They were like, “The poet’s back!”

Story of the Week

Take this man, Stepan. His deep mellow voice soars in my heart.

Story of the Week

Human language, Winston thought, was not adequate for spiritual union.

Readers' Narratives

My first memory is the day of mourning after John Lennon died.

Story of the Week

The war was about to begin, and the four boys were
in charge.

Fiction

She wants something red and shiny that always works.