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.
When we emerged, the shore was littered with luminous discs.
“Do you have any idea how important you are?”
I dash outside with my tools. Here, my real work begins.
We were assigned straight to the lion’s muzzle.
Any word that keeps repeating & repeating is a prayer.
none of them survived that storm of men that arrived on their shores
She always came back with her lipstick smeared all over her mouth.
The way the sheet pleats below her thighs is somehow French.
Terror has a texture like shorn velvet, sensuous and severe.
I find in these blurred voices no borders or edges to grace.
It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.
Preserving lemons like her mother before her.
I panic. Pizza. 285 calories per slice. Burgers. Harder to estimate.
I see a color that was once unbled and call it you.
When she emerged, she would be wiped clean, even her memory.
Photographs exploring hope in the wake of devastation.
The stained-glass windows trapped a saint yearning for light.
I was one of the few kids D.A.R.E. had worked on.
Hello drug, hello dreg, my innumerable & faceless angels.
How to fossilize a feeling, sustain it in amber?
My thirteen-year-old bitterness could have shaken him to the ground.
A heaving chorus walked me down the aisle of my spine.
I touch the top of his foot with my finger, as lightly as a minnow.
Of course there are writers. And artists. In love with one or the other.
Sara pictures an even Judier Judy out-Judying Judy at school.
I can’t tell him no even if I wanted to.
If I’d known there’d be an epidemic, I wouldn’t have moved to France.
My dad was optimistic that he could be a one-armed farmer.
He has his hands on Nii’s throat, and this time I do not stop them.
“Lobsters aren’t criminals. They didn’t do anything wrong.”