What follows is a conversation with Stacey Levine. I have wanted to... more

Doug Nufer is one of the foremost constraint-based writers in the United States. You could even... more

My boss’s dealer was an Israeli guy named Amir who lived in Highland Park with his girlfriend and drove a Porsche. I met him one... more

I’ll be the blonde-haired pony and you be the three-toed sloth on LSD. You be “altered.”... more

The chemistry started in biology class. It was first period, and Roo had just gotten her first period. She could smell... more

My father, when he tried to quit smoking, used to suck on aquarium stones he sterilized at work. He claimed they worked better than candy... more

In April, we ran our first ever "Hobart expert picks" for the 2011 baseball season. With the season just now... more

  Its been... more

  Presume a bathroom and a row of yellow and hotly round fluorescents above the mirror. Presume a young woman with her hip to the... more

You are a good-looking man. You know this because people tell you all the time, sometimes out of nowhere. You assume that people... more

  After the divorce, my uncle Nicolai became an amateur taxidermist. His first attempts were on roadkill, then... more

This is the story about how I lost my husband.     Jamie had been in the hospital getting blood... more

The Mayor, after several days of grieving, emerged from his hacienda at the hour that was once called lunch. He passed his guards, then slowly—laboriously—carried his voluminous frame through the streets, stopping at the square's one remaining café and ordering a well-cooked steak. The sun glared down from the cloudless sky and illuminated the Mayor, capturing him in full as he spread himself across a stool and held his knife and fork in a rehearsed display of indefatigable hope. There was still meat, he wanted the people to see. There was still a mayor. There was still a town, present and alive in that square.

Dark Sky is a fine new publisher whose books are strange... more

The epigraph to Alex Shakar’s Luminarium could be a request or a... more

I arrive at the party and there are about four people there—wait, there are ten more in the back room. Now there are six more at... more

It is Sunday when the dogs come. The church bells ring and ring and my mother says to my sister like she does every week... more

I know a lot about the way a body grows in bed. I know a lot about sleep, which takes place inside the bed. I know about the dreams that... more

People think we’re in love, like goo-goo eyes and fingering, because we’re always together, Katie Jean and I.... more

The women were exceedingly beautiful that night. It did not move me to see them, even with their hair tossed back and asses... more

Kevin Wilson is the author of a story collection, Tunneling to the Center of the Earth(Ecco/Harper Perennial, 2009), and a novel, The Family Fang (Ecco, 2011). He lives and teaches in Sewanee, TN.Kevin Wilson is the author of a story collection, Tunneling to the Center of the Earth(Ecco/Harper Perennial, 2009), and a novel, The Family Fang (Ecco, 2011). He lives and teaches in Sewanee, TN.

  At one a.m. a man loads mannequin parts into the trunk of an orange hatchback. “I signed up for a thing... more

  What Daddy Our departure is very alarming to me, still. I still feel caution tape around my heart. But... more

  [The following text and pictures are taken from the personal website of my brother, Austin Hinderliter. It... more

  The Vanishing Ball Player Moses Cage (1960 - ?) My hands, nets. My... more

All Paige heard was her watch ticking. She peeled away the cement smell and damp that grew in the old basement where Buddy... more

I can be naked and drunk on the sailboat and only the cat will ever know. She's under a deck chair, pressing her eyes like... more

Her husband allows her all things but one — she cannot open the door in the tower. He is a private man — coyly old... more

The holes in Dean's shoes let in the rain that streamed in rivers down the sleek asphalt of Ruby Lane. His feet... more