

Wandering Boy, by Jim Gish—We did not have to turn off the radio. My father told the mechanics, Ron and Pete, that it had a burned out tube. They just nodded. They knew better.

If it Wasn’t for You, by Bill Ratner—I’d be a baby without skin, a parrot / without a little soap-shaped food cake, / a truck driver out of a job.

Don’t Let Them See You, by Anonymous—I will soon be pitching a debut novel, and I want to know how much of an issue my age will be to agents and publishers.

There’s No Such Thing as Writer’s Block, by Wendy Russ—Writer’s block. It’s that phrase we speak tremulously to explain why we aren’t writing or why what we are writing sounds like a page that fell out of a 13-year-old’s diary. It’s a concept that wraps up, in two words, every horrible insecurity we have as writers.

History

My Patent Leather Shoes

Backspace

Things I Did Not Learn From Dead White Male Authors

The Three Graces of Ana Lydia Vega

The Difference Between Being a Slut & a Racist: Pocahottie Hottentot

Waves

Lilac

How to Pay Respects to a Serial Killer
