Stories
Poem of the Week
My stepfather has gone out with a blanket to place over a doe’s body.
Poetry
I want to step out into sun to scintillate for waves to come and spray.
Story of the Week
The problem, as it turned out, is: Forever can be surprisingly short.
Poem of the Week
Stocking shelves, like serving, is a job that will not let go of your mind.
Poem of the Week
He tries to appear slight in his leather jacket and turbulent jeans.
Profiles
Lee has taken on several of the great novelists of the past century.
Graphic Stories
The car is only a couple years old, but its memory taps into the past.
Story of the Week
I remember the sun on the mountain like a trembling drop of lava.
When the lasso dancers were done, they kicked away like wild colts.
Story of the Week
“Well, it’s a dark world, Suzanne. She’s old enough to know that.”
Story of the Week
When nobody knows where you are, you get to talk however you want.
Readers' Narratives
I thought that if we built a big family our house would be full of life.
Poem of the Week
That piece of flesh you’re with is a high school student, a minor.
Poetry
I have placed my thoughts for you in a nest of copper shavings.
Fiction
The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen has become the saddest.
Story of the Week
You are not a soldier, I thought. You are a dog, tail between his legs.
Story of the Week
I pictured you at Bagram Airfield in a metal coffin, quiet and still.
Poem of the Week
You mixed a drink of sugar, rum, brackish debris. The ice was finite.
Poem of the Week
You didn’t speak, your eyes lobbed incendiary shells over the harbor.
Poetry
They found her where such girls are found. A Manhattan street.
Story of the Week
The specimen, a man oblivious, is beautiful to behold, perfect, enough.
Poem of the Week
A spider drifted down so slowly from the ceiling on a silver thread.
Poem of the Week
A summer without passion, our selves pulled together like the leaves.
Readers' Narratives
The mountains out your window make Central Park feel rinky-dink.
Poem of the Week
The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence.
Readers' Narratives
I wanted to pretend that all we wanted out of life was money.
