Stories
Narrative Outloud
I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.
Story of the Week
“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.
Poem of the Week
I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.
First & Second Looks
Imagine. I was more fertile than this piece of land. Twenty-six children.
Story of the Week
Everyone they pass is consumed by some desperate interior story.
Story of the Week
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
Poem of the Week
The shorebirds bank toward the west—flashing too fast to decipher.
Poetry
I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.
First & Second Looks
I am old now and have not much to fear from the anger of gods.
Spring Contest Winners
I yelled into the phone, naming her disrespect and dishonor.
Nonfiction
Art, like writing, is an invitation to be surprised, to be open to revelation.
Poem of the Week
Here: geeky cyber-warriors crunch cheese Cheetos over keyboards.
Poetry
I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
I keep hearing water sprites chattering, breathing.
Essays
Ike’s voice left behind on the shore as Tina plunges in again.
Story of the Week
I found Lowell’s gun a long time ago. He’s not a genius at hiding things.
Poetry
The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.
Narrative Outloud
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
Narrative Outloud
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
Poem of the Week
My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.
Poem of the Week
Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.
Narrative Outloud
A serious young man, I had trouble saying yes to the bright, clear days.
Poetry
They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.
Story of the Week
The leaves of the olives were made entirely of night, as if cut out of skies.
Poetry
Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.
Poem of the Week
I bow to the life being lived in this finch on my terrace this morning.
