“Peter imagined himself and the man lying next to each other, the man’s tanned, tentacled leg wrapping around his own.”
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In the long summer holidays, the boy would accompany his mother to work. They woke early on these days, too early even for the sun. Continue Reading Litro #183: ...
As a writer, I learned early on there was no one place to call home. Continue Reading Litro #183: Place – A Place Called Home
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I stare at my computer screen. The problem is not that my screen is blank, which it is, but that it’s a wall. Continue Reading Litro #183: ...
They walked the four blocks to the school in silence, Adam in his head, Shayla in hers. Continue Reading Litro #183: Place – Black Excellence
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Only brides from or marrying into prosperous families wore multiple pieces at their wedding banquets. Iris knew that there would be no imperial jade in her future Continue ...
I was the boy in the morning, losing his parasol. I was the parasol, caught by a breeze. Continue Reading Litro #183: Place – I was an ...
Can you keep a secret, Ms. Sharma? If you can’t, just rip up this essay right now. Still reading? Okay. Continue Reading Litro #183: Place – My ...
Each of those first few days startled me awake. I’d lay discombobulated, feeling the yolk in my belly stir and the toddler next to me turn, and remember that I ...
I hope this PLACE issue allows you to consider your own home situation in a new way—and connects you to a broader sense of community as you travel through each ...
For our PLACE issue, we at Litro were very much interested in hearing from those among you who made the jump from New York to New Hampshire, from San Francisco ...
A Gathering of the Tribes’ Chavisa Woods Isn't About to Keep Quiet
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We must recognize that painting is not all beauty and life is not always beautiful.
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I’m trapped inside of this prose poem.
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Stepping outside what’s expected is exactly what leads us to unexpected rewards.
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Were flowers on her casket?
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we (and by we I mean Claire (the woman I swore (vow (we still vow, we still pledge ourselves, like honourable (‘honour you’, that’s a wedding vow (there’s that word ...
On sunny afternoons, I go out to the street to eat tar.
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And for me, story is an experience that takes us to a place where we ache to go again, and again, and again, to tell our friends.
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Poetry as a rule harms no one. No thing. Poetry only helps, in its purest form, it intends to heal.
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