• Media, Podcast

    In which Kirmen Uribe and his writing witness a changing world.

    The Conglomerate
    Adam Ross

    Here in middle Tennessee, fall has failed to take hold for longer than usual.

    Nonfiction, Online Feature
    Carl Phillips

    There’s also a kind of stamina that doesn’t, initially, involve perspective at all, a stamina fueled by urgency, which is to stamina as adrenaline is to the body, enabling us, for a moment, to perform at levels we didn’t know we were capable of, or that we take at the time for granted.

    Poetry
    Tomás Q. Morín

    When you point to our skin and say naranjo,
    I’ve never been so in love with citrus.

    Fiction
    Rickey Fayne

    I draw his attention to the sign, and it’s only after Myra reads it that she bothers to look at me, but there’s no sympathy in her eyes, only pity.

    Craft Lecture
    Kevin Brockmeier

    Yet it was possible to point to either one of them and say, Look right there. Do you see the path those stories are tracing? Do you see those dandelion seeds? That’s where everything important took place. That’s where all the meaning was.

    Fiction
    Lea Carpenter

    Here comes the curse.

    Poetry

    i.

    Jos Charles


    I was full, my feet upon the threshold of a door.

    Nonfiction
    Pamela Royston Macfie

    Our separation from David left us disoriented. Rooms felt empty even as my mother returned her Rose Medallion porcelain and silver tea service to their original places. The stereo sat unused, soundless. David’s rocker was exiled to the garage, then the county dump.

    Poetry
    D. Nurkse

    It’s late in summer. A cricket is calling. For every cricket that calls, a trillion must be listening, the child thinks.

    Fiction
    Robin Romm

    We’ve been remodeling our kitchen for the better part of a year. That makes us sound fancier than we are. In truth, a guy’s installing Ikea cabinets and tile we got at a seconds sale.

    Nonfiction
    Elliot Ackerman

    He smiled as he played, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing here each day on an abandoned street. Before the war, he certainly must’ve done all right playing to the foot traffic entering St. Michael's. But now? How was he surviving now?

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