Stories
Poem of the Week
You remind me of lizards birthed in an outhouse by an ogre or a loon.
Story of the Week
The girl I was could not have imagined the woman I grew up to become.
Readers' Narratives
While my plane had landed in Sweden, my soul still lagged behind.
Story of the Week
The boy imagined his dead grandfather haunting the world.
Story of the Week
“It means,” Stoner said again, and could not finish what he had begun.
Fiction
Long and black, almost thick, the night comes to drape my shoulders.
iPoems
Our fathers sit in their gear looking as mean as we knew them to be.
Poem of the Week
Weird that yellow’s the color of cowardice when the sun never runs.
Poem of the Week
They say the night watchman is so good he hears the grass growing.
Master Class
I think of each story as a big circle that’s all around me and I’m in the center.
Fall Contest Winners
“Mind you come straight home,” Mrs. Heywood always says.
Story of the Week
No one is dead, but you should come back. See what’s become of us.
Story of the Week
Truth, it seems, spills from movies and sitcoms in the wires’ wake.
Story of the Week
No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.
Fall Contest Winners
My sister’s fever wasn’t gone at all, but dazzling—suspended over us.
Story of the Week
This is a place where young girls are butchered in old-time songs.
Poetry
Nothing is beyond texture. Wind mouths the shape of clouds.
Story of the Week
Turned out Bauer was one of the ones brought alive by misery.
Story of the Week
Henry surprised himself with his inability to start looking for a job.
First & Second Looks
Ever since the accident, he and his wife made love a lot less often.
Poetry
Screaming, the children flew toward the trees in their saucers.
Poetry
People talk this way who would prefer the earth parceled out in standard lots.
Poetry
All my life I have noted that my thinking was atavistic, totemic.
Fiction
What was she thinking, driving alone to see a man she’d never met?
Poetry
I stuff cotton in my ears, bits of bird’s nest, anything to stop all that talk.
Graphic Stories
Up there there’s not a sound except for the wind and the buzzing of bees.
Poetry
Trysting lovers kissed while breezes fidgeted the leaves.
Poem of the Week
Fires, always fires after midnight, the sun depending in the purple birches.
