Stories

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Classics

The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.

Fiction

Five dark shapes loped after the car. Dogs—as far as the eye could see.

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Story of the Week

They would find certain and awful death in Afghanistan.

Fiction

This is not deception. This is a subtle way of conditioning.

Fiction

I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.

Narrative Outloud

I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.

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Story of the Week

How shocking it was to discover these real things were not real.

iStories

If, on your deathbed, you want to watch a movie, don’t let me pick.

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Nonfiction

Marriage changes passion. Suddenly you’re in bed with a relative.

Nonfiction

We want to revisit what life was like before technology infected us.

Poetry

Sometimes a you is a lover, but he is not my lover. He is looking at me.

Photography & Art

Merwin discovered and restored eighteen acres of abandoned land.

Readers' Narratives

He handed us sticks of dynamite, rolled in wax paper like taffy.

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Story of the Week

Miss Moses smiled, I could take you, buster. Don’t try anything with me.

Graphic Stories

Hannah Sarvasy

Story of the Week

Jane’s made it clear, this Renuka might not even become a doctor.

iPoems

I woke in surprise to your breath warm as your skin on my neck.

Story of the Week

Your mother still glows with a smoothness that you envy.

Classics

He always talked of making money with the air of a connoisseur.

Fiction

She was no man’s dark dream, only a girl forced to swim half-clothed.

Story of the Week

She accused her husband with great drama of having destroyed her life.

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Fiction

Ron Carlson

iPoems

To fulminate, to go on a tear, because what’s wanted is forbidden.

Nonfiction

Our visions of the world fade like the morning star, lost in the light of day.

Fiction

The child is too perfect to be human; too perfect, truthfully, to exist.

Poetry

This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.

Poem of the Week

A man sits in the Institute of National Memory examining files.

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Poem of the Week

I ask if you are all right until you can be nothing but not all right, not okay.