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Showing results for September, 2022

Can’t remember the last time I had a hard-on photo
September 29, 2022 | Nonfiction

Can’t remember the last time I had a hard-on

Kristian O'Hare

Now I bake bread to stay busy, to not think about dying.

Start Over, But With Luck This Time photo
September 29, 2022 | Fiction

Start Over, But With Luck This Time

Sam Berman

Our dad knew about Surface-to-Air missiles. Our mother knew what we told her.

Alex Perez on The Iowa Writers’ Workshop, baseball, growing up Cuban-American in Miami & saying goodbye to the literary community photo
September 29, 2022 | Interview

Alex Perez on The Iowa Writers’ Workshop, baseball, growing up Cuban-American in Miami & saying goodbye to the literary community

Elizabeth Ellen

What connects people isn’t color or creed or gender or stupid political taxonomies, but the existential despair that comes for us all. How do you respond to that despair once it comes for you? I never feel closer to a person than when they share a piece of their despair with me, and rarely, if ever, does it have anything to do with politics or ideology. It’s always about loneliness or heartbreak or loss, etc. It’s about life. The best art reflects that despair we all face back at us; it doesn’t separate us from other people.

How to Keep Things Alive photo
September 28, 2022 | Poetry

How to Keep Things Alive

Beth Gordon

The daisies never stay in chains: they are almost dead. Some
xenias will last all summer if I can keep the slugs away.

The Beautiful Home of Emma Valdesto photo
September 28, 2022 | Fiction

The Beautiful Home of Emma Valdesto

Sam Berman

I’m trying to lose my ego before Coachella.

A More Scenic Route Home photo
September 27, 2022 | Nonfiction

A More Scenic Route Home

John Darcy

Give me death and bloody rapture. Give me commensurate devastation. Make Revelation look like summer camp.

I Could Signal Dominance in Email Correspondence as Trained but the Concept Is Offensive and I’m Baby photo
September 27, 2022 | Poetry

I Could Signal Dominance in Email Correspondence as Trained but the Concept Is Offensive and I’m Baby

Sarah Lyn Rogers

I, I, I, I, the angel speaks herself

The Origins of Earth's Second Wave photo
September 26, 2022 | Fiction

The Origins of Earth's Second Wave

Lily Arnell

And sure, not all moths were so blindly abiding, but that these grand ideas remained a possibility was often enough to console or comfort the moth. You see, the moth, culturally, was keenly aware of toxic attachments—meaning, they were rigidly open to all possibilities in an effort not to favor one delusion over another.

I Prefer Gucci photo
September 25, 2022 | fucked up modern love essays

I Prefer Gucci

Keith Mason

it was the kind of night that made el segundo smell bad

Artifacts from Bachelorhood photo
September 25, 2022 | fucked up modern love essays

Artifacts from Bachelorhood

David McDannald

Inside her door sat a bin jammed with what seemed a thousand umbrellas.

Two Stories photo
September 23, 2022 | Fiction

Two Stories

Alex Higley

These words did not sound like her own. She’d either discussed with a friend her dilemma or searched words like “emotional betrayal husband,” or “texting another woman limitation,” or “phone cheating no sex no pictures” or both. It was both. I could sense her attempt at complete preparedness in the quality of her attention.

Another Day at the Museum of Forgetfulness photo
September 23, 2022 | Poetry

Another Day at the Museum of Forgetfulness

Todd Campbell

I finger a ring of keys and wonder what doors they might unlock.

Saturday Night photo
September 22, 2022 | Nonfiction

Saturday Night

Ellie Lynch

He tells me he bought an ex girlfriend a $500 original copy of The Bell Jar. I say oh wow.

Bury My Heart in the Desert photo
September 21, 2022 | Poetry

Bury My Heart in the Desert

Julian Guy

I, too, disappeared there, in the vertebrae of the house,
pressed like a thumbprint to the body’s shallow spine.

Best Debut Short Stories 2022: The PEN America Dau Prize INTRODUCTION photo
September 20, 2022 |

Best Debut Short Stories 2022: The PEN America Dau Prize INTRODUCTION

Yuka Igarashi & Sarah Lyn Rogers

Celebrating the publication today of this year's Best Debut Short Stories: The PEN America Dau Prize, including—among many other amazing and wonderful and brilliant stories—our very own "Them Bones"

I knew a terrible man once photo
September 20, 2022 | Poetry

I knew a terrible man once

Jennifer E Brown

There I was on Clement Street in the morning, trying to grow another body.

Drill, 2001 photo
September 19, 2022 | Poetry

Drill, 2001

Nicholas Molbert

My childhood was trained in full-body flinch.

The Old Dog and Eternity photo
September 19, 2022 | Fiction

The Old Dog and Eternity

Lily Arnell

Sure, he’d miss chewing certain types of wood, the smell of garbage disposal, the indescribable pleasure of being shaded by a tree or large shrub. He could wait until spring, he supposed, to die among the scent of lilacs, one last taste of sweet pansy, a final sting of bee balm.

I Never Slept In My Bed On Ambien photo
September 18, 2022 | fucked up modern love essays

I Never Slept In My Bed On Ambien

R. Jones

Hello,

the worst thing about stopping Ambien was that I never did it with anybody else.

I did it alone in my bathtub.

I did it alone, smoking in the water, & when it kicked in I’d let the

M*A*S*H Notes photo
September 17, 2022 | Nonfiction

M*A*S*H Notes

Vivien Bui

I cannot express to you how badly I want to avoid talking about race. But there’s an elephant in the room... I was a few seasons in when I was struck with the realization of M*A*S*H’s ancillary role in my own history.

The Doctrine of the Mean photo
September 16, 2022 | Nonfiction

The Doctrine of the Mean

Yejun Chun

As soon as I looked into the faces of my fellow classmates, I realized that we all arrived here by the same road. The most enthusiastic people had their cameras turned off.

Sonnet for the Physical Therapist Who Told Me This is Just

the Way the Good Lord Made Me  photo
September 15, 2022 | Poetry

Sonnet for the Physical Therapist Who Told Me This is Just the Way the Good Lord Made Me 

Billie R. Tadros

It’s a sin,
to desire different architecture, I’m told

Three Tales photo
September 15, 2022 | Fiction

Three Tales

Tetman Callis

I didn’t hurt him, except maybe his feelings.

my beloved forgets how to pray photo
September 14, 2022 | Poetry

my beloved forgets how to pray

Anthony Thomas Lombardi

in a cellar not far from here, wine waits years to peak
before a bottle is cracked open only to empty
a bruise.

Living Outside the Present photo
September 13, 2022 | Nonfiction

Living Outside the Present

David Yourdon

All I do is force my son out of the present moment. He’s five years old. For him, there is hardly anything but the present moment.

Two Girls photo
September 12, 2022 | Fiction

Two Girls

Matilda Lin Berke

Coolness is an anchor, a fortress, a cold and remote puritanism.

A Toddler Unmakes His Father’s Laundry photo
September 12, 2022 | Poetry

A Toddler Unmakes His Father’s Laundry

Geoff Anderson

Burying me # alive 
in training pants and # rags is my son’s 
# gift of sorts

How I Remember It photo
September 11, 2022 | fucked up modern love essays

How I Remember It

Sammi LaBue

 

1.

Remember when you would sit on the floor of my lavender painted room when I was 15 and you were 21? You’d twirl a dreadlock around your finger looking up at the wall of Teen People Magazine

Stir It Up: Katie Gutierrez talks about family recipes, writing with limited childcare, and her new novel More Than You’ll Ever Know photo
September 9, 2022 | Interview

Stir It Up: Katie Gutierrez talks about family recipes, writing with limited childcare, and her new novel More Than You’ll Ever Know

Hannah Grieco

Once upon a time, long before she was on Good Morning America, I met the kindest writer on Twitter. Not only was she a relatable mother-writer, but she also understood Scrivener. This was absolutely

Then, Unsolving photo
September 9, 2022 | Poetry

Then, Unsolving

David Wright

how hurt you were by the fix,
by the algorithm I invented
to decide if my mouth was too much,
if my hands were too busy,