Colson Whitehead wins Pulitzer in Fiction.
Mike Huckabee defends funding the NEA. Believe it or not.
Trump proposed budget targets the arts.
Bridges of Madison County author Robert James Waller dead at 77.
B&N had a red Christmas.
PRH acquires Obama books for reported $60M.
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Boys’ Life/Rough Frontiers

by Douglas W. Milliken

The only work he could find was at the truckers’ paradise on the north side of town where the main drag reverts into a numbered highway heading straight into whatever freezing nothing abounds above us.

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Follow Me

by Carol Malkin

Sara sat next to Teddy. Her eyes never left the Honda, though Teddy knew Sara’s thoughts were elsewhere. Sara had selected the young girl, and Teddy and Sara had trailed her from the noisy waterfront club.

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Rocket Night

by Alexander Weinstein

It was Rocket Night at our daughter’s elementary school, the night when parents, students, and administrators gather to place the least-liked child in a rocket and shoot him into the stars.

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Promises

by Hilary Dean

You think Fine Arts is going to be a bird degree and then you have to take classes all through the summer and talk about art until you want to kill yourself and also everyone else.

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Lily of the Valley

by Andrea Hansell

I’m famous, and my sister Christine is ordinary. Saying it straight out like that feels strange, but it’s true. We’re identical twins, a fact that fascinates people.

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Distance Lessons

by Sally Pla

When he came back from that first trip to India, all she could get out of him was that it was “awesome.” He was never a talker. It used to exasperate her when he was little; she’d want to shake him to get words out.

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Tulip Tears

by Deborah Clearman

When lightning strikes the tulip poplar, five hundred years of leaf lifting crashes into splinter wood, and several notables roll over in their graves.

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Family

by Cezarija Abartis

Outside the kitchen window, squirrels scattered the seed from the birdfeeder Paula’s dad had set up. The seeds gleamed in the sun like drops of water.

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The Imminence of Flight

by Chris Connolly

At the supermarket I see a young mother gently weeping in the cereal aisle. Her baby watches her curiously, possibly stumped by this reversal of roles, or too young to understand.

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