Stories
Story of the Week
I should never have the notebook and the pencil in the right pockets.
Poem of the Week
The appendix on political correctness explains why none of that is funny.
Classics
I had the tongue of an adder and my heart was black with rage and hate.
Poem of the Week
You are afraid pain itself might develop a way to communicate.
Poem of the Week
We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.
Poetry
For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.
Poem of the Week
In every pair, one shoe smells of exodus, the other of the body’s sweat.
Fiction
The first time I met you I fought your father in the driveway.
First & Second Looks
Happiness is rare. There are no happy periods, only happy moments.
Fiction
We are like a village here, separated from the rest of the world.
Poem of the Week
One door teaches to read for meaning and pleasure. Another shuts.
Poetry
As Andromeda, I practiced lapidary, cut my bare foot on the nautilus shell.
Poetry
I want to cut loose from her each wistful sigh I hear escape her lips.
Story of the Week
It’s just a great big old world with Santa and angels all around.
Poetry
His fingers traveling through these notes can assuage, I think, all pain.
Interviews
Since I was little I was always wondering, What makes people tick?
Fiction
Poems and stories are the whisperings of angels we cannot see.
Story of the Week
I dream of snakes coming out of me and through the house to find her.
Poetry
Why not keep singing when another car pulls up to the light?
Poetry
It’s another thing to have the beloved hesitate, silent, on the porch.
Story of the Week
‘Isn’t this great?’ she said. ‘A bit of peace for ourselves?’
‘No one could go into a cafe on their own on Christmas Day.’
Poem of the Week
she was sixteen, and swimming. she was seventy-one, and soft.
Story of the Week
Their mother was the real beauty of the family, or so everyone said.
Story of the Week
When Roy got to school he told his friend Jimmy Boyle about the dead body.
Poetry
When I land we argue over the little hazards a marriage is made of.
Poem of the Week
Tell me our species matters more, tell me that, and I, I will crawl back.
Poetry Contest Winners
The highway hot with possibility, a new herd expected every five miles.
Fiction
“Please, please, please,” she begged the class. “Please don’t do it.”
