Stories
Story of the Week
At nineteen I lived for three months as an earnest cocaine addict.
Poetry
Whitman may just mean: it is pretty cold, but there’s always colder.
Poem of the Week
she was right—hurricane being the name of the feeling, the twist of it.
Poetry
I could throw one of these rocks at the moon and watch it fall.
Fiction
The room barely fit a bed, a chest of drawers, and a rocker, all not hers.
Poem of the Week
and there I was five-foot-four and most way old enough to drive
Poem of the Week
The raven cocked its black eye, dipped its beak in the red pool.
Fiction
They wrapped him in bandages from all three kits. The old man watched them.
Poem of the Week
We say America you are magnificent and we meant we are heartbroken.
iPoems
Everything white is a white spider. The spider spins regardless of color.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
The heart cannot remember what the heart does—the mirror is no longer a mirror.
In my father’s garden ivy claws at the pale-blue shed.
Fall Contest Winners
Who cared about a whiff of male exertion and motor oil? Not Lana.
Story of the Week
“No one shoots when the army inoculates and hands out money.”
Poem of the Week
It was not me, but you who spoke first; the sheets began to unwind.
Nonfiction
They believed that the American movie should be taken seriously.
Poem of the Week
home is his hands, our bowls, so many gay fridge magnets.
Story of the Week
“You could come, too! No one’s forcing you to go to fucking China.”
Story of the Week
Don’t start conversations or attract attention. Don’t be suspicious.
Readers' Narratives
The house is full of houseguests and they’re giving Netflix a workout.
Poetry
I will leave the pills in their bottles, I will leave the bottles by my bed.
Photography & Art
The power to alter one’s life comes from a paragraph, a lone remark.
Story of the Week
It changes nothing. It’s nasty shit, and you’ve gotta get clean.
Story of the Week
I’d done what no woman of my race and social station had ever done.
Story of the Week
It was as if we were shedding our very selves to become someone else.
Interviews
Whether or not I’m working on the book, the book is working on me.
Narrative Outloud
Sam was like family. He was the angel of my writing life in every word.
Interviews
Jayne Anne Phillips recalls her friend, the legendary Sam Lawrence.
