30 Below 30

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.

Britt Allen
Harvest
My family split up in the cornfield. God knows why.
Yasmine Ameli
Bedtime Stories
Once, he advises Shah to consider how we turn for the sun.
Justin Balog
Observations on Connectivity
Einstein postulated that space and time sit neatly on the same fabric
Alex Bernstein
Love and Farewell
Very few people get narcissism like my father.
Emma Binder
Real Trees Are a Different Matter
as opposed to fake trees, which you can put anywhere.
Kate Bond
The First Time and Other Poems
I let the other kids run their fingers down my fresh scar.
Will Brewbaker
Ulysses Recapitulates and Other Poems
Not a wreckage so much as a slow slipping-under-the-water.
Britny Cordera
Mother of the Cane River Creoles
Ink to paper, she is inventory, has a price tag.
Madeleine Cravens
Object Permanence and Other Poems
Today Brooklyn is a beautiful, devastating autumn.
J. D. Debris
Beachfront
Beachfronts like Bolaño’s and mine are Nowhere.
Will Frazier
It Began
When the doctor said your life will never be the same.
Jessica Hincapie
Doorknob Comments
It should be clear that these dreams of ours are brutes.
Jennifer Huang
Nonconcordant
When you ask to watch hentai together, I can’t stop myself.
Ghinwa Jawhari
From BINT
actresses, their pealing laughs breaking laws in every language
Angie Kang
This Place We Call Home
I was constantly reminded that the apartment didn’t belong to us.
Elane Kim
Aubade in the Aftermath
You can learn to exhale. Let the marrow of dusk leak onto your knees.
Sarah Lao
Triptych
I come home in the evenings to Mother scraping my scalp for God.
Jessica Lee
When I Think of Early Romance I Think of Fishing
I wouldn’t know what to do with the body, gills pumping.
Nadra Mabrouk
The Poultry Trader’s Daughter Inherits the Business
Tonight the hens refuse to sleep.
Seong Eun Macfarlane
Origin of the World
Witness the birth of humankind in this graphic story.
Aman Rahman
Ivy
In my father’s garden ivy claws at the pale-blue shed.
Michael A. Reyes
Carmelita/Michael
Laughable their failed flights and fear of the small harmless thing.
Max Seifert
The Monkey’s Face and Other Poems
There are guys living here in the tall grasses like forest ticks.
Rob Shapiro
Seasonal Diptych
The sun vanishes like the men in my family who’ve died.
Caroline Shea
A Heroine’s Primer
No one truly wants the hero home. A scar in the shape of a daughter.
Simon Shieh
Training at the Yizhuang Combat Sports Academy, 2008
Some days they are gentle. Some days they leave me concussed.
Rome Smaoui
Days of Summer
“If a man wanted, he could be anything and not come back.”
Paige Welsh
Callisto
If bodies and faces are random, why do they matter so much?
JinJin Xu
On the Isle of Fast-Flowing Waters
My dear, even my ear is trying to eat itself in its attempt to forget you.
Tryphena L. Yeboah
The Ravages of an Unloved Life
I do very much, with all my heart, want to be all things beautiful.

30 Below 30

My family split up in the cornfield. God knows why.

Once, he advises Shah to consider how we turn for the sun.

Einstein postulated that space and time sit neatly on the same fabric

Very few people get narcissism like my father.

as opposed to fake trees, which you can put anywhere.

I let the other kids run their fingers down my fresh scar.

Not a wreckage so much as a slow slipping-under-the-water.

Ink to paper, she is inventory, has a price tag.

Today Brooklyn is a beautiful, devastating autumn.

Beachfronts like Bolaño’s and mine are Nowhere.

When the doctor said your life will never be the same.

It should be clear that these dreams of ours are brutes.

When you ask to watch hentai together, I can’t stop myself.

actresses, their pealing laughs breaking laws in every language

I was constantly reminded that the apartment didn’t belong to us.

You can learn to exhale. Let the marrow of dusk leak onto your knees.

I come home in the evenings to Mother scraping my scalp for God.

I wouldn’t know what to do with the body, gills pumping.

Tonight the hens refuse to sleep.

Witness the birth of humankind in this graphic story.

In my father’s garden ivy claws at the pale-blue shed.

Laughable their failed flights and fear of the small harmless thing.

There are guys living here in the tall grasses like forest ticks.

The sun vanishes like the men in my family who’ve died.

No one truly wants the hero home. A scar in the shape of a daughter.

Some days they are gentle. Some days they leave me concussed.

“If a man wanted, he could be anything and not come back.”

If bodies and faces are random, why do they matter so much?

My dear, even my ear is trying to eat itself in its attempt to forget you.

I do very much, with all my heart, want to be all things beautiful.