Smith demonstrates that the gospel can be used to deliver anger.

We are given no expectation that this young woman’s life, with seemingly so few opportunities for happiness, will turn out well. Nor does she seem to care.

At times it was frustrating to watch her fall into the same traps of getting too involved in her work. Nobody can conjure businesses from thin air! You’re going to burn out all over again! I would yell at her.

Certainly, we could all use some strategies to avoid a portion of the human population actively trying to murder us.

White Magic emerges as a collection that is not as much a “working through” as it is a “working with,” sifting through the fictions that shape, maim, and at times save us.

Here, flash fiction virtuoso Aimee Parkison returns to the novel form, her first in seven years.

Water is always rising in Andrew Siegrist’s Tennessee. It builds and builds until, finally, it floods.

For a poetry collection with the theme of female aging, could there be any form more apt than a hybrid collection?

Taxi declares its central tension in the first eight minutes of the pilot episode: making a life for yourself while the life you want is out of reach. It’s big dreams and found family and disappointments that land just shy of melancholy. It’s about finding a way forward despite how stuck you really are.

“Attention. This is a lockdown.” Over the loudspeaker, the principal sounds like she’s chewing something she didn’t have time to swallow. “Take proper action.”

Members of the Los Angeles Glass Table Collective consider the topic “late-stage writing” in the essay collection What Falls Away is Always: Writers Over 60 on Writing & Death.

you either get wrinkly or you get fat

and everybody in the Lucas family has a belly

hot food and song undo this sadness

Some figures (2, 3, & 6) have been redacted from this catalog due to copyright constraints. The gallery apologizes in advance for the inconvenience.

I loved the way she captured light in glass, and so I asked, Could we paint together?    

In case the car starts on fire while he’s hang gliding, Everardpins a note to his love’s chest 

The lady on the bus has eyes all over this city,

big and blue and leaking.

An application asks, “Have you ever been suicidal?” Offers two options: Yes or No.

On a lazy, last-gasp-of-summer sort of day, I linger on the patio of a south Asheville bakery. Leaning back in my chair, I marvel at the warmth, at the music drifting over from a nearby brewery, at my good fortune for having arrived here on what would have been, COVID notwithstanding, a perfectly normal Friday.

The girl’s mother takes her to sharpen her fingers into knives on her seventeenth birthday. Outside the salon, a flock of teenagers congregate, examining each others’ hands in the sun.

Flashlights clicking.

“I can’t believe the power went out, right before the big game.”

“Who would have thought?”

“Well, what are we going to do now?”