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When Erin Casey and Alex Penland started The Writers’ Rooms, the idea was to create supportive environments for writers who worked in one of several specific genres. As the organization’s website puts it: “The Writers’ Rooms endeavors to help all writers with their craft. We strive to encourage and foster community-sourced knowledge to help lead […]
Trasladaron a mi tía, que ya es coronel, de los páramos a la jungla. Un pueblo a tres horas de Bogotá. Tres horas lejos de nosotros, en un lugar donde se pega la ropa del sudor y las piernas se cubren de ronchas por los mosquitos. Cuando me dijeron que mi tía y mi primo […]
Es de noche y camino por el campo de Cathy y Ralph. Algo de luna se refleja en los silos, en las escaleras que suben a los techos, en el camión que lleva al maíz cuando ya está listo para ser vendido. Tras los silos, unos pinos hermosos y gigantes que Ralph me explica dañó […]
Leave the screams, the unspoken fights — / “I can’t take it all, I ain’t gonna take it all, I don’t want none of it, I just want” — / to roll naked across a gravel road while the dust kicks up and the blood is drawn / like a goddamned roadmap across ass and knees and chest. […]
Sometimes, when she’s bored,
she goes into the garden, covers herself
with earth and pretends that she is a carrot. […]
So I’m like eight, and my hair is slicked with Vitalis, and I’m riding in the back seat of our old Ford station wagon, surrounded by my brothers and my sister, my parents up front, my old man smoking Tareytons. He’s rolled the windows up tight to seal in the goodness like Tupperware, and we’re rolling down the Mass Pike to GG’s funeral. […]
hibernates inside his heart
for more than a month before
cautiously emerging on a bitterly
cold January evening as he rests
his forehead against the upstairs
bedroom window & watches
those first hesitant snowflakes […]
By Kathryn B. Jackson Your intuition might fail you. Your sniffing-dog sense for the perils of men — your extrasensory radar for the false love of fathers in particular, having known your own father’s false love — you could, at any instant, go noseblind, and get it wrong. There is always room for your human […]
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text] By Adam Prato “Trick or treat!” Something small and green dropped into the plastic bag Jennifer had held out. “What is that?” she asked. “A Brussels sprout,” said the man who had answered the door. Jennifer looked up. The man was a little fat and going bald, like an older version of her father. […]
By Akwi Nji My family is a family of women. Men were there; biology tells us they must have been. And they weren’t lazy. They were farmers and college professors, business owners. But, in the snapshots of my memory, they are all sitting on sofas while the women flutter through kitchens, sift through backpacks to […]
By Rachel Yoder What affable children these boys are. See how the clean one plays with the one who’s dirty. See how each of them is down on his knees — equals, they are — pushing the small wooden trains along the small wooden tracks. The room is silent save for their play, their horn-like […]
By David Duer The sky was a bruise the color of my wife’s arms after a tough day with the combatives at the nursing home. It was July, when the vegetation grows rank and you don’t even pretend to control it anymore. I’d left early from work, but by the time I got home, Pat […]
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