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.
To miss my life in Kabul is to tongue pears laced with needles.
I’m feeling uneasy and almost guilty.
What spilled out of the stereo lay on my floor. Breathing.
She holds her breath all the way through the metal detectors.
Somehow I felt like I’d known you before.
I’d like to be let go, after, like a balloon wafting toward heaven.
I see like a bat how the dead must see the living.
When you are sixteen and sixty-five pounds, you are all shadows.
I can almost hear my aunts laughing, clutching their bellies.
A psychologist told me we can train our dreams.
Sam from the balcony above mine, you are very loud at living.
I am driving under the drug of a glacier.
Summer days stretch like saltwater taffy.
On the farm there was a low music to it.
It seems to me a blessing now that my sister came first.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I said. “It’s kind of a family emergency.”
I spotted him walking up the hill like a seagull on the beach.
As a child she spent days like this in mud.
Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.
May you unlock things, e.g., mythic eggs.
I let the baby mouse live because I cannot kill what has ears.
My grandfather only told my father one story about Iwo.
Mother, I am not married but I give, am giving, fullness
One sings we in a time of chastised dreams and militia checkpoints.
Kisses when I didn’t want them. Hands too.
First the chickens, gone in a fluster, whiter than somebody else’s ash.
I forget what shade of brown I am in this part of the state.
“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”
I’m arriving at the door of a bright blue June.
Lucy Liu, you are good at being the head of a crime ring.