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If a friend’s family is persecuted, call Sinn Fein on that number.
When his father was out cold he tied him up, roping his arms to his sides.
The author reads her story, a finalist in the Winter 2013 Story Contest.
In three years he had made her forget that blindness meant not seeing.
The night was clear, a fat kingfish moon in the sky with stars.
My father was neither kind nor strong in his bruising.
We loaded the packs and started down, into the bluing of dusk.
When we’re all together like this it feels like hope is a possibility.
Creating so many mail merges, loading ink, unjamming paper.
I saw Baryshnikov twice. Heard Pavarotti, Marsalis, and Ma.
Here’s a first, he said, some nutbag wants to dig the grave himself.
The story doesn’t begin until the van breaks down, I always say.
“And if you ever tell anybody what I’m about to tell you, I’ll deny it.”
“I’m looking for a Mr. Miller,” he said. “I was told I might find him here.”
“Why don’t you call yourself Butterfly?” he said. “A pretty thing like you.”
Words and sketches from Gail Godwin’s upcoming novel Flora.
The notebooks reveal insertions, deletions, queries, and corrections.
The handwritten first draft pages of Robert Olen Butler's first novel.
Handwritten drafts of “Byzantium,” “Easter, 1916,” and other poems.
When and why had I begun to think about Ingrid Stoltz? She was a bitch.
We pushed through the doors, back into the audition, among the lithe adults.
Somehow, Captain Brown made himself respected in Cranford.
The mortician who painted our girl was not a somber-suited officiant.
Papa’s link to that pond was a matter of blood. And the delicious carp.
I’m a theatrical lyricist. I would never choose to look fat in public.
And up ahead you'll see some jagged rocks that will kill us.
Don’t worry. I’ve performed this procedure hundreds of times.
“No, actually you are very different from the women I usually date.”