Bird (on back)July 2016
At daybreak, a bird flew into our bedroom, smacked the wall mirror, and fell on Darla’s back. She slept on.
The Tail of My HeartJuly 2016
You are not going out, he said. You haven’t been out for weeks. People have been in touch with you, he said. Why don’t you see them?
Upending the ArchiveApril 2016
The genre-bending writer on queering history and restoring lost voices to American fiction.
Ed Winstead: Tearing Down the WallsMarch 2016
A new film takes a novel approach to Grove Press publisher Barney Rosset's life and legacy.
High DiveFebruary 2016
Male staff members at the Grand waded through the myths that surrounded her, enjoying the feeling of being stuck.
Intricate LivesJanuary 2016
The author on depicting female friendship and fielding questions about unlikable characters.
The Future PerfectDecember 2015
The novelist on what atheists and true believers have in common and how Mark Twain, Henry James, and “Sigmund-fucking-Freud” lack imagination.
The Road to AlpulluNovember 2015
I would examine the black and white photographs of Alpullu’s golden age. In their shadows, I identified the vanished town.
Fiction Tells a Truth That History CannotNovember 2015
On being mentored by Breyten Breytenbach and Paul Bowles.
The Way You Look at MeNovember 2015
The husband wrote a letter every single day, sometimes more often. Sometimes, she didn’t open them, or deliberately misread them.
Andrés Neuman: A Terribly Perfect CoupleSeptember 2015
Flash Fiction:"What a perfect couple, two halves of the same little orange."
Kristabelle Munson: OnyxAugust 2015
Flash Fiction:"We pull the tide towards the shore."
The Sum of Small ActsAugust 2015
They agreed to unspoken rules. Broken windows were OK. Broken bones were fair game. Graffiti was acceptable, as were rubber bullets and tear gas.
Clarice Lispector: MonkeysJuly 2015
Flash Fiction: “Macacos”
Let Me Explain YouJuly 2015
Stavros Stavros was fat and full at the end of the night. All he needed now was to deflower a virgin.
Ryan Bloom: Oh, The Places You Will Go!July 2015
Flash Fiction: “Go? Stay?”— the uncertainty a stain of recursive ink, irremovable—“Stay? Go?”—the choice, the freedom to choose suffocating like a plastic bag atop her head.
Pretty IsJune 2015
Only then can you forgive a girl for being pretty: if she’s an idiot or a liar.
Kelly Link: The Shadow of the RealMay 2015
In The Bloody Chamber, Angela Carter put her own spin on horror, the gothic, and old fairy tales, expanding the limits and possibilities of fiction.
The EdgeMay 2015
She studied her face, looking for any change. A bad person. A cheat. A lesbian. A cheating, barren lesbian.
A Boy My Sister Dated in High SchoolMay 2015
When the boy she was dating hit my sister, it made a sharp cracking sound, just like it does in the movies.
Bree: NormalApril 2015
Flash Fiction: But you're a lesbian, aren't you? You become the person in his head.
Only SonApril 2015
“Some are really crazy,” the nurse said. “Others are just pretending.”
Long ForgottenApril 2015
He did not want her to think what might possibly be true: that he was going mad.
Cormac James: The ScabApril 2015
Flash Fiction: Every now and then, for my troubles, I get a little reward.
Blood at the RootApril 2015
The Sri Lankan-American novelist on Sri Lanka’s brutal history and grappling with the right to tell the story of the country she left behind.
Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One BeforeApril 2015
Tanya was not surprised to find no one hiding behind the hedges when she looked out her window, but she was disappointed.
In the Dim BelowApril 2015
Our parents were too busy launching bombs over the river to notice missing fingers.
Boundaries of Gender: He smiled, shyly, and then came toward Evan, and although in the red light the scars on Evan’s chest were not visible, Billy found them and kissed them.
Boundaries of Gender: In the early seventies, I began sleeping with a married doctor who wanted to cure homosexuality.
Ethnographic InventionMarch 2015
The novelist on the vivid life of Margaret Mead, a love triangle in the South Pacific, and the shared language of anthropology and fiction.
My Dreams Would Seem So CloseMarch 2015
“They’re back!” we hissed over our kitchen fences. “Someone’s got to stop them! Something must be done!”
I met Tracy Pasco in the spring of 1980—in my Pennsylvania hometown, a time of relative optimism and ease.
First there was a little crackle as the pin scratched the record and then the voices would begin to sing or talk and would float into the surrounding inky darkness.
The InfernalFebruary 2015
"I consider myself a casualty, one of the many casualties of the war on terror." —Alberto Gonzales
Indigo Gets MarriedJanuary 2015
“I thought you’d get along.” “Why did you think that?” I say. “You do so well with wounded men,” she says.
Other CitiesJanuary 2015
There were so many places he could have lived, but he lived in the shack so he could dream of his daughter.
Household GodsDecember 2014
Religion in America: The house of the Memory God is filled with junk in piles. It started innocently enough, the way a blizzard starts: a flake here, a flake there.
Rob Spillman: Shades of Gray in Patrick Modiano’s ParisDecember 2014
Readpolitik: Reading the new Nobel laureate’s misty, wintry fictions in his misty, wintry city.
Butterflies in NovemberDecember 2014
You’ll barely notice him, he won’t nag or pester you, doesn’t even sing the way other kids do.
Gulf ReturnNovember 2014
Only for a short time, my mother promised when she left, but the shortness has grown longer, many years, almost twelve, and I am now grown.
Seven Micro-Stories on War (and Only One on Love)November 2014
We reported on the two-way radio that the only nut alive asked to surrender.
Stand StillNovember 2014
We realize, of course, that one day the force may strike again, leaving one of us breathless at the side of the road.
Ghost HouseOctober 2014
The stories of the kidnapped always begin the same way.
Rob Spillman: Is This the Real Life?October 2014
Readpolitik: The real political choices in Ben Lerner’s 10:04 and Jeffery Renard Allen’s Song of the Shank
For What Purpose?October 2014
American Empires: I wanted to stop something, everything. I applied for a job in airport security and they placed me here.
Daniel Kehlmann: Forging the ArtistSeptember 2014
Philip Zimmerman talks with the acclaimed novelist about false starts, art world con games, and why fate draws us to the novel.
Fiery AppetitesSeptember 2014
The novelist and reproductive rights advocate on motherhood, sex, and the sensuality of restaurant life.
A Planet for RentSeptember 2014
Science fiction from Cuba.
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.