Biracial

By Anri Wheeler
“You don’t look biracial,” he says, certain. We’ve just met.

Photo Story: The Trumpe...

By Natalie Wu
She waits in the corner, haughty and lacquered. I always sit close, inhaling her delicate scent of beeswax polish.

Carriage

By Sarah Swandell
The day of the appointment, I hit a bird with my car.

Catching Rose Baxter in...

By Sabrina Hicks
She slid through her memories, trying to capture one, fireflies filling summer near a croaking pond...

Cleansed

By Gary Duncan
She says don’t look in the bedside cupboard, so I look. There’s a Bible, a spare pillow and a small pile of toenail clippings.

Photo Story: Hydroponic...

By Tamara Stanley
It is mostly summer now. Above me there are skyscrapers, McMansions, slums...

Ghost Texts

By Esther Gulli
Before work, sitting in her crimson battered minivan, she reads his words again. Milk. Bananas. That bread I like.

Kim Addonizio Confined

Kim Addonizio tells writers to "imagine a sentence as a hall with a series of doors," in her book Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within. We asked Addonizio about the tiny rooms that some of those doors open upon to find out what drama, what lyricism, what life can reside in the small spaces of life.

Man of Sorrows

By Kim Addonizio
Not enough to get crucified. You’ve got to be covered with red spots like an anti-vaxxer’s kid’s measles. Blood everywhere.

Mysteries of Sex

By Kim Addonizio
Things were going well, so I risked slipping my hand down my pants.  I seemed into it, so I continued on.

Plans

By Kim Addonizio
It’s hard to get together with his friends because they all like to hibernate. Everyone mostly prefers staying home, so when they make plans with him they often cancel, last-minute.

My Sister’s House

By Mary Grimm
I didn’t want to see the rooms half empty, each dish packed, each rug rolled up.