A vital part of Narrative’s mission is to encourage and support young writers and artists. Here are some of the writers under thirty we are proud to have published in the past year.
“Save the whiskey words, Mom.”
The place you’re returning to is rife with betrayal.
I prefer to remember finding you sitting cross-legged.
It was the year our mother became an origami fiend.
It would freeze soon—November being November.
Whistle of a train breaking from the floorboards, music of wet cement.
It is the night of whores and monsters.
If I’m alive, then I’m ashamed at my mouth, silent as a thief.
I wanted to eat fish. I wanted a quick fix.
were all here pregaming. at my dads apt. Wher the duck are u.
They’re learning how to hunt, how to be afraid of people.
You carried the dog back in your arms like an offering.
I’m a pool noodle with too many feelings.
Soap myself up, pluck my toes like a harp.
I am left with little Rome for error.
Predators don’t go around showing their cutlery.
It’s been hard, this hug embargo.
Who am I to say no to a god?
Alas one tries hard drugs, one hates like a land stolen.
Welcome to my bed. I have these two beers, do you want them?
My mother says the feralness in me is unbecoming.
Fucking gorgeous. I smile, letting the words replay in my mind.
I sit on my bed at 12: 22 a.m., pondering this essay’s word limit.
Vodka looks like a gray sky collapsing over a wide field.
The rest of America still calls you a refugee.
I could imagine all the flaws I usually saw in the mirror.
We make our way to the Kalashnikov Museum.
I never thought I’d scalp a fellow tribal member.
Imagine several thousand paper bombs swimming through air.
Always be in conversation with what you want to create.