• Fiction, Online Feature
    Megan Mayhew Bergman

    I couldn’t bring myself to feel pity for him. Some people had fathers who’d earned that kind of devotion, who’d sat through years of dance recitals and graduations. Papa paid the bills while Mom reluctantly doled out love. He and his job were the foundation of all things. We set our clocks to his needs. We toured the new power plants his company financed, donning yellow hard hats, pretending to be impressed, fishing warm sticks of gum out of our pockets to stay awake while walking through cement corridors. I can still recall the sound of my footsteps in those empty places.

    Podcast

    In which novelist Lauren Groff talks utopia, twelfth-century feminine desire, and the ghost of Hildegard von Bingen.

    Poetry
    Lance Larsen

    My left hand is cold, my right hand colder,
    and I wonder how long can I lean on this fence watching
    it snow?

    Fiction
    Allen Bratton

    The rain is clearing, but the sun has just set. The sea breaks on the rocks. Philippa scrolls through her Instagram, comparing her thighs to those of the girls she'd gone to school with and not really liked.

    Nonfiction
    Sarah Matsui

    I don’t think much about memories I have that are in Mandarin, though I wonder sometimes if that’s because I have a complicated relationship with one language while living in a country that privileges another.

    Poetry
    Matthew Olzmann

    I’d like to give you those things as well, because
    giving is evidence of friendship
    and friendship is evidence of love.
    Like the moon is evidence of gravity.

    Fiction
    Ben Loory

    He looks around the barn—and he can see it now. The bare boards, the stables, the loft.

    Over to one side, the wheelbarrow is standing.

    But his friend is nowhere around.

    Craft Lecture
    Sigrid Nunez

    We writers have our work, just as others have their work, and we must do it. And let us not forget: people write because they need to write, because there is something that obsesses them that will not go away until they write about it. To ignore that need is to court who knows what psychological danger.

    Poetry
    Michael Mlekoday

    Sometimes I wish I could
    peel myself from myself
    without discarding the shell.

    Review
    Christopher Spaide

    What is Akbar’s pilgrim searching for? Sobriety? Solace? Something that rewards precise wording, like a prayer or poem? Or something beyond speech? Poem by poem, the answer varies, and at times what he’s seeking matters less than how he’s asking for it.

    Nonfiction
    Will Schutt

    Her poem being workshopped is—I had told her to rethink trees—about a tree. The poem is dedicated to Eric Garner and Trayvon Martin and describes an anonymous tree with a broken branch. Someone’s nicked their names into the bark. One student—classically handsome, tall, lean Black kid, writes sort of impenetrable jewel-like poems with beautiful turns of phrase and always breezes into the room with a classmate, laughing—breaks the silence. “I don’t think Trayvon would want to be turned into a tree.”

    Web Design and Development by Riverworks Marketing