Stories
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.
Poetry
We were assigned straight to the lion’s muzzle, the Sardasht front.
Winter Contest Winners
It dawned on me my passion was not for her but for the making-up.
Poetry
We inked our flightless limbs with needles and drew longing to the skin.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
I walk over to her for what seems to be an eternity. “May I have this dance?”
N30B Winners
What is greater: the distance between these bodies, or their need?
Poetry
Here lies the girl difficult to discern. Here lies the girl misanthropic.
First & Second Looks
I like chess because you can spend hours without speaking.
Story of the Week
Her wide and vicious mouth blossomed into a savage smile.
Narrative Outloud
He could not stop marveling at the velvet quality of
her skin.
her skin.
Narrative Outloud
The palm’s outline shimmied in the sunlight against the aqua curtain.
Readers' Narratives
Rows of women, young and old, were bent over sewing machines.
Nonfiction
If I weaseled out of Bible study a little early, he’d speed me to the gym.
Story of the Week
I saw the man for the first time in Budapest on the Széchenyi Bridge.
Poem of the Week
Snug in the spell of a cradle rocking, I remember the first time I floated.
