Stories
Nonfiction
I’m a theatrical lyricist. I would never choose to look fat in public.
Story of the Week
I loved hopping freight trains. It was cheap, dirty, and dangerous.
Nonfiction
I rented a house in the woods of East Hampton as a form of therapy.
Story of the Week
The streets were filled with couples and families on their way home.
Narrative Taste
Diane cupped my cheek in her hand, studying me, memorizing me.
Nonfiction
In the street waiting for a cab, Ann’s boyfriend entrusted me with the story.
Nonfiction
How many times had I passed it in a taxicab or walked within sight of it?
Nonfiction
I would chase it to the shores of the lake where the killer waited.
Story of the Week
Sudden camera blurs, blackouts, audio hiccups, silences.
Story of the Week
It is our nature to conform; it is a force which not many can resist.
Story of the Week
The personages in a tale shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
Hands brush the curtains, making them quiver like butterflies.
Nonfiction
Early on, Castro learned and opposed the unfairness of things.
Essays
Tonight these writers lower their eyes and silence their words.
Nonfiction
We serve them far more than they serve us. Service animals, we all are.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
My grandfather has a space where the tip of his thumb should be.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
He didn’t come to arrive, he came to go, and yet that didn’t matter.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
Soon I will walk up those same back steps the police took by force.
Nonfiction
I want to change the subject, but I can’t. I need to think about dying.
Story of the Week
As Ilya sauntered back toward us, I saw a boy with nothing to lose.
Story of the Week
Stories are places to live. We live in stories. What we are is stories.
Story of the Week
Home, I thought. This was the new country I had been yearning for.
Nonfiction
The intention of the writer is irrelevant to the success of the story.
Story of the Week
I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know my father’s grief.
Story of the Week
Like an idiot, I was flattered at first to get honorary degrees.
Story of the Week
We are nothing; less than nothing, we are only what might have been.
Story of the Week
“Who you kiddin? There’s no middle class anymore, we’re all just poor.”
Story of the Week
Writing at night just feels . . . sneaky. There’s an outlaw quality to it.
