Stories
Fall Contest Winners
You know how good she has always been at hiding herself.
Poem of the Week
The mirror will flow and the heart will set like glass in the frame of his bones.
Nonfiction
After days of torture in secret prisons, they were about to let him go.
Fiction
My husband screws around. Not much and not often, but I know.
Fiction
“With me for an uncle you don’t never need to be afraid of him, baby.”
Story of the Week
“Folks need other folks, that’s all I mean. Especially here in the Ohio.”
Story of the Week
It’s all good,” Mila says, meaning, it’s so not, her voice glass-like.
iStories
This is what he must have felt when she told him about her affair.
Story of the Week
So long as there was money, the girl felt established, and brutally proud.
Fiction
El Presidente was no longer in a mood to see the American press.
Fiction
At straight-up noon, the honeymoon was ruined, one day in.
First & Second Looks
A smell of shut-up apples and soap filled the room. There was nothing.
Six-Word Stories
The Human Comedy: Four new six-word stories by Sherman Alexie.
Six-Word Stories
These six-worders work in a strict three-act structure, like screenplays.
First & Second Looks
She takes her heart out of her chest, lets it surf the dating sites.
Poetry
Pinned to the wall, it looks uncannily its own language, trick of the camera.
Poetry
I can already feel the stone’s resistance as I work the first pass.
Story of the Week
I went for a natural, “I look pretty even when I’m giving birth,” look.
Poem of the Week
I’ve sinned. Cannot be saved. He was a child. Surely he went to heaven.
Readers' Narratives
After a lonely winter, a friend convinced me to try online dating.
Poetry
With no words to speak about our love, we’re each one more alone.
Story of the Week
The dark creatures are still, yet they give life to the whole mountain.
Story of the Week
I have three girls from my previous marriages, but she beats them all.
Story of the Week
Rebecca beheld the sword which was suspended over her people.
Classics
His hands stiffened so that the fingers curled inward like gray claws.
Classics
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.
Poetry
It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.
Poem of the Week
When she passes you, her name is a bright blue phrase on your tongue.
