Eduardo Galeano: Century of DisasterAugust 2014
The Uruguayan writer on riddles, lies, and lives.
The Bully of OrderAugust 2014
Bigness required boundaries but this water had none save the shore we stood upon and the end of my eyeball’s reach.
Henna HouseAugust 2014
I knew that the Confiscator was a bad man. I knew that my father hated and feared him.
Girls, the man said, I’ve got an itch.
Switchback, 1994July 2014
The pool of blood had grown a custardy skin in the cold, so that as the wind blew, it strained and jiggled.
2 A.M. at the Cat’s PajamasJuly 2014
Boys cross rooms for Georgie, who is full in the way they like. Foxy is the word for it, Sarina thinks, whereas she is foxless.
More Than ThisJune 2014
The boys here looked past her, their eyes steadily transfixed on the procession of tight designer jeans and heels clicking through the quad regularly on the hour.
Who Can Shave Thirteen Times a DayJune 2014
“I brushed Michael Bolton’s hair once,” I said, “and moisturized George Clooney too.”
Rachel Yoder: Fart MartJune 2014
Flash Fiction: I dream of fat cats wearing sweatbands trying to get in shape on treadmills.
Brest FortressJune 2014
We walk along the forest on the side of the road. Onishchenko stops. “Give me your word, as one of the brothers, that you won’t tell anybody,” he says.
They had never been this far out in the lake, this lost, this on their own.
Instead of sobering up upon seeing the beheading, I went along with the hooligans. Hell, I was one of them.
What Lights Up the NightMay 2014
“This is how your parents have explained Paula’s coming: In Northern Ireland, the Protestants and Catholics are fighting.”
Waiting for the ElectricityMay 2014
In the beginning, when God was distributing the land to all the nations, we Georgians missed the meeting.
The InteractionsMay 2014
Most people experience the fullness of what it means to be a person. Most people, but not him.
Jason Bell: The Bar-B-CureApril 2014
I feel the image of myself emerging in his hands, and with every flick and scrape it draws closer to his.
Kaitlyn Greenidge: Axe WoundApril 2014
He wanted words to mean one thing. His cheeks burned. He knew this was a stupid wish.
Last Words from MontmartreApril 2014
The Taiwanese novelist's story of a passionate relationship between two young women.
Mieke Eerkens: View On An AccidentMarch 2014
When I came to the window, his motorcycle was lying on its side hemorrhaging gasoline and oil.
Mira Jacob: Everybody Is Looking for Somebody Like YouMarch 2014
It didn’t matter if they strolled from his periphery or sprinted up from behind. He felt them coming like a warm wind.
This Is Also My WorldMarch 2014
The Lebanese-American author on the dangers of writing what you know, the constant fear that he’s destroying his career, and why he believes that much of contemporary U.S. fiction is “not adventurous enough.”
Eric Boyd: The Chains That KeepFebruary 2014
Behind him’s two bags on the curb. He needs the ride; I cut him a break.
Elisabeth Schmitz: Editing Under The RadarFebruary 2014
The vice president and editorial director of Grove Atlantic on the art of literary editing, why publishers shouldn’t turn their backs on risk-taking writing, and how the first novel she ever bought went on to transform her career.
The Loneliest and Saddest KindFebruary 2014
A trio of unlikely housemates navigates celibacy in sex-sopped Venice Beach.
The Matiushin CaseFebruary 2014
I don’t bear the army any grudge. I think they did right to beat me.
I gave strict instructions for two specialists to watch over you twenty-four hours a day.
CakeBy Glen Pourciau
A guy in a suit, I don't know him, walks by my cubicle holding one of the paper plates, his mouth full, chewing his last bite, folds the plate around his napkin and fork and cake crumbs, leans into my cubicle, reaches around a corner and stuffs the plate in my garbage can. No look, no excuse me, no nothing.