creative prose

In spring, we count snakes in the garden. The raised beds are built over what used to be an in-ground swimming pool. The walkway that once surrounded the pool is still in place; beneath the concrete slabs, snakes poke their heads out to reach the sun. They camouflage...

It was barely 10 p.m., and Lane had just broken a Black Label all over the dance floor. It wasn’t her fault, really. She’d been pushing past a gaggle of glimmering twinks to get behind the DJ booth when one of their bony elbows jutted out and jabbed her right in the...

The smell of freshly mowed grass almost made me sick. Its underlying stench of gasoline mixed with the herbaceous musk of the grass was reminiscent of past summers in this neighborhood. I liked the smell then. Our house’s lawn was littered with unkempt weeds and wild...

I see you, Malitzen, the betrayer and the victim. You did what you did out of fear and out of smarts. They named you “She who speaks lively.” And you spoke. You spoke all the tongues available to you to make a living, to keep alive. I see your dark eyes like dark...

Nazuk loved the chappal store. The summer brought slippers, open-toed sandals, kolhapuris, and hawai chappals that made even the fatties buoyant. In the winter, ladies loved pumps, court heels, comfort moccasins for the grannies or the closeted lesbians, and the...

Marcello cursed through ground teeth at the backpack zipper as it caught for the fourth time on the plastic wrapping of the diapers. Pulled taut between the metal teeth, the plastic warped and loosened with each catch. The zipper’s unforgiving mouth chewed at the...

we throw a stone in the mirror / it bounces back—Ivan de MonbrisonIn 1835, German chemist Justus von Liebig developed a formula for making mirrors with silvered glass, turning the bespoke vessels once reserved for the wealthy into a mass-manufactured household...

There were maybe three reasons this might not work. First, he hadn’t been fasting like each book strictly recommended. That day, Jason had a large breakfast and lunch, all without any worry. Second, it wasn’t midnight. It was three in the afternoon, the sun was out...

In the darkness of the fields, she waited, seated on the dirt as the horned man came for her. She had first thought the horns he wore were those of a caribou. They were just as grand, with moonlight gliding off their points like slivers of white off a calm lake. They...

David followed the woman in the navy pantsuit toward a moment six years of school had been pointing to—countless dorm rooms, textbooks, and microwave dinners converging. Her five-inch-high heels led him down a precisely built hallway. It was simple yet thoroughly...

It was one of those clear, sunny October days: crisp, bright mornings; intense, red afternoons; chilly, slow evenings. It was Sunday, so at 5 p.m. she went to yoga class. That was the best way to wrap up the week and start the new one on the right foot. Yes, that’s...

"Manipulated mugshot of Brad Renfro (original 2000)" (2025), NIGHTSHADE (Alejandro Concas-Rivas). Courtesy of artist.WHEN JOSH SCHAEDEL invited me to contribute a text to accompany Steve Kado’s exhibition Stairs at The Fulcrum Press, I thought about how Kado once said...