We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
The old man had walked a long way, from afar, and he was not well. He wiped his forehead and raised his head. Around him were sand, thistles, and strangely — where did it come from? — a house.
By V. MyagkovAugust 1989A waterfall of words, an undergraduate literary magazine, untranslatable Olde English phrases
By Our ReadersAugust 1989The summer I was fifteen my father moved out, my breasts grew in, and my mother told me to call her Eve.
By Deborah ShouseJuly 1989The next day was Sunday, and after church Peggy was born time after time. “Being born” meant sliding down the trough into the pillow. Magda knew that babies were born with diapers on, so that was how Peggy was dressed.
By Raymond JohnsonMarch 1989A rhinestone butterfly pin, an appointment for next Saturday, “Louie Louie”
By Our ReadersMarch 1989Yeah, someting unusual hoppened. I had a baby. My first born. An’ I killed it. Now you say you gonna charge me wid a crime. But you see, that baby wasna good ting. It was evil. So you see, I had no choice. It was just the next ting tu do.
By Polly Nicole PassonneauJanuary 1989A green swing set, Mother’s Day cards, an afternoon of “Tosca”
By Our ReadersDecember 1988At church camp, in a air raid shelter in wartime England, on an old flatbed trailer
By Our ReadersNovember 1988Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
Subscribe Today