The top 10 lies authors tell themselves
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It’s the school’s loss, not Emma’s
Freelance Your Way to Poverty
by Con Chapman
There is a charity in Boston that helps the homeless by publishing a newspaper to which they contribute articles and poems.
by Robley Wilson
How old was I then? I was in sixth grade, which meant I was twelve. That was another part of my uncle’s argument: I was “old enough” for the fights.
Give Me Your Wife
by Tony Hoagland
because / I like her. I like / the signs of wear on her; / the way her breasts have dropped a little with the years; / the weathered evidence of joy around her eyes.
Bessie Arrowood’s Circle of Life
by Karen Paul Holmes
There she goes again, spinning / her wheelchair ’round the nursing home. / Two years, five thousand laps. So far.
by Lisa Cihlar
Does it matter that a migrating tern / is standing in the Fox River / with a goldfish in its beak? / The tern is a Caspian with a lovely black head / like the back-combed Italian mobsters in old movies.
by Camille Griep
Like almost everyone in America, I first encountered the puzzle that is The Great Gatsby in high school.
by Camille Griep
By the time they pull you out of the car, the party is already half over. Harry from accounting has mown through the good cheese and the VP is opening the evening’s lesser quality wines.
This Isn’t Silverlake Anymore
by Neil McCarthy
I hear the slightly scratched voice of Joan Baez coming from / the record player singing about the junipers in the pale moonlight, / applause erupting like hailstones on a corrugated iron roof.
by Carla Ferreira
They say in Avignon people dance on the bridge / that was either unfinished or fell apart— / no one remembers those folk stories anymore.
A Letter to Nick Ut
by Samantha Storey
Of all the images to come out of Saigon, your photo of the naked girl running toward the camera is the iconic one.