Fiction
John used to say that we were millionaires, but now we might lose the house. Tommy, our oldest, and his wife, Ashleigh, plan to buy us out.
Fiction
The cut ran fifty yards, a scar halfway up the hillside. The cut scoured by glaciers, or so the boy had been told. He climbed atop a boulder larger than a car, and he imagined the hill and all he knew entombed in ice.
Non-Fiction
My mother holds me down, her hands locked around my wrists as I am screaming, writhing in pain. It is midnight, or sometime after. The fluorescent lights of my room feel too bright, they burn against my skin, cursed with hypersensitivity.
Poetry
Here are feet on the floor of a plane over Omaha: Here are swatches of ground turning into ground
Poetry
Nine-Year-Old Suicide In Reverse
A candle unsnuffs, its smoke drawn back in, its guttering, finger width flame relit.
Poetry
How To Read Whitewater in the Mid-Atlantic Region
Here’s the gift, the undetermined, toothy space in which it bubbles up crazily, thrashing around and telling you incessantly about
Poetry
Outside, it’s scarcely my sixteenth winter, pacing the drive, unsure what’s led here—hours of typing, the heyday of dialup chatrooms,
Poetry
This year’s Sandy Crimmins National Prize poems explore deep grief and remind us of the system we operate within—a system that will kill difference or defiance.