Stories
Poem of the Week
The neighbor needs his blaring-music his car-cocoon of sound
Poetry
Now, this new dark blot on the street. Maybe motor oil, or blood or worse.
Story of the Week
The pictures were taken in the woods, naked from the waist down.
Story of the Week
She had instinct for seeing what she could make happen.
Poem of the Week
A rifle, empty shells, the remains of a man, a bullet through his chest.
Story of the Week
You knelt down to kiss her, avoiding, of course, the wound at her brow.
Poem of the Week
Every step I’ve taken has been from one tongue to another.
Poem of the Week
Many people remarked upon the similarities between the flags.
Story of the Week
I wanted to tear away at the fabric of my pants, dig open my skin.
Poem of the Week
Oh love is stupid but it’s true, all day I feel as if I were a dog on a chain.
Story of the Week
Stories are places to live. We live in stories. What we are is stories.
iStories
She holds the shirt to her face and inhales. With a start she pulls away.
Nonfiction
The intention of the writer is irrelevant to the success of the story.
Poem of the Week
What we know of love between species we learn from the bones.
iStories
My husband barely noticed, while I felt the sharp bite of her words.
Interviews
I didn’t know I would be any good. But I knew I wanted to be a poet.
Fiction
“There’s got to be some way through this,” he says, “without losing her.”
Nonfiction
The human heart is far more intricate than any single term can describe.
Fiction
The waitress looked us over, wondering, I guess, if we were famous.
First & Second Looks
My mother did not want me to get any darker than I already was.
Poem of the Week
Is there anything that hasn’t been sold yet? If it’s true then let’s celebrate.
Story of the Week
In medical school they forgot to tell me about caring and feeling.
Short Shorts
The Wolf put on a great performance, crawling around on the stage.
Poem of the Week
Do you really want to live in this filth? And me answering, Well, yes.
Poetry
Love isn’t the same as happiness. Some poet probably said that.
Poem of the Week
It wasn’t so long ago I carried my tiny son piggyback through the woods.
Readers' Narratives
There’s a time to be born and a time to die, and there’s also a time to run.
